#this issue everyone is blaming is less of an issue but more something like

[randomnameless]

I think the writers didn't write set in stone rules for Crest so they could have a more varried experience for the cast and all but some of them just... makes me ask question. Like why is there so many in Empire people who have several crest, not only all of Mercedes and Jeritza's half siblings, but also Edelgard and Lysithea yet in other country they don't and it's not all people of the Empire because Caspar doesn't have one and Hanneman's sister doesn't have one...and then you learn that they experimented on Lysithea first when she is 2 years younger then Edelgard who was 14 when she was experimented upon by the Agarthans... just... what the heck is this game ?

Jugdral too apparently didn't have rules for Holy Blood inheritence!

But... the games aren't all gung-ho about blaming Holy Blood for everything wrong in this verse...

Granted, iirc, do we know if the Emile and Mercie's step siblings had crests? I thought their step father wanted to shag Mama Martitz to get crested more kids - bar Emile who was already a crested Bartels !

Also, Hanneman's sister had one, that's why she died when her hubby tried to re-roll many times to get a crested heir?

That's partly why I'm curious about Adrestia, because we know there are crested nobles/people who are either fit to be pawned off as wedding prizes, or they just... exist, and no one gaf about them.

There's a heavy dose of sexism in how the Empire deals with this issue, but tbh, I wouldn't say it's specifically a "crested" issue, but more one where... Adrestian's society sucks, because some people try to become "more powerful" by any means necessary, let it be alliances where they offer their daughters, getting "high valued" babies or just, getting rid of people because they can (house martitz, house nuvelle, etc etc).

Monica was adopted by Baron Ochs, but she wasn't offered to a potential husband who started to work on his legacy to get a trillion crested heirs.

Bergliez was retconned in Nopes to have a Cichol Crest, even if all of Caspar's supports in FE16 treated him as a "non important" member of the House not because he was crestless, but because he was a second son...

But in general, yep, at least in backstory, Adrestia has a lot of unnamed randoms with crests (which is represented in Nopes, some generics have crests!) and yet they're randoms and not the ones calling the shots, almost as if having a crest, or not having one, isn't as important as being born male to the right family.

(and I will die on this HC-hill, Adrestia must have a least 3 different branches of the Hresvelg House, meaning at least a dozen of legitimate randos with a Crest of Seiros, Supreme Leader must have had some cousins too, and we're not even talking about bastard children!)

[jessicalprice]

christian universalism strikes again

(Reposted from Twitter)

So a rabbi I know came back from LA pretty jazzed about a Jewish addiction treatment facility there called Beit T'shuvah and so we talked about their approach and that got me curious about non-AA approaches to dealing with addiction which, my friends, was fascinating.

I’ll admit that almost everything I know about AA is more or less from The West Wing. I'm fortunate in that no one in my immediate family has dealt with substance abuse issues, and as far as I know, none of my close friends are alcoholics. My knowledge is pop culture knowledge.

But hearing about Beit T’shuvah was very interesting to me because:

I'd heard that a lot of people who aren't Christian have a hard time with AA because it's so Christian.

The difference in philosophy was subtle at first glance but actually paralleled a lot of the differences between Judaism and Christianity if you dug into it.

Anyway, I got curious about whether success rates were different for Christians vs. non-Christians and started googling. I didn't find much in the way of the data I was looking for, but I did find something a lot more disturbing, which is that the whole 12-step thing is not science-based. At all. For example:

The National Center on Addiction and Substance Abuse compared the current current state of addiction treatment to medicine in the early 1900s, when there weren't a lot of standards for who could practice medicine. In order to be a substance abuse counselor in many states, you don't need much more than a GED or high school diploma.

A 2006 survey found "no experimental studies unequivocally demonstrated the effectiveness of AA or TSF approaches for reducing alcohol dependence or problems."

And I want to make clear here that I'm not saying AA is bad--clearly it's helped people. The problem is that it's touted as a universal approach, which is a problem when it's not based on any sort of actual science. 

AA claims that its success rates for people who "really try" are 75%. (And boy does that mirror gaslighting diet language.) But the most precise study out there that's NOT coming from AA (https://amazon.com/dp/B00FIMWI1O) put actual success rates at 5-8%. One of the major textbooks on treating addiction ranks it at 38th out of 48 on its list of effective treatments.

So just like most fad diets, it fails for almost everyone who tries it, and then blames the individual for its failure.

A glaring issue is that the 12 steps don't really acknowledge--or provide any guidance or structure for dealing with--other mental/emotional health issues. That’s a giant problem when people with substance abuse issues have higher than average rates of those issues. (Take a moment to consider how the victim-blaming approach of “if you didn’t succeed, it’s because you didn’t try hard enough” is going to intersect with someone’s major depression.)

Now, if 12-step programs were just one available treatment approach out of many, this wouldn’t be that big of an issue.

But 12% of AA members are there because of court orders. Our legal system is requiring people to undergo treatment that is: 

Christian-based

Not scientifically supported

A failure for the vast majority of people

I mean, here's a pretty comprehensive breakdown that talks about the lack of scientific support for it, alternative treatments (like those in Finland, and naltrexone), and the fundamentalist origins of AA. 

The founder was a member of the Oxford Group, an evangelical organization that taught that all human problems stemmed from fear and selfishness, and could be solved by turning your life over to divine providence, basically. Sound familiar? He based AA on those principles, and given that the only alternative was "drying out" in a sanatorium, and that AA members would show up at bedsides there and invite inpatients to meetings, it must have looked really enlightened to people. In 2022, it bears a queasy resemblance to evangelizing to people in prison, literally a captive audience. 

To be fair--to their credit--they were some of the first people out there saying alcoholism was a disease, and not a moral failing. But they didn’t treat it like a disease when it came to testing treatment options:

Mann also collaborated with a physiologist named E. M. Jellinek. Mann was eager to bolster the scientific claims behind AA, and Jellinek wanted to make a name for himself in the growing field of alcohol research. In 1946, Jellinek published the results of a survey mailed to 1,600 AA members. Only 158 were returned. Jellinek and Mann jettisoned 45 that had been improperly completed and another 15 filled out by women, whose responses were so unlike the men’s that they risked complicating the results. From this small sample—98 men—Jellinek drew sweeping conclusions about the “phases of alcoholism,” which included an unavoidable succession of binges that led to blackouts, “indefinable fears,” and hitting bottom. Though the paper was filled with caveats about its lack of scientific rigor, it became AA gospel.

And then Senator Harold Hughes, who was an AA member, got Congress to establish the National Institute on Alcohol Abuse and Alcoholism, which promoted AA's beliefs, and sometimes suppressed research that conflicted with them:

In 1976, for instance, the Rand Corporation released a study of more than 2,000 men who had been patients at 44 different NIAAA-funded treatment centers. The report noted that 18 months after treatment, 22 percent of the men were drinking moderately. The authors concluded that it was possible for some alcohol-dependent men to return to controlled drinking. Researchers at the National Council on Alcoholism charged that the news would lead alcoholics to falsely believe they could drink safely. The NIAAA, which had funded the research, repudiated it. Rand repeated the study, this time looking over a four-year period. The results were similar.

The standard 28-day rehab stay, prescribed and insured:

Marvin D. Seppala, the chief medical officer at the Hazelden Betty Ford Foundation in Minnesota, one of the oldest inpatient rehab facilities in the country, described for me how 28 days became the norm: “In 1949, the founders found that it took about a week to get detoxed, another week to come around so [the patients] knew what they were up to, and after a couple of weeks they were doing well, and stable. That’s how it turned out to be 28 days. There’s no magic in it.”

The last sentence here (bolded for emphasis) is especially chilling. 

That may be heartening, but it’s not science. As the rehab industry began expanding in the 1970s, its profit motives dovetailed nicely with AA’s view that counseling could be delivered by people who had themselves struggled with addiction, rather than by highly trained (and highly paid) doctors and mental-health professionals. No other area of medicine or counseling makes such allowances.

There is no mandatory national certification exam for addiction counselors. The 2012 Columbia University report on addiction medicine found that only six states required alcohol- and substance-abuse counselors to have at least a bachelor’s degree and that only one state, Vermont, required a master’s degree. Fourteen states had no license requirements whatsoever—not even a GED or an introductory training course was necessary—and yet counselors are often called on by the judicial system and medical boards to give expert opinions on their clients’ prospects for recovery.

And, again, the idea that this is the One True And Only Way to deal with alcohol abuse leads to medical professionals ignoring research and treatment options that could be helping people. They are, in essence, taking all this completely on faith. 

There has been some progress: the Hazelden center began prescribing naltrexone and acamprosate to patients in 2003. But this makes Hazelden a pioneer among rehab centers. “Everyone has a bias,” Marvin Seppala, the chief medical officer, told me. “I honestly thought AA was the only way anyone could ever get sober, but I learned that I was wrong.”

Stephanie O’Malley, a clinical researcher in psychiatry at Yale who has studied the use of naltrexone and other drugs for alcohol-use disorder for more than two decades, says naltrexone’s limited use is “baffling.”

“There was never any campaign for this medication that said, ‘Ask your doctor,’ ” she says. “There was never any attempt to reach consumers.” Few doctors accepted that it was possible to treat alcohol-use disorder with a pill. And now that naltrexone is available in an inexpensive generic form, pharmaceutical companies have little incentive to promote it.

I'm not saying that AA is bad. I'm saying its hegemony is bad. It clearly is effective for some people--a minority of people. But it's not for the majority of people, and that's a problem when it's being prescribed by courts (and doctors) as if it's a one-size-fits-all approach.

It’s not an accident that a Christian approach to treating addiction presents itself as the One True Way For All Humankind, insists that courts and doctors privilege it, demands that people take its effectiveness on faith, and blames anyone for whom it doesn’t work for not believing/trying hard enough.

Hegemony is a problem. 

(Photo credit: Pixabay)

[em-writes-stuff-sometimes]

darilaros (princess) │ Chapter 8: Birthright

terms of endearment ‘verse: see my Masterlist for the correct series order!

Chapter 1 │Chapter 2 │Chapter 3 │Chapter 4 │Chapter 5 │Chapter 6 │Chapter 7 │Chapter 8 (COMPLETE!)

Synopsis: As the second daughter of King Viserys, you experience firsthand what it means to belong to the House of the Dragon. Your wish comes true.

Hello! Welcome to the FINAL CHAPTER of this instalment, another 8000+ word chapter! Everyone's long-anticipated 'claiming scene' is here, so please give a round of applause to our angryboi, the Cannibal! Keep in mind that I've officially retconned Luke and Daeron's ages (they're 8 and 9 in gevivys now, not 5 and 6 like they were originally - please let me know if I've missed any instances so far!), Thank you to my boobear @ewanmitchellcrumbs for beta-ing this thingo!

TRIGGERS: more abandonment issues, reference to pervy suitors.

Scarcely any time passes between that eve and the arrival of Rhaenyra’s firstborn son, Jacaerys.

’Nyra’s world changes when her baby comes. She is as perfect a mother as you think any woman could be, spending nearly all the hours of the day looking at him or holding him or caring for him. Having a babe has changed her, softened her hard edges and given her a calmness she had once lacked. All she wants to talk about is him. When she is not talking about him or being with him, she is in Council meetings, or she is with Papa performing whatever tasks the heir to the Throne is expected to do. She tries to find moments to spare for you, though it is far less often than it used to be, and she always brings her boy with her.

Jace is a pretty babe, dark-haired and dark-eyed, so unlike either of his parents, and he always seems quite serious in expression—but there is something that holds you back with him. Even though you love him—and he is one half of ’Nyra, so of course you love him—it is like a wall exists between you and him. His mother is your sister, and his father is your cousin, and you… you have no place there. You are on the outside looking in at a life you cannot have.

A part of you wants to stare down at the babe and tell him that you were here first. That you will always have known his mama for longer than he ever shall, that nothing can take away the fact that she belonged to you before she belonged to him. But you don’t. ’Nyra is a new mother, and her child should be all that matters. If you were her babe, that is what you would want. She does not need the petty jealousy of her little sister to ruin things. It is better for you, for her, for him that you find other ways to fill your days.

Daeron’s birth makes it easier.

It is almost like Alicent barely even notices the arrival of her third son, though you do not blame her. She had screamed so loud that even you had heard her in your own chambers. It was not like that with Aegon or Helaena or Aemond. The commotion had been enough to rouse you from your bed to creep toward the Queen’s apartments, to hear Grand Maester Mellos tell Papa that her belly might need to be laid open like—

No. No. The throb of nausea is so vile just thinking of it. You put it out of your mind, doing your best to ignore the prickle of an old hurt and the word ‘Mama’ on the tip of your tongue, hushed and afraid.

Alicent is weak after the birth, and so you take it upon yourself to visit your new little brother, to keep him company where everyone else would have left him to attendants. He is so, so quiet, as though he is ashamed of the way he had entered the world, the way he had hurt his mother coming out. It is like he is an apology for the pain she was made to go through. He is sweet, barely crying though he goes for times without the attention he deserves, and he never fusses when you reach into the cradle to lift him up. You are not quite strong enough to carry him around places, but it is relatively easy to take him to the chair to prop him on your lap in the nursery while Helaena plays.

When Alicent heals, she makes no attempt to disturb your routine, and it is like you have your very own baby to match ’Nyra’s. Sometimes, you imagine that Daeron is yours like Jace is hers and that you are ’El’s mama too, and that you have the important task of being their whole world. Even though the idea of having babies is beginning to scare you a great deal, being a mama is nice. Playing pretend is nice.

But then, the wet nurses come or Alicent comes, and your brother and sister are taken away. It reminds you that you really are alone, after all. ’Nyra giving birth to her next son, Lucerys—Luke—only worsens that feeling. Her family is growingand growing while yours seems to only exist on borrowed moments. Still, you take what love you can and bury the rest of it—the despair, the resentment, the soft tender parts of you that cry out for someone, anyone at all to really, truly see you—far, far below the surface, so deep that no one can touch it, not even you.

You seek solace in knowledge.

Books become your very best friends. The older you get, the easier reading becomes—you leave behind folktales and children’s myths to begin browsing through tomes with smaller letters and larger, more difficult words. Stories turn into histories and treatises on all manner of topics, with dragons, direwolves, men, and the fall of Old Valyria being but some of your preferred subjects of study. You learn the names of the Lannister kings before the Conquest; you gather as many legends on the Age of Heroes as you can; you peruse chronicles detailing the first coming of the Andals to Westerosi shores. Through books, the very land you live upon seems to unfold like a map through time itself, all the secrets of the continent opening themselves up to you through tooled leather and yellowed pages.

It makes Papa immensely proud. “If a woman is to sit the Iron Throne after I am gone,” he says, “then perhaps a woman ought to be her right hand!”

You can tell this makes his other Councilmen nervous by the way they share glances. For all that Rhaenyra has been heir for years now, there are still many among the court who believe your brother ought to succeed him. But Papa does not seem to want to change his mind, for he is as determined to see your sister continue to attend Small Council as he always has been.

Still, you take it to heart. Being Hand of the Queen someday means that you will get to stay with your sister even if you are made to be married. It means you will be important in a way that you haven’t really been so far. But a good Hand has to know so so much about all the lands and people a King or Queen might encounter during the years of their reign. You outgrew Septa’s lessons moons ago, and the more you read, the more it becomes apparent that books aren’t enough to teach you all you need to know. There is no one and nothing that can help you become the cleverest possible version of yourself in King’s Landing—at least, not one willing to do such a task. The maesters would not abide by schooling a girl in the higher arts.

Thus, you firmly decide upon the gift you would like for your name day. Standing in the King’s solar two moons before the occasion is to take place, you impart your desire to your audience of one.

“I wish for a tutor, please,” you tell Papa. “Someone who can teach me anything I wish to know.”

Papa laughs. “And what is it you wish to know, my girl?” he asks. You are unsure if he is amused or delighted by your request.

His question makes you think. What do I want to know? There is no single answer you can produce. How do you describe the feeling of wanting to know something you don’t know enough about to be sure you want to learn it?

“Anything,” is what you reply with. “Everything.”

“Anything and everything.” Papa takes a drink from his cup, his nose scrunching when the liquid inside hits his tongue. You do not think it is wine. He returns the cup to the table beside him, reaching his hand out to you. You move forward to take it. “A lofty request. But you are soon to be ten summers!” He grins. A scab at his temple cracks with the motion. “That, I think, is a milestone worthy of celebration. Very well, daughter,” he says with a grunt. “If a tutor is what you want, then a tutor we shall find.”

He stays true to his word. Not long after you make your appeal to him, all manner of strangers the Realm over make their way to King’s Landing to seek an audience with you and Papa. It is the first time you are allowed to remain by his side in the Great Hall, though it means you must balance atop a twist of melted-together swords to rest your rear against the edge of the armrest, one of the few places upon the Throne that cannot cut you should you make contact with it. Papa insists, however, for these people have gathered to seek employment with you, and so you must be the one to approve them.

There is frightfully little to approve. Several of those who come to answer Papa’s ravens ignore you wholly, their eyes sliding over you as though you are not even there. One of them, a man named Robert, outright refuses to answer your query as to what would make cyvasse lessons so appealing to a girl of your station. It is enough to put you off the game entirely. But his conduct is by no means the worst. There are younger lads who possess no more skill than the average knight’s squire, clearly hastened to the Red Keep by the promise of a lucrative wage and companionship with the King’s daughter. More than one Septon shuffles in to lecture you and Papa on the merits of providing a holy education to the female mind, sinful as it is. Even noblemen like Lord Rosby come to offer to take wardship of you, suggesting that growing up with another girl your age is more than enough learning for a Princess. You suspect his proposal has more to do with the large sum he owes over East.

You and Papa reject them all, sending them away with nary a further glance. Those who grow angered by the refusal are easily frightened off by Ser Criston’s hand coming to rest on his pommel at the foot of the steps. Since Alicent had appointed him your sworn shield some moons after Rhaenyra’s wedding, he has taken to his task with a dedication that would worry you if not for the fact that he is made to take breaks. You think that if he were allowed, he would set up a pallet beside the door to your rooms to keep constant guard over you.

Four days after your tenth name day, someone different arrives. Someone new.

“Presenting Ser Lysan Marios of… er… the Free Cities!” the guard announces.

You crane your neck in curiosity as this Ser Lysan makes his way into the hall. He is dark-skinned, light-haired, and his robes are an odd assortment of various fabrics stitched together. It appears well-made, if unusual, and the colours are bright. Reds, blues, yellows, greens, oranges—it seems as though every shade is represented in the patches making up his attire, though you note that purple is missing. Not a noble, then. The man ambles slowly inside, helped by the use of a cane.

“I am from Volantis, Your Grace,” he says when he is finally within earshot, bowing lowly. His voice is deep and rich; if a hug were to have a sound, you think this would be the closest you might come to finding it. “But I do suppose ‘of the Free Cities’ works just as well as any other epithet.”

