#c: rho

[aroninshonour]

AAAAHHH H CJSJFJSKGJSNG GUYS JUST GOT HOME FROM THE SAM AND COLBY MOVIE AND OHTBSJGMJSGJR 🤭🤭

I am INLOV. EHFBEJFJDJ I LITERALLY DONT HAVE ANY WORDS FGJSNTJSJFNSJFJDJFKDJDKSKFIVDKSG8FURIEIXXIXIIC

[lemuseum]

[foreveia]

c(alc)ulus ⤨ tsukishima kei

⨭ genre; hard 2 explain but there's a happy ending so u shld read (jk its a college!au, frat boy!au)

⨭ pairing; tsukishima kei x f!reader

⨭ word count; 9.7k

⨭ descriptions; you're the last person kei wants anything to do with, but not even he can deny it: he, and the entire frat, needs you.

⨭ warnings; frat boy levels of alcoholism, explicit language

⨭ a/n; i love math but love blondes more. i also love rly long fanfics with plot and pretty language and feelings, so hope y'all enjoy this super long mess of a frat!universe haikyuu with college-core drinking habits, calculus talk, and a whole lot of simping for kei <3

song i listened to writing this: 'risk' by gracie abrams

one.

Kageyama is failing calculus.

This statement wouldn’t necessarily be a big deal—after all, he had barely passed most of his classes his whole life, getting into college solely with his athletic skills and having zero intentions to stay in academia in the future. He’s in university primarily just to have something to fall back on, and he has made it exceptionally obvious that he does the bare minimum to get his degree by sleeping through his lectures and procrastinating his homework to the night it’s due. He doesn’t, and has never, cared much about school, and has somehow made it through life anyway, so really, in most circumstances, Kageyama failing a class wouldn’t be a big deal at all. 

However, in this circumstance, Kageyama is also a brother of Kappa Alpha Rho, and therefore his grades reflect not just him but the brotherhood, meaning him failing a class has fully become Tsukishima’s problem, making this, in fact, a very, very big deal. He thinks he’s screwed.

And it’s completely your fault.

Tsukishima glares at the email notification sitting at the top of the screen, clenching his jaw so hard that he feels his back molars ache. 

ASU Policy Update: New Funding Requirements for Student Organizations

He’s already read it twice, but he clicks on it again anyway, as if the words would magically change now that it’s his third try. His fingers drum against the desk, anxious and annoyed all at once.

Effective immediately, all university-funded student organizations must maintain a collective GPA of C+ (2.3) or higher to remain eligible for financial support from ASU. Organizations failing to meet this requirement will be placed on academic probation for a select amount of time, after which, if under the minimum, will be denied funding for the academic year. 

He exhales sharply through his nose and shuts his laptop a little harder than necessary. His knee bounces under the desk as he stares at the wall, running the numbers through his head. A D- average to a C+? That’s not a small jump. That’s a fucking leap.

And it’s because of you. But then again, of course it is.

Tsukishima doesn’t even know you personally, but he knows of you. Everyone at Furudate University knows of you. It’s honestly impossible not to.

Your name gets thrown around like a fucking urban legend: the math department’s golden girl, every professors’ favorite. The kind of student whose name gets printed in bold on the Dean’s List every semester, top of the class in every single way, looking down at everyone else from your haughty position up there.

You’re the poster child for academic excellence, and this is exactly the kind of sanctimonious, holier-than-thou rule someone like you would pass.

He can practically see you in his head, sitting in some committee meeting, smug as you argue for “higher academic standards,” completely unaware of the absolute nightmare you’ve just created. 

He rubs his temple. He doesn’t have time for this. If Kappa Alpha Rho loses funding, they lose access to the house stipend, the event budget, the formal venue deposit—

“Fuck,” he hisses under his breath, already clicking through the chapter’s internal roster. He zeroes in on the worst grades. Not surprisingly (albeit disappointing nonetheless), Kageyama’s name jumps out immediately.

He has a 37 in Multivariable Calculus.

Tsukishima closes his eyes and counts to five. It doesn’t help. His laptop screen just glares back at him, the double-digits in bright red. He’s dragging the entire GPA down, significantly so. 

So if Kageyama fails, they’re all fucked. 

Tsukishima opens the frat group chat.

(11:42 AM) tsukishima: who here actually passed multi calc

It takes all of five whole seconds before the chat explodes.

hinata: LOL NOT ME yamaguchi: barely but yea? noya: i didn’t even know multi was real lmao

Tsukishima pinches the bridge of his nose. They’re useless. They’re all fucking useless.

(11:43 AM) yamaguchi: wait is this about the gpa thing? are we actually losing funding? tsukishima: we will if kageyama fails calc hinata: bro just make him pass it then tsukishima: do you think i control his brain (11:44 AM) tanaka: wait hold on. are you saying if we fail we’re actually broke?? yamaguchi: tsukki wouldn’t joke about this lol hinata: WHAT DO U MEAN BROKE. LIKE. BROKE BROKE?? noya: LIKE WE GOTTA PAY FOR KEGS OUTTA POCKET BROKE???

Tsukishima watches the messages roll in, each response growing increasingly more unhinged. He feels his blood pressure rising, ticking up with every single one.

(11:45 AM) tanaka: WE CAN’T LOSE FUNDING FORMAL IS IN 3 MONTHS hinata: NOOOO NOT FORMAL noya: NOOOOOOOOOO NOT FORMAL tanaka: WHO THE FUCK IS GONNA PAY FOR FORMAL

Tsukishima sighs, dragging a hand down his face. This is exactly what he didn’t want. The second these idiots realized the frat’s funding was actually on the line, everything was going to implode. Where’s the rest of the exec board right now? He misses them.

(11:46 AM) yamaguchi: okay but seriously what’s the plan tsukishima: kageyama needs to pass calc obviously tanaka: okay but like. how

Good fucking question.

Tsukishima leans back in his chair, thinking. Kageyama isn’t stupid—not in the traditional sense, anyway. He just doesn’t give a shit. If he had a decent tutor, someone to force the information into his thick skull, he might actually stand a chance.

(11:47 AM) tsukishima: does anyone know a decent tutor (11:48 AM) yamaguchi: y/n

Tsukishima physically recoils.

