#+ study the notes of this post and others..

[prettyboysdontlookatexplosions]

ok i am not coping well with having a post on which a high percentage of rebloggers have many things to say be as popular as this one is and i am too much of an anxious control freak to turn off notes without also turning off reblogs so i am turning off reblogs but not before saying a few quick things that have come up in the notes (because see above re: anxious control freak lol):

first and foremost i would like to formally apologize for saying megalodon instead of megalosaurus when i sat down to type this post in (this is true) an attempt to wake myself up more fully after a nap

i have also just been informed that i typed the title of the study wrong... lessons here for all of us perhaps.........

i don't think this study is like perfect or "proof" of anything in particular (in fact of course no study is...) although for what it's worth at least some of the complaints about the study's methodology get basic facts about its design wrong lol (in particular, it's stated that students had the option to read silently if they were uncomfortable reading out loud). i appreciate this study because as a person who encounters students professional who really struggle to read - including proficient-seeming students who completely fall apart whenever they have to read anything more than like 75 years old - i have come to feel more and more intensely over time that people who discuss literacy and reading pedagogy have a real gap in their understanding of what struggling readers are actually doing when they read. nothing i encountered in my master's degree, even among the material that was not lies (lol), and nothing i've encountered in reading about literacy and reading pedagogy since, has really seemed like it captured what i was seeing in students who were not missing a detail or two, or confused by a sentence here or there, but totally and completely lost in ways that i have come to believe people who can read proficiently honestly have difficulty envisioning. and the qualitative observations made of this study's problematic readers are the first time i've ever seen anyone in the ed space other than Me On My Own Blog Or Texts To Friends put to words the phenomenon i have encountered both in the classroom at the third grade level (and younger but third grade is when it got really obvious because of the nature of the books being read) and as a tutor working with affluent, academically successful 11th- and 12th-graders who cannot make it through a single paragraph of a speech by lincoln. i'm not really attached to the specific cut-off points determined by the study or numerical distribution in the article and i almost regret sharing the attention-grabbing 58% because what i find most of value here is the qualitative description of something i have seen, have struggled to put into words, and have come to believe that - whatever its actual prevalence - is much more common than is assumed by the vast majority of educators tasked with some form of teaching reading, from early elementary all the way through the college level.

you don't know me from adam so i guess you have no real reason to believe that i am coming at this from the accumulation of going on a decade of professional experience i have spent considering the hidden cognitive processes of struggling readers and am not just ungenerously overgeneralizing from a handful of student comments that have perfectly reasonable alternative explanations... but... i am. lmao.

some people seem to feel inclined to "defend" the problematic readers either by critiquing the study (which see above) or by saying "well of course they struggled, dickens is hard/they don't know anything about victorian england." two notes here: (1) neither i nor the authors of the study are attacking these students by attempting to describe what they can or can't do when faced with some complicated prose (2) i'm not really sure how this stands in contradiction to my own argument that the educational system has seriously failed these students... like i don't know what your vision of successful education is that does not include learning to read complex text written in a mode distinct from contemporary daily language use or enough general knowledge about the world to be able to plug in to a novel written in victorian england.

also... alright i said this in a separate post but i am putting it here too i guess: the problem with accepting that people will not be able to read the complex syntax that was common in older times (dickens - at least in those 7 paragraphs - is not actually particularly longwinded or syntactically complex when considered among many other pre-twentieth century authors) is that we live in a country quite literally founded on syntactically complicated documents written hundreds of years ago. i believe citizens - all citizens! not just the english majors even! - have the right to an education that prepares them to read for themselves the written history of their country. i will not ever accept that this is an unreasonable standard.

much of the point of my list of bulletpoints was to try to head off at the pass people trying to identify the sole cause of this because people fucking love One Weird Trick education takes but some people managed this anyway... the persistence of the human spirit i guess lmao. anyway education is one of the most complex topics out there and nobody who claims to say "it's all [blank]" knows what the fuck they're talking about :)

also the reason i highlighted the date of data collection was to avoid people turning this into a gen z thing, but for the record i don't think we have any evidence to suggest this was new in 2015 either. i think it's always important to remember in literacy conversations that the idea of universal college-level literacy is historically a very new one and many problematic readers currently in college are people who in previous generations simply would have ended their formal schooling much earlier than they have. if you look at this table from the national center for education statistics, you can see that the percentage of US adults over twenty-five with a high school diploma crosses into more than half the population sometime in the 60s (it jumps from 1960 to 1970 so we can't see the exact year).

students/children vary wildly in how much support they need to learn to read, which i say mostly to share that your own ability to read well is not necessarily proof that the people who taught you how to read did a good job, nor are your own memories of learning how to read necessarily useful guides for the right way to teach people how to read. in particular - and i am not trying to be harsh in this correction because it's a common myth and an understandable assumption - i do want to push back on the idea that the key to better reading is parents reading to their children, because parents of dyslexic children have shared how personally hurtful to them and genuinely harmful to their children's education it was to be told over and over "make sure you're reading to them at home" when they were already doing that and it was not helping their dyslexic children learn how to read. (i think this might come up in sold a story... if not then i saw it on twitter back when sold a story was rolling out and i was obsessively following the convos about it to a degree where i had to force myself to stop because it was bad for my mental health lmao.)

charles dickens did not get paid by the fucking word!!

i appreciated this study: "They Can't Read Very Well: A Study of the Reading Comprehension Skills Of English Majors At Two Midwestern Universities"

essentially, a pair of professors set out to test their intuitive sense that students at the college level were struggling with complex text. they recruited 85 students, a mix of english majors and english education majors - so, theoretically, people focusing on literature, and people preparing to teach adolescents how to read literature - and had them read-while-summarizing the first seven paragraphs of dickens's bleak house (or as much as they made it through in the 20 minute session). they provided dictionaries and also said students could use their phones to look up whatever they wanted, including any unfamiliar words or references. they found that the majority of the students - 58%, or 49 out of the 85 students - functionally could not understand dickens at all, and only 5% - a mere 4 out of the 85 students - proved themselves proficient readers (leaving the remaining 38%, or 32 students, as what the study authors deemed "competent" students, most of whom could understand about half the literal meaning - pretty low bar for competence - although a few of whom, they note, did much better than the rest in this group if not quite well enough to be considered proficient).

what i really appreciated about this study was its qualitative descriptions of the challenges and reading behaviors of what the authors call "problematic readers" (that bottom 58%), which resonated strongly with my own experiences of students who struggle with reading. here's their blunt big picture overview of these 49 students:

The majority of these subjects could understand very little of Bleak House and did not have effective reading tactics. All had so much trouble comprehending concrete detail in consecutive clauses and phrases that they could not link the meaning of one sentence to the next. Although it was clear that these subjects did try to use various tactics while they read the passage, they were not able to use those tactics successfully. For example, 43 percent of the problematic readers tried to look up words they did not understand, but only five percent were able to look up the meaning of a word and place it back correctly into a sentence. The subjects frequently looked up a word they did not know, realized that they did not understand the sentence the word had come from, and skipped translating the sentence altogether.

the idea that they had so many trouble with every small piece of a text that they could not connect ideas on a sentence by sentence basis is very familiar to me from teaching and tutoring, as was the habit of thought seen in the example of the student who gloms on to the word "whiskers" in a sea of confusion and guesses incorrectly that a cat is present - struggling readers, in my experience, seem to use familiar nouns as stepping stones in a flood of overwhelm, hopping as best they can from one seemingly familiar image to the next. so was this observation, building off the example of a student who misses the fact that dickens is being figurative when he imagines a megalodon stalking the streets of london:

She first guesses that the dinosaur is just “bones” and then is stuck stating that the bones are “waddling, um, all up the hill” because she can see that Dickens has the dinosaur moving. Because she cannot logically tie the ideas together, she just leaves her interpretation as is and goes on to the next sentence. Like this subject, most of the problematic readers were not concerned if their literal translations of Bleak House were not coherent, so obvious logical errors never seemed to affect them. In fact, none of the readers in this category ever questioned their own interpretations of figures of speech, no matter how irrational the results. Worse, their inability to understand figurative language was constant, even though most of the subjects had spent at least two years in literature classes that discussed figures of speech. Some could correctly identify a figure of speech, and even explain its use in a sentence, but correct responses were inconsistent and haphazard. None of the problematic readers showed any evidence that they could read recursively or fix previous errors in comprehension. They would stick to their reading tactics even if they were unhappy with the results.

i have seen this repeatedly, too - actually i was particularly taken with how similar this is to the behavior of struggling readers at much younger ages - and would summarize the hypothesis i have forged over time as: struggling readers do not expect what they read to make sense. my hypothesis for why this is the case is that their reading deficits were not attended to or remediated adequately early enough, and so, in their formative years - the early to mid elementary grades - they spent a lot of time "reading" things that did not make sense to them - in fact they spent much more time doing this than they ever did reading things that did make sense to them - and so they did not internalize a meaningful subjective sense of what it feels like to actually read things.

like, i've said this before, but the year i taught third grade i had multiple students who told me they loved reading and then when i asked them about a book they were reading revealed that they had absolutely no idea what was going on - on a really basic literal level like "didn't know who said which lines of dialogue" and "couldn't identify which things or characters given pronouns referred to" - and were as best as i could tell sort of constructing their own story along the way using these little bits of things they thought they understood. that's what "reading" was, in their heads. and they were, in the curriculum/model that we used at the private school where i taught, receiving basically no support to clarify that that was not what reading was, nor any instruction that would actually help them with what they needed to do to improve (understand sentences) - and i realized over the course of that year that the master's program that had certified me in teaching elementary school had provided me with very little understanding of how to help these kids (with perhaps the sole exception of the class i took on communications disorders, not because these kids had communications disorders but because that was the only class where we ever talked, even briefly, about things like sentence structures that students may need instruction in and practice with to comprehend independently). when it comes to the literal, basic understanding of a text, the model of reading pedagogy i was taught has about 6 million little "tools" that all boil down to telling kids who functionally can't read to try harder to read. this is not productive, in my experience and opinion, for kids whose maximum effort persistently yields confusion. but things are so dysfunctional all the way up and down the ladder that you can be a senior in college majoring in english without anyone but a pair of professors with a strong work ethic noticing that you can't actually read.

couple other notes:

obviously it's a small study but i'm not sure i see a reason to believe these are particularly outlierish results (ACT scores - an imperfect metric but not a meritless one IMO for reading specifically, where the task mostly really is to read a set of texts written for the educated layperson and answer factual questions about them - were a little bit above the national average)

the study was published last year, but the research was conducted january to april 2015. so there's no pandemic influence, no AI issue - these are millennials who now would span roughly ages 28-32 (i guess it's possible one of the four first-year students was one of the very first members of gen z lol). if you're in your late 20s or early 30s, we are talking about people your age, and whatever the culprit is here, it was happening when you were in school.

i think some people might want to blame this on NCLB but i find this unconvincing for a variety of reasons. first of all, NCLB did not pass because everyone in 2001 agreed that education was super hunky-dory; in fact, the sold a story podcast outlines how an explicit goal of NCLB was to train teachers in systematic phonics instruction, because that was not the norm when NCLB was passed, and an unfortunate outcome was that phonics became politicized in ed world. second, anyone who understands anything about reading should need about ten minutes max to spend some time on standardized test prep and recognize that if your goal is truly to maximize scores... then the vast majority of your instructional time should be spent on improving actual reading skills because you actually can't meaningfully game these tests by "practicing main idea questions" (timothy shanahan addresses this briefly near the top of this post). so i find it very difficult to believe that any school that pivoted to multiple choice drill time in an attempt to boost reading scores was teaching reading effectively pre-NCLB, because no set of competent literacy professionals would think that would work even for the goal of raising test scores. third, NCLB mandated yearly testing in grades 3-8 but only one test year in high school; kansas set its reading and math test year in high school as tenth grade. so theoretically these kids all had two years of sweet sweet freedom from NCLB in which their teachers could have done whatever the fuck they wanted to teach these kids to actually read. the fact that they didn't suggests perhaps there were other problems afoot. fourth, and maybe most saliently for this particular study, the sample text was the first seven paragraphs of a novel - in other words, the exact kind of short incomplete text that NCLB allegedly demanded excessive time spent on. i'm not really sure what universe it makes sense in that students who can't read the first seven paragraphs of a novel would have become much better reader if everything else had been the same but they had been making completely wack associations based on nonsense guesses for all 300 pages instead. (if you read the study it's really clear that for problematic readers, things go off the rails immediately, in a way that a good program targeted at teaching mastery of text of 500 words or less would have done something about.)

all but 3 of the students reported A's and B's in their english classes and, again, 69% of them are juniors and seniors, so like... i mean idk kudos to these professors for being like "hold up can these kids actually read?" but clearly something is wack at the college level too [in 2015] if you can make your way through nearly an entire english major without being able to read the first seven paragraphs of a dickens novel. (once again i really do encourage you to look at the qualitative samples in the study, lest you think i am being uncharitable by summarizing understandable misunderstandings or areas of confusion that may resolve themselves with further exposure to the text as "can't read.") not to mention the fact that most students could not what they had learned in previous or current english classes and when asked to name british and american authors and/or works of the nineteenth century, roughly half the sample at each college could name at most one.

the authors of the study are struck by the fact that students who cannot parse the first 3 sentences of bleak house feel very confident about their ability to read the entire novel, and discover that this seeming disconnect is resolved by the fact that these students seem to conceptualize "reading" as "skimming and then reading sparknotes." i think it's really tempting to Kids These Days this phenomenon (although again these are people who in some cases have now been in the workforce for a decade) and categorize it as laziness or a lack of effort, but i think that there is, as i described above, a real and sincere confusion over what "reading" is in which this makes a certain logical sense because it's not like they have some store of actual reading experiences to compare it to. i also think it's pretty obvious looking at just how wildly severed from actual textual comprehension their readings are that these are not - or at least not entirely - students who could just work harder and master the entirety of bleak house all on their own. like i don't think you get from "charles dickens is describing a bunch of dinosaur bones actually walking the streets of london" to comfortably reading nineteenth century literature by just trying harder. i really just don't (and i say that acknowledging i personally have had students who like... were good readers if i was forcing them to work at it constantly... but i have also had students, including ones getting ready to enter college, who were clearly giving me everything they had and what they had was at the present moment insufficient). i think that speaks to a missing skillset that they don't know are missing, because they don't have any other experience of "reading" to compare it to.

just wanna highlight again that although they don't give the breakdown some of these students are not just english majors but english education majors a.k.a. the high school english teachers of tomorrow. some of them may be teaching high school english right now, in case anyone wishes to consider whether "maybe some high school english teachers can't read the first seven paragraphs of bleak house?" should be kept in mind when we discuss present-day educational ills.

[astrolook]

When & Where Will You Meet Your Spouse? 💍💫 Locations, Connections, and Fate ✨

Note: This post fits both Western and Vedic systems. Take what resonates with you more and leave the rest. Lemme know in the comments if it hits home!

Look at where your 7th house ruler is placed; the opposite sign of your 7th lord’s placement can show where and when you might meet them. You might meet your spouse under the zodiac sign opposite to your 7th lord.

7th lord in Aries → opposite sign Libra

7th lord in Taurus → opposite sign Scorpio

7th lord in Gemini → opposite sign Sagittarius

7th lord in Cancer → opposite sign Capricorn

7th lord in Leo → opposite sign Aquarius

7th lord in Virgo → opposite sign Pisces

7th lord in Libra → opposite sign Aries

7th lord in Scorpio → opposite sign Taurus

7th lord in Sagittarius → opposite sign Gemini

7th lord in Capricorn → opposite sign Cancer

7th lord in Aquarius → opposite sign Leo

7th lord in Pisces → opposite sign Virgo

If the opposite sign is Libra, you’re likely to meet your spouse at a wedding, your mother's or a younger sibling's birthday month, through business partnerships, during legal proceedings, at a courthouse, networking events, contract signings, social mixers, collaborative projects, or even a photoshoot or fashion-related event. Since Libra rules one-on-one connections and “the other,” there’s a strong chance you’ll be introduced by someone else, like a friend, colleague, or mutual contact.

