#Morning Brain Exercises

[keepittightsisters]

7 Morning Brain Exercises for Better Focus and Memory

Ever wake up feeling like your brain is still hitting snooze? You try to focus, but your mind is sluggish, and suddenly, you’re scrolling social media instead of getting things done. Sound familiar? Your brain needs a warm-up just like your body does. That’s where these 7 morning brain exercises come in. A few simple activities can fire up your neurons, improve focus, and sharpen your memory—all…

[girlthatgotawaysdiary]

every morning.. 🎀

[absurdly-overpowered-astronaut]

The first of (hopefully) many OC ramblings

part two

Oc posting? On this blog? More likely than you think! >:)

These guys are Kat (the one on the left) and Tory (one on the right) I made them for my writing class last week and to boil the story down to an elevator pitch ‘one day Kat discovers that not only are ghosts real but there is a secret organisation (well calling them an organisation is abit generous theres like 20 people with no funding) hunting them and on top of that that his best friend is now a ghost and hence dead! So to stop his friend’s ghost from getting hunted and to combat his inferiority complex he and Tory decide to join this organisation and now have to juggle life , death , ghosts hunting and stopping said ghost hunters from working out one of them is secretly a ghost oh and on top of that Kat‘s best friend is still somehow still alive?! Now there are two of them. One who is alive and one who is dead.’ this ended up longer than I thought it would…oh well I guess it’s just a really long elevator ride.

Talking about them more as characters

Kat struggles alot with as aforementioned inferiority. He’s never really been able to understand socialising so as a result to participate in conversations he learned to put himself down / put himself in uncomfortable situations and that self depreciating humour was the only way he could socialise consistently. It was easier to just assume he was always wrong then it was to try and understand the complexity’s of the social dynamics at play or to stand up for himself , It was easier to not try at any then to try really hard and get picked apart by his family for not being the best at said thing , it was easier to take the blame for things he didn’t do because no one would believe him anyway.

This is where Cory comes in (Cory is alive version of the character and Tory is dead version of the character I don’t want to get to much into Cory because I’m writing this as a way to recover from exam week stress and I’ve worked out that if I ration out oc lore posting then I can cover all the exam days but anyway I’m getting off track) Cory is someone Kat has very complicated VERY gay feelings over. On the one hand Cory is like a life raft to Kat he’s his only friend , he stands up for him , he acts as almost a social translator of sorts , he gives Kat a space to be start to unlearn bad coping mechanisms.

But Kat also feels a tangled mess of guilt and jealousy. Cory is smart , he doesn’t struggle with understanding things and seemingly has a good home life (all of which are some what untrue but once again I’ll hold off on the Cory info dumping) he feels like Cory is just wasting his time on him like he should and will be abandoned by Cory and its just a matter of time but also that he wants to be like Cory. Less in a apparitional way but more in a “the oracle told me to beware the ides and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t wished for an untimely death or demise what motivates me is it hatred is it love? Whats wrong that I too wish to be great and my mother wished she’d had a son” way , he doesn’t want to be like Cory so much as he wants to be the idealised version of Cory in his head. By demonising himself and idolising Cory he ends up in a cycle of hurting both himself and his best friend and Cory accidentally feeds into this also with his own toxic mentality “if I show him any part of myself thats not presentable he’ll leave me” and the boys are so wrapped up in their own perceptions of eachother they can’t recognise how the other person is hurt and how they are hurting themselves and its a whole thing or in other words.

Conversely Tory is a seemingly very different person to Cory despite being the same person. Cory is very charismatic and presents outwardly as self sufficient but Tory for lack of a more fitting descriptor is a sad wet cat in human form. A pathetic little mew mew if you will. (Also the reason he is call Tory is because its short for Cory two and sounds like とり)

Tory and Kat have a very different dynamic than Cory and Kat having pretty much flipped dynamics. Where as in Cory and Kat’s relationship Cory had the power now Kat has the power. He gets to be the one who knows things , he gets to be the protector , he gets to keep secrets for the greater good and he gets the social power. He enjoys getting to have power and agency.

I’m struggling to be coherent so I’m going to put this in terms of Krapman’s triangle.

Kat and Cory is victim saviour Kat sees Cory as his saviour Cory see’s himself as Kats saviour and Kat see’s himself as a victim with no agency and Cory see’s Kat as a victim with no agency that needs protection.

Kat and Tory is saviour victim Tory sees Kat as his saviour Kat see’s himself as Tory’s saviour and Tory see’s himself as a victim with no agency and Kat sees Tory as a victim with no agency that needs protection.

(I’ve been listening to alot of Crane Wives recently and they are very inspired by many a Crane Wives song)

Now I should probably explain the goose in the room. That is Goose! She is part of the ghost hunting agency and is able to sense supernatural forces. Tory because of his ghost powers he and by extension his team become high ranking members of the organisation and Goose is assigned to the team under the guise of being part of the promotion but is actually there to prove the leader’s suspicions of Tory actually being a ghost.

I like to imagine if this become anything it would be a really cool set up and pay off of having Goose the join the party really early on and the audience is all like “okay cool animal companion” but then during the BIG REVEAL that the ghost hunters knew the whole time that Tory was a ghost because of Goose and was just waiting to act on this information and just having Kat be absolutely crushed that he tryed so hard to protect Tory and he felt useful and like a smart boy and it turns out that it didn’t even matter and all because of a singular silly goose.

Goose being a goose was inspired by a video I saw the other day taking about how geese were becoming used as guard animals in prisons instead of dog because geese can not be bribed and thought it was fitting. I also just like geese.

This is the concept art I drew of the boys! They didn’t change to much from their initial concept designs surprisingly.

Now I get to talk about the magic system of the world! I’m unreasonably proud of it :) Okay so I really like the prison uniform designs in milgram and I kept seeing pictures of these cool beats and such which made me want to craft a world where the characters wore this kind of belt/cottage core stuff and so I came up with the idea of ghosts being repelled by natural materials!

Leather , whool , chawk , lead , sticks ect ect and it just opened up so many fun possibilities. I haven’t fully worked out how ghost would react to the materials I know touching them to ghosts feels like burning and they are repelled/negatively effected by them I just haven’t figured out to what extent. Here some visuals concepts I drew of possibilities. It was actually really fun to make the smoke effect it was just a scribble that I erased holes into and then blended.

I don’t want to say to much because this once again ties into Cory stuff so I’ll go more in more depth in the future but essentially ghosts attacking people used to be a really big problem in the past so clothes where designed with this in mind but after ghost all mysteriously vanished clothes started to be made of non-natural materials and no longer had ghost protection in mind so the ghost hunters wear older clothing styles because those provide the most protection (and makes them visually distinct from other characters :) IT IS SO FUN TO THINK OF DIFFERENT OUTFIT COMBINATIONS FOR CHARACTERS!

