#if i DO end up doing the public application thing

[polarmoon]

this is a post to feel out for potential interest: if i opened up a bachelor/ette challenge style application for sims to be featured in gen 2 of my occult legacy, would anyone be interested in applying?

i'm gonna need around 7 sims for what i have planned and i always love the idea of having sims from you guys in my game! i just don't wanna post a big application thing and then have no one submit or get less than i expected

if interest is like... low, but still enough that i can fill the slots i need, i'll prob just reach out to mutuals who were interested instead as like a sim request thing lmao

[cosmogyros]

YouTube keeps prompting me to check out music reaction videos and... oh my god. I need to stop watching them. For the good of my blood pressure. Because these people are SO IGNORANT.

It's all these folks in their 20s who consider themselves "music professionals", vocal coaches and producers and rappers and so on, doing a first-time blind watch/listen of music from decades before they were born, and they are SO CLUELESS IT CAUSES ME PHYSICAL PAIN.

Like, they have no idea what genres are. One guy called a song "bluegrass" because it involved an acoustic guitar being picked at one point.

They have no idea how music video production is done. Another guy kept saying in total awe that he's certain "everything in this video is INTENTIONAL!!!" (yeah. dude. that's like. the entire point of a music video?)

They have no idea how songwriting works. This other guy listened to Fleetwood Mac and when he heard the line "The songbirds are singing like they know the score" he paused it and said, as if this were some super clever point he was making: "I wonder if that means they know the musical score, or if it means, like, keeping score in a relationship?" I literally screamed a little bit. IT MEANS BOTH, DUDE. IT FUCKING MEANS BOTH. ***THAT IS THE ENTIRE POINT***

Yet another dude got BLOWN AWAY by the concept of... harmony. Singing harmony. He was like, "Do you hear that?!? He's singing this one line, and then he's simultaneously singing the same words with higher notes in the background to make it richer and chunkier???"

They get everything wrong. The lyrics they've just heard (which, okay, that's fair if you didn't go look them up right away), the genres, the instruments, the gender of a singer, even the era of clothing people are wearing in a music video.

And don't get me wrong: I find these react-ers charming, in a way. They tend to be very open-minded and ready to be impressed by almost anything, and that's really sweet and lovely and we could use more of that genuine appreciation and positivity in the world. (God knows I'm certainly not supplying it 😅) And I'm thrilled that they're choosing to seek out older music and explore the rich back catalog of music history and educate themselves on their own time. So nothing against them personally.

It's just that, in the larger scheme of things, it's frightening and discouraging to me to see that today – in the 21st century, with the internet at hand 24/7, with so much information available to us SO easily – people can still remain so ignorant. And please note I don't mean just your average layperson; I'm specifically talking about these young people who present themselves as music experts. That's specifically why I'm expecting them to know at least a LITTLE bit about music, music history, music theory, etc.

I could just keep citing examples of stuff that made me want to bash my head on the wall. One guy said "This song is from... 1973. Y'all had music back then?! I'm kidding, I'm kidding. But really?"

Another guy heard a song with a famous string part and was like "I recognize this sample from another song! I wonder which of these two artists used the sample first?" except... it wasn't a sample. In the original song he was reacting to, the artist in question had literally hired a string orchestra to come play that riff for this particular song and it was so original and cool that it became very influential and was then later used in some other song where he'd first encountered it. But he had assumed by default it couldn't possibly be original; he thought it must be a sample.

One guy – who calls himself a professional music producer – was blown away by the concept of a guitar solo. A guitar solo.

I just... I want to cry. HOW. How can you call yourself a professional in the music industry while being THIS ignorant about music?!? It simply boggles the mind.

Again, I don't mind your average Joe on the street being this clueless – most people are not such big music nerds as I am, and that's understandable – but if that were me, I wouldn't 1) call myself a music pro, 2) make music reaction videos and put them online for the world to see, and 3) reveal the full extent of my ignorance in said videos. I would try to be humble and keep my mouth shut and ears open and LEARN.

I'm sorry but sometimes I feel such despair. Someone being clueless about the music of 40 or 50 years earlier while living in the 80s or 90s, okay, that's fair. But today? In 20-fucking-25? You've got all the information in the WORLD literally at your fingertips and you still listen to Stevie Nicks for the first time and say, "Damn, this chick could almost be a rock singer"?!?

Back to listening to my 1920s music. I cannot stand the present day.

[sahisan]

— third door on the left, marked “debate club"

two professors. one office door away from kissing or killing each other. maybe both.

featuring . theoretical philosophy professor!anaxa x practical philosophy professor!fem!reader.

tags . university au. nodern au. suggestive. semi-public sex mentioned/referenced. (you make so many) sex jokes. fluff. ooc. soft anaxa. comedy. mild language. academic rivalry but make it professors. mentions of alcohol use. workplace romance. bickering as a love language.. flirting. so many philosophy terms (that i barely understand). wc 3.1k.

a/n . a friend dabbed me into philosophy and i folded. the handjob joke was initially hers but i couldn't help myself. im not a philosophy major so if you are please forgive me for any mistakes, my friend who actually majored in it helped me a small bit and im still confused. lmk if there are any typos. enjoy <3

"your handwriting is offensive," you mutter, turning the paper sideways, then upside down.

anaxa doesn’t look up from his tea. "you still read it, though."

"barely. is this supposed to say 'conscious' or 'conscience'?"

"both."

"no."

"well, that’s why i'm a philosopher."

"i also am one. your last footnotes gave me a headache."

he finally looks up, raising an eyebrow. "then my work here is done."

"so you’re telling me," you, crossing your arms. "that again, you rewrote the entire reading list after midterms?"

"no," he replies, not looking up from his notes. "i rewrote it because of midterms. frankly, your students deserve better than whatever you assigned them. i read the discussion boards."

"you’re on the discussion boards?"

"i moderate three of them. and i banned a user who called you hot. you’re welcome."

you pause and tilt your head. in the end, you mumble "...that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever done for me."

"don’t get used to it," he mutters, knowing you're exaggerating. "they spelled ‘epistemological’ wrong."

your bring in tea and fruit for your students. anaxagoras brings nothing and cancels half his office hours because, quote, "philosophy isn’t learned in panic, it’s metabolized in silence" (half the admin hates him).

his and your students are in quiet (jealous) war. campus hallway signs include:

"vote: whose exam will kill us with more dignity?

team prof [name]: understanding through application

team prof anaxagoras: no multiple choice, only anguish"

you and anaxa both pretend you don’t see the posters.

you end up stealing one and taping it to the wall in your office. anaxa responds by using it as part of a pop quiz question.

the students get back by gifting both of you matching mugs that say: "#1 philosophical threat". anaxa mutters about not joking with philosophy majors anymore. (they're literally his students and he's starting to get scared)

him and you sit on opposite ends of the philosophy department’s couch like it’s some kind of contested ground.

you're reading ethics of desire upside down. he’s pretending not to notice.

"why do you hate me?" you ask, out of nowhere.

"i don’t."

"then why do you argue with me in faculty meetings like we're at the fucking olympics?"

"because you like it," he looks over, holding eye contact.

"and," he adds after a beat. "because you're brilliant. and you're wrong about kant."

"i’m never wrong about kant," you frown.

"see? fun."

the dean told you it's mandatory to be in the department-wide group chat. anaxa has notifications off, your have them on, and neither of you participate until absolutely necessary.

today, someone sends a meme about faculty budgeting. it evolves quickly into... something.

@ecologywillsurvive_vaelis: what if we held a bake sale for chalk

@anaxagorastheory: what.

@cai_NaOCl: maybe we should sell naming rights to the new ethics wing. welcome to the ‘crypto.com moral foundations lab’

@anaxagorastheory: if you sell naming rights to a lab about ethics i will personally remove my eye patch and stare into your soul.

@praxis[name]: we’ve talked about this, the patch stays on in public spaces

@praxis[name]: and cai i'm going to rename your organic chem wing to 'half baked molecule lounge' if you bring up the ethics wing again

@anaxagorastheory: i’m just saying. the thread of reason is fraying.

@praxis[name]: your self-control is fraying

@anaxagorasthery: say that in office hours.

@epiphany_uni_admin: hi everyone! just a reminder that this is a professional chat

"you're late," you say without looking up from your laptop, fingers flying across the keyboard like you've been waiting specifically to outpace him.

"i was grading," anaxa responds, setting down a stack of painfully annotated printed philosophy 201 essays with a grimace. "your TAs let them write in first person and i nearly hemorrhaged."

"they’re freshmen, let them think they matter," you reply, finally glancing up at him.

"dangerous ideology for a praxis professor."

you hum. "dangerous man to say it."

"you’re wearing my coat," anaxa notes when he opens his office door and finds you there.

you blink once. then, "i spilled tea on mine."

he steps aside to lt you in, utterly unsurprised.

"also," you add as your shrug the coat tighter. "yours smells nicer."

he doesn’t say anything for a moment.

"would it be weird if i told you i hope you spill more tea tomorrow?"

you smile, mischievous.

"depends where."

"you always write in pen," your mutter, flipping through the latest draft of his paper with red ink bleeding into printed black. "only pen."

"i trust my convictions," anaxa replies, deadpan.

"you misspelled 'epistemological' three times after getting distracted by me."

"i was testing you."

"were you?" you ask, eyes narrowing. "you wrote 'epistomagical' at one point."

he shrugs, takes a sip from his coffee. it's black and bitter and you know he hates it.

you bite back a smile. "idiot."

"your handwriting is worse," he mutters. "at least i try."

"i write in runes," you say, prim.

"those are hearts above your i's."

"...runes of war."

"do you always grade with red?" you ask, leaning over his desk, some random paper in hand that you forgot about long ago.

anaxagoras doesn't look up, "of course. red forces clarity. confrontation."

"you wrote 'source?' in all caps across a paragraph about love in greek tragedy."

"and?"

you smile, as if holding back laugter. "it was a quote. from you."

he looks up. slow. silent.

you set the paper down with calmness he swears one can only see in fiction.

"next time, check your own citations, professor."

wednesdays are mostly alright. you walk into the staff lounge and there he is: anaxagoras. at the coffee machine. holding two cups.

"brewing double today?" you raise an eyebrow.

"i had to offer the students a choice," he says, pressing the start button. "do you want to study logic, or do you want to study… your soul?"

"you’re so terrible," you say with a sigh, taking the second cup from him. "you know no one really wants to study their soul?"

"not true," he replies, smiling smugly. "they want to study it, they just don’t know it yet."

he takes a sip of his coffee, watching you. you narrow your eyes.

"and what's this 'quiz' you’ve decided to torture them with?"

"it’s not a quiz. it’s a philosophical challenge," he says, moving to the small whiteboard. "i ask them to define their own existence without using ‘i think, therefore i am'.

"you’re evil," you raise an eyebrow.

"i'm not," he argues. "they tiktokified descartes!"

"they what?"

anaxa finds a note slipped into his bag.

it’s folded on thick paper, smells like your hand cream.

in that unmistakable handwriting, hearts a constant above the i's like it's a love letter (maybe it is):

"you didn't have breakfast this morning, so i left a little something in your office

<3"

he stares at it for five minutes straight. then folds it again and tucks it into his coat pocket. the 'little something' ended up being a bento of salad and two bacon sandwiches.

he won’t ever admit it, but he carries it for the rest of the week (and he will absolutely not start mimicking your handwriting later).

it's a faculty party. you're in black silk and sipping terrible wine. anaxa's next to you, lecturing someone on metaphysical paradoxes. again.

"you could’ve worn a bow tie," you murmur when he leans in.

he looks at you like he’s already undone. "and you could’ve worn less loud heels if you didn’t want me distracted."

your fingers pause on the stem of your glass. "hm. touché."

"that’s french."

"you speak french?"

he leans closer, "i learn languages for spite."

you lick your teeth to hide a grin. "is that how you learned to say je veux te baiser in the hallway last week?"

anaxa chokes on his wine.

"you're in my office," he says, arms crossed, glasses half-lowered.

"your sign says 'office hours clpsed unless it's a crisis'. this," you say, dropping a thick bundle of papers on his desk, "is a crisis."

he glances down.

"this is… a peer review."

"your peer review. you cited a wikipedia page in a footnote."

anaxa doesn’t look even remotely sorry. "it was cited ironically."

"you teach epistemology, anaxagoras."

"and irony is a form of knowledge."

you blink. “oh my god. leave."

"it's my office."

"i don't care, leave."

obvious enough, your offices share a wall (god bless the dean and the department chair). it’s the point of thus where, sometimes, you hear anaxa recite passages of obscure texts to himself aloud; sometimes in ancient languages.

today, it’s greek.

"…lógos eikós," he says. "reason is likely—"

"and so is the fact that your argument on practical virtue is still wrong," you call through the wall.

