#to understand someone not theoretically but practically

[no1cutiepatootie]

have you ever wanted warmest shade of orange hearts on a brain emoji

[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."

[the-cosmic-cauldron]

␈𝕐𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕄𝕖𝕣𝕔𝕦𝕣𝕪 𝕊𝕚𝕘𝕟: 𝕐𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕄𝕚𝕤𝕔𝕠𝕞𝕞𝕦𝕟𝕔𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟␈

Welcome to 10 Days, 10 Posts from The Cosmic Cauldron! Over the next ten days, I’ll be sharing a blend of astrology and tarot posts, each designed to spark your curiosity and guide your journey. If you find my content interesting, fascinating, or engaging, be sure to click the follow button for more! Ready to dive deeper into your personal journey? Head to my homepage and book a reading — you won’t regret it.

𝗔𝗿𝗶𝗲𝘀 𝗠𝗲𝗿𝗰𝘂𝗿𝘆

For you, miscommunication often arises because when you speak, you’re not fully processing information beforehand. Instead, you focus on getting your thoughts out as they come, without much prior reflection or memorization. As a result, when you’re speaking, you need others to truly listen and give you space to express yourself.

The issue arises when people interrupt your train of thought. Once interrupted, you may lose your thoughts entirely, which can lead to frustration. You tend to be a dominant speaker, and if others don’t recognize or respect that, they might unintentionally treat the conversation as more collaborative or interruptive, which conflicts with your communication style.

When this happens, it can anger or frustrate you, sometimes even to the point of withdrawing from the conversation entirely. Miscommunication occurs because, as a dominant speaker, you need the “mic” to yourself. Sharing or competing for the spotlight while speaking can be overwhelming and make you reluctant to engage further.

𝗧𝗮𝘂𝗿𝘂𝘀 𝗠𝗲𝗿𝗰𝘂𝗿𝘆

The issue with miscommunication for people with Taurus Mercury is that they often have a very fixed state of mind and are resistant to change. When others approach them in conversation, they are usually focused on sharing their perspective and trying to open the other person’s mind to their way of thinking. However, they don’t have the same openness to hearing and considering someone else’s perspective.

When people engage with someone with Taurus Mercury, they may initially find them intelligent, insightful, and full of interesting ideas and beliefs. This can make them seem appealing to talk to. Taurus Mercury individuals often enjoy sharing their thoughts and beliefs, but they are less inclined to truly listen or be open to other viewpoints.

This stems from their conviction that their beliefs are the truth—they see them as practical, grounded, and effective. They’re not particularly interested in hearing or debating someone else’s perspective. Conversations with a Taurus Mercury are not about mutual understanding or relatability; they are about the Taurus Mercury individual expressing their thoughts.

If you’re seeking relatability or open-minded dialogue, you’re unlikely to find it with someone with this placement. They want to share their beliefs, not necessarily engage in a give-and-take conversation. If you agree with them, the conversation will likely flow easily. However, if you hold a differing perspective, they may shut down, either overtly or subtly. Even if they appear to be listening, they are often not truly internalizing what is being said.

In summary, Taurus Mercury individuals are more interested in sharing their fixed ideas than opening their minds to others. Conversations will feel smoother if you align with their beliefs, but challenging their perspective can lead to resistance and miscommunication.

𝗚𝗲𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗶 𝗠𝗲𝗿𝗰𝘂𝗿𝘆

Gemini Mercury individuals do not like to feel boxed in or confined, especially when it comes to their thoughts and mental processes. They are naturally open-minded and enjoy being around different people, engaging in conversation, and socializing. Socializing is integral to who they are—they thrive in dynamic, interactive environments.

However, miscommunication often arises because Gemini Mercury individuals have a free-flowing and theoretical way of thinking. They don’t like to solidify their ideas into concrete beliefs; instead, they enjoy exploring concepts and letting their thoughts evolve. This can lead to frustration when others misinterpret their exploratory thinking as fixed opinions.

For example, if a Gemini Mercury expresses a theory, shares an idea, or explores a specific train of thought, and someone tries to define or box them into that idea, they can become annoyed. To a Gemini Mercury, this feels like an attack on their freedom of expression. They value their ability to think and speak fluidly, and they don’t appreciate being tied to a single perspective or labeled based on one thing they’ve said.

It’s important to understand that when a Gemini Mercury speaks, they are often expressing themselves from multiple perspectives, not necessarily from their own personal stance or a definitive belief. Miscommunication happens when others take what they say as a fixed opinion or part of their identity.

To maintain harmony with a Gemini Mercury, you must allow them the freedom to explore ideas without pinning them down. They are not speaking to define themselves—they are speaking to share thoughts and theories in a fluid and open-ended way.

𝗖𝗮𝗻𝗰𝗲𝗿 𝗠𝗲𝗿𝗰𝘂𝗿𝘆

For Cancer Mercury individuals, miscommunication often arises because you unconsciously absorb the emotions of the person you’re speaking with. This emotional absorption can deeply influence the way you communicate, sometimes without you even realizing it. As a result, you may lose your sense of identity in conversations.

For example, if someone approaches you feeling sad, distraught, disappointed, or hurt, you may begin to absorb those emotions, even though they aren’t your own. Once this happens, it becomes difficult for you to stay grounded in your own thoughts and feelings. Cancer Mercury often struggles to maintain a sense of self in conversations because of the constant absorption of others’ emotional states.

When you internalize another person’s emotions, you may start to question your own thoughts and feelings. You can lose touch with your inner voice, as their emotions overpower your own. This leads to speaking from a place that is overly attuned to their emotional state, which can make you empathetic and compassionate but also leave you feeling ungrounded.

Socializing for extended periods can become overwhelming because you’re so deeply entwined with others’ emotional energy. Even if someone feels excited, you might mirror their excitement without truly feeling it yourself. Over time, this makes it challenging to discern your own emotions and establish your identity in communication.

This dynamic creates frequent miscommunication because, in conversations, you’re often responding to the other person’s emotions, thoughts, and energy rather than expressing your own. Instead of offering your authentic perspective, you may unintentionally mirror theirs, giving them a reflection of their own energy rather than a genuine exchange.

After the conversation ends and you’ve stepped away from their energy, you might realize you didn’t say what you truly wanted to. This can leave you feeling frustrated or disconnected from yourself. As a result, many Cancer Mercury individuals find themselves reaching out later—calling or texting the person to express what they truly feel once they’ve reconnected with their own emotions and thoughts.

Understanding this tendency can help you stay more grounded in your own energy during conversations, ensuring your voice is heard while still offering your natural empathy and compassion.

𝗟𝗲𝗼 𝗠𝗲𝗿𝗰𝘂𝗿𝘆

For Leo Mercury individuals, communication often revolves around a desire for importance and validation. Much like Aries Mercury, Leo Mercury likes to “hold the mic” during conversations. They thrive when they feel their words are being valued, and if they don’t sense importance in what they’re saying, they are likely to withdraw from the conversation. This can sometimes make them appear less talkative than they actually are.

To a Leo Mercury, communication is a performance, and every interaction becomes a stage. They want to be heard, focused on, and taken seriously. If the listener is distracted or disinterested, Leo Mercury will likely shut down. Their pride makes it difficult for them to engage when they feel ignored, and not being heard can be genuinely hurtful for them.

Leo Mercury is also highly sensitive in communication because their sense of self-expression is tied to validation and reciprocity. They need to feel that their words are not just acknowledged but respected and appreciated. As dominant speakers, they command attention in a way that is distinct—they need others to focus fully on them and show genuine interest in their thoughts.

Their belief system is another cornerstone of their communication style. Leo Mercury individuals are confident in their ideas and see their beliefs as extensions of their identity. They view their beliefs as truths—practical, real, and essential to their personal success. When someone disagrees with them, they often take it personally, as though their identity is being challenged.

This dynamic can lead to miscommunication, as Leo Mercury individuals are often more interested in asserting their perspective than engaging in mutual dialogue. They can be fixed in their opinions, prioritizing validation over open exchange. While they aren’t necessarily closed-minded, they want their beliefs to be affirmed and their thoughts to be celebrated.

A key misunderstanding about Leo Mercury is that, while they are confident and steadfast in their ideas, they still crave validation and approval. They want others to agree with their beliefs, compliment their thinking, and show enthusiasm for their ideas. To feel fully engaged in a conversation, they need energy, focus, and acknowledgment from their audience. Anything less may leave them feeling unfulfilled or unheard.

𝗩𝗶𝗿𝗴𝗼 𝗠𝗲𝗿𝗰𝘂𝗿𝘆

For Virgo Mercury individuals, miscommunication often stems from their unique way of processing and expressing thoughts. They don’t think like others because their focus is on finding the most efficient and effective way to communicate or solve a problem. They prioritize what they perceive as “perfection” in their communication and thinking.

Virgo Mercury prefers to speak in concrete, factual terms rather than relying on personal opinions. They like to inform others with precise and accurate information, avoiding superficial or speculative conversations. They are unlikely to engage in discussions about topics they don’t fully understand, haven’t researched, or have only heard bits and pieces about. For them, it’s essential to feel confident and correct in what they say.

As a result, conversations that revolve around gossip, overly opinionated statements, or incomplete information can frustrate them. These kinds of discussions often feel impractical and pointless to Virgo Mercury, leading them to stay quiet. This tendency to speak only when they feel it’s truly necessary or meaningful can make them appear shy or withdrawn.

In reality, Virgo Mercury individuals aren’t necessarily reserved—they simply don’t see the value in entertaining conversations that lack depth or purpose. To them, talking without substance or clarity serves no real function, so they prefer to save their words for moments when they can contribute something concrete and worthwhile.

𝗟𝗶𝗯𝗿𝗮 𝗠𝗲𝗿𝗰𝘂𝗿𝘆

For Libra Mercury individuals, miscommunication often arises from their preference for one-on-one conversations. They thrive in intimate settings where they can connect deeply with another person. Group conversations, however, are much more challenging for them. This is because Libra Mercury relies heavily on relatability to engage in meaningful dialogue.

When speaking one-on-one, a Libra Mercury can focus entirely on the other person, finding common ground and building a connection. However, in group settings, this becomes difficult. They struggle to relate to an entire group unless the group is uniform in its beliefs or experiences. For example, if a Libra Mercury is giving a speech to coworkers in a workplace where everyone shares a common role or goal, they can use that shared context to connect with the audience.

This need for relatability makes Libra Mercury less spontaneous in their communication. They often require a clear way to connect with the people they’re speaking to, which can make them socially awkward or at a loss for words when they can’t find that connection. If they’re in a setting where they don’t feel a sense of relatability, they may become shy, quiet, or even socially inept.

In such situations, Libra Mercury individuals might resort to people-pleasing behaviors, attempting to mirror or accommodate the other person in order to bridge the gap. For example, if a Libra Mercury identifies as part of the LGBTQ+ community, they will often gravitate toward others within the community because it offers a natural sense of relatability.

Ultimately, for Libra Mercury, socializing is about finding like-minded individuals and establishing common ground. When they can’t achieve this, miscommunication, discomfort, and silence are likely to follow.

𝗦𝗰𝗼𝗿𝗽𝗶𝗼 𝗠𝗲𝗿𝗰𝘂𝗿𝘆

For Scorpio Mercury individuals, miscommunication often stems from their deeply internal nature. They are internal thinkers, feelers, and doers, processing much of their experience within themselves. When it comes to relating to others, they are not inclined to openly share their internal world. Unlike Libra Mercury, who seeks direct commonalities to connect with others, Scorpio Mercury takes a different approach.

Scorpio Mercury individuals are highly private and guarded. Instead of revealing their own thoughts and feelings to foster a connection, they focus on understanding the person they are speaking with. They observe, analyze, and intuitively pick up on details about the other person, using this information to decide how to interact. Their goal is to relate to others without exposing their true selves.

Because of this, their interactions can feel superficial at times. They hold back much of their personal thoughts, feelings, and perspectives, choosing instead to shape conversations around the other person’s interests or behaviors. For example, they might discuss religion with someone who is passionate about it, even if they have no personal connection to or interest in the subject. They may even research the topic to engage meaningfully, but they rarely reveal their own beliefs.

This tendency can lead to a sense of mystery or frustration for others. People may feel like they don’t truly know a Scorpio Mercury, as they often avoid disclosing personal information or opinions. They focus on mirroring the other person’s interests and shaping conversations to align with the other person’s preferences.

The only time Scorpio Mercury individuals are likely to share openly is when they deeply trust someone or have observed enough to feel certain that they will not be judged or misunderstood. They may also open up if they feel the other person is in a similar situation or has earned their respect. However, even in these cases, they tend to remain selective about what they reveal, carefully maintaining their privacy.

Ultimately, the miscommunication arises because Scorpio Mercury often communicates from a place of observation and adaptation rather than personal expression. This can leave others feeling disconnected or unsure about where they truly stand with a Scorpio Mercury individual.

𝗦𝗮𝗴𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗮𝗿𝗶𝘂𝘀 𝗠𝗲𝗿𝗰𝘂𝗿𝘆

For Sagittarius Mercury, miscommunication often arises because you approach conversations from a place of detachment and curiosity rather than personal investment. You don’t typically take things personally, and as a result, you don’t expect others to either. However, many people do, which can lead to misunderstandings.

When you speak, it’s not from a place of malice, judgment, or criticism. Instead, your communication is rooted in your personal experiences and the opinions shaped by those experiences. Your perspective is deeply influenced by how you’ve grown up, the things you’ve done, and the lessons you’ve learned through exploration. For you, your opinions are not baseless; they are grounded in real-life encounters and reflections.

This can confuse others because they may perceive your straightforwardness as harsh or judgmental. They might feel attacked when, in reality, you’re simply expressing your thoughts based on what you’ve lived through. What many fail to understand is that your opinions are valid and informed by a quest to find meaning and answers through action, not just theoretical research.

Sagittarius Mercury is a theoretical thinker like Gemini, but you prefer to seek answers through direct experiences rather than through abstract study. This makes your opinions feel deeply authentic to you, which is why it’s frustrating when others dismiss or challenge them. You see your opinions as more than casual remarks—they represent hard-earned insights, and having someone constantly question them can feel invalidating.

When you express your thoughts, your intention isn’t to impose your views or judge. Instead, you aim to share your perspective, hoping to inspire others to consider the knowledge and wisdom you’ve gained. However, because many people take your words personally, they may misinterpret your directness as an attack.

Your delivery, as a fire sign, is where the misunderstanding often begins. Unlike Libra, you don’t prioritize diplomacy. Unlike Cancer, you don’t naturally couch your words in empathy. And unlike Virgo, you don’t carefully structure your communication to feel grounded or methodical. You speak with passion, directness, and a sense of urgency. You say what’s on your mind and move on, leaving others to process your words as they will.

While your honesty and authenticity are strengths, they can sometimes come across as blunt or insensitive. This isn’t because you lack care—it’s because you’re speaking from your heart and don’t dwell on how your words might land. For you, it’s about sharing your truth, not sugarcoating it. But understanding that others might interpret your delivery differently can help minimize miscommunication and build stronger connections.

𝗖𝗮𝗽𝗿𝗶𝗰𝗼𝗿𝗻 𝗠𝗲𝗿𝗰𝘂𝗿𝘆

For Capricorn Mercury, the biggest issue with miscommunication is that you don’t like to communicate from an emotional place at all. Because you’re not an emotional thinker or communicator, it can create tension in conversations. Many people socialize based on emotions—they speak to connect, to express themselves, and to feel good. But for you, Capricorn, you’re the no-bullshit talker. You don’t speak just for the sake of speaking. You communicate because you feel that what you’re saying is important, or because you’re in front of someone you deem important, and you need to communicate.

This seriousness can make your conversations feel dry to others because you’re not there to be goofy, giddy, or happy-go-lucky. When you speak, you want your words to carry weight and meaning. For you, respect is everything. When you communicate, you’re essentially looking for respect, and you’ll give that respect in return.