There are a couple different things ghosts can do personal to the ghost but the most can do possession , levitate objects/people and switch things.

Kat uses knifes and fights in close range so the ghost could easily make contact with him and possess him so he wears a wool sweater , gold necklace and leather bag all these are around the area that gets touched to get possessed to avoid this but getting levitated isn’t really issue like it would be for other characters because he can just throw his knifes so he doesn’t have any ghost protection on his shoes/legs.

Even though the bag provides a perch for Goose and is good protection it could get trouble some in close combat so it has clips so that it can be dropped easily.

All the characters have atleast two outfits. One is for when they are ghost fighting in public and don’t want to look suspicious and other is for when they are alone and can afford to be as protected as possible.

The buttons are made of ghost resistant materials and are to prevent ghosts from attempting suffocation. Kat can’t actually uses his knives when undercover so he uses his bag as a weapon but when its just the ghost hunters he’s allowed to go stabbing (only ghosts ofc)

And then Tory doesn’t have anything because he is a ghost and it would hurt him :( (this is actually the reason why Cory has little wooden do ups on his jacket and Tory doesn’t. Its because the wood as a natural material would hurt Tory so he has to get them changed)

it was/is so fun to think of different ways of using the ghost weakness for character design purposes and fight scenes where cards are effect by different techniques to different degrees and ahh so fun! I never thought I’d love thinking about this kind of stuff so much.

Here is some art of them from when I actually started to finalise their designs.

I had alot of fun designing hair for these two especially. It was an interesting challenge in stylisation. I tried to give them similar but different shapes.

Thank you so much for reading about my sillys!!!! In honestly it means the absolute world to me that you read the whole thing :)

[oncominggstorm]

Going on (another) stupid little walk for my stupid mental health 😡

[fagatakonin]

Fake coffee started hurting my head as well... i'm starting to think i have some sorta neurological disorder❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

[doctorcurdlejr]

Call me rosy because I'll ronk your world. haha

First off, I would like to give my sincerest apologies to Annie Montgomerie whose work I find deeply moving

[diredeliverance]

Can't sleep tonight gamers you know what that meeeeans, posting doodles that were never meant to see the light of day to kill time

[sentientsky]

hi hello okay silly question time bc idk how to make decisions on my own, apparently. i’m french/english bilingual, right?? does anyone want fic/shitpost content in french?? or is that silly?

[skyward-floored]

I just have to say I’m SO EXCITED for any whumptober fics you do this October. Your whump fics are *chef’s kiss* PERFECTION

I mean ALL your fics rock but the way you write whump is just so so good

Andjdbdjdjdsb thank you 😭 some of them turn out real messy, but some of my favorite fics I’ve written have been ones that’ve come out of whumptober :)

Whumptober is one of those things I look forward to every year, it’s WILD to think that this’ll be the fourth year I’ve done it... and I am planning on doing it, so long as nothing crops up that makes me unable to!

...I’m going to try to wind back a little bit though. I went a little crazy last year and it kinda burnt me out 😅 but I’m still going to try and do all 31 days. Just... maybe not 90k words worth of it this year XD

[gregmarriage]

the weird faceless ableist talking in my head being like ‘you’re lazy. just move. just walk!’ when i physically can’t do either of those things. like i would loveeeeeee to walk to the bathroom without fear i’m going to fall and injure myself. i would love to move even two inches without injuring myself. but okay <3

[justposting1]

How I wake up at 3:14 am everyday | Train your Body Clock

How to train your biological body clock (Circadian Rhythm) to wake up early. Waking up early brings a sense of tranquility that’s hard to find during other parts of the day. The world seems so quiet, and while the rest of your family and friends are still fast asleep, you’re already up, washing your face, and sitting at your desk. There’s something empowering about getting ahead, whether it’s…

[icemankazansky]

I fucking love engineers.

Engineer: I want to drop a bomb this heavy from this high.

Military: Slight problem: No planes exist that can go that high or carry anything that heavy.

Engineer:

Recreating the WW2 raid on German dams. The cylindrical bomb was meant to skip over the water, into the dam, with the spin getting it to sink in close contact with its target before exploding.

[eclipsedechoesofmywords]

"Of All Things"

[Bucky Barnes x fem!reader]

Masterlist

Summary: When Bucky gets a new haircut, you find yourself struggling to keep your composure—and your thoughts—under control.

Warnings: Fluff, mild teasing, mildly suggestive(just a few lines)

Word Count: 1.1k words

A/N: Is this a safe space to admit that Bucky with short hair is my favorite look of his? I love all of his looks(that man can't help but look perfect at all times) but the short hair did something to me🤧 Writing this to get a break from all the joaquín reqs

It did always seem like Bucky was hell-bent on making you go insane with everything he did. That godforsaken haircut was just about your last straw.

Bucky walked around, seemingly unaware of your eyes on him. His undercut accentuated the curve of his jaw, and the way the shorter strands at the top fell just slightly over his forehead made you want to scream. Or yank him into a supply closet. You hadn't decided yet.

He leaned against the kitchen counter, sipping coffee like he hadn't single-handedly ruined your ability to form coherent thoughts. When he raked a hand through his hair—again—you nearly dropped the mug you were holding.

"You good?" Sam's voice snapped you out of your trance. He followed your gaze to Bucky, smirk widening. "Oh. Oh. You're real good, huh?"

"Shut up," you hissed, turning to the sink to hide your burning face.

Bucky glanced over, catching your eyes. His lips quirked into a half-smile, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Morning," he said, voice rough from sleep—or maybe just to torture you further.

"Morning," you managed, sounding strangled.

Sam snorted into his cereal.

---

"You know..."

"I don't," you cut off Sam immediately.

He snickered. "If you wanna keep looking like you wanna climb Buck like a tree, maybe be a bit more subtle."

"Shut up," you said, looking pointedly down at the file you were supposed to be reading.

"Seriously. Just ask him out."

"No. Shut up."

"I could set you up."

"Absolutely not." That sounded like a threat coming from Sam Wilson.

He looked offended. "I can set you two up on a date easily."

"I would actually rather jump into the ocean," you said decidedly.

He huffed, rolling his eyes. "I'm not that bad."

You make a face. It was his turn to mutter 'Shut up'. You couldn't help but laugh.

---

The next few days were an exercise in self-control. Bucky's hair wasn't just a haircut—it was a distraction. Every time he walked into a room, your brain short-circuited. The way he'd tilt his head when listening, the way the sunlight caught the sharp lines of his undercut, the way he absentmindedly tousled the longer strands on top… It was criminal.

You were convinced he knew. How could he not? The man was a supersoldier, for crying out loud—he had enhanced senses and tactical awareness—yet he remained infuriatingly oblivious, chatting with you about mission reports or the merits of Thai food over pizza like he wasn't the reason you were losing your mind.

It all came to a head during training.