If the opposite sign is Scorpio, you might meet your spouse through spiritual circles, taboo interest groups, chat rooms, the dark web, at a car dealership, during a major life event like a birth (someone close to you) or a funeral (death of a loved one), or in moments involving deep emotional or financial transitions like getting insurance, paying taxes, or receiving an inheritance. The meeting is likely to feel sudden, intense, or completely unexpected, happening in a place or situation you’d never imagine.

If the opposite sign is Sagittarius, you’re likely to meet your spouse while studying in college, during higher education abroad, on a long-distance trip, at an airport, could be a foreigner or someone from a different background. You might also cross paths in places like a church, temple, spiritual retreat, or support group. Other possibilities include meeting through publishing, broadcasting, the internet, TV, radio, a casino, a club, or anywhere involving a sense of risk, exploration, or adventure.

If the opposite sign is Capricorn, you could meet your spouse through your father, at work, during career-related events, a business meeting, through mutual friends, colleagues, at a railway station, chain restaurants, historical buildings, museum, concert, weekend gathering, bar, comedy show, award show, or even outside the city or town limits. The connection may come in structured, goal-oriented settings or when you're focused on responsibility and long-term plans.

If the opposite sign is Aquarius, you could meet your spouse online, through an activist group, social cause, NGO, while caring for the elderly, in a gaming chat room, while protesting, through friends, acquaintances, or community events for a social cause. Your spouse may live far away or come from a different cultural background.

If the opposite sign is Pisces, you might meet your spouse in a hospital, foreign country, foreigner, secluded or private setting, while hiking, trekking, during outdoor activities, end of the month or year, near water bodies, at a spa, meditation center, spiritual group, or retreat. The meeting could also happen during a period of emotional low, an existential crisis, or when you feel like you've hit rock bottom, when you're most inward or seeking deeper meaning.

If the opposite sign is Aries, you could meet your spouse when you find a new social circle or group of friends, during a glow-up, in your birthday month, while starting a new hobby, the first week of the month, Mondays, when graduating, changing jobs or locations, or while traveling by road. The meeting could happen when you're taking bold steps or embracing new beginnings.

If the opposite sign is Taurus, you could meet your spouse at local shops, while shopping, at seminars, in a bank, through family connections, coworkers, or business partners. You might also meet in the countryside, on a farm, near agricultural land, at office spaces, during a promotion, or while getting a job, or through charity work.

If the opposite sign is Gemini, you could meet your spouse on social media, dating apps, through your close friends circle, siblings, at restaurants, during local trips, while on the phone, with lots of people around you, in a crowd of young individuals, at university, workshops, during your daily commute, tourist attraction spots, or in your own neighborhood or town.

If the opposite sign is Cancer, you could meet your spouse while it's raining, during a hurricane or storms, near water bodies, at a bar, under clear blue skies, in the evening, introduced by a woman you know, at birthday parties, birth of a child (someone close to you), weddings, or at a cafe.

If the opposite sign is Leo, you could meet your spouse when you're feeling fun, lighthearted, on a close getaway, at a zoo, during outdoor activities, on a family or friends' trip or vacation, in movie theaters, at concerts, while partying and enjoying yourself, or by following them on social media.

If the opposite sign is Virgo, you could meet your spouse while you're busy with daily tasks, at a vet clinic, during a promotion, at the gym, while jogging, working, or caught up in routines that feel mundane. It may take time to realize they’re your person, as you're caught up with other things in your life.

Wanna dive deeper into your chart's layers? ✨🔍 DM me for a full astrology reading, a 5 or 8-year marriage report, detailed synastry, or a kundli matching breakdown 🌙💬 Check out my pinned post for pricing and more info 💫💸

Let’s decode your cosmic chaos together ⭐💖

[fgojous]

BULLSHIT!

alcohol mixed with a little bit of sexual tension. what could go wrong, right? wink

gojo satoru x f!reader

warnings. romance, fluff, friends to lovers, a loooot of sexual tension, college au, drinking, explicit sexual content, footsies hihi, drunk sex, making out, unprotected sex, tit sucking, cunnilingus, p in v, creampie, overstim | eighteen plus only!

word count. 4.1k

status. complete (one-shot)

note. hi. what am i doing posting a smut at 6 am? ikr. i'm unhinged for satoru, gawwwd. anyway. enjoy hehehehe

you and satoru aren’t that close. 

sure, you’re in the same friend group, but you don’t chat with him everyday like you do with yuki. or he’s not the one you call first whenever you have a really personal problem like you do with shoko. 

there’s familiarity, sure—but you’ve never been vulnerable alone with him. just like with typical friend groups—you know each other’s problems, each other’s likes or dislikes. you study with them. you hangout with them.

okay, maybe he’d message you once in a while—if you’d already done the essay, or if you’re going to class or ask you what he missed because he didn’t attend the lecture. 

what you have with satoru is something you can’t explain. 

you can call him your friend but you know there’s something that you can’t quite put your foot on.

just the other day, you’re hanging out at suguru’s place and he’d be across the room from you, sitting on the armchair—you notice him, because how could you not when he’s got that laugh—loud, bright and definitely magnetic whenever any one of you says something funny?

no, you weren’t watching him. why would you? 

so, you would look away, but when your gaze lands on him again he’s already looking at you—throwing you that smile instead of looking away, and you’ll smile back at him. 

then you’ll get distracted again when shoko snaps her fingers in front of you because you weren’t listening to her teaching you some card game that were overly complicated. so, you’ll look away but you could still feel the weight of his gaze on you.

or whenever you get too drunk when your group is out in the club. you’d drink too much, dance too much—so much so that you’re aware that you're pressed against him, that you’re aware that he’s gripping your hips tightly—your back settled on his chest, his breath warm against the skin of your neck. 

and then you’ll both laugh—or giggle while dancing, drunk in the loud booming music and strobe lights. 

then you’ll both do what you always do. pull away, because it means nothing. you’re just friends. having fun. 

or when you’re studying at the library, when you don’t get something about the topic—he’ll lean in a little too close that you could smell his cologne—a little too close that his voice is right in your ear, his arm slung over the backrest of your seat, while his hand rests on the flat of your back. 

and you do what you always do, as usual. 

brush it off even though your brain turned blank because your thighs were too pressed together.

i mean, what do you call that? 

and just like right now, you’re sitting across from him—you’re all here in suguru’s balcony—he dragged a table out here so they can smoke out in the open air while you guys were drinking.

the air was cold—you’d all been drinking, and you’re aware that you’re already a bit tipsy. i mean, you’re laughing too much even if choso’s joke isn’t that funny. 

and now, you’re all playing bullshit.

“wow, you’re all terrible liars,” shoko says, dragging a smoke from her cigarette.

“okay, queen of bullshit.” suguru answers and you all chuckled, he then places down two cards on the table, “a two and a five.”

yuki’s eyes narrowed, “bullshiiit!”

then suguru reveals his cards, it’s a queen and a ten. 

“we got a human lie detector right here.” choso says, suguru then takes two shots. “two sixes.”

“bullshit.” suguru called.

choso reveals his cards, he huffs a breath at suguru who’s smirking now—he takes two shots, “you’re full of shit.”

“you’re just mad, i can read you.”

choso just flipped him over, then satoru places two cards on the table with a smirk on his face, “two eights.”

you look at him—he’s leaning on his chair, too relaxed for someone who’s lying. his eyes flickers at you for a second—you may be drunk, but you saw it.

you saw it.

goddamn it, why is he making you feel this way?

why is he looking at you like he wants you—no, like he already has you wrapped around his fingers. he always has this kind of look that only he gives you—the one where it makes your nerves unravel. 

the one where you get aware of everything. 

like how tight your clothes are, how hard your thighs are pressed together—he has this kind of look like he’s just touching you with that gaze he’s dragging, prickling your skin that you could feel heat bubbling up to the surface. 

of course, you have to play it cool. 

but you hate it. you hate the way he’s looking at you. or maybe, you’re just overthinking it all. maybe it’s the liquor.

you’re quite drunk. maybe you’re just imagining things.

“bullshit.” shoko says but then he flips his card. it’s two eights. just like he said.

“you’re such a liar.” 

satoru laughs, his gaze landing on you again and you swear you could feel your heart do this weird, familiar flip inside your chest. 

you bit your lower lip, looking down at the cards in your hand. you set down two, “two fours.”

he smirks, speaking almost immediately. and here you’re painfully aware that he’s still looking at you. “bullshit.”

you raise your eyebrows, “how do you say so?”

“you bite your lip when you’re lying.” 

there’s that smirk that you wanna smack away. how in the hell does he notice that?

“do not.”

“do too.”

“do not.”

“flip your cards then.” he says, his eyes still locked on you. there’s that look again. 

you roll your eyes, flipping your cards over. it’s a jack and a three.

he gasp dramatically, there’s this playful look on his eyes. “you lie?!”

“you’re so dramatic.” you said while already reaching out for the shot glass that choso laid out for you.

then the game continued. too many shots. a lot of bickering and laughter. the boys were too loud and rowdy, you girls were just laughing at their nonsense. you swore suguru cheated but got away with it because everyone couldn’t stop laughing when choso slipped from his seat.

and somewhere in all of that, you can still feel satoru’s eyes on you. everytime he says a joke, he’ll look at you just so he could see if you’re giggling. 

and suddenly, there’s a shift between the two of you that you couldn’t brush off anymore.

you were all still busy laughing when you stretched your legs—then you instinctively jolted when you bumped your foot onto his.

but neither of you moved, the contact sent your nerves firing at an impossible rate—making your body tense, you must’ve drank too much because you feel too hot even though the night air was cold. 

then you tilt your head slightly, just to look at him. 

he’s still playing the game—talking to suguru like your skin isn’t touching. but he must’ve noticed it. you’re sure he knows it. so, you cleared your throat and looked away.

but it kills you that he’s not reacting. why isn’t he saying something? why isn’t he looking at you now?

you don’t know where you had the guts to do what you were about to do but fuck it.

so much for liquid courage, huh?

you shifted slightly in your seat, moving a little forward. then slowly, you drag your toes on the side of his foot to the ball of his ankle, doing a circular motion with your toe.

he didn’t pull away. 

you sip on your drink, propping your elbow to the table, pretending to listen to whatever story choso is telling now. 

then you continue, dragging your foot lightly up to his calf—he tensed, it was subtle but enough for you to notice. 

you weren’t looking at him.

not yet anyway.

you continued until your foot was just below his knee, and this time you hear the small stutter he made while he was talking to his best friend. but he composed himself, and you sip on your drink trying to hide a grin.

he recovered just like that. like you’re not teasing him under the table. like you aren’t running your toes on the hem of his gray sweatshorts—

“satoru.” yuki says, “it’s your turn.”

then you finally look at him, toes creeping under the fabric of his shorts, into his inner thighs—he blinks, his lips part slightly before clearing his throat. “huh? uh—two sixes one eight.”

you smirked, staring at him like you aren’t driving him madly crazy with what you’re doing.

“bullshit.” you called almost in a flash, all the while dragging your foot down to the side of his legs until you’re at his ankle again.

he stared at you, flipping his cards.

two fives and a king.

and just like that everyone cheered because they finally got him. 

you finally got him.

“ha!” shoko says pointing at him, “drink!”

satoru smirks, and raises the shot glass while everyone chants drink! drink!

he stares at you while taking a shot then slammed the glass face down on the table. he presses his foot back against yours—slowly, deliberately.

he didn’t shy away from you when he licked the last drop of tequila from the corner of his lips. 

then your heart screamed. 

chest heaving like you wanted them to know what you’re doing with him. he moves his foot against yours, like intertwining his ankles with yours—and this time, you felt your heartbeat everywhere.

at your neck, your ears even at your fingertips.

you swallowed thickly, looking down at your cards before pulling away to stand up too fast—too obvious.

the air caught on your throat. what else do you do?

“i—uh, need water.”

shoko raised her eyebrow, “you good?”

“yeah.” you answer quickly, “fine.”

“someone’s already drunk~” choso says in a sing-song tone, laughing. you just raised your middle finger before you walked off.

you’re barely halfway the sliding door into the living room when—

“where you going?” suguru asked him.

satoru raised his arms, stretching— “bathroom. why, you wanna come with?”

“fuck you.” suguru answers and he laughs, you muttered a curse before opening the sliding door—stepping in before he could catch up to you. 

the living room was warm while you padded  into the kitchen. 

you could hear the muffled sounds from the speaker and of your friends laughing out the balcony when you reached for the glass in the dish rack. you were opening the refrigerator when you heard footsteps behind you.

you didn’t need to look back.

you know it’s him.

“water?” you offered without glancing back, surprised at the steadiness of your voice even though your heart was already racing. surprised—when your brain was already reeling all kinds of things that you’d like to keep in your head.

“i’m good.” he answers with a low voice.

then you finally turned, and there he was, leaning on the counter with his arm crossed—his tousled white hair glinting underneath the dim lights—he’s watching you like you’re the only person left in the universe.

you stare back at him, leaning near the sink while holding the glass of water. 

“stop looking at me like that.” you finally say.

he chuckles, “like what?”

like what exactly?

like he wants you? like he wanted to kiss you?

“like that.” you answered vaguely.

“i’m not looking at you like whatever you mean.” he answers, pushing off the counter, stepping a little forward. 

you placed the glass on the sink, letting out a snort, “bullshit.”

“yeah? and are you going to pretend that you’re not looking at me that way?”

“am not.”

“bullshit. you’re a liar.”

he stepped closer until you’re just inches away, you looked up at his face. his figure is already towering over you. 

your lips part slightly, “i never lie. you do though.”

“bullshit.” his voice was dangerously low, he took one step closer. his hand finds its way to your waist.

you blinked. getting hyperaware of his hands sliding up your sides. you both paused, like you’re both gauging the weight of tension that filled the air.

“i never think about you.”

your voice falters just a little, “bullshit.”

“i don’t think about being this close to you.”

you laughed breathlessly, “yeah. total bullshit.”

he stepped just a little closer until he’s pressed against you, you tried backing up until you felt the edge of the counter behind your back, the back of your knees bumping onto the cabinet just below.

“i never thought about how it would feel to kiss you.”

you never got to call bullshit because he was already kissing you.

he kissed you like he meant to do it for so long. 

his kisses taste like desperation—the alcohol tasted bitter on your mouth but his was something different. something that you’ve thought about for so long.

his kisses tasted like you’re meant to, like it fits, it belongs. 

your hands found his shirt, clinging onto him to anchor yourself. your fingers twist against the fabric as your mouth moves against his—it was desperate, so wet and messy.

you’re already drowning but you’re aching for more. he kisses you frantically that your knees almost buckle, and you kiss him in a more needy way, like it’d kill you if his mouth weren’t on yours.

he licks your lips before sucking your lower lip into his mouth. he was biting your lip, sucking it in—his tongue brushes over your lips like a quiet plea and you instinctively let him in, his tongue rolling over yours and you let out a soft moan.

he pressed against you more—you’re trapped in between his body and the cold counter. his hand creeping inside your shirt just so he could feel you. just so he could ground himself—tell him that this was real.

this was finally happening.

you barely notice that he’d already lifted you on the counter until you feel the cold marble clashing with the heat in your thighs. you open your knees, legs hooking around his hips to pull him in.

his hands gripped your thigh like he’s melding his skin into yours, his thumb rubbing circles onto the soft swell of your skin. 

“can’t seem to stop,” he breathed pulling away, then he bites your lip, “tell me to stop—and i will—fuck, but please, fucking don’t.”

you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer to press soft hungry kisses on his lips.