However, when a Capricorn Mercury doesn’t receive the respect they feel they deserve, they might either withdraw completely, ghosting the person and choosing silence, or they may respond with harsh words. The harsh words stem from the belief that if you don’t respect them, they don’t owe you respect either. It’s a matter of reciprocity for you. You don’t play games, and when you speak, you’re serious. There’s no hidden agenda behind your words. If you say no, you mean no. If you say yes, you mean yes.

You don’t like being questioned too much because, for you, questioning signals a lack of respect. You feel that if you respect someone, they should simply take you at your word. Your communication is logical, clear, and concrete, so questioning it feels disrespectful.

Capricorn Mercuries can be hard to connect with because you don’t engage in small talk or gossip. If someone speaks emotionally or in a way that feels inauthentic to you, you’re turned off. You need people to be direct, real, and honest. If they’re being fake or shallow, you won’t want to engage. Your communication style is driven by a need for respect, and if others fail to understand that, they might disrespect you without realizing why you then withdraw or stop talking to them.

𝗔𝗾𝘂𝗮𝗿𝗶𝘂𝘀 𝗠𝗲𝗿𝗰𝘂𝗿𝘆

For Aquarius Mercury, you value freedom and are a free spirit. Much like a Sagittarius speaker, you enjoy speaking openly, but unlike Sagittarius, you speak from your head, not your heart. You are a deep thinker, and when Aquarius speaks, they offer a wealth of ideas they have carefully pondered. This is because Aquarius is ruled by Saturn, meaning their thoughts are often shaped by tradition and built over time through personal experiences. These ideas carry depth, a story, and lessons that come with them.

However, Aquarius is also influenced by Uranus, which gives them a highly cerebral quality. They spend a lot of time in their minds, so when they speak, they share what’s on their mind. Aquarius tends to have interesting thoughts because they think about a wide range of topics, from personal hardships and life lessons—guided by that Saturnian energy—to future visions of how the world can evolve. They constantly ponder things that could make the world a better place, freer, and more aligned with their utopian ideals.

Aquarius is always thinking about what they want the world, people, and society to be like. Sometimes, this results in them speaking in abstract terms, as they’re not necessarily discussing concrete ideas, but rather their vision for the future. Their thoughts center on what could be—how society could change for the better, how people could behave differently, or how freedom could reign. They are, in many ways, the true “hippie” thinkers, dreaming of peace, freedom, and the exploration of new possibilities.

In many ways, Aquarius could be seen as an activist speaker, deeply concerned with change and reform. They speak to inform others about what they believe is necessary to make these shifts happen in real time. Their minds are incredibly interesting, but not everyone can relate. Those who are more tied to the past, traditional thinking, or those who value conformity may find it difficult to understand what Aquarius is proposing. Some people, especially those focused on reality or practical matters, may feel lost or even offended by how far removed Aquarius’s ideas can feel from the present. This difference in perspective can sometimes make others feel attacked, especially when they hold on to current beliefs and ways of living.

In summary, Aquarius Mercury’s way of communicating is driven by their idealistic vision of what the future can hold, and while their ideas can be inspiring, they may be difficult to grasp for those who are more anchored in the present or past.

𝗣𝗶𝘀𝗰𝗲𝘀 𝗠𝗲𝗿𝗰𝘂𝗿𝘆

For Pisces Mercury, people often find it hard to understand them. Pisces individuals are very internal, focused on their own world, imagination, and what stimulates them on a deeper level. This essence of Pisces Mercury makes communication difficult because they aren’t focused outwardly on communication. Unlike Gemini or Virgo, who are natural communicators, Pisces is the opposite. While Virgo, ruled by Mercury, excels at communication, Pisces tends to be more shy and reserved. It takes time—sometimes years—for a Pisces Mercury to open up and learn how to express their thoughts and emotions.

As a result, people may be confused or frustrated by a Pisces Mercury because they seem mysterious and withdrawn. They often appear to be lost in their own world, unable to communicate what’s going on inside. This lack of expression can lead to people labeling them in ways that don’t truly capture who they are.

For Pisces Mercury, the most important thing is to have someone who can ground them. They exist within their imagination and are captivated by their internal world. When others focus on work, daily life, or practical matters, Pisces doesn’t always know how to respond. They are more comfortable in their imagination and may feel disconnected from the reality others are dealing with. They’re whimsical people, but this can be misunderstood, especially before they learn to communicate what’s really going on inside.

It takes time for Pisces to express themselves in a clear, concrete way. Pisces prefers to be elusive and avoids rigidity, making it harder for them to speak directly. If they have earth or fire placements, they may find it easier to express themselves, but without these influences, communication can be more challenging for them.

[deservedgrace]

"we're not like other churches, we don't get caught up in earthly things like doctrine or rigid rules, we're focused on our relationship with jesus 🥰" <- is exactly like other churches

non-denominational churches are the "i'm not like other girls" of churches

[carlislefiles]

finals week | fushiguro megumi, geto suguru, gojo satoru, ino takuma, inumaki toge, kamo choso, nanami kento, sukuna ryomen, yuuji itadori ╰►college is hell, and finals week is the seventh circle. as much as you love your boyfriend, you can have absolutely no distractions, not when the biggest tests of your life loom over you like a raincloud full of dread and fear of failure. they don’t take to being ignored so well, and they take to you ignoring yourself even worse. 6.9k words far left picture (teacup) by @nevroicastar on pinterest

a/n: can you tell that literally all I want in life is someone to be nice to me... :D anyways, this is pretty much pure fluff, reader is not taking care of herself, mentions of poor eating habits, lots of talk of academic validation, etc. so read at your own risk. as I got to the end of this, I realized that a lot of these are quite similar, so sorry about that, but when I have an idea I just kind of have to get it out, so here she is. kind of modern college au, but still within the sorcery realm???? I don’t know don’t ask. warnings: incredibly cheesy, me rambling about topics I do not understand at all (hello? theoretical geometry? didn't even know theoretical math existed?), and pure, unadultered comfort. enjoy <3

megumi knows what it’s like to seek academic validation like it’s oxygen. he wears his indifference like a badge—hood up, sleeves pushed to the elbows, bag slung low—but make no mistake: anything less than an a has him spiraling into a full-blown existential crisis. he may look composed, but internally he’s questioning his intelligence, his self-worth, the educational system, and the meaning of life in general.

so when you break down over a b- on a practice anatomy exam, he understands. doesn’t mean it doesn’t rip him apart. you never cry. never. but that night, your tears soaked into the fabric of his sweatshirt as you buried your face in his chest and whispered, “if this was the easier version, I'm dead. I'm so dead.” it wasn’t even going in the gradebook. didn’t matter. that grade haunted you.

the next morning, he wakes up alone. you beat him out of bed. that’s unheard of. he sends a text. then another.

“you at the library?” “eat something.”

no reply. eventually you respond, just not with anything he wants to hear.

“I'm gonna be really busy. maybe we should take a break until finals are over. you should hang out with yuuji.”

he scowls at the screen. as if yuuji hasn’t third-wheeled 70% of your dates. but megumi lets it go—for now. he assumes you’re just holed up in the library. he’s done the same thing. but it gets worse. you stop sleeping in his dorm, stop answering messages, stop functioning like a human being. you become a finals-week cryptid, subsisting on caffeine and sheer willpower. megumi would yell, if he didn’t know better. but he does know better. so he gets quiet. observant. subtle. he brings you real food. coaxes you into drinking water. slides his hoodie onto your shoulders when you’re shivering under the library ac. brushes your hair back with fingers that shake slightly when he realizes how tired you look. pulls the ramen cup away mid-bite and replaces it with something that didn’t come from a vending machine.

and when you cry over flashcards and whisper, “I don’t even know what a nephron does anymore,” he just starts quizzing you, reading aloud terms he can’t even pronounce correctly. he doesn’t know how you’re surviving this course. anatomy and physiology? it sounds like science hell. he hates it for you. but you don’t stop. not until finals week swallows you whole, trembling under the weight of your own expectations.

that’s when he draws the line.

your head is buried in your laptop at some godforsaken hour, eyes bloodshot and fingers twitching when—slam. he shuts your computer. “what—megumi! I was—”

toothbrush. sweatpants. his sweatshirt. he’s already dragging you to the bed, ignoring every protest as you weakly try to wiggle free. “I have to—”

“no, you don’t,” he says firmly. “you’re not studying. you’re sleeping.”

he scratches your scalp. presses featherlight kisses to the slope of your neck. hums something under his breath, steady and warm. eventually, your body gives out. you melt. and sleep like a corpse blessed by the gods. he watches you for a long while before finally letting himself rest beside you.

the next day, he waits outside the medicine building. the test is over. your scores won’t be posted for a few days. doesn’t matter. he just needs to see you. you step out, bleary-eyed and barely functioning, and he immediately pulls you into his arms. “you're never doing that to yourself again,” he mumbles into your hair.

you don’t even argue. you just nod and melt into him. and a few days later, the score is posted. you stare at your screen, stunned. an a. a solid, shining, hard-won a. and megumi just smirks like he knew it all along.

suguru graduated last spring. walked across the stage in slacks you'd picked out for him and a grin made of gold and ease. he didn’t look back. college wasn’t hard for him—it never had been. books opened for him like petals, and concepts bowed to his comprehension. it was never about the stress or the stakes. it was about the hours you'd spend curled beside him in the library, mumbling about amino acids or molecular orbitals while he stared at you like you were the sun.

back then, he'd ask you questions from flashcards, only to discard them halfway through and ask about your favorite color, your middle name, your childhood dog. he loved the way your face lit up when your brain found the answer to something hard, but he loved it even more when it lit up because of him. he wasn’t ashamed of that. he’s never been ashamed of how deeply he loves you.

but now…now, things are different. you're wrapped up in organic chemistry like it’s a vice grip. barely breathing, barely blinking. you’ve got every note and molecule memorized, and still you tell him, "it’s not enough." over and over, like a prayer, or a curse. you’ve been walking around like a ghost, and suguru sees it for what it is—devotion, desperation, and destruction all rolled into one. you say it’s just a test, but he knows it’s your everything.

and the worst part? he gets it. he gets what it’s like to build your identity on success. he just wishes you didn’t have to. because when you go missing for a whole day, when you don’t text him back or come home or answer his calls, he panics. he’s not dramatic—not usually—but you’re his, and suguru takes care of his things. so he finds you. of course he does.

you're in the back corner of the chem building, surrounded by papers and empty energy drink cans and what might be tears, though you’d never admit it. you look up when he walks in, and there’s a flash of guilt that crosses your face like lightning. it stings. “I'm so sorry, suguru,” you whisper. “but this is really, really important. I need you to leave me alone until I'm finished with this. I'm too tired and too stressed to worry about anything other than this test.”

that breaks something in him. because you’ve never made him feel like a burden. never once treated his presence like an interruption. and maybe he should’ve fought harder. maybe he should’ve scooped you up, carried you out of there like he wanted to, tucked you beneath his covers and kissed your forehead until the tension bled out of you.

but he’s selfish only sometimes, and never when it comes to your dreams.

so he lets you go. the test is four hours long. you emerge hollow-eyed, trembling, and murmuring something about how you probably failed. you don’t even cry. just breathe in, breathe out, and fall into bed without so much as a kiss. and when the grade is posted the next morning, a clean, perfect a, you don’t celebrate. don’t smile. don’t even tell him. he’s the one who finds out first. you just so relieved that it's finally over, half of you doesn't even care how you did.

he pulls you into his lap before you can protest and presses a hand to your chest like he’s checking if your heart still beats. it does, but he wants more than that. he wants you back. all of you.

so he makes suggestions. strong ones. "take a semester off," he murmurs against your temple. "or transfer. or move in with me. or all three. I'll take care of you. you don’t have to do this to yourself. you don’t have to prove anything to anyone. not when I already know how brilliant you are." you nod like you’re not hearing him, but he’s patient. he’ll wait. he’ll wait until you believe it too.

he jokes—often, obnoxiously—that he’s always known you were too good for him. that you were the prodigy and he was the pretty face. that your acceptance into medical school was the universe playing fair, because how else could the world possibly balance your brain and his everything else? but even with all that noise, gojo satoru is terrified of the way this test has eaten you alive. 

the usmle. the reaper in standardized exam form. every time he sees you, you’re either furiously annotating a textbook or passed out cold in someone’s office chair with flashcards stuck to your cheek. 

he tries everything at first. plays the doting, lovable nuisance role to perfection—stealing your laptop charger, faking existential crises that can only be soothed by forehead kisses, crawling into your lap and pretending to cry (“I need affection, babe, it’s for my health, come onnn—”). and you smile. you do. but you don’t stop. you never stop. and eventually even he has to let you go into that studying-induced blackout tunnel, even if it kills him not to be able to pull you out of it.

still, he never leaves. when your weekly date nights disappear, he sends you dumb memes and voice notes that say things like “this is what it sounds like when I cry without you here.” when you sleep in the library, he sneaks snacks into your backpack and slips hand warmers into your hoodie pockets. he’s not even sure you notice. but he does it anyway. because loving you isn’t something he tries to do. it’s something that just is. like gravity. 

the morning of the test, you’re shaking. eyes glassy, coffee untouched. it’s still dark out, and he hates how exhausted you look. you sit in the passenger seat of his car like you’ve been awake for a thousand years. he doesn’t try to make a joke. just…reaches over and tucks your hair behind your ear, thumb brushing your cheekbone.

“you’re not scared I'll be disappointed in you, right?” you shake your head, barely. but the thing is, he knows you. knows how your brain works. how you work. he can’t stop your nerves—he wouldn’t dream of trying. but he can hold them with you. sit there in the thick of it, still and steady and here. because that’s what you need. and when you finally leave to go take the test, gojo satoru doesn’t move. just waits. hours tick by. he plays stupid games on his phone. he thinks about the first time he saw you cry—finals week, sophomore year, when you were convinced you’d bombed a lab report—and how this feels exactly like that, only ten times worse. but then…you come back. and the world exhales.

you’re pale. wrecked. like you’ve just survived a war. you climb into the passenger seat like someone dropped you from space, and satoru immediately swaddles you in the blanket he brought from your dorm. 

“I brought gummy bears, sliced veggies, and a literal gallon of water,” he says. “and I have an entire playlist dedicated to ‘songs that say I'm so proud of you I could cry.’” you laugh. just a little. but he hears it. “think you passed?” he asks.

“I think I survived.”

“close enough.” he drives you home like you’re royalty. like the day’s been his test too, and this—getting you back—is his only passing grade.

later, when you’re fed and clean and warm in bed, buried in layers of blankets and wearing his t-shirt, he lays beside you and grins like a fool. 

“so,” he says, “how’s it going, dr. gojo?”

you raise a brow. “excuse me?”

“I just figured, if you’re gonna be a doctor, we should share the last name. has a nice ring to it. we’ll both be hot and dangerous. power couple energy.”

“oh, I'm taking your last name?”