"it was metaphorical!"

"so is your whole career!"

you hear the sound of a book being thrown at the wall and smile.

"you rearranged my bookshelves," you say flatly, arms crossed, eyebrow arched.

"i reorganized them by author. the fact that your copy of moral letters to lucilius was next to the hungry caterpillar is—"

"—educational range."

anaxagoras doesn't smirk, not really, just sips his coffee like it's the antidote to your nonsense.

"you’re impossible."

"and yet you still broke into my office to alphabetize my praxis."

"it was unlocked."

"it was not."

(it was.)

anaxagoras gets sick and refuses to take time off. you physically remove him from the building.

"i’m fine," he rasps.

"you’re a hazard," you say, throwing his bag over your shoulder. "you coughed on three students and almost knocked over aristotle's bust in your auditorium.

he slumps into your car without protest. later, you make him him soup and read aloud from his own research while he’s half-asleep just to see if you can make him correct your pronunciation mid-fever. he does.

"you’re ridiculous," you murmur.

"you’re warm," he mumbles, drifting.

"i’m human."

"keep being that."

@epiphanyconfessions

"i’m just saying. if prof [name] leaned over my desk the way she leans over prof anaxagoras’s desk i too would forget how to spell my own name"

@epiphanyconfessions

"anybody remember that one time she called him 'anaxagoras' during a rare joint lecture and he straightened up like a victorian man seeing ankle for the first time. someone sedate them."

@epiphanyconfessions

"i heard prof anaxa say ‘consent is the highest form of logic’ and i haven’t been the same since. like sir i just wanted to pass intro metaphysics please don’t take me apart like that"

you're the one who finds the twitter account. it's an automated bot which quite literally posts all the gossip in the university. unsurprisingly now, 70% of what you've seen include you and anaxa.p

you scroll for three minutes in silence, then turns your phone around so he can see it.

"i think your students are obsessed with me."

anaxa doesn't look a single bit impressed.

"well, at least i've managed to teach them something about attention to detail."

you end up paired for the damn symposium panel because someone in admin has a cruel sense of humor.

"just be civil," the dean says, sipping bitter coffee as the two of you stand on either side of the projector.

"civil as in—" you start.

"no blood on the mic."

anaxagoras doesn't smirk, not quite, but there's a twitch of something near his mouth when he says "i'll keep my composure if she does."

"i never lose my composure," you shoot back.

his eyes go to your mouth. "you have. once."

your silence is thin and sharp and full of fuck yous that do not get spoken.

the dean groans. "if either of you fucks the other on the mic, i swear to god i'm retiring."

you're walking out of the symposium together, the cold air catching your hair just right.

"they misquoted kant four times," he mutters, voice slightly hoarse

"only four?" you tease. "you’re mellowing."

"i’m trying not to ruin our evening."

"oh?" you glance at him. "are we having an evening?"

he stops walking and you take two steps before realizing he’s still behind you.

"…yes," he says. "if you want."

your expression warms without looking at him. "i do."

he doesn’t say anything else, just walks beside you the rest of the way, hands close, not touching.

it's christmas eve and everyone’s a little tipsy in the lounge, even the department chair.

anaxa is holding a glass of deep red wine and trying not to react when you make a joke about morals and oral fixation in the same sentence.

later, outside under the garden lights, you speak.

"cai told me your students think we're sleeping together," you say, watching the breeze catch your own hair.

"we are."

"they suspect, anaxagoras."

"then they’re late to class."

you laugh, quiet and unguarded, the kind of laugh that makes his shoulders drop. he reaches out to fix the collar of his your coat.

"you're soft when you're smug," you murmur.

"you're smug when you're soft," anaxa retaliates.

"you’re in love with me."

"that too."

youre both tired. the grading deadlines loom and the campus heating is out again.

"sit down," anaxa mutters, patting the seat next to him on the floor of his office.

"your carpet has chalk dust on it."

"so do your pants, professor."

you sigh as if you're bearing the weight of the world on your lone shoulders and sit.

there's no light in the office but the blue glow of his screen, and the soft static of the heater humming through the vents.

"i'm not rewriting the conclusion," you murmur, almost asleep on his shoulder.

"i know."

"but i miiight let you footnote me."

he hums, head tilting against yours. "if you do, i'll stop quoting you out of context."

"...maybe don't. i sound smarter when you do it."

"you are smart."

you hum, noncommittal. anaxa sighs.

anaxagoras is having a deja vu; a really strong one.

you're seated across from each other at another faculty mixer (he complained about seeing too many people outside his lectures in the past three months on the way to this one). you're wearing black, sharp eyeliner, and a gold pin in the shape of a crescent. anaxa is halfway through a whiskey and trying very hard not to look impressed.

"you know they’re calling us ‘the debate club’?" you say, lazily stirring your drink. "it’s not flattering."

"they only say that because you get louder when you’re wrong."

"you’re still upset i said plato would’ve folded if someone gave him a nice handjob."

he tried to mask laughing with accidentally choking on his whiskey.

he definitely is having a deja vu. (he loves it with you.)

you kiss once in the archives.

it’s a study break, technically.

you're sitting on the dusty desk. he’s standing between your legs. you're surrounded by books about love and logic and ancient epics, and you don’t speak about the copy of whatever book you were supposed to help him with looking for.

later, as you fix his messed up hair again for him, when he’s too flustered to do it straight, you murmur,

"you lose arguments better than anyone i've ever met."

he leans into your palm where it cups his jaw.

"i only lose to you."

"i hope so."

he sees you grading in the courtyard and sits beside you, uninvited.

"your first-years are circulating a petition."

"ah. is it about the essay extension?"

"no. they want you and i to 'just publicly kiss already and not torture us anymore'. their words."

you don't pause your hand. "did you sign it?"

"...maybe."

you're more often in his office than you're not.

"if we get caught—" he starts, breathless.

"it's your fault. stop kissing me like you’re too lazy to drive us home," you cut him off, sliding your hands into his hair.

"i’m not built for scandal," he breathes against your mouth.

"you’re wearing an eyepatch, anaxagoras."

"...it’s academic."

"so is this," you say tilting his head back, climbing into his lap as your hand loosens his tie. "let me study you."

"you’ve been reading the same sentence for five minutes," he murmurs.

you don’t look up; your head is resting against your palm, pen slack between your fingers. "because it says 'therefore, subjectivity is inherently sus'."

anaxagoras blinks. "they submitted that in ink?"

"typed," you sigh. "with a footnote that just says 'as per amongus'."

he leans over, eyes scanning the page, then: "…expel them," flatly.

"i can’t expel them."

"i can."

"you teach philosophy, not moral hygiene."

"same thing, if you ask the right philosopher."

you're sprawled on the old couch in his office, shoes off, his coat folded under your head, flipping through his notes. your eyes hurt. you flip the papers upside down.

"you really wrote a thirty-page rebuttal on the concept of divine intervention just because i said some gods might have been hot?"

"you said apollo could get it in front of our students."

"and you wrote a philosophical hitpiece," you counter.

"i cited my sources," anaxa grumbles, tired.

"you are absolutely insane."

"we're pretty much equal in terms of that, i believe."

he brings you coffee exactly how you like it before every morning seminar. you make his lecture slides look presentable. you pass post-it notes through interdepartmental mail—yours are gold-trimmed, his are so painfully neat. once, someone intercepted one. it just said:

'you were right about that footnote. bring your smugness and your mouth to my office at five. i need to be convinced again.'

you're reading in the living room. anaxa's half-asleep next to you, head on your lap, one hand absently tracing lazy circles on your thigh.

"what are you annotating now?" he murmurs.

"your latest essay."

"and?"

"you cited yourself fourteen times."

"i trust my sources."

you hum. "sure you do."

"if we were set to constantly teach a class together," anaxa says quietly, "we’d probably get fired."

you yawn. "i think we’d start a cult."

"that too. if we didn't already."

a hum. “a sexy cult."

he laughs, soft and tired and you want to kiss him until your lips remember his skin for the rest of your life. "you’re the one who brings up sex every time we talk about curriculum."

"it’s integral to ethics and aesthetics."

"and not philosophy?"

"it is philosophy," you grumble. "do you talk about pleasure in your lectures?"

he pauses. "…not directly."

"coward."

he squeezes your hand. "i love you."

"i know," you say. "even if your syllabus doesn’t include eros."

he smiles into your hair. "next semester."

[suliigwp]

Hi Suli! I just read your My Woman and it was amazing! I loved it! It was really beautifully written. I devoured all three versions!

Would you be able to write an Oscar version?

If not then that's perfectly fine, no pressure :)

Have a great day!!

MY WOMAN

Oscar Piastri x Reader

Other Versions: Charles Leclerc , Carlos Sainz, Lando Norris, Max Verstappen, Lewis Hamilton

SULI: Hii!! Oh thank you so much for the support I saw you reposted all of them and that means so much! I'm so glad you enjoyed them! Yes, of course I'll give you an Oscar one I'm obsessed with that man - The "My woman" series has been receiving so much love and I'm so thankful for every one of you!

Also! I didn't notice but this ended up being like the same universe of this fic! That I had written earlier because mean!reader x Oscar is the only thing I'll accept- hope you enjoy!

Warnings: men.

It was the kind of silence that crept in around the edges of a conversation. The kind that stretched too long between glances. The kind that said something happened—but no one was saying what.

Y/n noticed it the second Oscar walked into her flat that night. He was on time. He kissed her cheek. He even brought her favorite drink from that coffee place two blocks down.

But his shoulders were stiff. His eyes didn’t linger the way they usually did.

She didn’t ask right away. She didn’t need to.

They had dinner like normal. He asked about her new project; she asked about his next sim session. But every answer was two degrees too distant. Measured. Careful.

And finally, when she caught him staring off toward the window instead of at her, she set her fork down and leaned back.

“Okay,” she said. “What did they say?”

Oscar blinked. “What?”

“Whoever it was. What did they say about me?”

His jaw tensed.

“You’re imagining it,” he said after a pause. “It’s nothing.”

That was when she knew it wasn’t nothing.

“Oscar.”

He stood up slowly, walking to the kitchen, his back to her. “It’s not worth repeating.”

She stood too, something sharp pressing into her ribs. “Tell me.”

He didn’t move for a second. Then finally, carefully:

“One of the senior sponsors pulled me aside today. Said you were bad for my image. That being around someone ‘like you’—someone with a reputation—wasn’t smart. Said it made people nervous.”

She laughed once. Cold. “Of course they did.”

Oscar turned then, eyes unreadable. “They said you’re manipulative. That you’re only with me for the attention.”

Her lips parted slightly. She didn’t move.

“And what did you say?” she asked, voice flat.

“I didn’t say anything,” he answered softly.

A long, aching pause.

Y/n took a step back, arms folding. “Wow.”

“I didn’t say anything—” he repeated, “—because I told him to leave. Immediately after.”

She blinked.

“I didn’t argue. I didn’t explain you. I didn’t give him a list of reasons why he was wrong.”

Oscar’s voice was low now. Focused. “Because you’re not a public relations problem. You’re not some PR line I have to fix.”

He stepped closer, slowly.

“I didn’t defend you because there was nothing to defend. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

She swallowed.

“And then,” he added, “I told him if he ever speaks about you again, he can go find another driver to sponsor.”

Her eyes widened. “You didn’t.”

“I did.”

“Are you insane? Do you know what that could do?”

“I do.”

“Oscar—”

“Let them be uncomfortable,” he said, firmer now. “Let them be nervous.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re my woman.”

She froze.

He never said things like that.

But he did now.

“I know what people say about you,” he continued. “I know what they think. That you’re too much. Too cold. Too clever. That you get what you want and don’t care how.”

She stared at him.

“I also know you stay up till 2 a.m. to help your friends with job applications. I know you carry three glosses if anyone needs any. I know you push people away before they can leave. But you don’t push me.”

His voice softened again.

“They can say what they want. They don’t see what I see.”

She blinked hard. Bit her lip.

He stepped forward again. Took her hands.

“You don’t need me to fight your battles,” he whispered. “But I will. Every time. Whether you want me to or not.”

For a long time, she didn’t say anything. Her throat was tight. Her fingers curled into his shirt.

And finally, quietly:

“Next time, you tell me first.”

Oscar smiled—barely, gently.

“Next time, you’ll be too busy burning them down yourself.”

[communistkenobi]

I was looking for a book recently on an online storefront and was recommended a book written by a physicist about the history of humanity. this was a popular press book that was not intended to be read by other academics, but it reminded me of this niche genre of books, with experts from the physical sciences writing about human behaviour or history or what have you. Could you imagine coming across the inverse? A popular press book that purported to explain physics written by a historian?