“do i look..” kiss “like i want you..” you kiss him deeper, you pull away gasping, “to stop?”

and just like that he was kissing you again. teeth clashing, tongues swirling into each other. messy—filthy and starved.

his hand underneath your shirt unclasps your bra, you pulled away to lift your own shirt up until you’re rid of it. your bra flawlessly dropping on your lap—

“fuuuck.” he choked, he gripped your hair to kiss you again—his hand massaging your breast—he rubs your nipple in between his fingers earning a muffled moan from you. 

you tug at the hem of his shirt, you murmured against his mouth, “take this off.”

and he did so eagerly, tossed it aside and the moment it was gone, your hands were on every part of his body—his chest, shoulder—god, his abs. his skin was hot against your palm—you trace your fingers like you're memorizing every part of him. 

“satoru—fuck.” you mewled when his kisses went down to your jaw—he sucks on a spot just below your ear, biting your skin hungrily. you gasp, your fingers gripping his surprisingly soft hair, “don’t stop.”

“i don’t plan to,” he murmured against your skin until he’s down, dipping his tongue on your collarbone, licking down until he’s on your chest. 

you pulled his hair while he pushed your mounds together—licking a stripe on your nipples, he was gripping the soft swell of your tits while sucking it in his mouth.

your skin was prickly, your nails dug into his back while he continued. 

“satoruuu—” you whine, “want you. please.”

he lets go of your tits with a pop, a string of saliva dripping from his swollen lips, he breathes, tugging on the waistband of your shorts, “you got me, baby.”

you lift yourself up a bit so he could pull your shorts down, he wasted no time sliding the fabric off your legs until it pooled on the kitchen floor. 

his eyes sinfully dragged across your body like he’d seen something so perfect—so maddeningly beautiful. he leaned in, pressing soft kisses against your inner thigh—his lips moved up until you felt his breath ghosting over exactly where you needed him to.

“satoru—”

“god,” he rasped out, licking your skin, “i’ve thought about this for so many times that i’ve lost count.”

you whimper when you feel his finger tug your underwear to the side, giving him a view of your wet, sloppy cunt—then he drops to his knees as if he’s worshipping you. your legs hooked on his shoulders while his hands were gripping on your thighs to keep you open.

“satoru—fucking hell—nghh—” his tongue was flat against your slit, he drags it up and down, the tip of his tongue swirling around your clit, his fingers parting your folds. 

you threw your head back, your hand anchoring you to the counter while the other was pulling on his hair as he ate you out like a starved man. 

satoru laps on your slit wantonly like he’d been denied for months and was making up for it—his tongue was moving sloppily, so filthy.

he looks up at you while he sucks your clit, your eyes meet and you bite your lip—you choked when he pulled away a bit just to spit on your already dripping cunt then he was back on you again.

he pries your folds open a little more, then he delves his tongue inside you— “fuuuck—nghhh—toruuu, so good! don’t stop, fuck—”

your toes curl just above the skin on his back, your grip on his hair tightens. the electricity reverberating on your body, pooling in your core.

“satoruuu!” you cried out, fisting his hair. 

he moaned against your cunt, the vibration pushing all of the sanity left in you. he was so so messy, so goddamn pretty eating you out so shamelessly.

then he shattered you—your body arched above the counter, bucking your hips against his mouth, his name tumbles off your mouth over and over again, your thighs convulse against his head. 

“sto—ugh! fuck,” you were a stuttering mess as he licked you through your orgasm—he run his tongue up and down until the very last twitch. 

you pulled his head away, breath ragged as you laugh breathlessly, “stop—you’re going to fucking kill me.”

he smirks as he stands up, his face is a mess—your juices coated around his mouth trickling down to his chin, he leaned in to kiss you again—you could taste yourself in his mouth but that didn’t matter. 

didn’t even matter that your friends are just outside.

the fuck if you both care.

you pull away, you stare with heavy-lidded eyes. “i want you inside me, please.”

my goood, how can he not fuck you when you desperately beg like that?

he didn’t make you ask again. he was already pulling his shorts down, his hard cock springs free. 

he’s fucking big—his cock was veiny with a slight curve, the tip flushed, glistening with precum—you couldn’t stop staring.

who knew. i mean, you’ve imagined what his dick looked like but—gaaah, this was so beyond—

you whine when you felt his tip slide against your wet folds, your juices smeared against the tip of his cock so deliciously.

“toru.” you rasped, “toru—want you inside, please.”

“you’re going to fucking kill me.” he choked, his eyes was dark, staring at you—still teasing your cunt, he groans, “you know that? you’re gonna be the death of me—shit.”

he leaned into your mouth, pressing a sloppy kiss while he lined himself, pushing in slowly. you both gasp into each other’s mouth as he buried his cock, he sank into you—slowly, inch by inch until you’re stuffed full of his cock.

“shit—” he muttered, pressing his forehead against you, “you feel so—god, you feel so fucking good. so warm and tight.”

“move,” you mewled, locking him in between your legs, “move, ‘toru, please.”

and he did, slowly. he wants to revel in the way you clamp around him—your walls so tight and warm, just perfect—so perfect, like you’re made for him.

your body twitches with every move he makes—then he moves, faster—harder, your sweaty skins slapping deliciously against each other, echoing through the kitchen.

his hands gripped your waist—his lips were on every part of your face, then your jaw, your collarbone like he couldn’t decide which part of you he wanted to kiss. god, he wanted it all. he wanted all of you.

“fuck, if i knew this was going to be this good—” he stutters, he wraps his arm around you to pull you closer, his hips angling a bit just so he could hit that spot that has your body writhing, “i would’ve made a move months ago—fuuuuck.”

you half-laughed, half-moaned, “what took you—nghhh—so long, huh?”

he smirks so devilishly, rutting his hips harder—his eyes stare at his cock disappearing inside you before he is back on your face, “didn’t know how to. you make me—fuck, you make me a fucking mess—”

he moved harder, melding his hands on your skin, “can’t think straight when i’m around you.”

because he really didn’t know how to. because he knew, if he touched you, he’s done for. he’s gone and he’ll never be able to come back.

“fuuuuck,” you cried out, your tits bouncing with every rut of his hips, “didn’t know you were—hngggg, such a lover boy—god!”

you clench around him, you feel a spring coiling—tightening around your stomach as your forehead falls onto his shoulder, you bite on the skin just above his collarbone while you come undone.

he followed soon after, steadied thrusts becoming sloppy—hips stuttering along with a cracked groan, spilling his load inside you with a shudder.

he collapsed against you. both of you catching your breath—and now you’re aware that you’re both naked above suguru’s counter.

god, he’s going to kill you both.

you could feel the sweat trickle on your skin, your heart slowly coming down from a high. his thumbs lazily rubbing circles against your thighs.

“you know,” he whispers, pressing soft kisses on your jaw “i’m not that into you.”

you laugh a little out of breath, biting the lobe of his ear. your breath ghosting over, “bullshit.”

—

the sliding door opened with a slight creak. 

you stepped out first. there was no trace that you just got railed shamelessly on  the kitchen counter—well, except from the faint hickeys already forming along your jaw to your collarbone.

but are they really going to see it? your friends are drunk—clueless, they probably think you were only gone for ten minutes, they’d already opened the fifth bottle of tequila. 

you sit quietly beside shoko, she looked at you with a hazy eyes, unmistakably drunk, and you smiled sheepishly. 

“what the fuck is that?”

“huh?” you asked innocently.

she pointed at your jaw, and the remaining three looked at you—wide eyes like sobriety just washed over them just like that.

“the fuck—” 

suguru was cut off when satoru stepped out. this fucking asshole didn’t bother fixing his hair. your lipstick still slightly smudged on his lips.

their eyes alternate between the two of you.

then silence.

loud silence.

“you fucking assholes!” choso stands up laughing, “pay up!”

you shot satoru a look, he sits down shrugging. just as clueless as you are.

what the fuck are they talking about?

“goddamn it. you can’t wait until next week at the house party?!” suguru punched satoru’s shoulder.

“ow—fuck! what the fuck are you guys talking about?!” 

but they didn’t answer. they just pulled out their wallets—groaning, as they put bills on choso’s hand, who’s practically already dancing so happily from where he stands.

“for the record!” yuki shouted, rolling her eyes at choso, “i bet that it was going to happen tonight! if not for this asshole convincing me that it’s definitely going to happen at the party next week!”

you choked, “do you guys have a bet?!”

“duhhh?” shoko nudged your shoulder, “we’ve been betting for months. you guys practically eye each other every time we hang out.”

unbelievable.

you purse your lips, looking at satoru—who just winked at you. 

“wait,” suguru deadpanned, “did you guys have sex in my kitchen?!”

“no.” you both said at the same time. looking at each other, sharing knowing glances. trying not to laugh. 

they all laughed—except for suguru, “BULLSHIT!”

[lonelywretchjervistetch]

Life-List Series #9: WODU

Common Name: Wood Duck Scientific Name: Aix sponsa

Description: A very colorful duck found in trees and near rivers Motto: Joseph's Technicolor Dreamduck

Conservation: Least Common, increasing Range: Across the USA year-round, migrating to southern Canada in the breeding season, and down to central Mexico in the nonbreeding season Habitat: Riparian habitats, wetlands, marshes, and beaver ponds; forested wetlands with high amounts of vegetative cover and trees for nesting are priorities during the breeding season

Diet: Acorns and tree seeds, aquatic plants and grasses, berries, nuts, beetles, flies, caterpillars, bugs, isopods, and other aquatic and terrestrial insects Breeding: Annually monogamous double-brood cavity-nesters with strictly maternal care of 10-13 eggs per brood Sound (F): oo-EEP oo-EEP oo-EEP Sound (M): zeeeeEEEEET zeeeeEEEEEET

Ornithologist's Notes: What exactly is up with that iconic whistle? Wood Ducks, already iconic in their appearance, have an equally iconic call, divided by gender into those recognizable whoops and whistles. In the '70s, the female's whooping call was well-studied for its recognizability not to us, but to wood duck ducklings, which have a lot more diversity in their vocalizations than the adults, and seem to easily be able to recognize individuals. Not an unusual thing in birds by any means, but still a manner of focus in early study. One 1972 study suggests that this discrimination begins with the embryo in the egg, although that seems somewhat uncertain, if interesting. Also, both species have a unique nonvocal sound feature: their wings whistle when they fly! Allegedly; they aren't the only duck with this trait, though.

Oh, also, closest relative is the Asian (and introduced European) Aix galericulata, AKA the Mandarin Duck! But, if you've seen the Mandarin Duck, that shouldn't come at a surprise. Lastly, they're the only North American duck that regularly double-broods, meaning they have two clutches per year, every year! Those broods are in high trees, and if you know these guys, you've probably seen videos of duckling raining from the sky as they leave the nest. They bounce!

Life-Life Notes: Man, if there's a North American duck more handsome than the Wood Duck, I don't know what it is. These were my most anticipated duck as a kid moving to the mainland States, and for good reason! Beautiful males and females (note the iridescent blue speculum on the wing there), and still one of my favorites to see and hear. To be honest, I don't think I did this duck much justice with the drawing style, especially in terms of the iridescence. And obviously, I only have the male posted here. I'm considering doing something with these drawings, as I've hinted in my tags up to now, so I may also be adding making alternate designs for those I've already posted, including the females where sexual dimorphism is apparent, like here and in the rest of the ducks. We'll see...and lemme know if that's something people would be interested in. Again, only considering it for now. On to the next duck!

Previous: MUDU

Next: AMWI

[thebreakfastgenie]

#idk us absorbing things from influcencers is a system YOU as adults made @casually-prish

This post got more way notes than I expected, so most people are seeing this little thought I had without any context, but for what it's worth I agree with your tags. I made this post because I've become more and more concerned about phones and social media, but I'm very aware of the pattern of society panicking about new technology. I think it's hard to talk about the negative impact of constant heavy social media use on adolescent health because we have years of adults looking down on teenagers for using cellphones. That's one of the reason I said I was thinking a lot about kids in high schools even though this is an issue that affects all age groups.

We've watched not just cellphone use but social media use shift away from people using that technology to form real social connections with each other and towards passively consuming influencer and AI content delivered by an algorithm. This didn't happen by accident. Social media companies did this on purpose, because it maximizes their profits. This technology grew so fast most of us didn't even realize it was happening, which is why I said I don't think people realize the conversation changed. The technology is not inherently bad, it's the way large corporations are using it. That's a different conversation than the traditional "the kids are on their damn phones all the time."

I am not remotely blaming teenagers, nor am I looking down on you or making fun of you. I'm identifying a systemic issue. That's not to say you can't find ways to make your individual social media use healthier. We can all do that, but I'm certainly not throwing stones from my chronically online glass house. I know a lot of young people who have healthier social media habits than I do. But I think individual solutions are a band-aid for a systemic issue that needs study and policy intervention.

The "kids are on their damn phones all the time" conversation has changed in an extremely significant way and I'm not sure people realize it. When kids had flip phones, and even in the early days of smartphones, kids were using their phones to text each other. It was part of an active social life. Now they're using their phones more and more to consume content from influencers or other accounts. It's more passive and it's increasingly what people are doing instead of socializing with each other. This applies to adults too, I just keep thinking about high school students.

[auren-zagarra]

I for one am Leona’s self appointed wife and I would love to see you do a breakdown!

Leona Kingscholar: A Deeper Look into Depression

Disclaimer: Although this post is written by a professional psychologist, it is not intended to serve as a formal diagnosis. Rather, it is a character analysis of Leona Kingscholar, created out of personal interest and passion for world-building. In psychological practice, accurate assessment should never be based solely on external observation.

Leona Kingscholar is the housewarden of Savanaclaw Dorm. As second prince of the Sunset Savanna (a prosperous kingdom). Leona himself often appears lazy and apathetic. According to lore, Leona was raised in the royal family alongside an older brother, Falena. From childhood he was “constantly compared to and upstaged” and treated as inferior simply for being born second - and these dynamics fostered deep resentment. At home, Leona perceives that “no matter what he does, he would never become the best nor have the opportunity to become king”. At first, he refused to enroll at Night Raven College (NRC) since he already learnt everything from royal tutors during his childhood, however, after Cheka’s birth he accepted the invitation because he was feeling suffocated. Within the narrative, Leona initially serves as a proud antagonist, being portrayed as talented and perceptive, but he frequently shirks effort. Symbolically, Leona represents the lion’s prideful and dominant traits twisted by frustration and sloth: outwardly grandiose and competitive, yet inwardly demoralized by his past.

Personality and Trauma

Leona’s outward demeanor is arrogant, domineering, and prideful. Character summaries note that he tends not to waste his energy on those he deems inferior and puts little to no effort into activities that don’t interest him, especially his studies. He is smart and magically powerful, but also notoriously lazy - even repeating a school year due to low attendance. Psychologically, this combination suggests a grandiose façade masking deeper issues. When challenged or when his pride is at stake, Leona becomes fiercely competitive and ruthless; he strives to achieve victory through any means necessary, even resorting to underhanded tactics to prove himself a worthy leader. This behavior reveals a fragile ego: he boasts and belittles others to compensate for inner insecurity.

Behind his arrogance lies a history of personal trauma. Growing up as the second prince in a powerful family, Leona was continually compared unfavorably to his elder brother. He describes Falena as “carefree” and remembers being treated as inferior simply for birth order. This chronic dethronement instilled in him a sense of learned helplessness: he eventually felt that no matter what he did, he would never become the best nor have the opportunity to become king. In his own words, Leona admits that once this belief took hold, “he now sees no reason to work hard” since his status “will stay the same no matter what”. Such statements indicate enduring feelings of futility and defeat. His royal lineage should have granted him confidence, but instead seems to have created a persistent sense of inadequacy. Even as a dorm student, he remains emotionally tied to his identity as a “prince” denied a throne, seeking in NRC the respect and power he lacked at home.

Leona’s family and social experiences have thus shaped a complex personality. His boasting about his power and disdain masks envy and unprocessed hurt. For example, in a birthday vignette he vented about his brother’s patronizing gifts - “It’s the same with my brother… he’s gotta be the caring big brother… he’s gonna run our kingdom into the ground” - exposing bitterness and frustration. In the dorm, Leona often withdraws when stressed (hiding in the gardens to nap undisturbed) but can explode in anger if pushed. Overall, Leona oscillates between grandiosity and resentment, a dynamic that foreshadows deeper psychological distress.