“obviously. babe, have you met me?”

you roll your eyes—but there’s color back in your cheeks now. a glow. that fire he fell in love with. and he grins, victorious.

because you’re back. you’re his again. and no matter what happens next—residency, stress, long nights and endless hours—satoru’s ready. he’ll carry the whole weight of the world if it means you never have to go through that kind of thing alone. 

takuma is a man of simple truths: ramen tastes better after midnight, bleach is not the same thing as laundry detergent, and you—god, you—are the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

you're a prodigy. he says that like it’s a title, not just a fact. you graduated high school at fifteen, cruised through undergrad before most of your friends even started, and now you’re gunning for a ph.d. because what else would someone like you do? you’re brilliant, born for academia. he fell for you like gravity, no question, no hesitation.

and he’s not dumb—not really—but school was never his thing. he coasted through high school on vibes and charm, then lucked into an internship with some big-deal suit named nanami. it was supposed to be temporary, but ino had that golden retriever work ethic, the kind where people give you more responsibility just because you say “sure thing!” with enough enthusiasm. it works for him. it always has.

but when it comes to you, that easygoing confidence starts to fray. because you're drowning. and he doesn’t know how to save you. your advisor says jump, and you ask how high in four languages. volunteer work, tutoring, research, a part-time job, and now the gre is looming like a thundercloud over your future. you study until your voice is hoarse from reciting terms, until your notes are smudged with highlighter ink and tears.

you rope ino into helping, and of course he says yes. he’s happy to. he makes flashcards with cartoon doodles on the back, quizzes you on vocab while you’re brushing your teeth, lets you explain abstract statistical theory to him until you both fall asleep on the couch. you look exhausted, but you smile when he calls you professor, and that’s enough. until it isn’t. until the smiles fade. until he’s helping you study alone. until you stop asking. until he’s waiting at home for a version of you who never seems to arrive.

he wants to fix it, to fix you, but he doesn’t know how to fight a battle that’s inside your own head. so he does what he can. brings you snacks at work, texts you affirmations, makes dinner even though he’s bad at it, and watches your exhaustion turn to something scarily mechanical. you stop complaining. you stop talking. you stop looking him in the eye when you leave in the morning.

then test day comes. and he's so proud. not of this behavior, of course, but of you, despite it all. he makes you breakfast, walks you to the testing center even though it's freezing, kisses your forehead and tells you you're already the smartest person in the building. when you walk away, his chest hurts with how badly he wants this to go well. it does. kind of.

you take the gre and survive it—but there’s no relief. no celebration. no breath of freedom after months of suffocating. you just...keep going. more work shifts. more hours. more silence. and ino, patient as he is, can only hold back his worry for so long.

it’s late when he says it. you’re curled into him, back to his chest, your favorite blanket tucked around both of you. he’s got one arm around your waist, the other buried in your hair, his cheek pressed to the back of your neck. “hey,” he murmurs, soft and real. “you ever think about slowing down?” silence. so long, he thinks maybe you fell asleep. 

but then—“I'm just...so tired of trying to—to….” you whisper. “I just want to be good enough.” his heart cracks open.

“sweetheart,” he breathes, and holds you tighter, “you’re already more than good enough. you’re incredible. I picked you, remember? and I'm the smartest guy I know.” that gets a breath of a laugh. barely, mostly because you know that there was never choice, never other options. takuma was gone for you the minute he met you. if anything, you picked him and he will never be able to fully articulate his gratitude.

“I mean it,” he says, fingers stroking your hip. “you don’t need to break yourself to prove anything to anyone. not to them, and definitely not to me.” that night, something shifts. he starts small. no, you can’t pick up that extra shift. no, you won’t be checking your email at midnight. yes, he is bringing you lunch and walking you home, and no, he doesn’t care if you think it’s “too much.” and slowly, the girl who once thought success meant saying yes to everything starts learning how to say no.

ino’s proud of you. he always has been. but now? now he’s proud for you. because you’re still brilliant, still ambitious—but you’re happy, too. and that's the version of you he always wanted to love.

your love is loud.

not the annoying kind of loud—though inumaki’s friends might argue that point—but the good kind. the kind that fills every quiet space. that buzzes with laughter and slams cabinet doors and yells from the shower, “do you think pluto misses being a planet?” while he's brushing his teeth. you are his voice. and you never mind being it.

you speak when professors ask dumb, intrusive questions about his muteness. you say no when he can’t afford to risk saying it himself. you make it known—loud and clear, unmistakable—that you love him. that he is enough. that he is yours.

and he doesn’t need a thousand words to love you back. he just looks at you like you hung the stars yourself. he kisses you like a prayer. he taps his fingers three times against your wrist—i love you in the language only you and he share. it’s perfect. you’re perfect. until the exams start looming.

at first, it’s small. a missed meme here, a shorter phone call there. you’re still talking, still laughing, but it’s... less. and then it gets quieter. you stop yelling from the bathroom. you stop planning your little dates. you stop talking altogether on some days—just kiss his cheek, tired-eyed, and disappear into your books.

it’s horrifying. like watching the sun flicker out.

he doesn’t doubt your love. you’d never let him. you’d carved it into the walls of his world with every grin, every “you’re mine, forever, deal with it,” every hand squeezed under the table during group dates. but he misses you. the you who would sing off-key in the car. the you who once narrated his entire grocery list in the voice of an australian accent. so he fights back. quietly. carefully. tactically.

he starts leaving you little notes:

"you’re the smartest person I know."

"your brain is hot. that’s unfair"

"I love you more than rice balls."

(and in tiny scribbles) "don’t tell salmon."

they’re everywhere. in your shoes. on your toothpaste. tucked between pages of your study guides like secret spells.

he learns how to cook, too—little meals, nothing fancy, but made with so much love it might as well be michelin-starred. he pouts dramatically when you hesitate to eat, eyes big, mouth drawn down, holding the plate like a peace offering. and you fold, always. because how can you not? not when he made it for you.

and then the test comes. that stupid fucking test that stole you from him. you ace it. of course you do. you walk out of the testing center a little dazed, a little pale, and into his arms, and he scoops you up like the national treasure you are. doesn’t say a word. just holds you. then he takes you home.

he feeds you. literally spoon-feeds you soup he made himself. he showers you, kissing waterdrops off your cheeks, washing your hair with reverence like you’re something holy. he lays you down in bed and kisses your forehead, your knuckles, your stomach, your spine. worships you without ever saying a word. and bit by bit, your spark returns. you tease him again. you dance while brushing your teeth. but here’s the thing: now he watches for the signs. watches closely. a little too closely, maybe—but he’s not letting that darkness steal you again.

so when he sees you looking so tired again? he tugs your sleeve and hands you a note: no fading. I need your noise. and you read it, smile, and say, “you’ll never get rid of me that easy.” thank god.

choso is not a school guy. never has been, never will be. he goes because he has to, because society demands it and his scholarship requires it. but it’s never going to be his thing. he floats through most of his classes like a ghost—half-there, earbuds in, hoodie pulled over his head. a b+ on a paper is a win in his book, even if the professor writes "needs revision" all over it. who cares. life’s short. he’d rather be sleeping.

you, on the other hand, care. you care so much. about everything. you’re his high-strung, teeth-gritting, color-coded, always-scheduling, never-late girlfriend. and god, does he adore it.

he loves how strict you are. loves how you wake up at 6:00am every day without fail. loves the way you brush your teeth for exactly two minutes, three times a day. loves that you have a salad every tuesday and the exact same pasta order every thursday. you’re sharp edges and ticking clocks and perfect routines, and he—chaos incarnate—thrives under your rule. you keep him functioning. you’re the reason he knows when to register for classes, the reason he turns in assignments on time, the reason he eats meals that didn’t come from a vending machine.

you're the reason he's even passing. but that stupid, stupid theoretical geometry class…it drives you nuts. not slowly. not like a spiral, like most things. no—this class is like a wrecking ball to your entire system. you hate it. you say it constantly. “it’s not even real math,” you groan. “it’s just concepts. I can’t work with concepts. I need problems. I need solutions.”

at first, choso thinks it’s kinda cute. your little rants. the way you scowl at the textbook like it personally offended you. he tries to encourage you with little pats on the back, forehead kisses, sitting on the floor next to your desk with his laptop so you’ll stay focused while he scrolls through reddit and tells you about cursed fan theories. but then, the changes start.

you stop brushing your teeth three times a day. you forget to make lunch on tuesdays. your planner—your beautiful little planner that he once saw you cry over when you accidentally spilled coffee on it—starts collecting dust. you cancel date night. you forget date night existed. you study through dinner, through sleep, through entire days, and suddenly, choso’s the one asking you when your assignments are due. you are unraveling. and choso is helpless.

he tries to support you. follows you to study sessions like a sleepy, loyal puppy, clutching your coffee order and not understanding a single damn word of what you’re talking about. he doesn't get theoretical math. he barely gets regular math. but he tries. he watches youtube videos meant for third graders. he makes flashcards—incorrect ones, half the time—but he hands them to you with such innocent hope in his eyes that you pretend they’re helpful just to kiss him on the cheek.

he never once asks you to stop. never once says, “you’re scaring me,” or “you’re making yourself sick.” but he wants to. so badly. you’re not sleeping. you’re thinner. you smell like stress and highlighters. you apologize all the time, say you miss him, say you’ll fix it soon. but nothing fixes.

so he adapts. he picks up your slack. makes you breakfast, even if it’s just a granola bar and a post-it that says "please eat. you’re gonna ace it. also I miss you :/." does your laundry and folds it wrong and puts your shirts in the wrong drawer but he tries. he doesn’t even complain when you forget to text him back for a day and a half. he just sends a message like, “love you. proud of you. text me when you remember I exist!!” it sounds so needy and passive aggressive, but it’s not, it’s just choso, who so genuinely wants you to remember that you’re not alone. 

it breaks his heart when you reply, “I always remember. I just hate myself for not being better.” he refuses to let you carry that weight.

so when you cry the night before the exam, whispering, “what if I fail? what if I'm just not smart enough?” he kisses your temples and says, “then we drop out and open a donut shop. we’ll sell those cinnamon ones you like. you’ll do the math. I'll man the fryer.” you pass with flying colors. because of course you do. you’re brilliant and capable and too hard on yourself.

and the moment you do, choso sits you down and says, as gently and lovingly as a man with no boundaries or math comprehension can, “never again.” he means it. no more sacrificing your joy for a grade. no more skipping meals for numbers. no more breaking the routines that make you feel safe, secure, you. and you agree. you apologize again, of course you do, but he cuts it off with a kiss. he doesn’t want apologies. he wants his girl back.

you vow to never take another theoretical math class again—would rather switch majors, hell, switch schools. and choso vows to guard your schedule, your wellbeing, your sanity with the same devotion you once used to guard his grades.

because sure, he doesn’t care much about school. but he cares about you. and you? you’re the only constant he never wants to theorize. you’re the equation he solved the moment he met you. and he’s never letting you fall out of balance again.

at first, you wouldn’t let him help. you couldn’t. not because you didn’t need it—you did. badly. but need was dangerous. need led to reliance, and reliance led to disappointment, and you’ve never known anything but disappointment in the end. so you met every one of nanami’s gentle offerings with a hiss, a cold shoulder, a stiff spine and a scoff. you didn’t want kindness. you didn’t trust it. and yet—he stayed.

with his quiet voice and his tired eyes and his soft cashmere sweaters. with his thoughtful meals and perfectly timed cups of tea. with his ability to sit in silence and not make it feel like you were doing something wrong. nanami showed up for you over and over again, until you stopped flinching at the idea of someone showing up at all.

he’s older. settled. solid in a way that feels unreal to you. while you burn the candle at both ends and run yourself into the ground over essays and projects and unrelenting deadlines, nanami clocks out at 5:00, makes dinner at 6:00, and asks you if you’d like to come over for dessert like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

at first, you declined. then you said maybe. and then one night, you cried on his kitchen floor over a c in a class you hated, and he held you like it didn’t ruin his shirt or his night or his impression of you because, in all honesty, it only ruined his shirt; nothing more.

you started staying over. not all the time. not enough to leave your toothbrush next to his. not enough to cancel the lease on your overpriced apartment you barely use. you’re still scared. still stubborn. but god, does he make it hard to stay guarded. nanami treats you like you’re the most delicate thing he’s ever loved. not fragile—just precious. important. he has rules, quiet ones, and most of them are about you. you don’t skip meals. you don’t stay up past 1:00am. you don’t berate yourself over an 89.7 instead of a 90.

sometimes you listen. sometimes you argue. sometimes he finds you passed out on your laptop at 3:00am, and you feel his disappointment like a knife, but he never scolds you. never raises his voice. he just picks you up, tucks you in, presses a kiss to your temple and says something like, “you don’t have to do this alone.” and you don’t. that’s the worst part. you don’t. you have him. but sometimes your brain forgets that. especially this semester. this hellish, soul-draining, motivation-murdering semester that chewed you up and spit you back out into another one before you even caught your breath. nanami watches it happen in real time. watches you stop coming over. stop answering calls. stop eating the banana bread he baked with you in mind.

you’re not resting. you’re not sleeping. you’re not you. it scares him. not that he’d ever say it aloud. but it kills something in him every time you say, “I'm fine,” and he knows you’re lying. it’s like you’ve forgotten everything he taught you. so, he tries again. he doesn’t lecture. he never begs. but he texts. “are you eating today?” “my place is quiet. come nap.” “I miss you. you don’t have to talk. just be here.”

and finally, finally, finals end. and he takes you. scoops your burnt-out, hollow-eyed body from the wreckage and makes it his personal mission to bring you back to life. you sleep for almost a full day the first night at his place. when you wake up, he’s sitting in the armchair across from the couch, reading, glasses low on his nose. he just says, “welcome back,” and doesn’t comment on the dried tears on your cheeks.

every day of break, he softens you. with warm breakfasts and long baths and small, safe silences. with his hand on the small of your back and the quiet strength in his presence that says I've got you. eventually, it happens. the breakdown you’ve been avoiding for weeks. it’s late. you’re curled into his side, finally eating real food again, finally existing again, and you whisper, "I'm sorry. I shut you out. I didn’t mean to. I just...I don’t know how not to. I thought I was better, I—"

he doesn’t let you finish. just pulls you close and says, “you are better. you’re just tired. and I'm here.” you cry. you hate that you cry. but he doesn’t. he’s kissing your forehead, brushing your hair behind your ear, murmuring, “you’ve never hurt me. I only hurt when you’re hurting.” and that’s the moment you remember why you let him in at all. because he’s steady. because he’s not scared of your sharp edges. because where others left, nanami stayed. and when he suggests you take fewer credits next semester, your gut reaction is guilt, shame, refusal.

but he just raises an eyebrow and says, “you’ll still graduate in time. and even if you don't—I'm not going anywhere.” you believe him. for once in your life, you believe someone. so you drop the extra class. you leave a toothbrush at his place. you take a deep breath for the first time in months. and nanami—your warm, unwavering constant—watches you come back to yourself, bit by bit, every day. and he doesn’t say it out loud, but he thinks it every time he looks at you: no one can love you like I do. and that is the most beautiful thing I've ever had the privilege of. 

sukuna doesn’t do the boyfriend thing. not really. he’s hot, he’s untouchable, he’s slept with half the campus and ghosted the other half. he’s not the kind of guy who remembers anniversaries or asks how your day went or makes soup when you’re sick. or at least—he wasn’t. until you. you, who never asked him to be anything other than what he already was. you, who looked him in the eye, rough edges and all, and said “I don’t need to fix you.” you meant it. you still mean it. but he changed anyway. because disappointing you? hurting you? even by accident? that’s the one thing he can’t stomach. not now. not when he’s ruined so many things and somehow still got lucky enough to have you.

so when you start falling apart, he notices. it starts with a couple of weirdly average grades—an 85% on a midterm you were supposed to crush, a 7/10 on a quiz you studied hours for. you brush it off, but he sees the way it eats at you, worms its way into your confidence. you start staying up late, later, all night sometimes. your routine crumbles. you’re skipping meals. walking home alone in the dark. crawling into his bed after midnight and thinking he doesn’t notice. he notices.

and at first? yeah, he thinks it’s cute. in a stupid, masochistic way. you care so much. for what? a grade? a professor’s approval? you're a writer—an incredible one. he’s read your stories, soaked in your words, memorized whole passages of shit you’ve barely shared with anyone else. you don’t need a degree to prove you’re brilliant. you already are. but then it stops being cute. then it starts hurting. because now you’re not just tired. you’re hollow. you’re not just busy. you’re gone. and he can’t fucking stand that.

so he inserts himself. shamelessly. aggressively. shows up to the library with your favorite takeout. forces you to eat. pulls you out of your chair and into his lap like it’s his god-given right. covers your mouth with his hand when you protest, glaring at you through crimson eyes as he mutters, “you’re done for the night.”