There is some deep imbalance in how public perceptions of “general intelligence” seem to work - those in STEM are generally recognised for their competence, expertise, and intellectual acumen, and this recognition can be generalised, that at some level a demonstration of your expertise of eg astrophysics is a demonstration of your abilities of investigation writ large, that you have figured out some central underlying element of science that allows for basically limitless intellectual extension to any field or subject. A physicist can write a book about human history and be taken seriously by the general public on the assumption that physics is more difficult to understand than history, so any lower domain of investigation is open to them. The reverse is often not extended to a lot of the social sciences, particularly the theoretically-heavy social sciences; theory is just making bullshit up at the end of the day, it has no real practical application because any questions about the philosophy of thought or knowledge - how did we come to know what we know and under what conditions do we know these things - is just the indulgent wankery of people who can’t find a real job.

And of course it would be silly to insist that because you have read Hegel, an infamously difficult thinker, you know how to interpret the lab print-outs of electrochemists - I don’t want this goofy concept of general intelligence to be applied everywhere, I want it to go away entirely, but its current uneven applications across scientific fields indicates a broader problem with public conceptions of expertise and knowledge.

This probably has something to do with anti-communism on some level - social science is not generally regarded as “real science” (in no small part because social science is often the field of bureaucrats, and while animosity towards bureaucrats is deeply sympathetic, I suspect the reasons for this animosity are not themselves scientifically grounded), that while there is a public understanding of “objective facts” that exist prior and external to human interpretation, the politics of knowledge are hegemonically oriented around liberalism, to such an extent that any critique of the assumptions of knowledge are viewed as a dogmatic denial of reality done for the purposes of political infiltration and brainwashing. And I don’t feel totally unqualified to say this, given that this is basically the de facto response from students encountering Marxism for the first time in university. “Marx is too dogmatic” may as well be inscribed above the doors to lecture halls. Hell, Jordan Peterson made a nice little public career for himself railing against “post-modern neo-Marxism,” a phrase so nonsensical that the fact he was not immediately and permanently laughed out of the public arena for saying it is an indictment of how politically illiterate we are as a society!

And the infuriating thing is that a lot of social science scholarship (not just from the US but especially from the US) is complete horseshit, just pure evil garbage motivated solely by a desire to justify the fact that we do really need to keep killing tens of thousands of people a year to keep this whole party going. Every sociologist who calls themselves a “methodological individualist” is contributing to the long-standing tradition of eugenics scholarship but is too craven and vain to admit to this. If you had to describe the sum-total of the social scientific scholarly output of the west in a word, it would be ‘mysticism.’ Because it is the case that anti-colonial, anti-imperial, and anti-capitalist investigations of the political-economic conditions of the world have produced social scientific knowledge on par with the discovery of the atom, but it is not treated as such. “It is right to rebel” is not just a moral claim about violence but a scientific summary of human history.

But I think it is precisely this reactionary state of affairs that makes people devalue the social sciences as an actual site of legitimate investigation, that understanding the historical trajectory of ideas or the political conditions of life are valuable pursuits for any just society. Because social science deals with the social world, the political conditions under which the social world is investigated and understood are themselves bound up in questions of political and economic power. But this equally extends to the physical sciences - I know at least in environmental sciences, there is an ever-growing reckoning with climate change as an imminent threat to all life on earth, and environmental scientists cannot avoid talking about the political conditions of our planet even if all they want to do is study a river. Genocide is measurable in soil samples taken in the American continent. The separation of the environmental from the social is itself a historically contingent arrangement of knowledge.

But this is infuriating to even complain about because I don’t want to sound like an entitled academic or ego-bruised professional. I have no desire to start a faculty war with the STEM fields. I feel secure in my own expertise. I do not want anyone to “recognise my greatness” I am just profoundly lonely in this whole affair. and it just so happens that we exist in terribly anti-intellectual conditions for the most cruel and ugly reasons possible, and so we (me, I) have to suffer seeing books on sale claiming to give a general account of human history written by a physicist

[cazshmere]

Astrology Observations Pt. 8 🦂

materialist🔖

DISCLAIMER: These are just my personal observations and are meant for entertainment purposes only; it may not resonate with everyone due to the nuances of astrology. Please respect my work and avoid copying or stealing it. Enjoy reading!! 🦂

🦂 I think people who have their chiron in the 3rd/7th or 11th house may experience significant insecurity about posting on social media and being in front of a camera, or even commenting under various posts online. They often overthink the things they put out online/the things they were going to post online 😭 and also if they post pictures/videos they might rewatch the picture/video 984726261 times and often find a SOME tiny fault and convince themselves to delete whatever it is that they have posted. This placement can create a deep-seated fear of judgment and a tendency to second-guess every public interaction

🦂I have noticed that scorpio moons and capricorn moons have very involved and critical mothers/parents, exhibiting behaviors typical of helicopter parenting. For instance they could micromanage every single thing you do or have some sort of comment to make about every little thing you do (also applicable to aries and virgo moons). I also feel that cappy and scorpio moons may find it the hardest to detach from their generational trauma because their parents may have instilled strict principles/beliefs into them and they end up carrying forward all these beliefs which in return makes them more susceptible to repeating toxic patterns which then ends up causing A LOT of trauma to these individuals ❤️‍🩹

🦂 honestly taurus placements aren’t always mindful and demure, despite being ruled by venus. Most taurus placements (esp sun,moon and mars) are NOT afraid to call people out on their bs and are extremely straightforward and direct. The type to insult you straight to your face if you annoy them or smtg 😭 and you’d be like ouch, what was the reason for that??💀. They can come across as arrogant and rude sometimes BUT this all makes a lot of sense as a lot of them tend to be sidereal aries placements after all🙏😂

🦂 speaking of sidereal placements I wanna talk about how virgos can be super playful and child-like (esp with the people they are comfortable with) because they’re leo placements in sidereal + virgo placements also really crave attention, sometimes way more than Leo’s tbh✨

🦂 aries and scorp moon/venus women often attract guys who initially start off as wanting to be/being their “friends” BUT the only reason they wanted to be their friend in the first place is because they see potential for a romantic/sexual relationship with them. It’s sad because literally every guy friend you have/had TOTALLY had other intentions that weren’t platonic 🥲

🦂 having placements in the 2nd house (esp if there are no harsh aspects) just mellows down the intensity of the placement. For instance moon in the 2nd house people can regulate their emotions much more stable and easy manner. Having placements in the 2nd house is such a BLESSING.

🦂 if you think you know someone with a scorpio moon, moon in the 8th house or moon-pluto native, trust me you DON’T😭. no one will ever KNOW every single part of them. They remind me of onions yk? SO MANY LAYERS to them and no one will ever truly know everything about them

🦂 also idk if I’ve mentioned this before but CAN WE JUST TAKE A MINUTE TO APPRECIATE HOW FUCKING FUNNY/HUMOROUS CANCER PLACEMENTS ARE???? literally SO SO witty and make you laugh till your stomach hurts😭🫶🏻

🦂 with age, saturn in cancer natives can look a lot like their mothers 💗

🦂 shadow traits are often expressed through the moon and mars, as these planets govern our raw emotions and drives. For example, an aries moon’s may react with impulsive outbursts and frustration, while a scorpio mars might exhibit controlling, obsessive, or manipulative behaviors to maintain power. These primal reactions tend to surface under stress or vulnerability. To work on your shadow self, it's helpful to focus on your Moon and Mars placements, as these often reveal where you're repeating or expressing toxic behaviors. By understanding how these signs influence your emotional reactions and drive, you can better recognize and address patterns that need healing.

banner/pic credits to the rightful owners

© cazshmere 2024 [All Rights Reserved]

[as-if-and-only-if]

I'm interested in forming a sort of...math & physics reading group network. well, with some very important modifications to the concept of "reading group".

for example, right now, I'd like to learn algebraic geometry, qft, and/or refresh myself on representation theory with someone—maybe just one or two people—meaning that traditionally, we'd pick a text for one of these topics, discuss the material (asynchronously or synchronously?), exchange exercises, etc.

but currently (being Between Institutions), my best bet is posting on tumblr. and that's a pretty good bet, tbh! there are a lot of us here!

though, wouldn't it be great if there were a way to coordinate groups like this across institutions? you make a post proposing a group, specifying your goals and constraints...

even that would be a boon. but I think the concept of a "reading group" itself could be changed in interesting ways. this is what I'm really interested in.

there are variations among reading groups themselves already. sometimes you have directed reading groups, where someone already knows the material and "leads" it; some people are looking for more or less people involved; and there are probably things to explore for making sure that reading groups stick through it instead of falling apart when some motivation flags. default meeting times help with this, for example.

there are many experiments to be done! I think lessons for group-making can be taken from a maybe-surprising source: theater. there are a lot of things that make groups which put on shows more robust and rewarding than reading groups. a sense of building to something; many factors that create informal group cohesion (e.g. such a structure should make sure it creates more-informal "cafe" time in addition to more-formal "practice" time, just as rehearsal in physical spaces facilitates that casual sort of interaction on its periphery); ways to get into the right headspace during discussions (just as warm-ups do in theater; the engagement with this material is an event); clear goals (e.g. "understand ___"); successive shared accomplishments...to that end I wonder if it makes sense to form math troupes, which do successive reading groups together, drawn from its members.

it might be useful to envision some sort of public-facing artifact created as the culmination of this learning, whether a presentation, or an article, or some novel application or research...the crucial question is: how do we choose a goal that we find meaning in?

one idea, for example, is to have a collection parallel reading groups learning different things, and end by presenting to each other! that way we know what we learn will be meaningful to others, too, from the beginning. in general, I think it's important to feel that our own development of insight and understanding can be meaningful to others and to the group. it's nice to participate; it's nice to be able to offer something that is valued. what form can this take? how can you set up the interactions such that everyone has a part to play, and so this meaningfulness is tangled up in participation in the group?

I've also got a couple of ideas for "activities" that let us engage, re-engage, and play with the concepts we're learning with each other, beyond the text itself. how can we give ourselves the opportunity to toss around the concepts we're learning? I believe that the fun ultimately comes from the understanding itself, and therefore that any group exercise which lets us effectively play with the ideas will be fun.

it's a lot to ask people to come up with structure like that themselves, but using a pre-existing structure is not so difficult! sort of like how it's hard to make a TTRPG itself, so simply saying "go off and roleplay" isn't that helpful, but it's easy to use the structure of an existing one to run a game.

you might say, well, the existing form of a reading group is fine. okay! existing reading group structures can be low-stakes, relaxed, and accessible...but they can also fall apart easily (especially when not tied to an institution, in my experience), and you have to get lucky to find a truly rewarding one. I find reimagining our mechanisms of learning pretty exciting, and I think the space of ways to learn math with each other is underexplored at this level (emphasis on the with each other). there's a lot of potential!

anyway! reply or tag with "!" if this is something you could maybe be interested if done well? or if you're at least curious! I'm just taking a temperature. :)

[milkteabinniechan]

♡Lessons Learned - Hyunjin

MINORS DNI 18+ONLY MEMBERSHIP//M.LIST

pairing: tutor! Hyunjin x fem! reader

summary: if you fail this midterm, you're screwed. Thankfully, your counselor set you up with a tutor who's willing to help you out and he has a very interesting way of rewarding you whenever you answer a question right.

warnings: public sex, fingering, dom/sub dynamic, oral sex (f.rec)

Come on, Ace. You can do it.

You signed up for an introduction to economics class thinking it would be simple. It wasn't what you wanted to do, but you still needed the credit to graduate. You found the number of a tutor on the bulletin board in your common room and decided to give it a call.

“Yeah?” The voice on the other end sounded groggy and irritated.

“Hi! I saw your number and thought that maybe you could tut-”

“What time?” His voice spat at your ear.

“Oh! Uh, I'm free tomorrow afternoon. Does that work? Or we could-”

You were cut off again. He told you to meet him at the University library late afternoon tomorrow. Hwang Hyunjin. What a tool.

The next day you arrived at the library early. You wanted a table by the window and knew how coveted the seating could get. You placed your books around the table and tapped your pencil impatiently against your thigh. Hyunjin showed up exactly when he said he would. He wore glasses and a loose-fitting sweater vest over a short sleeved polo. His hair was messy and unkempt but you couldn't help but notice how incredible he smelled. Like vanilla and fresh cut cedarwood

The two of you met like that for days; with you showing up early and Hyunjin trying to explain the basics of economics. But you couldn't seem to grasp the concept. It was difficult to concentrate when he would lean in close to you, his breath tickling your ear as he spoke.

Come on, Ace. You can do it.

You would bite the eraser of your pencil anxiously. He has to know how gorgeous he was. He has to have girls chasing him all over campus. Sometimes when he would explain a formula or application, you could just stare at his mouth. You would watch his touch flick and bounce as he enunciated his words. Your thighs would squeeze together involuntarily at the thought of his touch moving and twisting around your mouth or your hardened sensitive nipples.