(11:48 AM) tsukishima: like… vpaa y/n??? yamaguchi: yeah?? she’s the best tutor in the math department hinata: wait isn’t she the one that profs never shut up about lol tanaka: bro we’d be paying for a 5-star tutor with beer money noya: u think she’d go for it tho?? hinata: tsukishima just bat your pretty little eyelashes and get her to help us 🤩 tsukishima: i will block you

There is no way in hell he is asking you for help. Absolutely not. Because if there’s anyone on this entire campus that would not hesitate to let Kappa Alpha Rho crash and burn, it’s you.

But then, Daichi—super convenient timing for the president to come in right now—sends the real kicker.

(11:49 AM) daichi: Text Y/N. Now.

Tsukishima grinds his teeth. His fingers hover over the keyboard. For a very, very long moment, he just stares blankly at the screen, until finally, he types.

(11:50 AM) tsukishima: someone send me her number.

And Tsukishima thinks, for not the last time, that he’s absolutely screwed.

two.

For someone who’s actively ruining his life, you’re surprisingly… okay.

At least, you were over text. You responded within minutes, and—without sarcasm, without question, without any needed negotiation—agreed to a tutoring session the next day. 

Tsukishima thinks he should be wary of this. Surely you have some ulterior motive, something that’s meant to prove to him (and yourself) just how much smarter you are than everyone else. 

Ah, yes. That’s probably it. You’re going to use the dumb frathlete to make yourself feel good.

After some contemplation, Tsukishima decides that he should be there. As idiotic and annoying as Kageyama can be, he’s still his brother, and Tsukishima isn’t about to let some pretentious academic just mock and insult him; Kageyama is shitty with words, so the least Tsukishima can do is be there to snap back for him. 

Tsukishima is almost certain that you’re doing this solely to stroke your ego. After all, why else would someone like you agree?

That being said, twenty four hours later, sitting across from you at a library table, he’s forced to admit—begrudgingly—that you’re actually not… terrible.

Tsukishima watches you carefully, arms crossed over his chest, waiting for the moment you slip up—some trace of superiority, some indication that you think this is beneath you. But to his surprise, you don’t smirk, you don’t sigh in frustration, you don’t roll your eyes every time Kageyama gets something wrong.

You’re just… patient. Shockingly, infuriatingly patient.

“Okay,” you say, tapping the corner of Kageyama’s notebook with your pen. “Walk me through your thought process. How did you get to this step?”

Kageyama stares at his paper, scowling. “I don’t know.”

“Well, you got this part right,” you say, circling something in the equation. “So let’s build from here.”

Kageyama frowns deeper, pressing his pencil so hard that the lead tears a little hole—Tsukishima expects you to finally snap, to lecture him for not paying attention, but instead, you just tilt your head and try again.

“I think you’re having trouble with double integrals, so let’s break those down first, okay?” you say, not at all unkindly, before flipping open your notes and locating the respective chapter in the textbook. Tsukishima notices, with mild surprise, that you don’t even have to check the table of contents—you go straight to the right page.

And then, even stranger: your own notes are written beside the original text. Your annotations are precise but casual, breaking down the wordy explanations into clear, digestible pieces; your diagrams take up the margins, and where there’s extra blank space, you’ve doodled functions, arrows, sometimes little stick figures interacting with equations.

Tsukishima shouldn’t care. He doesn’t.

But something about it—about how thoroughly you understand this shit—sticks with him.

And as you start explaining, Tsukishima quickly comes to understand why they call you the best in the department. 

Your voice is even, steady, and you don’t just read from the textbook—you reframe the concepts completely, breaking them down into comparisons, real-world applications, diagrams that actually make sense. It’s the kind of familiarity that takes years of experience and countless hours of practice, and you obviously have gotten to an incredible degree of expertise. And most importantly, when Kageyama hits a block or stumbles over the formulas, you don’t get irritated.

You just adjust.

Again. And again. And again.

Until finally, something clicks.

Tsukishima watches, arms crossed, as you do something no professor, no TA, and certainly no frat brother has managed before: you make Kageyama think. You make him care. Kageyama straightens slightly in his seat, gripping his pencil a little tighter; he scribbles something down, then nods to himself, like he actually understands. 

Tsukishima leans back, exhaling through his nose. 

He hates to admit it, but Yamaguchi was right: you really do know your shit. 

three.

An hour passes like this. Slowly, but gradually, Kageyama works through his problem set, stopping every so often to ask questions. You answer every single one without hesitation, without even having to double check, with the complete confidence of someone who simply knows that they’re right. 

Then, completely unprompted, you ask, “So, do you play volleyball?”

Kageyama pauses mid-writing. The question catches him off-guard—catches both of them off-guard, actually.

Tsukishima gives you a sharp look, but you just smile, amused.

“You retained information best when I used sports analogies to explain,” you continue, tapping the end of your pen against the table. “And when I used a volleyball as an example for triple integral applications, you corrected me on the radius in like, two seconds.”

Kageyama blinks. Then, looking somewhat sheepish, he mumbles, “Wow, that’s crazy. I’m on the university team.”

“That’s cool,” you say simply, clicking your pen. You doodle absentmindedly on an extra sheet of paper, this time drawing a little volleyball in the corner. “Our executive VP is on the team too. Sakusa.”

Kageyama hums an affirmation. “Yeah, we’re both starters.”

“As a sophomore? That’s really impressive,” you say. Tsukishima thinks that you’re pretty impressive too, considering you’re a sophomore just like them, but you don’t seem to be even thinking about that. “Why are you taking calculus, then? What’s your major?”

“Physics and kinesiology.”

“I didn’t peg you as a STEM guy,” you muse, still sketching in the margins. You’ve now switched to drawing a little banana.

Tsukishima, despite himself, huffs a quiet laugh.

Kageyama flushes slightly. “I, um, want to go pro after college,” he admits, ears bright crimson as he speaks. “So kinesiology felt right for an athlete. And for physics, well, I’m a setter, so I want to, um… I want to be able to calculate the velocity of the balls I send with more accuracy.”

It’s a ridiculous reason. Maybe even a stupid one. Definitely the stupidest reason Tsukishima’s ever heard for taking an incredibly intense and complex major like physics.

But you don’t laugh.

You just nod, smiling to yourself. “Thanks for letting me help you with your process, then.”

There’s a moment of silence, before Tsukishima bluntly remarks, “You’re weird.” 

It comes off slightly ruder than intended, and you pause, your pen coming to a halt on the paper. He adds, quieter than before, “I mean, you notice things like that?”