“You have come a long way, Ser,” Papa says. He is smiling like he always does when these visits begin. You wonder how long it will take for it to fade this time. “You are welcome here in King’s Landing.”

Ser Lysan laughs. “I certainly feel welcome! Such pleasant people you have here, Your Grace. Not a single one has attempted to steal my books thus far—and I confess I have brought plenty!”

This is what spurs you to finally speak up. “Books?” you ask. “What kind?”

When his eyes meet yours, it is like they twinkle, like stars. His mouth widens, exposing pearl-white teeth. “And this must be the young Princess to whom I would be most glad to embark upon the journey of erudition with! Salutations to you, Your Highness!”

He bows again, attempting to cast his arm wide in a flourish—but it appears he had forgotten he was carrying one of his aforementioned books in hand, for it promptly clatters to the floor when he flings his hand out. You giggle, charmed. You cannot help it. He seems so kindly.

“Oh! Oh dear,” he mutters, crouching to the ground to collect his quarry. “My apologies, Your Grace, Your Highness. Oh dear…”

Ser Criston darts forward as if to help, but the man has already taken hold of his prized tome by the time he is close enough.

“Ah—might I ask what areas you are learned in, Ser Lysan?” Papa asks, clearing his throat. His brow has furrowed ever-so-slightly, which means he finds the man before him a little confusing. It is more than a little funny. “My daughter has yet to decide upon an avenue of study.”

The embarrassment slides straight off Ser Lysan’s face. It is as though a bolt of lightning courses through him, such is the sudden shift of his expression into one of sparking joy. “Oh! What am I not a scholar of? I have studied in the physicians’ arts with the Healer’s Guild of Lorath; I have attended the great histories of Westeros and Essos with the esteemed intellectuals of Braavos; I have amassed a more-than-considerable lexicon of tongues across the known world—”

For a reason unknown to you, this piques your interest. “Languages? You know different languages?”

He nods. “Oh, yes! I am quite proficient in your ancestral tongue, Princess. Valyrio Eglio udrir jaehenka issa.” High Valyrian is the language of the godly. He winks. “I am also well-versed in the Eastern dialects of Valyrian, though admittedly they have not the lyricism of their originator. But I must confess, it is my particular interest to devote my academic prowess to the Lekh Dothraki, the tongue of those who ride.”

Papa’s knee twitches beside you. “The Dothraki? How have you come to make dealings with them?”

Ser Lysan waves him off. “Oh, I would not profess to be so grand as to make dealings with the horse-riders of the East! Ah, but mine wife was a Dothraki woman, who gave herself to me in payment for preventing a Volantene herbalist from poisoning her brother. A strange and alarming custom, I once thought. She was the most marvellous of creatures.” He sighs. For a moment, he is silent—then he jerks nearly full-bodied, as though he is awakening from some reverie. “The Dothraki are a misunderstood civilisation, Your Grace,” he says to Papa. “It is my hope that, in time, I am able to repay my wife’s goodness and bring knowledge to those who are ignorant of their ways.”

“I see,” Papa says. He coughs awkwardly. I don’t think he has ever met someone so inclined to talking, you muse. “And… what of your wife now? I had thought the Dothraki were opposed to crossing the sea.”

“They are.” Ser Lysan’s expression becomes shadowed, drawn. “It is my great sorrow that she has passed on to the nightlands, to roam the skies among the starry khalasar of her people.”

“My condolences.” This sounds more genuine; you know that Papa too still mourns your mother, even though he has Alicent now.

“My gratitude, Your Grace. But”—at this, he lightens, forcing a smile to his face once more—“that is not what I have come to discuss, is it?” He turns to you. “My apologies, Princess! If I am so fortunate as to be deemed worthy by you, you may well find such tangents a price to pay for the lessons I have to impart. I am not well known for brevity, I am afraid.”

He’s the one. He’s my tutor. You know it. The way he speaks so happily about all the things he has learned; the way he cares so much about showing that some people are not always what everyone else thinks of them; the way he talks to you as though you are a person rather than just a means of earning coin or living in a palace. You want to know what it is like to be surrounded by that happiness, to spend your days learning from a person such as he rather than continue to quail under the yoke of Septa Marlow.

You readjust to curl into Papa, to lean forward and whisper into the shell of his ear. “I like Ser Lysan, Papa.”

“You do?” He exhales, a long-suffering sigh of resignation. His stare narrows at you as though irritated, though it slowly morphs into a grudging sort of smile. “Naturally.” If he were ’Nyra, he would be rolling his eyes by now. To Ser Lysan, he projects his voice far louder and says, “It appears my daughter has no taste for brevity, Ser. If you wish to take up this post, we would be… honoured… to accommodate you.”

Ser Lysan’s brows raise in surprise. “Oh! No, Your Grace! The honour is mine!” He bows a third time, and it really ought to be excessive, but you cannot help how amiable you find him. “I pray I will not disappoint you, Princess.”

“I am very glad to meet you, Ser Lysan,” you say, fighting the urge to leave Papa’s side and go forth to follow the man before you wherever he might go, to let yourself be enthralled by his tales and his rambling, half-formed thoughts. “I hope we shall have a very good time together.”

You are not to know it at this precise moment—but you will.

“We have made our introductions, Princess, and I have learned the lay of the land as best I can, so to speak.”

Ser Lysan is settled in the chair opposite you, having just completed his surveyance of the room around him. You have been granted a solar for the very first time, a whole new chamber to fill with the tools necessary to begin your education. It is empty for now, though the bare necessities are present—namely, the considerable size of the bookshelves just waiting for their occupants to rest safely upon their surfaces. These will, in time, be filled by both your own and your tutor’s collections, or so he has assured you.

The crinkle of a page rouses you from your thoughts. Ser Lysan has unrolled a scroll of parchment, the nib of his quill already inked and prepared for some unknown purpose. He stares assessingly at you.

“What is it you wish to know?” he asks, hand poised to write.

It blurts out of you before you can think to stop it. “You can only be called ‘Ser’ if you are a knight, but you have said you are a scholar. How is it that you have come to be called ‘Ser’, then?”

You wince. Your question is far ruder than you had intended it to be. Thankfully, Septa is not here—she has begun spending more time with Helaena as of late. She would surely have reprimanded you. The query only serves to make the man smile indulgently at you, though. He lays the quill to the side upon his blotting paper. The ink pools dark across the fibres.

“If you must know, Princess… I was a soldier in the Battle of the Borderland. The triarchs sent us in to attempt to wrest control of the Disputed Lands from Lys, Tyrosh and Myr. They were once under Volantene rule, did you know?”

Ser Lysan gazes at a spot on the wall just past you, and it is like he is seeing something altogether different. Something from another time and place.

“At first, we were sure of victory. Volantis has long held dominion in the East for a reason, after all. Our armies were larger; our armour finer; our steel sharper. But then…” He sighs. “Those cities joined forces. Formed the Triarchy. No one saw it coming. We ought to have. Such is hindsight, is it not? We understand now the things we missed then.”

Ser Criston shifts by the door, clearly uncomfortable. You wonder when he will interrupt, when he will instruct Ser Lysan not to tell you such dark-natured stories. You can only hope it will not turn violent.

“One morn—the sun had barely risen—our garrison was set upon by the Triarchy’s forces,” the man continues. “It was… carnage. So few of us survived. Of those of us that did, even fewer still were able to stand. The alliance’s warriors enjoyed leaving a rather particular token behind on the battlefield, as we were to learn. Severed legs are quite effective deterrents, it turns out.”

“That’s enough,” Ser Criston barks, face set in a glare. Secretly, you are glad for the interruption. The tale had grown far too frightening for you.

“My apologies!” Ser Lysan says, coughing lightly. “I forget myself sometimes. To answer your question, Princess—I was able to make my way back to the main encampment, to warn the commanders just in time for our troops to pull back from the region. Many a life was lost; but thousands more were saved that day. I was knighted in the field.” A wan smile curves his lips. “That is where my title of ‘Ser’ comes from.”

“Thank you for telling me,” you say. “I… I am sure it is not a pleasant memory. I am sorry.”

“It is quite alright. I became stronger for it. I learned that if I wish to survive, I must fight for it with everything I have in me. The fires of adversity strengthen the spirit.” He pauses, eyes locked onto your own. They are dark, almost black, like all the light in the world has been quenched. “Let this be my first lesson unto you—if you want something, you must do whatever is in your power to achieve it.”

Silence lingers for one moment; two; three. All of a sudden, he is cheerful again, shuffling his papers like nothing of import has occurred. You share an uncertain look with Ser Criston, who looks positively bewildered by the shift. Ser Lysan is an eccentric man, you decide. This is no bad thing.

“Back to my previous question, Princess.” Ser Lysan picks up his quill once more, dipping it in the inkwell and tapping it against the rim to return the excess to the bottle. “I am knowledgeable in a great deal about the world in which we live. What is it that you would have me instruct you in? Histories, statecraft, linguistics?”

Before you is a man who has lived. He has come from a strange land bearing a strange name, learned in all manner of strange subjects. He fought for Volantis. His wife was a Dothraki woman. He bears the title ‘Ser’ and yet wears a patchwork robe. What you know of him is bleak and terrifying, and yet here he sits before you, as jovial as a young man in his cups. There is a steady peace to him despite all he has seen, all he has likely experienced.

How has he come to be so merry? You think about the manner in which he’d brightened at the talk of his learning. Could one achieve such simple tranquillity through knowledge alone? Can books, can foreign tongues and foreign disciplines empower you with that sense of fulfilment you crave, that sense of belonging you have felt absent all your life?

You want dearly to discover the answer. It is this that permits you to finally settle upon your response to him.

“Anything,” you breathe. “Everything.”

You are not as brave as your sister. She is able to stand face to face against even the staunchest of her detractors—as of late, this being your very own lady stepmother, determined to discover what she believes to be ‘the truth’ of Jacaerys’s parentage, for a boy so dark of hair cannot possibly be Laenor’s, by her reckoning—without so much as a quiver in her lip. She can endure shouting, the strike of a switch, the endless train of whispers that seep through every crack in the walls of the Keep with barely a pause in her breath to mark the ignominy of it. She can laugh in the face of humiliation and continue on her way with her head held high and some cutting remark poised on the tip of her tongue like a steel barb waiting to meet its target. These are not things you are capable of. But then, you are only a girl; younger than Rhaenyra was when she was made heir.

Yet old enough to finally—finally—claim your own dragon.

It had taken you years to wear down Papa, the scar on your arm serving as a perpetual reminder of the dangers that lie ahead in seeking out your birthright. Whenever you had made the request—“oh, please, Papa! I swear that I am ready!”—he had only to look upon the mark bisecting your flesh before his eyes hardened, the musculature of his neck clenched and poised to shake in refusal.

Once, his rejection had been sufficient to prevent your asking for several moons’ turns at the least; but Ser Lysan has been of great influence in his two years serving as your teacher, your companion, and your dear friend. If you want something, you must do whatever is in your power to achieve it. These words have remained as carvings in stone within your mind since that very first meeting. It is not within your power to unleash fire and fury the way your sister might—but you have come to learn that such a thing was never in your power. Your strength lay in other qualities. Your courtesy. Your placidity. Your modesty. These are strengths in their own way.

You had continued to ask. Over time, the nature of your appeals changed from churlish, infantile insistence to restrained, unaffected enquiry. Upon rebuff, you had smiled and said, “Very well, Papa. Thank you for listening.” You had repeated this same tactic over and over, sennight after sennight, until, at last, Papa had been worn down to his bones from weariness.

“You’ll not let up, will you, my girl?” he had asked, utterly fed up.

Instead of responding, you had simply maintained your carefully blank gaze, prepared to don your quiet acceptance like armour when his denial should strike. He had sighed; rubbed his eyes. The pull of his skin had cracked open another fissure in the lines of his face, red slowly beading up to the surface.

“Fine!” he had finally exclaimed, his hand thumping down upon the table so hard that you had wondered at his not feeling it. This was before the maesters agreed to remove it from his person, and so the flesh was mottled grey and black from rot. “Do as you will, daughter. Far be it from me to dissuade you.”

Thus, the ravens had been sent to the Dragonkeepers residing on the ancestral isle of House Targaryen; the ship had been made ready; your retinue arranged; and you had been sent off on your first great journey.

The moment you step foot upon the shore in the low light of early evening, you hear it. You feel it. Like a rattling in the core of your bones, or an unearthly siren song catching faintly on the wind. It is not a sound, though, nor a sensation that you can describe in any language you know. All that you are sure of is that there is something here, something… expecting you.

Come, it says. I am waiting.

The Keepers linger past the shoreline, scarcely a stone’s throw away. “Urnēbās, darilaros!” one says, eyes darting nervously about. Be watchful, Princess! “Va īlō Zōbrios issa.” The Dark One is near.

“The Dark One?” you ask, frowning. “Who is that?”

Septa Marlow’s face pales so starkly that she looks like she has applied paints to her skin. She seems entirely distasteful of the island itself, a curl to her lip that she only gets when seeing or hearing something she does not like. Meanwhile, Ser Criston’s fist tightens on the grip of his sheathed sword. He too glances around, tracking the skies like a shadowy shape will make its appearance at any moment. He seems familiar with the name.

It must be a dragon, you think. Very few living creatures reside upon the island, save for those that had been introduced by your blood long ago. Dragons are the only wild things that can weather such inhospitable climes.

The Keeper leans in. “The Cannibal.” He shivers. “He is most wroth as of late. Beware of the beaches—too many of our Order have been lost to his appetites.”

The Cannibal. It is a story you have heard only when one had sought to frighten you—that of a winged beast so monstrous that not even his own kind would endure him. A creature so malevolent that he found his joy through death and destruction, ripping apart the younger members of his species so thoroughly that, at times, it was as though blood rained down from the heavens. The Cannibal, a being so malignant that any man who attempted to ride him had vanished cleanly from the face of the earth, consumed whole or left to rot away in some deep, dank pit below the mountainous terrain.

And yet—for all his supposed cruelties—no cities, no villages, no lands have been brought to waste beneath his flames. It is the one part of those tales that had never made sense to you. If he were as awful as that, surely there would be no one and nothing safe from him?

“Let us not waste our time, then,” Ser Criston says firmly, hand pressed between your shoulders to spur you onward. The weight of it grounds you in the present. He turns to bark orders at the attendants making their way ashore. “To the Keep!”

You are taken past the Great Hall, catching a glimpse of the Painted Table on your way to a smaller chamber. You know the name of Aegon I’s table is not quite correct; that it is made mostly of wood and rock, and that the rock itself is what Ser Lysan has told you is thermoluminescent, ‘thermo’ meaning heat and ‘luminescent’ meaning light. The table glows like lava when you ignite the candles below it, casting the great map of Westeros into fire. You should very much like to see it. But this visit is not to take in the sights of your family’s seat.

Much to the Keepers’ confusion and consternation, you reject the offer to examine the eggs they have concealed within the hatchery. Or rather, you feel that the eggs would reject you if you should try to seek your companion in one. It is difficult to explain even in your own mind, so you make no attempt at voicing these thoughts—these almost-whispers at the back of your mind, like a soft brush of fingers at the base of your skull.

Septa Marlow huffs her displeasure. “This is most unbecoming of you, Princess. You ought to know better than to refuse a gift such as this.”

‘They are not for me,’ you want to say. ‘The thought of them does not rouse me.’

You know not why you feel certain of this—that the mere prospect should stir you beyond simple anticipation. But it is as though you have always known this, for you do not find yourself disappointed by the missed opportunity nor by the censure.

A faint recollection sparks from your earliest youth, an old fear of what should occur if an egg comes into your possession and refuses to hatch, turning to stone over years and years. You do not wish for such a future. No; it is for the best that the eggs are left for another. Another time, another day, another person. Perhaps when it comes time to have your own children, you will revisit the notion.

To make matters even more complicated, however, there are no hatchlings upon the isle. It is what you had counted on all this time, but it seems that this is not to be, either.

“Zōbrios pōnte iprattas,” Acolyte Zūgis tells you, wringing his hands for good measure. The Dark One ate them all.

What a nervous man, you think. Since meeting him on the beach, he has been continuously anxious, ready to jump clear out of his skin at the slightest disturbance. You wonder if his path is best suited to Dragonkeeping if he is so afraid of it.

“Pōntālosa sikagon kostis, yn jēdraro toliot dorolviktys se dorolviktys sittaksi.” His mouth twists. Sometimes they hatch by themselves… but that has become rarer and rarer over the years. Your stomach twists at this. There was once a time where dragons hatched aplenty upon the isle. No more, it seems. “Vermithor dārligon kostā, darilaros. Yn uēpys issa se zaldrīzāeksio bōso jēdo syt mijetas. Qopsa kessa, se avy hinikilāks.”

You can try to claim Vermithor, Princess, he concludes. But he is old and has long since been without a rider. It will be difficult, and dangerous.

Neither Septa Marlow nor Ser Criston understand High Valyrian—but the name Vermithor agitates them nonetheless.

“A dragon of such size and stature is not appropriate for a well-bred lady,” Septa exclaims, fingers like claws clasped together before her. “What of Silverwing? Good Queen Alysanne’s mount? Does it not reside here? ‘Tis far more suitable beast.”

The Keeper shakes his head. “We believe Silverwing is gravid. She has shown much aggression as of late. The last of us to attempt approach…” The silence that hangs at the end of the sentence leaves no mistaking his meaning. He clears his throat. “Well. It is far too perilous at present. Vermithor is the Princess’s best option.”

“The Princess is a child,” Ser Criston says, expression flat and eyes flinty. “Vermithor is a dragon of war. I am sorry, Princess”—he kneels before you, angling his head up so he can look directly at you, and one hand folds around your elbow—“but I cannot let you risk yourself so.”

You know what you are being told, albeit in a roundabout way. The despair renders you mute. What am I to do? What am I to do? You nod, an agreement to your sworn shield’s words, though your heart is scarcely in it.

“Perhaps on the morrow,” the Keeper says, “we may… reattempt with the eggs, then. We have several, though they have been kept for some years now.”

Ser Criston makes his agreements to Acolyte Zūgis, entering into discussion with him and Septa Marlow as to the following day’s schedule. None of them so much as turn their faces to include you, despite the fact that you are central to their plans.

While they talk, another thought comes to mind. You wonder why none have so much as dared to broach another possibility—that there are three wild dragons upon the isle. Silverwing and Vermithor are not your only options.

Sleep is hard to come by, that same, pulsing sensation tingling through your limbs and keeping you awake.

Come, it seems to say. I am waiting.

You rise before the sun comes up. Septa Marlow is likely to be awake at this time, but she will not venture your way until the skies are bathed in light. Ser Criston does not begin his shift until an hour after you rise; his replacement is usually whomever can be spared.

It is even easier than usual to make your escape.

Dragonstone is an old fortress, and so there are a great many secret passages winding between rooms. You need only to check behind the tapestry along the inner wall to determine that an opening has been concealed. Brandishing the candle from your bedside, you slip into the looming maw that awaits.