What Is Depression?

Clinical depression is a mood disorder defined by pervasive low mood and loss of interest or pleasure, accompanied by other cognitive and physical symptoms. According to the DSM-5, a major depressive episode requires at least two weeks during which the person experiences a depressed mood or markedly diminished interest nearly every day, plus at least four additional symptoms. These symptoms include significant changes in appetite or weight, sleep disturbance (insomnia or hypersomnia), psychomotor agitation or retardation, fatigue or loss of energy, feelings of worthlessness or excessive guilt, diminished ability to think or concentrate, and recurrent thoughts of death or suicide. Clinicians must also verify that symptoms cause significant distress or impairment and are not better explained by another condition. DSM-5 recognizes subtypes (e.g. melancholic depression).

Modern theories highlight cognitive and learning factors in depression. Aaron Beck’s cognitive model describes a negative cognitive triad: depressed individuals hold persistent negative beliefs about themselves, their world, and their future. They may think “I’m worthless,” “the world is hostile,” and “the future is hopeless,” often accompanied by cognitive distortions such as all-or-nothing thinking and catastrophizing. Learned helplessness theory (Martin Seligman) similarly proposes that depression can arise when people perceive a lack of control over outcomes. If a person repeatedly experiences uncontrollable stressors, they may begin to believe that efforts are futile, leading to helplessness and hopelessness. In clinical terms, depression is thus both a syndrome of affective symptoms and a style of thinking that includes feelings of helplessness and pessimism.

For example, cognitive theory predicts that someone who feels “unlovable, helpless, and doomed” will become withdrawn and demoralized. Learned helplessness theory specifically notes that clinical depression may result from a real or perceived absence of control over the outcome of a situation. Both perspectives emphasize how persistent negative interpretations (about self and environment) and perceived failure to influence one’s destiny contribute to depressive states. Additional frameworks (such as hopelessness theory) build on these ideas, but fundamentally depression involves enduring maladaptive beliefs and emotions about the self and life circumstances.

Leona’s Depression

Leona’s behavior and spoken words strongly suggest the presence of clinical depression, as understood by DSM criteria and cognitive theories. In Book 2 of Twisted-Wonderland, Leona explicitly expresses hopelessness and worthlessness. When taunted that he could never rule like Malleus, Leona responds with manic laughter and despair: “You’re EXACTLY right… I will never become king. No matter how hard I try!”. Moments later, he screams that he’s been “loathed since the day I was born,” has “never had a place, never had a future,” and that “none of his hard work is ever rewarded!” (quotes directly taken from Book 2). These proclamations reveal classic cognitive symptoms of depression: a negative view of the self (“loathed since birth”); a belief in a bleak, unalterable future (“will never become king”); and a sense that the world is unfairly punishing him (“hard work never rewarded”). In Beckian terms, Leona’s statements exemplify the negative triad - he sees himself as unworthy, the world as hostile or dismissive, and the future as hopeless. Furthermore, his assertion that “no matter how hard I try, I will never… king” is characteristic of learned helplessness: he perceives total lack of control over his destiny.

Behaviorally, Leona also exhibits symptoms aligning with depression. He is persistently fatigued and unmotivated: he skips classes and naps in secluded spots (e.g. botanical gardens) rather than engage with others. He puts minimal effort into schoolwork unless his pride is challenged, implying anhedonia (loss of interest) in most activities. His irritability and outbursts (as in the overblot scene) can be seen as expressions of underlying agitation or emotional dysregulation common in depression. While the game does not detail his sleep or appetite patterns (with exception of his naps, which could be a symptom of hypersomnia), he clearly meets several affective criteria: pervasive dysphoria, low energy, and feelings of worthlessness, persisting over time. It is plausible that Leona’s mood disturbance would qualify as at least a Major Depressive Episode under DSM-5, given the severity and thematic centrality of these symptoms. If not full-criteria MDD, he may fit a chronic depressive condition (such as persistent depressive disorder), since his hopeless outlook appears long-standing.

In terms of psychological theory, Leona’s profile fits both Beck’s and Seligman’s models of depression. He exhibits Beck’s negative cognitive triad: for example, he believes he is unworthy and unchangeable and he regards the world as incapable of understanding or helping him. Such rigid, pessimistic beliefs about himself and the future likely reinforce his despair. He also epitomizes learned helplessness. Repeated early experiences of uncontrollable failure (being beaten by his brother despite trying) have led him to a stable attributional style: he expects defeat as inevitable, so he sees no reason to work hard - and exactly because of this he cheats in Book 2, hurting his opponents and even raiding the stadium.Leona’s coping strategies are largely avoidant or compensatory. He copes by distraction and avoidance: he physically removes himself from stress (hiding from chores or skipping class) and by sarcastically deflecting emotional questions. He also asserts control through dominance: insisting on becoming housewarden so he need not “answer to small fry”. However, these strategies are ultimately maladaptive: avoidance lets his core issues fester, and domineering behavior alienates potential support. Notably, when his isolation is broken (for example by Riddle’s intervention), he unleashes his signature spell (The King’s Roar) that nearly puts his classmates in danger. This disastrous outburst reflects an inability to regulate overwhelming negative emotion - a hallmark of depression-exacerbated behavior.

[pensthoughts]

plus-one | v.p

part 3 of home turf pairing: adult!van palmer x reader summary: what starts as a rainy-day coffee date with van turns into sideline tension, stolen glances, and a big game that leaves your heart racing for more reasons than one. word count: 4k a/n: hi guys i'm alive!!! sorry for not posting in like ten years i've been super busy with lacrosse and school and just life in general. i think of home turf basically every day of my life so after a lot of hoping for free time, i decided to not study for a final so that i could write this because tbh i care about this a lot more and studying is overrated anyways. also!!! i did not proofread this yet so please don't mind typos bc there definitely are a few in here lol

it starts with a gray sky and the smell of rain on pavement. that kind of drizzle that barely counts, soft enough to ignore but persistent enough to hang in the air, humid and clinging. you're staring out the front window, arms crossed, a tiny knot of nerves forming in your stomach. not from the weather, obviously. from her.

you've changed shirts three times.

and now you're standing barefoot in your sister's hallway, tugging gently at the hem of the one you finally settled on—light blue, casual enough to pass for effortless, even though there's nothing effortless about the way your heart keeps racing.

you pull your hair up. then down. then half-up. then sigh and start over.

it's just a coffee. a cup of coffee with your niece's soccer coach. the one with the quick wit and even quicker smile, who keeps looking at you like she knows somethign you don't. the one who asked you out in your own kitchen.

you smooth your hands over your jeans and catch your reflection in the hallway mirror. "get it together," you whisper, then immediately cringe.

the house is quiet. sophia's already out—some team thing at one of the other girls' houses before the game, leaving you alone to spiral.

you drift into the kitchen and start fidgeting with the fridge magnets. you open the freezer, close it again. you think about texting someone, then remember you don't really have anyone here to text.

the clock on the microwave blinks. you've got maybe ten minutes before she shows up.

you reach for your jacket. then stop. then reach again.

you're pulling it on when you hear a car engine outside—low and distinct—and your heart skips.

you rush to the window like you're not already waiting. then pause, tug the curtain back an inch.

she's here.

of course she is.

and of course she's driving the coolest car you've ever seen.

you open the front door too fast and regret it, like maybe you should've waited a few seconds, made her knock, done something cooler. but then she looks up from where she's leaning against the side of her car—hands in her jacket pockets, head tilted—and grins like you've just made her day by stepping outside.

and honestly? that grin makes your stomach flutter.

"hey," she says, pushing off the car with one sneakered foot.

"hey," you echo, then freeze. "sorry, i didn't—um. you didn't have to get out."

"i didn't," van says, "just wanted to lean dramatically. like in a movie."

you blink. "did it work?"

she smirks. "well, you're here, aren't you?"

you try not to smile, but it's already happening. she opens the passenger door for you and waits, one eyebrow raised, like she's daring you to comment on the car.

you do. "okay, wait. this is yours?"

"it's an '87 trans am," she says, like it's obvious. "got her for cheap and fixed her up myself. be honest—are you impressed or intimidated?"

you pause, "honestly? a little bit of both."

van's eyes flash. "noted."

you slide into the seat and immediately notice how the interior smells faintly like cinnamon and leather. there's a mixtape playing really softly—real cassette, not just a playlist—with mazzy star humming low in the background.

when she gets in on the driver's side, you pretend to look out the window instead of watching the way she tugs her sleeves up and adjusts the rearview mirror like she's done it a thousand times before.

"you good?" she asks, starting the car.

"yeah," you say. "you?"

van shrugs. "can't complain. taking a pretty girl to get coffee. got a game in a few hours. feeling kind of lucky."

you blink. "you always say stuff like that?"

"only when i mean it."

you're quiet for a second, staring at your hands in your lap, fingers picking at the hem of your sleeve.

"you don't have to be nervous," she says, glancing at you from the corner of her eye.

"i'm not nervous," you lie.

she smiles without calling you out. "okay."

the rain's eased up by the time you hit the main road, just misty now, making the streets shine. van drives like someone who doesn't rush unless she has to—careful, one hand on the wheel, the other draped loosely over the gearshift. every once in a while, she hums along to the music like she forgot you were there, and honestly, you don't mind it. it's oddly comforting.

"so," you say, breaking the quiet. "you always take your dates out before games?"

van glances at you. "you think this is a date?"

you freeze. "isn't it?"

she grins. "i was hoping you'd say that."

you roll your eyes, but you're smiling. you can't help it.

a minute later, she pulls into a spot in front of a little brick-walled café with a painted wooden sign and fairy lights still twinkling under the awning, even in daylight.

"here we are," van says, cutting the engine. "the finest slightly pretentious coffee shop this side of the county line."

you lean back in your seat and look out at the café. "looks cute."

van unbuckles her seatbelt and opens her door, then pauses and looks at you again. "hey."

you look over. "yeah?"

her voice softens just slightly. "thanks for saying yes."

your heart does a weird little thing in your chest, a twist you weren't expecting.

"thanks for asking," you say, and this time you mean it.

the bell over the door chimes softly as you step into the little coffee shop, the sound swallowed up by the low hum of conversation and the indie playlist spilling from an old speaker in the corner. rain dots your jacket and clings to your sleeves, the damp smell of the sidewalk following you in. van's hand brushes your lower back as she steps in behind you, a warm, brief touch that she doesn't comment on.

she looks around once, taking in the mismatched chairs, the tiny potted plants on the windowsills, and the art student paintings tacked crookedly to the walls.

"this place is so you," she says, already grinning.

you raise an eyebrow. "how would you know what's 'so me'?"

van gestures vaguely. "i mean, come on. indie playlists? handmade mugs? this screams 'i went to school in a city and had a mental breakdown sophomore year.'"

you snort. "i'll have you know, my breakdown happened senior year, and i'm very emotionally mature now."

"ah," she says, "that explains the iced matcha obsession."

"it's not an obsession," you protest, stepping up to the counter. "it's a personality trait."

van squints up at the menu behind the counter. "alright, hit me. what's the move?"

you already know what you're getting. "iced matcha latte. oat milk. no sweetener."

she looks at you like you just said you eat soap.

"no sweetener?"

"i like to taste the grass," you say, sarcastic.

that makes her laugh, and she steps up when it's her turn. "i'll have one too," she tells the barista. "exactly what she's having."

you blink. "wait, really?"

van shrugs. "i wanna know what the fuss is about. plus..." she leans a little closer, voice lower. "you looked cute ordering it."

you look down suddenly, your fingers twisting the strap of your bag as the warmth rises to your cheeks. "it's just a drink."

"mhm," she says, lips twitching like she knows exactly what she's doing. "so, what makes it so good? or am i about to hate my life for the next twenty minutes?"

you smirk. "it's earthy. subtle. also good for your brain." she pretends to take notes. "earthy, subtle, green sludge. got it."

you both grab your drinks and find a table near the window, where the rain has tapered into a soft mist. you stir your drink with the straw as van sits opposite you and gives her cup a suspicious glance.

she lifts it to her lips and sips slowly. pauses. looks down. sips again.

"well?" you ask, watching her.

"it tastes like..." she makes a face. "someone put oat milk in a garden."

you try not to laugh. "you're ridiculous."

"you're drinking pond water on purpose," she says. "i'm allowed to judge."

"you grew up in jersey," you shoot back. "your opinion on taste is invalid."

van gasps, mock offended. "wow. anti-jersey bias. typical new yorker."

you smirk. "guilty. i've been judging diners and bagels since birth."

van grins, "yeah, i remember. didn't your kindergarten have a french teacher and yoga twice a week?"

"don't forget fencing," you add, sipping your drink.

van puts a hand over her heart. "god forbid."

"i was an upper west side menace," you say, almost proud.

"oh, i can tell. you definitely wore a headband with your name on it and got in trouble for correcting your teachers."

"i did not—" you pause. "okay. maybe once. but it was mr. goldman and he mispronounced degas."

van fake gasps. "tragic."

you lean back in your chair, laughing. "you're just jealous your elementary school didn't have a gluten-free bake sale."

"oh, totally. meanwhile, i was eating cafeteria pizza off a paper towel."

you smile at her over the rim of your cup. "explains so much."

van lifts her cup in a mock toast. "to matcha, mental stability, and girls who peak in tiny coffee shops."

you clink your plastic lid against hers. "cheers."

there's a pause, but it's easy. comfortable, even with the electricity himming between you. you sip your drink and watch the rain mist the outside world into a watercolor blur.

"thanks for picking me up, by the way," you say after a beat. "i know you didn't have to."

"i wanted to," she says, watching you over her cup. "besides, it gave me an excuse to see you before the chaos."

you smile. "still. appreciate it."

"you say that now," van says. "but you do know i can't drive you to the game, right?

you frown. "wait. what?"

she tilts her head. "i have to ride the bus with the team. like, legally. school policy."

your eyes go wide. "hold on. i have to go on the bus?"

van grins. "you thought i was your personal chauffer for the night?"

"i didn't think—i just assumed—"

she laughts so hard she nearly spills her drink. "oh no. this is even better than i imagined."

"van."

"yes?"

"i don't do buses."

"oh, you do now."

you groan and drop your head to the table. "this is actually hell."

"come on," she says, nudging your ankle with hers. "could be worse. you get a free drink, a spot next to me, and all the orange slices you can eat."

"i didn't realize i signed up for summer camp."

"hey, some of us take our chaperone roles very seriously."

you lok up at her, hair falling slightly in your face. "do you really?"

she meets your gaze and—just for a second—there's something quiet in her expression. something a little more serious.

"i do when it comes to you," she says.

you're quiet for a second too long. then you look away, flustered, fiddling with your straw again.

"okay," you say softly. "i'll brave the bus."

van grins and stands, stretching. "good. you'll live."

"barely," you mutter.

she holds the door open for you again, the wind catching the bottom of her jacket. as you step out into the drizzle together, she glances sideways at you and says, "for the record, i still think this drink tastes like lawn clippings."

"and yet," you say, sipping it proudly, "you finished it."

van pauses, then tosses the empty cup in the trash. "yeah, well. i'm full of surprises."

you glance up at her, rain misting in your lashes. "so am i."

she smirks. "good. that'll make this bus ride way more fun."

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

you pull into the school parking lot five minutes before call time, van drumming her fingers on the wheel to the beat of a pixies song playing low on the radio. she parks in her usual reserved spot by the athletic enterance and shuts off the ignition like it's any other day—but the glance she sends your way lingers.

the drizzle hasn't let up, but it's light now—just enough to mist the windshield. you can see the yellow bus already idling behind the gym, a cluster of girls dragging gear bags and kicking around a soccer ball like it's just another game day.

she glances at you. "ready for your chaperone debut?"

you snort. "is there a training manual?"

"i think it's mostly snacks and staying out of their way."

you smirk and unbuckle, grabbing your drink from the center console. the last of your matcha, mostly melted now, but still sweet and comforting. as you open the door, van waits a second like the wants to say something—then just grabs her keys and steps out too.

the second you round the back of her car, sophia spots you from the bus steps.