Your nose and forehead scrunch up in slight confusion, expression so befuddled as if he were simply asking you if the sky was blue. 

“Well, yeah.” You say this as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. “Everyone is different, with different interests and learning styles, and things get easier to understand when you break things down on their terms as opposed to yours. So of course I’ll pick up on things like that. I try to be observant of all the people around me.”

When your eyes meet his, he instinctively is on edge. Your tone is still light, but there’s something pragmatic about your eyes that makes him feel apprehensive, like he’s standing at the edge of a 50-foot fall and you’re watching to see if he’ll take the jump. It’s like you’re taking all of him in, like you’re taking everyone in. Like you see things other people don’t. 

If Tsukishima is being honest with himself, this perceptiveness is something he lacks. He willingly disregards much of the people and the things around him; it's a defense mechanism he has perfected over the years. It’s easier to stay detached. It’s easier to keep to himself; it’s easier to be indifferent. 

To be blunt, your astuteness unnerves him, and it’s a sensation he’s not used to grappling with. There’s a raw honesty in your gaze that feels almost invasive, peeling back the layers of his carefully constructed facade. You two had just met, but for a brief moment, he wonders if you can somehow see through him because despite your cheerful and carefree attitude, you are looking to understand people in a way he never has.

He quickly looks away, breaking the intense eye contact. “I guess that’s one way to look at it,” he mutters.

You don’t reply because your attention has already shifted back to Kageyama, with you leaning over his notebook and exclaiming, “See, you got this!” 

Kageyama has solved the several problems you gave him, his work still amateur but complete. You scan his notebook, pointing out the few areas where he could simplify his work, but the overwhelming beam on your face is nothing short of proud, and it incites a completely new determination in Kageyama. Despite his usual stoicism, your encouragement has visibly boosted his confidence and Tsukishima watches as the boy smiles and nods along when you flip the textbook to a new chapter, declaring loudly, “Okay! Let’s move onto vectors!” 

As you continue to explain, Tsukishima watches the two of you with a slight mixture of exasperation and something else he can’t quite put a name to. You are honest and true and it’s wholly unfamiliar, tiring in a way where he is overwhelmed. He’s not quite sure how to describe how he feels right now, sitting here with you together: maybe it’s a touch of admiration for you, maybe it’s just relief that someone else is dealing with Kageyama’s math woes for a change, but either way, at the end of it all, he finds himself settling back into his chair, a small, almost imperceptible amusement playing at the corners of his mouth. 

Minutes turn into hours, and before you know it, the sun is dipping lower and lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the library floors. By the time the library's closing announcement echoes through the halls, you have made it through half the vector fields unit and Kageyama has filled several pages of his notebook with neatly written solutions. 

“Well, let’s finish up. I think we’ve made some good progress today,” you decide, stretching your arms above your head. You begin to gather your things—if you’re not all out soon, the librarians will come and yell at you for sure.

“Thank you so much, Y/N,” Kageyama says earnestly, closing his notebook. “I think I’m starting to get it.”

“You are. Just keep practicing those problems, okay? You’ll pass this week’s quiz for sure if you keep at it,” you say cheerily. “Just text if you ever need any help. I’m always around.”

Your enthusiasm seems genuine, like you really do want to help Kageyama succeed. Tsukishima’s not sure what to do with this information.

He should be suspicious. Should assume there’s something in it for you—some academic accolade, some resumé boost, some smug satisfaction in proving you’re better than everyone else. But you don’t gloat. You don’t even act like this is a favor Kageyama—or, by extension, the frat—owes you for the rest of time. 

You just offer your help like it’s nothing. Like it’s normal to give this much of your time, your energy, your effort.

It’s strange. It makes him uncomfortable.

“You’re always around?” he says, unable to stop himself. His voice comes out dry, skeptical. “Sounds like you have way too much time on your hands.”

You blink, then laugh, genuine and light.

“Not really,” you say, slipping your notes into your bag. “I’m just good at making time for things that matter.”

Your eyes flicker up to meet his, and for some reason, that sentence sticks in his brain.

Good at making time for things that matter.

Before he can think too hard about what that implies, Kageyama—completely unaware of the odd shift in atmosphere—stands, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “I’ll text you,” he says. “Uh. If I get stuck.”

“Good,” you say, satisfied. “See you both next time.”

And with that, you’re gone, stepping out of the library doors, the evening sun catching in your hair before you disappear down the hall.

There’s a brief silence.

“…She’s nice,” Kageyama says, stuffing his hands into his hoodie pockets.

Tsukishima sighs, shaking his head. “Don’t be weird about it.”

“I’m not.”

“You sound weird about it.”

Kageyama scowls but says nothing, already distracted by whatever thought process is rattling around in his thick skull.

Tsukishima, however, lingers.

He doesn’t want to admit that today went better than expected. That you weren’t condescending, that you didn’t treat Kageyama like a lost cause, that you were actually kind of impressive to watch. That there’s something about the way you carry yourself—the way you see people, notice things, care about things—that makes his stomach twist in a way he doesn’t like.

He exhales sharply. Nope. Not going there.

Instead, he shoves his hands into his jacket pockets and starts toward the exit, brushing off whatever this feeling is. After all, this is just the first session.

There’s still plenty of time for you to prove him right.

four.

After the fifth tutoring session, Tsukishima notices two things.

First: since you’ve started helping Kageyama, his calculus average has jumped dramatically from a 37 to a 60. Considering he has to catch up on the whole semester, this much progress in such a short amount of time is insane, and Tsukishima—who has spent years watching Kageyama be a stubborn idiot—is actually kinda baffled by it.

Second: it’s not that you look down on him, or Kageyama, specifically. You just look down on Greek life as a whole.

It takes him a while to realize it. At first, he assumes it’s personal—that you have some vendetta against Kappa Alpha Rho, some deep-seated superiority complex. But then, over the next few weeks, he starts paying closer attention.

You don’t sneer at Kageyama’s jersey. You don’t mock him for struggling, don’t look at him like he’s a dumb jock barely worth your time.

But when Tanaka and Noya come to pick Kageyama up after a session, still wearing their frat hoodies from some brotherhood event, Tsukishima catches the way your eyes flick to their letters. The way your lips press together, just slightly.

When Kageyama makes an offhanded comment about formal, you barely react—just a small exhale through your nose, something unimpressed.