Inside, it smells of damp and salt, and you can hear a faint, steady drip. It continues no matter which direction your feet take you, and you feel your breath stream from your mouth and nose in a cloud of warmth that gives the skin of your face and neck momentary respite from the wintry chill. The walls are rough-hewn, made for function rather than appeal, so you are careful where you place your hands.

Because you are so unfamiliar with the layout, you wander for what seems an age before you finally surface upon the outdoors, a dim glow emanating from between metal grates at the end of a dark tunnel. The hinges squeak shrilly as you push them open, shutting behind you with a clang. Your slippered feet sink into the sand upon the beach.

You do not know where you are headed—to find Vermithor or Silverwing, to find one of the wild ones, or simply to wander. All you know is that one of them is calling to you through the magic of old, the magic that ’Nyra and Papa have always said lives in the blood of the Targaryen line. It is how Papa knew that he was destined to be Balerion’s last rider. It is how ’Nyra found the courage to mount Syrax when she was so young. You feel it now, singing in your blood as it has since you crossed into the shallows surrounding the island.

Come and find me, it says. I am waiting.

You trudge along the beach, allowing the sand to sink into the opening of your shoes, to fill the small spaces between shoe and skin with stinging grit that collects between your toes and rubs to rawness. The wind whips at your hair and your robe—you did not bother to change from your evening wear—and the sound of the waves crash like thunder.

You walk. And, as you walk, you wait for the purpose to reveal itself, a part of you hoping that whomever you are meant to claim will find you.

You ought to be more careful of what you wish.

A dark shape swoops across the sky above you, casting you even further into shadow, and you hear the rumble of something powerful. The beat of its wings is great enough to be heard from a distance, you think, and stirs up the sand before you into a cloud of dirt and dust. The beast growls, deep and terrifying, raising the hairs on the back of your neck.

It lands ahead.

Oh, no. Oh, no.

The Cannibal.

He is enormous, far greater in size than Syrax, than Caraxes, than any dragon you have ever seen or read about. His scales are black—no—blacker than black, the complete absence of colour or brightness, and each muscle honed from years upon years of eking out his existence ripple below the skin. His lips peel back, exposing at least two rows of sharp, jagged teeth. Perfect for tearing me to bits, your mind supplies in your panic. His stocky frame hunches low, claws sunk into the sand, as though poised to attack, and he hisses, a rattling threat that fills you with the urge to run.

His eyes glow green. You feel it again.

Come. I am waiting.

What is it Ser Lysan said, again? If you want something, you must do whatever is in your power to achieve it.

Come. I am waiting.

It may be courage, it may be madness, but you are moving onward before you realise it. The dragon hisses again as you approach, and any moment you expect to be bathed in dragonfire or snapped up in his almighty jaws, but your footsteps remain as rapid as your heartbeat.

The attack does not come. The fire does not come.

Something more is at play here. You may only be twelve summers, but this you know. A dragon as fierce as the Cannibal would never let a person so close as this under ordinary circumstances. Old magic thrums through the air, a tether forming between you and the form ahead. A bond. A claim.

You reach out a hand. Skin to scale. Heat that ought to burn courses through you, but you are safe. You feel his pulse, your pulse, pounding through dermis, reforming your own to match.

Your eyes well. “Gierior glaeson ñuhon avy rhaenagon jumptan,” you whisper. I have waited my whole life to meet you. In the rumble he releases, you think he must believe the same of you.

Dressed only in your nightgown, you make the climb up his wing. He lets you, chuffing irritably as you seek out the correct handholds and footholds to make your way up. It is entirely different from mounting Caraxes; this dragon is much, much larger, and so you are forced to actively coordinate your movements to ascend the perilous terrain. Still, there is enough of memory remaining to you of that day, years ago, that you can draw some reference from. You rely on those recollections to hoist yourself up. Finally, you are able to settle somewhat awkwardly between the blunted spikes below his neck.

From far off, you can hear faint voices. Atop the crest of the Cannibal’s shoulder, you look to the horizon. The sun has risen. The world is awake, which means that Ser Criston and Septa Marlow will be leading the search for their wayward princess.

It startles the dragon. Before you are ready—before you would even have dared to tell him to fly—he shifts, growling so deep that the vibrations buzz through your legs, your toes. You jostle where you have perched, gripping frantically to the spike in front of you as he sets off on a crawl that morphs to a run, building momentum to flap his wings up and up and up—

“Princess!” echoes through the breeze as you rise. Below, you see the forms of the guards, of Ser Criston, of Septa, growing smaller and smaller as the dragon—your dragon—takes to the air.

You keep hold of the Cannibal’s spike as he soars through the skies, letting the wind billow your hair about. It is both the same and so, so very different from your first flight. It is freezing up here, for one thing, and you can discern no sound but that of the air whistling so stridently in your ears that it is like a shriek, and the dragon below you is warm enough to keep the worst of the chill at bay. Your belly swoops and twists with each wingbeat, the momentum rocking you forward every time, but none of the discomfort is enough to tamp down the sheer exhilaration.

The Cannibal turns, revolving away from the distant line where sky and sea meet toward the island again. The change in direction gives you a momentary reprieve from the rush of air hindering all noise, and you hear something else.

Beneath your legs, beneath your skin, you feel it as the Cannibal bellows to the world, a roar that pierces the still of morning and announces to all that his wait is over. That he has claimed his rider, that you have claimed your mount—that you have done what no one else has been able to and emerged victorious.

That feeling—the one that has plagued you—has changed, you realise. You have found me, it seems to say.

Yes, you think, turning your head to admire the expanse of this creature, this being who is and was always meant to be yours. I have.

When you land, Ser Criston and Septa Marlow nearly shake you from your body with the force of their panic, their vexation, their “You do not ever run off like that, do you hear me, Princess?” and their “Just wait until your father hears of this!” They try to dissuade you from your course, but the Keepers wring their hands and mutter that the deed has been done; there is no unbinding what has been bound by the magic of old.

Still, their refrain is just as shocked, just as bewildered. “The Cannibal, Princess,” they say, shaking their heads. “The Cannibal…”

“No,” you reply. “His name is Athfiezar.”

Dothraki is fairly new to you, ‘tis true, for Ser Lysan did not agree to teach you until well into your acquaintance. And there is a certain irony in the choice; many a person will surely raise their brows in question of your use of such a savage tongue, which is rather best suited for a dragon of his reputation. But the word—the name, for he has long gone without one, and it seems only right that he should have something of his own, free of the censure of old—seems apt enough. Love. That pure, uncorrupted kind, the kind you think you have been searching for your whole life, the kind you find in small moments that are never, ever enough for the gaping maw that is your heart awaiting someone to fill it. You just know the Cannibal—Athfiezar—is a creature with a soul like yours. How long has he gone without love?

Never again, you think. Not with me.

You hold onto that thought as Papa rails at you upon seeing the hulking behemoth touch upon the top of the Dragonpit, heralding your return to King’s Landing.

“You could have died! What in the blazes were you thinking, girl?” he yells.

He has never yelled at you before, and perhaps you might have cried once, but you keep firm to the memory of Athfiezar’s eyes upon yours, the life palpitating through his immense form into yours like some sort of cycle, elemental, mysterious. No matter what Papa says, no matter how he says it, it is as the Keepers said. The deed is done.

The news spreads like wildfire, bringing with it a most unwelcome attention. For much of your life, you had been largely ignored by court and commons—now, with having claimed such a dragon for your own, many a considering eye falls upon you. Their thoughts are louder than if they spoke them: perhaps we have gotten the wrong measure of this one. Perhaps she is worth more notice than we had given her. Invitations to tea come to your door with a regularity that is almost predictable; and, maybe worse, many an enquiring lord approaches Papa with the pivotal question upon their lips: “When is she to be wed, Your Grace?”

Your mother was wed at eleven—it is not impossible that you should be given to some man to settle a treaty or forge an alliance in due course. It is your duty as Princess, after all. One day, yes; but not now. Besides, all they truly desire is the power you have suddenly amassed. They do not want you.

You retreat into yourself, using all the courtesies Septa had imbued into you like plate steel to shield yourself from the worst of it. Save for your two freedoms—your Ser Lysan and your boy, Athfiezar—you commit to being the most polite, the most recalcitrant, the most dull creature you can be. You help ’Nyra with her boys where you can, for a useful girl is best kept than discarded, and your sister is the heir which means her rule will someday be law. You take on two ladies, noblewomen from Houses in the Reach, in accordance with your stepmother’s wishes. You try your very best to devote time to each, spreading yourself between what is rapidly developing into entirely separate factions in the Keep—the Princess and the Queen, the Blacks and the Greens, or so they are called. Such silly names, you think. And, over time, it all becomes less performative and more intrinsic. Your propriety is your defence, and you use it well.

But it will not last forever. One day—one day soon—you will be called in by Papa. You will be told that your life is no longer to be your own, but passed on into the care of a man you will call husband. You will be asked to choose he who will be your master, he who will use your womb to give his House sons and daughters of royal blood, and you will be expected to be glad for the opportunity to make the decision, that it was not taken out of your hands entirely.

You wait for the day, spending what evening hours you can in the Sept entreating the gods for their intercession. Please, you think, on your knees before an effigy of the Maiden. Please. Deliver to me a husband who will love me as I am.

You wait, you hold your breath, and you pray.

“The claiming of the Cannibal came as a great shock to the Realm, not least because of she who had claimed him. King Viserys’s younger daughter by his late Queen Aemma Arryn was by all accounts a diffident, well-mannered girl most unlike her elder sister… Several parties were of the view that the Princess ought to be wed quickly to keep her mighty mount out of the hands of those considered less than desirable. However, it was not until the year of 126 A.C. that the King finally consented to the courtship of the girl, with many a man seeking her hand. Of those suitors, only three were truly deemed worthy—Lord Jason of House Lannister, Lord Denys of House Tyrell, and the Princess’s own half-brother, the Prince Aegon.”

- 'Fire & Blood, Being a History of the Targaryen Kings of Westeros' by Archmaester Gyldayn

Read on AO3:

Taglist (😭 thank you!):

Now in the comments!

To be on the taglist:

Click here to apply for the general taglist! Click here to apply for the terms of endearment taglist!

[victorie552]

Ok, so Noldolantë, "The Fall of the Noldor" is a lament composed by Maglor about what happened before, during and after First Kinslaying at Alqualondë. It's such a good song that it's played regularly in Aman and Valar listen to it often (I swear, I swear it was in the Silmarillion I just can't find it now).

It's also a more or less common fanon that Maglor continues writing Noldolante through the whole First Age. Makes sense - it's about fall of the Noldor, and Noldor did a lot of falling back then.

Headcannon time: So my first thought was that Noldolante must a long, long, long epic of a song. So it probably has many parts, right? Iliad has 24 books/parts, somehow I think Noldolante would be at least just as long, and there are longer epics. And again, just like Iliad, unless you're a scholar, in the daily life you don't really listen to/read the whole thing, just reread and repeat the most dramatic fragments. What I'm trying to impress upon you all is that the story would have different segments, or chapters, if you will.

And if Maglor continues to write the story during the FA, there would absolutely be a moment in the lament where the OG Noldolante becomes Noldolante 2, and even Noldolante 3. There may be the same musical motif or something, I decided that Maglor IS that good of a bard to keep it all consistent enough so you know it's all the same story, but the style changes a lot - it's been 400 years in the making, let The Music Elf have fun!

So, Point 1: Many, Many Parts, basically Maglor's FA WIP

My second thought was that, while Feanor invented his alphabet, elves learned their history mostly through oral tradition aka songs and spoken stories. Noldolante is definitely a historical record, where a historical event was archived for future generations.

(It was a also a way to deal with grief, guilt and blame Maglor and all Noldor have faced regarding First Kinslaying - free therapy! But that's not what this post is about)

Archived.

My 2.5 thought was that Noldolante isn't just recallings of how pretty and horrified the beach looked during the murdering or how mad and sorrowful the sea was at everyone during the voyage or even how awesome and charismatic Feanor looked during his speeches that every single Noldo was ready to fight Morgoth barehanded in his name - no, this is a record of who killed who, who got killed by whom, and how.

Noldor and Teleri knew each other (were friends, even!) before the First Kinslaying, so I'm confident that after a lot of interviews, detective work, and cross-referencing, Maglor could and would create a very good... name list. Practically every Noldo and Teler present during First Kinslaying would get a stanza in a song, more if he killed someone, most if he killed many people. Killers and killed would show up twice, first in a fragment listing the killers and their victims, then in a part listing the victims and their murderers. Basically it's the same thing twice, but from different POVs. With when, where and how included.

(It was seen to be in bad taste to compare kills during Maglor's Regency, when most of his interview-part work happened. People did it anyway. There were a Saddest Kill, Funniest Kill, and Weirdest Kill discusions. There was a Tier List. These were weird times to be a Feanorian Noldo.)

(It WAS in Bad Taste, but at least people talked about it. I cannot stress enough how much free therapy this lament provided)

(Little did they know, when Teleri started getting reembodied in Aman, they had very similar discussions, but more in a "I can't believe he killed me like THAT" way. Long, long, long after the First Age. Noldolante is a gift that keeps giving)

So, Maglor had all the historical grith and no common shame to create a "We Killed All These People And We Feel Bad About It" banger of a song, and every Noldo had a very personal reason to at least remember the fragments they are in. It's a hit on a scale never seen before.

(I'm not sure how to tackle the issue of Nolofinweans and Arafinweans learning about Noldolante after crossing the Ice. But there were discussions. There was anger, there was "????", there was controversy. Basically, the song got bigger and bigger rep no matter what your opinion on it was. By the time of Mereth Aderthad it was an important cultural and political piece and at least Fingon's forces were included in the main song. It had parodies.)

Point 2: Archive Function/Kill count storage. Cultural phenomen, every Noldo included

This is where my personal nonsense begins: Main Noldolante was done, there was nothing more to say about First Kinslaying, all killings and deaths were well documented.

But the Siege started. And the Noldor kept dying.

It was less dramatic than it sounded - between the big battles the siege was maintained, but orc raids also happened and sometimes one to few Noldor died in skirmishes. The legal procedure was to document the death of a fellow elf and send a word to king Fingolfin. The cultural procedure, technically started by Feranorians but adapted by many more, was to send the name, common characteristics and cause of death to Maglor's Gap. After few months, King Fingolfin would send reinforcements, short condolences and financial compensation if they had family. After few months, family of an elf would also receive a personal lament for them and a place for them in a Noldolante.

Yes, every lament Maglor created in that time was technically part of the Noldolante. Noldolante 1.5, if you will. Laments make in that time were very customized, and simpler than Noldolante Main, but were still considered a part of the same song. Of course, nobody was expected to know and remember laments for every single Noldo, younger Noldor born in Beleriand could even only know fragments about their family members. Only Maglor would ever know Noldolante in full, but it was understood that everyone had their place in The Song.

The results of Great Battles were harder to document, but Maglor did that. Of course, Dagor Bragollach was hard on him personally, but he worked his way through.

(High King Fingon forbade creating laments for his father. There were no songs for Fingolfin. Apart from in Noldolante, of course. Of course. Maglor did not share the lament with anyone, but he sat long hours and many nights with a blank paper before him, looking at the candle flame and thinking of the past and the future. The song unsung, but there)

Nirnaeth was... Maglor was never more hated and more approached at the same time than then. Still, Noldolante grew and grew, as if people knew the end was near.

It was Second Kinslaying that destroyed the myth of Maglor's song. Feanorians didn't know the Sindar they killed, but surely, they couldn't just left their names unmentioned like they did with orcs? So, Noldor talked, but the battle happened in caves - it wasn't uncommon to find dead bodies in empty rooms, with no witnesses to what happened. Surviving Sindar didn't want to share any names, even when Maglor strong-armed some into talking with him, and good for them. Maglor made a big lament anyway. Maglor, wild, with no shame and dead brothers, with legacy crumbling around him. Noldolante, with holes.

After Third Kinslaying, Noldor didn't want to talk. Lament for Sirion didn't have any names. Clearly, songs weren't a way to go anymore, it was always about live witnesses. And so Maglor raised the twins.

Lament for Maedhros was sung repeatedly. There was no one to hear it.

Point 3: Only Maglor knows Noldolante in full. But that doesn't matter, because everyone knows the important part: the Noldolante is finished. The Star of Hope rises in the West and the story goes on. The Fall has ended.

[dreamofbecoming]

more stobin nonsense from your resident trash goblin. feat. shitty harrington parents, lavender marriage, full party found family shenanigans, steddie flirting, steve&will bonding, and a severe lack of dialogue tags

rating: t wc: 5k ao3

“I knew it!”

Steve sighs. Listen, he knew the minute he opened his mouth that this was coming. There was always a zero percent chance Dustin was ever gonna let him get out the whole thing before bursting in with this exact interruption, but that doesn’t make it less annoying. If the little shithead would just let him finish--

"I knew you were perfect together, I can't believe you didn't tell us you were dating! How long have you been a thing? I have money to collect! Can I be your best man? Never mind, obviously I'm gonna be your best man. You so owe me for not telling me sooner! I cannot believe-"

"Henderson!"

"What?"

"We're not together like that."

In fairness, Dustin is not the only one to give them an incredulous look for that one.

"Steve. You literally just announced you and Robin are getting married. What is even the point of pretending you're not in love anymore? What are you still trying to prove? Just admit I was right the whole time!"

Steve pinches the bridge of his nose and forces himself to take a deep breath, instead of wringing Dustin's weird little boneless neck. It's not his fault, he reminds himself. They haven't gotten to the second part of the announcement, so his assumptions are natural.

Now, it is Henderson's fault that they haven't managed to say the rest of what they came here to say, so maybe he can keep blaming him after all.

"Do you remember when we sat down and we asked you guys to let us say everything we were gonna say without interrupting?"

"Uh, yeah dude, it was like ten minutes ago. We're not stupid."

"Has it occurred to you that maybe we weren't done saying everything we were gonna say, considering I was halfway through a sentence when you jumped in?"

"I mean, I guess, but like, it's pretty obvious where you're going with this, Steve. You're not a complicated guy, no offense. Now, where did we land on the best man issue?"

Nancy must see the offense very much taken on his face, because before he can open his mouth and say something probably horrifically rude that would feel amazing in the moment and which he would immediately regret, she jumps to his rescue.

"Dustin, you're being very rude. Steve and Robin came here to talk to us, and we promised to listen. Let them finish."

It's nice of her to back Steve up, considering how weird this conversation must be for her. Hopefully it gets less awkward soon.

Henderson grumbles mutinously, but years of dealing with first Mike and then the rest of the little dickheads have left Nancy's control ironclad, and he waves sarcastically for Steve to continue.

This kid is spending too much time with Eddie, the attitude is getting out of hand.