You were sparring in the gym, Sam perched on a bench nearby with a bag of popcorn he'd 'borrowed' from the kitchen. Bucky wasn't wearing a shirt, sweat glistening on his shoulders as he dodged your half-hearted jab.

"C'mon, doll," he teased, smirking as you narrowly missed his ribs.

Doll. The nickname punched the air from your lungs. His eyes crinkled, playful and bright, and you swore his biceps flexed extra hard just to spite you.

You lunged again, but your foot caught on the mat. Bucky's metal arm shot out to steady you, his grip warm and firm on your waist. His face was suddenly inches from yours, his breath against your cheek. "Easy," he murmured, voice low. "You're gonna hurt yourself."

Sam's popcorn crunching stopped. The gym felt suddenly, unbearably hot.

"I'm—fine," you stammered, jerking back like he'd burned you. Bucky frowned, brow furrowing as he studied you.

"You're flushed. You overheating?"

Sam choked on a laugh. "Oh, she's overheatin' alright."

You shot him a death glare. Bucky, still oblivious, reached for a towel and tossed it to you. "Take five. Hydrate."

As you gulped down the water, Sam came to stand beside you, wickedly grinning. "You're pathetic."

"I hate you," you muttered.

"He's gonna figure it out eventually."

"He won't. His idea of flirting is asking if I want extra grenades on missions."

Sam snorted. "Yeah, well, maybe you should try the direct approach. Y'know, like normal people."

"And say what? ‘Hey, Bucky, your hair makes me want to ride you into the sunset'?"

Sam's eyebrows shot up. "I mean, it's a start—"

"No."

---

Later that evening, you found Bucky alone on the common room couch, flipping through a worn copy of The Hobbit. His hair was still damp from a shower, curls soft and loose.

He glanced up, patting the space beside him. "Hey. Sam said you wanted to talk about the op coming up?"

That bastard.

You sat stiffly, hyperaware of the heat radiating off him. "Uh. Yeah. Extraction points. Y'know. Logistics."

Bucky nodded, serious. "Right. So, we'll need—"

You weren't listening. His thumb was tracing the edge of the book's spine, his other hand gesturing vaguely as he spoke. His sweatpants hung low on his hips, and dear God—

"—what do you think?"

You blinked. "Huh?"

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing. "You okay? You've been… off."

"Off?"

"Jumpy."

You swallowed. "Just tired."

Bucky set the book down, turning to face you fully. His knee brushed yours. "You sure?"

The concern in his voice undid you. "Your hair," you blurted.

He froze. "…My hair?"

"It's—different. Good different! Like, really good. Not that it wasn't good before! But now it's… uh…" You gestured vaguely, face burning.

Bucky stared. Then, slowly, a grin spread across his face—the kind that made your stomach flip. "It's what?"

"Shut up."

He leaned closer, voice dropping. "You've been staring at me for days. Thought I'd done something wrong."

"You did," you muttered.

He raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"You did," you repeated, unable to stop the words now that they'd started. "That haircut is… it's mean. Like you're actively trying to sabotage my productivity." 

Bucky's grin turned downright smug. He shifted closer, the weight of his thigh pressing against yours on the couch. "Mean, huh? Didn't realize my barber choices were a tactical threat."

"Well, they are," you huffed, crossing your arms.

"Right," he laughed.

You swallowed, courage sparking. "Sam said I should ask you out." 

Bucky snorted. "Wilson's a menace." 

"But… is he wrong?" 

His eyes snapped back to yours, blue and blazing. The playfulness vanished, replaced by something hotter, more intent. "No," he said roughly. "He's not." 

You didn't know who moved first. One second, you were drowning in the space between his breaths; the next, his mouth was on yours, fierce and sweet. The book tumbled to the floor as his hands cradled your face, metal and flesh equally gentle. His lips were chapped, his kiss a slow burn that melted every coherent thought worse than his hair did.  

When you finally pulled back, foreheads pressed together, Bucky chuckled—a warm, disbelieving sound. "Should've gotten this haircut months ago." 

You swatted his shoulder, laughing. "Don't you dare change it back." 

"Wouldn't dream of it," he murmured, stealing another kiss.  

Somewhere down the hall, Sam's victorious whoop echoed. "Took you two long enough!" 

Bucky groaned, resting his forehead against your collarbone. "I'm gonna strangle him with his own wings." 

"Later," you promised, threading your fingers through his stupid, perfect hair.  

A/N 2: I'm considering writing part 2 of this as a bucky x reader x sam. imagining em pouncing on sam has me.

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

the pro

part ii: what we're willing to accept

Pairing: Art Donaldson x Reader

Rating: Explicit - 18+ only. minors, please get off my lawn.

Notes: My brain chose violence this morning. Not beta-read because when is it ever.

Length: 4.8K

Warnings: Slow burn; unhappily married reader; divorced Art Donaldson; infidelity; oral sex (female receiving); vaginal sex; unsafe sex

Summary: Every lesson becomes an exercise in self-control. You force yourself to try, really try, and not make silly mistakes for the sake of Art coming closer, grasping your arm or elbow, pressing close and redirecting your swing. You don’t know what you crave more these days: his praise or his touch.

He's the biggest men's tennis star since Andy Roddick.

That’s what your husband says, as if it’ll entice you. As if you know anything about tennis, about the pro that your husband says will be coming to the house to teach you to play.

It’ll be good for you. You need a hobby. 

You don’t gripe or argue. You don’t tell him that five months into your marriage shouldn’t have you looking for a new hobby. You should still be in the honeymoon stage, spending all of your time with him, hanging off of his arm, off of his every word. But he works so much and he’s away so often—

I don’t want you to get bored. 

It’s a sweet gesture. The maid handles the housework; you have a chef that handles most of the grocery shopping and cooking, unless you insist on making something yourself; you have a housekeeper that arranges for anything you need—dry cleaning, maintenance. And it’s no wonder that with all of his money, his power, he can just order a retired pro tennis player up to your house, like you’d order a pizza. There’s a tennis court in the back of the mansion, a few feet from the pool. You’ll get some new outfits, the best sneakers, the nicest rackets. You’ll finally have something to do to fill your days. 

Art Donaldson. 

You know his name before the lean, fair-skinned patrician man turns up at your front door. He trails you through the house, politely declines your offer of a beverage. 

“You ever played tennis before?” He asks. 

You haven’t. Before your husband arranged this for you, you hadn’t so much as given the sport more than a passing thought. You don’t have the heart or confidence to tell that to a man that’s made tennis his whole life, so you just give him a small, guilty smile and say no, you haven’t. He nods, waves you off, insists that it’s fine. 

“We’ll start with the basics.” 

-- 

Two months of lessons on the basics make your arms tired, and your hands sore. But where your swings are clumsy and your grip is weak at first, you can see improvement in the way that you move. Your steps are less clumsy when you go after a ball; you’re more aware of the service line and the base line; your forehand stroke from contact to your left shoulder is smoother; your rotation and follow-through on your backhand is coming along, but has a long way to go. 