And then there’s today.

You’re explaining another concept—Tsukishima isn’t really listening; Kageyama is nodding along, so he figures he doesn’t need to pay attention—when Hinata, of all people, shows up at the library. He bursts through the doors like a chaotic, overexcited golden retriever, completely disregarding the quiet study environment as he waves both arms above his head.

“Kageyama!”

Kageyama physically tenses. Tsukishima watches, vaguely amused, as he slowly turns to the orange-haired idiot now bounding toward them.

Hinata slaps a recruitment t-shirt onto the table. “You left it at the house, dumbass! Daichi said to bring it to you.”

Kageyama looks vaguely murderous. “Shut up.”

Tsukishima smirks. And then, he glances at you.

And there it is again: that brief flicker of something. That same exhale through your nose.

You don’t say anything, don’t react much at all—but Tsukishima sees it.

You hate frats.

And now, he wants to know why.

Luckily for him, it actually doesn’t take much to find out. 

It comes up casually, in the way most revealing things do—offhanded, unguarded, something you don’t realize you’re giving away. 

Kageyama is the one who brings it up. Not intentionally, obviously—he's never been intentionally insightful a day in his life—but between scribbling down an answer on his problem set, he suddenly asks, “Why’d you make that rule, anyway?”

You glance up, caught off guard. “Huh?”

“The GPA thing,” he clarifies. “You’re the VPAA, right? So it was your idea.”

Tsukishima watches as you blink, your grip tightening just slightly around your pen.

Then, after a moment, you exhale, setting it down. “It wasn’t just me,” you say. “It was a committee decision.”

“But you agree with it,” Tsukishima says, leveling you with a look.

Your lips press together. There it is again—that tiny flicker of something. Then, you sigh. 

“It’s just frustrating seeing people waste their potential,” you say finally, voice careful, deliberate. “I mean, don’t you want to succeed?”

Ah. So that’s what it is: you think that all fraternity boys are idiots who only care about partying and drinking games. You think they don’t care about their futures. That they’re lazy, entitled, wasting the opportunities they have.

Tsukishima exhales slowly through his nose, tipping his chair back just slightly. He should be annoyed. He should be pissed off.

But instead, he just smirks.

“You think we’re all just dumb party boys, don’t you?”

Your eyes flick to his. You don’t answer, which, really, is answer enough.

So obviously, he challenges you.

“Come to the house,” he says. “See for yourself.”

Your expression shifts into something guarded, something skeptical and unimpressed. “Why would I do that?”

“Because you clearly don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Tsukishima says simply.

Kageyama, ever helpful, chimes in: “Hinata’s even worse at math than me.”

Tsukishima watches you pause, purse your lips, obviously considering. It’s a long pause, you staring down at the desk for a full minute, until finally, you sigh. “Fine.”

Oh, you’re in for a disaster.

five.

Walking into the Kappa Alpha Rho house for the first time, you’re not sure what you were expecting.

Whatever it was, it wasn’t… this.

The first thing you’re hit with when you enter the house is, simply put, noise. 

The music is loud—too loud for a weeknight, you think absently, because there’s no way none of these guys have morning classes tomorrow. Someone in the kitchen is yelling indistinctly over the sound of clinking glass, and from somewhere deeper inside the house, there’s a resounding crash, followed by an enthusiastic, “It’s fine, it’s fine, don’t worry about it!”

Tsukishima watches as you visibly tense, shifting your weight from one foot to the other, fingers tightening around the strap of your bag. You’re standing near the entrance like you’re considering leaving, like maybe you’d rather walk straight back out the door than step even a foot further into this chaos. You wouldn’t be the first: he’s seen people walking into the house for the first time and immediately regretting every life choice that led them here. The frat is loud, messy, chaotic in a way that isn’t easy to handle if you’re not used to it. And you—pristine, calculated, Type-A to your very core—are definitely not used to it.

He watches you closely, waiting for you to scoff any second now, to turn around and walk out.

But then, you hear it. 

“Integrate or drink, loser!”

As an applied and theoretical math double major, the sentence instantly piques your curiosity, and you can’t, in your conscience, just walk out after hearing that. So you square your shoulders, and saunter in.

And when you see it, you stop in your tracks.

The scene before you is, frankly, absurd. Kageyama is standing at the end of a beer pong table, furrowing his brows like he’s solving a differential equation rather than playing a drinking game, and Hinata, vibrating with excitement, looks one misplaced shot away from combusting. Around them, the rest of the guys are watching with varying degrees of amusement: Tanaka and Nishinoya are grinning like they already know something Kageyama doesn’t, Yamaguchi is stifling laughter behind his hand, and Tsukishima—leaning against the wall, arms crossed—is watching you.

You glance at the table. The setup is questionable, at best. The cups are unevenly spaced, some tilted at an angle that defies both gravity and common sense. The whiteboard behind them has the remnants of what was probably meant to be a scoring system, though it's mostly illegible thanks to a combination of bad handwriting and smeared marker. And then, of course, there’s the absolute nonsense of what just came out of someone’s mouth.

You shift your gaze to the ping-pong ball in Hinata’s hand, then to Kageyama, who still looks personally insulted by whatever just happened. You blink once, then twice.

“What,” you say flatly, “am I looking at?”

“The future,” Nishinoya says dramatically, throwing an arm around Tanaka. “The greatest intellectual drinking game of our generation.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Sugawara mutters. You didn’t even notice him and the other two, presumably, seniors, sitting lazily on a couch against the wall and supposedly monitoring. 

“It’s simple,” Hinata says, barely containing his enthusiasm. “You make a shot, the other guy has to solve a math problem right, or they drink.”

Silence. You stare at him.

Kageyama’s expression darkens. “It’s stupid.”

“You’re just mad because I got the last one right,” Hinata shoots back.

“No, you didn’t.”

“Yes, I did! The integral of sine is cosine, dumbass!”

“The answer was negative cosine—”

“Same thing!”

“It is literally not.”

“You know what,” you interrupt, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Forget I asked.”

At this, Tsukishima makes a quiet noise—something between a laugh and a scoff—but you don’t look at him. You’re too busy assessing the catastrophe in front of you.

Because, to be honest, this is ridiculous. A complete mess of a game, poorly thought out and even more poorly executed. But…

You bite the inside of your cheek.

The concept isn’t terrible.