"well, well," she calls. "good afternoon, coach. good afternoon... guest."

you raise an eyebrow. "that's what i am?"

she grins, shrugging. "i dunno. coffee shop pal? coach's plus-one?"

you blink. "sophia."

"i'm kidding," she says, holding up her hands. "kind of."

van doesn't even flinch. "get on the bus."

sophia disappears with a laugh, and you shoot van a sideways look.

"she's bold."

van chuckles. "she's fifteen."

"fifteen with great comedic timing."

you both walk toward the bus in comfortable rhythm, close enough that your hands brush once by accident—and then not-so-accidentally again. van doesn't say anything, but she lets it happen.

the bus door creaks open as you climb up behind her, and a few heads turn when they realize you're not just dropping her off. you give a small wave—half "hi," half "yes, i know this is weird"—and slide into a seat in the front. van plops down beside you like it's the most casual thing in the world, one knee bouncing gently.

there's a low hum of conversation from the rest of the team, and even though no one says anything out loud, you can feel it—the curious glances, the slight uptick in whispering.

you lean toward van, voice quiet. "i think we're being observed."

she nods. "i'm aware."

"they're totally talking about us."

"they're teenagers. they talk about everything." she turns her head, gives you a small, private smile. "besides, we're not doing anything wrong."

your heart flips at the softness in her tone. "yeah," you say, staring straight ahead, willing your cheeks to cool down. "just two adults... on a bus."

van smirks. "you're so good at playing it cool."

you roll your eyes and take a long sip of your drink just to give your hands something to do. "okay, what if i told you you're the one making it hard to play it cool?"

her eyebrows lift slightly. "am i?'

"you know you are."

she leans back in the seat, smug. "interesting."

you kick her foot lightly and try not to smile too hard.

a few rows up, sophia glances over her shoulder, eyes sharp and amused. you catch her watching and quickly look out the window. van doesn't react—but her knee presses just slightly closer to yours.

the rest of the ride is smooth. there's music from someone's speaker playing low, some rhythmic tapping of cleats against seats, and murmured reminders about plays and formations. but mostly, you and van just sit there, side by side, not saying much but not needing to.

it feels like the kind of quiet that means something.

by the time the bus pulls into the school lot, the rain has gone from a lazy mist to something steadier. nothing dramatic, just enough to dampen the air and make the field look darker around the edges. the players are already pulling up their hoods, tugging drawstrings tight. chatter getting sharper with nerves. you step off behind van, your sneakers hitting the pavement with that soft wet slap that says fall has offically arrived.

the girls scatter—some heading straight for the locker room, some toward the field to check the turf. you start veering toward the bleachers out of habit, tugging your hoodie tighter around you.

but van catches your sleeve.

"where do you think you're going, city girl?"

you blink at her, then glance toward the stands. "to sit?"

"wrong." she grins, knowing the effect she has on you. "you're on sideline duty today."

your eyebrows lift. "oh, i am?"

"unless you want to look useless in front of a bunch of teenage girls. didn't you almost go D1?"

you scoff, bumping her shoulder. "wow. so you do keep tabs."

"i keep receipts," she says, smug. "and i need someone who can read a press without panicking. like an assistant coach."

you glance toward the bench. "so you're just using me."

"obviously." van's eyes flick up and down your frame. "i mean, you already look like a soaked varsity captain. you're halfway there."

you roll your eyes but follow her anyway, past the rusted fencing along the edge of the field. the team is huddling now, cleats clacking against wet turf, the pregame energy thick with nerves and excitement. it's the kind of buzz you used to live for—that moment when the world narrows to ninety minutes and white lines and the ache in your calves. you hadn't realized how much you missed it until now.

van tosses you a spare windbreaker from the team bag. it's a little big, smells like turf and detergent, but it's a good swap for your soaked jacket. she's already moving into coach mode—adjusting the roster sheet, scanning the other team's warmup. but she doesn't miss a beat when she says:

"you good with the midfielders?"

you glance up, surprised. "you trust me with the middle line?"

"i trust you not to screw it up. or at least to look hot while doing it."

you snort. "so professional."

van shrugs. "we can't all be preppy new york prodigies."

you raise an eyebrow. "will you ever let go of that?"

van just laughs. "bet your team had a private trainer."

you roll your eyes, but you're smiling now. "grew up in the city doesn't mean i was in a vogue spread, you know."

"didn't say it was a bad thing," she says, softer. "you just carry yourself different. confident. or maybe just used to pretending to be."

you glance at her, caught off guard. but before you can say anything, the whistle blows to call the girls in.

pregame huddle.

van pulls her cap down tighter and steps up beside them, voice raised and steady.

"alright—heads in. this team isn't gonna hand you the win. you have to work for every play. i want communication, tight spacing, and no hero ball. we play smart, we play together."

she gives the floor the the captain, a senior named harper who says something about pride and grit, and you hang back, arms crossed, eyes scanning the starting lineup. you can already tell where the holes are—the left back is too shaky, too hesitant, and the forwards are too close together.

you lean over to van. "if they keep bunching like that, they're gonna lose the lanes. you want me to say something?"

van doesn't even look up from her clipboard. "why do you think you're here?" the rain is picking up again. not heavy, but colder. a reminder that summer's over for good. you step closer to the field, the smell of wet turf curling in your lungs, and suddenly it's like you're sixteen again—not hurt, not haunted by what could've been. just here. with cleats underfoot and sky overhead and the pulse of a game about to begin.

van gives a short whistle. "positions!"

you watch as the girls jog into place, their ponytails whipping, their voices overlapping in last-second calls.

you don't say it out loud, but you feel it as the ball rolls into play:

you missed this.

and maybe—just maybe—van knew that all along.

once the game starts, the first goal comes fast.

barely ten minutes into the game, harper makes a clean steal at midfield and sends a pass spiraling down the right wing. sophia takes off like she's weightless, a blur of yellow cleats and sharp instincts. one touch, two, and then she cuts inside—sells the defender with a feint so smooth is almost cruel. a perfect finish. back of the net.

van throws her fist up in triumph, grinning as she turns toward you. "that's my girl."

you can't help it—you cheer, heart pounding like you just scored. "she's incredible."

"try coaching her," van says, half-laughing, already watching the field again. "you tell her one thing and she turns it into five."

sophia jogs back to the huddle, soaked from the rain but glowing under the lights. the team's electric. the yellowjackets settle into a rhythm, each pass sharper than the last, energy buzzing through every sideline shout. the field belongs to them.

until it doesn't.

the shift is so fast you don't see it coming. sophia's cutting inside again—same footwork, same burst—but the defender this time is late a clumsy. sophia plants too hard and slips. you hear the impact before you see it.

that sound—cleats scraping, a sharp thud, the short cry that escapes her—slices through you.

your stomach turns.

she doesn't get up.

van's already moving. you don't think; your feet are carring you before your mind catches up, the pounding rain suddenly deafening.

sophia's gripping her ankle, face pale, blinking hard. "i'm fine," she says too quickly. "coach, i'm fine."

but you're already kneeling beside her. and your heart is racing.

because what if it's not just a sprain.

you know that motion. that angle. that twist.

it's exactly how it happened to you.

your hands go cold.

you feel like you're seventeen again, lying on the turf, everything slowing down while the future you thought was guaranteed slips right out from under you.

van's voice is steady beside you. "you're not fine. you're out. let me see."

sophia protests, of course she does. because that's what you did too. pretended. pushed through. tried.

you know how dangerous that is now.

she lets them help her off the field. van jogs alongside her, jaw clenched, rain streaking down her neck. you stay where you are for a second longer, watching the spot where sophia fell.

you breathe in. out. again.

then you follow.

back on the sideline, it's like the energy drained from the field with her.

you call instructions, help with formations, try to anchor the midfield with your voice—but everything's off now. they're scattered. the momentum's gone.

and when the other team scores—clean, efficient, bottoms corner—you're not surprised.

1-1.

van mutters something under her breath and throws her cap off in frustration.

you glance toward sophia on the bench. her cleat's off, ankle wrapped, lips tight like she's trying not to cry.

van looks at you. "we need her back."

you hesitate.

"do we risk it?"

van watches you, really watches you. "you tell me."

you walk over and kneel in front of sophia. "hey. how's it feel?"

"tight. but stable."

"stable enough for ten minutes?"

sophia meets your eyes. "i've got five. five good ones."

you nod. "alright. let's make them count."

she jogs back on with under two minutes to go. the team roars. you and van stand side by side, barely breathing.

she takes the ball from midfield, slices through pressure, fakes one defender and slips past another. she's limping, but she's fighting.

the clock winds down.

five seconds.

sophia steps, plants—your stomach tightens—and fires.

it hits the back of the net just as the buzzer blares.

2-1.

van screams. you do too. the bench clears.

sophia collapses into her teammates. they lift her like she won the whole damn state.

you turn to van. she's soaked, beaming.

"told you," she says breathlessly.

you shake your head. "she's insane."

van's voice drops. "she's brave."

you watch the field, heart still hammering, something thick behind your ribs.

so is she, you think.

so were you.

van glances at you sideways. "you okay?"

you nod, slow. "yeah. just...took me back."

she bumps her shoulder into yours, gentle. "thanks for getting her back in."

you look down at the wet turf, then up again.

"she reminded me why i loved this."

van's eyes soften. "then don't walk away from it again."

💌 taglist: @taurtel, @nothoughtsonlyvan, @callsignwidow, @freakyjorker, @imlike-so-gaydude, @yellowjacketsslvt69, @moonwateraura, @gracynparsons, @casualclamturkey, @crainalley0227, @auroraseddie, @brielease

[ghostedgwen]

don't blame me | j.potter [part five]

note : yall I'm sorry I totally forgot to post the final part because it has been rotting in my drafts. I had so many revisions to do and my drafts piled up that I just kinda abandoned this one omg

warnings : pure fluff! bittersweet feelings might arise from this series finally ending but it's a happy conclusion, james being james and the marauders being their goofy selves

𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖺 𝖻𝗂𝗀 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝗏𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖾𝗇𝗀𝖺𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖩𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝖯𝗈𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 - 𝗁𝖾'𝗌 𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇'𝗍 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈𝗇'𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗆 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖻𝗂𝗍. 𝖲𝗈 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝗒.

After that confession, everything has somehow tilted in the castle. James was still James, but something had definitely shifted.

A softness had crept into the corners of the castle, like the building itself was preparing to let you go - to let it's seventh-years go soon.

You were together now.

Aside the new improvement to your relationship, graduation was near and the time to bid goodbyes while you part ways with friends was looming over everyone's heads.

Seven years spent within the castle halls, all the time with friends that have crossed the line into family. Now, it's nearing the time to drift apart and chase your own dreams.

James could feel it even if you dared not bring it up for a conversation, it hurts a little to think about the future despite its promises.

The farewells that will be exchanged and all that. He tried to combat it with the newfound development with you instead.

There had been no grand announcement. You’d just started holding hands one night after patrol, and then you never really stopped.

Everyone already assumed you'd been in love the whole time (or at least, that you liked each other enough to put a ring on it), and the truth was, you always were - you just hadn't known then if James was on the same page.

The change wasn’t loud. It was in the quiet moments.

It was James walking you to Ravenclaw Tower every night, his fingers tangled with yours, thumb tracing slow circles on your wrist. He never let go until the last possible second, always kissing your forehead, then your lips - before jogging backwards down the corridor with that crooked grin that still made your knees weak.

It was his jumpers, perpetually oversized on you, smelling like cedar and treacle tart. You wore them to the library without thinking.

He kissed your temple while you read, whispered jokes into your hair, rested his chin on your shoulder until you fell asleep with your quill still in your hand.

Some nights, he didn’t even study. Just watched you with this quiet reverence, like you were a secret he didn’t want to share - except he was always loud and boastful.

He held you proudly in his arms.

So maybe he didn’t have to. Because for the first time, it wasn’t a secret that only you kept. You were his and equally, he was yours.

Some people in the castle seemed to blink at the change.

McGonagall looked vaguely alarmed by the sudden lack of detentions, detentions would mean less time spent with you so James behaved.

Slughorn called you a “golden pairing” still, and invited you two to more Slug Club dinners. Flitwick just smiled, like he’d known all along - like he's caught you before watching James in the Great Hall.

Even Lily, who didn't have a single bone in her body that tolerated James Potter, had softened around you - comforted in knowing that James was off her ass.

If she could, she'd shower you in chocolate frogs as her grandest thanks "thanks girl, you did me a solid!"

Still, it didn’t feel real until that morning in the Great Hall.

You were halfway through a muffin, distractedly flipping through Charms notes, and James said something entirely stupid and entirely lovely. Something like, “If I fail my Transfiguration N.E.W.T., I’ll start a bakery, and you can be my muse - my blueberry dream girl.”

You’d rolled your eyes, but your heart had surged up, insistent and warm. Before you could think better of it, you leaned across the bench and kissed him.

Right there with no care for onlookers, muffin crumbs on your lips.

The Hall fell into stunned silence, at least - those who saw.

Two full seconds passed.

Then Sirius cheered. Peter choked on his toast - dramatic much. Remus didn’t look up from his book but smiled anyway, Merlin - he's more likely to marry that thing than a human person.

James blinked, dazed and delighted.

“You taste like blueberry,” he whispered, which was so like him to point it out.

You shoved him lightly and went back to your notes, cheeks on fire at your sudden public display of affection - the shame now creeping in.

But something settled after that. Something old and aching and restless - like your hearts had been waiting for your heads to catch up.

Spring turned warm. Examinations loomed. Everyone was panicking about the future with the onslaught of ministry interviews and apprenticeships and Auror tryouts - but James, miraculously, started staying focused.

You’d glance over during revision and find him actually reading. Not doodling plays in the margins. Not poking Sirius with his wand. Actually reading.

It almost made you suspicious.

“Who are you,” you whispered one night, nudging his shin under the library table, “and what have you done with James Potter?”

He looked up, all wide eyes and exaggerated innocence. “I’m trying to impress a girl. You might know her, ever so brilliant and funny. Looks ravishing in my Quidditch jumpers.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile gave you away - you scoffed to hide it but he had caught you already.

In quieter moments, when the moon was high and the castle drowsy, he’d say things like, “Do you think it’ll always be like this? Us?”

And you’d press your fingers to the curve of his jaw, feel the stubble starting to grow in, and say, “I hope so.” you truly did.

He’d kiss your wrist and whisper, “I’ll make sure of it.”

And you believed him. You believed in James Potter.

Because James Potter was nothing if not persistent. And when he loved - really loved - it was with his whole stupid, golden, Gryffindor heart.

When he went after you, he did so with everything he had and when you finally fell into each other, he let it all out for you. You can still remember how he ahd snogged all your worries away that night, funny how a simple kiss could answer all the questions you hadn't asked.

One rainy afternoon, weeks before graduation, you caught him staring at you over a stack of Transfiguration notes.

You raised an eyebrow. “What?”

He shrugged, soft and casual. “I’m going to marry you. That’s mad, innit?”

Your heart slammed against your ribs, it's been known for almost a year now but it still gets to you, in a good way now.

You couldn't help the smile tugging at your lips at the realization that the future is bright, you were going to be officially his wife and the world will fall into place.

After all the time taken to get to this point, it was all worth it. Because here he is, going over his own notes and pausing to look at you and remind you of the amazing future ahead.

Graduation arrived like a wave - sudden and unstoppable.

The last week of classes blurred into late-night cramming and tearful goodbyes and frantic photography in front of every possible landmark. The tower where you first kissed. The corridor where he asked you to Hogsmeade as an official date (badly). The halls where your laughter echoed entangled with his.

The day of the ceremony, you stood in line with the rest of your year, robes crisp, nerves jittering in your fingertips.

James was right behind you, whispering absolute nonsense to keep you from trembling.

“If I trip on stage, pretend it was a bit.”

“Why would you trip?”

“To distract from the fact that Sirius charmed my hat to shoot confetti.”

You didn’t doubt it but anticipated the sight.