Art’s instruction is calm and steady. He explains technique as much as he demonstrates it. When you get something wrong, he doesn’t scold, just lightly corrects. When you do something well, his encouragement is constant and free-flowing. Every accurate move and motion is met with, “Nice,” or, “Perfect,” or, “That’s it.” 

On the days when you don’t have a lesson with Art, you practice. You order a tennis ball machine to work on your forehand and backhand. You attempt (and fail) to learn how to slice on your own. You try anyway—you can only imagine the way his eyes might light up if you manage to surprise him. 

You’ve tried to ignore the rising interest that you have in Art, but you can’t help the little…Crush that’s developed. He’s just so attentive, and kind. When you find yourself smiling these days, it’s often because of something that he said, or did. You can’t remember the last time your husband made you feel giddy this way. It was probably when you started dating—before you’d made the decision to marry for comfort, rather than love. Your husband is practical, rarely physically affectionate, more heavily involved in his job and social circles than with you. 

But you’ll have to find a way to thank him. He’s given you a hobby, and a man that grins at you like you just painted the goddamn Mona Lisa when you serve your first ace. 

-- 

“So, tell me about the Mark Rebellato Academy.” 

Art smiles, dipping his head as he reaches for his coffee. It’s taken a few months, but you finally convince him to have something to drink with you after practice. Your chef is blessedly out shopping for ingredients for dinner, so you have the kitchen all to yourself. Art has watched you putter around, seeming surprised that you know where everything is. You can’t blame him; the kitchen is chef-grade, and you don’t cook much these days. 

“Did your husband tell you that’s where I went?” 

“No.” 

“Then how do you know?” 

You’re too embarrassed to admit that you’ve done some googling, and watched a couple of clips of him interviewing before and after his matches. 

“I’ve just heard,” You fib. “Tell me about it?” 

He leans back in his seat, eyes skating across your face as he seems to consider something. 

“What do you wanna know?” 

“Did you enjoy it? I mean—” It feels like a dumb question once it’s out, and you hurry to redirect, “With what you know now, if you had the choice, would you have learned how to play tennis somewhere else?” 

He considers for a moment, trailing his finger over the side of his cup. Your gaze flits to his fingers, and your own flex around your mug handle. You’ve spent far too much time looking at and thinking about Art’s fingers—their length and quickness; the slight roughness of his calloused hands; the lingering tan line from where his wedding band used to sit. 

“Yeah,” He admits, drawing your full attention back to his face. “I would. It was foundational, you know. I’ve been thinking of sending Lily there.” 

“Lily?” 

A bittersweet smile twists his lips. “My daughter.” 

“Oh!” It catches you off-guard.  

“Tashi, uh—” He clears his throat, “Lily’s mother, my ex-wife. She and I are thinking about schools.” 

“I’m sure they’d be glad to have her. Does she play tennis?” 

“Little bit. She didn’t start until last year, but she's a natural.” He clears his throat again, presses, “Are you and your husband planning on having kids?” 

“Oh god no.” You blurt it out, and realize as he raises his brows that you’ve spoken too quickly. You lean back in your seat, stirring your coffee quickly to distract yourself from your growing embarrassment. “He actually has kids already. Two girls, seven and ten. They’re at boarding school and they stay with their mother when they're on vacation. I haven’t gotten to spend much time with them.” 

“...He seems to be pretty busy.” 

“He is.” 

“So it’s just you in this big house?” He tips his head to the side, brows knitting with curiosity. “What do you do all day?” 

“Play tennis.”

He grins, chuckling, and your stomach flips at the sound. 

“It shows, you know,” He says. 

“What do you mean?” 

“I can tell you’re practicing without me. And,” He leans across the table, running his fingers lightly over the exposed skin of your bicep, “You’re getting stronger.” 

You wonder if he can see or feel the goosebumps that break out across your skin at the gentle sweep, his gaze heavy on yours.

“I have a good teacher,” You murmur. Art’s lips twitch with a soft smile, his hand gently cupping your arm. 

“Just good?” He plies. 

“The best. A real pro.” 

His smile widens, and the flash of his tongue sweeping across his lower lip makes your face go hot. You know that you’re caught when Art’s touch becomes firmer, pulling your arm toward him just a little. 

The sound of approaching footsteps startles you, and you hurriedly tug your arm away. The sight of your husband makes your heart leap into your throat. 

“There you are,” He smiles. “Art, how’s she doin’?” 

“She’s killing it.” 

You don’t dare look at him, but you can feel the weight of his attention lingering on you still. You just give your husband a smile, tipping your cheek up obligingly as he leans down to kiss it. 

“Actually, Art,” Your husband straightens up, hands resting on your shoulders. “I’m glad I caught you. There’s a charity event for a local club this month. It’s for uh…What is it?” He squeezes your shoulders for answers, and you have to keep from rolling your eyes. 

“It’s a charity tennis match to raise funds to fix up the local courts. They need resurfacing and they’re raising funding to keep the fees down.” 

“We could use a sponsorship from the foundation,” Your husband adds. 

“Honey,” You glance back, wary of insulting Art. But—

“I’ll do it,” Art agrees. “Send me the details.” 

“Excellent,” Your husband grins. “Maybe we could coax you into a match or two.” 

You don’t chastise him this time—not when you see something light up in Art.

“Maybe.” 

--  

You haven’t seen Art play before. You’ve specifically avoided it. You’ve known that when you saw it, you would be too intimidated to do a damn thing on the court with him. But now, you can’t stop watching him. You don’t even care that you probably look so out of place—where everyone else is watching the ball, you’re just watching him. 

His movements are so neat, so precise. It’s like watching a dance. He’s running the poor guy on the other side of the net up and down the court. And the sounds that he’s making—god. Every little grunt and groan is weaving increasingly filthy thoughts in your mind. You already know that you’ll seek out the memory of those sounds, as you reach between your legs later. His shirt clings to his chest, showcasing the muscles that you’ve always suspected he has. Strands of hair plaster to his forehead as sweat drips over his cheekbones, down the bridge of his nose, over his jaw. 

When he scores a match point and he looks toward the cheering crowd—when his eyes land on you instantly, without having to search—it’s like you’ve been hit by a bolt of lightning. You can’t think, or move. You barely have the focus to applaud, but you manage to raise your hands and clap. 

-- 

Every lesson becomes an exercise in self-control. You force yourself to try, really try, and not make silly mistakes for the sake of Art coming closer, grasping your arm or elbow, pressing close and redirecting your swing. You don’t know what you crave more these days: his praise or his touch. 