It’s just wrong. And you, for better or worse, cannot let a flawed system stand.

Tsukishima watches as something in your expression shifts. You set your bag down with purpose, stepping closer to the table, eyes narrowing as you take in the setup. Then, voice completely serious, you say, “You’re playing it wrong.”

The entire room pauses.

Tanaka, who has a ping-pong ball balanced on the tip of his finger, squints. “Huh?”

“You’re playing it wrong,” you repeat, arms crossing as you survey the table like it’s a crime scene.

Hinata frowns. “No, we’re not.”

“Yes,” you say, “you are.”

Tsukishima raises a brow, intrigued. You’re not mad at them for playing. You’re not disgusted by their antics. You’re just… offended by the execution.

“The whole premise doesn’t work,” you continue, gesturing vaguely at the cups. “You can’t just shout out an integral and expect them to solve it in two seconds. You need rules. A system.”

Tanaka exchanges a glance with Nishinoya. “Bro,” he says, in awe. “We don’t have a system?”

“We do have a system,” Kageyama huffs.

You promptly ignore him, already reaching for a marker. “Okay. If we’re going to do this right, it should work like this.”

And just like that, you take over.

In what seems like an instant, the frat house—which is usually ruled by sheer chaos and barely functioning groupthink—is now operating under your direction. You’ve got the whiteboard in a chokehold, a marker uncapped and poised between your fingers as you outline a system so airtight, so horrifyingly efficient, that even Tsukishima has to admit it’s impressive.

Suddenly, the game makes sense. Instead of random, impossible integrals, each shot now corresponds to a category—concepts from the last five chapters, ranked by difficulty.

And as if just to add to the disbelief, everyone is listening.

Kageyama, glaring at the rules with an unreal intensity, is following along, his brows furrowed like he’s mentally poking holes in your system but failing to find any. Tanaka and Noya are nodding like you’ve just changed their lives. Ennoshita, who had previously been lurking near the drinks table, is watching you rewrite the game’s structure with increasing fascination.

Even Sugawara nods sagely. “She makes a good point,” he says solemnly. “The game did lack structure.”

“Thank you,” you reply, as if this is a serious academic debate and not an impromptu beer pong overhaul.

Tsukishima can’t even be mad about it. Not when you’ve very quickly become the most interesting thing in the house.

And especially not when he watches you, against all fucking odds, join in. As if you were some god tier frat boy in a past life, you sink a cup with infuriating ease on your very first throw, the ball arcing perfectly without any slightest bounce back. You don’t even blink. 

As if on cue, the whole house erupts.

Tanaka and Noya nearly combust on the spot, clutching each other in sheer exhilaration, while Kageyama’s jaw drops so fast you think it might actually unhinge. Even the seniors look mildly impressed. 

And Hinata… well, Hinata looks very afraid. 

“You—” he starts, pointing at you like he’s about to accuse you of something heinous.

But you don’t let him. You simply cross your arms, unimpressed, and say, voice smooth as ever, “Basic derivative. Give me an answer, or drink.”

There’s a split second of silence.

Then, absolute carnage.

Hinata scrambles for the marker like his life depends on it. “Uh—uh—five x to the—no, wait—”

You tilt your head. “Is that your final answer?”

“Shit, no—”

“You took too long,” you say, entirely unsympathetic. “Drink.”

Hinata lets out a strangled noise of distress as Tanaka and Noya dissolve into laughter. Even Daichi, who up until now has been observing like a wise elder, shakes his head in amusement as Hinata accepts his fate, downing his drink in defeat.

Tsukishima watches the entire thing unfold, eyes half-lidded, expression unreadable.

Huh.

He’d expected you to bail before even stepping past the threshold. Expected you to scoff, maybe say something scathing about how frat boys had the collective IQ of a teaspoon, and leave without looking back.

And yet, here you are, rewriting the rules of a drinking game with the kind of ruthless efficiency that would put actual math professors to shame. Even worse: you’re winning.

By the time you sink your third consecutive shot, the rest of the guys have gone from mildly entertained to genuinely invested. Even Kageyama, who Tsukishima assumed would be sick of math by now, is begrudgingly playing along, answering derivatives and integrals like his pride is at stake.

Tanaka and Noya have fully accepted you as one of their own, chanting your name every time you land a shot. Hinata, despite his earlier humiliation, is practically buzzing, clearly determined to redeem himself. Even Yamaguchi, who usually prefers watching Tsukishima verbally eviscerate people from the sidelines, has been sucked into the chaos, trying (and failing) to solve an integral before Kageyama can.

It’s a disaster. A ridiculous, mathematically-inclined disaster.

And you—poised, serious, utterly deadpan as you call out equations like you’re running a boot camp—are the reason for it.

Tsukishima doesn’t even realize he’s staring until Yamaguchi elbows him.

“You’re enjoying this,” Yamaguchi says, low enough that only Tsukishima can hear.

Tsukishima scoffs. “Please.”

But Yamaguchi just gives him a knowing look, then pointedly nods toward you.

Toward the way you command attention without even trying. The way you challenge their game without hesitation. The way your focus sharpens when you're confronted with something that, even in the realm of absurdity, still needs to be corrected.

Tsukishima exhales slowly, shaking his head.

Of course you’d walk into a frat house for the first time and immediately take over. 

Of course you’d turn a drunken joke into an actual intellectual challenge. 

Of course you’d be—

“Tsukishima.”

He blinks.

You’re looking at him now, one brow arched, an extra ping-pong ball in your hand. The room quiets just a fraction, the weight of attention shifting ever so slightly. “You haven’t played yet,” you say simply. Your gaze is intense, and it makes his stomach twist, his chest strangely warm. 

Tsukishima stares at you for a long moment.

Then, very slowly, he pushes off the wall. Rolls up his sleeves.

“Alright, genius girl.” He steps up to the table, arms loose, completely at ease. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

The room erupts once again.

And for the first time that night, you grin.

six.

After two months of knowing you, Tsukishima notices something else.

Your bag always contains not just the calculus textbook but several others as well. Every time he sees you on campus, you’re sprinting from place to place, dashing between study halls and libraries and the ASU building. Whenever Kageyama does need help, you’re true to your word and always there, but Tsukishima observes the way you rub at your temples when you think no one is looking, the way you blink a little too long, like you’re stealing micro-moments of rest in the middle of a conversation. The way your hands tremble slightly when you reach for your coffee, as if you’ve been running on caffeine and sheer willpower alone.