and when you whine, “I'm not even close to being finished, kuna,” he just kisses the top of your head and doesn’t give a shit. “flunk out,” he says into your hair. “drop out. who cares? I'll handle everything.” he means it. every single word. if you never worked again, if you never lifted a finger again, he wouldn’t mind. in fact, he might prefer it. because sukuna has never believed in much—not school, not rules, not people—but he believes in you. always has. so he tightens his grip around your schedule. limits your study hours. makes you sleep. crushes you against his chest each night so you can’t wiggle away. when your friends text, “come study with us!” he replies for you: “she’s busy. fuck off.”

and it helps. a little. he keeps you from slipping too far. but even with his arms around you, you're still unraveling, whispering, “I don’t think I can do this,” like it’s some shameful confession. then the test comes. and you pass. not just pass—you crush it. top of the curve. feedback glowing. you’re shaking when you tell him. laughing in disbelief, wide-eyed and breathless, “I don’t know how it happened, it’s a miracle, I don’t—kuna, I thought I was going to fail—”

and sukuna, mr. I-don’t-give-a-shit-about-grades, who’s said a hundred times he doesn’t care if you pass or fail or burn the whole damn school down—he cares.

because that smile? the one on your face now, bright and radiant and real? that smile is what he does this all for. that smile is the closest thing to heaven a man like him will ever get. so he just shrugs and pulls you into his lap again, buries his face in your shoulder. “miracle my ass,” he grumbles. “you’re just a fucking genius.”

yuuji isn’t the best at school, but that doesn’t make him stupid—he’s sharp in all the ways that matter, intuitive, emotionally intelligent, loyal to a fault. still, academics were never where he shone brightest, and he knows that, accepts it with a shrug and a grin and a “hey, at least I'm trying.” and he is trying. not for some future career, not because he cares about grades or accolades, but because he wants to be good at something the way you’re good at everything. because when he looks at you—so graceful under pressure, so sharp and composed and somehow still soft with everyone around you—he wants to measure up. he wants to keep pace, even if he stumbles more than he’d like. even if half the time he’s just hanging on by the skin of his teeth.

you’ve always been kind to him about it. never made him feel slow, or behind, or less. you’re good like that—gracious in ways that disarm people, a born favorite, beloved without even trying. professors pull you aside to thank you for participating in class discussions. classmates email you asking for help. you’ve got this gentle gravity to you, this rare balance of competence and compassion, and it makes people trust you instantly. yuuji most of all.

but this semester, something shifted. you cut back on your work hours after landing an academic scholarship—because of course you did, you're brilliant—and decided, for reasons he still doesn’t entirely understand, to nearly double your course load. “I just wanna graduate a little faster, yu,” you said with that breezy smile, brushing it off like it was nothing, like your daily planner wasn’t already choked with color-coded breakdowns and your tote bag wasn’t already sagging with books and half-empty energy drinks. and at first, he believed you, because you’ve never lied to him before. you’re honest, almost to a fault. but it didn’t take long before that soft shell of composure started to crack.

you started sleeping less, studying more. the calls you used to answer right away now go to voicemail. the “good morning” texts he used to get by 7:30 are coming in hours late, if at all. you haven’t been to his apartment in over a week. and sure, you’re still managing—somehow you’re still getting the work done—but you’re so tired, and it’s not the kind of tired sleep can fix. he can see it in the way your voice shakes when you ask for an extension, even though the professor gives it without question. he hears it in the pause before you say “I'm okay,” like you’re trying to convince yourself. and it kills him. because you’re the strong one. the one who holds everything together. if you’re falling apart, then what hope does he have?

but here’s the thing—yuuji's tired, too. no one really notices, because he doesn’t complain. because he doesn’t let himself slow down. because his instinct, always, is to carry the weight alone if it means someone else gets to breathe a little easier. but he’s burning out right alongside you, pulling back-to-back all-nighters and forgetting to eat, pretending he’s fine because you need him to be. that’s who he is. that’s who he’s always been.

and when finals week finally ends—when the tests are done and the caffeine shakes wear off and the dark circles under both your eyes start to fade—he decides, without hesitation, that it’s over. no arguments. no compromises. you’re taking the summer off. you’re going to gojo’s beach house with megumi and the rest of the crew. you’re going to sleep until noon and eat things that don’t come in plastic wrap and learn what it means to do nothing again. and he is not letting you back into a course load that chews you up and spits you out just so you can cross the stage a semester earlier.

he doesn’t say it angrily. he says it quietly. like a vow. like a promise. because if anyone deserves to rest, it’s you. and if anyone’s going to make sure you actually do it, it’s him.

“you’re not weak for being tired,” he says one night, the two of you curled up on his bed, your body half-draped over his, your limbs heavy like you’re finally allowing yourself to feel just how exhausted you really are. “you work harder than anyone I know. and I know a lot of people who punch curses for a living.”

you huff a tired laugh against his chest, but it sounds more like a sigh. your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt.

“I just…I thought if I could do it all now, if I could push through a little more, I could get to the good part faster. you know? the part where I've made it.”

he runs his hand over your back, gentle, rhythmic. “babe, you already made it. you're already everything. the rest is just paperwork and deadlines and weirdly specific formatting rules.”

you don’t respond for a long moment, and he can feel your breathing shift, feel the guilt brewing behind your silence, the way you stiffen just slightly like maybe you're trying not to cry. so he keeps going, softer now, slower.

“and hey,” he murmurs, tipping your chin up so you’ll look at him, “just because I couldn't fix this doesn’t mean I don’t see how hard it’s been. you don’t have to pretend for me, okay? I know it hurts. I know you’ve been running on empty. you don’t have to carry that alone.”

“but you’ve been tired too,” you whisper, your voice cracking under the weight of your own concern. “I haven’t even been there for you—”

“yes, you have,” he says, without letting you finish. “you always are. even when you think you’re not.”

he kisses your forehead then, like he’s sealing in every word. and it isn’t grand. it isn’t dramatic. but it’s real. it’s soft. it’s everything he’s been holding onto and everything he wants to give you now—space to fall apart, and space to rest, and the kind of love that doesn’t ask for anything back but lets you collapse into it anyway.

“you and me, okay?” he says into the silence. “all summer. rest, movies, megumi absolutely tearing gojo to shreds, eating until we feel sick. we deserve that. you deserve that.”

and this time, you believe him. not because you’re magically okay. not because the burnout vanishes. but because yuuji’s holding it with you, both hands open, no expectations, no shame—just love.

dividers by @cafekitsune

[nakoyaps]

YOU’LL BE IN MY HEART

atsumu miya x insecure! reader

“DON’T LISTEN TO THEM, CAUSE WHAT DO THEY KNOW?”

you should’ve known it wouldn’t be easy dating ATSUMU MIYA. he’s a well-known student athlete, and you two aren’t even in the same social circle.

of course, people realized that he changed. from the dude who always basked in the spotlight— to the taken man protecting his girlfriend’s feelings? what a wuss.

despite his reputation of being carefree and unbothered, it surely worried him when the love of his life was suddenly hurt and disheartened.

𐙚𓏲⋆ ִֶָ ๋𓂃 ⋆ᡣ𐭩

“ya alright, pumpkin?” atsumu asks, worried.

it was saturday— your weekly movie night at his place. despite cuddling and having a cozy movie playing in the back, you couldn’t help but replay everyone’s comments over and over in your head.

you turned to face him. seeing the look of concern on his face, you couldn’t help but not want to worry him.

“i’m okay, tsumu.”

he raises a brow, doubt evident in his eyes. “really? it don’t seem like yer okay..”

it was hard to lie, especially when he knows everything about you— in and out.

you sigh in defeat, “promise you won’t get all pissy?”

he gives you a look of mock offense, bringing his hand up to his chest. “i am not pissy.”

you roll your eyes, deciding to tell him the truth;

“your fans seem to prefer you dating someone else..”

he paused. no sassy remark, nothing. “excuse me?”

“you’re a student-athlete, and your not exactly bad looking either..” you state, your voice lowering at the last bit.

he stares, baffled. “what the hell does that mean?”

“it means you’re like, practically the perfect boyfriend.. theoretically, i suppose. but, i’m barely considered conventionally attractive.“

even with how obvious you were making it, atsumu didn’t seem to understand.

“why would that matter?”

“because that’s how it is. a pretty girl can date an ugly guy, but not vice versa.”

he squints his eyes, the expression on his face clearly annoyed.

“so what? yer gorgeous.”

“maybe to you—“

before you could make a self-deprecating comment, he cuts you off. “yeah, and thats all that matters.”

you tilt your head, confused. “you don’t get it—“

again, cutting you off. “nah, yer the one that don’t get it. don’t listen to those nobodies, what do they know ‘bout us?”

before you could speak up, he continued making his statement. “they don’t know ya like i do. yer gorgeous, intelligent, talented.. and ya deal with my bullcrap better than anyone else.” he chuckles, “they don’t know what i’m like behind closed doors either, darlin’. i guarantee yer the only girl for me, the only one that can keep up with me.”

maybe, just maybe, dating an athlete isn’t such a bad idea.

you try to suppress the smile tugging at your lips, not going unnoticed by atsumu. being the jerk that he is, he pulls you closer, pressing a gentle kiss on your forehead.

the only words you could describe his gaze was loving and adoration. with a dreamy sigh, he says, “imma marry ya one day, alright?”

you nod bashfully, your voice turning into a small whisper. “i’d like that..”

HELLO FRIENDSS!! haven’t been active lately lol, even if i do only post once a month.. i took a hiatus during feb for reasons even unknown to myself other than lack of motivation, but i’m happy my kenma fic is doing well, and i hope you all can enjoy this one as well :)

[fyxestroll]

Whose Problem Is It When the Primarchs Fall in Love? Pt.2

note: posting this during class because im school is making me lose my mind :>

Unnamed Primarch #11 - Had a relationship so healthy Emps got jealous and deleted them from existence.

Angron - Theoretically it should be everyone’s problem but in practice, it’s mainly Angron’s. Like everything in his life, Angron falling in love is a tragedy; there are no good scenarios, no good endings. The Butcher’s Nails have robbed him of many things including the whirlwind of emotions that came with falling in love being replaced by pain, so much pain. There are so many what-ifs, could-have-been and should-have-beens with Angron that in another life—one kinder to him, you just know that he would love you with all of himself. 

Guilliman - He joins Jaghatai in the no-ones problem club. He handles falling in love well, there’s no unbearable pining or disastrous courting ideas. Internally, though, he hesitates from time to time because of the weight he carries on his shoulders. He dreams of retirement, of a simple life and that dream involves falling in love too but he’s far from retirement, far from that simple life. There’s always that nagging thought that his pursuit of you would have you be put into harm's way.

Mortarion - It’s his problem and it makes him miserable. When Mortarion falls in love he expects to be rejected almost immediately. He expects to be hated, to be seen as disgusting. This leads to him avoiding you because despite expecting it, he can’t bear to handle that sort of rejection. Still, he pines from a distance. If Mortarion’s feelings for you are requited then good luck its a never-ending game of hide and seek with his man. 

Magnus the Red - It’s your problem. Have you ever had that one smart classmate that goes ‘oh i didn’t review’ after getting a perfect score and its obvious they said that because they want to be praised? Well, that’s Magnus. He wants your attention and he wants your approval. Praise him, tell him how smart he is, keep up with his genius. Oh, this man can be perceived as so damn annoying and the worst part is that he doesn’t even realise it. When he falls in love, he looks for an equal in tht person.  He wants someone who can keep up with him, someone he can bounce off ideas with but he winds up expressing it in a way that unintentionally insults your intelligence. He’s like a pretentious peacock with the way he’s showing off his mastery of the warp. To have requited feelings for this man means being the most patient and understanding person in the whole galaxy.

Horus - It’s your problem. Like with Magnus you’d need a lot of patience with this man. Horus is like a big bald frat boy and when he pines his frat legion is right behind him. If the Space Wolves are singing kiss the girl the Luna Wolves are doing that with fireworks. Its endearing but so much so that it loops back to being cringe. Not even Horus’ Primarch charisma can help them on that one. Either way, whether you fall for him or not there's just this nagging feeling that something is about to go wrong at any moment.

Lorgar - Three your problems in a row lfg!!! Love for Lorgar is both spiritual happiness and guilt so when he falls in love he feels both. Worse, is that when Lorgar falls in love, he falls in LOVE. His emotions for you are intense and all-encompassing resulting in Lorgar deifying you and feeling immense guilt at what he feels as he feels that his feelings for you is him being corrupted in some way. It’s intense, it’s toxic and unless you’re into that it's your problem.

 Vulkan - He’s the president of the no-one’s-problem club. The OG in-touch with his emotions guy. The closest thing he’d have a problem with is that he looks intimidating as hell so if you aren’t close to him or don’t know him well you might be intimidated but that’s nothing a little quality time with him can’t fix! 

Corvus Corax - It’s his problem but he handles it better than most of the Primarchs on this list. He's well-adjusted enough to go with the flow but the insecurity is still there. He knows that under his skin he’s not exactly human and whether or not you are just the slightest bit aware of a Primarch’s true nature it kills him. Still, out of hypocrysy selfishness, he attempts to pursue you, hesitating every step of the way. Don’t be surprised if he ghosts you for days and then comes back badly trying to pretend like nothing happened.

Alpharius Omegon - It’s their problem (????) Alpharius and Omegon come as a packaged pair in just about anything including love, at least initially. They’re technically the same person but they’re still at their core individuals of the slightest variations so when they fall in love they need to be acknowledged as an individual by that person. It’s messy, internal and highlights the hairline cracks in the twins’ relationship. You don’t know that any of this is happening all you know is that Alpharius likes you.

[pistatsia]

Shidou Ryusei: as free as a bird

Shidou is uncomfortable, imperfect. He's vulgar, he's gross, he's blatantly cruel, and he's incapable of compromise. He's hyper-excitable, constantly ready to fight and even looking forward to that brawl. He switches between moods like a kaleidoscope, and what falls out in that kaleidoscope is unpredictable.

Shidou has absolutely no understanding of morality.

This is especially evident in his encounter with Kunigami.

He has absolutely no understanding of the concept of protecting someone simply for no gain. Trying to protect someone heroically, purely because of an understanding that it's wrong, is ridiculous to Shidou. Shidou has only "his" and "others", and that "his" so far includes only Sae, as shown in the episode where he tries to turn Sendou's face into mush.

Nor does he understand the moralization that it is wrong to hit people. He just doesn't get it, and it's probably ridiculous for him to even think about it, because at the deepest level he has an attitude to respond to any hint of a threat with a fight.

Most likely Shidou grew up in an environment where brute force decided everything. That's why he's so hyperexcitable.

Shidou is in a constant state of tension, waiting for even the slightest hint of a threat, which he is happy to crush immediately. He's constantly ready to strike because he's used to constantly feeling a threat - one that he had to respond to with violence because he wouldn't have survived otherwise. His "fight" response, out of a combination of ancient instincts called "fight-flight-freeze," is always switched to the max.

We all know that the attack is the best form of defense, and Shidou follows this motto with his entire being. "Beat your own so that others will fear you" is about him.

Shidou doesn't mention his family at all in his Blue Lock profile like other players do. Remember how he talks about Santa in the same form - "I can buy something on my own" sounds very childish and unhappy. When you're trying to prove to yourself that you don't need it at all - because if you need it, you won't get it anyway.

Beyond that, even leaving aside his family and theoretical home environment, we know for a fact that Shidou didn't play for any football team before Blue Lock.

He was a loner, and therefore the only space where he could practice was the street.

And street football is insanely, inhumanly violent.

And it makes sense that this similar environment, both at home and in the game, formed the core of Shidou's personality that we see in the manga. The core of personality, which is based on the desire to survive, and not just survive, but to show everyone around him that despite everything he has gnawed out a life for himself with his teeth. A life in which cruelty is the law.

A life where he exists.

Shidou is probably one of the most evident Blue Lock players, for whom football is not only inextricably linked to life - it is life. And Shidou is absolutely explicit about this both in the interview and in the manga.