Sirius, standing a few feet away, had glamoured his hair to sparkle obnoxiously in the sunlight. Remus kept checking himself, like he’d been assigned Prefect of Aesthetics. Peter nearly tripped on the stairs to the stage. Twice. Nevermind - thrice now.

The final speech was long. Dumbledore took his time, chattering away.

You barely heard it.

You were thinking about the first time you walked into Hogwarts. About the starry ceiling and the moving staircases and the library with its whispering corners. About James’s laughter. About James’s smile, crooked and boyish and bright.

When your name was called, you stepped forward.

You marched right over and was congratulated by your Professors in turn. These people raised you - and you were so grateful for every single one of them.

And when you turned back, James gave you the softest smile you’d ever seen through the crowd. Pride oozing off him as his future wife was ranked second best in all of Hogwarts.

You held his gaze the entire walk back to your seat next to him, you remind yourself this isn't the end - just turning over the page for a whole new chapter.

After the ceremony, the Marauders insisted on one last group photo.

Sirius threw bunny ears behind Remus’s head. Peter knocked his own hat off his head. James kissed your cheek just as the shutter clicked.

The photo would follow you everywhere - first in a frame on your new bookshelf, then in a drawer in your first flat (maybe), then eventually in the kitchen of the home where your children would grow up.

But not yet.

First came the wedding, hte much anticipated ceremony that had been given to you first like a cruel punishment, but now the best blessing.

It was grander than even you could’ve dreamed - white and gold and softly humming magic. The flowers were charmed to sing - much to your delight. Candles floated like stars. The music swelled and shimmered.

James had never looked more nervous - for the first time in his life, it was like trying out for Quidditch again. Only, this was better than Quidditch, you were better than Quidditch.

He paced and fidgeted. He asked Sirius to check the time no less than seventeen times.

And then you walked in, as if on cue - the flowers sang louder and the candles burned brighter.

He stopped breathing.

You didn’t hear the music. Didn’t see the crowd. Just him - James, who had kissed you with tart on your lips and whispered about forever like it was already true.

Like you were heaven right in his arms, and perhaps you were because he always held you close but never too tight, just enough that you felt like he had never wanted to let go.

Just enough that you felt like his arms are where you rightfully belong.

His eyes were wide and wet and full of wonder. Like he was seeing sunlight for the first time, he could watch this scene play out for forever.

The vows weren’t perfect, despite the many practices, there were tears and choking along the way but they were yours.

“You were my greatest accident,” you said, voice shaking with laughter and tears. “And my best decision.”

James looked at you, and it was like looking at a mosaic of the best things to ever happen to you. He was made up of everything you've ever wanted. “You were always the plan. I just didn’t know it yet.”

You kissed him to the sound of your friends cheering, of magic singing in the air, of the world holding its breath for just a second longer.

It was absolutely perfect - James Potter was absolutely perfect, and he was now your husband.

Later, you sat on the floor of Potter manor - Euphemia and Fleamont are travelling to give the new young couple their alone time - their own words.

Unpacked boxes surrounded you. Scattered photographs. A plate the house elves prepared was included in the pile, half-eaten sandwiches.

He wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his chest. You blinked sleepily at the chaos. He smelled like broom polish and peppermint, he smelled like the manor.

On the wall above you, two photos hung side by side.

One from Hogwarts - Sirius mid-dance, Remus caught mid-eye roll, Peter fumbling with his hat, and James kissing your cheek as you laughed.

The other from the wedding - your veil floating, your arms around James’s neck, both of you smiling like the world had finally clicked into place. James was looking at you like all his dreams had come true, cheesy, but that was the only way to put it.

He looked up at them for a long time. Then he turned to you and said, very softly: “We did it, you know. Took a while, but we got here.”

You smiled, eyes fluttering shut as you lean into him some more to get comfortable in his warmth and his hearth.

“We’re just getting started.”

And you were, this was just the beginning. Although the story ends here, there is much more ahead of your bright future and James Potter was sure of that.

The moment he slipped that ring on your finger and promised forever, he had already engraved in his soul that you were to have the best life with him.

He will keep you happy, safe and loved for the rest of your days - it was the promise he made to himself.

"I love you, James."

"I love you most, my beautiful Wife. My ____."

Always.

end. masterlist

[dammit-tazmuir]

A basic timeline if it helps:

(ALSO, if you haven't already, please also read the short stories The Mysterious Study of Doctor Sex and As Yet Unsent before Nona the Ninth!)

In the epilogue of GtN, Harrow wakes up in a hospital bed on the Erebos, the Emperor's flagship, and meets John. She begs him to undo her lyctorhood and "give me back the life of Gideon Nav" (she says the full name), but he says he can't. They talk and she agrees to follow him.

Three days later ("Epiparados" in HtN), Harrow instead has Ianthe help her lobotomize herself, sealing away all her memories of Gideon, so that her brain won't know what to keep absorbing and she won't eat any more of the soul than she already has. Several agreements are made about this between her and Ianthe, and we still aren't privy to all the details, but Harrow leaves her post-lobotomy self all those letters. This also results in her Lyctoral power, while still present, being greatly limited, and her not having a cavalier auto-pilot mode.

Because she can't simply erase memories of Gideon without knowing something's wrong, she instead replaces necessary memories with false ones. With her immense power and grief, she subconsciously pulls most of the ghosts of people who were involved at Canaan House (including Dulcie and Pro) into a river bubble, and they play out false memories like an improv stage play. Whenever Harrow is unconscious, the "play" resumes. This means all the false past stuff "didn't happen" physically in time, but was real within the River, involving real ghosts of real people.

Among the ghosts, both Babs and Colum are conspicuously absent, only implied to have something vaguely resembling them in their place at the beginning. Cytherea makes no kind of appearance. The characters who are still alive and also Palamedes (because his ghost is sheltered in his own bubble) also have basically constructs taking their place, and they die off first. Silas's real ghost seems to be there and to have figured out what's up, and he eventually "kills" the Corona construct and then exits the bubble by his own choosing into the River. Some of the other ghosts figure out what's going on faster than others, and when Abigail realizes she helps Jeannemary and Isaac move on to wait out in the River. The other ghosts stay til near the end.

-

It takes her many more weeks to recover after the lobotomy, but eventually she starts becoming coherent again. John visits her and shows her the not at all concerning reserves of resurrected humans he has, all of whom have been alive but in stasis for 10,000 years. For the first time, he's waking up a new wave of them to send to the Ninth House to help shore up their numbers and give them the ability to keep passing on their culture and such.

He also teaches her about Resurrection Beasts: the vengeful revenants of murdered planets. He says there were originally nine: they've killed five, and there are three more out there. Harrow notes the math doesn't check out but doesn't bother asking.

However, part of what Harrow did to herself was setting it up so that if anyone even tries to say Gideon's name to her, she will physically hear it as "Ortus." In the course of talking, John says "Ortus Nigenad will not have died for nothing", but what he actually says is "Gideon Nav"; Harrow just hears it wrong, and notices that his mouth doesn't move quite right when he "says" Ortus. She starts bleeding and eventually falls unconscious, establishing a trend of bleeding + maybe other complications any time things threaten to remind her of Gideon. Since she said Ortus in return, the last thing she hears is John wonderingly repeating it.

She also did not consider that there could be more than one person named Gideon, but that's the name of the Saint of Duty. In Chapter 1 of GtN, Gideon described how her mom's dead body floated down to the Ninth's surface in a parachute, dead on arrival, with a day old baby in a bio container. When the nuns finally wrangled her mom's ghost back by force, all they got out of her was screaming "Gideon! Gideon! Gideon!" three times before running. They assumed this was a mother desperate to protect her child, and that Gideon was the baby's name, so they called her Gideon.

In fact, her mom was Commander Wake, full name (yes really) Awake Remembrance of These Valiant Dead Kia Hua Ko Te Pai Snap Back to Reality Oops There Goes Gravity. She was a woman who roughly 25 years ago rose up as a demagogue among Blood of Eden— the rebel faction among non-House humans that actively tries fighting the Empire— and united and organized them more than they'd ever been before. And we'll come back to her but she was killed by the Saint of Duty, and was just screaming in anger at him.

-

Harrow and Ianthe are eventually taken through the River to the Mithraem, the space station that serves as an empire base of operation and the personal home of the First.

They meet Mercymorn the Saint of Joy, whose anatomical skills through sheer memorization are just batshit stupid (Augustine says the applications are too narrow, because one would only really need it to kill Lyctors); Augustine the Saint of Patience, who "was a spirit magician like the Mithraem was a box with some bones" (and who John says could submerge half a city into the River if he wanted); and "Ortus" the Saint of Duty, who fights more like a cavalier or an attack dog than a traditional necromancer but can rapidly drain thanergy from others' theorems.

Augustine and Mercy hate each other and at one point Harrow catches a confrontation in the hall where he warns her to "stop playing this dangerous game, the one you said you'd stop." This is later show to be in reference to her conspiring with Blood of Eden, something both of them did in the past, but Mercy was always the "face" while Augustine stayed more distant and eventually backed out. He's confronting her because he's afraid John will kill them both if they find out.

Duty tries to kill Harrow many times. (There's an interesting discrepancy that the first time he tried to do so was "10 months before the Emperor's murder", but it was a few days after arrival on the Mithraem, which itself was 9 months before. I personally have a theory time is physically a little broken but yeah. It is also, notably, not 100% clear who first tried to kill Harrow on the Erebos.) The attempts are later revealed to be kind of on John's orders, though the full order was to fix her OR kill her. Even to John, Lyctors are very difficult to read, so he could tell something was dangerously wrong but not what.

What exactly he was sensing is a little hard to say. Because Harrow is schizophrenic and has had hallucinations since she was pretty young, she straight up didn't notice she was also being haunted, likely by multiple sources. She is never sure if the visions she sees of The Body are at all real, though she wants to believe there's something to them. A common interpretation (though technically debatable) is that when Harrow entered the Tomb at age 10, a piece of Alecto's soul just kind of latched on and haunted her from there on. But also.

Harrow's sword, as in Gideon's two-hander, fucking hates her. As in it literally physically burns her to make direct contact, at least early on. This is later revealed to be because Commander Wake has been clinging to it as a revenant for nearly twenty fucking years. She was in the sword the whole time Gideon had it. What seems to have happened is she clung to something else(? her bones? Gideon herself?) first and then when Gideon was given a sword as a kid Wake latched onto that, but she's been there for so long. (This is also why Harrow even in GtN says she always hated Gideon's sword and felt like it was judging her.)

Then, in Chapter 11, which is only 7 sentences long in total, Harrow "sleepwalks" / is dragged to where Cytherea's body is laid out and wakes up having impaled the body with her sword. Wake's ghost is split, a part still haunting Harrow's mind in the River, a part having moved its physical anchor to Cytherea's body so she can puppet it. This is why the corpse starts moving.

Unbeknownst to possibly anyone alive (it's ambiguous if even G1deon ever found out), G1deon's cavalier (or so we're told but that's a whole extra theory) Pyrrha was never fully absorbed, compartmentalized like Harrow has done to Gideon, though theirs was by accident, "and he took more from me than got taken from you." Pyrrha fronts sometimes and G1deon just blacks out when she does. At one point, Harrow walks in on the Saint of Duty "kissing the corpse" but Duty doesn't turn around and orders in a voice very unlike himself for Harrow to leave and close the door. This is because it's actually Pyrrha visiting Wake; she doesn't turn around so Harrow can't see the eye change.

-

Harrow spends time bonding with John and being taught how to kill planets and also avoids many death attempts that make her a nervous wreck. Eventually she stays awake for six days to keep vigilance and hatches a plan to murder Duty with soup, but John won't let anyone kill each other in front of him, yikes. He forces Harrow to go get some rest and she starts sleeping in Ianthe's room for safety instead. Ianthe has been trying the whole time to play bad boy love interest but forgetting the part where the bad boy is actually nice to the girl, so she doesn't mind too much.

What she does mind is her stupid fucking replacement arm. It's not perfect so she can't bring herself to accept it no matter how much that's messing her up, and she's actively frustrated with herself. Harrow wakes up in a state of zen clarity after a very long rest to see Ianthe stabbing at her arm, because Augustine gave her a few days before he's giving up trying to teach her and she's having a breakdown. Harrow casually decides to remove the old arm and grow her a new one, which apparently counts as sex to Ianthe (I'm only like 10% joking), and Ianthe loves her new arm and is able to function as a full proper Lyctor. As thanks, Ianthe helps Harrow try to set up an opportunity to kill the Saint of Duty.

This involves going to Augustine, who sets up a fancy dinner party. He doesn't tell Mercy why they need to distract John, but promises to keep her BoE activity secret if she helps, and swears on his brother's sword, so she agrees. (Underappreciated bit: He also says he can make sure Duty leaves on cue, and "Trust me, when I want Ortus to go, he'll be giddy-gone." Narration follows "(This did not make sense to you, as a joke.)" But it's. "When I want Gideon to go, he'll be giddy-gone" lmao.) Augustine and Mercy get incredibly drunk and eventually start making out and then pull John into it: Dios Apate, Minor. As casual as everyone is later Harrow gets the sinking but distinct feeling this has happened before. (Because it has, at minimum in reference to Dios Apate, Major, and strongly implied they've just been a messy ass polycule for way longer.)

When Harrow goes looking for Duty during this distraction, though, she finds a trail of blood leading her to the incinerator, and Duty injured and trapped inside. She considers just leaving, even when Wake-possessing-Cytherea activates the incinerator, but "he" looks to her with (dark, but so is the room) helpless eyes and she's too much of a bleeding heart, so she pulls "him" out. It's actually Pyrrha at this point, and once she's out she keeps her eyes closed as she tells Harrow how to effectively ward herself; "You'll be safe from us." She then speaks out into the hall, to Wake, saying this is fine, Wake can kill her, but please just tell her, after all this time, back then, why did Wake bring the ba—

John and co arrive after hearing the incinerator alarms, cutting her off, but she was asking why Wake brought the baby, who Pyrrha firmly believed to be hers/G1deon's and has been mourning over for the past 20 years.

-

In the River bubble dreams, the plot has diverged significantly as "the Sleeper" haunts Canaan House, starts killing people, and the weather turns to shit and stays that way. The Sleeper (who Ortus grimly joked should really be called "the Waker") is in fact Commander Wake, wearing the orange hazmat suit she died in. Gideon's sword is seen in the coffin because it was her physical anchor for so long (or may still be one anchor).

-

Eventually Harrow kills another planet trying to prepare a perimeter to face the approaching RB, and runs into Camilla there, who is this far out looking for Harrow. Camilla examines her and says “Nice intercranial haemorrhage. Kills most of us non-Lyctors.” (In reference to the lobotomy.) Harrow doesn't remember her except as a faceless corpse, but Cam has Harrow examine a piece of Pal's skull to confirm that he's still a revenant, and she meets him in his River bubble, but accidentally brings Wake with her. After a short talk with Pal, who she also doesn't remember, Wake starts threatening to break his bubble and he makes her leave quickly, but asks which bone Camilla has so he knows where to focus his essence, and asks Harrow to remake it into something with mobility, so she turns it into a hand once she's out.

As Harrow leaves the bubble, though, feeling overwhelmed and mixed up, narration for the chapter ends: "But you were always too quick to mourn your own ignorance. You never could have guessed that he had seen me." For the first time, Gideon, who has been the first-person narrator the entire time, directly references herself. Prior to this, though, she did have a lot of parentheticals or other asides, and a running gag of harping on Harrow for not knowing what a pommel was. She's been able to hazily watch everything from Harrow's subconscious.

Outside, Harrow learns the Camilla is now traveling with Coronabeth and Judith, and that all of them are with BoE, though Judith (who is in bad shape) does not appear to be staying by choice and begs Harrow to warn the Emperor he has a traitor in his midst. Harrow does not end up warning anyone.

-

Everyone gets ready for the RB's arrival, and to fight the Heralds, which look like external creatures but are in fact extensions of the RB, like fingers on a hand.