So one day, after Kageyama has already run off to his volleyball practice and it’s just the two of you in the frat house’s study room, Tsukishima finally asks the question he’s been wondering for weeks.

“Why do you do this?”

You still, your hands stopping midway as you pack up your belongings. You pause, looking up at him. “What do you mean? Tutoring?”

“Well yeah, tutoring, but also everything else—ASU, TA-ing… all of that. Why?”

You hum as you think over his question, a thoughtful look gracing your features. For a minute, it’s just silent in the room.

“I mean, do I need some grand reason to do it?” You decide after a moment of consideration, shrugging. “There’s a few reasons, I guess. But the biggest one is just that I genuinely like helping people. Like, being there for them and getting to see things click for them. That’s super rewarding in itself.”

“And the other reasons?” He watches you intently.

Clutching your laptop to your chest, you sigh, biting your bottom lip tentatively. It’s the first time he’s really seen you look vulnerable, now that he thinks about it. You’re always so calculated.

“Well– I guess it’s actually only one other reason. It’s also just… the only thing I’m really good for– sorry, at. But whatever, that’s kind of just–” you’re stumbling through your words before you cut yourself off mid-sentence, shaking your head. “At the end of the day, the only reason that matters is that I like seeing other people succeed.”

He nods slowly, sensing your discomfort and deciding not to push any further. “Yeah, okay.”

A small, wistful smile grows on your lips. “In the end, I’ll still be here. The time will pass anyway. I might as well spend it helping people find the happiness I find in math, you know?” 

“So you’re tutoring him again tomorrow?” 

You nod. “Mhm, from noon until two. I would go longer, but I think he has practice, so I’ll probably just do some work. I have a few policy briefs to go over.”

“Were you not busy enough today?” He drawls, gesturing to the sagging bag on your back. 

You laugh with pink cheeks, almost as if embarrassed at the question; you slightly scratch the back of your head. “Um, well, I don’t know. I had a really early class and then I had TA stuff, and then two tutoring sessions, and then a committee meeting and then this. So a pretty packed schedule, I guess,” you admit. Tsukishima gives you a look, and you quickly wave your hands. “I’m good though! I like all of it, so it’s not like it’s bad. It’s a lot, but not the worst, so it’s okay.”

Tsukishima watches you closely, taking in your words and the lilt in your voice. He can see the fatigue etched on your face, the prominent dark circles ringing under your eyes, but there's also a light in your eyes that speaks volumes about your genuine passion for what you do. It’s the same look that sparks up when you watch Kageyama succeed at a problem, the one that makes your eyes look like they’re dancing with fire and sets that weird fuzzy feeling in his stomach going again. It's both admirable and concerning, and he can't help but feel a strange mix of respect and worry.

“You really care about this, don’t you?” he says softly, almost more to himself than to you.

“Yeah, I do,” you reply. Your voice is purely sincere, completely direct. “Even if I’m super busy and stressed out and tired, it’s all worth it because I get to be a part of someone’s life becoming even just a little bit better.”

He’s quiet for a moment, processing everything you’ve said.

He used to hate you. He deemed you pretentious for the GPA rule, assuming you were just another overachiever with a superiority complex, or someone who enjoyed making things harder for people like him and Kageyama. Even beyond you personally, he’d always mocked people like you for flaunting their overtly virtuous and self-righteous personas, always seeming to crave attention and recognition for their altruism. 

But now, for the first time, their actions don’t seem self-serving: it’s a sacrifice, a genuine and earnest effort to make a difference that has nothing to do with personal gain. You don’t push people to do better because you think you’re above them. You do it because you believe they can be better. Because you care. Because, despite everything, you genuinely want to see people succeed. You dedicate all of yourself to others, to strangers unaware of your existence, simply because it’s the right thing to do. Simply because you can. 

You’re standing there, shoulders weighed down by the sheer number of responsibilities you carry, yet still speaking with unwavering certainty. You don’t expect anything back—in fact, you barely even take credit for the work that you do. You are just kind for the sake of being kind; even when you’re exhausted, even when you have nothing left to give, you keep going. You work yourself to the bone for the sake of everyone else, and no one seems to notice—not your professors, not the students you tutor, not the countless committees that rely on you.

Except now, Tsukishima does.

And because he doesn’t know what else to do with this realization, he sighs and just says, “You should eat before you go.”

You blink at him, caught off guard. “Huh?”

“The house is making dinner.” He shrugs, shoving his hands into his pockets. “You’re here anyway. Might as well eat something before you collapse.”

You huff a quiet laugh, but there’s something warm in your expression, something soft. “I’m not going to collapse.”

Tsukishima raises a brow. “Yeah, well. You look like you might.”

You roll your eyes, but to his surprise, you actually consider it. Then, after a pause, you sigh. “Okay, fine.”

And when you follow him toward the kitchen, Tsukishima tells himself it’s nothing. That he doesn’t care. That he’s just making sure you don’t keel over in the middle of a lecture hall somewhere.

But later, when you’re laughing at something Yamaguchi says, plate balanced in your hands, that strange, unfamiliar warmth creeps up his spine again.

And he thinks, not for the first time, that he might be screwed.

seven.

Since the first day you had dinner with them a few weeks ago, you’ve come to spend more and more time at the KAR house. 

And well, you admittedly didn’t see it coming, but you like the Kappa Alpha Rho boys.

They’re loud. They’re class clowns. They spend many, many weeknights drinking and blasting 2000’s pop at maximum volume, so much so that you can hear the telltale tunes of old Miley Cyrus and Britney Spears from halfway down Frat Row. They are, in many ways, exactly what you expected.

They’re also… really sweet. 

They’re all extremely determined to help each other to succeed. They care about each other so deeply; they’ve opened their arms to you, too, without question or complaint. They’ve looked after you in a way that you’ve never been cared for before. They gifted you a frat hoodie—your initials stitched beside the KAR letters. You have a designated mug in their kitchen cabinet. They don’t even ask if you’re staying to slide a plate in front of you at dinner. Tsukishima watches you closely whenever you pick at your food, and you pretend not to notice when he scoops an extra helping onto your plate.