Come on, Ace. You can do it.

Every once and a while you would catch him staring at your breasts. Or he would catch you staring at his hands. More and more tension was building between the two of you without you getting any closer to understanding the assignments.

One day, Hyunjin leaned back in his seat, crossing one leg over the other.

"Well, let's do something a bit... different, shall we? How about we use a more practical application?”

You perked up in your chair and tilted your head curiously.

“What did you have in mind?”

Hyunjin grinned mischievously.

“How about we focus on the concept of supply and demand?” Hyunjin leaned in closer, lowering his voice.

"For instance, if I were to... touch you in places you wouldn't expect, how would you react? Would you push me away, or…?”

Your heart clenched in your chest and your hands gripped the edge of the table.

“I…I guess I don't know what I'd do.” You lied.

“Exactly, you don't know. And that's what makes it so interesting." Hyunjin reached out, gently brushing a strand of hair behind your ear.

"Let's conduct a little experiment. I'll demonstrate the concept of supply and demand, and you can observe and react accordingly.”

Before you could answer him, Hyunjin stood up and walked over to your side of the table, kneeling down in front of you.

"Alright, let's start with the supply side of things.” He placed his hands on your knees and slowly started to push them apart.

"As the supply increases, the demand often increases as well.

You held your breath; quickly looking around the library to see if anyone else had noticed Hyunjin's new position in front of you. Hyunjin grinned wickedly as he continued to push your legs apart, moving his body between them.

"You're blushing. Your breathing is getting faster. See how the demand is rising?” He leaned in closer, his face just inches from yours.

You nod your head slowly, your entire body completely entranced with the feeling of his hands on your thighs. Hyunjin's grin grew wider, his hands continuing their exploration.

"Mmm, the demand is high, isn't it?" His hand slid up further, tracing the edge of your underwear.

"And what if I were to... slip my hand inside? Would you push me away or pull me closer?”

“Closer…” you whispered meekly.

Hyunjin’s hand slipped inside your underwear and his fingers made quick work of gently caressing your most intimate area. He let out a low, satisfied groan as he felt the slick excitement that was already leaking out of you. Hyunjin looked up at you, his grin wicked.

"Look at you... taking it so well. You're a natural, Ace." His fingers continued their rhythm, his pace quickening slightly.

"And now, what if I were to... curve my fingers just…”

He slowly slid his fingers in and out, his thumb gently rubbing that sensitive bundle of nerves as his middle finger curved and curled. Your walls clenched around his slender finger, your hand now clasped like a vice over your mouth.

Hyunjin smirked at your reaction.

"Found your sweet spot, haven't I?" His fingers continued to stroke that spot, his thumb still rubbing your swollen clit.

"And now, if I were to... lean down and lick you while my fingers are inside you…”

Your head shot up and you glared down at him, your face turning redder by the second.

“Here?! Now?!” You growled. You loved how he was making you feel but you had never done anything so public before.

"Yes, here." Hyunjin said firmly, his eyes locked onto yours.

"I'm going to lick your perfect pussy while I finger you, and you're going to let me, aren't you?"

Hyunjin leaned down, his mouth hovering over your clothed folds before pulling your underwear to the side and licking you in one long, sweeping motion.

You moaned softly into your hand. Your body was feeling like it was on fire. Every nerve ending has been activated and needed stimulation. You tried your best to stay still, to make it look like nothing was happening. To convey the facade that this gorgeous man wasn't absolutely devouring you inside a library. The silence around you was glaringly apparent as Hyunjin gently coaxed your clit into his mouth and gently sucked on it. His fingers continued to curl and stroke your needy insides, his other hand still holding your leg in place. He looked up at you, his eyes shining with desire as sucked and pulled hungrily at your slick folds.

"Look at you... so pretty…”

taglist: @simply-trash5 @sugawhaaa @trixiekaulitz @chrizzztopherbang @cassidymb121 @roanns-posts @staysinbloom @yaorzu-blog @bubblebisk @cotton-candycloudz @beautyinhypnosis @domicaru @strawberry31 @slxtmeri @newhope8 @tinyelfperson @dandelions-143 @stayyyyyyyyyyyy21 @msauthor @fun-fanfics @ell0thebell @stephanieeeyang @juskz @kimahreummm @readr1221 @kayleefriedchicken @ovulatingrn @hwnglixho @darthmaddie25 @queen-in-the-shadows @itgirlalisaa @miinhoo @greyaia @chanchansgirly @skzleeknowcore @skz-smut-reader @thatisrankharry @hearts4yawnzzn @jchotch726 @cherricola-star

[buckybarnesslutshop]

Hiiiii would love a one shot about Bucky feeling kinda hot and slutty in a new outfit and having a bathroom hookup x fem reader or something at a club haha 😅

Tiny Little Shorts

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Song: F U In My Head

CWs: MDNI 18+ ONLY, SMUT!, p in v, dancing at the club 😚, Wanda, Nat, Tony, Steve, and Sam mentioned, bathroom sex!! so public sex, a bit rough, eye contact, no condom (wrap it before you tap it guys), reader has a cunt, fluffy feelings, kinda got caught but afterward

Nicknames used by Bucky: Doll, slut, baby

Nicknames used by Reader: Buck, that’s it lol

A/N: i was a bit feral about this idea and wrote most of this while in the car on a 5 hour drive. i hope it’s what you had in mind 🫶 this was such a good ask, I really had a moment about this one so thank u!

ps. this is based on my personal alcohol tolerance, a few shots has never hit me so excuse that if two shots is your personal limit. Just pretend ig. Also this is 2.8k words. Went off. Still being proofread!!

Summary: You and Bucky had each hatched the same plan: tonight, you would each wear your most slutty outfits, with the help of your friends to look your best. The goal? Rile the other up.

Sam was often one of Bucky’s biggest migraines, but he wasn’t even mad tonight. He looked good. It wasn’t very intricate, black slacks met an unbuttoned black button down that showed off his chest. Sam said it would “make the ladies faint,” but Bucky hadn’t really been thinking of anyone but one specific person. He wore his black loafers, a silver watch, and his hair was slicked back. Looking at himself in the mirror, and Sam hovering over his shoulder, he actually smiled slightly.

“MY man! Look at you, you look like a fucking sex god or something, I swear. You’re gonna have everyone staring tonight, Buck,” Sam said. While Bucky never said it out loud, he and Sam had an understanding that it was never about everyone else. It was about you.

See, you had both been dancing around each other for too long, quiet glances and lingering touches driving you both insane. Luckily you lived on different floors because you probably would’ve seen each other post masturbation because of the other and that would’ve…. been interesting.

Nat had finished slicking your hair into a high ponytail before pulling out a few hairs to frame your face. You had both been planning this night for over a week now. You were wearing a red corset top that your tits threatened to spill out of (courtesy of nat having no restraint when tying it up, plus a nice push up bra) along with matching red makeup. You had on these tiny little black leather shorts that covered barely an enough to walk out of the house in, and you wore simple red open toed heels.

With a shared preliminary shot of vodka with Nat and the final application of your red lip gloss, you were finally ready to go. You didn’t wear underwear, fully intending to hopefully not need them, but you could still feel the arousal of seeing Bucky in your shorts.

The plan was for everyone to meet at Tony’s club of choice (who knew where, it often switched because he couldn’t afford to fuck up the same bar twice if they got too rowdy) at about 9pm. This club was known for starting early and ending late, but you hoped you wouldn’t be forced to stay that late. It’s not that you didn’t like a night of partying, but it had already been a long week.

You didn’t see Bucky when you arrived with Nat, already spying Wanda at the bar and making your way over. The three of you had another shot of vodka before moving out to the dance floor.

You never noticed him come in, but you locked eyes a few songs later from the dance floor. Your smile dropped and your eyes went wide as you saw what he was wearing. You raked your eyes down his sharp abs, down to the V and the slight start of a happy trail you could see. Before you caught yourself staring at his bulge, you flicked your eyes up to see him doing the same thing as you, stopping at your particularly short shorts and returning to your breasts before finding you already staring at him.

Nat stopped as well, thinking something was wrong, and she and Wanda looked in the direction you were staring and saw Bucky. “I see Sam and Bucky have a pretty similar idea,” Wanda said. You snapped out of it and turned to them, eyes still wide. Back to the bar you went, another shot of vodka to calm the sheer rush of your blood that felt like it was only going south.

“Doll,” you heard from behind you. The hairs on the back of your neck prickled, and you turned to see Bucky standing with his hands in his pockets. “Care to dance?” He extended his hand. You smirked. “Thought you’d never ask,” you said as you took his hand.

Nat and Wanda snickered and watched as you two made your way to the dance floor, hand in hand, before finding a spot. The music turned then to a song that made you feel even more hot and bothered than the two of you already were. You had listened to this song before, always thinking of him.

“Sorry for acting this strange,

I can't control myself

Struggling for what to say

but I could never tell”

You moved a bit closer to him, slinging your left arm over him as he gripped your waist with his viburnum arm. You sang along to it, staring right into his eyes as you felt your cunt soak at his dark eyes.

“Take me closer, take my clothes off,

oh I fantasize

If I'm honest, it's more fun when

you can't read my mind”

“Sometimes I fuck you in my head

I let you touch me when I'm lonely in my bed

I wanna scream, but hold my breath

The kinda thing that you would rather leave unsaid”

You were so close now you could feel and hear his breath. You were almost in his lap now, as close as you could be anyways, swaying your hips with the music and whispering the lyrics back at him.

“I got dirty wishes on my mind

But you will never ever know that I

I like to fuck you in my head

You make me scream when there's nobody, just the thought of your body”

You let your eyes flicker down when your thigh comes into contact with his, and you can’t miss the bulge of his hard cock. You gasp quietly, looking back up at him. His other hand joins in holding your hip.

“Sorry, I think I zoned out, can you say that again?

I, I, I am stuttering every time that I'm catching your scent”

You lean in, whispering the next lyric into his ear.

“Take me closer, take my clothes off, oh I fantasize

If I'm honest, it's more fun when you can't read my mind”

Bucky grips harder onto your hips, stopping you. He didn’t say anything as he grabbed your wrist and pulled you from the dance floor. You look back to see Nat and Wanda watching and they make a cheering gesture. They probably saw the whole thing, you realize, everyone did. Your face heated at the thought.

He led you down the back hall of the bar where no one was.“Buck- Bucky where are you-“ Bucky slammed you against the wall, almost a bit too hard, and attacked your mouth with a burning fever that immediately consumed you. You let out a soft moan at the contact, finally feeling that first hint of stimulation. When Bucky pulled back, his eyes were blown.

“I need you. Right now,” he said, breathless and certain. “But.. Buck we’re at a club. We can’t just…” you trail off, your face growing warm at the idea of doing it somewhere here. He paused for a minute before grabbing your wrist again and taking you down the hall to the bathroom. Thankfully, it was a series of large single bathrooms that you could lock. When Bucky pulled you in, he pinned you against the door again and continued his ministrations.

“Fuck- Bucky-“ you said between kisses. His tongue swirled into yours with no hesitation, very clearly marking who would be in charge in this situation. You wanted to fight back, and in many cases you would have, but the slick wetness between your thighs and the endorphins making you dizzy rendered you submissive and whiny. When he pulled away and began biting at your neck, the whimpers started. One hickey at the base of your neck, on under your jaw, one below your collar bone, even one at that little sensitive spot behind your ear. All the while, small strings of curses came from your mouth as you began to get cloudier and cloudier. You felt Bucky leave some bites on the top of your tits, but he skipped undressing your top and hooked his finger on the belt loops of your shorts.

It was then you remembered what you had done earlier: you had forgone underwear. As Bucky unbuttoned the shorts, you stuttered. “Bucky, wait. Wait I-“ But it was too late. He had already pulled them down to reveal your soaked cunt, bare from any covering. You sucked in a breath as he stilled, staring between your legs.

“Fuck…. baby….. no underwear?” His eyes flickered up to you. “Was this your plan all night?” He asked. You whimpered, trying to look away. He grabbed your chin, making you look at him. “Answer me. Were you trying to rile me up all night on purpose? Were you trying to be a slut so you could get me to fuck you stupid?” You whined again, nodding.

“Words, Doll. Or you get nothing,” he threatened, and your eyes flashed in panic. “Yes! Yes yes it was my plan all night.” Bucky smiled, but not the sweet smile you’ve grown to adore. No, this was more of a smirk, an evil and nasty smirk as he felt his dick twitch. He grabbed you by the hips and walked you to your the counter and mirror of the sink. It was a bit awkward, given the shorts around your ankles, but the submission of it just thrilled you more. You felt your slick hit your thighs.