For Shidou, football and life are one and the same.

The same thing that Aiku says: Shidou is incapable of separating the field and life. They're inseparable in his world in general; they're one and the same.

It is only logical that Shidou transfers the laws of his life to football as well; and ends up playing football the same way he plays life - a football of the "survival" kind. Where it is his biological need (I'm sorry), his only aspiration, the violence that breaks everything in its path. Where the way to "survive the game", just as in life, is to leave your mark, to somehow prove your existence in people's lives, to be remembered by them and imprinted in their memories.

And pay attention to the way Shidou lives: not according to the rules, uncomfortable and bright, believing that it is better to burn to the death than to lie in a corner as a gray shadow, but alive.

There are no rules in Shidou's football; therefore, there are no rules in Shidou's life.

And that's why Shidou despises heroes and "good guys"; because only naive idiots who don't understand real life, the one where your survival is all that matters. That's why he mocks Kunigami's principles so much: because to him, a child for whom his whole life has been one big attempt to gnaw his teeth out to survive, such principles are irrelevant.

Because there are no heroes in Shidou's world, and even if there were, they've long since broken.

And there are no restrictions in Shidou's life either. He lives a violent life, and it makes sense that he lives by the same principles in Blue Lock, not hesitating to threaten Rin with the end of his career or Igaguri with murder.

He's not violent because he takes some special pleasure in bullying Igaguri: he's violent because that's just who he is. He doesn't have a "harming others is not okay" attitude. It's instinct - as seen especially in his episodes of fighting with Rin. He doesn't care at all about causing him long-term harm or ruining his career - on the contrary, he enjoys it in the moment.

And this is especially evident in his relationship with Isagi; while Shidou had nearly smashed his head in the day before, on the field he already openly admires him and is quite friendly. Shidou doesn't give violence any particular importance - you don't give any importance to brushing your teeth or throwing out the rubbish in the morning, do you?

For Shidou, it's just insignificant, because violence is the organic basis of his life, its law and right.

Today he's trying to kill Isagi, and tomorrow it's Isagi-chan.

Because Shidou has no social competence - he had no parents to bring him into society and set some morals.

And his desires are pretty simple and even primitive. When he learns of his potential salary, his first thought is how much he can eat on it. All he basically wants, almost to the point of obsession, is to induce vivid emotions, explosion, adrenaline - something Shidou is addicted to, living in constant danger and something that allows him to feel alive and existent.

You know who that sounds like? Denji. A main character from Shidou's most favourite manga.

They both had no guides to society. They're both unfortunate kids who were deprived of absolutely everything when they were young. Who are so vulgar and repulsive not because there's anything wrong with them and they act so deliberately and meanly - but because they just don't know any other life. They just don't understand what it's like to live differently. They both live on base instincts.

And they both try to greedily claim as much as they can from the life around them - the food, the people, the sensations.

Because they had nothing before.

Back to Shidou and his football.

The most amazing thing about Shidou is the way he treats his opponents (omitting attempts to injure them). Shidou, even when losing, finds time to admire them - to admire those who took the ball away from him or stole a goal. He's really just having a good time - while for Rin, football is something to be taken completely seriously, for Karasu it's a need to pre-analyse opponents, and for Snuffy it's work, Shidou is just having fun.

And at the same time, what, along with "watch as world reaches its end" and "at the end of the day, when I became nothing, tears came out" demonstrates the duality of his nature is his attitude to losing.

He and Kaiser actually have too many parallels, but this is one of the most obvious - even though they treat the issue differently, they act in the same way.

They're both prepared to admit when they're losing - and they're both willing to break themselves for the sake of the goal. They both know how and when to tame jealousy and the losing parts of their being.

Because they don't believe in winning (explosion) any other way.

Shidou knows when to back down. Because he learnt this too from his childhood - that if the opponent is stronger than you and you keep carelessly breaking forward, sooner or later it will destroy you. The only way to win is to recognise his superiority and fracture yourself, forming a new self - one that can defeat him (as seen in Shidou's willingness to stop fighting so that Ego would let him out, and Kaiser's with his story with Noa).

The ability to appreciate and recognise the strength of your opponent is a basic principle of survival.

But at the same time (just like Kaiser), Shidou doesn't believe that there are invincible opponents. You just have to know the way to break them.

Or rather, not know: feel. Which is what happens at the U-20 game when Shidou enters the flow.

Logically, with all of the above, Shidou is a complete individualist, and is unable to comply with Rin even for the sake of a goal - because Shidou knows he can beat him. The point at which his PXG game has evolved - with two formations, one centered on Shidou and the other on Rin - is the clearest evidence of this.

Shidou knows when to back off - but Shidou isn't going to back off until circumstances force him to.

And in the end, this approach of Shidou ended up being too egoistic for Blue Lock, which is insanely ironic. What's also funny is that along with it, it's his attitude towards football that epitomises Ego's ideal - a player who puts everything he has into it because it's his way of surviving.

And so we come to that one scene of punishment. And it's this, along with Shidou's monologue from the U-20 game, that reveals him the most.

Because in the first few frames Shidou looks frankly miserable. Of course, anyone would look that way in his position. But suddenly Shidou starts talking calmly, offering a compromise - and then in the same second he snaps.

He explodes, cursing Ego - though as his words show he understands the reason for the punishment - he's even willing to compromise. It's illogical to curse the one on whom his salvation depends, isn't it?

Shidou acts this way because he's afraid.

Because in this moment - bound, locked up, and alone - he is defenseless.

He's like a caged animal that can't think logically - he's terrified, he's scared, he can only throw himself helplessly around the cage, grinning his teeth wantonly. This is the first time we see him so seriously angry (he still did get some fun, adrenaline rush during the fight with Rin).

The worst thing for Shidou, free as a bird or a tiger and most of all wanting that very freedom (more about that later) is vulnerability and limitation. Powerlessness. For the sake of overcoming this, he is ready to give up violence and his principles of life, as long as he is released and pulled out of this hell of helplessness.

And this fear is actually incredibly characteristic of his personality too.

But in order to understand why, of all the possible punishments of the world, it is the restriction that drives him to panic, let's remember what football means to him and his style of play in it.

Shidou has sharp and monstrous, even beastly reflexes and instincts. They are honed to the max. He is very strong physically, fast, agile, flexible, perfectly sensing the space around him. Optimal in his movements. Unpredictable. His illogical patterns are impossible to read.

Shidou is all of one naked reflex and instinct, free in his absolute savagery. He is a completely separate character outside of the Ego's system. He literally speaks a different language.

And Sae happens to be the only one who understands that language.

And up until their moments together, this is most vividly shown when Sae stops Shidou from beating up another player - and not just stops him, but understands what needs to be said.

Which again proves that in the violent chaos of Shidou's life he does have a certain logic. A constantly shifting, flexible one, but one...

Which, again, Sae alone understands.

And it is through playing with Sae that the whole point of why football is so important to Shidou is revealed. Why he plays it so instinctively, despising the rule, the tactics, and his teammates. Why is he suddenly willing to "break himself" for Sae, adjusting his rules of life to fit him, yesterday's stranger - because Sae accepts both him and his football, and doesn't try to limit or remake him. And that's exactly why Shidou is willing to be changed to match him.

Because Shidou's football, the life he wants to achieve, is all about freedom.

And that's not enough for him. It's not enough for Shidou just to play, just to live. It can't be enough for a man who is used to living on adrenaline and fighting for his existence every day.

Life for Shidou is about freedom, just as football is his escape and a place where he can exist.

Shidou stands out, doesn't follow the rules, exists so vividly and with every action clearly and distinctly proving his presence...

To live.

Both football and Shidou's life are about escaping, about breaking out of his limits. To see the world as himself - free and alive.

Football makes Shidou feel whole, feel alive. Football is what glues him together. It's the only way he can prove what he is - by achieving something. By making himself colorful, visible, uncomfortable - in a way that he can't be turned away from.

One that will allow him to leave a trace of his existence in the world. One that will prove to him that he is.

For Shidou, all these metaphorical (or not) explosions are actually a way of proving that he exists.

Even his fights and quarrels actually serve his purpose - and Shidou himself confirms this in his monologue. All of this is to be vivid, to imprint, to exist.

To be someone who cannot be forgotten or turned away from.

Who cannot be overlooked.

Who exists as obviously as he can.

Even his favorite subjects at school - Art and Physical Education (the latter obviously about football) - are related. Because it's possible to leave your mark on the world with art, too - and it makes sense that Shidou admires it so much. Because art is, after all, the most colorful thing a living person can leave behind.

And for Shidou, art is football.

For him, to exist is to be free. And to burn so brightly that it blinds his own eyes - otherwise both life and football become bland, boring and insignificant to him. Just like his evenings - remember "When is the last time you cried?" from The Egoist Bible? And remember Shidou's response?

"At the end of the day, when I became nothing, tears came out."

Because in the evening, emotions and people disappear and you're left to yourself. Empty, aimless and in a way pathetic - because you're no longer on fire. Because you lose all the things that made you feel during the day.

Shidou depends on vivid emotions - because, due to his difficult youth, they are the only things that allow him to feel that he is alive.

That he's free.

Shidou's favorite song is also about freedom and trying to break free from the constraints of his life.

There is nothing in the world Shidou longs for more than freedom.

And the spider in Shidou's favorite song is limited and weak.

A spider without wings is incapable of flying. The spider without wings is trapped in unfreedom, looking at the blue and vast sky above his head every day - one that he cannot reach.

A spider without wings is incapable of flying - and those wings Shidou himself, like the spider in the song, could not get, no matter how hard he tried.

But Sae gave Shidou those wings. Sae gave Shidou the ability to play to his full potential, the way he craved with his entire being. Sae took him out from Blue Lock. Sae acknowledged him. Sae gave him a chance to make his mark on the world and gave him purpose, he showed him that there was someone who understood him and his aspirations on this base, animal level.

Sae gave Shidou freedom.

And Shidou learnt to fly.

[lupinqs]

CHAPTER TWO ━━ Quickly-Growing-Maybe-Soon-Best-Friend

❀ ━ pairing: paige bueckers x oc (jo jacobson)

❀ ━ word count: 3.6K

❀ ━ warnings: allusions to sex but not much

❀ ━ links: my masterlist, nobody gets me masterlist

❀ ━ author’s note: paige is so down bad already and girl doesn’t even realize it…….. also my bad this is such a filler

PAIGE THINKS she might be in love with Jo Jacobson.

Not like that, of course. It’s not romantic, not even close. It’s more of an “I think this person is becoming my favorite human” kind of thing. Paige can’t really explain it, but there’s just something about Jo—and these past three weeks of living together have only solidified it.

From the first night in their shared apartment, when they’d sat on the couch in their living room in awkward silence, to now, where there’s never really any silence at all, one of them constantly talking the others ears off like they’ve known each other forever. Paige has always been the kind of person to warm up to others quickly, her extroverted energy practically bursting out of her, but Jo? Jo’s a little quieter, slightly more reserved. She’s not shy by any means, but there’s a certain softness to her that makes Paige want to protect her from anything and everything.

Paige adores that softness. Jo’s the kind of person who makes you feel calm just by being near her, like she has this invisible aura that radiates peace. She’s always smiling—bright and genuine, like she’s just happy to be here, happy to exist. Paige can’t help but smile back whenever Jo’s around. It’s infectious, really.

Truthfully, their personalities shouldn’t blend as well as they do—Paige’s loud, chaotic voice nervy should theoretically overwhelm Jo’s somewhat quieter demeanor—but somehow, it works. They’ve fallen into this easy rhythm of teasing each other, sharing random late-night thoughts, and laughing until their stomachs hurt over the dumbest things.

Like last week, when Jo walked in on Paige attempting to balance her basketball on her head for no reason other than she was bored. Instead of questioning it, Jo just laughed so hard she almost fell over, and then proceeded to try it herself. They spent the next several minutes in a competition over who could balance it the longest, which, for the record, Jo totally won. Paige pretended to be mad, but she wasn’t. She was too busy fighting back a grin as she watched Jo laugh loudly, making an L with her fingers and putting it right in front of Paige’s face.

Paige doesn’t know if she’s pushing it, but it’s been a while since she’s felt this connected to someone so quickly. Yes, she has her circle of close friends on the team—Azzi, Nika, Caroline, the list goes on—but there’s something different about Jo. Something special. Maybe it’s the way Jo listens so intently when Paige is ranting about some random topic. Or the way she’s always down to join Paige for a late-night shooting session, no questions asked. Or maybe it’s just the way Jo seems to understand Paige, even without her having to say much at all.

And don’t even get Paige started on their on-court chemistry. It’s almost ridiculous how well they mesh. They’re both natural point guards, which should make things complicated, but instead, it’s like they just get each other. During practices and scrimmages, it feels like Paige always knows where Jo is without having to look, and vice versa. They’ve perfected this unspoken language of no-look passes and perfectly timed cuts, and it’s perfect. Paige is convinced that when the season starts in November, they’re going to be unstoppable.

Today, they’re matched up against each other in their five-on-five, full-court scrimmage. Paige thrives in this environment, where the game is fast and physical, where every decision has to be made in a split second.

Right now, though, Jo is making Paige work.

Jo has the ball at the top of the key, her dribble steady and deliberate as she surveys the court. Paige crouches low in her defensive stance, her arms extended, her gaze locked on Jo’s every move. Jo’s face is calm, composed, but Paige can see the wheels turning. She’s looking for an opening, one Paige isn’t about to give her.

“Whatchu got, JoJo?” the blonde teases, voice light but goading.

Jo doesn’t take the bait, hardly even glancing at her, but Paige can see the corner of her mouth twitch like she’s fighting back a smile. It’s enough to make Paige grin, but she quickly suppresses it. She tells herself to focus.

Jo dribbles to her right, testing Paige’s reaction. Paige shifts with her, staying low and quick on her feet. Jo pivots, fakes left, then spins back to her right, her movements so smooth and seamless that Paige almost gets caught off guard. Almost.

The blonde recovers quickly, sliding her feet to cut Jo off, and the two of them are chest to chest now, close enough that Paige can hear Jo’s steady breathing. “Come on, freshie,” Paige whispers lowly, smirking, her tone playful but challenging.

Jo still doesn’t respond, focus unshakeable, not the type to yap on the court. She steps back, creating just enough space to pull up for a three. Paige jumps to contest, her hand outstretched, but the ball is already in the air. It arcs perfectly, hitting nothing but net.

As Jo lands, she jogs backward, prepared to get back on defense. But as she catches Paige’s eye, she sticks her tongue out at her. The gesture is quick, cheeky, and it makes Paige shake her head, biting back a grin. “Okay,” she mutters under her breath, “I see you.”

And she does. God, does she see her—and, God, does she understand why Jo was the number one recruit in the nation.

The next possession, Paige has the ball. She brings it up the court with that signature strut in her step, the kind that says she knows she’s about to make something happen. Jo’s in front of her, her stance low and her eyes locked on Paige like she’s dating her to try something.

Paige smirks. She loves a challenge.

She dribbles left, then crosses over to her right, her movements sharp and quick. Jo stays with her, her defense tight, and Paige feels a flicker of frustration. Jo’s good—really good. It’s annoying, but also exciting. Paige thrives on competition, and Jo is proving to be one of the best matchups she’s had in a while.

Paige steps back, her dribble steady, and sizes Jo up. She tilts her head for a second, blue eyes locked on brown. And then, in a flash, she’s driving to the basket, using her speed to get a step on Jo.

But Jo recovers fast, her arms reaching out to contest as Paige goes for the layup. The ball rolls off the backboard and through the net, and Paige lands with a triumphant grin. She turns to Jo, who’s already jogging back to the other end of the court.

“Close,” Paige calls after her. “But not close enough.”

Jo doesn’t say anything, just glances over her shoulder with a knowing smile that makes Paige’s chest tighten.