They’re driven too, in their own way: as if inspired by Kageyama’s improvement, they’ve all begun to care about school, even if their study methods always seem to include some variant of rage cage or beer pong. You’ve seen how passionate they’ve grown about it, celebrating each small academic win as if it were a final exam. The whole fraternity has been clawing their way out of academic ruin, grinding through assignments, struggling through tests, pulling their GPAs up one painstaking decimal point at a time, going from one of the organizations with the lowest GPAs to being so close to the C+ minimum.

They’re so close. So close.

But technically, the frat still falls under that 2.3 minimum.

You realise this, sitting at your desk in the ASU building, because the deadline for organizations on academic probation to get their GPA up is inching closer and closer. The deadline that you set. From the policy that you put into place.

You stare at your desktop screen, at the open PDF of the passed policy, unblinking. The text is sharp and unforgiving. Academic probation lasts one semester. Organizations must raise their cumulative GPA to at least 2.3 by the end of that period or risk losing university funding. No exceptions.

You remember writing that clause, steady in your resolve at the time. It was supposed to be fair. Cut-and-dry. The goal was to push organizations to take academics seriously—to ensure that no fraternity or club skated by on empty promises and minimal effort. But now, the words feel different. They feel wrong.

You click open the academic records, searching for Kageyama’s name. His grades appear on the screen in neat rows: a scatter of past failures, single digits that make your chest ache, then a stark and steady climb. He’s sitting at a B-average now, a remarkable turnaround considering where he started. 

But as you do the math quickly (a habit at this point), calculating projected GPAs based on their current grades and the remaining assignments for the semester, you realise the bitter, indisputable results: no matter how hard they push, it won’t be enough. KAR’s overall GPA still won’t meet the minimum.

The weight of that realization settles deep in your stomach.

Your policy is flawed. 

For the first time since writing it, you see its error clear as day: it measures results, but not effort. It punishes past failure while ignoring present growth. It demands perfection in a system that, by design, allows only for progress in small, slow steps.

Something about that feels deeply, fundamentally unfair.

You think about the very principles that allowed you to sit here in the student union building, to have earned the title of Vice President of Academic Affairs. Because you’re not a natural genius, either: you’ve put in countless hours of hard work and effort into your studies, pulled countless sleepless nights and worked through countless practice problems just to get things right. Your policy was meant to encourage others to do the same. 

To reward hard work, and drive. 

And you’ve witnessed it for yourself, out of a group of rowdy, rambunctious frat boys.

You inhale sharply and sit up, rolling your chair forward. The cursor blinks in the empty document in front of you, a quiet invitation.

Slowly, carefully, you begin to type.

eight.

The night before the deadline, the Kappa Alpha Rho house is unusually quiet.

It’s strange. Even with music thumping from the speakers, even with bodies packed into the living room and voices rising in conversation, the usual energy—the chaotic, unrelenting, borderline obnoxious joy—is gone.

The party isn’t really a party. It’s a wake.

They all know what’s coming. Without funding, they’ll barely be able to keep things running. They’ll have to gut their budget, cut out every major event, every tournament, every social they used to host. They’ll lose their momentum, their presence on campus. They aren’t naive; they know what happens to a fraternity that can’t sustain itself.

So they drink. They celebrate what they were while they still can.

Tsukishima stands near the kitchen, beer in hand, watching the scene with a quiet irritation that hasn’t left him in days. It’s not just the situation—it’s you.

Because you’re not here.

And you haven’t been, not for days. No texts, no calls, no sudden appearances at dinner. No slipping into the house with your laptop and a resigned sigh, no sarcastic quips over Tsukishima’s shoulder while he studies. He knew you’d take this hard—he’s watched the way you’ve thrown yourself into their academic comeback, has seen the way your eyes light up when someone passes a test or raises their grade.

But he never thought you’d disappear.

The realisation sits heavy in his chest, unfamiliar and unwelcome. It bothers him more than he wants to admit.

“Have you heard from her?” Yamaguchi asks, appearing at his side with a drink in hand.

Tsukishima exhales sharply through his nose. “No.”

Yamaguchi frowns, but doesn’t say anything else.

The thought festers in Tsukishima’s mind as the night stretches on. He should be angry at you. A part of him is angry at you. But mostly, it just doesn’t make sense: no possible explanation he comes up with does. You’re not someone who runs from responsibility; if anything, you take too much of it on yourself. But if you’re not here, if you can’t even look at them, then maybe you really do feel guilty. Maybe you really do think you failed them.

The idea makes something twist in his gut, makes the irritation curdle into something else.

He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do with that feeling.

So he stands there, arms crossed, listening to the frat he’s come to love mourn itself in real time.

And then the front door opens.

The music isn’t loud enough to drown out the sound—the soft creak, the shuffle of movement as someone steps inside. Tsukishima looks up, and the irritation he’s been holding onto vanishes in an instant.

Because it’s you.

You look exhausted. Shadows hang under your eyes, and your hair is slightly disheveled, like you’ve spent too many hours hunched over a desk. But still, you’re here.

And in your hand is a folder.

You walk straight toward him, weaving through the crowd, your expression unreadable. His breath catches in his throat before he realizes he’s holding it.

You stop in front of him, holding out the folder.

“Here,” you say simply.

Tsukishima doesn’t move. He just stares at you, at the folder stamped with the massive, obnoxious university logo, at the way your hand doesn’t waver. Hesitantly, he reaches out and takes it, fingers brushing against yours as he pulls it open.

His eyes scan the page.

ADDENDUM TO THE ACADEMIC PROBATION POLICY

His heart stutters.

It takes a moment for the words to register. The fraternity’s cumulative GPA is still below the requirement. But this—this thing you’ve spent the last few days working on, the thing you’ve evidently been breaking yourself over—it changes everything.

Organizations that show substantial improvement will still qualify for funding. As long as they continue to raise their GPA, they won’t be penalized.

He blinks. Once. Twice. The words blur slightly as he rereads them, brain struggling to keep up.

And then he looks up at you.

“You did this,” he says, voice lower than he intended.

You smile, small and tired but real. “You deserve it.”

Tsukishima feels like the air has been knocked from his lungs. 

For a moment, he can’t speak. He can’t move. He just stares at you, at the quiet certainty in your expression, at the exhaustion lining your face, at the way you’re standing here, in his house, telling him that they deserve this. He’s digesting the fact that you cared enough about them, that you respected their effort so much that you admitted your system’s faults to the entire university, published and notarized with physical proof.