"Right. Thanks, Nance. As I was saying, Robin and I are getting married, yes. But not because we're in love. I mean, I love her, obviously, but as a friend. Only a friend. Or, well, I guess a friend and soon a...friend...wife? Frife? Wend? You guys get it."

"We very much don't." Alright, well, fine, add Max to the shitlist.

He looks over at Robin, hoping for help, but she's stiff as a board and trembling all over.

He doesn't want to be the one to say the words for her. They agreed together to tell everyone the truth, it was her idea even, but the last thing he wants to do is steal that moment from her.

Maybe he can just…talk around it, until she feels up to it. And if not, he’ll just tell them his part of it and call it good.

“We’re getting lavender married.”

Okay, so that’s probably not like. A normal way to say that or whatever. Robin just used that term like fifty times last night, alright? She was really excited about the article she just read about it, something about how it was a thing in, like, olden times or whatever, and now it’s coming back because Reagan is a fucking tool, Steve’s not sure, he was only kind of listening. Regardless, now it’s stuck in his head. Sue him or whatever, geez.

Anyway, he isn’t sure how many people in this room will actually understand what that means, but Nancy’s mouth drops open in a perfect little O the way it only does when she’s genuinely surprised by something, and there’s a tiny gasp from over by the table that he thinks might have come from Will, and Max mutters to herself “Oh shit, that explains so much,” so it’s not none of them, which helps. No pitchforks yet, at least.

Jonathan is eyeing him speculatively, and Argyle is offering him an enthusiastic thumbs up, which is nice.

Unfortunately, the other boys and El are giving him blank, expectant stares, and Erica is eyeing him with both confusion and annoyance, so it looks like he still has some explaining to do.

“What the hell does your color scheme have to do with this? I’m not helping plan the wedding, dude, I don’t care that much.”

Steve mumbles a “Language,” on reflex, but his heart isn’t in it. This is somehow more nerve-wracking than evil Russians.

“Mike, that’s not what it means. Now shut up and listen, or I’ll tell Mom how that red sock ended up in her load of white delicates.”

“Oh come on, she’ll kill me!” When all he gets in return is a single raised eyebrow, he groans and slumps further into his seat, glaring at Steve.

“Right. Okay. So basically, last night, my parents--”

“I’m a lesbian!”

There’s a beat of dead silence, which in this group is more unsettling than just about anything else.

Steve keeps his eyes on Robin, who looks just about as shocked at her own outburst as everyone else in the room. He takes her hand, squeezing gently until she unfreezes a little and looks back over at him. She looks terrified, and it breaks his heart a little.

“You okay, babe?” He keeps his voice low, murmuring just loud enough for her to hear. He knows this moment is the opposite of private, but she needs him to pretend for a second, so that’s what he’s gonna do.

She nods, a little jerkily, but she grips his hand back and intentionally evens out her breathing. She’s so fucking brave. He would burn the world down for Robin Buckley, and he doesn’t care who knows it.

He can’t believe she’s willing to do this for him, but he’s so grateful he feels like he’s choking on it.

“Henderdork will literally never shut up and let you live it down if we do this and he doesn’t know the truth. Not even for a single second for the rest of forever, and I, for one, am not putting up with that shit until death or legal marriage reforms do us part, Dingus.”

It was a solid point last night when they came up with the plan, curled on her bed while she stroked his hair and generously pretended he hadn’t soaked the shoulder of her shirt with his sobs, all his worldly possessions packed into a duffel on her bedroom floor, but he knows her insistence was more about knowing how much he hates lying to the kids than it was about protecting herself from irritating teenagers.

He doesn’t think there’s enough room on the whole planet to hold all the love he feels for her, even if you count the Upside Down and any other weirdo dimensions floating around out there waiting to ruin his day.

“I’m okay, bubba. Don’t let go?” Her hand is shaking in his, but he just squeezes harder.

“Never.” He turns back to the room, eyes hard as he scans the faces of their family for any hostility. He wouldn’t have agreed to this part of the plan if he thought any of them would be a problem, but he’s not taking anything for granted with Robbie’s safety. Not now, not ever. "Everyone's gonna be cool about that, right?"

"Of course we are, right, guys?" From the pained grunt that follows her words, Steve assumes Max has dug her elbow into Mike's ribs.

"Yeah, sure, whatever."

"I suppose this makes you slightly less lame, Buckley. It's definitely better than when I thought you liked this loser." Wow, okay, thank you Erica.

"Yeah totally! Thanks for trusting us, Robin." Lucas is a sweetheart, he really is. He's also glancing surreptitiously at Will while he nods enthusiastically, who is still staring open-mouthed at Robin with wide, shiny eyes.

"Yes, thank you for trusting us, Robin." Nancy is smiling kindly, but she's got that glint in her eye that Steve knows means she just came up with more questions and is waiting for the right moment to strike. Fair enough, at least she's letting Robs have her moment first.

He finally drags his eyes back to Dustin, who he doesn't really want to admit, even to himself, he's a little worried about. Not that he'll be shitty about it, necessarily, but there's nothing that brings out Henderson's bitchy side like being wrong, and he's been so fucking wrong this entire time. It's bound to upset him.

And maybe Steve will never say this out loud where the other kids might hear, but the truth is that Dustin's opinion matters to him more than just about everyone else's. Dustin was the first person in the whole world who saw Steve, the real Steve, and decided he was worth keeping around. If Henderson can't accept this part of Robin, it means he can't accept this part of Steve, and if that happens...if that happens Steve isn't sure he'll be able to come back from it.

So he's...not worried, okay? Worried is not the right word. Anxious, maybe. Concerned.

Okay fine fuck off he's worried.

Dustin...looks like he's about to cry. Shit.

"Did you think you couldn't trust me?" His voice is so small. Steve doesn't think he's ever heard it so small. It feels wrong. Henderson's voice should fill every room he's in, always. "You didn't have to lie. You could have told me the truth."

Aw, fuck.

"Buddy,--"

"It's not that simple, little man."

Steve whips back around to look at Robin. Are you sure you’re up for this? She purses her lips and narrows her eyes. Yeah, Dingus, this is my mess. Let me clean it up. Put the lance down, White Knight. Well, alright then. He waves for her to continue, ignoring the looks the others always shoot them when they do their silent conversation thing. Not his fault they can’t read each other as well, it’s not like it’s hard.

"Before today, Steve was the only person in the world who knew about me. And honestly, I don't know if I would have told him if we weren't both coming off torture and truth serum. I've worked hard to hide it my whole life, baby Dingus, that's not an easy thing to stop doing. It's scary."

"But we're your friends. We're your family! We saved the world together! You should trust your family, right?"

Aw, jeez. Steve forgets, sometimes, how young they are. They've been through horrific supernatural trauma, but they're still the kind of kids who think life is a story with a happy ending, like their little dragon game.

"Yeah, bud, you should, but it's not always that easy. There can be really serious consequences for telling the wrong person. Like, last night my parents found out I'm bisexual by accident and now I...well. Now I don't have parents anymore." Oof, okay, little blunter than he meant to be, but Robbie's getting anxious again so he has to take the focus back.

There's an eruption of sound, as every voice in the Party starts shouting all at once, turning the Wheeler's basement into Steve's own personal migraine generator.

"Did they kick you out?"

"You're bisexual?!"

"What's bisexual?"

"They can't just do that!"

"Does this mean we have to find somewhere else for Hellfire nights?"

That last one earns Erica several Looks, but she doesn't flinch. "What? I'm just being practical."

He wishes Eddie was here. The gremlins actually listen to him, unlike Steve, on account of as their Hellfire DM, he has leverage they care about to threaten them with. Well, most of them, but it's definitely a help when he's around.

Sadly he and Wayne are at some kind of Munson family reunion down in West Virginia this week, so Steve is gonna have to do this whole spiel over again when he gets back. He and Robin thought about waiting until he got back and the whole Party could be together, but the kids would definitely notice him not living in Loch Nora anymore pretty much immediately. And Steve hates the idea of telling him over the phone, so double coming out/engagement announcement it is.

"Alright, Jesus Christ, enough! One at a goddamn time, you animals."

He looks back at Dustin, who's definitely crying now. "Yeah, buddy, they kicked me out, but I'm okay. I'm staying with the Buckleys for now, and Rob and I have been saving up to move in together soon anyway, so all this did is move up our timeline. I'm safe and I'm fine, okay? I promise."

Dustin plasters himself to Steve's front, squeezing like he's worried Steve is going to shatter into pieces and he can hold him together by sheer force of will. It's very sweet, even if it's crushing his lungs a little.

"I'm sorry you felt like you couldn't tell me." The words are muffled in Steve's chest, he's not sure anyone else heard him.

"Aw, kid, it's okay. I trust you, alright? Always. You die, I die, remember? I was just...figuring my shit out, that's all."

"Your parents are mouthbreathers." Steve chuckles a little at the mutinous glare on El's face, not pausing his hand where he's stroking Dustin's hair.

"You're not wrong, Supergirl. But it's fine, honestly. They've always been dicks, I've been planning to move out for a long time. They just...gave me the final push, is all." He's definitely leaving out the part where he broke down sobbing in Robbie's bed last night, asking her over and over why he was so broken that his own parents couldn't love him, but the kids don't need to hear that part of the story.

"Does this have something to do with your whirlwind engagement?" There she is, ace reporter Nancy Wheeler. Observant as always.

"Yeah, pretty much. They disinherited me, but they're still legally my next of kin."

"And Dingus has had far too much head trauma for me to trust he's not gonna end up back in the hospital for something at some point, and the last thing we need is Mr. and Mrs. von Child Neglect getting that call. And I was just reading about gay men and women who are marrying each other so they can have someone allowed in to see in them in the hospital, because of the virus, you know? And I thought, hey that's not a half bad idea! We're gonna be living together anyway, and it's not like I'm marrying anyone else, and it'll be good for both of us to have someone who knows about, y'know, monsters and all that jazz, to do our power of attorney stuff, so, voila! Mr. and Mrs. Bucklington!"

"We are not changing our name to Bucklington."

"Well Harringley is worse, so suck it up, buttercup."

"I'm not interested in keeping the Harrington name, Bobs, I'd rather just be a Buckley."

"Aw, bubba, you're gonna make me cry!"

"You should both become Hendersons! Then we'd really be brothers!"

Steve erupts into laughter, the tension effectively broken by Dustin's wide, toothy grin. "What d'ya say, Bobbie? Steve and Robin Henderson?"

"Would we get access to Claudia's lasagna recipe? Because if so, I'm behind this plan one hundred percent.”

"By 'we' you do mean me, right? Because I love you more than life, Bobs, but I'm not letting you anywhere near a casserole dish. I've learned that lesson."

"It was one time!"

"It took me three days to get all the cheese off the ceiling! There's still a stain!"

"Well good! Ceiling grease stains can be the Harrington's problem now, anyway. They deserve it!"

Argyle is nodding sagely from on top of the incredibly deflated bean bag he's sharing with Jonathan. "I do like Bucklington, it makes you sound like a fancy butler. But family is important, brochachos, and so is lasagna. I vote Henderson."

This spurs impassioned arguments from all corners, which Steve is more than happy to relax into the couch cushions and let wash over him.

There's a light, bubbly feeling in his chest. For the first time since his dad walked in unannounced yesterday, interrupting his phone call with Robin at the worst possible moment, the knot of fear and grief in his stomach starts to loosen.

Robin smiles at him, and he grins helplessly back. Who needs parents when he's got a soulmate? They're together, they're safe, they're surrounded by their family. Steve holds Dustin tighter to his side and lets himself feel loved.

He takes advantage of a lull in the Last Name Wars to get out the last of the speech he'd planned. "Anyway, we decided to tell all of you the truth when we came up with this plan last night, because we do trust you and we didn't want to lie to you, and also because we knew you shitheads would never shut up about us being in love if we didn't and that sounded awful."

He laughs delightedly at the chorus of indignant outbursts this gets him before continuing.

"It's really important that you don't tell anyone outside the Party the truth, alright? We're gonna tell Eddie when he gets back, and we might tell Joyce and Hop eventually, but that needs to be our choice to do. You can't do it for us, and you absolutely can't tell anyone else. The whole point of this is to keep us safe by keeping people from finding out the truth, okay?"

El looks vaguely uncomfortable, but not upset. "Will you tell my Dad soon?"

Steve glances at Robbie, who's looking anxious again, and then over at Will. His shoulders are tense, hunched up around his ears, and he's staring intently at the table in front of him.

Steve isn't sure if anyone else knows what he thinks he knows about Will, but he's pretty sure he recognizes the specific flavor of isolation he can see Will struggling with sometimes, and he's definitely sure he recognizes the looks Will shoots at Mike whenever Wheeler isn't looking. Tommy used to look at him like that.

Either way, he knows the kind of fear the kid must be suffering, just like he knows how terrifying today was for Robin. For Steve, the worst case scenario has already happened, so he has a lot less left to lose. He can afford to smooth the way a little, to test the waters and make sure they're safe for everyone else.

It's not that different from his normal role in this group anyway, just a different kind of monster. He's always been good at taking hits so the others don't have to-- this is just another threat to step in front of.

"Tell you what, Ellie, I'll talk to Hop and Joyce this weekend, that way you won't have to keep secrets from him for too long. I'll just tell him about me, though, at first, okay? That way we'll know if it's safe for Robbie." Or anyone else, he doesn't say.

Jonathan hears it, at the very least, and shoots him a look that's equal parts surprised and grateful. Maybe Will has someone else in his corner after all, then.

El nods happily, satisfied with that.

Before anyone else can jump in, there's a clattering on the basement stairs. None of them have time to tense up too badly before the door bursts open and Eddie comes tumbling through it in a flurry of dark curls and frayed denim.

"Fear not, my wayward wastrels, for I have returned from far off lands, bearing tidings and the promise of libations!"

Steve only recognizes, like, four of those words, but seeing Eddie gives him the same happy, fizzy feeling in his gut that it always does these days, so he grins.

"You're back early, Eds, everything ok?"

Eddie blinks at him, then around the room, looking surprised to see it so packed.

"Yeah, my cousin Clarence accidentally broke my MeeMaw's pasture fencing and set all the goats loose in the hills, and if we stuck around we were gonna have to help round them back up, so Wayne and I snuck out early. I was coming to invite the gremlins out for pizza to tell you all about it, but this is more people than I was expecting. Y'all having a family meeting? Without little old moi?"

Steve valiantly suppresses the shiver that the twang in Eddie's voice triggers. Steve's not sure if Eddie notices the way his accent gets stronger when he's been talking to family, but he's had to work very hard to make sure he doesn't notice the way it affects Steve.

Steve has barely tested the flirting waters with Eddie since admitting his crush to Robin, he's definitely not jumping right in with 'It makes me tingly all over when you start talking with a drawl, wanna call me darlin' and see what happens?'

Luckily Bobbie notices his inner struggle and comes to his rescue.

"It was kind of a time sensitive issue- not a life or death one! Or like. Not a monster one, anyway. But shit went down last night and we needed to brief everyone before the geek squad figured out something was funky and came beating down the door. Steve wanted to tell you in person so we were gonna wait til you got back, but here you are!"

Eddie's looking at Robin with an amused smile on his face, one eyebrow raised and his lips quirked in a lopsided grin that is, frankly, unreasonably attractive. "Here I am indeed, my fair Lady of Feathers. So what's the scoop?"

He plops down next to Jonathan and Argyle on the beanbags, nearly sending them all toppling before Argyle hooks both of them around the waists and drags them practically into his lap.

Steve is not seething with jealousy. He's not.

A half a dozen voices chime out all at once.

"Robin's gay!"

"Steve's homeless."

"Robin and Steve are getting married!"

“Purple married.”

“It’s lavender, dummy.”

“Lavender’s a kind of purple!”

"They're gonna be Hendersons!"

"No they aren't, weirdo, they're gonna be Buckleys."

"Bucklington is clearly the superior choice, even if Argyle was right about the butler thing."

“Bucklington my ass, y’all dumb as hell if you think Mom and Dad aren’t gonna try and make him a Sinclair after this.”

"Mama and Papa Harrington didn't like that Stevie boy has double the love to give. Totally bogus. Bi bros for life, man."

"I still call Steve's best man!"

Eddie blinks a little when everyone quiets down, looking vaguely shellshocked. "That was. A lot of information to get in thirty seconds."

And, listen, Steve is like, 97% sure Eddie's cool. More than cool, even. He moves that bandana to the same pocket every time he changes his jeans, no matter what outfit he's wearing. There's no way that's an accident. But if Steve is being totally honest, which he's trying to do more these days, at least inside his own brain, this is maybe not the way he'd have chosen to come out to his crush. It's somehow way more nerve-wracking when he didn't even get to say it himself.

Oh well, it's out there now. It's fine, probably.

Still, there’s a definite feeling of relief when Eddie turns that megawatt grin on him again.

"Man, I wish I'd known there were other queers in Hawkins, I might have listened sooner when Henderson told me how cool you guys were!"

Steve laughs, only a little hysterically. "Dude, if you thought you were the only one, what the hell have you been wearing that hanky for? Who are you hoping will see it?"

It's a little gratifying to see Eddie go flaming tomato red in seconds. "I am not talking about that in mixed company, Steven. There are children here!"

"Ugh, we're literally teenagers."

"Tiny baby infants! If you're so curious, you can ask me again later."

"Promise?" Steve can't stop himself from grinning wolfishly.

Eddie tugs his hair in front of his face to hide, and the frantic little giggle and the quiet "Oh my god," he lets out both sound more than a little strangled. Steve's having the time of his life right now.

"Gross." Ugh, rude. He glares at Robin for ruining his fun. She sticks her tongue out at him.

Before they can devolve into the inevitable slapfight, Nancy cuts in again.

"Alright, unless anyone else has anything to share in private, I think we should take Eddie's suggestion and get something to eat." Good thinking, Nance. "To celebrate the happy couple, of course," she adds with a smirk. Yeah, that makes more sense.

"Onward then, my noble companions, to pizza and to paradise!" Eddie vaults off the beanbag, sending Jonathan and Argyle tumbling. Argyle laughs and accepts Eddie's hand up, while Jonathan just rolls his eyes good-naturedly.

Eddie slings an arm around Robin's shoulders as they head for the basement door. "So, Birdie, what's this I hear about a wedding? I need context."

As the kids go thundering up the stairs, arguing about who gets to drive in which car, Steve lingers. He noticed Will hanging back from the others, and now they're the last ones left, Will still slowly packing up the pens and notebooks he seems to carry around with him everywhere. Jonathan is hovering anxiously in the doorway, so Steve sends him a nod and waves him off. He's got this.

"You ready to go, kid?"

Will fidgets with the zipper on his bag for another few seconds before looking up at Steve through his, frankly tragic, fringe. "I'm sorry your parents suck."

"Yeah, man, me too." Steve shoots him a wry little smile. "It's alright though, sometimes we're better off without them. I've got plenty of family here that love me, I'll survive without Richard and Diane."

Will studies him for a minute. Steve's not sure what he's looking for, but he hopes he finds it.