Coffee becomes a post-lesson ritual. He starts to stick closer and closer to you as he follows you into the house until he begins to rest his hand on your lower back, guiding you to your door. He keeps nearby when you’re making it, brushes droplets of sweat off of your forehead or neck. Every touch is electrifying; you have to make a concentrated effort to keep your hands steady, your face neutral as your heart pounds and your stomach floods with butterflies. 

He pushes you harder on the court, and you force yourself to meet the level that he sets for you, even when you don’t feel confident in it. But you want to make him proud. 

It spurs you to lunge a little too far. 

The sharp stabbing pain in your left ankle makes you shriek, and you tumble to the ground, dropping the racket with a clatter. You hear the pounding of his feet, glance up just in time to see him clear the net before he’s on the ground at your side. 

“What hurts?” 

“My ankle,” You grit out, hissing softly as he helps you straighten your leg out. He smooths his hands over your calf, leaning over you and gently guiding your foot in a few different directions. You whimper as he starts to guide your foot to the left. 

“Okay, okay,” He soothes, “Let’s get you inside.” 

For as much as you damn the throbbing in your ankle, you thank it a little, too. You lean heavily against Art, making the slow, arduous journey back to the house with his arm wrapped tightly around your middle. 

When your husband comes home, he finds you with on the couch with Art coming back in from the kitchen, an ice pack in your hand. 

You’d hope for concern, but your husband frowns, glances at the swelling knob of your ankle, and simply asks: “What did you do?” 

“She lost her balance.” Art sits down on the other end of the couch, soothing you as the chill of the ice pack makes you shift with discomfort. 

“Are you going to be able to walk tomorrow?” Your husband presses. “We have dinner at the Fineman’s.”

“I'm still going, don't worry about that."

“...Tomorrow might be a bit soon,” Art warns. 

“I’ll be okay. It’s just a sprain, right?” You tip your brows up, hoping, praying that he’ll agree for your sake. His fingers flex around the ice pack, jaw ticking as he clenches it. He doesn’t say a word as your husband sighs heavily, grumbles, “I hope so. Still, we should put a pause on the lessons until she’s fighting fit again.” 

Art finally tears his eyes from yours, a tight smile on his lips. 

“Of course.” 

-- 

“How’s the ankle?” 

It takes you a moment to scrounge up an answer. You can’t believe that he called. You knew that Art had gotten your number when you started taking lessons with him, but he’s never used it beyond texting to confirm a lesson time now and again. 

You look down at the still-swollen flesh as it strains against the thin strap of your slingbacks. 

“Fine,” You lie, “It’s um—” You glance over your shoulder, listening for your husband. “It’s not that bad.” 

“Good enough to walk on?” 

Hardly. 

“Yes.” You think you’ve gotten away with it, but when you hear Art sigh and chastise, “You should rest,” You know that you haven’t.

“I have,” You insist, “All day.” 

“Are you sure you’re alright?” 

“Yes.” 

“You can tell him no, you know.”

Your mouth works wordlessly, body going hot with indignation. You can’t think of a thing to say. You can’t tell him that he’s wrong, that your husband’s connections are the lifeblood of his business. You can’t tell him that if your husband’s business falls apart, you won't be able to afford those tennis lessons, and then how the hell are you supposed to see Art again? 

You just yank your phone away from your ear and hang up. 

-- 

I invited Art. 

It shouldn’t be a surprise, but your husband’s statement makes you feel like you’ve swallowed your tongue. You haven’t seen or spoken to Art in nearly two weeks. Your doctor recommended putting off any physical activity, which your husband surely relayed to him. He was the one whose name was on Art’s checks, after all. 

Your husband has always thrown a massive party to kick off the summer. Every year, 150 of your husband’s closest family, friends, and business associates flooded into the house. It shouldn’t be such a surprise that your husband invited Art after the performance he had given at the fundraiser—$25,000 from the foundation, and ticket sales went through the roof when it had been announced that the Art Donaldson would be making an appearance. Your husband owed Art a lot, and probably saw this as an opportunity for him to network, to take on more clients. He had been evangelizing Art’s training to any of your friends that would listen—how good you are on the court, how engaged and energetic you seem to be these days. 

It’s one thing to know that you’ll have to put on a happy face for the crowd, but to know that Art will be among them makes your insides twist with nerves. You can’t stop thinking about the way that he had spoken to you when you were hurt; his calm, steadying demeanor as he’d gotten you inside; the careful coaxing and gentle touch that he’d used as he’d taken your shoe off and examined your ankle more closely. 

You think about it now, as you strap on another pair of heels. Your ankle really is doing well, though you have a little lingering pain in shoes like these. You’ll likely be on your feet for the length of the party; it’s going to be a long night. You look over yourself in the mirror, self consciously tipping your ankle from side to side for anything that he may spot or catch out. But there’s nothing, you reassure yourself. You slide your hands over the skirt, plastering on a smile as your husband pokes his head into your dressing room. 

“Almost ready in here?” He asks. 

“All set!” 

-- 

He doesn’t come over to you. On the crowded patio, you can feel him watching you—you’ve gotten so used to seeking out the sensation that you can’t ignore it now. The first true look at him is agony. He watches you from just a few feet away, a glass of champagne in hand as he speaks with your husband and the Finemans. He openly looks you over, eyes drifting over your body to the flash of ankle revealed by the slit in your dress. He tips his head to the side just a little, squinting before his eyes flit back up to your face, lips twitching with a small smile. 

You want to hate how good it feels; you want to be angry with him for his smug knowing, his insistence of You can tell him no, you know. But it feels so goddamn good to have his attention again that you can’t bring yourself to be annoyed. You know that you’re staring—that you both are—and you force yourself to turn away and excuse yourself from the conversation you’re in. You go inside, murmuring your thanks for the waitstaff that pass you along the way.

The house isn’t nearly as busy as the patio, and you're able to slip into your darkened study unnoticed. You leave the lights off, certain that if you turn them on, people will be drawn in to bug you, like moths to a flame. The party’s lights and music filter in through the partially-closed blinds. 

You lean against the desk, circling your ankle and wincing a little. You’ll hide for a few minutes, let it rest—

Your breath catches in your throat as the door opens. You expect your husband, ready to scold and usher you back to the guests. 

You only have a second to get a look at Art before he shuts the door behind himself, plunging the room back into darkness. Your fingers tighten around the edge of the desk as you use it to ground yourself. 

“...Do you need something?” You ask, voice wobbling with nerves. 

“Wanted to come say hi.” 

“Well. Hi.” 

You hear him chuckle, his footsteps muted by the carpet. 

“Thanks for the invite.” 

“It wasn’t my idea.” It’s not polite to admit, but you want it to sting him, just a little. Maybe it does; in the dim of the room, you can’t see Art’s expression as he comes to a stop just a couple of feet from you. 

“Do you want me to go?” He asks. You know what you should say, but you can’t bring yourself to say it. 