At one point in this last stretch, Harrow sits and talks with John, and he makes the mistake of telling her she'd be a hell of a daughter and he sometimes indulges the wish that she'd been his. She breaks violently and throws herself down to confess that she opened the Tomb as a child, and asks if she killed two of her fathers that day. As far as John is aware, that shouldn't be possible, so he assumes there must have been other burial chambers added in all the outer parts of the Tomb and that one of those is what Harrow stumbled into. Harrow is on one hand betrayed and pissed that he doesn't believe her, and on the other now questioning if she hallucinated everything.

John tries to comfort and absolve her of further guilt, apologizing that she endured so much based on a misunderstanding. But as he tries to brush some hair out of her bleeding face, the act of touching her head makes him more able to see the immediate area and he gets much more serious as he suddenly asks, "Harrow, who the hell has been tampering with your temporal lobe?" and she panics and runs without fully understanding why. He calls after her but doesn't pursue and doesn't bring it up again later, but the last thing she hears is him cursing himself. "Dammit, John! Dammit!"

-

Eventually, the night comes, and where Chapter 39 has John telling everyone "ten minutes to breach", it chronologically goes into the Prologue. Ianthe comes in and begs Harrow to let her help undo what she's done, because she doesn't want Harrow to die here. "Just turn around" bc the Orpheus vibes weren't strong enough lol. But Harrow tells her to fuck off and Ianthe does.

"And you walked toward your death like a lover" (39) / "you went to make war on Hell." (Prologue) (With the noted time breaks here and the capitalization of Hell I have recently been alerted to a theory that Harrow was never trying to fight the RB, but straight up doing some offscreen shit in Hell, but we'll see in AtN I guess.)

Hell spat her back out because Mercymorn stabbed her and left her to get eaten, although she did disable her pain receptors and hadn't intended Harrow to wake up for it. Harrow was left too strong to die quickly and too weak to save herself.

As she blacked out, she started rapidly reinventing the scenarios of her false memories, and we got three chapters of AUs. First is Harrow Nova, where she was born a failed experiment without necromancy and instead became cavalier to an adopted necromantic heir (Gideon). Second is a royal ball where many Houses are sending heirs to try to court and win the favor of Her Divine Highness (Gideon, which is a wild thing for Harrow to subconsciously clock). And then the beloved Coffee Shop AU, where the BARI Star is of course Gideon. Each time, Abigail tells her again, "this isn't how it happens", and the last time "Absolutely not", because that time was threatening to pull the Fourths' ghosts back into things.

When Harrow "wakes up" in the normal River bubble, Abigail helps explain what's been going on, and Harrow remembers and cries for Gideon.

-

Outside, with Harrow's consciousness awol and the dam holding back her essence broken, Gideon wakes up fully in Harrow's body and takes over. She starts fighting Heralds and it's specified that she dies several times while doing so, she just keeps getting better. One Herald also bites off her thumb and she instantly regrows a new one, which is not normal for Lyctors; they'd normally heal whole sections lost as stumps, like Ianthe's arm.

Eventually she runs into Mercy, who sees her eyes and pieces shit together, but Wake shows up and shoots Mercy with a bullet made from Herald carcass and leaves. Gideon has weird feelings and then runs off to find Ianthe. Augustine finds them, sees Gideon's eyes, and runs off. Ianthe gives Gideon Harrow's letter for her, including her sunglasses.

Eventually, Gideon and Ianthe go to John's room, but find him interrogating Wake, so they hide in a coatrack/closet area near the door. The Augustine and Mercy show up to confront John. Then Duty shows up, and stops by the coat rack first, and looks dead at the baby Lyctors, and takes Gideon's sunglasses off her face to wear before ignoring them and moving on, because it's Pyrrha and she needed to hide her eyes from the others. Wake is immensely relieved to see Pyrrha, who immediately shoots her (freeing her ghost).

The worst episode of Maury ever plays out, and at first it seems like Gideon might have been Wake and G1deon's kid, but instead, it's that Augustine and Mercymorn twenty years ago seduced John to acquire a genetic sample. He very specifically tried to avoid any risk of that but Mercymorn's anatomy skills are stupid and Augustine providing extra distraction probably helped. Mercy initially set up several "dummies"/"dolls" using her own eggs, and Wake was intended to use vat womb technology to grow at least one of those into a baby to sacrifice, but "THE EGGS YOU GAVE ME ALL DIED AND YOU LIED TO ME, SO I DID THE IMPLANTATION MYSELF." (This means Gideon is a sort of immaculate conception in that her parents never even directly met in life, but it also involves no less than six different people having sex lmao.)

Their intention was to use blood of a close enough genetic match to John's to break his blood ward on the Locked Tomb to wake Alecto and try to kill him and end the empire. The original plan was to evacuate the citizens of the Houses, too. This is also how Harrow finally got into the Tomb as a kid; "my face was under your fucking fingernails." (This fight and detail was also mentioned in GtN.) This comic by Naomistares beautifully illustrates the explanation.

John appears to have not quite pieced together everything and be pretty shocked. He knew there was something up and playing dumb, but when the seduction part comes into play he gets more thrown off, and then accuses "Did you two just pretend to hate each other?" (Extrapolation: The implications of Dios Apate Minor and Major both— and the fact that Major took them 500 years to successfully plan and pull off, and Minor was the first time they've been with him since— seem to be that neither of them alone could have pulled it off, because the only thing John wanted badly enough to let his guard down was both of them. This is supported by the first time Mercy mentions Augustine near the beginning, he immediately drops his argument and his face lights like a sunrise at the idea they're talking again, to her immense frustration. So when he learns about the conspiracy he is fully willing to believe they just put on an elaborate act all this time to make him more desperate, smh.)

Gideon of course is also very overwhelmed by this revelation, and comes out of hiding to announce, "I'm— I'm not fucking dead!" And of course John looks her over and replies as his first words to her, "Hi, not fucking dead. I'm dad."

This whole confrontation was because when Mercymorn and Augustine each saw Gideon's eyes, they recognized them as Alecto's eyes, Alecto being The Body, A.L., Annabel Lee, the woman buried in the Tomb. But there was no way a random child of the Ninth would have Alecto's DNA, and there was absolutely a way John's DNA would end up on the Ninth, because they worked very hard to put it there. They come to the conclusion that Alecto wasn't just John's bodyguard, as he'd always told them, but his cavalier, and their eyes swapped because he'd done Lyctorhood a better way than everyone else did, letting Alecto survive. (This leaves a lot of unanswered questions, not least of which being why the fuck would Alecto's eyes look like John's now do, and there's reason to suspect that the Lyctor's may have ultimately used the wrong formula but still got the right answer re: Gideon being John's kid, but that's a topic for after NtN.)

They had already been plotting to kill him, but this revelation makes them think that he just casually let them kill and eat their cavaliers with full knowledge there was another way, and that's their tipping point to go from secret plotting to openly "fuck you." (The "we might all die tonight anyway from this RB" might also be a factor.)

-

Back in the River bubble, everyone confronts Wake as the Sleeper, and Abigail and Ortus are able to summon the ghost of Ortus's historical blorbo Matthias Nonius to fight Wake using Ortus's sheer passion as a revenant link. (Ortus brought fanfiction to a magic undead gun fight and won, and we love him for it.) When Harrow sees Wake's face up close, she knows she's never seen her before, but something really bothers her, especially in the jaw (basically identical to Gideon, and they look very alike in general) and the eyes and brows (the most different from Gideon; this isn't said until NtN but it's very offhand, those features she got from John). This very subtly implies that the Divine Highness AU had been inspired by Harrow subsconsciously clocking the slight resemblance between Gideon and John.

Once Wake is gone, the bubble starts collapsing. Ortus, Matthias, and the other soldiers head off to help against the RB. Magnus and Abigail urge Harrow to return to her body, and believe she's just clinging to Gideon's memory and needs to let her go. Harrow begrudingly agrees, but Abigail and Magnus head out into the River (to look for Jeannemary and Isaac and maybe others, and then try to cross it, which Abigail theorizes can be done but people simply don't anymore because they've been taught to wait for a Second Resurrection and most have waited so long they've gone mad). The real Dulcie stays, though, and tells Harrow she has something to tell her.

-

With the confrontation, Mercymorn eventually tells John she'll forgive him if he can look her in the eye and swear to her he loved Cristabel and never wanted harm to come to her. Instead, as she walks into his arms, she slides her hands inside his body and turns him into mist. This does kill him, and there's a solar flare as the sun starts to destabilize, but he Gets Better and kills her instead. He gives everyone an ultimatum to join him or die. Not Gideon though, they just met, yikes, besides that's Harrow's body and he'd rather not punish Harrow too, Gideon can just be rebellious in the John corner it's fine. But finally Augustine asks if he gets a choice, and John says yes and begs him to come back, and Augustine tells him no and then submerges the entire Mithraem to the bottom of the River, near one of the stoma openings. Augustine basically asked if he got a choice just to set up to tell him to go to hell and then physically drag him directly there.

(On the note of literally yes dying but then getting better, this is how Gideon died several times earlier fighting Heralds, and also why she "survived" the nerve gas as a baby. And after the Avulsion Trial in GtN: "'Ha-ha,' said Gideon, 'first time you didn't call me Griddle,' and died. / *** / Well, passed out, but it felt a hell of a lot like dying. Waking up had an air of resurrection"... 😌)

John and Augustine end up wrestling over the stoma, with Ianthe above them. Pyrrha introduces herself properly to Gideon and informs her G1deon just died fighting the RB tonight, so she's alone in the body now. They debate what to do but ultimately end up out in the River too. Gideon thinks to herself that Ianthe could probably help make sure John is swallowed by the stoma but Augustine survives, but instead Ianthe does the opposite. (And. You know. Based on everything Ianthe knows, John dying has a high chance of meaning Corona dying too, along with the rest of the House citizens including the rest of her family, so there's that.)

Gideon finds herself passing out in the water, and then the last thing she sees is Harrow's bullshit dead girlfriend coming to claim her, as Alecto(?) says "in the wrong voice twice removed" something about chest compressions and not losing her. Gideon dies. (Again. But will it stick this time...?)

-

We cut back to Harrow in the River as Dulcie tells her she's certain she can sense someone intentionally moving Harrow's body, meaning there's a high chance Gideon is alive and in control. Dulcie appears to be crushed by falling debris afterward, but had been fully accepting of that risk in interest of the truth here.

Harrow chooses to pull herself out of the River not to her body, but into the Tomb. Nothing about the scene makes sense and it's not supposed to. She crawls into the empty(??) coffin and curls up with her sword and Frontline Titties of the Fifth, then she falls asleep, or dies, or both.

-

Six months later, we follow a girl about her daily life in a city that looks much closer to a modern day settlement than anything we'd seen thus far, albeit a dangerous and wartorn one. She lives with the person who goes to work for her, the person who teaches her, and the person who cares for her. She heals unnaturally quickly and for some reason when other people start to notice that they avoid those people after that. At the end she asks the person who cares for her if she's figured out who she is yet, and Camilla answers, "Not yet."

=============================================

BUT YEAH. I'm happy to answer specific questions if you have them as well. It's my favorite book and VERY worth a reread, but this should be enough to understand what's going on enough to be more confident moving into Nona. (Unsure if you actually meant to reread or were being hyperbolic, but clearing up confusion can't hurt either way!) And then once you finish all three books and all three short stories, you can read ALL of them again together and unlock all the layers of bonus content. >:3

(That is, I encourage reading NtN before rereading HtN unless you wanna reread HtN multiple times, because the added context from NtN and even from a later reread of GtN will enrich the HtN reread all the more.)

Good luck!

I finished Harrow the Ninth so now I need to reread Harrow the Ninth so maybe I will know what happened in Harrow the Ninth

[dreaming-of-epiphanies]

𝓪𝓬𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓶𝓲𝓬 𝓻𝓲𝓿𝓪𝓵!𝓣𝓸𝓶 𝓱𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓬𝓪𝓷𝓸𝓷𝓼

Description: A series of headcanons about being Tom Riddle's academic rival because let's be real, that's definitely the trope he'd have.

A/N: While I work on part 2 to Locked Out (and hype myself up to post smut for the first time... on that note, check out the poll at the end of this please!), I thought I'd share this! academic rival!Tom is my favorite.

Warnings: Suggestiveness (like very clear, but not spice... yet).

Additional notes: I'm not sure if this'll make sense, but if you want to hear the vibe I get when I imagine academic rivals Reader x Tom slowly falling in love, listen to Champagne Coast by Blood Orange, specifically the part starting around 1:53. :)

Okay I've been talking too much so here are the headcanons:

--

Your rivalry starts off early, like first or second year early. Tom is used to being the only one to answer questions in class (or at least answer them right), so when you raise your hand and beat him to it for the first time, he’s immediately intrigued (and annoyed) by you. 

The rivalry is a one-sided one for a couple of years, until near the end of fourth year you ask the professor about O.W.L. exams and if you should start preparing for them over the summer. Tom takes this chance to scoff and rather loudly remark how he’s already started studying- over a month ago, in fact. You fix him with a pointed stare and innocent smile, saying you were simply asking for the other people in the room, and that you’d actually begun two months prior. 

When you’re both chosen as prefects for fifth year, the stakes become higher. Tom makes it a point to brag about his marks whenever you’re near. He even goes so far as to boast about them in class when he knows you’ll overhear him. He’s trying to intimidate you and make sure you know he’s the top student. What he doesn’t expect, however, is for you to stalk up to him one day in the library and shove your paper in front of his nose. You scored half a point higher than him on your latest Defence essay. And that right there is when Tom realises he might’ve messed with the wrong person. 

He’s always glaring at you from that point on. He’s always looking at you in class; while you’re studying in the library; during meals in the Great Hall. And you’re glaring back. If he beats you to answering a question right in class, your glare is shooting daggers at the back of his head. When he grabs the book you need to write an essay before you, you watch him until he’s done. The second he is, you snatch it out of his hands and he watches your retreating form.

He memorises when your prefect schedule is so he can study more during those times. Now he’ll have a slight edge on you. What he doesn’t know is you’re doing the same thing when he’s on patrol. 

You start to sit next together in class, just so you can see the annoyance on the other’s face when you answer first. Really, each of your scowls are so satisfying. Has Tom’s smirk always been that cute? 

He doesn’t admit it, but he likes your rivalry. He likes the challenge. He likes being up against you. He tried to challenge someone else in a class you don’t share once, but it wasn’t the same. 

If you get the same mark, you both go to the professor and ask for feedback. Whoever gets the least amount is declared the unofficial winner and you correct your essays together in the library, exchanging glares every so often. Over time, these glares turn into glances.

And you start studying together nearly every night as well. It only makes sense- you’re in the majority of the same classes and you have to make sure you each have all the opportunities to get the best score. Maybe he marked down something you didn’t. Maybe you heard the professor hint as to what would be on the exam while he was preoccupied taking notes.

When you get sick, he gives you an exact copy of his notes. He has to make sure you stay a formidable opponent to him, after all. He wouldn’t want his win to be hollow when he does score higher than you. 

Everything changes when you’re paired together for a project in the winter of sixth year. You have to have productive conversations and not just argue about your marks. You meet in the library more frequently (even though you study there together every day). And when it closes, you both go to his dorm to continue working on it. Seeing Tom in his dorm casts him in a new light. You’ve never seen him outside of the library, class, or the Great Hall before. Is that why you’re suddenly captivated by how he looks?

The project opened up a new avenue of communication with Riddle now: friendly conversation. He’s surprisingly enjoyable to talk to. You find yourself laughing with him more than you should. Academic rivals aren’t supposed to look forward to seeing each other, are they? 

And yet you do. You always glance at him in the Great Hall or the corridor. He nods when he meets your eyes. Then you start smiling at him when you see him. He smiles back. And then he starts meeting you outside of your classes when you have a period apart, and walking you to your next one or to the library or the Great Hall. 

You start congratulating each other when the other scores higher than you. You start looking forward to the smug smirk you give each other. Why does your stomach flutter at his triumphant smile? Why does he think about the proud look on your face whenever he closes his eyes?