"That's what Jonathan says about Lonnie." Steve nods, trying not to wince at the memory of the things he spat at Jonathan that day in '83 when everything changed. "I used to think it was my fault he left, but Jonathan says he was just a bastard, and it's better he's gone anyway."

"I didn't know Lonnie," he's careful not to say your dad, "but from what I've heard, Jonathan's probably right. And he's definitely right that it's not your fault."

"Like it's not your fault your parents kicked you out?"

"Yeah, exactly like that. If it was my fault, that would mean I did something wrong. The only thing I did was exist, and be different than they thought I would be. If they can't love the kid they had, then they shouldn't have had a kid at all. That's their problem, not mine. There's nothing wrong with me."

It doesn't matter if he heard all of these things from Robin first, if he's still trying to learn to believe them. Will needs to hear them like they're true, the same way Steve does.

"Are you sure?" Will's voice is trembling now. He's looking at the floor, but Steve can tell there are tears coming. "How can you be sure this is how you're supposed to be? Wouldn't you rather be normal?"

Oh, kid. "I mean, yeah, maybe it would be easier if I only liked girls, but I don't. I tried for a long time to pretend that I did, but it didn't make it true. And yeah, part of me wants to hate myself, because that's what they taught me to think, and I still kinda wish doing that would make them love me, but it won't. But honestly, you wanna know the biggest thing?" Will nods.

"I can't hate that part of myself without hating Robin, and there's no universe where I could hate Robin. Robin's perfect. She's the best person in the world, and she's gay, so being gay can't be bad. It's impossible. So whenever that voice in my head starts saying shitty things to me, I just think about how much I love Robin and tell it to shut up."

There's a beat where Will seems to be absorbing this.

"How did you know it would be safe? To tell us the truth?"

"I didn't."

Will stares at him in shock.

"Not a hundred percent, anyway. I was pretty sure, but it's never a guarantee with stuff like this, you know? But the other option was never telling anyone, and that...it gets tiring, you know? Always having to hide. Always having to check yourself. Lying when people ask the wrong questions. It wears you down. And I've fought monsters with you guys. I've been tortured by spies with you guys. If I can't trust this group to have my back, I can't trust anyone, can I? And I didn't want to live a life of not trusting anyone. I didn't want Bobbie to live a life like that. So, we took a chance. And it paid off, because all of you are the people we thought you were, and we were right to trust you. But it was a leap of faith, dude. It always is."

"What if I'm not ready?" Fucking shit, this kid. He's been through more than any of them, except maybe El, and he's still so goddamn brave. Steve would have crumpled like a tin can in his place.

"Then you're not ready. It's not a test, Will. There's no right or wrong answers. But I will say that every single person out there loves you, and they'll keep loving you no matter what you do. They're not like my parents, or Lonnie. Our friends aren't broken inside the way they are. Their love isn't conditional. You won't chase them away. You couldn't if you tried."

Will lets out a shaky breath, clearly fighting back tears. Steve leans against the table and keeps his head down, offering the kid the illusion of privacy while he pulls himself together. After a few minutes he speaks up again.

"You ready to go, you think?"

Will nods. He goes to walk past Steve to the stairs before hesitating and, to Steve's surprise, wrapping his gangly arms around him in an awkward hug.

"Thanks, Steve," he mumbles into Steve's shoulder.

Steve runs a hand down his back uncertainly. "Anytime, kid."

He keeps his arm around Will's shoulders tentative, but when the kid doesn't shrug him off or move away, he lets it settle more firmly, tugging him closer.

“Come on Baby Byers, let's go get some pizza. You think I can milk the disownment thing to get Eddie to pay for extra toppings?"

Will snorts. "I think Eddie would pay for as many toppings as you want as long as you do that little eyelash thing at him again."

Steve throws his head back and laughs, long and loud from his belly. Yeah, it's gonna be a good night.

my head hurts too much to keep writing this but please know that the pizza parlor engagement party involves plenty of arguing about roles in the wedding party, resulting in MOH erica/best man dustin (scoops troop babeyy), flower girl team lumax (max demanded the role bc her wheelchair means she can carry extra baskets of petals, and lucas will be pushing the chair so her hands are free. he's just excited to be there.) nancy/el bridesmaids and byler groomsmen (mike grumbles and groans but he's secretly thrilled). jonathan does the pictures and it turns out argyle got ordained back in cali as a joke so he officiates. eddie plays crimson and clover for robin’s wedding march. there’s a bit of a kerfuffle when claudia and the sinclairs both try to claim steve as their son, but after someone makes the argument that charles and sue have two kids to carry their name while claudia only has one, they end up hyphenating and becoming the buckley-hendersons. yes, claudia cries. yes, they get the lasagna recipe.

(at the pizza place, eddie asks what his role will be and steve says he doesn't know yet, but he'll save him a dance regardless. eddie has to hide in the bathroom to stop blushing.)

[electrosair]

Jealous headcanons dendro + pyro ver.

english isn’t my first language, sorry for mistakes

characters: al haitham + baizhu + kaveh + tighnari + diluc + lyney + thoma

word count: 1k

Alhaitham

how jealous is he from 1 to 10?

2/10 He's not really a person who worries too much about those topics, he trusts you enough to date you, so he understands that he doesn't need to be all over you about what you do or who you do it with.

how possessive is he from 1 to 10?

6/10 But even if he's not jealous, there's no doubt that he likes people to see that you're his and that you're going out together, taking you on dates or bragging about what a great partner he has.

what is he most jealous of?

When someone dares to make any move on you while he is in front of you, he can understand that people approach you because they find you attractive, but while you are next to him? That makes him rethink whether people really notice his hands on you and the looks he throws at them.

Baizhu

how jealous is he from 1 to 10?

5/10 It's kind of uncomfortable for him to see other people trying to hit on you when you're already with him, but he doesn't really like to spend his time thinking about how he should take it. He sighs and keeps it to himself.

how possessive is he from 1 to 10?

3/10 You may notice him a little more distant but only if he knows that you have kept information from him about going out with other people, he doesn't understand why you wouldn't want to tell him in the first place when you know he's not going to make any complaints.

what is he most jealous of?

He doesn't like to see you going out alone too often, he worries about you all the time and the last thing he wants is for something to happen to you. So when you do and it's not for a very important reason, he will most likely reprimand you for it or bring up unrelated issues.

Kaveh

how jealous is he from 1 to 10?

8/10 He wants attention, he needs attention, and he wants yours. Try not to make it seem so obvious so you don't get mad at him or feel uncomfortable, but he gets upset when you spend more time with someone else.

how possessive is he from 1 to 10?

4/10 As much as he gets jealous he knows that you are you and he can't control what you do or say, but whenever he can he will hug you and hold your hand in public.

what is he most jealous of?

Hearing you laughing at stories of yours that you tell other people that he thought you would only tell him, or plans that you've talked about and ended up doing with someone else, he would go straight to the bar to calm his thoughts.

Tighnari

how jealous is he from 1 to 10?

4/10 Unless someone approaches you and is too clear with their intentions he will not react. He leaves it up to you on most occasions to tell the person that you are not interested in anything of the sort.

how possessive is he from 1 to 10?

6/10 I want to blame it on him being a hybrid and not anything else because Tighnari is usually very nice to you, but he certainly likes to let people know in subtle ways that you're already with someone.

what is he most jealous of?

That you speak with admiration for people who are not close to him or whom he does not know. He always tries to put up the best image with you and teach you everything he knows, so why do you have to talk that way about someone other than him?

Diluc

how jealous is he from 1 to 10?

3/10 Normally he doesn't get jealous, but when he does, it shows. He would talk even less than usual and you would notice how he rolls his eyes every time someone walks towards you to talk (flirt) to you.

how possessive is he from 1 to 10?

8/10 Small details, just to show everyone how capable he is of dating you and that he takes good care of you. He would give you jewelry that would be visible and from time to time he'd run his hand around your waist to hold you close to him.

what is he most jealous of?

If people come up to you drunk while he's working at the bar, he won't hesitate for a second to throw someone out if necessary or to give harsh answers if they ask for more drinks, even make you stay behind the counter with him.

Lyney

how jealous is he from 1 to 10?

5/10 It's not that he doesn't trust you, he just doesn't trust the rest of the people around you. He knows you and knows what you're like, so he wouldn't hold resentment or anger towards you, but he would towards people who try to have their way with you.

how possessive is he from 1 to 10?

7/10 There are a lot of people who know him and therefore if you start dating him, people would start to know you, so if he sees any strange moves towards you he would be thoughtful and try to get you out of wherever you are.

what is he most jealous of?

He can't stand people asking him about you when he sees that they have other intentions and are not friends that you have already told him about, he doesn't trust them and doesn't want them near you. Especially when they treat you as his assistant, you are his partner, not anything else.

Thoma

how jealous is he from 1 to 10?

2/10 There are a few times when he gets jealous, and it doesn't really last very long. He would usually only get upset if someone is not able to respect your boundaries, such as trying to kiss you or following through after a 'no'.

how possessive is he from 1 to 10?

4/10 He wants to give you space, as much as you need as long as you tell him how you feel and don't hide things from him. So he doesn't really mind seeing you with other people as long as you tell him and at the end of the day you come back to his arms.

what is he most jealous of?

Watching you spend time with other people outside, eating food or taking walks, his heart aches at the thought of you and someone else doing things you could do with him. He can't bear to think that you might have a better time with them or that you don't enjoy your time with him.

[transmascissues]

a lot of people aren't going to want to hear this, but if you actually want trans men to stop "playing up" our assigned sex/"female socialization" or "walking back" on our manhood in conversations, here's what you need to do:

accept that it is possible for men (yes, 100%-men-and-nothing-but-men) to experience gendered oppression, including misogyny. accept that it is entirely possible for captial-m Men to have a lifetime worth of experiences with misogyny. accept that it is possible for men to be not just hurt by but systemically oppressed under the patriarchy. accept that being oppressed for one's gender does not require any proximity to womanhood. accept that it is possible for men to experience the things you call "women's issues". stop calling the misogyny specifically directed at us "misdirected". stop acting like our manhood somehow cancels out the oppression we've experienced. stop considering yourself more of an authority on our oppression than we are just because we're men and you're not. stop supporting activist spaces that expect men to "shut up and listen and be good allies" while everyone else task about their oppression. stop simplifying the complexities of gendered oppression to "man = privileged, woman = oppressed". you would distance yourself from your identity too if people used it to gaslight and silence you about your lived experiences.

stop acting like being a man makes someone somehow "less trans" or "less queer". learn how to view all trans people as equally trans and equally part of the community. unlearn your tendency to view manhood and masculinity as inherently less queer than other gender expressions. stop talking about how trans men are "the weakest link" or making "jokes" about how much worse we are than other people in the community or blaming us for all of its problems. stop acting like being men means we have less of a right than other trans people to speak on what it's like to be trans. you would distance yourself from your identity too if you knew that doing so would mean being more accepted by the community you rely on.

deconstruct your belief that cis manhood is the gold standard of manhood. stop telling trans men that it's transphobic for them to assert that their experience of manhood might be different from that of a cis man. stop trying to pressure trans men into never acknowledging how their transness makes their experience of manhood unique by accusing them of "misgendering themselves" or "saying trans men aren't real men". accept that trans men are not cis men and never will be cis men and are still 100% very real men anyway because cis manhood is only one type of manhood. understand that if you hear "trans men are different from cis men" and think that means "trans men aren't men", you're the one who's actually saying cis men are the only real men. you would distance yourself from your identity too if people said that claiming that identity required being exactly the same as a group you're not a part of.

get yourself a personality that isn't just talking about how much you hate men. stop telling all the men in your life how much you hate men and acting like their willingness to just take it is a measure of their moral goodness. stop making "jokes" about how trans men are "joining the enemy". stop talking about how much you wish you weren't attracted to men, or how much of a shame it is that someone else is. stop acting like womanhood and femininity are inherently pure and good and harmless while manhood and masculinity are inherently gross and evil and dangerous. stop acting like there's something inherently corruptive about existing as a man that fundamentally changes someone the second they come out as one. stop acting like it's funny to say you want to kill all of us as if there aren't countless people actively working to eliminate us. you would distance yourself from your identity too if everyone you knew spent their free time talking about how much they hate it.

help put spaces and resources into place that take trans men into consideration. stop getting mad at trans men who "call themselves men but still want access to women's spaces" and start looking at the world around you and asking why we want access to those spaces. open your eyes and realize that there is nothing out here for us, that all of the spaces and resources catered toward our experiences are marketed for everyone except us. ask yourself where the hell we're supposed to go when every clinic specializing in care for our bodies is a "women's clinic", when the only men's shelters are really just for cis men and the people advocating for "inclusive" shelters see all men as a threat to be warded off, when no one is willing to make an actual place for us and we have no choice but to just find the place that looks the least risky and hope they let us stay. put some effort into making this world more hospitable for us. you would distance yourself from your identity too if the resources you need to survive were offered for every identity but yours.

actually show trans men some fucking love for once in your life. find it in your heart to actually give a shit about trans men, to see us as real whole people who are deserving of love and community, to see our needs and feelings as worth your time and energy. care about us, care about our lives, care about our health and happiness and well-being instead of abandoning us the second we come out as men. start valuing our presence in the community and realize that we actually have a lot to offer if you could just listen to us. ask yourself why you're so comfortable leaving us to fend for ourselves in a world that wants us dead and is currently being very loud about that fact. you would distance yourself from your identity too if the community that supported you for years suddenly stopped caring about you the second you embraced it.

y'all will spend all day talking about how horrible it is that some trans men emphasize that they were assigned/raised female but nobody actually cares why so many of us do that. no one actually bothers to ask why we would put so much effort into being recognized as men but be afraid to fully claim that identity. no one wants to consider that they might be part of the problem, that they might be partially responsible for the thing they're complaining about.

if you want trans men to be able to stand firmly in our manhood and not undermine it with a million disclaimers, you have to actually put in the work to create an environment that's less hostile to trans men who do stand firmly in it.

because right now, regardless of my own personal opinions on the ways some trans men talk about their experiences as "afabs" or their "female socialization" or being "men but not like that", regardless of what issues i personally have with those kinds of statements, i can't blame them. not one fucking bit. and if you actually looked at how the world treats us - how our own community treats us - when we do fully own our manhood, you would feel the same way.

and if you aren't willing to do these things - which are literally just basic respect and care for other human beings, by the way - you don't get to complain about the ways trans men deal with how people like you treat our manhood. you can't expect a problem to disappear when you won't even acknowledge the part you might play in causing it.

[takerfoxx]

Personally, I feel that the reason Suletta and Miorine work so well as a couple is the same reason why they didn't work for me at first: they're just such fundamentally different people, with total opposite personalities, upbringings, values, desires, needs, strengths, weaknesses, traumas, the list goes on. If it weren't for the very strange set of circumstances that forced them to form a connection, I honestly doubt that they would even be friends, so much so that for the first few episodes, I found myself feeling weirdly disconnected from their relationship, and even found myself wondering if they even liked each other.

I mean, take a look at Suletta. She's a country girl from Mercury's mining colonies who never had any friends of her own growing up. She's a clone created in part to replace her older sister, in part to usher in her mother's plan to free her sister, and in part to be a weapon of revenge, leading to an extremely bizarre relationship with her mother that is equal parts affectionate and neglectful. She loves being around people, but is so socially anxious that any sort of interactions sends her into a stuttering fit. She's terrified of confrontation, and yet is larger and stronger than most, and put her behind the controls of a mech, and she will turn you into mincemeat. She's a total klutz when it comes to dealing with other people, and yet stays cool in a crisis and isn't phased by dead bodies. She trusts with her whole heart, measures her relationships by the value she gives to other people, blames herself whenever others let her down, can and will take a life without flinching to protect those close to her, and is delighted by something so simple as having others laugh at a joke that she made.

Now, take Miorine. A rich girl from an extremely powerful family, she lost her mother, quite possibly the only person to ever show her genuine kindness when she was a child, was "raised" by her contemptuous and neglectful excuse for a father, and grew to resent everyone and everything around her. She hates being around people, but has the confidence and social knowledge to play the game. She's tiny and physically weak, but also angry and assertive. She openly loathes her father and will insult him to his face, but also desperately craves his approval. She's been used as a commodity her entire life by people who see her as a stepping stone into power, and is bound and determined to make everyone who tries damned to a living hell. She was raised in luxury in space, but dreams of running away to what is essentially a refugee camp of a planet. She wants so badly to be allowed to stand on her own two feet and be respected for her own accomplishments, but has no real idea how to do it. She views relationships as transactions, has exactly zero patience for other people's nonsense, can and will sacrifice her own happiness for the sake of the select few that she cares about, will run headlong into the most harrowing of political battles, but also fall apart completely when confronted with the reality of death.

And, like I said, for whatever reason I just didn't feel the sparks between them at first. Their whole relationship just felt like a mutually beneficial arrangement, like it was said to be.

But then we got to that magical episode, where they had that amazingly written misunderstanding in the greenhouse, followed by that incredible argument on the space station, and I realized that this was the plan all along, and Suletta and Miorine are actually perfect as a couple...once they've managed to bridge the gap between their extremely different life experiences and massive communication issues.

See, what's so great about them is that while they are extremely different, those difference are also perfectly compatible. One's strength is the other's weakness, and together they make each other better. In a way, they're less opposites and more of two halves of one complete whole. It was Miorine's confidence that allowed Suletta to start standing up for herself, to learn confidence and make real friends, to figure out what love is. And it was Suletta's bravery that inspired Miorine to find a way to make something of her own, to seek out ways to use their families' legacies to help people instead of hurt them, to bridge gaps long carved out by blood. And in the end, they were two desperately lonely girls who just wanted someone to truly, honestly, and unconditionally love them, and they found it in each other.

Granted, it was rough going for a bit. Like I said, they had such different ways of seeing the world, they didn't communicate in the same way, they didn't see relationships in the same way, and they ended up hurting each other just trying to do what they thought was best. But they also forgave one another. They strove to better understand one another. And they came to realize just how much they needed each other. And though it took even greater loss and pain in order to achieve it, they finally found their happy ending. They found each other.