“No,” You whisper. You feel the heat of him as he comes closer, his hands resting on the desk and caging you in. You bite your lip as gently brushes his nose against yours. 

“He isn’t taking care of you.” 

“My ankle is fine.” 

“I’m not talking about your ankle.” He lifts a hand, smoothing it over your hip as your breath mingles. Art’s fingers drift from your hip to stroke over the apex of your dress’s slit. His fingers slip further down, and you nod as he palms your thigh. Before you can say or do a thing, Art sinks to his knees. He curls his hand around your left calf, lifting it. You shiver as his lips press a gentle kiss to your ankle. His hand and lips travel up, easing the fabric of your dress higher with each second. The first brush of his knuckles against your panty-covered clit makes you jolt. Your hands dig into the wood of the desk as his fingers hook between the fabric and your skin. You lift your hips without a word, allowing him to draw them down. 

Art presses a kiss to your mound before he lowers his head, giving your lips a sweet, sucking kiss. You gasp softly as his tongue swipes across your clit. You look down despite the fact that you can’t see him well. You can just make out his blissful expression, his eyes closed as his laps broadly across your aching cunt. You lower your hand to his neat hair, winding your fingers through it, unable to help grasping it. His heady moan vibrates against you and you nearly cry out at the sensation. You manage to just catch it, the sound dying in your throat as Art buries his tongue inside you. He sweeps his thumb over your clit in rush, harried circles, panting against your heated flesh. You rock your hips down against his lips, tightening your grip on his hair as you guide him. He lets you do as you please, whining against your skin as your movements become less controlled.

“Art,” You warn, “I—Oh, oh god—” 

He hums in encouragement, sucking your clit back between his lips and lashing it with his tongue. Your jaw drops open, your hand shoving Art even more tightly against your skin as you cum suddenly. A stunned, breathy moan slips from your lips as Art leans back, smearing his lips against the inside of your thigh. 

You use your grasp on Art’s hair to draw him back up off of his knees, giving him a crushing kiss as he catches his balance. You swipe your tongue across his lips, whining against his lips as you taste yourself on him. He presses close, his hard cock straining against the fabric of his pants. You reach down, palming and squeezing his length as you trade slick, messy kisses. He steers you back onto the desk as you fumble to undo his belt, button, and zip. 

“Condom?” He asks. 

“Pill,” You reassure, shoving his pants down. You lap broadly across your palm, grasping Art’s length and guiding him closer. He brushes the tip of his cock against your still-throbbing clit, smiling as you whine. You’re going to ache tomorrow, but you’ve never been so happy to be sore.

“Art.” 

“Sssh.” 

“Please—” It’s hardly out of your mouth before he shoves his hips forward, seating himself fully with a single thrust. You bite down on your lip to quiet your moan, curling your arms around your shoulders. He rocks into you with firm, quick strokes, his mouth covering yours. You can hear things on the desk rattling with each thrust, kisses growing less controlled as he hoists your thigh up around his hip. 

“Oh, god,” You breathe, “We have to be quick—He’ll come looking—” 

“Not until you cum for me again,” He urges. “I need to feel it, sweetheart.” 

“Art—” 

“When’s the last time he did this? Hmm?” He presses, “When’s the last time he made you cum? When’s the last time he tasted you?” 

“Never,” You admit with a shiver. It seems to renew Art’s passion, his thrusts and hold growing more intense. You squeeze your eyes shut, hands hooking tightly in the fabric of his jacket. He yanks the front of your dress down, bowing over you and drawing one of your nipples between his lips. You whimper as he toys with the bud, tugging it gently with his teeth before swiping across it. You arch into the slick heat, using your leg to tug him even closer as you chased the swelling curl of your orgasm. 

“Just like that,” You urge, “Ffffuck—yes, yesyesyesyes—”

Your eyes squeeze shut as your hips buck down against his, pussy pulsing as he spills into you. Your heart pounds in your chest as the two of you slow and still. Art rests his forehead heavily against your neck, peppering gentle kisses across the exposed skin. You have to move—now. You don’t know if anyone heard you, but if someone did, you’re screwed. If no one did, your husband will probably be looking for you anyway, ready with a scold for neglecting your hostess duties. 

“...I have to go,” You warn softly. It takes Art a moment to move, but he does, gently drawing himself back from your still-throbbing cunt. You hear the clanking of his belt buckle as he tucks himself away, and you reach down, righting your dress where it’s been pulled away. You take up your panties from where they’d been discarded on the floor, tugging them on before you straighten your skirt and hurry out of the room. 

--  

“Can I see you?” 

It’s only been an hour since the last guest has left, and you are so, so fucking tired. You glance toward the bathroom door. You know that you locked it, and you’re certain that your husband can’t hear you over the shower running, but you can’t help but be paranoid.

“You just saw me,” You remind him. 

“Tomorrow,” Art clarifies. 

“Where?” 

“I’ll send an address.” 

You bite your lip, toying with your earring. Your pussy is still aching from the stretch of him, your ass sore from getting fucked on the desk. 

“...You regret it?” He asks. 

“No,” You don't give your answer a second thought.

“I’ll send an address. Whether or not you see me is up to you. Just…think about it. Okay?” 

“Okay.” 

You lower your phone, hanging it up and watching his contact information blink away. It’s only a moment before a text with an address lights up your phone. You don’t have to think about it. You already know what you’re going to do. 

--  

You know that you’re staring, but you can’t bring yourself to stop. Art has spent so much time in your home, so you feel entitled to look around a little bit. You eye the row of trophies on his mantle, photos of him playing when he was young. You come to a stop at a picture of him with a young girl, a racket in her hand and a medal around her neck. 

“Is this Lily?” You ask. 

“Yeah,” He nods. “First competition.” 

“Already getting gold,” You smile. “The Mark Rebellato Academy isn’t ready for her.” 

Art chuckles, nodding as he steps around you.

“You, uh…You want something to eat, or drink, or…?” He trails off, tucking his hands into his pockets as he takes a couple of steps back toward his kitchen. You turn to face him, taking him in more fully. 

“Art?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Why am I here?” 

He doesn’t answer for a few moments. You can see him weighing his options before he comes closer. 

“I…I’ve been thinking about last night.” 

Fear shoots through you, but you force yourself to stand tall. “Okay.”

“I could lie and tell you that it should be a one-time thing, but I can’t remember the last time I got through a day without thinking about you. And I think you’ve been thinking about me, too.” Art stops as the tip of his shoes brush against yours, and you let your eyes slip closed as he rests his forehead against yours. 

“Tell me I’m wrong,” He pleads. “Tell me to fuck off right now and I will never say another non-tennis related thing to you again.” 

-- 

When he fucks you, he curls close, chest pressing against yours as he catches your lips in a kiss. You sink back against his pillows, your head cradled by his broad palm as he rolls his hips achingly slowly. You don’t bother to hide your whines and moans, and you revel in his. Every grunt and whimper and groan that Art lets out lights you up. 