The scrimmage continues, and it’s a back-and-forth between Paige and Jo’s teams. On offense, Jo’s movements are deliberate and precise, her passes crisp and her shot deadly. Her connection with Dorka is impressive, the brunette getting past Paige’s defense too many times for her liking, sending the Hungarian dime after dime. On defense, Jo’s relentless, always in Paige’s space, always making her work for every point. And it only gets worse when Nika and Jo double-team her, two of the best defenders on their team.

But Paige gives as good as she gets. She uses her quickness and court vision to set up her teammates, threading passes through tight spaces and hitting open shooters. She drives to the basket with her usual confidence, finishing through contact.

At one point, Paige gets the ball on the wing, Jo right in front of her. She dribbles a few times, rocking back and forth like she’s deciding what to do. Then, with a sudden burst of speed, she blows past Jo and pulls up for a mid-range jumper. The hall swishes through the net, and Paige can’t help but shoot Jo a quick, cocky grin as she hits back on defense.

Jo shakes her head, her own smile breaking through despite herself. “Not bad,” she says softly, just loud enough for Paige to hear.

“Not bad?” Paige echoes, feigning offense. “That was textbook.”

Jo just laughs a little, her eyes crinkling at her corners, and Paige feels the need to fight back one of her own. She shoves it down, focusing on the game, but the need is there, lingering, buzzing at the edges of her thoughts.

By the end of the scrimmage, both of them are drenched in sweat, their faces flushed from exertion. Jo’s team wins by a single point, thanks to a clutch three she drains in Paige’s face.

As they walk off the court, Paige shakes her head, a mix of frustration and admiration swirling in her chest. “You’re lucky I like you,” she says, bumping Jo’s shoulder with her own.

Jo grins, glowing with the face of someone who’s just won. “You just can’t handle the face that I’m better than you,” she teases, nudging her back.

Paige laughs, rolling her eyes. “Oh, yeah, keep dreaming ‘bout that one.”

But as they head to the locker room, Paige can’t stop the smile that tugs at her lips. There’s something so effortless about it all—like Jo’s meant to be here, meant to be Paige’s teammate, her roommate, her… quickly-growing-maybe-soon-best-friend?

Paige thinks back to one of their conversations a few nights ago. Jo had been sitting cross-legged on the couch, scrolling through her phone while Paige was sprawled on the floor, eating Hot Cheetos, not paying any attention to the Grey’s Anatomy episode that was playing on the TV. They two of them had been talking about everything and nothing—summer classes, music, how gross Amari’s pasta was that she made the night prior. At one point, Jo had said something about how surreal it still felt to be here, with everyone, preparing to play Connecticut basketball.

Paige had looked up at her then, really looked at her, and felt this overwhelming sense of pride for someone she’s only known for a few weeks. Jo deserved to be here. She deserved every bit of success coming her way, and Paige couldn’t wait to see it all unfold.

And Paige thinks that again now, as they walk side by side, knowing how much Jo Jacobson’s managed to make herself matter to Paige within a few measly weeks. Once again, not in a romantic way—because Jo’s in love with that boy, and it’s looking like she’s about as straight as they come—but in a way that feels just as significant. Jo isn’t just her teammate or her roommate. She’s almost like her person, or at least, she’s quickly becoming something of the sort.

JO WAKES UP groggy, her body tangled in sheets that suddenly feel too warm. Her head pounds slightly, though not from drinking—she’d been stone-cold sober last night. No, her headache stems from the distinct lack of sleep caused loud, unmistakable sounds that had her burying her head under her pillow to drown them out. She stretches out in bed, her limbs tangling in the sheets as her brain sluggishly catches up to the morning.

The muffled, rhythmic noises that had bled through the thin apartment walls are still fresh in her memory, making her cringe and laugh all at once. Paige has been away some nights due to certain… activities… but yesterday was the first time she brought the activities home. Jo groans, dragging a hand over her face.

She grabs her phone off the nightstand, squinting at the brightness of the screen. 11:07 AM. Too late to justify staying in bed any longer but not quite late enough to feel and about sleeping in. With a sigh, she swings her legs over the side, her bare feet hitting the cold floor.

The idea of a run floats into her mind—something to shake off the sleep-deprivation gaze and clear her head. She pads over to her dresser, grabbing her tiny back Lululemon shorts that are probably a little too short for decency and a snug tank top that clings to her in all the right ways. She catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror as she ties her hair into a ponytail. Good enough.

If it was any other day, she’d knock on Paige’s door and ask if she wants to come along. They’ve started running together some mornings, and Paige’s competitive streak always makes it fun. But this morning, she doesn’t even consider it.

Jo knows Paige had company last night. Loud company. She rolls her eyes just thinking about it, fighting off a smirk. Paige wasn’t exactly subtle, and Jo doesn’t need the details to know what went down in the room across the hall. Whoever the girl was probably slept over, and the last thing Jo wants is to walk into Paige’s room and catch them in some awkward post-hookup moment.

With a sigh, she leaves her room and heads to the kitchen. The apartment is quiet now, a contrast to last night. Jo opens the fridge, pulling out what she needs to make herself a smoothie. As she gathers them, she shakes her head, still bemused by Paige’s complete lack of shame. It’s not like Jo’s a prude—she’s in a long-term relationship herself—but Paige’s ability to just… live her life so unapologetically is both baffling and oddly admirable.

Jo starts piling everything into the blender, her movements slow and deliberate as her tired bran catches up with her body. The faint hum of the apartment feels peaceful—until she hears the quiet freak of a door behind her.

Jo turns, expecting Paige, but her eyes widen slight at the sight of that greets her instead.

Celeste Sinclair.

The team’s media girl.

Jo blinks, not quite believing her eyes. Celeste looks like she’s just stumbled out of a damn tornado. Her fiery red hair sticks up in every possible direction, and her oversized T-shirt is unmistakably inside out. Her cheeks are flushed—whether from embarrassment or something else, Jo isn’t sure—and she’s moving with the caution of someone who really doesn’t want to be noticed.

Well, too late for that.

Jo bites the inside of her cheek to keep herself from outright laughing. Of all people, Paige chose her? It’s not like Jo’s judging—she’s not. But the sheer audacity of Paige hooking up with the team’s media girl is enough to make Jo want to burst out laughing. Like, she knows Paige is kind-of unapologetically a slut, but damn.

Celeste freezes when she sees Jo, her eyes widening like a deer caught in headlights. For a long moment, neither of them says anything, the awkward tension hanging thick in the air.

Finally, Jo decides to break the silence. “Hi, Celeste,” she says slowly, keeping her tone light and her smile as kind as possible. She’s not about to be rude—that’s not who she is—but the situation is so ridiculous it takes every ounce of self-control to not smirk, let alone cackle at the girl before her.

“Hi, Jo,” Celeste replies, her voice barely above a whisper. She shifts awkwardly, clearly mortified with the whole situation.

Jo glances back at the blender, pretending to focus on it to give Celeste a moment to collect herself. “Um…” Jo begins, trying to think of something to say that won’t make this worse. Keeping her tone as genuine as possible, she gestures to the blender and asks, “Do you want a smoothie?”

Celeste’s eyes widen even more, and she shakes her head so fast her hair bounces. “Thanks, but um—I’ve got to go,” she says, her words tumbling out in a rush. Without waiting for a response, she bolts for the door like her life depends on it.

It clicks shut behind her, and the apartment falls silent again. For a moment, Jo just stands there, staring at the spot where Celeste had been.

And then she loses it.

Jo leans over the counter, her forehead pressing against her folded arms as laughter shakes from her shoulder. She turns the blender on as she tries to stifle it, the sound of the mixing swallowing the sound of Jo’s giggles. The entire situation—the ungodly loud moans from last night, Celeste’s walk of shame, the inside-out shirt—is just too ridiculous.

She barely registers the sound of Paige’s door opening again until her roommate’s voice cuts through the hum of the blender.

“You gotta be doin’ that right now?” Paige asks groggily, her words slow and raspy from sleep.

Jo lifts her head slightly, peeking out between her fingers to see Paige standing there, rubbing her eyes with one hand and bracing herself against the doorframe with the other. Her hair is tied up in a messy bun at the nape of her neck, strands falling loose around her face. She’s wearing plaid pajama pants that hang low on her lips and a black Nike sports bra, her toned arms and midriff catching the faint morning light streaming through the blinds.

Jo doesn’t answer right away, partly because she’s still laughing and partly because her gaze catches on the faint purple mark blooming on the side of Paige’s neck.

That does it. Jo’s face drops back into her hands as another wave of laughter overtakes her, her shoulders shaking with the force of it.

“What’s funny?” Paige asks, her voice tinged with curiosity and laced with a tired, small smile that tugs at the corners of her lips. She crosses her arms loosely over her chest, leaning against the doorway as she watches Jo with a bemused expression.

It takes Jo a full minute to catch her breath. When she finally looks up, her cheeks ache from smiling, and her stomach feels sore from laughing so hard. She swipes at the corner of her eye, blinking away the last remnants of her amusement before finally answering.

“Celeste is crazy, P,” the brunette says, shaking her head as if she can’t quite believe it herself.

The effect is immediate. A pink flush creeps up Paige’s neck and into her cheeks, the color depending as she straightens up slightly. Her arms uncross, and she fidgets, her fingers curling against the hem of her pajama pants.

“You saw her?” Paige asks, her voice quieter now, almost hesitant. For a brief moment, Jo notices something she doesn’t usually associate with Paige: embarrassment. It’s subtle, but it’s there, a flicker of vulnerability in the way Paige avoids her eyes and rubs the back of her neck. It surprises Jo—the blonde has never seemed particularly guilty when discussing her extracurricular activities with their teammates, so why would this be any different?

“Heard her, too,” Jo says, her grin threatening to split her face. Her tone is teasing, light, but she doesn’t miss the way Paige’s blush deepens. Jo can’t resist pushing it just a little further. She leans forward, putting on her best mock-whiny impression of Celeste, and moans dramatically, “Paige! Oh, Paige, don’t stop!”

Paige’s eyes immediately widen in horror, and her mouth drops open in indignation. “Shut up!” she exclaims, grabbing the nearest thing she can find—Jo’s stuffed animal, Bubbles—and tossing it at her with as much force as she can muster.

Jo catches it with ease, still laughing as she hugs the plush turtle to her chest, feigning offense. “Hey! Don’t be throwing Bubbles like that,” she pouts, sticking her lower lip out in exaggerated mockery.

Paige rolls her eyes, muttering something under her breath as she shuffles toward the counter. She drops onto one of the barstools, her elbows propped up on the surface as she buries her face in her hands for a moment. When she looks up again, she’s rubbing the back of her neck awkwardly.

“Sorry,” she says softly, her voice tinged with genuine guilt. “I thought you’d be asleep.”

Jo arches a brow, her amusement softening into incredulity. “Literally nothing could’ve put me to sleep during that,” she deadpans, turning back to the blender and shutting it off.

Paige straightens up slightly, defensive now. “Well, you’ve always got your fuckin’ noise machine so loud. I thought that might drown it out!”

Jo shakes her head, still grinning. “Nothing could’ve drowned that girl out, P.” Her tone is teasing, but there’s no malice behind it. She doesn’t actually care—not really.

Paige frowns, mumbling, “Sorry,” again as she picks at the edge of the counter.

Jo places Bubbles down gently, her smile softening. “It’s okay,” she says, and she means it. Jo isn’t the type to hold grudges, especially not over something as silly as this. Besides, Paige’s bashfulness is almost endearing—it’s not a side of her Jo sees often.

She pours the smoothie into two glasses, sliding one across the counter toward Paige before taking a sip of her own. The cool, fruity flavor is refreshing, cutting through the heaviness of the morning.

“Get changed,” Jo says after a moment, her tone light and commanding. She flashes Paige a cheeky, sunshine-stained smile. “We’re going on a run.”

Paige groans, leaning back dramatically. “Do we have to?”

“Yes,” Jo replies, her grin widening. She lifts her glass in a mock toast before adding, “And you’re paying for my post-run cake pop.”

That earns her another groan and a half-hearted glare from Paige, but Jo knows she’s already won. The promise of Starbucks is enough to get Paige moving, even if she grumbles the whole way there.

[rmstitanics]

* GENERAL OBSERVATIONS, PART THREE.

ASTEROIDS & CELESTIAL BODIES

ASTEROID ORPHEUS (3361) CONJUNCT CHIRON may represent one who looks to their past for creative inspiration. They’ll often use their preferred form of art in an attempt to understand traumatizing events or process any emotions that may still linger.

ASTEROID APOLLO (1862) in the 8H could signify an individual who enjoys creating or consuming media about controversial and dark topics.

When I see ASTEROID PANDORA (55) in the 10H, I immediately wonder whether the individual with this placement has experienced some sort of chaos or crises regarding their public image. Maybe they’ve had traumatic experiences with their main circle of friends, or maybe they’ve even received some level of backlash on social media for a flawed interaction. Whatever these natives have endured, they probably yearn to control public perception of their character in an attempt to prevent misunderstandings.

Check which house ASTEROID ARISTOTELES (6123) is located in within your natal chart to find where you crave the most knowledge and wisdom! As an example, I have my Aristoteles asteroid in the 8H of transformative experiences, death, and “taboo” topics — and I’m now a practicing divination witch who enjoys paranormal investigation.

Due to difficulty with turning intuitive ideas into real achievements, 9H CHIRON individuals might find the process of outlining an essay or project to be particularly challenging. They’re the types of students who change their thesis a bunch of times before a paper’s due date.

PLANETS IN SIGNS & HOUSES

SATURN 1H placements might have people pleasing tendencies at some point in their lives due to a fear of never meeting others’ expectations.

SAGITTARIUS SATURNS likely grew up in households where one or both parents was strict and / or religious. The challenge awaiting these folks in life is to pursue exploration of knowledge outside of what was taught to them in their youth. They probably enjoy philosophy or history, and could possibly grow up to be spiritual but not religious.

LEO MERCURY placements, was your writing style ever described as “flowery” by your teachers or fellow students before? Because this placement TOTALLY gives me the vibes of a flowery and dramatic writing style.

One could theoretically use their JUPITER placement to discover two things: 1) The field of study where they have experienced the most growth throughout their academic career and / or 2) their best academic subject. To do this, look at Jupiter’s degrees and house. I have CANCER JUPITER placed in the 9TH HOUSE in my chart, and I absolutely adore law, history, and philosophy! However, I’ve had to undergo the most growth in Cancerian concepts such as life skills in the home and actively listening to others.

CAPRICORN JUPITERS are prone to having a “the end justifies the means” philosophy when it comes to achieving their goals. They also might struggle with perspective taking / putting themselves in others’ shoes, particularly when they perceive the individual in question as someone outside of what they consider “normal”.

6H MOONS strike me as the type who love being around animals MUCH more than they love being around people, especially if the majority of their personal planets are in a water sign.

ASPECTS

SUN SQUARE URANUS indicates memorable students whose teachers / professors will remember them for many years to come.

Hard MERCURY-PLUTO aspects could struggle with maintaining a consistent routine for studying, especially if Mercury is in retrograde in the chart.

MERCURY TRINE JUPITER placements LOVE yapping in class, but it’ll either be with their peers while the teacher is talking or by frequent class participation. If you’re the class participation type, you’ve probably had a teacher say “does anyone OTHER than (your name) know the answer?” before 😭

Although this placement does make for great activists who are not afraid to call out injustice when they see it, LILITH CONJUNCT MERCURY folks NEED to prioritize being tactful due to a natural tendency to bluntly say whatever’s on their mind with no filter.

SATURN-NEPTUNE aspects need to practice intense discernment when it comes to politics — fact check everything and don’t just believe everything you see / hear on the internet or news without taking the time to research it for yourself!

Hard ASCENDANT-SUN aspects tend to be noticeably different people in public versus private spaces. Your first impression of them will likely be VERY different from the truth of the person that they are behind closed doors.