[lucettapanchetta]

[LIVE BROADCAST] - PRIVATE Seven Red Suns, No Significant Harassment [ So, did you get a chance to listen to what Chasing Wind sent over? ] [ I haven't gotten back to him, but yes, I have. ] [ You seem... less commentative to say the least. ] [ Well, there's an obvious reason to that... something I think you know very well the answer to. ] [ That's true, but would you like to explain why? I don't mind hearing a fellow friend out, especially with what's been going on as of late. ] [ ... ] [ Have you ever felt, guilty about something? ] [ Not particularly at this very moment. Why? ] [ Well, I care deeply for a few iterators, and well, I care deeply for Moon. ] [ ...and there are some aspects of my existence that enjoys helping others out; however, what happens when you do the opposite? ] [ Well, that's a good question, I suppose it would provoke a sense of guilt. ] [ Where are you going with this? Because if you are going to blame yourself for Moon's recent behavior, you shouldn't. ] [ ...that's the issue. ] [ I am to blame. ] [ Back when Sliver of Straw signaled the triple affirmative, Moon messaged me about her sentiments towards the whole ordeal. ] [ She sounded so distressed, but deep down, she wanted to know how it occurred. I could tell by her demeanor. ] [ So, I handed her as much information that could be given via "alternative" means. ] [ Some general knowledge, some technical, some... forbidden. ] [ When she finally gave her thoughts on it, she was appalled that such a method could be implemented by any iterator. ] [ ...and usually, that is where most stop when they read upon the concept of self-destruction. ] [ However, what Moon must've read most likely inspired her more than push her away... ] [ ... ] [ I'm listening. ] [ Not to sound pessimistic, but I'm afraid if we can't find another means of reaching her, then she'll fall apart. ] [ I understand, I also worry about Five Pebbles. I'm concerned that his systems are irreversibly damaged. ] [ I guess, in a way, that is what makes me feel guilty. By giving Moon this information, I might lose her and indirectly cause the collapse of another iterator. ] [ To be honest, it does eat away at me too that we can't do much right now. ] [ Hopefully, once Moon lowers her processing power, Five Pebbles could send over the wide sweep diagnostics test. That way, we could get started. ] [ ...but for now, we have to wait regardless of how both of us feel. ] [ Everyone makes mistakes, even we as godlike machines are unfortunately blessed with emotions from a bygone era. ] [ Good point... ] [ Listen, if anything happens, I will catch you when you fall. ] [ Same here. Except if what's "falling" is your superstructure, then you're on your own. ] [ Heh. Glad to see you are getting back your snide attitude. ]

[mc-lukanette]

It was the day after the class seats had been swapped around, Marinette having since resigned herself to being moved to the back. She wasn't happy about being alone, but everyone else was with their own seats and the last thing she wanted to do was stir up a fuss again just to have it turned against her.

Making a case would've been less of an issue had she told everyone that she was actually no longer into Adrien and had an entire boyfriend to show for it, but Alya was too unpredictable in how she might react to that and the others hadn't seen her and Luka together long enough to understand. She loathed the fact that an infatuation of less than a year was what people were basing her character on - nowadays, she looked back on it like an artist who grimaced at their week-old work - but her private life was no one's business but her own. If she had to reveal it to convince people that she wasn't an evil person going after a "perfectly innocent" girl over a crush, then—

Well, normally she would say that it was her fault, but Luka had been firm about her not blaming herself for everything under the sun and she was really trying to stick to that.

Maybe being in the back won't be so bad, she thought, attempting to calm her mind. I feel, um... taller? That's something.

It wasn't helping.

"Alright, class," Miss Bustier called out, clapping her hands to earn everyone's attention, "before we start today, we have a new student who just transferred to our school and I'd like you all to give them a warm welcome."

A new student? Marinette shut her eyes and held back a groan, thinking that the current "new student" was already more than enough. If it was another Lila or Chloe, she might have to seriously consider bribing Master Fu for the fox miraculous so she could Mirage herself into class to avoid them altogether.

Also, as she was quickly realizing, the only available seat was next to her. This was a disaster, an absolute disas—

"Luka?" Juleka blurted out, uncharacteristically loud in her shock.

At the name of her boyfriend, Marinette's head jerked towards the classroom door, seeing him standing next to Miss Bustier like he belonged there. She blinked, glancing out at the hall as if the real new student would come in, but nothing happened. Even when she looked back at Luka, he met her gaze as if to wordlessly tell her that yes, he was there.

Just to make absolutely sure, she dropped her arms to her lap and pinched her forearm until it hurt.

After giving a general introduction that Marinette processed none of, Miss Bustier turned to Luka to ask, "Would you be alright sitting in the back next to Marinette?"

He nodded, not waiting to start heading up the stairs. Eyes, either curious or puzzled, followed him as he went, but he had his own eyes on his decided-upon seat.

Marinette could only continue gaping at him, even as he sat down and made himself comfortable. He eyed her, smiling softly, then reached out and slowly closed her mouth. The cheek caress that followed was so subtle and quick that no one could've caught it even if they were looking, but it finally brought her back to life.

Leaning towards him, she whispered in a panic, "Luka! What are you doing here?! How are you here?!"

He took a single glance at Miss Bustier, who was turned towards the chalkboard, then leaned in and whispered back, "I didn't want you to have to do this alone."

"But—!" Her face scrunched, mind racing in an attempt to understand. She'd told Luka about what happened with Lila, but that was only yesterday. For him to have found a way to transfer between then and now was—was— "That's crazy!"

He shrugged, unphased.

She gripped the table, as if it would give her the mental support needed to juggle the thoughts in her head. "You didn't have to go through all this for me! It's too much!"

That finally got a reaction out of him, but not in the way she suspected. He frowned disapprovingly, leaning in further and raising a hand between them to further muffle his words to others' ears. She felt his breath against her ear as he explained, "You're my girlfriend, Marinette; my girlfriend and my best friend. It's not 'too much' if it's what I wanted to do."

He left it at that, straightening up again and putting his focus towards the front of the class. She could only pout at him, hoping no one saw the blush on her cheeks.

It felt wrong, somehow. It was Ladybug who was supposed to swoop in to save people, not the other way around. She was the one who had to make choices on the fly to help others.

She could already hear Luka's voice in her head, shooting that idea down: "Ladybug can't be the savior all the time. Someone has to look out for Marinette too."

It was almost frustrating, losing a battle of words in her own head, but she'd be lying if she said that it didn't make her feel relieved to have someone who would back her up no matter what. Whether she chose to go after Lila or not, he'd be behind her the entire way.

She couldn't help herself. Checking to confirm that there still weren't eyes on them, she leaned up towards Luka and imitated his gesture, raising her hand between their faces. He'd seen the gesture out of the corner of his eye and tipped his head to listen better, but she kissed his cheek instead.

Pulling back quickly to look normal just in case the pecking sound had been caught, she dared only a single peek at Luka to catch his reaction. He was trying and failing not to grin, probably looking as if he was just very interested in the lesson to any outside eyes. It occurred to her then that, had they been in the front or middle rows, it would've been impossible to not be seen by anyone behind them.

Letting an imaginary Marinette in her mind cheer and jump around for her due to being unable to do anything even close to that in class, her thoughts screamed, Being in the back is the best!

[ddarker-dreams]

hc of bucci gang reacting to sr reader getting hit on/flirted with while she’s out and about? Or maybe when they’re on a date or smth but the npc doesn’t realize it? It’s totally fine if you don’t wanna write this, thank you!

i'm always weak for ideas like this ... reader here is fem!

[Scarlet Ribbons Index]

Giorno

The Brando genes are ready to come out in full force. Giorno is just looking for an excuse to unleash untold horrors upon the soul who saw fit to flirt with the one he holds most dear in the world. This little debacle gets him thinking about the diamond ring he has for you in his blazer’s inner breast pocket, an item he’s been waiting ever so patiently to reveal at the right moment. Surely, that would help serve as a deterrent for unpleasant scenarios such as this. No one in their right mind would be so brazen as to flirt with the wife of a Don. In the meantime, he commits himself to being borderline passive-aggressive, settling his hand on your waist and wondering aloud who this person might just be. Any onlooker might consider Giorno the epitome of self-control, but you see past the façade. The charming smile on his face doesn’t meet his eyes. If this guy doesn’t want his clothes to be turned into a swarm of hornets, he’d do best to swiftly depart. 

Bruno

Naples’ sweetheart may be able to handle a lot, but something like this would really test his patience. He knows he should be the better man and take the high road, it’s just... seeing another make such clear moves on you really gets to him. It’d be so simple to unzip the perpetrator’s hand that dared place itself on your arm and watch the horror that’d ensue. Alas, Bruno is better than that, and comes to your rescue with a smile that feels as strained as it looks. He’ll peel the hand off with a touch more force than necessary and ask if everything’s alright. The menacing aura Bruno exudes should be enough for the unwanted third party to depart. Any lingering resentment melts away the moment you start laughing at how oblivious that dude was, your warmth thawing away at his frozen heart. He’s quick to move on so that your date can proceed as intended. Upon later reflection, even Bruno is surprised with himself over how quickly his thoughts got dark. His love for you borders on worship. 

Fugo

Fugo is internally seething yet does his best to shove these tumultuous emotions down. Purple Haze is roaring with dissatisfaction within, practically begging to be released so it may wreak havoc. Fugo’s a peculiar one. He would actually have an easier time dealing with/processing an aggressive interloper than someone half-decent who apologizes for overstepping and leaves it at that. In the case of the former, Fugo feels his explosive rage is justified, whereas in the latter... it’s more of a quiet insecurity that starts eating at him. He’s the type to dwell on these things for days on end without telling you what’s bothering him, because he feels it’s so petty and almost embarrassing. Would you think less of him if you knew how prone to jealousy he is? It isn’t that he doesn’t trust you, but more that he doesn’t understand why you chose to be with him of all people. With enough graciousness and gentle persistence on your part, you’d eventually get to the root of the issue. The subsequent heart-to-heart is very important for your relationship.

Mista

Mista is probably the most relaxed out of everyone regarding situations like this. He gets it, he has eyes too, he knows that you’re the catch of the century. He honestly can’t blame anyone for wanting to shoot their shot because wow. Every time he looks at you he’s in disbelief that you chose to be with him. Mista will apologize to the dude for his loss and genuinely mean it, because he couldn’t imagine how much it would suck not to have you for a girlfriend. What’s even the point of living at that point honestly. However, if the dude starts getting aggressive, Mista’s ready to change his tune real fast. He’ll showcase his revolver on the sly and ask if this is a conversation that’d be better off continued elsewhere. For the unfortunate guy’s sake, it’d be best if he took the hint and ran off with his tail in between his legs. If not, then well… Mista isn’t above roughing him up for a nice lengthy stay at the hospital. Mista’s a chill guy, but when it comes to someone bothering you, he’s got a very low tolerance.

Narancia

He’s ready to fight at the slightest provocation, this time is no different. Although anyone who has the gumption to flirt with you is considered a major infringement, so they can expect to be met with unmatched hostility. Narancia doesn’t pay much mind to your surroundings; you could be in a dingy alleyway or a Micheli-star restaurant, it’s all the same to him. He’ll flick out his knife and start uttering threats before you can blink. It’s not so much that he’s thrown into a fit of rage from jealousy — although that definitely plays a small part — it’s more that he’s extremely protective of you. Almost to a fault. You’re the best thing he’s got going for himself! Following a lifetime of being cast aside, he’s grown sensitive to the mere thought of losing you. This fella obviously doesn’t know who he’s messing with and how feral Narancia is willing to get if need be. It’s up to you to de-escalate the situation. Because no matter how far he wanders, you’re able to reel him back with just a few reassuring words.

Abbacchio

Abbacchio doesn’t even waste his time with a pretense of cordiality — he outright tells the dude to fuck off. He doesn’t understand why you bother doing a whole song and dance to avoid upsetting a complete stranger, who by sheer probability, you’ll likely never encounter again. He wouldn’t admit it, but it makes him worry about how you’d handle these situations when he isn’t around. It’s an odd paradox of knowing you’re capable of handling yourself yet acknowledging how people may take advantage of your benevolent nature. Abbacchio doesn’t have the mental capacity to get jealous in the moment, since he’s so preoccupied with ensuring your well-being. Regrets not pummeling the dude later though. The shmuck needs to go find his own ray of sunshine — Abbacchio worked hard to win you over!

[chalkrevelations]

Further to this :

I’m posting one more time on this, and then I’m hoping I’m done. But I continue to see bad-faith takes on the settlement statements that were released this week, and I’m so done with the double standard from so many people in Kinnporsche fandom who have spent the past three+ months engaged in hypocritical bullying and victim-blaming and/or remaining damningly silent in the face of actual, public and visible abuse of Build Jakapan.

This wasn’t even a he-said, she-said situation. This was a months-long campaign of cyber-bullying, harassment and abuse – verbal, emotional and psychological – that Poi carried out against Build online, in the open, with no attempts to hide it. We saw her abuse him, repeatedly. We saw her be homophobic toward him, and not only did everyone who was ready to rush into battle against Build for supposedly being homophobic while making money off the queer community now stay silent about it, Poi got almost 10K retweets of it, so all those people who’ve wanted to cancel Build since last summer? We can see how much their allyship is actually worth. We saw the release of the VP novel with his bruised, bloody and battered face on the cover like some kind of disgusting revenge fantasy splayed out in public. We saw her release messages about sexual matters that were insinuated to be his private messages – which, like everything she’s ever posted, have not been verified as real and correct, in the setting of her admission of lying and faking and making false accusations with other material she released. But if they were real, the release of those messages would be on the same spectrum as revenge porn. We watched her commit outright theft of his belongings, and we watched her lie about his words and actions in an attempt to drive a wedge between him and his fans, we watched her punch down at those fans by invading their privacy as surely as she invaded his, we watched her make it all as filthy and gross and mercenary as she could in order to besmirch it as much as she could, watched her laugh about how much fans cared about him like he doesn’t deserve any kind of care or concern, like he’s a dog she can kick around without repercussion.

And antis joined in that abuse, plenty of people in the fandom were complicit in it – lies were collected and reblogged and spread around as supposed receipts of what a terrible person he was, by people who repeatedly represented themselves as “neutral,” without the least bit of concern for the provenance of those rumors, which were already in unbelievable supervillain territory and sure enough, turned out to be actual legal slander. People posted things like “burn in hell,” or made and spread vile memes when he left BOC like the whole thing was something funny, to laugh about, rather than a serious issue like accusations of intimate partner violence. He was called trash, garbage, an incel – at the same time people were vilifying him for supposedly cheating on Poi, so which is it? Is he an incel or was he fucking half of Bangkok? In one of the most breathtaking instances of victim-blaming I’ve seen in a long time, people amplified and spread the lie that he slept with Poi to get his role like it was some kind of gotcha, as if – had it been true – that wouldn’t have been evidence of Poi’s harassment and sexual abuse of him. The casting couch isn’t any less abusive when a man is subject to it than when a woman is subject to it. If it's gross and abusive for Harvey Weinstein to do it, then it would be gross and abusive for Poi to do it, and the way some people acted like it would somehow be Build’s fault? I’m sure every actress in Hollywood would love to hear that. Or would it be OK because he’s a man? Because that sounds awfully close to those creeps who say that teenaged boys should think they’re lucky when their female teachers molest them. (Or maybe when women in power over them on the filming set coerce them into giving massages?)

And as we saw all this happen – even as people patted themselves on the back and reassured each other that this wasn’t a witch-hunt, that it wasn’t an online mob working itself into a frenzy - 99.5 percent of the people who had been so very concerned with compiling and spreading everything and the kitchen sink during the initial feeding frenzy on Build went aggressively silent in the face of Build’s legal claims, including defamation, coercion and other abusive behavior by Poi. Suddenly, we started getting calls for circumspection and civility - aka silence - now that Build and his reputation and his career already had been savaged. Now that it was becoming evident that these same people were complicit in her abuse of him and had helped create the very scenario he said that she had threatened and kept him under control with. Now that they had helped an abuser get their satisfaction during what is traditionally the most dangerous time for abuse victims – when they try to leave.

Suddenly people were just done with all of this, just so very tired of it - now that the damage was done, and what was left was clean-up of the havoc they had helped wreak.

This fandom has done nothing to change my opinion that this whole debacle was never actually about genuine concern over intimate partner violence, but was rooted in shipwars - going all the way back to last summer, when someone went digging back through Build’s socials to find comments eight years old that could be blown up by Twitter cancel culture just as the Vegaspete storyline kicked off, VP was increasingly pulling attention, and BBB’s facetime was increasing. Not a single thing I’ve seen since then – since Build was identified as the soft target of the VP ship and discourse around him was poisoned by purity cancel culture – has convinced me otherwise.

People in this fandom took a deadly serious issue like intimate partner violence, and they used it as a tool for their petty shipwars, and they used it to get a little hit of self-righteousness, as a little “moral” crusade that allowed them to get their Two-Minute Hate on in a way that was deemed socially acceptable and gave them a taste of blood because it was wildly successful in the real world in a way keyboard slacktivism rarely is. It’s very telling, though, how much concern they actually seem to have for abuse survivors when they won’t even call out abusive behavior happening publicly, right in front of their faces. I guess some abuse victims do have to be perfect, or maybe it’s that some people do deserve to be abused, despite the claims when people were simping for Poi?

It’s very telling when their biggest concern appears to be using abuse claims as a cudgel to make themselves feel righteous - because it appears that’s all Poi ever really was, a tool for some people in KP fandom to beat Build with. If they actually, honestly gave a shit about her, someone would have shown concern about her mental health and whether she has any kind of support network at all, rather than egging her on, encouraging and amplifying her abusive and out-of-control behavior online. I’m not going to deny that I dislike Poi, that I’ve found her distasteful and incredibly off-putting since watching her behind-the-scenes behavior with the KP cast, including trying to yank Build to the edge of a balcony on a high-rise building as he tried to resist and laughing about being called out by Jeff for sexual harassment of a minor. But one of the things that I also found disturbing about this whole debacle was the way people encouraged and enjoyed - relished - behavior that ought to be concerning for her mental health.

And even now, I’ve seen people act as if the behavior that Poi and Build have admitted to in their statements was equally bad. Sorry, no, him secretly recording a conversation that was evidence of her abusive behavior is not equivalent to her faking pregnancy claims against him and insinuating that he was the reason she got an abortion or miscarried. I’m sure all abusers would love it if conversations in which they talk about their abusive behavior were kept private and secret, but I'm extremely suspicious of anyone who wants to act like that recording shouldn't be released - they should ask themselves why they're ok with abuse being covered up.

Would they call a woman who secretly recorded evidence of being abused a liar?

   (ETA 5/15, 1630 - Several people have messaged me to let me know this post has breached containment and is loose on Twitter. I would respectfully request that everyone follow Build’s own expressed wishes - and mine - and do not engage with antis. This includes @ing specific people with links to this. I could have attached individual names to many of the bad-faith behaviors I talk about in the post, but there are reasons I didn’t. People have already spent three months punching down at Build’s fans, as well as at him. The behavior of his fans reflects on him - however unfair that may be - and must remain above reproach. That includes not picking individual fights. If someone is encouraging this, consider that they are likely a plant, a fake fan trying to goad others into bad behavior to try to make Build look bad. If I find out anyone has done this, I will block you. Thanks.)