He pushed you forward a bit, and you gripped the sides of the sink to stable yourself. You heard his belt unbuckle and his pants pull down, and in the mirror you saw his fat cock bulging from his boxers. Your eyes widened in a slight panic, but your cunt fluttered in the anticipation. One vibranium hand grabbed your ass, spreading you some, while his other hand began to tease your already soaked clit.

Your eyes shut and you groaned, already losing your mind. “Eyes open doll. Look at me in the mirror.” You whined, but looked at him as your eyes grew a bit teary. Bucky’s smile grew at your pretty teary eyes, deciding then it was his mission to make you cry on his cock. After just a minute of toying with your clit, he pulled away, gaining an angry whine from you. Before you even got a word out though, 2 fingers easily thrusted into your awaiting cunt, stretching slightly to accommodate them. His metal arm sat gripped tight on your hip.

He started slowly, or as slow as he could, stretching and teasing and trying to find that spot inside you. Once you gasped, having felt him hit it, it was over. His thrusts gained an intense amount of speed and power, your arms struggling to hold you up. Your eyes fluttered shut, but one spank to your ass from a vibranium hand fixed that. “You’ll keep your fucking eyes open, look at me. Or if you like, Princess, you can look at yourself as you lose your fucking mind on just 2 fingers.” You’ll keep whimpered and fluttered around him again, feeling the slow build of an orgasm. You weren’t all that far off before he stopped and pulled out, leaving you whining for him yet again. “Please Buck- please I was getting so close-“ and he shushes you, cooing in your ear.

“Shhhh doll it’s ok, I’ll sit you on my cock in just a second, you’ll be so full baby.” He pulled his boxers down, cock springing free with a hint of precum leaking already, and he manhandled your hips to align with him. He slid the head of his cock up and down your slit, and you fought with yourself to not let your eyes roll back as his cock tapped your clit. You kept your eyes on him, and his on you, and you maintained that contact as he aligned again with your cunt, slowly sliding in.

Bucky groaned lewdly, treasuring the slick warmth of your hole that may as well been dripping onto him. Your mouth fell open, but no sound came out as you tried to take everything he gave you. Finally fully thrusted into you, there was a brief moment of nothing but silence and your heavy breaths. His eyes bore into yours through the in the mirror as a slow, almost feral smile grew, and he began to pull out slowly. He thrusted back into you, hard, groaning again, as you struggled to keep hold of the sink. The second that first thrust hit, Bucky lost all sense of restrain.

“Fuck Doll, fuuuuck you feel- ‘ts so good princess so fucking good-“ his words becoming a bit slurred. You let out a sob, the sensation of his thick cock splitting you open and stretching you, hitting all those yummy spots, had you barely able to keep your eyes open at all. His cock almost bruising your cervix with the sheer force and deepness, but you didn’t care. You cunt clenched tightly on his fat, leaky cock as tears pricked in your eyes again. Your arms shook against the counter, threatening to give out.

“Fuck- fuck B- Buc- BUCKY PLEASE,” your orgasm grew close, the sound of your slick cunt being fucked into almost too much. You felt the sob at the back of your throat build at the same time as Bucky’s cooing filtered through your ears. “That’s it baby, that’s it. Just cum on my cock, cum like a stupid little slut for me, that’s it doll that’s it-“ and his words slurred into a mess of praises and groans. The first tear fell down your face and Bucky swore he almost lost it right then.

“FUCK- shit Bucky I- don’t stop please I’m-“ and your cunt spasmed and clenched around him, eyes fully closing, sobbing and arms giving out. His arm quickly caught you and continued to his high, cumming moments later with “Fuck doll-“

As your orgasms rode out, Bucky’s cum filled you up and he slowed. The sound of the squelching was significantly more lewd, and Bucky felt you flutter around him again. He gave an experimental thrust after stilling just to see your reaction.

You choked a gasp, another tear running down your face at the overstimulation. “Shit- ‘ts to sensitive Buck-“

“I know baby, just wanted to tease you a bit. You’re all safe, you did so good for me doll. Came so pretty for me, so fucking beautiful,” he whispered, still holding your almost shaking body up.

You whined softly at his praise, melting into him. “You were fucking amazing Buck- fucking hell,” you managed to say between breaths. He smiled, real and genuine this time, before kissing your neck gently and nuzzling into you.

“I want you to be mine, doll. Want to hold you all night and fuck you like this and then get to take care of you too. Wanna be around you all the time,” Bucky murmured in your ear in the vulnerable voice you rarely heard.

“You… actually want to be with me? Not just to fuck?” You uttered, a bit in disbelief. You had never held too tightly onto the notion that he could want you more than that.

Bucky laughed, “Doll, I’ve wanted you from the moment I met you. Please, I’ve waited too long. Please be mine.”

“Fuck yes,” you said. You turned to face him on wobbly legs, cum still dripping down your cunt. You didn’t care now, you just wanted to kiss him. It was gentle, soft, and sweet. Everything that your previous actions weren’t. You’d have time to get to that later, though. You just wanted him for now. After a moment, you nuzzled into his chest for a moment again.

“We.. should probably clean you up, baby,” Bucky said. You only laughed, nodding.

When you finally left the bathroom, you and Bucky walked together with his arm around your waist. Tony spotted this a mile away, whispering to Sam. Tony proceeded to pull out a crisp 100 bill and hand it to Sam.

He and Sam came out of nowhere, as did Wanda and Natasha, cornering you immediately. Steve was shortly behind them, everyone else not too far behind him.

“Well well well…” Sam said. You blushed, knowing the two of you had been caught.

Natasha spoke up next, “I see you two finally got your shit together. We’ve only been planning this for weeks!” You sputtered, realizing this you had never been the one to set up tonight’s plans.

“I honestly didn’t think you two had it in you just yet, I lost to Sam thanks to you two horny teenagers not being able to keep your hands off each other,” Tony said.

“Don’t care bout your money, Stark,” Bucky said, though he frankly was too happy to have you that it didn’t have much bite behind it.

“We’re just happy for you both,” Steve said. You smiled at him and said, “so are we,” as you looked up to see Bucky looking back down at you.

[libraford]

Okay!

So plastics! I took a deep dive into recycling HDPE plastics this winter because my seasonal job at the parks ended and because I knew there wasn't going to be much that I could do while I was recovering from surgery.

I'm going to talk about the process a little bit. Its not really a tutorial so much as it is just showing you the thing. The steps are uncomplicated, but they can be time consuming and there are MANY, with a high rate of failure. The good thing about the failure rate is that if you screw something up you can just melt it back down and try again.

I have been jokingly calling the processed material Amirite because once you melt it down enough times it looks like an agate. I made a separate blog about it: @adventures-in-amirite

But this process actually starts WAY back in June. As a parks person, one of our main annoyances is the amount of bottles (water, gatorade, powerade, PRIME, BodyArmor... whatever the Big American Energy Drink is right now) that get left overnight on weekends from people playing sports in our fields. 178 trash public trash cans in the city and they just leave them on the fucking ground.

When something unavoidable annoys me, I make it into a game. I learned that bottle caps are made from HDPE and LDPE plastics, which can be melted over and over again with household heating implements. So I started collecting them!

And I collected well over 300 caps over the summer. When I say it was a PROBLEM.

My seasonal job ended, which freed up a lot of time for me to experiment.

First thing I had to do was clean them.

Soak it in a mix of white vinegar and water or soap and water. Rinse, use a pressure setting on your faucet if you have one. Then let dry.

The next step is to sort all the caps into similar colors. After they're sorted, I melt all the similar colors together into a flat sheet using a panini press and parchment paper. My goal is to get the material thin enough to put it through a guitar pick punch. I like the shape of guitar picks.

I am doing it this way because this means that I can have usable thin blanks of pure color.

Any scraps smaller than the guitar pick are cut up and sorted by color into 'frit,' which is a word I'm stealing from glassworking.

Now here is where it gets fun.

I pick some colors I want to work with in both frit and guitar pick blanks and I throw them on the press to melt them together into a big multicolored slab.

Let it cool.

Here's the high failure rate part.

I put down a silicone mold. I put the colored slab on top. I put parchment paper on top. I put it in the press. I let it melt.

I try to flatten it as much as possible to fit the mold. Use a bottle, a rolling pin, a spatula.

I still get bubbles and voids when I demold. I've decided to embrace that and use rub n buff to make fill the voids with metallic colors. Still working through the kinks in the process, but I think these look cool enough.

All the scraps go back into the bin to be re-processed. It makes a kind of agate texture that's really cool, and that's what I used in that last photo.

Anyways! Applications are limited but I'm having fun experimenting with it. Hoping to approach some shops about it and sell a few, maybe do some shows this summer.

Anyways, that's how my post-op has been going.

[witherby]

chef who do you think would be the most to least willing to be the subject of mousey's makeovers? imagine like young mousey just learnt makeup and is now trying to practice the skills of makeup on someone

-🕯

Oh, fun question! Makeup is genderless, so to me that doesn't play a factor in willingness here! None of these characters' egos are going to be bruised by eyeliner.

Who's okay to endure a makeover?

Most Willing:

Bruce: he's regularly and routinely wearing a full face and airbrushing any exposed skin so that the general public doesn't see a Brucie full of battle scars. He's so used to this that he can coach you through the best application practices without looking. Beats having to do it himself.

Jason: got into makeup to cover up the J carved into his cheek. He's fine to let you doll him up a bit. Will even request certain colors for his eyes and lips.

Alfred: massive theatre nerd and former professional actor! He wore stage makeup for shows, and that stuff is thick. Of course Flittermouse can dab some blush on his cheeks and give him a smokey eye. He slays and serves every day.

Barry: why not? Uncle Bare is down for whatever, and he thinks it's really cool what sorts of designs you can put on your face. Go nuts!

Dick: He was going to ask to do your make-up first. He's so pretty he doesn't need it, but that doesn't matter. He wants to blind people with the amount of highlighter he slaps on. He needs the brightest, boldest, glitteriest look you can offer him. He graduated Top of his Cunt at the Unislaysity of Mother. Werk, bitch.

Dinah: thinks the act of doing your makeup is very soothing! She'd love to do some fun looks with you!

Indifferent to Make-up:

J'onn: could take it or leave it. Just put it on his human disguise, not his actual skin, and he'll let you do whatever you want.

Oliver: it's fine. He's also famous and wants to look nice for the cameras so he knows the song and dance with products. Just don't get it in his sorry excuse for a beard (Bruce's words) and you can do whatever you want.

Victor: It's not his favorite activity on the planet. If you're not careful, you could get product in his machine parts and that'll be a bitch to clean, but he trusts you and doesn't care if you wanna give him a matte lip and contour.

Diana: will oblige if you insist. Her skin is flawless so she's never had a need for it, but she is pretty tolerant to anything and will put up with a mascara wand in the eye if it means spending some time with you.

Tim: same as Diana. He's got a good skincare routine going on to give himself a nice, natural glow, but if you insist upon winged eyeliner and a bold, dramatic lip, he'll tell you what colors he prefers.

Unwilling to get a Makeover:

Arthur: won't go near it, even if you're toting brands that are vegan and cruelty free. Besides, there's no such thing as waterproof makeup. Water resistant, certainly, but he can't go rule Atlantis with a full beat and still come out of the water looking fresh twelve hours later. That shit's coming off.

Hal: Yeah no, it's a sensory nightmare and he's a chronic face-toucher. It's a shame because he would love to try it out and all the colors look super fun, but it will either end up smudged all over his face and hands in 30 minutes, or he'll need to tap out because it's so cold and goopy.

Clark: I think he just wouldn't like it! With his super senses it would probably feel like a big mess on his face, and he seems to be a pretty clean, meticulous person. Plus I like to think he doesn't have any pores on account of my "Kryptonians are actually lil freaks that make humans uncomfortable" headcanons, so it's not gonna lay right. If you get too close to his face he swerves into Uncanny Valley really fast, and Fenty Beauty foundation won't help with that.

Damian: not interested for the same reasons as Arthur. Big makeup companies are always doing animal testing, even if they don't explicitly advertise it. That's horrific! Get that setting powder away from him posthaste!