And when you cum, you don't have to quiet yourself. His name tumbles out of your mouth, cushioned between expletives as your nails dig into his shoulders.

--

"What time is he home tonight?"

You don't want to think about it. You want to stay in this cozy little bubble, trailing your fingers over his muscled chest as he massages your nape and kisses your forehead.

But you know that you'll have to let the world back in sometime.

"I don't know," You admit. "Late."

"...Could stay."

"He'll be suspicious if I'm not home when he gets there."

Art sighs softly, running his hand down to rub between your shoulder blades.

"This isn't going to be easy, is it."

"What?"

"Letting you go every day."

"Every day?" You tease, pushing yourself up to get a better look at him. "Don't get greedy, Mr. Donaldson."

He smiles, raising his hand and cupping your cheek. "Is it greedy to know what I want?"

You shake your head a little, lowering your lips to brush against his.

"Not when I want it, too."

part ii: what we're willing to accept

Tag list: @missredherring ; @fantasticcopeaglepasta ; @massivecolorspygiant ; @blueeyesatnight ; @amneris21

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[earthtooz]

cw: arranged marriage, fluff, neglect at the beginning, ratio falling hard, pining, ratio being jealous of aventurine, unedited bc i wrote this with my heart not my brain

my brain has been thinking about an arranged marriage fic with dr. ratio...

he isn't kind to you at first, less than happy to share a life with a mere acquaintance. he's heard about you before in passing, noting your achievements with a grain of salt because nothing about you particularly mattered to him, irrelevant against the mass of scrolls and books he needs to read.

you don't really disturb his normal routine too much. you move in to his estate with a fair share of your belongings, but none of them crowd his house too much. you have your own room, pristine guest room unearthed by your artistic touch.

aside from dinners, you don't get to see each other too much. he starts his mornings early, getting up at the crack of dawn to exercise and start his day with a hearty meal. you wake up later, partaking in a slow morning, and if you glanced out the window, you might be able to see your husband running laps around the expanse of his gardens.

you admire his dedication and routine, it's fascinating to live beside a genius. everyday, the chest table that sits in the living room changes, the black and white pieces never remaining where you last recalled. the size of his blackboard is impressive, and yet too small to fit all of the formulas his brain remembers, hands effortlessly dancing along the surface to scratch number after number.

a frequent order of his estate is chalk. a new pile is delivered every three days, and he goes through them without fail every time.

during dinner, he tries to spare some conversation with you. you don't tell him too much about your day, not wanting to bore him with your menial chores. he's only half-listening either way, so you'll feign understanding about his work when he explains what he's up to.

ratio is not an attentive husband, but he doesn't mistreat you, either. he allows you to spend his assets without too much care, doesn't police your everyday tasks, and also doesn't bat an eye at other men or women. his pursuit of intelligence is important, and your wellbeing would not come in between that.

your monotonous, distant routine changes one autumn dusk. you're perched in the front yard with an easel set up before you, the sky in front of you now a blend of pink-purple hues. he returns home earlier than you expected, carriage stopping at the front of his estate, and he witnesses you in your tranquil state.

the paint strokes on the canvas before you are skilled, and show years of dedication to the craft. you're so invested in the piece before you, that you don't even hear him approaching until he calls your name.

"the night turns colder with each minute. shouldn't you come inside before you fall ill?" the scholar greets, and you're snapped out of your creative reverie, looking over at him.

"oh, i had not realised. let me clean up here, first." you take your canvas off the easel, but to your surprise, your spouse kneels down to organise your oil paints back into their box.

"make haste, then," he urges.

during dinner, he can't help but be curious over your hobby, the stubborn splotches of paint clinging to your hands visible to him. that night, you engage in uninterrupted conversation, and discover that he's an artist himself- a sculptor. it calms him, and all the statues reside in a removed room, adjacent to his study.

despite your years of matrimony, you had never once dared enter his study, but the design is so fittingly him. it is organised (well, as organised a genius can be), with shelves and shelves filled with books, discarded scrolls lay around the room, but even then, his taste for greco-roman aesthetics are seen. roman dorics act like stands for little plants, and his many certificates are displayed, along with other achievements.

(his study is overwhelmingly filled with them. though you knew of the merit of the man you were arranged to be married to, you had never known just how expansive the list is. perhaps, that only made him more intimidating to you, standing beside a genius does not feel so light to say anymore.)

he shows you his sculptures, and though many of them are... self portraits... the likeness is disgustingly accurate. it was as if he had casted himself in plaster and displayed it proudly. you wonder how long he must have stared in the mirror to perfect their appearance.

but, there are also various other formidable statues. some of people you recognise. you compliment his skill and don't get to see the blush that spreads along his cheeks.

it seems that you've chipped a way into his heart, because between brushstrokes and chiselled marble, he falls in love with you.

ratio knows he didn't start off being the best husband, but he tries to now, and begins by being present. asks you to dine together where possible, listens when you're talking about your day, and the two of you can be seen venturing downtown together; an unbelievable sight for those who believed that ratio was romantically inept.

perhaps, an even more unbelievable sight, was the soft smile on his face that glanced at you very adoringly, and how you remained unaware of his affections.

and, maybe a jealous veritas ratio is just as unbelievable.

he is practically glaring daggers at the side of a certain blond's head. ratio has never been fond of the scheming businessman, aventurine, and is even less so of the fact that you seem so close to him, more than you are with your own husband. you're speaking with him like how one would with old friends, a peaceful visit to the markets turned sour by his presence.

when you finally, finally, finally, bid farewell to aventurine, who gave ratio a look that signified he was up to no good, your husband held your hand in his gloved one with an unforgiving grip. his mood is dampened for the remainder of the day, and is only made better when you enquire about his sudden glumness, visiting his office to see if he was alright.

you leave him with a kiss on the crown of his head, and a whisper of 'goodnight', before retreating to your chambers, and the only thought that circulates in his head for the rest of the night is you, and how he's going to sweep you off your feet.

[harmonysanreads]

LOL I was hoping you wouldn't notice it

— On Phainon's debating skills and the brilliance of the Citizens' Assembly scene in showcasing his character development.

In response to @stickyspeckledlight ’s questions. I've been a regular academic debater for about six years now so, I can't put into words how special Phainon being a debater (and such a good one at that, which we'll get to shortly) is to me. So thank you for giving me the chance to properly yap about this. My original reblog got too long so I had to make a separate post orz. Explanation includes spoilers for HSR 3.0, 3.1, 3.2 and 3.3 Trailblaze quests.

To be honest, listening to that debate for the first time was incredibly nerve wracking for me. It was, as you say, a gamble and it could've gone horribly wrong anywhere.