MIDHEAVEN OPPOSITE VENUS placements are amazingly creative individuals whose art may play a major role in their own identity, but they simultaneously might have a major fear of sharing that art with others. Peer review in class is an absolute NIGHTMARE for them.

[radiantmists]

i didn't want to add this to the post because it would add a bit too much seriousness to a good meme, but i do think it raised an interesting point. because obviously kaladin didn't forget that racism existed in that moment, he was confronting one of his primary oppressors, the guy who betrayed him multiple times over specifically because he was darkeyed.

what kaladin does forget in that moment is the pervasiveness of racism, and the extent to which it's baked into his society's institutions. and i think it makes a lot of sense for kaladin specifically to forget that (even though he absolutely knows it intellectually)!

because kaladin has always been an 'exception'. his father was a doctor, much higher nahn than anyone else in the town. kaladin is as close to literate as an alethi man is allowed to be-- more literate than adolin, presumably than elhokar. marrying the child of the citylord and having lighteyed children-- theoretically 'escaping racism', though of course that wouldn't have worked out too well in practice-- was not only thinkable but likely, unlike the false hope of defeating a shardbearer that others cling to.

before roshone, kaladin did suffer from racism-- but less than others, and in a way where he was led to believe that it was escapable and conditional.

and many of the worst things that happened to him went against the rules of alethi society. roshone was corrupt, and should never have been promoted. kaladin was immune to the draft due to his apprenticeship, and tien was young enough that choosing him was taboo if not forbidden.

similarly, tien being sent to the front lines was the sort of tactic that 'honorable' alethi norms like the codes of war would have considered reprehensible.

and of course when he saved amaram and defeated the shardbearer, the rules of society dictated that he be rewarded; i imagine choosing to give the shard to amaram should, from an honorable man, have been rewarded with pay and retirement for his men or something similar.

kaladin's enslavement was not just dishonorable by alethi social norms, but illegal.

and the kholins, up to this point, have signaled commitment both to the law and to those alethi social honor codes. and while they (especially elhokar) have been casually prejudiced, they've also welcomed the idea of kaladin as the captain of the cobalt guard, suggesting that they aren't so racist that they can't sometimes see reason.

kaladin not realizing the boon was only for lighteyes was a little naive of him, but him expecting the legal system to work for him-- when he took the issue directly to someone who knew him, respected him, and owed him the lives of his whole family-- is very understandable in the light of his experiences.

kaladin is the kind of person from a minority who was raised genuinely thinking that if they behave well, they might experience some prejudice, but no door is truly, systemically closed to them. he's had some knocks to that belief (and is kind of a suspicious person), but in the first part of words of radiance the world seems to be trying to reassure him that not all lighteyes are (too) racist, that the system is not (inherently) unjust, that he's simply been the victim of some of the more prejudiced fringes of lighteyed society.

and then the rug gets pulled out from under him.

because no amount of familiarity or respect will make elhokar side with him over one of the good old boys, no accomplishment will allow a darkeyes to challenge a lighteyes, and no amount of good behavior or education will make kaladin white lighteyed.

but a shardblade would.

...right?

i think this and the immediate aftermath, with adolin giving kaladin a blade and him giving it to moash, could have been a really interesting examination of that idea, because i don't think that lighteyed society would have smoothly accepted either of them. even by rhythm of war, we get hints that kaladin occupies a weird social place where he technically has a lighteyed rank but he seems to have a complicated relationship with 'other' lighteyes (obviously made particularly weird by him being a radiant and because most of the lighteyes he interacts with heavily are also royalty, but he doesn't quite seem to be equals with most of them).

but i don't think sanderson quite understood the experience he was writing about with kaladin, and he set out to write a series about an apocalypse. and so kaladin's complicated-- but not unrealistic-- perspective on alethi casteism will go unexamined.

[onyourowndaisymae]

𝒂 𝒔𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒐𝒇 𝒔𝒊𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆 - 𝐚𝐬𝐦𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐮𝐬 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

a/n: long time no see! sneaking in here real quick at the tail end of mermay to post something i wrote for an event with my friends. just bc i'm mad at solmare rn does not mean i won't post . i'm also a bit out of practice with writing fic so pls be kind

content + warnings: siren!asmo x fem!reader au, semi-graphic discussions of violence, murder, and death, musings on what makes a mer. read at your own discretion.

word count: ~2.3k

the sound of the ocean is a lullaby one can’t find anywhere else. 

civilization sprouted at the edge of shorelines and rivers, each droplet of water an elixir of vitality for the fragile species of man. where the water went, so too did the people, chasing fish and fresh vegetation sprouting on the bank where land and loch intertwined. so too did the animals that roamed the earth long before them, the ancestors of the beasts that will wander like unkempt vines once the humans are long gone. life thrives alongside the water. life, too, thrives inside the depths– but not often does anyone bother to wonder what happens in the murky abyss. 

the seas are calm tonight. a cruel, temperamental mistress, often pounding the shoreline with choppy waves in protest of human’s hedonism just beyond her reach, has retreated into herself tonight, leaving a shimmering surface to reflect the moon’s light. 

asmodeus loves nights like these. the water breaks, gently, where his head pokes through the waves. with the blessing of good weather, people gather in droves around the coast to dance and sing, make merry under golden lights just out of reach. the summer heat brings all sorts of new faces to the area. rich humans in shiny jewelry and gauzy outfits walk across the sandy beaches by day, retreating to the safety of the square once night falls. 

smart. nobody would step foot out here if they knew what kind of predators lurked just beyond the tide. 

there’s an islet where asmodeus indulges in a bout of people-watching on clear nights. just close enough to make out notable features– laughing man, smiling woman, curious child– but far enough away where humans can’t spot someone lurking in the darkness. cool blue and warm yellow dance across shimmering scales as they glide through the water’s surface. when he reaches the shore, asmodeus is careful to lift himself onto the rocky terrain without damaging any of his delicate features. he takes time to settle– shifting upwards to get a clear view of the party nearby, his body slunk in a way that makes escape quick and painless– before resting his chin on a rock with a wistful sigh. 

if someone took a peek out towards the islet, they wouldn’t be able to make out the pale face resting just above a craggy structure crowning the tiny island. the vague shape draped over the edge into the water would be seen as some loose seaweed caught around the shoreline, stuck in the stones and clumping together into something vaguely biological as it shifts with the waves. the human mind is quick to explain away things it does not understand, especially when the haze of a long, liquor-fuel night comes to a close. and it’s surely convenient for the figure on the rocks, too– only one or two souls are ever brave enough to investigate after a long night, inebriated on an unsteady boat as they row out into the open waters. 

defenseless. distracted. easy prey.

asmodeus drums his fingers on the crag. the golden glow of party lights dances across his pale skin, and for a moment the memory of sunlight flutters forth in his mind. dazzling, radiant, warm– it had been years since asmodeus had truly felt warm– a bright beacon he sought in the days before his body cowered from the light. this gulf was, theoretically dangerous, considering that he could be cornered in a precarious situation. but asmodeus has never had any trouble charming his way out of a sticky situation. 

on the shoreline, a pair of drunken men jostle and storytell loud enough to echo across the waters. asmodeus’ attention piques to follow their voices. he shifts his body weight back, ready to dismount from the rock, taking an extra moment to observe the situation. they’re young. strapping. broad across their sunburnt backs (what hedonism to keep the sun all to themselves!) and stumbling in rowdy play. small lights come from their hands. as far as asmodeus was aware, humans didn’t have bioluminescence. there must be something in their unwebbed grasp producing the light. how strange! how exciting! an excited giggle bubbles up from his throat, and asmodeus shifts his weight to roll gracefully off the islet into the frigid waters. 

his body dips under the surface to dart towards the edge of the gulf, the rocky shoreline concealing his lithe form. swimming through calm tides on a pleasant summer night, unsuspecting prey too dumb to notice what’s watching them? it’s intoxicating, really. asmodeus finds himself flipping in delighted circles, kicking up the faintest patch of bubbles as he writhes beneath the surface. his eyes emerge from the water to catch another glance. champagne hair clings to his skin as it greets the air. the pair of men begin to wobble towards a dock nearby. from this angle, so far away from their peers on land, it will be hard to watch their bodies disappear into the water. asmodeus can have fun with these two. maybe he can drag one under the surface in silence and watch as the other man fumbles around looking for his companion. or maybe he could lure them both out into the water with a well-timed call for help, so innocent and frail, only to snatch their fleshy bodies into the depths and watch as the oxygen leaves them in panicked bubbles, desperate cries yearning for air– 

light. bright. asmodeus flinches hard, unaware of what this blinding sensation is. white clouds his vision, colors dancing as his eyes attempt to understand what curse has befallen them. asmodeus squints into the luster, fumbling blindly as he grabs at the rugged shoreline to steady himself, desperate to regain his bearings. 

there is a human woman watching him. 

a few yards away, crouched defenselessly on the rocks, stares another face back at him. soft. sunkissed. skin seemingly warm and blemished by the elements above water. startled. connected to some strange beacon of light near your head, which is blinding him. he’s conscious enough to see your eyes sweep over his face. then, they grow wider as the light sweeps over his lower half. 

traditionally tanned skin is translucent and almost sickly. where ears would sit on a human frame, instead is lined with flexible fins shying from the light. shimmering scales splatter across his cheeks like freckles, dancing together as they wind down the gills flaring on his neck. his mouth is open in surprise, the ‘o’ of his pale lips revealing sharp, menacing fangs glinting back at you. he watches as the light– and your gaze, oh how frightened– shifts to illuminate his lower half. the scales gather down his toned torso, blockading the skin at his waist as they become a long, muscular tail. his fins flutter under the surface of the water.

before you is a startled siren. 

a deep sense of panic rises within him. if he was to indulge in his savage instincts, as every cell in his body begs of him to avoid the probability of a painful death, he would leap forward and yank you into the depths. you don’t look all that capable. surely, even if he is not the strongest of merfolk, he could ensnare you without much trouble? but a voice in the back of his head tells him to use his strengths. after all, asmodeus is no simple mermaid. where others must rely on the grace of their land-dwelling kin to save themselves, asmodeus is blessed with the gift of charm. allure. 

of song. 

despite the burn of his eyes under the scrutiny of pale, heavenly light emanating from beside you, asmodeus puts on his most charming closed-lip smile. he raises a webbed hand to shield himself from the shine of your mysterious beacon– light trickles through the skin between his fingers, but the shape of his hand creates a shadow that allows him to gain his bearings. human and mer languages have diverged over generations. asmodeus knows he cannot communicate with you, lure you in with a silver tongue and promises not to hurt you. human sounds are so round and elongated. to you, the sound of his vocalizations must be nothing more than chirps and clicks. nevertheless, he uses them. 

‘hi, human lady. i’m sorry. i didn’t want you to have to die.’

you don’t react. asmodeus wonders if you’re paralyzed with fear. your body is stiff, eyes blown wide as you track his movements. he shoves off the shoreline and disappears into the water. when he re-emerges, though, you’ve regained some semblance of life. you scuttled back just enough to sit on your haunches, gripping the pebbles beneath you for stability. asmodeus knows that he’ll replay the movement in his mind later, long after your body’s gone cold and sunk beneath the waves. maybe he’ll take you back with him, stash your body in a cave away from his brothers and admire the way nature runs its course on your carcass. after all, humans are so interesting. 

asmodeus opens his mouth, and from beneath the murky waters, a glow begins to form. it starts from within him, a bright blue forming within his sternum, illuminating his ribs and cartilage as it grows. the color grows warmer as it pulses down his arms. soft, radiant, morphing into a pinkish glow racing under his skin like blood in his veins. light moves up into his throat. the glow leaks from his gills, spills from his lips as it morphs into a bright, angry orange. his eyes are consumed with the same molten hue. generations of desperate survival form into a curse so potent that it spills from his body, leaking like arsenic into the waters around him. 

a haunting melody begins to fall from his lips. 

maybe his ancestors knew the words of the hymn he sings. but they’re long gone now, only remembered through the innate sense of fear their songs bring him. he should feel powerful. instead, asmodeus feels afraid. his eyes are blinded by the light coming from within. he cannot cry out, nor can he stop himself once the song starts. it’s like possession, in a sense– asmodeus is no longer himself but rather a vessel for millennia of torment from the frigid, lifeless depths below. notes swell and rise before retreating like ocean waves, enticing vulnerable prey to come forward and seek their demise with open arms. the melody is shrill, haunting, ariose like a choir of voices reaching a fever pitch. asmodeus has always been known amongst his brothers for having the most potent siren’s song. he’d once lured sailors to their deaths several knots away, back when the deadly had free roam of the seas. 

his vision begins to clear, night piercing through the light like pinpricks until his line of sight is whole again. his arms preemptively open, grasping outwards for the warm body entering his arms, actin as your lifeline for just a moment until he pulls you under to your watery grave, watching the panic set in as you–

–... remain seated, horrified, watching him from the rocks. 

he blinks. maybe his waterlogged eyes are deceiving him? but you stare back with the same stupid expression he’s surely wearing, like a funhouse mirror distorting his fear back at him. 

for the first time in his long, long life, asmodeus has failed to charm a human. the siren’s song written deep in his bones has fallen short. he watches you with the same mix of confusion just as you do him. for several moments, the waters and land are both still. but the sound of distant voices makes his fins shiver involuntarily, the first reminder of the very real, very dangerous situation asmodeus has found himself in. humans are not supposed to know of the existence of merfolk. this human before him was supposed to die, but there you are, alive and well, resistant to the one surefire weapon he’s had at his disposal all his life. now more humans are coming his way, drawn like moths to the lights he’d displayed moments ago. his throat begins to close in panic. you shift forward onto your hands and knees to reach out to him just as he backs away into the water. his head is on a swivel, eyes darting around. they’re coming. the people. the people who shouldn’t know he exists– you shouldn’t be alive to know he exists– and their voices are growing louder–

it takes only one kick of his powerful tail to send him disappearing into the water below. he doesn’t look back, doesn’t falter as he dives deep enough to feel some semblance of safety as the pressure increases in the depths. he swims as fast as his body can take him to the aquatic entrance of the gulf. the anxiety thrumming in his chest fizzles the further away he gets, settling into his gut like stone. 

only when he’s a few knots away does he dare to peak out of the water and look behind him. the lights on the horizon have disappeared, leaving a gloomy darkness in their wake. something small dots the edge of the cliffs, at the furthest peak towards the edge of the ocean. in his mind’s eye, asmodeus imagines it to be your figure, staring out at the open water in search of the creature that evaded you just as you had him. maybe you’re curious about what lurks in the depths. 

or maybe you’re warning others of the beast you found. maybe you’re lining up hunters to eradicate every mer unfortunate enough to cross your path. the thought makes asmodeus’ chest tight– he banishes that thought from his mind as he sinks into the depths once more. 

[mesetacadre]

Hi, I'm someone relatively new to communism and I wondered if you could help me with a question: what is it that the communist party can *do* to actually be a reliable ally of workers? I've heard many people say this is how workers will support the party -once they see both the bourgeois institutions and unions fail them, but I'm not entirely sure what, say, a modern party in Europe can actually do besides agitation. What are the practical steps, or one example of them? (I understand this might be highly dependable on context and therefore not have an easy answer, but I think even one example might be useful, because what I'm struggling to wrap my head around is how a party actually starts showing they're an ally of the workers BEFORE having the political power to change the workers' material conditions -other than by doing agitation)

It's organizing, but this is a relatively vague word if you've no experience with it. I'll first go through a hypothetical example and then get into the more theoretical weeds.

Say there's a new metro extension being built under a town, the government didn't pay attention to surveys and they built the tunnel through a section of ground which doesn't drain water that well, the tunnel begins to flood a few weeks after opening and this is seriously affecting the structural integrity of residential buildings' foundations. Massive cracks are spawning in these homes, and the government decides to evacuate all the affected streets to demolish the buildings, 600+ families, without providing adequate or even sufficient compensation and reaccomodation.