[bunnyrights]

TAROT INTERPRETATION - being with Choi San

six of wands + two of wands + judgement, three of wands + four of swords + page of wands

the wands?! oh he'd be all over you, first of all. he is definitely the type to hold onto a random part of your body for comfort, and not in a sexual way. while there's a mention of him taking sex very seriously as a way to be present and in tune with each other, he just really values physical closeness. he would take every moment he has away from his job to spend time together. i see while he likes bragging about who he's with, he'd be very cagey about letting fans know about your existence, or at least who you are exactly. when he's really in love, he'd let it slip often than he's with someone he adores, but his instinctive need to keep you safe would make him revert back to being vague.

he would make sure you're well taken care of, even when he's away and you can't always keep in contact. i see this stems from him knowing just how easy it would be for you to feel insecure about the relationship because the traditional things regular people do aren't applicable in yours ie hard launching on your social media, bringing you to work events, etc. he is not above flying you out to a tour stop because he misses you, and genuinely all he'd want to do is stay in bed and be in your presence. he's very sentimental about love, so when he's in it, you cannot doubt his loyalty at all. you would feel a little smug over how he talks about you in public, but even more when he's introducing you to his closest friends and family. he would feel so lucky to have bagged you, and he won't be afraid to make it known.

he would be big on reassuring you, not just with his actions and touch, but his words too. he is very conscious of how difficult it is to find a love that's for you, so he would value every moment of being with you. he values comfort and he shows his affection by making sure you're comfortable and well taken care of. he's not above using his connections to get you videos of and tickets to shows by your favourite public figures. it'd be in a way where it's not to impress you with his cultural clout, but to enthusiastically bring you the excitement he loves witnessing.

overall, he is very much someone who makes his love shown – he knows that talk is cheap, and he is not one to flatter a person in vain. he is also remarkably intuitive about how essential communication is, even about uncomfortable things that lead to arguments, because he understands that being in agreement about everything is low-key a sign of self-censorship in at least one of you. he is also absolutely the one to say i love you first, and it's because he sees no reason to be cynical about love. it's his authenticity about and in it that makes him able to pick himself up even if it doesn't end as well as he'd wished.

[lsunstreakerl]

1.2k of the scrapbook paper verse! esteban POV. this is post-outbreak (that thing where I killed off several characters) so approach with caution and your antidepressants.

It's raining outside. Esteban used to love the noise, because it meant he'd get to watch tiny sparks pop across Max's hair throughout the day, and also because he liked studying to the noise of water against the windows.

Now, he buries his head further into the pillow, wrapping the blanket across his head. He doesn't want to hear it.

He has a class to teach today. They're going to expect him to be present and helpful, the way he's supposed to be, and he can't—

His next breath is ragged, tears pricking at his eyes. He's tired of doing it alone, tired of hearing his laugh in his dreams, of feeling his heart crack into two every time he gets a small static shock.

He hates the upper limb unit. He hasn't had a good nights rest since he started the damn thing, and he'd been saving the hands for the last, like it will make things any easier.

It never does.

He shoves himself upright, slamming his palm flat onto the pillow with a frustrated cry. It's not fair.

He texts Pierre.

Estie: going to go yell at max

Estie: if I'm not in the building 10 minutes before class please come get me

Pierre: Yell at Charles for me while you're out there, please.

Estie: will do

He trudges to the closet, yanking out a sweatshirt. It's well worn, broader in the shoulders than Esteban is, and it stopped smelling like Max a long time ago. He still wears it anyways.

He pulls the hood up as he makes his way across the campus, catching one of the high speed rails. He thumbs at his ID in his pocket, the edges rounded and worn down from use.

The rail stops at the memorial, and Esteban keeps his head down as he slips in the private door, badging past where the public is allowed to access. He picks his way through rubble, eyes blurry as he gets closer to the epicenter.

The sandstone under his feet starts to get reflective as he walks, smoothing into textured glass. He thinks if he were able to detach himself from the situation, he'd probably feel the awe everyone else does.

Glassing almost an entire square mile— it's a feat that will go down in history books, under sections about the Outbreak. Under Max's name.

He can't bring himself to be impressed. All he sees in his textured reflection is that his boyfriend is dead.

He brings a hand up under the sweatshirt, wrapping his fingers around the end of his necklace. Around the ring looped across the chain, the ring he'd never known about.

The ring Daniel had pulled from Max's office and pressed into his palm, curling his fingers over it when Esteban was crying too hard to breathe, crouching next to him when he'd sunk to the floor.

Esteban had spent the next five months sleeping in Pierre's dorm. He couldn't bear going back to his own, not when it was exactly how they'd both left it.

He makes his way directly to the epicenter, lowering himself to the ground before lying on his back, staring up at the last glow of the stars above him as the sun starts to peek over the horizon.

"I hate you."

His voice is quieter than he'd meant for it to be, ragged and soft.

"We were— you asshole, we were supposed to move into our apartment, and you wanted to get a fucking cat, and we were supposed to argue about stupid shit, like the color of the curtains."

His next inhale is watery.

"And I would've wanted green, and you would've wanted blue, and you would have nagged and nagged until we compromised on some ugly color that we both hated, and I could bring it up any time I wanted to win an argument."

He swallows, and the stars blur in and out of view as tears slip down the side of his face.

"And you were supposed to bring me lunch during lecture, and I would've brought you tea in the evenings before your practical application class, and the juniors would gossip about us."

He slams a fist down weakly.

"But you're fucking dead, and you left me here alone, and I hate you."

He's gripping the ring so tightly he can feel a dull pain in his hand, but he can't bring himself to let go. He misses him so fiercely it hurts, and it hurts in a way that he can't heal, strangling around his heart and his lungs as he shifts onto his side, curling up in the epicenter.

This is the closest he feels to Max sometimes. He lays there quietly as time slips away from him, tears dripping onto the glass below him. Some days he wishes he could stay here forever, that he could switch spots, even just for a little bit— wishes he could crawl through the underworld just for the chance to bring Max back.

He wouldn't look behind him once. He's screamed it to the skies before, begging incoherently for a sign, for a chance, for a reason.

There's never been any response.

A small rock clatters across the glass behind him, and he squeezes his eyes shut. Surely it isn't Pierre yet, he hasn't lost that much time.

Something wet brushes against his forehead. He freezes, cracking one eye open slowly. Whiskers brush against his face as a kitten gingerly steps forward, sniffing where the tears have been tracing down his cheeks.

Esteban chokes on a small, half hysterical laugh.

"Hello, sweetheart."

The kitten is small, orange with two white front paws, blue eyes looking intently at him. Esteban sniffs, slowly sitting up. He's worried the cat will try and run away, but it braces its front paws on his thigh instead, sniffing at his hand.

He swallows, closing his eyes for a moment as he thumbs across the ring again, lifting it briefly from the collar of the sweatshirt to press a kiss to the metal before letting go.

"Okay. You win."

Max always wins, even from the grave. Esteban would be annoyed about it if it weren't for the fuzzy creature trying to crawl into his lap. He carefully lifts it in his hands, cradling it gingerly to his chest as he gets to his feet.

He looks down at it, heart clenching with grief as the kitten meows loudly at him. He sniffs again, eyes glancing at the sunrise as it paints a soft glow over the sky.

"I hope you like grading papers."

Another meow. There's a soft laugh bubbling in his chest, and he shakes his head as he picks his way back through the field towards the border. It's ridiculous— Max has been gone for months, and Esteban is still losing arguments to his bullheaded boyfriend.

He pauses at the edge of the field, looking back out across the glassy ground as he raises his middle finger.

"And fuck you too, Charles!"

The kitten meows in his hand, and he carefully readjusts his grip to better cradle it, pausing to snap a quick photo to send to Pierre.

Estie: [image attachment]

Estie: how am I STILL losing the cat argument

Pierre: Oh, Esteban

Pierre: Is it coming to class with you?

Estie: yes

Pierre: I'll go find a cat bed.

[pawberri]

Myths about disability in the US that I hear all the time and that are super damaging

1. If you get a diagnosis, all your doctors and employers and family members will know

No. HIPAA makes all of this super illegal and unlikely. If you’re a minor, or in a situation where your parents have access to your records that’s one thing, but if you’re an adult with legal control over yourself YOU get to choose who has access to to your medical records. When I was younger I had this idea that diagnosis and stuff went on some kind of “permanent record” that anyone with power could access, but medical records are very decentralized and you have to give permission to your care team for them to get old records from other doctors. You can literally have a different diagnostic profile with every doctor you see.

2. If you get a diagnosis you have to say you have a disability on job applications

No. If anything it’s the employer who’s in a dubious position for putting that question on a job application. If those questions serve some actual purpose it’s to see if you’re physically capable of performing the job and or for diversity hiring. In any case, you have zero legal obligation to disclose your disability and will not face repercussions for not doing so. Again, the employer has no access to your medical records.

3. Having a diagnosis makes you more likely to be institutionalized/suffer from ableism

I can’t say this is completely 100% inaccurate all the time, but for the most part you are under equal or worse risk of suffering at the hands of the system without a diagnosis. A diagnosis usually implies treatment, and can often aid in getting treatment. Having good treatment improves your quality of life and control of yourself. Having control of yourself gives you a better chance of not getting into a situation where your rights actually are stripped from you (I.e being 50150d for suicide, public psychotic breaks, etc) and having proof of treatment outside an institution actually gives you a better chance of not being held longer. Though as a bonus myth being held for more than a few days requires a court hearing and significant effort and is not a given. Going “lalala I can’t hear you” about your mental illness actually does not make life better for you.

Does any of this mean that absurd human rights abuses I can’t account for won’t and don’t happen? No. But the system does not function how many people believe and will tell you it does. Your medical records are solidly private and under your control 90% of the time. People fear monger A LOT about the fact that being disabled and diagnosed will immediately ruin your life. They do it in the name of “fighting ableism” but it’s a straight up lie. Diagnosis is not the end of your life or career. It’s a part of treatment.

[guiltyasdave]

nothing lasts forever

chapter 4 • series masterlist

pairing: Dave York x f!reader

summary: You're both worried about the prospect of you leaving soon. Also, just a lot of filth lol

word count: 5.3k

tags/warnings: explicit smut -> 18+ mdni, dbf!Dave, somewhat unhealthy relationship dynamics, dom/sub dynamics, angst, daddy issues (reader’s dad sucks big time), able-bodied reader, reader has hair that Dave grabs, no use of y/n, divorced Dave, alcohol consumption, unprotected p in v, oral (f & m receiving), rough sex, dirty talk, praise kink, degradation kink, biting, semi-public sex, orgasm denial, use of restraints, pet names, let me know if anything is missing!

a/n: co-written with my angel @joelscurls, throwing around these ideas with you is so fun, i love you <3

follow @guiltyasdavenotifs for updates and find jess’ masterlist here and my masterlist here :)

dividers by the lovely @saradika-graphics 🤍

David is becoming a problem. 

When you’re not with him, you’re texting him, having evolved from mostly suggestive messages and pictures to sharing almost every thought that pops into your heads with each other. He knows your friends’ names, your favorite subjects. You watched his favorite movie, sending him your every reaction in real time. 

When you’re not texting him, you’re thinking about him. About his broad hands, about how good he feels inside of you, about the filth he spits into your ear, but that’s not all of it. More often than not, you’re daydreaming about how good his arms feel wrapped around you, engulfing you in his scent, about the feeling of his chest when you rest your head there. About the way he sees you, hears you, makes you laugh. Makes you feel important. 

You’ve pushed the fact that you’re gonna leave again soon into a far away corner of your mind, but as the end of your break is steadily growing nearer, it’s becoming harder and harder to ignore. 

You haven’t talked about what you are to each other, but you’re not delusional enough to think that he’s gonna wait for you. Gonna visit you once every few months and exchange late night messages in the meantime, like you have some kind of future together, like he’s your boyfriend.

He already has a life, has done all the things that you have yet to experience, is miles ahead with no way for you to catch up. You know all this. Which is why it was supposed to be just one time. Until it turned into two times and now into more times than you can count and into something that has grown strings, attaching you to each other. 

No one’s ever had you before, not like this. 

You’re lost in daydreams, sometimes about the things that you’ve done together, but mostly about the things that you wish you could do. Going out together, without worrying about being seen. Cuddling up on his couch for movie nights, cooking in his kitchen, sleeping in his bed. Things that he doesn’t let you do. Because, unlike you, he hasn’t lost sight of what this is. 

You’re so deep in your thoughts, filling the days when you don’t see David with nothing but fantasies about him, that even your father notices. The resulting lecture about focussing on your studies, working on job applications, and to under no circumstances become lazy over the break, washes over you. You nod obediently, promise to get right back to it, not bothering with excuses that you know he won’t listen to. Then you retreat back into your daydreams. 

Dave has fallen into the pit much deeper than he had planned to, deeper than he had thought possible, honestly. He’s in his forties, not some lovesick schoolboy, but that’s exactly what he feels like. 

Once he’s started seeing you regularly, talking to you, thinking about you, he finds himself unable to stop. He likes talking to you, likes the way you actually listen to him, the way you seem to care about every single thing that he has to say. You’re funny, and smart, and quite frankly the only person that he really likes being around these days. Seeing your eyes light up when you tell him about your interests, laughing about the way you almost constantly outsmart him, knowing the person that you can be when you feel safe enough for it, with him, has his heart clenching in his chest. 