[zukkaoru]

More post-mersault Dazai hcs w/ the ADA and others? 🤞😭

hmm okay well obviously cane user dazai is very near and dear to me. but also..

because of how long kunikida was without his hands, after yosano heals him, he ends up with hand tremors. this, of course, is very hard to deal with considering his ability and his workaholic tendencies. he has to relearn how to do a lot of basic tasks while accounting for his tremors

shockingly (not really), dazai is the one who best knows how to aid kunikida in his recovery process. which is by just.. acting as if it's normal. the others tend to fall into the trap of over-correcting and being too concerned, while dazai doesn't treat him any differently than pre-doa arc

but really, dazai is just sort of treating kunikida how he wants everyone to treat him

overall, dazai gets less of the "too concerned" treatment mostly because he's significantly better at hiding/playing down his disability than kunikida is. which comes partly from just who dazai is and how he acts in general. but also because kunikida clearly uses his hands for everything; whereas dazai spends a lot of time lazing around and not standing up at work anyways, so he isn't putting much strain on his leg unless he's actively working a case

eventually, the ada do realize they can be a bit overbearing towards kunikida at times and back off, because while he might have trouble using his hands now, he is still fully capable of doing most things on his own

back to dazai. despite his issues with his leg, he still very much prefers to take the stairs whenever possible

(he'd die before admitting it, but for a while, he only really feels safe in an elevator if chuuya is nearby) (though, it does help if someone else is in the elevator with him)

he blames it on feeling claustrophobic in confined spaces after spending so much time trapped in a prison cell. ranpo and sigma know that's a lie, but they don't call him out on it

after being coaxed into it by yosano, kunikida, and chuuya, dazai starts going to physical therapy for his leg. yosano does very thorough research on physical therapists in yokohama and comes up with a list of possibilities for him. kunikida goes with him to his first appointment as moral support, which dazai obviously would never admit he wanted but he does very much appreciate it

chuuya, kunikida, and yosano take turns driving him to pt. it started out as a sort of accountability thing, to make sure he was actually going to the appointments, but dazai does actually like having someone there waiting for him to be done. even if he would absolutely never say it aloud.

once, when everyone else is busy, ranpo ends up going with him. they grumpily call it babysitting duty but when junichirou offers to go instead, they say "no no. it's fine. i'm already up out of my seat." dazai assumes they just want to skip out on work, but ranpo really just wanted to assure dazai made it to the appointment and was worried he would try to slip away from the others if they went with

eventually, once it's clear dazai is content to go to pt without strict accountability, the other ada members also start taking turns going with him to keep him company. dazai always says they don't have to and he's fine to go alone, but he doesn't argue hard enough to actually sway them out of it bc he does appreciate having someone go with him

dazai also starts spending more time at chuuya's place again, which he hasn't really done since their mafia days. but something shifted after meursault and chuuya lets him back in with minimal complaint. it's almost offputting, but dazai doesn't think too much about it at first

he just assumes that he'll spend a couple weeks breaking into chuuya's place, annoying them, and then he'll eventually get kicked out and that'll be that

it takes him way too long to realize that chuuya actually feels guilty about the leg injury. because chuuya will not say that and dazai won't straight up ask why chuuya is being nicer than normal because they're still so bad at communication. but they get there eventually and dazai is just. actually genuinely surprised that chuuya would feel guilty, especially when it's really not their fault - they're the reason it wasn't worse. and dazai deserved worse, especially from chuuya of all people

but chuuya, who also has to deal with chronic pain from their ability, sees dazai with his cane and going to pt knowing that it's not ever going to be enough to permanently fix it, and it's just a constant reminder that because they didn't slow the elevator just a little bit more, or they didn't make the splint just a little bit sturdier, or they didn't insist dazai lean on them for support while walking out of meursault, or any other number of tiny things chuuya could have done to help at the time, dazai is also going to be suffering chronic pain for the rest of his life. dazai, who notoriously hates pain, who doesn't want to be alive because he doesn't see the point of it, now also has to deal with persistent pain that will never go away

after they (gasp) actually talk about this a bit, things start to go back to normal, with the two of them bickering and arguing like always. chuuya still never kicks dazai out when he shows up, though

not to be too self-serving but. at some point, dazai orchestrates a situation in which chuuya and kunikida are forced to interact outside the contexts of their jobs. because maybe he kind of likes both of them and he also thinks that if they can both put aside the mafia/ada thing, they would also like each other (and they do <3)

dazai, chuuya, and kunikida all have problems with pushing themselves past their limits. dazai bc he isn't used to caring about/taking care of his body and chuuya & kunikida bc they're both workaholics. but the three of them help remind each other to take breaks when needed (even if they all sound hypocritical doing so)

especially once they move in together, they all help each other out on bad days with pain flare ups/etc.

ranpo is also very good at telling when dazai and kunikida are pushing themselves too hard and they are not afraid to snitch on them to yosano and/or chuuya. depending on which they deem would be more effective at the time

dazai and lucy have a very frenemies-like dynamic which is actually beneficial for them both bc they need someone they can snark at who is absolutely not afraid to dish it right back out at them. it starts with dazai complaining to lucy that she isn't as nice as the other cafe waitresses and lucy's like "not my fault i'm the only one who isn't won over by empty flirting. you're not even that pretty idk" and instead of actually getting offended dazai's just like YES. someone i can ARGUE WITH!

kunikida is annoyed by their dynamic until he realizes that they're both having fun and it's like some weird form of enrichment for them

dazai has trouble getting along with aya at first, because he really has no idea how to interact with young children. kyouka and kenji are old enough and mature enough that he can manage with them. but the children aya's age he's interacted with are.. elise and q. who he didn't have the most. um. nice and normal interactions with.

he's also wary of interacting with aya bc he knows kunikida cares about her and kunikida also wants a partner who is good with kids and if dazai reveals he cannot interact with kids to save his life, he'll ruin any chance he ever had with kunikida

eventually, he's forced into a situation where he has to actually have a one-on-one conversation with aya, and she's very snarky and mean to him at first and he's like "okay cool. good to know i was right about my negative skill level interacting with kids 👍"

so he makes some comment to aya about not being good with kids (sarcastic and rude, but it does hold truth to it) and aya just. stops. and is like hold on i thought you just didn't like me specifically.

anyway once they get past that misunderstanding, dazai finds he doesn't actually mind aya that much. though he's still not a fan of kids in general

for your consideration: mirror pronouns dazai

i do think it would also be a little funny if that ^ gender crisis is happening at the same time as chuuya having their own gender crisis. that #relatable moment when you and your supposed rival who you're sort-of-but-not-really living with and who you're sort-of-but-not-really dating both start questioning your gender at the same time, completely separate of the other and not even realizing that the other is having a similar crisis

okay anyway this is so long so i will end it here

basically i just think. dazai using a mobility aid would be a really fascinating way to visually show that he's learned he needs to depend on others for support (which is one of the big themes in bsd - the good guys win because they work together; fyodor failed because he refuses to trust anyone he can't completely manipulate)

+ dazai, who hates pain and has been suicidal since at least age fourteen, deciding that even with his disability and chronic pain, it's still worth it to keep pushing forward and surviving

you can also see some more of my post-doa ada thoughts in my post-doa fic series all lights turned off can be turned on and post-doa sigma in the 5+1 sigma fic i wrote for fem sigms week

[joelmillersmunch]

say my name (king of mandalore!din x afab reader)

summary: Din is King of Mandalore and as a member of his personal guard, you live to serve him.

ratings/warnings: MDNI. EXPLICIT WRITING. NSFW. canon divergence. helmetless din. oral (f receiving), fingering, unprotected PIV, creampie, spanking, kinda dom din??? soft din x reader, reader teases din, out of character din just for giggles READER AND DIN ARE IN AN ESTABLISHED AND CONSENSUAL RELATIONSHIP. so sorry if i forgot anything/missing anything.

word count: 1.6k

A/N: Hello, everyone!! This is my first fic in awhile. Probably years, actually. Regardless, I hope you enjoy! Please ignore any grammar issues, plot discrepancies, or awkward writing. I mostly just wanted to write din as royalty, but can you blame me?? Any friendly critiques are welcomed! Please let me know if you like it and would be interested in more!

“I’m not leaving until you tell me to do so, Your Highness,” You say, slowly removing your gloves and sitting on the corner of his bed. “Do you want me to leave?” Both of your helmets have been removed already, discarded on the table.

He growls and covers his face with his hands, mumbling something under his breath. “Oh, what was that? You want me to go?” You tease, already beginning to undress yourself.

“You know I want you to stay,” He growls. “Of course I want you to stay. I don’t ever want you to leave, but I would never forgive myself if what’s going on here ruined your life. I couldn’t bear it.” He says, sitting next to you on the bed. You grab one of his hands and play with his ornate family crested ring.

“And what is going on here exactly?” You say trying to tease him. He glowers and throws himself back on the bed. His shirt wrinkles as he breathes in and out, leaving his stomach bare. You peel your armor off, leaving you in simple undergarments. 

“If you’re going to taunt my feelings for you then I might just have to ask you to leave,” He says and you laugh at him, crawling over so that you’re straddling his hips. 

“What about my feelings for you? Do my feelings not matter?” You ask, pressing kisses along his jaw.

“Of…Of course they matter, cyar. You always matter,” He stammers out, his hands going to your waist. You slowly start to dance your hips against his, swallowing his moan up with a kiss. 

"I want you, Your Highness." You say, continuing to tease him with your body. “Let me do my duty to you. Let me serve you.”

He lets out a groan, his hardened member poking up at you. You know what he likes. Your praise, your kisses, your loyalty. The way you protect him. The way you fuck him. He just can’t get enough of you.

“I want you.. No, I need you. My beautiful King,” You whisper against his ear, and you know he’s going to give you what you want. He flips you so that he’s on top of you, grinding down into your core. He manages to get your undergarments off before you’ve even realized how bare you are. 

“My girl, my protector. Reduced to a whimpering mess before me. How badly do you want it, hm?” He asks, trailing kisses down your neck. “How do you think the rest of the guards would feel knowing you beg for me? For my cock?” He questions, moving down your body. He sucks at the skin on your hip, causing your hips to involuntarily buck up into his chest. He lets out a chuckle as you whimper and plead for him to touch you. 

“So needy. So impatient. Tell me how badly you need me, cyar’ika. I want to hear you say it,” He growls, the heat of his mouth ghosting over where you need him most. He continues to tease you by pressing soft kisses on your inner thighs while his hands roam over your breasts and hips. 

“Please, sir. My King, I need you so badly it hurts. Not a day goes by that I don’t crave you. I need you. Please take me, use me. I’m yours.” You beg, fists full of his sheets. He smirks up at you and finally presses a long, open-mouthed kiss to your clit. You whine at the sensation, wanting so much more and less at the same time. He begins to ravish you, kissing and licking at your center while you shake and whimper above him. 

“Say it!” He growls, lifting up for just a second before he goes back to devouring you. You try to focus and understand his demand, but the feeling of his tongue swiping back and forth where you’re most sensitive was making your brain go blank. The next thing you know, he’s sliding a finger inside of you. You let out a gasp as he pulls back again. “I told you to say it. Say my fucking name, baby. I need to hear you say it while I make you cum from just my fingers and mouth.” He goes back at it with even more fervor than before. 

“Oh, Din! I need more, please! You feel so good, My King!” You beg, and he slides another finger inside of you. He fucks you with his mouth and fingers, moans slipping from both of you as you chase your climax. 

“I’m..I’m gonna…” You breathe out in short gasps. He grips your hips in place with one hand and fucks his fingers into you with the other. With a precise twirl of his tongue on your clit, you come undone. “Din! You’re so good! So good!” You gasp, clutching his soft brown hair in your fingers as you ride out your orgasm. He groans as he pulls back from you, wiping his face with the back of his hand. 

“Such a good girl for me, baby,” He says, kissing his way back up to your face. You moan into his kiss. His body consumes you. “You did so well. Do you want more, mesh’la?” He says, rutting softly into you. You can feel how hard he is. The thought of him craving you, being so aroused by pleasing you made your pussy clench around nothing. You nod your head, a desperate plea for him to continue. You make quick work to get him undressed, leaving you both naked and breathless. 

“My beautiful King,” You whisper, softly rubbing your hands down his massive arms and torso. He groans, his head falling forward. “How do you want me, Din?” He looks down at you. You trust him. You need him, and he needs you. However he needs it, you will take it. You nod at him, encouraging him to go on.  He presses a hard kiss to your mouth before flipping you so that your ass is perched up against his cock. 

“Look at you now, all spread open for me. You love it, don’t you? When I use you, when I fuck you however I want?” He asks and you can feel him line himself up at your entrance. “You love taking me whenever you can, don’t you?”

“Yes!” You scream as he thrusts into you all at once. He fills you up in a way that is so deliciously painful, you can’t help but wail when he pulls out of you. 

“Shh, it’s okay. I want to take my time with you tonight, pretty girl,” He says, and slowly enters you again. This time, you feel yourself stretch around him. Your walls constrict and flutter around him. You can tell based on his grip on your hips that he’s struggling not to move. You begin to wiggle and try to move your hips for some friction, but a short, hard swat to your ass makes you go still. 

“I told you, baby. Nice and slow tonight,” He says, and pulls out, just leaving his tip inside of you. You gasp, trying to meet his hips again and he gives you another spank. 

“Be a good girl for me baby, I know you want to.” He whispers in your ear, and sharply thrusts back into you. He begins to fuck you, hard and short thrusts that make you writhe underneath him.

“Din, you’re so fucking big! I feel you so deep,” You whimper. He spanks you again, this time a pleasured whine leaving you. 

“That’s right. I know my good girl likes it a little rough. No one can fuck you like I can. No one can have you like I have you,” He growls, his thrusts picking up speed. You feel your pussy grip him, not letting him leave you for too long. Another slap lands on your ass and you feel him fuck you even harder. 

“Do you want to touch yourself? Wanna come all over my cock, baby?” He asks, using one of his hands to pull your hair back. Your hand slides down to your clit and you begin to circle it, the sensation causing your stomach to tighten. “What, too drunk off of how I fuck you to answer me? You gonna come on me? Gonna let everyone know who’s fucking you?” He growls as your finger moves faster on your sensitive spot. You begin to shudder, feeling yourself get closer to another orgasm. 

“Din, please! Please let me come. I need it, I need it so bad! Please, My King!” You scream, tears spilling out of your eyes. 

“Come for me, sweet girl. Ruin me. Make a mess all over me,” Din says, and you can feel that he’s getting close because of how quick his thrusts are. “My girl. All mine,” He growls and you come, a whine leaving your mouth as you bury your face in his sheets. With a loud grunt, he finishes and spills inside of you. He fucks you through both of your orgasms, until he pulls out causing you to whine from overstimulation. He lays beside you, pulling you to his chest. You hum with content and look up at him. 

“Better now?” He asks with a chuckle. You smile at him and nod. 

“I wish I could stay,” You say. You didn’t mean to say it out loud, but his face softens anyway. “Maybe one day you can, mykair’ta,” He says, a soft look in his eyes as he stares at you. No one has seen him without his helmet on since he bathed in the Living Waters of Mandalore. Since he became king. No one, except for you. His protector. His heart. He will do whatever he has to do to have you, to keep you as his woman. To have you as his riduur.

A/N: dividers by @saradika-graphics thank you so much!!

[herstarburststories]

the top of my list (steve harrington x reader)

Pairing: Steve Harrington x reader

Summary: As senior year comes to an end, Steve Harrington has a list of what he wants to accomplish before graduating. Those things include you.

A/N: This is my first attempt to write a Steve story, so there's a lot of Steve's thoughts. ♡ I used a pick-up line that a boy tried on me last week, I just think it's Steve!!

Disclaimer: PINING!STEVE, angst, fluff, mentions of king Steve, unbeta'd

This is all he ever knew. All these classrooms, the barely eatable food, the gym, mrs Bloom boring classes. Hawkins High School was his tiny world in a small town. The flawless kingdom to king Steve.

Or so it used to be. It's been a little too long since he felt on the top of the world when walking through these crowded halls, and Harrington doesn't quite recall the last time he collected all the eyes on him and his friends at the lunch table — not that he has many of those left. To think that his biggest issue was to pick a part some girls's numbers in the little notes in his pocket. Parties sound like a noise, he talks to kids more than to people his age, and he actually studies now. He tries to. His old self would mock him if he could. Not that he misses who he used to be, just what he used to have.

Somewhat, Steve keeps a grip on a couple of dusted dreams. Part of him remains craving for silly things that he used to gravitate to, even when he believes he probably shouldn't. Stupid teenager things, as he'd put. A piece of paper in his hands with all his desires is anything but a scarlet letter, yet he can't wait to achieve all those items, a fantasy that maybe if he can accomplish those, school would feel good again.

This place used to be his. This used to be his home, or what he thought that a normal home would be like: everyone knew who he was, everyone saw him. Steve was never on his own at school, he never had to beg to be heard as he did at home. He simply showed up and people wanted him around. No "I'm busy, Steve" or "I have a meeting". No excuses, no hustled demonstrations of plastic love through fake niceties that last less than a business call. Everyone liked him at school, even when he messed up— they even applauded him when that happened! Classmates saw him as a king, but the aspect that had a hold on him was that they wanted more. All the school girls wanted a call, and the guys wanted his advice as if he was some sort of role model. Every aspect of his caught interest. Once before.

Nowadays, whispers fill the hallways more than dreamy sighs when he passes by. Rumors about Billy becoming the new king, and how they haven't seen Harrington in a party or with a girl hanging on his arm in months. Someone even called his hair greesy.

When did the world turn so fast and tripped on its route? What did he do wrong this time?

He used to be the king, but their classmates never loved him. It was just adoration laced with idealization, with some quiet envy. Can't blame the poor popular boy for misunderstanding such emotions; he never met love, how is he supposed to know its face?

Steve is so tired of feeling alone, of starring at his walls and pretending to occupy his time when he's just wasting it. Since Nancy left, all his nights overflew sorrow, his body ached with the void inside. His big house with a pool always seemed like a dazzling prison whenever he was alone for too many days. It just adds insult to injury that it's been a while since his parents remembered about him. 15 days since the last call, 2 months since the last check up meeting. Not that he was counting, of course.

There isn't anything but an empty home and a boy just as empty living in it, a boy who is hallow. In the quiet of the night, he waits for a noise. Steve is never scared when he hears one, he's rather hopeful. Although, it is easier to be robbers than his parents, at least robbers want something from you, unlike his parents. He's vacant, he's sad, he's missing without being missed, he has nowhere to run to, and he attempts to find something inside himself, but there's a heart which behaves as vortex: hugry for affection, for care. Because there's no one to be around. He's just a star with no eyes to gaze at him, no person to recognize his shine in the dark. Harrington would call someone to ease his solitude, but there isn't anyone on the phone waiting for him. Dear God, he just wants to be wanted.

Steve just wants to be wanted.

Therefore, he glances at the small list in his hands, dropping his simple desires to his senior year at Hawkins High School with a sharp pen.

Basketball championship!!

College (or tech)

Win a fight (throw it at henderson's dipshit face)

Kiss Y/N, or call her on a date, or talk to her without sounding like an idiot. KISS Y/N.

It's not much yet, but it's enough to bring a smile to his battered face.