When you accept that debates are like performances, it becomes easier to follow and bend the rules. As well as to have fun. This is something that Anaxa — our Great Performer — understands very well. I bring Anaxa up because I'm pretty sure it was him who taught Phainon this tactic, as mentioned by Phainon in the 3.3 quest, “In the end I remembered a lesson from one of my teachers: In battles where words are weapons, outrage and blind passion often overpower reason.”

Something crucial to realize about debates is that, they're less of this rigid exchange of counterarguments and more of a performance. Sure, the validity of your logic matters but, you're also graded on auxiliary things like body language, eye contact, enunciation, idiolect, fluency, manners and how well you can keep your audience hooked.

It is often said that how you make your point matters more than the point itself — because, even the judges won't be listening keenly to what facts and data you're presenting sometimes.

Anaxa also says something similar before casting his vote, “You've done well, Phainon. Given the circumstances, delivering a rousing speech to stir up emotions was a prudent move.”

This isn't all made up for the sake of creating drama by the way. I've seen this tactic being used in parliamentary debates, at least in my country. The goal is to stir emotions among your audience (including the judges/jury) in the hopes of securing support, doesn't matter if it's sympathy, rage or something else. This should be in harmony with your logic.

The difference is that Aglaea, quite understandably weary from their schemes after all these years, did so in the heat of the moment. While Phainon purposefully used that word and then proceeded to lay out exactly why those people are deserving of being called vermin.

It's... fascinating to watch when executed smoothly. Personally though, this tactic peeves me because, often it's used to divert attention from the fact that your argument isn't strong. It can also feel like an insult to the motion. And straight up calling your opponent irrational/overly emotional in response is classless and can even have your score deducted (which is why I mentioned manners as a criteria). So, you really need to be careful with how you respond to that.

Which brings us to the matter of Phainon calling the Council of Elders “vermin”.

I will not lie, it was incredibly satisfying. But that satisfaction of mine lasted for one glorious second before I became worried. It was the biggest gamble of the entire ordeal. As we later learn in Aglaea's letter to Phainon in 3.3 that a similar call-out gravelly weakened people's faith in Aglaea during the first debate.

There is a hope placed behind this approach ; even if it upsets a large group of people, it'll leave an impression. And from that impression, people will subconsciously start to think. They'll compare Phainon's argument with their own experiences and from there on, the chances of them voting for the Flame Chase will increase slightly.

The greatest challenge of that arena was the fact that Phainon had to deal with a huge crowd. Making sure they're listening to you is one thing (which he did splendidly by the way) but, getting them to think, in the heat of the collective influence? That is infinitely more difficult. Which is why I concur with Anaxa, using this tactic for this situation, was indeed a prudent move.

See, Phainon doesn't really trust himself. And his lack of trust in himself unknowingly contributes to his doubt in others. Why? Because when you can't trust yourself, you'll constantly second guess your choices and your potential. You won't be able to believe it even if the people you look up to compliment you. As such, you won't be sure about your decision to lend your trust to someone.

There is another important development in Phainon's character that blossoms through this debate. The quality of Phainon that Aglaea has always complimented him on is his ability to sincerely connect with everyone in a way that she can't. However, this was also the quality that he'd struggled to wield.

Which is why, there is so much emphasis on Phainon vocalizing ‘unshakable faith’, and resolutely trusting his comrades and the people of Amphoreus in 3.3 instead of him gaining new powers or something.

That quality is what makes him worthy of World-bearing, separates him from other heroes and brings him closer to the image of Deliverer envisioned by everyone. We see glimpses of him starting to understand this during the debate.

This is an excellent opening. The words used are simple, echo easily and do not clash with each other. They include the audience, acknowledge their attention and establish a primary connection between the speaker and the audience all in one sentence.

First of all, the beginning. “As you (citizens of Okhema) look upon me, so too do I see you.”

Then, he stops people from thinking about the fate of the world and implores them to really think about the gravity of their situation. But he doesn't just explain why the Black Tide is dangerous, no no. He talks about his own, personal experience with the Black Tide, baring his heart, for the very first time in front of so many people.

The strongest connections are forged in shared vulnerability. Even if people can't empathize or offer sympathy for him, they'll still be reminded of their own experiences, or perhaps the experience of someone they know. Strengthening the primary connection.

When a citizen objects to this bg asking why Okhema still remains peaceful, it's as if Phainon had been expecting that question. He uses it to not only defend Aglaea but to also present the corruption within Okhema and to drop that bomb.

It should be mentioned that Phainon does not include mind blowing new information in his speech, he only reiterates the truth that most citizens had forgotten in a concise manner.

The tonal shifts throughout the speech is perfect as well. He starts slow, lets people adjust to his voice and until that citizen poses that question, maintains an empathetic tone. He's goes from reminiscent to distraught when mentioning his past but does not break into tears. The frustration and the disdain when he talks about the Council of Elders isn't out of control, even if it may seem like he was momentarily swept up in those emotions. As he was able to circle back to the tone he used in the beginning to close his argument.

And he closes his speech with great humility. It's obvious that Phainon really thought it through and had a mental roadmap of his speech (since we can clearly divide it into sections) but, I don't know why, perhaps it's the voice acting on this section, I felt like the ending was improvised by him.

As in, you get this feeling that he finally understood what exactly his role was within the debate and changed his closing to that of a promise at the nick of time. Not to mention the roundabout way Phainon asks Anaxa this question before he steps onto the stage, “Is Aglaea making the right decision by entrusting the fate of the world to me?”

To which Anaxa answers, “Flip your perspective and ask yourself this instead: What should I do to ensure that the world doesn't stray from the correct path?”

And Phainon does figure out what he should do, which isn't wrestling with words to gain votes by the way. It's having the backbone to trust the people he'll lead. And I think you can feel this shift in thinking within the speech itself.

This whole performance was incredibly difficult to execute for Phainon, not only due to the dire circumstances but also because I suspect that this isn't his usual style. We have some crumbs about how Phainon performs in academic debates from memory fragments.

But of course, this doesn't work like magic against all of those people, as the number of votes received by both sides were equal until Anaxa broke the impasse — which I think is very realistic. Had Phainon not taken the risk, the Flame Chase would've most likely seen a shameful defeat.

As you can see, he's very quick to catch loopholes and traps, he's also not reckless and does not hesitate to play it safe if he has to.

But in the debate against the Council of Elders, he had to be reckless and he couldn't play it safe. He was out of his comfort zone in more ways than one and yet, he managed to perform excellently. This showcases the versatility of Phainon's character that was only mentioned by a select few thus far.

In conclusion, Phainon is an excellent debater, orator and public speaker precisely because of this flexibility of his.

Honestly, we must applaud the writing team, translation team and the voice of Phainon (I've only listened to the English voice-over so I'm unsure if all these subtleties are still observable in other languages) for bringing this scene to life. Especially with such limited movement and facial expressions. Even I didn't know there was so much to talk about until I began writing this.