He still can’t shake the knowledge that what he’s doing is wrong, the feeling that he’s taking advantage of you. You’re the vulnerable one and he’s the adult and he should be the one who makes reasonable decisions. For both your sake’s. It’s just– you make him happy.

He can’t quit, not when you look at him with those wide eyes, your lashes fluttering, so often flustered about the things he says to you, the things he makes you do. Not when you remain so open and trusting of him, so willing to please. It’s a heady feeling and he can’t seem to let go of it. 

You have plans this Friday, something about drinks and dancing with your friends, and you roll your eyes at him telling you to be safe, but there’s something else too, a sadness below the surface that gives him pause. He briefly wonders if your father doesn’t make you promise the same thing every time you go out. Probably not, he bitterly thinks to himself. 

He doesn’t necessarily dislike Jim, not really. Jim hasn’t been a bad friend to him, not in the way that Dave is with what he’s doing. He just can’t witness the way you’re being treated and like him, either.

“Do you want me to pick you up? You can stay over if you want.” 

He had been battling himself on this one, but he doesn’t think he can go through a repeat of the last time you were out late and couldn’t go home. He watches your eyes grow almost comically wide on his phone screen. 

“Y–you would do that?” 

He knows you’re thinking back on the last time too, on how he turned you down and he hates how small your voice sounds once again. 

“Of course, sweetheart. Just call me, okay?” 

You nod eagerly, thanking him profusely, a smile slowly growing on your face in unison with the warmth in his chest. 

A little after 2 AM you do call him, all giggly and sweet and just fucking adorable. 

His heart swells when he sees you stepping out of the club, hugging your friends goodbye and exuberantly waving in the direction of his car before you make your way over. Your heels are clicking against the pavement and he can’t keep his eyes off your approaching figure. Off the way your dress is hugging your body so tightly, off the expanse of your bare legs, and least of all off your beaming smile that only grows when you can make out his face behind the car window. 

“Hi David,” you giggle, plopping into the seat and pulling him into a kiss almost instantly. You’re rarely bold like this, letting him take the initiative, but he likes this, likes how uninhibitedly you want him right now. Your mouth tastes sweet when your tongue flicks against his, a combination of fruity cocktails and the remnants of your lipgloss. 

When you finally part, you’re panting, your lips are already swollen and your pupils blown wide. His cock twitches with interest at the sight. 

“Let’s get you home,” he suggests, not missing the way your lips part wider at the breathless husk of his voice. You nod wordlessly, eyes still glued to his face. 

As he starts driving, you’re fidgeting in your seat, stealing glances at him, biting your lip. 

“What is it, baby?” 

You avert your eyes, teeth digging deeper into the soft cushion of your lips. Still so shy for him. He raises an eyebrow, throwing you a hard glance. 

“Tell me.”

The short display of dominance is enough to force a whimper up your throat. You gingerly reach out towards him, running your hand over the curve of his belly before you cup his length through his sweatpants. He sucks in a breath, rapidly hardening under your touch. 

“I want to– I want to suck your cock. Please.” Your voice is barely above a whisper, all soft and needy.

Chuckling, he grinds his hips up into your touch.

“Of course you do. Such a desperate little whore for me, aren’t you?”

He does his best to appear unimpressed, to play up that persona that he knows gets you both off so much. Still, his cock is already rock hard, leaking at your eager nod in response to his words, at how much you want him. You look so gorgeous right now, your sparkly skirt slowly inching up your thighs, and there’s no doubt in his mind that you could have had anyone in that club. And yet, here you are, begging to suck him off. 

He relaxes deeper into his seat, reaches out to fist one hand in your hair and tug you closer.

“Well, if you need it that badly. Fucking greedy.” 

You whimper again, louder this time. Your body is pliant under his touch, following the direction of his hand pushing your head down to the pronounced bulge in his lap. With your fingers sneaking under the waistband, you throw him a cautious glance. 

“Can I–?”

The proud smile he gives you in response has you glowing.

“Go ahead. Good girl for asking.”

He raises his hips slightly to help you slide his sweats down enough to let his cock spring free. You audibly moan at the sight, and it drives him wild, to elicit this reaction from you. 

Your mouth sinks down on him eagerly, enveloping him in wet heat, and it takes everything in him to keep his eyes and at least part of his focus on the road. He feels the way you’re squirming, can picture the way your thighs must be rubbing against each other right now. 

You swirl your tongue around his head before you start sucking, and he hisses through his teeth, his hold on your hair tightening further. 

“Fuck,” he groans, head falling back against the headrest. “You’re so fucking good, baby.” 

You whine in response, sinking your head down further, until he’s nudging at your throat. 

When Dave pulls up to his building, he’s already embarrassingly close to coming. Reduced to nothing but burning want by your mouth within mere minutes. 

You’re insatiable as he’s leading you up the stairs to his apartment, hands frantically grabbing at him. He tuts at you, but there’s no bite behind it. 

Once the door falls shut behind you, you’re on him, your lips seeking his out with heated intensity. You only pull back when he tugs your hair sharply, forcing you to look at him. You look wrecked, your lips still swollen and tears sticking to your lashes, pure desire written all over your face. It gives him an idea. 

Grabbing your shoulders, he turns you around abruptly. You whine in protest at losing the proximity to his mouth, but still obey willingly, letting him direct your body until he has you in front of the full length mirror in his hallway. 

You’re a vision, watching with wide eyes as he looms behind you, his fingers trailing over your scantily clad body. Your ass presses against his front, grinding against the hardness of his cock when he circles your nipples over the fabric. A high pitched whine escapes you and your eyes slip closed, your head falling back to rest against his shoulder. 

He clicks his tongue, his hand finding the back of your head and forcing it up again. Your eyes flutter back open and your brow furrows in mild confusion. 

“Watch,” he purrs into your ear. “Watch how beautiful you are, all desperate for me.”

You gulp, but your gaze obediently meets his in the mirror. He smirks, the corners of his mouth curling upwards as he wraps one hand around your throat. Only applying a hint of pressure, but you melt into him, your eyes glued to your reflection.

“Look at you,” he coos, his grip tightening. He nips at your earlobe, relishes in your responding shudder. “Want you to see how beautiful you are.” 

You nod weakly, and he knows how far away you already are, how hazy with pleasure you get when he has you like this. Still holding onto your throat, his other hand splays over your upper thigh, causing the hem of your dress to inch up higher and higher as his fingers dig into the supple flesh. He lets his hand climb, expecting to find your panties soaked with your arousal, but instead he’s met with nothing but bare skin, coated with your slick. He can’t stop the growl building up in his chest and you grind against him harder.  

“Fuck, have you been like this all evening? Whoring yourself out, huh?” 

It doesn’t bother him, at all. The idea of you surrounded by people, with nothing underneath that little skirt, and still patiently waiting for him, has his blood running hotter. He feels you swallow under his palm, feels the movement of your throat as you try to form words, the small shake of your head. 

“T–took them off. After I called you.” You bite your lip, your pleading stare searching his reflection. “I wanted to be ready for you.” 

Dave’s head falls forward at that, his groan muffled against the soft skin where your neck meets your shoulder.

“Good girl,” he sighs, lips moving against your body. “You’re such a good girl.”

His fingers toy with you, featherlight touches caressing your cunt, giving you only the tiniest bit of friction. When he brushes over your clit, you respond with a needy little sound, akin to a sob, that goes straight into his cock. Rutting his hips against yours, his touches get more intense, fingers nudging at your entrance. 

“Please,” you whine, your eyes falling shut once more as you get lost in his touches. 

“Nuh-uh,” Dave tuts, his fingers pausing their ministrations. Landing a slap on your clit instead, one that has you jolting in his arms. Would have probably made you scream too, if he wasn’t holding your throat so tightly. “Thought I told you to watch. If you can’t listen, I’ll stop.” 

You sob again, desperation lacing the sound, but you force your eyes back towards the mirror. He sinks two fingers into you while his thumb swirls over your clit. Your lips part in a loud moan, your frame trembling against him. 

“Look at how good you are for me. Watch yourself falling apart for me,” he grits into your ear, tightening the hold on your throat, forcing you to the edge with his touches. 

Your breath catches, your pupils dilate, before you both watch you shatter around his fingers. Your knees buckle, body collapsing into him. He holds you tightly, helping you ride out your high, transfixed by the image of you, falling apart for him so beautifully.

When you come down, he turns you around in his arms, lips seeking each other out, a mess of tongues and teeth. Devouring each other. He wants you like this, this close, this open. His. Always his. 

“Come here,” he murmurs against your lips, tugs you into his side and holds you close as he finally, finally opens his bedroom door for you. 

He should have done this sooner, he thinks to himself, as you’re on top of him, your gorgeous tits bouncing with every movement. Should have had you in every possible position, should have let your presence fill every corner of his place, should have committed it all to memory. 

He knows that the image of your head on his pillow, drifting off into sleep with a content smile on your face, will be burned into his mind forever, even after you’re long gone. He wouldn’t want it any other way.

“Shit!” 

Dave stirs awake to your voice, frantic and nervous now, so different from the sounds he pulled from you mere hours ago. You’re sitting beside him, hunched over your phone.

“What’s going on?” he asks, inching closer to you, one hand rubbing over your back in an effort to soothe you. 

You wordlessly turn your phone screen towards him. It takes him a few moments of squinting before he’s able to make out that you’re showing him your message thread with your father. Several missed calls, several messages demanding to know why you’re not home. 

“But–” He furrows his brow, his brain only slowly kicking into gear. “Did he not know you were going out?”

“He did,” you murmur, eyes still glued to the device in your hand. “I’m just gonna–”

You tap the screen and hold the phone to your ear, anxiety still painting your face. Dave sits up beside you, unsure of what to do. You’re both feeling it, he thinks, the sudden realization of how fragile this thing is that you have. How quickly it could go up in flames around you. 

He doesn’t agree with Jim on a lot of things, but he can’t stop his mind from thinking about his own girls, about how quickly they’re growing up. About how, in a few years’ time, the roles could be reversed. How murderous he’d be if he ever found himself in a similar situation.

“Where the fuck are you?” your father’s voice barks through the speaker immediately when he picks up, interrupting Dave’s train of thought. 

You flinch at his tone, your shoulders hunching forward. 

“I went out with Jess and Kristen last night. I– I told you.”

He huffs, a dismissive sound. 

“That’s not what I asked, is it?”

Biting your lip, you shoot Dave a wide-eyed glance. He reaches forward, hand coming to rest on your knee, desperate to comfort you in some way. 

“You– last time you said you didn’t want me to come home drunk, so I figured I’d just stay over–”

Your father interrupts you with a loud sigh, like you’re making him carry the weight of the world on his shoulders. Dave silently watches you deflate further.

“You realize that we wouldn’t need to have this conversation if you didn’t get plastered every weekend, right?”

“I’m not–”

“I don’t know why I’m spending all this money on your education when you act like you can just waste it. That’s not how I raised you.”

“I’m on–” Defiance sparks in your eyes for a split second before you exhale sharply, your head bowing down. “I know. I’m sorry dad, I’ll be home soon, I promise.”

Without bothering with a goodbye, your father hangs up. You stare at your phone for a second, sighing deeply. 

When your eyes find Dave’s again, they are flooded with shame. 

“Sorry you had to hear that,” you whisper. You’re concealing it well, but he’s seen and heard enough of you by now to recognize the slight wobble in your voice. “He’s right, I shouldn’t have… I’ll just get going.”

You sit up straighter, scrabbling to get out of his bed, your knee slipping away from his touch. 

“Sweetheart–” 

David’s voice is raspy, still thick with the remnants of sleep. He reaches for you, one arm wrapping around you and pulling you into his chest. You feel so safe, so comforted in his embrace, sinking deeper into it immediately. He kisses the crown of your head and it takes everything in you to not start crying. 

You don’t want him to see you like this, to experience first-hand how incapable you are of standing up for yourself. None of this can possibly be what he desires from a relationship, from a woman. 

“You did nothing wrong,” he mutters into your hair. 

You don’t know if you agree. You’re being selfish. Too reckless for your own good, too quick to believe that nothing would go wrong, that there’s no way your father could find out what you’re doing. And you’re pulling David down with you. 

You believe that he likes you, that he enjoys being with you. You have to believe that. But in moments like this, you wonder if a part of why he keeps meeting you is that he pities you. 

Shrugging him off, even as your heart is screaming at you to sink deeper into his touch, you get up and start getting dressed.

“I can drive you home,” he offers softly, his eyes following your every movement. 

When you look up at him, you could swear that you see something like hurt on his features. You’re probably mistaken though. It’s much more likely that he’s just annoyed with the sudden complications that being with you brings.