It isn’t until Tom skips one of your studying sessions and you miss him that you realise what’s happening. Merlin’s fucking beard, you’re in love with him you might possibly have a very small crush on him. 

And now that you’ve realised it, you can’t shut it off. The spark of happiness you feel whenever you see him. The heady rush you feel when he steps too close to you. The butterflies in your stomach when he meets your eyes. You’re falling, and you’re falling fast. (You’ve already fallen. So hard.)

Tom realises it one day when the two of you are reading by the Black Lake and you abruptly put your book down, running and leaping into the water. It’s so unexpected and he can’t deny the way he wishes he could freeze time when he sees you get out of the water, your dress soaking and hair dripping as you come and sit back down next to him, purposefully flicking some water onto him. 

Now that he’s realised it, he can’t stop looking at you. He couldn’t stop before either, but now he really can’t resist. The way you laugh. The way you smile at him. How you briefly touch his hand to get his attention when you’re studying in the library one day. It takes everything in him not to reach over the table and haul you into his lap right then and there to kiss you.

Of course you both think about kissing. A lot. Like, more than you know you should. When Tom’s head is bent over his parchment and you’re staring at his lips, the sweep of his hair, the firm grip of his fingers on his quill. What else could he do with those fingers? Tom can’t seem to tear his gaze from your mouth either. When you’re at the Three Broomsticks one day for a Hogsmeade trip and you pop a teacake into your mouth, he literally has to close his eyes to look away. The image is seared into his mind and he keeps picturing the way your fingers hovered at your lips at the most inopportune times.

This all comes crashing down one day when you get a perfect mark on an exam Tom knows you didn’t study as well as he did for. You start arguing and before you know it, it’s turned into a full-blown shouting match. You’re screaming at him for being a prick, he’s shouting at you for being lazy, and then he loses his train of thought because his attention is suddenly diverted to your lips. You stop screaming when you see his odd stare. He looks up in confusion before seeing your eyes are on his lips. And then all of a sudden you’re kissing and he has you pressed up against the wall. 

The kiss escalates fast. Years of pent up tension and feelings let out and as soon as it’s over and you’re lying together on his dorm bed, Tom asks you to be his girlfriend. You accept. 

Your rivalry only increases after that but somehow it makes it more fun. Now you can argue about marks and make out in the Room of Requirement twenty minutes later. And if you score higher than him? Well, be prepared for the ferocity with which he’ll kiss you. 

You each get Head Boy and Head [Girl/Boy] in seventh year. You study together for N.E.W.T.’s. There’s nothing left to compete for, and once you graduate you fear your rivalry will dissipate. But no, it remains just as strong, just with other things now. Who will be the first to make coffee for the other in the morning? Who will suggest the best date night idea? Who will propose first? (Tom wins that one). 

At your wedding, everyone’s speeches in some way mention the rivalry that brought you two together and how glad they are that it's stopped now. You just roll your eyes and smile at each other because you know it never has and never will stop.

And when your first child starts showing signs of competitiveness, the two of you exchange a knowing look and finally decide you can both be the winners. (Each of you secretly thinks they won, though). 

--

A/N (again): So if you read Locked Out (linked at the top of this post!), it's set up pretty well for a spicy part 2. I've never posted spice before, but I want to, so do you guys want that as well? (I'm making part 2 no matter what, already over 4000 words in!)

@viperify thought I'd tag you here since we both love academic rival!Tom 🤭

[dollypopup]

no, but why didn't we get Colin's letters??????

words truly cannot convey what a missed opportunity glossing over the letters was. why didn't we get a voice over of Colin reading them? or see what Penelope did with them? he sent all these letters and Penelope didn't reply. He was clearly feeling that! He was carrying that around with him. It's why he tried out a new facade in the first place! You know what would have been such a damn good scene that would do SO much with building the narrative of how much Pen loves him? And how much Polin is about being mirrors to each other?

having her read his letters on screen

Sure, build up to it. Can't happen at the start. Not when she's trying to find a husband or after Colin apologized to her. It's not about the immediate satisfaction. It's about showing how Penelope changes and matures and grows as a character that she CAN revisit them, about who Colin is and what he sends, how he sounds, the cadence of his voice when he writes to someone he cares about, discussing subjects he's passionate for. About their connection itself getting stronger or repairing after being frazzled by the LW reveal and the ghosting and the lies and and and

You can't tell me that after they're married, she's not reading his letters. You CANNOT TELL ME that she's laying in that big bed all alone, feeling such distance from him, not recognizing that she had put him in a similar position over the off season. He said and did something that hurt her heart and she froze him out from her affections. SHE said and did something that hurt HIS heart and now he froze her out in turn. When Colin reads HER letters to feel close to her, it's such a beautiful moment of the audience seeing how much he cherishes her.

why don't we get a similar scene with her? because chat, I won't lie, it rubs me the wrong way. It rubs me the wrong way, chat. That he sat down and had a whirlwind of a travel adventure for his final year studying on his grand tour and wrote and wrote and wrote and had NO IDEA why no one was replying and felt that profound loneliness so close to his skin but turned around and blamed himself and we know it because we have THIS fragment of his journal

which in part reads:

After my travels last year when I wrote so much and received very few replies. I am trying out a new personality. A new way of seeing the world and interacting with others. I want to be less needy, less insecure, while still maintaining the core of my vulnerability that makes me who I am.

and chat, I do not understand. I do not get it, chat. Penelope, who criticized him for being fake, who canonically has read parts of his journal, coming across THIS entry? It would break her heart into pieces.

AND I NEED TO SEE IT.

I NEED to see that she cherishes him the way he cherishes her. That she didn't just cast his letters out into the fire in her frustration with him. That she didn't throw him away, even when she was upset. Because he doesn't throw her away when he's upset! And you know what? Even if she did, for us to see her have some remorse for it! She was so hungry to read his journal, and then got letter after letter from him? Of COURSE she's reading those letters! That journal is an insight into his thought process with himself, but the letters are insight into his thought process with her.

And you know what? I want to see her write him letters constantly in the next season. Like a regency equivalent of love letters on post-it notes plastered all up in their house. I want him to wake up to another letter from her even when she slept right beside him that night but had to wake up early for whatever reason so, here, have this letter hand-crafted with her heart in the quill just because. Just because she loves him.

Colin is so good at apologies, namely because they always have actions that follow up to show he's understood what harm he caused and how he's committed to fixing it. And yes, Penelope apologized, but it didn't have much action behind it. I think Penelope NEEDS to understand that part of Colin's insecurities come from her. Her actions. Her lies. Come from that off season where she did not answer him and gave no reason why. Come from saying he loved her and not having her say it back. Colin builds his bridge about her being LW and gets over it largely on his lonesome. We stan an emotionally mature and available man!

But. . .Penelope doesn't have much hand in that. Even when she tells him she wrote about him because she wanted the Colin she knew back. That was a lie. But she can have that Colin back! THROUGH HIS LETTERS!!! Which we should see her read!!!

Anywho, I like to believe that Penelope felt some remorse for their distance and once she knows just how much her not replying hurt him, perhaps via journal entry, one way for her to heal over that harm is to write to him. Why wouldn't she write to him even when they live together? They spent months not doing so. Surely she misses it. And it would be cute. A love language on her part to show him how much she cares. I need Colin to discover that oh she kept them, all those letters he sent. She didn't answer, but I want him to know she read them. I want him to know she likes them. Colin does so much processing on his own, and that's important. But it's okay for her to go 'this thing I did hurt you, and this is how I'll fix it'.

Because look: we all know that an enormous part of Colin's insecurities are because he has been rejected. By his family, by his society, by the one person he believed would never forsake him. He understands why she did, but she still did, and it would do a lot for him to know she didn't just discard him, even if his self esteem isn't great and he'd blame himself alone for the breakdown in communication. And it would do a lot for him to get letters from her again.

Do you KNOW how much shorter their freeze out post-wedding would have been if when he went to get a blanket, he found Penelope reading his letters from the last season? That she kept them? That she keeps them close? Do you KNOW how much that pours into the intimacy between the two of them? Just imagine it

"What are you doing?" "I should think it to be obvious." "Why read them, now?" ". . .because I miss you."

Imagine the parallels. Imagine her delivering 'I miss you' the same way he delivered it. Imagine how conflicted that would make him, pleased and in love but aching and sad all at once. The angst. The romance. The romangst. Think about all we could have!!!

[skymantle]

The Mayor Knight Theory

I'm not used to writing long-form posts but I've spent years talking to my friends about this theory that only 2 or 3 other people seem to share so I'm putting it out here, too!

My theory is that the Knight is C. Holiday, the mayor of Hometown and Noelle and Dess' mother.

The Importance of the Holidays

Aside from the joke of Loox' name, the Dreemurrs and Holidays are the only characters so far to have canonical last names. This might not mean much on its own, but Noelle has clearly been set up to be an important character in Deltarune.

Her sister is missing. Her father is sick. She's childhood friends with Kris and has a crush on Susie, and studied the occult with Catti. She's in concept art of the Fun Gang, and along with Susie and Kris, is the only other name that earns the response "YOU ARE ABOUT TO MEET SOMEONE VERY, VERY WONDERFUL" by the opening narrator (metatextually implied to be Gaster himself) if you name yourself after them.

Her mother is mayor, and is planning the upcoming festival. We know next to nothing about her, except that she's cold, strict, and possibly planning to evict Asgore if the note in his room is anything to go by.

You have one month. - C

It's clear that Noelle and her family are important characters. But how is her arc going to continue?

Cyber World

Queen seems to represent Noelle's mother, with the climax of the chapter being Noelle finally standing up to her after being ignored the whole time.

Queen's goal is for Noelle to create another dark fountain within the dark world itself: something she refers to in her fight:

Focusing Into Her Blade, She Will Create A Neo Dark Fountain

During the Spamton Sweepstakes, on the page /chair/, it depicts the chair in town hall with the tab text

But what if it could... ...get darker than dark?

Parallels of Noelle and Chara

Noelle has heavy angel symbolism, from her dress, to the doll she and Dess made for church. She wears a ring of thorns in the Weird Route, and Spamton repeatedly refers to her as [ANGEL].

The two angels of the original Delta Rune legend in Undertale are implied to be the Dreemurr siblings, with Asriel breaking the barrier and Chara (entirely with the assistance from the player) killing a good portion of the underground.

Chara thanks the player, saying,

Together, we eradicated the enemy and became strong.

Throughout the Weird Route, emphasis is placed on Noelle becoming stronger, text affirming "Noelle became stronger." with every fight.

Asgore was brought into a vengeful depression with the death of his children, seeking to both take revenge on humanity and save monsterkind at the same time.

If the Knight's goal is to bring the Roaring, something the Prophecy seems to call the Angel's Heaven, who's to say the Knight isn't also acting out of grief? A world that could protect her remaining daughter?

The Significance of Very, Very

This one is admittedly a bit of a stretch, but it's still interesting (ha) to me.

The exact phrasing of "very" twice calls Gaster to mind, with entry number seventeen/room_gaster saying "VERY, VERY INTERESTING", the mysterious messages on Twitter with a similar speech pattern saying the same thing, and the opening narrator with typer ID* 667 (room_gaster uses 666) calling Kris, Noelle, and Susie "VERY, VERY WONDERFUL"

Otherwise, the exact using of "very, very" is used sparingly in Deltarune, the only examples being Spamton telling Kris how to use the Loaded Disc,

THEN. KRIS. AFTER. THIS IS VERY, VERY IMPORTANT.

Throwing away the Ball of Junk in the light world, which represents Kris' dark world inventory,

You have a very, very bad feeling about throwing it away.

And the mayor's secretary, when asked about her.

She's very, very busy preparing for the festival.

Maybe it ultimately doesn't mean much, but with the importance of the other two examples, I think it's worth considering.

The Future

Chapter 4 is all but confirmed to take place in the Church. Service is the day after Chapter 2, according to Rudy.

Might even be able to go to church tomorrow.

If this is the case, it's likely the story around Dess will be expanded, and with that, the rest of Noelle's family.

Conclusion

At this point in the game, at least to me, this option seems to make the most narrative sense. I know we're only a small bit into the story right now, and the Knight's identity is anyone's guess, but I thought I'd share a candidate that a lot of people seem to be skipping! ^_^

*typer id in undertale + deltarune is a number attached to a collection of soundbytes. if the soundbytes a_1 to a_6 attached to typer id 3, a character speaking dialogue with the typer id 3 would use those soundbytes

[phantomamour]

𝐩𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐨𝐦'𝐬 𝐠𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭

ˋ°•*⁀➷ i'm studying abroad this summer!! off to ireland for 8 weeks and a few more places around europe after that so i will be pretty MIA for a large chunk of the summer and while i'm definitely not known for consistent posting, i still wanted to give you all a little something while i was gone! every other week or so there will be a new fic, closing out some series and in the end starting a new one!

𖤓 𝐣𝐮𝐧𝐞 𝟏𝟕𝐭𝐡 - i'll build again the world by my baby's hands

- imperial officer!billy x rebel!reader - third and final part of star wars au escaping the empire comes with its challenges but billy's love for you has never been stronger, strong enough to defy the worst odds.

𖤓 𝐣𝐮𝐥𝐲 𝟏𝐬𝐭 -  the moment i knew i'd no choice but to love you

- alex nilsen x reader alex nilsen won't admit he misses you so much it hurts to breathe. he won't admit that he knows the exact number of miles between your university and his. he also won't admit that he's considered the financial burden of a plane ticket to deal with that distance. little does he know, you already bought the ticket yourself.

𖤓 𝐣𝐮𝐥𝐲 𝟖𝐭𝐡 - a remastering of an old fic for someone special <3

to be announced day of!

𖤓 𝐣𝐮𝐥𝐲 𝟐𝟐𝐧𝐝 - the distance never made a difference to me (you were like an angel to me)

- senator!coriolanus snow x personal assistant!reader - third (maybe final) part sticky notes and coffee and stolen glances can only last coriolanus so long before he finally breaks and admits how he really feels about you.

𖤓 𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝟓𝐭𝐡 - she's gonna save me, call me "baby"

- billy the kid x reader when you find billy bonney, famed outlaw recently announced dead, amongst the bloody grass, you take it into your own hands to make sure he doesn't meet the angels too soon.

𖤓 𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝟏𝟗𝐭𝐡 - "sweet and right and merciful" series kickoff

- modern!billy the kid x reader to celebrate my return, we end the summer with a very special series inspired by every summer after by carley fortune!

[bredforloyalty]

Random question but do you have any blog recommendations? I really like your blog and I need more people to follow

🥺 thanks luv i'll list many of my favorite people in no particular order, you'll find different kinds of uh stuff on these blogs but instead of categorizing them i'll just ask you to click through them any use your judgment and decide what you're interested in (like they could get into anything/switch to anything and i wouldn't mind so<3 for me it'd be hard to define by one thing or leave those out who aren't absolute "best friends" or anything like that.... agh you know what i mean just take it<3)

@winged-cries @supersonic1994 @sonwife @coldforestnight @cruelfeast @tenderperversion @inthecut2003 @chateauofmymind @dayglomasochism @frereamour @woundworship @diorstarr @charlestrask @corpsecoded @gabriestat @batmandeathofthefamily @erving-goffman @kuleaz @selfdigestion @shrikebrother @normalbrothers @dtwof @dogboyliamgallagher @degenderates @finalwoman @fathercain1999 @againstfaith @icedteadrinker @nathanielfisher @barkingdog @spnyuri @trillgutterbug @monstrousdaughter @mpregspn @mpregjamesdiamond @paulmccartneyprostateorgasm @obedient @g0om @hereditary20l8 @cigaretteaunt @dogboyliamgallagher @homosexula @mydogtypedthis @spiralfucker

[kaletalecowboy]

vnc doodles (part two) ── ☾⭒˚

[deoidesign]

Doing master studies the only way I know how: Stealing them and making them my guys.

(Barberini Faun)

(The Fallen Angel - Alexandre Cabanel)

(Covent Garden - William Bruce Ellis Rankin)