You'd first need to make contact with the affected, through whoever brought the situation to your party's attention. Maybe a militant is one of the affected, perhaps some of the affected contacted you directly, maybe they contacted a worker's union or a neighborhood association and made its way to you through the interpersonal networks that always exist between people involved in various social movements and platforms. You should see and ask what they need, inform yourself of the legislative process surrounding it, when evictions are happening, etc. And then put what the party can give towards supporting them; setting up supply drives and money collections, giving them strength if they want to resist the evictions and offer legal support, before and after, help them legalize protests in front of the responsible legislature and providing logistical support for what's needed (megaphones, materials and knowhow for banners, a cheap sticker printer, etc), in general, agitate about this and make the situation known. Work in earnest with them, you don't need to be self interested to put in mind and body to oppose such a negligent act.

I've glossed over a lot, and of course these things are always easier said than done. But this is in essence what organizing is, getting actually involved to put forward your political program, it's managing resources and people in such a way that you can continuously put in effort without burning people out. Notice how agitation was a small part of the example I gave, this is because for agitation to be worth it you must be agitating for something, and I know that sounds like I'm making a big deal out of something a 12 year old could tell you, but it really is easy to fall into the cycle of agitating for agitating's sake, becoming a sort of acronym spirit who never actually does anything but has a consistent presence in the form of impersonal agitation (social media, posters, banners, stickers, leaflets in some cases, etc). What gives agitation a purpose and what makes it effective is what it agitates, the organizing itself, what you're informing about, what you're trying to move people towards.

Most of the times a party that's in a context such as western Europe can't change the material conditions of worker's lives, that's what not having power is, but sometimes it can do it, through organizing. Sometimes you do get a win, and you can help stop a law before it passes, or you can generate enough pressure to stop the firing of a union delegate, or you can get the workers on the negotiating table for better conditions after a 1 week strike. But the failures don't necessarily mean that those workers will stop trusting you, because if you've actually accompanied them, and helped them in the struggle for a goal, those failures are also theirs, just as much as yours. So unless you flagrantlly vacillated in their support, or acted like an opportunist, etc, it's the course of these struggles themselves, and less their result, which build the confidence and referentiality a party needs. Of course, if you manage to get a win that's even better, but workers aren't stupid, and like I said, a failure after actual organizing is as much yours as it is theirs. But what actually matters, for the purposes of building that referent and trustworthy Party that we want, is the fight itself.

[legal-poppy]

how to study in (and survive) law school, from a 2L who almost failed both 1L semesters

you may be asking, "why would i want study advice from someone who clearly doesn't know how to study?" but that's the point- i'm a first-gen law student. aside from my siblings, nobody in my extended family has even been in grad school since the late 90s. i didn't know how to study last year, and definitely didn't know how to study for law school classes and exams. i ended my 1L year with 3 Cs and was placed in a remedial course last semester for the bottom 25% of students. i worked, changed, and tried different study methods throughout the semester, to figure out what works best for me and the classes i was taking. and it showed--i got an A and 3 Bs and my GPA jumped from a 2.5 to almost 2.8.

#1- do not try to do anything else during class. no social media, no reading, no shopping, no games. seriously. pay attention to your prof, your classmates, and what you did and didn't understand correctly from the reading. make corrections, note additional questions, read and re-read the book and your notes to make sure you can follow along with any questions or hypos.

#2- nothing is optional. do all of the extra readings, practice problems, and hypos. go to your prof for feedback on what you did well, what you didn't understand or apply correctly, and what you can do to write a better answer next time.

#3- go to your prof's office hours or ask questions after class. in high school and college i was told to never bug a teacher outside of class and never, ever go to their office hours. but law profs love when students ask questions and seek help. it doesn't have to be some profound theoretical question- my business law prof learned my name just from asking her about stories and problems my family had with businesses/services recently. my evidence prof learned my name because i kept asking her evidentiary questions about crime shows i was watching. in addition to the typical questions about a subject i was confused on or misunderstood, those fun questions helped me better understand and apply both the law and practical effect of the law to questions on the exam.

#4- start your outlines early and ask your prof for feedback. this was my biggest problem last year because i was paralyzed just figuring out how to format and organize my outlines. instead of going for pretty or aesthetic or perfectly detailed, just start writing. make a mess, write everywhere, scribble and erase and tape things together if you have to. it will still help you relearn and cement your understanding of those subjects. ask your prof if they would prefer to email your outline to look over ahead of time or just pop in for their office hours, and ask them if you got anything wrong, if you're too focused on the wrong details, or if there's anything you won't need to know for the exam. they won't judge if your outline is a mess, it just shows that you're trying and really want to get better.

when i studied for my evidence exam (my A last semester), i had so much trouble with my word doc that a week before the exam i just took my reading notes, my class notes, and my casebook, and spent days filling out an entire whiteboard with every bit of info on a rule. i ended up with 14 photos of that whiteboard completely covered with rules, advisory opinions, cases, and hypos. rather than wasting more time to type all of that up and send it to my prof, i sent her those photos. she knew i was struggling to stay organized on my traditional outline and saw how much better i was able to conceptualize the whole class without touching microsoft. i apologized for my horrible handwriting but all she did was send back notes on every single photo- what i had wrong, what i didn't need to know, and what i needed more detail/clarity on. no judgment for the incorrect parts or my handwriting or that i used a whiteboard, because it worked!

#5- revise your notes after every class. i didn't literally have time right after class, but every day when i went home i tried to revise my notes before i forgot what happened in class. i wasn't successful every single day and often spent a few hours on the weekend rewatching lectures and trying to remember details, but it was more effective than waiting until november to even start revising and outlining.

#6- don't follow the crowd. a lot of "gunners" and people with superiority complexes will tell you to follow their perfect notetaking format, study method, class structure, or reading style. and it might work great for them (or they're probably lying about how amazingly smart they are to look better than everyone else and make you feel worse about yourself), but they're very clearly a different person than you are because i hope you aren't trying to subtly wage psychological warfare on your stressed classmates. if you need a place to start, try to utilize those resources, but you can and should make adjustments if it isn't working for you. take a different class, join a different study group, use a different study supplement, do whatever is most helpful for you, and ignore anyone who suggests you're going to fail if you don't follow their instructions.

#7- don't listen to the noise. there's always someone with their superiority complex and intro-level psychology class and jedi mind tricks or whatever. they want to brag about how smart they are, what amazing grades they got, how easy the exam was that everyone else cried during, and that they got the best internship opportunity because of all of that. odds are, they're (1) lying and (2) exaggerating. they're probably struggling and stressing and crying just as much as you. or they're just not self-aware. you're never going to escape them too, unfortunately. but don't fall for their trap. don't study with them, don't sit by them, don't ask them for help unless you have exhausted every other person and resource in the building, take everything they say with a grain of salt and throw it over your shoulder to keep the demons away.

the other noise to avoid is the worriers who want to vent to everyone about how stressed, stupid, worried they are about the class or exam. and this isn't to say that you can't vent to your friends about it--that's your safety blanket people who will feel your stress and try to help you manage it. but if you see that person that you barely know and don't really talk to and they want to randomly start venting like that, take a step back. leave if you can, and if not, try to keep your head. don't stress because they're stressing, don't start second-guessing yourself, and don't share your own feelings of stress with them because they just want to see how miserable other people are so they can feel like they're doing better than you. if you're one of those people that everyone wants to vent to, do not do that for every person or repeat offenders who only seem to talk to you about their stress. take them to the dean, academic support staff, or on-campus counseling staff if they really need someone to talk to and help them. it's not your job to mother-duck your classmates so don't let them distract you from what you're there to do.

i had a classmate who caused drama with anyone who so much as looked at him the wrong way. accused people of cheating, violating the honor code, sleeping around for study help and good grades, or just being generally stupid. he wanted to seem so much smarter and better than those people (out of the 2 people i know who suffered his bullying, one was because she took too long to respond to his text and the other asked him too many questions about materials from a class). he just wouldn't shut up about how he was going to do way better than them and they were going to fail and drop out because they have no other career opportunities (pretty accurate paraphrase too). but to nobody's surprise, he ended that semester with a D, C and 2 Bs. no judgment to him for his grades because clearly i'm not much better, but very much judging for his attitude. people like him caused me to lose 20 lbs and half of my hair between April-September 2024 because i was so stressed about what he would think if he knew my grades or saw me in our remedial course, which he took in an earlier semester but also referred to as "the stupid class" full of students who couldn't care less about their futures. don't be like me, don't listen to anybody's judgment--focus on yourself and doing the best you can.

#8-the moment you start to feel anxious or panicked or spiraling down the drain, shut it down. talk to your professor, advisor, academic support center, dean of students, school counseling center, or even a friend--anyone that you know has your best interest at heart and will do what they can to help you. tell them that you're overwhelmed and stuck on something. law school staff, especially professors, do not judge students who reach this point. i almost cried in a prof's office because i was so worried about our mock court debate with actual lawyers and judges serving as our judges. my prof didn't judge or scold me for being so emotional at law school, she asked me why i was so worried and told me something she hadn't told the whole class: none of our mock judges actually knew anything about our assignment or the case law. they had no idea if we were misstating something or even found the right cases, they were only judging our presentation and advocacy. another professor, took me off of the cold-call list for an entire unit when i told her i was having a hard time reading the cases and didn't think i would be able to answer questions in class about them because of the personal experience i had with that topic. if you don't think a prof will listen to you or it's something more serious like accommodations or certain behaviors, you can talk to higher-ups like the dean/student services office/accommodations office for better help. those resources exist to help, so use them and don't feel bad for doing so.

#9- seek opportunities even if you don't meet the requirements. i got an interview with a federal office as a 1L, with my mediocre grades, because i applied. i didn't think they would be interested in me because i have no lawyer family members and am not the smartest candidate at our school, but i was one of 10 (TEN!!) 1L interviewees and ultimately got that (paid) internship last summer. they never even asked about my grades, but i did use it during my interview to show how hard i was working to do better and actually put in the work to do that. ignore the firms that say they only want the top 50% or 30% and apply if that's what you're interested in. if they don't want you because you don't have the grades they want, it's a sign that they're also not going to be accommodating when the bar exam comes, and you maybe didn't pass the first time, and they decide to fire you rather than hire you as a first-year associate after 6 more months of studying for the next bar date.

#10- take breaks every day and every week. personally, i take 30 minutes after back-to-back classes before i start studying, i stop studying at 6pm on the weekends unless i have a serious deadline, and i try to go out at least once a month with a non-lawyer friend to touch grass with the regular world and bring myself back into perspective. having law-school goggles on all the time throws everything out of whack. mountains and molehills and all of that. talk to regular people, let them slap you back into shape to see the whole puzzle of what lies beyond law school. and don't forget that you are more than your brain. go outside, take a walk, do some yoga, meditate, pet your goldfish. cry if you feel it and stress if it's stressful, but it's not the end of the world--no matter what happens.

good luck on the new semester, whether you've already been back for a while or are starting soon. be proud of yourself no matter what your grades look like when you get them. pause, evaluate, and set a plan to do better this semester.

[cryptotheism]

Would it be feasible in your opinion for someone to create their own system and understanding of magic without studying pre-existing practices? Obviously I know you’re more of an academic than a practitioner, I just wonder if someone wrote a grimoire without attempting to study or understand Paracelsus or Crowley, do you think it would be legible to someone like yourself?

Imo that's like asking if you can create your own notation for calculus without ever studying math. Like you could theoretically do that but why would you ever want to.

Also you gotta understand that "grimoire written by someone who has never studied Paracelus and Crowley" is like 80% of modern books on magic. Most of these books are comprehensible to me, because they're never truly original. They inevitably end up drawing from depictions of magic from fiction, semi-conprehended 3rdhand eastern mysticism, and a good solid core of Christian metaphysics.

If you want to write a grimoire without ever studying historical esoterica, go right ahead. This field would be nothing without weirdos coming up with their own basement occultism. It's like trying to reinvent the car in your basement. It's not gonna be a good car, but it will sure as hell be interesting.

[rexfordus]

*I'm back with a snack. Before I get to their headcanons, all three of them were created and unknowingly left behind on the field they were "born" on.

Now to the essay of headcanons!↓

-Paperjam is the first to be created. He was made before any semblance of peace was established between Ink and Error.

-He's able to create just like Ink, but because he's far younger, it's an unrefined ability, and often has small mistakes, such as tears in papers or holes in unmade parts of an object. They're also unable to make larger objects yet.

-They never got much of a childhood, being born onto the aftermath of a battlefield at an estimated 6 years of age and inadvertently being forced to learn how to exist safely and healthily all on their own. They ended up finding Gradient on a battlefield 9 years later and raising him as their own.

-Paperjam actually has a crush on someone, but you guys don't get to know that yet (⁠◠⁠‿⁠◕⁠)

-The ink blob acts as a bag of holding and he can store items in there , as long as it can fit into it.

-He calls his little brothers his "kids" for simplicity. He doesn't care about the weird looks he gets occasionally.

-Bro makes fake money to buy things while universe hopping bc he's too busy to ever make any legitimately. Nobody ever finds out.

-He HATES Ink and Error. It's a non-moving grudge that won't ever budge until somebody gets close enough to help him.

-He tried alcohol once and hated it, vowing to keep his "kids" from ever trying it because it was so gross.

~~~

-Gradient was made after the peace between ink and error was established, but was still a product of battle. Ink had ended up pissing Error off too much and it turned into a heated battle.

-He takes after error in the notion of crashing at extreme emotions. He less freezes in place and more experiences fainting, but more painful and unpleasant. He gets very overwhelmed and he just ragdolls.

-Pj ended up being very lenient towards Gray in developmental years, which ended up with him turning out socially stunted and awkward. He is too used to his comfort zone to ever check out new opportunities unless forced to, or actually interested in it.

-He listens to MCR and thinks it's the deepest band ever.

-While growing, he gains the short fuse of his older brother and the destructive tendencies of his Father, and ends up destroying aus for no regard of balance, and more experimenting on how timelines will freak out before disappearing. He's kind of unsettling.

-He draws a lot, usually on a digital medium. He focuses on landscapes and settings rather than people or characters.

-Their special interest is technology, and they know how to do practically anything thanks to the code manipulation.

-Code manipulation is his main ability rather than destruction, but he uses it in very creative ways. He can theoretically use it to be very overpowered, but he doesn't because he's a forgetful teenager who doesn't even leave his room. Let's never remind him he has free will🙏🙏

~~~

-Bluescreen was created between a fun sparring match turned angry battle for life between Swap and Error. The battlefield was abandoned quick after, and bluescreen formed at around ~4 years of age.

-It cannot be understood by anyone who doesn't know how to read binary. Gradient can understand, Pj can only get a word or two, and everyone else hears nothing but noise, leading to much frustration.

-Before Screen had control of his magic when he grew a little, he couldn't touch any living thing without corrupting it's code to the point of turning into but a silhouette of an actual bluescreen message and a piercing screech. (leading to much future anxiety)

-On the topic of anxiety, if he were to ever have an anxiety attack within a lone au, it would crumble. His code, as a born glitch, is far too unstable and when tested, it quickly corrupts all nearby code, which spreads indefinitely unless directly interfered with or reflected.

-He likes chicken Alfredo a lot :33

-He hides his deformed leg and arm due to being shy, but they're very limited in mobility. When being adopted by PJ, he gets braces.

-Screen had to raise himself and learned how to write and sign in MSL all by himself through unpredictable jumps through aus/timelines and watching others exist.

-He's friends with Hate, and sees him like a parental figure, (will give drawing and story later lol I'm lazay.)

~~~

Psst, have a bonus picture for reading this far!

-pj belongs to 7goodangel

-gradient belongs to askcomboclub

-bluescreen is shared by 7goodangel and askinfresh

*btw can somebody help tell me who made these shipchildren originally I've used them for rps for so long I don't even know anymore. This goes for a lot of the characters I draw, I just draw for myself 😭😭I need to adjust to Tumblr etiquette pls I'm trying