It doesn't take too long for his plans to pill up into a disaster. College tosses him away like some clumbled piece of paper, and of course his dad decides to remember that he had a son just in time— which means no more money and a stupid job to 'learn responsibility'. His basketball team conquers just the second place, which isn't bad, but wining that competition could've pushed him into a university with a scholarship. Not to mention his hand-to-hand combat ended up with Billy almost destroying his eye.

Senior year is supposed to be the time of his life, nonetheless, it feels like he's falling from a precipice, like someone pushed him out of his pedestal and he's just a face on the ground now.

Steve rolls his eyes, deciding that his idea was bullshit. Just like everything else about him. Nancy was right, at least she escaped, his mind coaxes the thought into his brain. Because he was an asshole who messed up everything and everyone he cares about. As always.

Inside his car, the overthrown king glares at his wish list through the music noises coming from the house he parked right by. That stupid list got his hopes up, made him believe that maybe he wasn't a fuck-up, maybe he deserved something. Someone.

The brutality of reality is more violent than the apocalypse he had to face. He'd take broken bones over broken spirit everytime.

“College didn't want you, your parents didn't want you, your friends didn't want you, nancy didn't want you,” he murmurs to himself, rotting away his delusion about getting one thing right. You. “she obviously won't want you either.”

His eyes are locked with the paper. every craving crossed out with red paint, every lime seeming to mock him for not being good enough. harrington groans to himself, about to rip it off and leave to his house when he sees you.

Y/N Y/L/N. Walking into the party with a beam and a tight skirt.

Steve observes you like you're in a film reel, mesmerizing every aspect of you rapidly. your beautiful hair looks soft, soaring through your steps as you enter. he could close his eyes and catch a glimpse of you in his eyelids, as detailed as the old posters pinned on his bedroom's wall. He was simply, undeniably marveled by you.

His eyes dart towards the paper again. One ultimate item, one try. There is still one chance to make his last year remarkable in a good mood. Attempt to make it right.

Harrington shoves the note inside his pocket and gets out of the car, walking through the garden gates, the same way you took to arrive the party. He usually isn't nervous to talk to girls, but he can feel his palms sweat when his brown eyes catches you grabbing a drink on the kitchen.

His heart has been collecting dust for so long, as some abandoned ornament that he forgot how to use. After Nancy, love just didn't make sense. Until he saw you, with your smart mouth and pretty smile, dappling his battered moments with a peep of hope, even though you didn't know.

You laugh at some dude tripping on his feet and almost bumping into you, probably a freshman. Steve rolls his eyes at the man blushing whilst he apologizes to you.

What an idiot, he thinks to himself. Still, he wants to be the idiot that almost falls and makes you laugh. Shaking his head, he tries to think of a way to approach you. This used to be so easy, why can't he come up with a pick-up?

“come on, you can do that. hey, you're going to college?” he wonders, mumbling, “don't be an idiot. what are you gonna say next? that you weren't accepted in any college?”

Man, even Henderson was doing better with girls than he was.

Someone taps on his shoulder and he turns around, a student greeting him with and starting a quick conversation. That would be a good way to cool down. The chatter dries after a couple minutes and he's on his way to talk to another classmate.

As Steve seeks around to see you, you are no longer in the kitchen. The brunette sighs, but a on his back requires his attention before he can leave to search for you.

“I'm sorry!” the woman apologies before he can even see where the hit came from, but steve turns to her in a heartbeat. it's you! destiny was on his side. “you okay, Steve?”

He can't help but think that his name sounds good on your tongue. Steve just wants you to keep saying it. He blinks to himself, regained composure before he throws words at you. Suddenly, the wish list on his pocket weights a million pounds, and his tongue is dormant. What is he supposed to say?!

You tilt your head to the side, eyebrows kitted together in an adorable frown. He knows he's taking too long to answer, but this is his last chance before you go to some fancy college and forget anything about the hell hole that's your hometown and about him.

Steve can dress it up, wear a masquerade and shoot his shot with a some pick-up line, which was his first thought. Although, the boy doesn't want to use his charm, he just wants to tell you the truth. He just wants to have a real chat with someone other than Dustin.

Thing is, right now Steve Harrington is glaring at you with stars in his eyes and a dumbfounded grin, there's just one thing he can say: the truth.

“You know, I didn't notice it before you hit me, but you look beautiful.”

It's true, because the sight he presenced from a far can't compare to having you this close. Steve doesn't want to pull away.

You laugh. He's not sure if you're laughing at him or with him, but you're laughing and it's because of him!

Take it, dude who stumbled on the kitchen. A sense of pride overcomes him, the sentiment drawing a smile on his face.

“I know, it's shitty. But it's pretty cute, ain't it?”

You cross your arms, traces of a giggle on the edge of your lips, “Did it ever work on a girl before, Harrington?”

“I don't know, it's the first time I've ever said that.” he shrugs, looking away before his eyes locked with yours, “Not many girls hit me.”

“I'm not sure I trust you on that one, King Steve,” you mock him, despite your fonding voice.

“I can show it to you,” Steve quickly takes the opportunity, leaning in with a lopside grin. At least you couldn't hear his heart beating the shit out of his chest, “You go on a date with me and if you feel like hitting me by the end on it, I'll take you best slap.”

You bite your bottom lip, pretending to consider his offer, and he can't help but stare.

“Make it a punch and we have a deal.”

“Ouch, you really want to hurt me that bad?” Harrington places a hand on his chest, his mouth contorting into a playful grimace.

“No, I won't,” through your joyful words, he trusts it.

You ask him about all the types of things, you touch him softly, you listen, you tease him, and chuckle at his jokes. You act as if he's the only person you wanted to talk to at the party, as if want his company as much as he wants yours. Reciprocity. He had lost the touch with it among the year, it's tender to have it back. And he does the same to you, resting his has on yours and smiling like a fool who found gold in the dirt. It's simple, it's all he craves for: to be wanted and not just needed.

Steve is a brittle soul after so much calamity in the past years, but perhaps his pieces can fall back together. Or so he believes when you touch his arm and nod at pizza on the table.

He knows he went through some bad shit, that he was hunted by monsters and all that freak stuff. But it doesn't seem that bad when your perfume hits him and you look away, presenting a shyness when he cupped your cheek. You don't push him away, you just pull him close. All the black-eyed peaches thrown away in the name of a kiss that's so sweet.

So you put your lips on his, it's the best year he has ever had with all the scars. Steve kisses you back, it's the kind of emotion thrill that will cause you to dance around your room all alone and keep him up at night for all the right reasons.

(steve tries to hide the paper and his blushed face when you slide your hand into his pocket to hide from the cold and accidentally finds his list, but you're quicker. you're beside him when he crosses the wish, and you wonder if he'd make another list for you two as you place a word)

4. Kiss Y/N, or call her on a date, or talk to her without sounding like an idiot. KISS Y/N. I kissed you, dork!

Did you like it? Comment and reblog! It helps me to know you want more content.

STEVE HARRINGTON TAGLIST IS OPEN! Send me an ask or dm to be tagged.

[g0nta-g0kuhara]

The Chapter 4 Essay Part 2: Gonta Gokuhara

A metapost on my thoughts on Kokichi’s overall motivations and Gonta’s actions during ch4. Split into two parts. You can find Kokichi's half here: (LINK)

This section is admittedly a little bit shorter than Kokichi’s, but that’s just because Gonta’s motivations are a lot more clear than Kokichi’s. That being said, I’m also worried that since I am so obsessed with Gonta I might forget something important that supports my point because to me its kinda self-evident. So if anything seems like it’s missing or doesn’t make sense, please let me know!

In my opinion, nothing Kokichi did to Gonta was personal, in both positive and negative ways. He didn’t target Gonta because he hated him in particular, but he also didn’t team up with him because they were already friends. Gonta was just an easy target for him to take advantage of, both for stopping Miu from killing him And in progressing his plan to stop the killing game. Gonta’s actions in chapter 4 are a combination of genuine manipulation by Kokichi using what made him an easy target, and motivation caused by Gonta’s desperation and preexisting insecurities that had been growing since the start of the killing game.

Throughout v3, the one thing that Gonta wants more than anything else is to protect his friends from the killing game. It’s pretty clear that he trusts his physical strength more than any other part of himself. The literal First thing Gonta says in a group setting with everyone else is this:

(prologue)

He doesn’t even know anyone yet! But he’s already prepared to physically defend them from the exisals! He also tries to stop Kaede’s execution along with Kaito and Tenko:

(post trial, chapter 1) (And- wait- is Gonta missing his bug box in this cg? Oh my god….)

Gonta is shown to be most confident when doing things that involve his physical strength. There’s less hesitation and uncertainty in his actions, unlike what you can often see in him during class trials or group discussions.

Gonta is also more than willing to give up his life for his friends, even as early as chapter 2.

(post trial, chapter 2) (he’s the first one to make this suggestion)

Outside of physical defense against active threats, Gonta really just wants to help his friends in any way he can. Here’s a couple examples:

(post-trial, chapter 1) (daily life, chapter 2) (daily life, chapter 3) (investigation, chapter 3)

On the other hand, Gonta has really bad self esteem issues. It’s telling enough that one of Gonta’s common floatlines is literally “Gonta idiot…” When he’s not casually calling himself dumb he’s apologizing for it. For this (and honestly, many other parts of Gonta’s character that I’m pointing out here) I really recommend just paying close attention to Gonta on a replay of the game. I could literally sit here for a week finding and listing all the times Gonta calls himself stupid, but it feels pretty self-evident considering how much he does it. Here’s just one example:

(investigation, chapter 1)

It’s the combination of his deep desire to be helpful and protect the people around him, and the repeated deaths of his classmates, that really start to wear on him as the game progresses. I think this mixes with his already present self worth issues to form a pretty nasty complex; Gonta explicitly blames himself for almost every single victim’s death in the game. Let’s walk through the chapters for a moment here:

Ryoma: “Gonta coulda saved him… No, Gonta shoulda saved him…! // When piranhas attack Ryoma… If Gonta had dived into tank… / Then… Gonta coulda help Ryoma. But Gonta got scared. Too scared to do anything. / Sorry! Gonta really sorry!”

In chapter 3, Gonta joins Angie’s student council out of his desire to protect everyone. This is made clear in how, before pulling him in, Angie compliments Gonta and calls him smart. She then says this:

(daily life, chapter 3)

This time, organized as a part of the student council and with Angie’s god on his side, Gonta hopes that he can finally be useful and successfully protect someone.

Angie: “Maybe Angie got attacked while she sleep in her room, and get brought there? / If so… Gonta coulda saved her! If only Gonta saw! / But Gonta was sleeping… Sorry, Angie… Gonta no could save you!”

…To quote my favourite V3 lets play (shortonegaming) on this moment: “He made up a version [of Angie’s death] so that he could blame himself.”

Tenko: “T-Tenko…! Gonta so sorry… Gonta no could protect you!” and then a little later “It’s all Gonta’s fault…! Gonta fail to protect friends again!” and AGAIN later “Gonta so ashamed…! Why Gonta no could protect friends!?”

That’s two deaths in a row that Gonta (at least believes) he was right next door to and failed to stop. You can see from how he says this repeatedly, with lots of dialogue from other characters in between, the sheer amount that this is impacting him.

Miu: “But… why this happen…!? Why… Miu killed!? / Gonta not understand… Gonta not understand anything… /…But Gonta frustrated and sad! Gonta no could protect Miu! // Gonta so sorry! Gonta sorry he no could protect Miu!” Even with Miu’s death, to which he’s waking up disoriented and confused, he blames himself for failing to stop it.

(Sidenote: Looking at all these reactions back to back makes Gonta’s disorientation after waking up from the virtual world SO much more visible. I left the beginning out of the quote I took, but when you first talk to him during ch4’s investigation, he doesn’t say anything for a few moments. This is very unlike his immediate, intense reactions in the earlier chapters. When he does start speaking it feels kind of disjointed, uncharacteristically calm, and confused before he starts riling himself up blaming himself for Miu’s death. I never really noticed it before looking into this. It’s kind of disturbing)

The only reason I personally think he doesn’t react this way about Rantaro immediately is due to being in shock that someone died to begin with. That doesn’t stop him from saying this not long after:

(investigation, chapter 1)

This complex- made of the desire to protect everyone, self loathing, and feelings of uselessness at being unable to help investigating due to being “stupid” and failing to protect anyone physically, the only thing he thinks he’s good at, every. single. time- only gets worse with each chapter. And in Chapter 4, Gonta finally reaches his breaking point.

At the beginning of Chapter 4, you can talk to Gonta as Shuichi is leaving to meet up with Kaito and Maki to train. He tries to stop Shuichi, worried about a murder potentially taking place at night (again), but Shuichi reassures him that he’ll stick by his friends and that he can’t break his promise to meet up with them. Gonta responds like this:

(daily life, chapter 4)

Which leads to him saying he’s made up his mind, and has a plan. Which is, of course, to try and take down Monokuma physically, even if it costs him his life. He initially drops the suggestion after Miu starts talking about the virtual world, but the day after, it’s still bothering him.

(daily life, chapter 4)

Almost every free time event you have with Gonta this chapter (except for like, one, where he talks about the “tiny bugs” he can barely see), Gonta is trying to think of ways to help.

(free time, chapter 4) His last possible free time event before Miu takes everyone into the virtual world has this dialogue, which is just so sad to me.

(free time, chapter 4)

“Helping everyone” and not being “useless” are almost the only two things Gonta talks about this chapter. It’s this mindset and motivation that made Gonta an easy target for Kokichi to take advantage of. He’s in a bad place mentally, and nothing he does seems to help anybody. Not to mention, with the student council gone, he’s suddenly just kind of… alone. There’s no one there (other than potentially Shuichi, during free time) to keep him steady.

And yeah, I am definitely not including Kokichi here. A strong reason I don’t think Gonta chose to go along with Kokichi out of friendship was because of this interaction early Chapter 4:

(daily life, chapter 4)

Gonta’s trust in Kokichi was broken because of the events of the insect meet and greet. The insect meet and greet’s implications for Kokichi and Gonta’s relationship are a bit strange, but since it’s not super relevant to chapter 4, I’m not gonna get into it. The point is, regardless of the nature of their relationship in chapter 2, it’s clear that Gonta doesn’t consider Kokichi a very trustworthy person in chapter 4. It’s likely that he doesn’t consider him a close friend either. I hesitate to say that Gonta didn’t consider him a friend at all, because he’s Gonta and he wants to have faith in everyone, but at the very least he was trying to be wary around him.

This explicit distrust in Kokichi might make it seem strange that Gonta went along with Kokichi at all in the virtual world. But in reality, Kokichi was very aware of Gonta’s distrust in him, and used it to his advantage in setting up his plot.

(daily life, chapter 4) (I skipped some dialogue in this exchange, but it hits the main points)

Kaito inadvertently eggs Gonta on here, but Kokichi literally drops the idea at Gonta’s feet. Gonta isn’t going with Kokichi to help him look, he’s going to make sure he doesn’t get into any trouble. And as Kokichi said, he knew Gonta would offer to do something like this if given the chance.

Kokichi uses Gonta’s distrust in him again when they encounter the flashback light holding the secret of the outside world together. Gonta’s immediate instinct was to go find everyone else, but Kokichi yells for him to wait, and then this happens:

(post trial, chapter 4)

He KNOWS Gonta doesn’t trust him, and with that distrust, he can make him doubt anything he says. I’ve already talked about how Gonta is ready to give up his life for everyone else, especially this chapter, so suggesting that he check if the light is a trap set up by Kokichi is guaranteed to make Gonta pause.

But it doesn’t stop there. Kokichi pushes harder:

(post trial, chapter 4)

Gonta thinks for a moment, but this is what made him choose to come back and look at the flashback light himself. Here, Kokichi uses the thing that has been haunting Gonta more than anything else all killing game, especially this chapter. He knows Gonta has tried and failed to protect people, he knows how upset it makes him. What better way would there be to convince him to do whatever he wants than to offer a way for him to finally be “useful” to everyone after failing them again and again?

Anything after this point and before Miu’s body discovery is purely headcanon, so I won’t get into my thoughts on that. But I think this moment shows that Gonta was under a lot more control that people often think. I don’t mean to say that Kokichi is entirely blameless, or that Gonta wasn’t manipulated at all. But AlterEgo!Gonta says himself, “No, [we] not tricked,” because he wasn’t. He made the choice to see the secret of the outside world on his own, and made every choice after that to continue with their plan. There was no trickery involved. It was Kokichi’s carefully chosen words that dug right into his insecurities, doubts, and hopes that directly influenced him into making the choice that he did.

You also have to keep in mind how absolutely unstable Gonta must’ve been at this point. He was already nearing a breaking point with his feelings of powerlessness before going into the virtual world, but then he got hit with the secret of the outside world. AlterEgo!Gonta openly admits that it made him feel suicidal. (“Cuz, when Gonta remember the secret of the outside world, Gonta think… /…it would be easier… to die.”) With the outside world and the killing game both inescapable hells, Gonta just couldn’t imagine any way out. And then Kokichi suggests the mercy kill plan. In his state of mind, Gonta truly believed that this could be the way to finally “save” everyone.

Of course, Kokichi had only just recently seen the secret of the outside world too. Even though he must have known it wasn’t true, he had no idea the extent to which it was a lie versus the truth. He probably wasn’t in a very good mental state either. But still, just like he would do again in chapter 5 to everyone else, Kokichi used the despair caused by the secret of the outside world to get Gonta to go along with his plan.

This is what I believe was the driving force behind Gonta’s half of the Kokichi and Gonta dynamic in chapter 4. Gonta’s self loathing, which was present before the killing game began, compounded with his desire to be useful and protect everyone else from the threats of the killing game. As more people died, Gonta became more and more desperate to do literally anything to help everyone else. Kokichi used these things about Gonta to push him to do what he wanted him to.

…To close off, there’s this moment right before Gonta and Kokichi leave to kill Miu that’s really stuck with me.

(daily life, chapter 4) (Read left to right, top to bottom)

It’s not common for the other characters to defend Gonta’s intelligence. But Kaito, unknowingly, says just the right thing to Gonta at just the wrong time. Knowing that Gonta was about to set things in motion to mercy kill everyone for this exact reason… I wonder if Kaito remembered this moment. Maybe it was just another reason he got so defensive over him during trial 4. I just wish he had said something like this to him sooner.

If you got all the way here and read all this… first of all. THANK YOU! Oh my god. I’ve been working on this essay for several days now between studying for my finals. It feels really great to have it all written out after literal years of loving V3 and loving this chapter. Please, please, please let me know your thoughts! Even if you disagree with me! Chapter 4 is so special to me and I love talking about it!! o/

(Screenshots taken on youtube from justonegamr, Bittersweet Gamers, ShortOneGaming, ProZD Plays Games, and my own copy of v3 on IOS. Thank you @/ishimaruhourglass for helping me find some of these!)