“No,” you murmur, your voice thankfully more steady than before. “That would be… suspicious, I guess. I’ll just call an Uber.” 

He hugs you tightly before you leave, slotting his lips over yours. They always sting, the small goodbyes. Especially knowing that they’re gonna evolve into one big goodbye soon.

At home, an extended version of the lecture your father already gave you over the phone awaits you. You let it wash over you, nod at the right times, apologize over and over, promise to do better. No point in arguing.

Only a few more weeks.

Before David, that prospect would have filled you with joy. Now, it’s not that simple anymore.

Once Dave’s had you in his bed, he’s addicted to it just like every other facette of you. You’re reluctant to sleep over again, always slipping from his arms eventually, and while he understands, he hates it. 

Still, he has you in it as often as he can. The golden hue of the late afternoon sun is falling through the open blinds, bathing the room in warm light, painting your skin with it. Another image to add to his collection of memories. Another image that he hopes will never fade.

You’re writhing underneath him, spread out over his sheets, your fingers digging into the fabric in a desperate attempt to ground yourself. He loves when you get like this. All rational thoughts blown from your mind, your focus solely on him. On his touches, his commands, his wishes. 

No one else makes you feel like this, no one else has ever shown you pleasure like this. Only him.

He wants to make you happy, but he doesn’t know if you’d let him. He also wants to drag you down with him. That, he suspects, you would let him do.

“Please, David,” you whimper, tears already brimming in your eyes. He’d been teasing you for what felt like an eternity. Positioned you the way he wanted, your hands over your head and your legs spread wide to fit him between your thighs, and told you to not move.

He has kissed his way from your lips down your neck, his teeth digging gently into the skin, then further down to where your breasts were heaving with your breathing. He’s sucked one nipple into his mouth and pinched the other between his fingers, making you keen and arch off the mattress, pushing your body closer into his touch. 

His responding chuckle and the way he shushed you, his lips still moving against your skin, drove you wild with desire. 

His mouth had continued traveling down your body, stopping between your legs where you could feel his breath ghosting against your feverish skin, his teeth nipping at you. It all felt so so good, but not enough, never enough, the need to feel him inside of you nearly overwhelming. 

But he hadn’t budged, alternating between gentle kisses and stinging bites, pulling whines and moans from your throat in an almost constant stream. 

Your hands had moved down on their own accord, fingers twisting into the strands of his hair, trying to pull his face up to yours. Trying to get him to finally, finally fuck you.

He growls at that and leans back onto his haunches, regarding you with burning eyes. His hands come up to his tie, the first piece of clothing that he takes off. He’s still fully dressed, impeccable as always, while you’re bare before him, no doubt already looking thoroughly ruined. It’s such an obvious display of power and it never fails to make your head dizzy with need.

He undoes the tie and leans towards you again, gathering your wrists in one of his large hands, his fingers easily wrapping around them. 

“Disobedient today, are we?” he smirks, clicking his tongue. “I taught you better than that.”

His condescending tone is enough to cause another wave of slick to flood your pussy and you whine, your eyes trained on his handsome face above you. 

“I’m s–sorry, it just– it feels so good.”

“I know it does, sweetheart,” he coos, gently placing a kiss on your pouting lips. “Still– looks like I need to teach you a lesson, hm?” 

Your wide eyes and your timid, obedient little nod have his cock straining against his pants. 

If he could, he’d keep you forever, just like this. In his bed, his to touch, his to hold, his to defile. His, his, his.

You let him pull your wrists higher up the bed, like a doll that he can move however he likes. The tie’s fabric is soft between his fingers. He holds it up to your face, sees the glimmer of excitement in your eyes.

“Kiss it,” he demands, pushing it closer to your mouth. 

You hesitate for just a second before you raise your head to obediently connect your lips with the piece of dark blue fabric. 

“Good girl.”

The corners of your lips raise at the praise, the warmth of your smile washing over him. He’s gonna make this so fucking good for you. You crane your neck, watching eagerly as he wraps the tie around your wrists and connects it to his headboard, securing the knots until your hands are sufficiently trapped over your head. 

“Now what did I tell you?”

You shudder at his tone, pouting up at him, a small crease between your brows. 

“Y–you told me not to move.” 

“I did,” he nods, casually flicking your nipples hard enough that he knows it’s gonna send pinpricks of pain through you. Just the way you like it. Your responding wail doesn’t disappoint, and neither does the way you’re writhing underneath him, trying to grind your dripping cunt against his thighs, but to no avail. 

“Please, I’m sorry, please David–” 

He shakes his head, presses another chaste kiss to your lips before he pulls back. 

“You need to learn to be patient. To do what you’re told.” 

You nod silently, biting your lip while you watch him moving down your body again, until his head is situated between your thighs again. 

“Now, don’t move.” 

He knows that you’re trying, trying so hard to be good when he starts kissing your inner thighs. Knows that you want to move, want to chase the pleasure that he’s kept just out of your reach for so long already. But you’re not, your body almost vibrating with the effort. Because he fucking told you to. Because that’s all it takes.

He licks into you, savoring your taste, savoring the sweet sounds that you reward him with. Alternating between tongueing through your folds and sucking your clit into his mouth, he watches you closely, keeping an eye on your every reaction, waiting to drive you right to that point. 

He knows when you’re close, feels you tensing up, hears the higher pitch of your moans. He keeps you right there, balancing you on that edge. Then he pulls away. Your whine is downright pitiful, a broken sound of desperation that feeds deep into his own arousal. 

“Patience,” he reminds you, stealing a glance up at your face. Tears are brimming from your eyes, but when you catch his gaze, your lips still curl into a smile. Reminding him that you love this game, just as much as he does. 

He builds you up until you’re at the brink of an orgasm two more times, only to let you down again and again. You’re openly sobbing, but keeping still, just like he asked. Patient.

When he finally sinks his cock into you, the sound of him moving through your wetness is downright obscene. It’s heavenly, how hot and slick you are around him, engulfing him tightly. He grits his teeth, forcing himself to go slow. To tease you just a little bit longer. 

Pure bliss overtakes you when David finally thrusts into you. He’s still moving torturously slow, giving you nothing more than shallow thrusts. It doesn’t matter, the stretch of him breaching you almost enough to get you to your climax. Almost.

Before he notices, more tuned into your body than you had thought possible. Before he stills completely, raises an eyebrow at you, almost challenging you to protest. You don’t, determined to prove yourself. 

“What do you say, sweetheart?” 

“Thank you for teaching me patience, David,” you whimper, pouting up at him. You must be a sight by now, your face streaked with tears and your expression most likely as fucked out as you feel.

“Exactly,” he growls. Then he really starts fucking you. 

Each thrust hits almost impossibly deep inside of you, making you see stars behind your eyelids. The coil of your orgasm is already wrapped around you, having been tightened again and again, ready to snap at any second. 

David swipes his thumb over your clit, applying just a hint of pleasure. It’s enough to catapult you straight into your climax.

It rolls over you like a storm, waves a pleasure crashing over you, feeling like they’ll never let you up again. You’re only just coming down, breathless moans falling from your mouth with each of his thrusts as he’s fucking you right through it, never letting up. 

“Give me another one,” he pants, wild eyes trained on your tear-stained face. “Right now. I know you can.” 

His fingers stay on your clit, rubbing over the bundle of nerves while his cock keeps hammering into you, forcing you right back to the edge. It’s like you’re falling apart at the seams, your body disintegrating, melting into the sheets. 

“Good girl. Good fucking girl,” David grunts above you, his jaw clenched, eyes burning into yours, the only thing tethering you to reality right now. 

He stills, his cock buried deep inside of you, shudders running through his body, before he collapses on top of you. He holds you close, one hand quickly working to undo the knots around your wrists, before he pulls you into him, placing kisses all over your face. 

“I’ve never–” he begins, but pauses, like he’s not sure how to phrase it. He doesn’t have to. You know. 

“Me neither,” you murmur, pressing your face into his neck. You want to breathe him in, want that warmth, that feeling of being safe with him to envelop you. 

It has gotten darker, barely any light falling into the room from outside anymore. Eventually, you stretch out your body on top of the bed, relishing in the sweet burn of soreness that David has left in you. 

“How would you feel about pizza?” he asks from beside you, looking down at you with a fond smile. It’s so easy, to imagine this as your everyday life. 

“I’d feel amazing,” you yawn, finally untangling your limbs from the sheets. 

He places the order while you traipse around, putting your underwear back on and using the bathroom, before you crawl back into bed beside him, curling yourself around his still naked body. He wraps an arm around you, starts drawing shapes on your back with his fingers.

A knock raps against wood, much quicker than you both expected. 

“I’ll get it,” you say, since you’re at least wearing underwear already. You’re moving towards David’s front door, pulling on his discarded work shirt to appear at least somewhat decent and looking for his wallet. 

“Hey David, where’s your–” you shout in the direction of the bedroom, opening the door in expectation of being met with the sight of some grumpy delivery guy. The words die on your tongue. 

Instead, you stare straight into your father’s stony expression. 

.........hehe

come yell at me, it would bring me a lot of joy lol

[byuno-o]

ASTRO OBSERVATIONS I'VE OBSERVED.

NOTE: THESE ARE ANECDOTAL OBSERVATIONS; HENCE MIGHT NOT BE APPLICABLE TO EVERYONE. READERS' DISCRETION IS ADVICED, AND THIS IS FOR ENTERTAINMENT.

I have read somewhere that the degree you have on your sun sign is the most important degree off all, along with your rising sign. I am trying to look for the writer, if you might know them, do let me know. So, I have my sun in 23 degree, and I am 23 years old. A lot of things are getting weird and real for me this year. First of all, I am a huge people's person--you know, having many groups of friends and can't stay alone, I have stopped connecting with people since January. I feared voicing my opinions out loud, look at me, posting my stories and observations online and debating with a small group of friend on socially relevant topic. I used to laze around a lot, but I work almost every hour--and sleep for only 3-4 hours everyday and feel energized just thinking about finishing projects.

Regarding the degree of your rising sign, you'll go through a huge public change in the age your degree is in. It also tell the kind of power you might exude in the world.

Your mars is always going to help you during the times when you think you're alone. Try to learn more about it. I have mars in Libra in 7th house, and in times of need, despite never asking for help, i always end up with people who appear like angels--suddenly and only for help.

While your signs tell a lot about the what and when, when it comes to the houses, the degrees will tell you a lot about how. For example, a friend of mine has capricorn degree in Aries in first house, and although she is a go-getter, she is ruthless and very practical. She does not have the ill-temperament of an aries, unlike my other capricorn friend who is a total opposite of her. My other friend has her sun sign in a virgo degree. Her criticism hurts first but makes sense. And the self- talk she has with herself is diabolical.

Although I am pisces rising, almost nobody has ever talked about my eyes, but so many people do love my hands and feet--tell me I got cute feet and hands. Hehehehe.

I will always trust a virgo to go with a no-makeup, makeup look. They just look so ethereal, it almost hurts. My friend who has a virgo stellium in her 9th house looks like an angel. While her cousin has aries and pisces combination you bet, I got a RIhanna for a friend--not the looks but the personality.

My aquarius friend is the most humanitarian person i've ever met. She always participates in rallies, and debates and donates for ngos and everything. She makes me happy. People should be like her--world will become a beautiful place for future generation.

Almost all Leos hate copy cats, since their extraness--even the introverted ones have a unique extraness to them, makes them them. But they have to deal with copy cats at least once in their life, so they can uncover other aspects of themselves.

Pisces, if unevolved, can be manipulative, and can harm themselves. I have pisces friend who almost never accept credits for her hardwork, and always compares herself to others just so we can validate her.

Same goes for an unevovled scorpio sun. Do let me know if I wrong.

On the brighter side, Scorpio and Pisces are the most giving people I've ever met. They just makes my day better with their presence when they are not acting weird, of course.

I have immense respect for Capricorns and Virgos. They know how to keep business and personal life separate.

But they are very very sneaky. If they don't like you, you won't even know. They'd just cut ties with no explanation--communication problems. But they are confrontational when it comes to the hurt others have inflicted on them. Communication problems are what they need to work on in order for their loved ones to understand them, which actually might help them with their low self-esteem. You just cannot tell me, they don't suffer from that.

Gemini people are either the most intelligent person in the room, or the dumbest one--there's no in-between. My brother is a gemini who is very tech savvy, and created half of my tech related stuff without proper guidance or youtube. On the other hand, two of my school friends who were gemini, had problems with understanding basic stuff and we'd always help them after teachers left, and they'd feed with homemade food. I miss them.

Anyway, that's all for today. Do let me know what you think about these observations and yeah, let's discuss. I am learning about lilith placements and my friends are nice enough to let me read their charts.