Then, without thinking, without planning, without hesitation—he grabs your wrist.

The folder nearly slips from his grasp as he pulls you toward the center of the room, toward the rest of the fraternity. Someone notices first—Hinata, probably, judging by the sudden yell of surprise. Heads turn. Conversations still.

“What’s going on?” Kageyama asks, brow furrowed.

Tsukishima doesn’t answer. He just holds up the folder.

And then he watches it happen. The shift. The confusion, the realization, the moment the words sink in.

Kageyama’s eyes go wide. Yamaguchi’s jaw drops. Someone swears. Someone else shouts. And then, chaos simply erupts.

Because the next thing Tsukishima knows, they’re celebrating.

It’s different from before. This isn’t a goodbye party anymore. It’s loud, and wild, and joyful. There’s yelling and laughter and Hinata practically tackles you in excitement before you’re pulled into a flurry of hugs and cheers. Someone turns the music up. Someone else pops open a bottle of champagne that they were definitely not supposed to be saving for this occasion.

Tsukishima doesn’t join in.

Instead, he watches you.

Watches the way you’re laughing, exhausted but triumphant, surrounded by the people who care about you more than you realize. Watches the way they pull you into the celebration like you’ve always been one of them.

Watches the way you belong.

And for once, he doesn’t fight the way his chest tightens at the sight.

nine.

The party winds down eventually—not the joy, just the noise.

Most of the fraternity has either passed out in their rooms or sprawled out in various corners of the house, too tired (or too drunk) to make it any further. The music is still playing, but softer now, reduced to a faint hum that drifts through the open windows. Even the air feels different—lighter, easier, like the very house itself is breathing again.

Tsukishima finds you on the back porch, sitting on the steps, nursing a half-finished White Claw. He hesitates for only a second before stepping outside, letting the screen door creak shut behind him.

You glance up at him but don’t say anything as he sits down beside you. There’s no need to. The silence between you isn’t uncomfortable. It lingers, settled, like something well-worn and familiar, like you’ve known him forever.

It’s Tsukishima who breaks it first.

“Why?”

You tilt your head. “Why what?”

He huffs, staring down at his beer. “Why’d you do it?”

You blink at him, then let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “Because I was wrong.”

Tsukishima looks at you then, sharp eyes flickering with something unreadable. You don’t waver under the weight of it, and he remembers the way you look when you simply know something, that quiet certainty, that unshakable conviction. It sends a warmth through his chest, the same warmth he’s been trying to ignore for weeks now, the same warmth he always seems to feel when he’s with you.

“They deserved to have their efforts rewarded,” you continue, voice steady. “I wrote that policy thinking I was setting a fair standard, but all it did was punish people for starting at a disadvantage. They—” you gesture vaguely toward the house, where distant laughter still filters through the walls—“worked their asses off. I watched them do it. I wasn’t about to let that mean nothing.”

Tsukishima doesn’t respond right away, but he doesn’t need to. The way his jaw tightens, the way his fingers drum once against the step before curling into his palm—he gets it. He knew before you even said it.

“You didn’t have to kill yourself over it, though.”

You roll your eyes. “I didn’t.”

He levels you with a look.

You sigh, glancing away. “Okay. Maybe it wasn’t easy.”

That’s an understatement, and you both know it. You don’t admit just how much effort it took, how much red tape you had to cut through, how many meetings you had to schedule, reschedule, and push through just to get the addendum approved in time. You don’t tell him about the sleepless nights, about the pages of drafted revisions, about the quiet, gnawing fear that it wouldn’t be enough. You don’t tell him how you single handedly powered through academic records for every single organisation on campus, just to make sure this change gets written into law. 

You don’t have to.

Tsukishima already knows.

He clicks his tongue but doesn’t push the subject further. Instead, he shifts, stretching his legs out in front of him, leaning back on his hands. “Tanaka and Noya are already losing their minds over events now that the funding’s secure.”

You snort. “I can only imagine.”

“They’re talking about a full house party lineup, a tournament series, and some kind of insane spring break trip.” He exhales sharply, something that vaguely sounds like a laugh. “It’s exhausting just listening to them.”

You smile softly. “Sounds about right.”

He hums in agreement. Then, almost offhandedly, he adds, “They mentioned formal, too.”

You nod, swirling your drink absentmindedly. “Makes sense.”

A beat of silence.

Then.

“…Can I take you to formal?”

You freeze.

It’s not like you haven’t been asked out before, but it’s different coming from Tsukishima. Maybe it’s the way he says it—not cocky, not casual, not even teasing. Just direct. A little uncertain. A little careful.

You don’t mean to hesitate, but you do. Just for a moment.

It’s a moment too long.

Tsukishima sighs, looking away. “Forget it.”

And that’s when you see it—so brief, so subtle, but there. The way his shoulders tense, the way his lips press into a thin line, the way his fingers twitch like he’s bracing for something. Like he expected you to say no. Like he’s already trying to convince himself that he doesn’t care.

Before you even think about it, you reach for his hand. Your fingers lace through his, warm and solid, and you squeeze lightly, grounding him.

“Yes,” you say. “I want you to take me.”

Tsukishima goes still. He stares first at your joined hands, like he can’t quite process the fact that you’re holding his. Then, slowly, his gaze flickers back up to yours.

His voice is quieter when he asks, “…Not out of pity?”

“Have I ever done anything out of pity?”

He considers that for half a second before huffing out something that’s almost a laugh. “…No.”

“Exactly.”

You don’t let go of his hand, and he doesn’t pull away. Instead, you shift slightly, moving just a little closer, lifting your interlocked fingers as you lean into his side. It’s easy, natural, like something inevitable.

For a moment, Tsukishima doesn’t react.

Then, slowly, hesitantly, he squeezes your hand back.

The porch is quiet, the sounds of the house fading into the background. Somewhere inside, Tanaka and Noya are still arguing about something, Kageyama is grumbling, someone bursts into laughter—but out here, it’s just you and Tsukishima, sitting in the soft glow of the porch light, hands entwined.

Neither of you says anything else. You don’t need to.

And in that moment, Tsukishima is certain that he’s screwed. But right now, with you curled up next to him, knowing you deeply the way you seemed to know him the first time you met him, remembering everything that has brought you two here, to this moment, he is equally certain about this: he will be there. He’ll keep noticing things about you that you think no one bothers to see, and he’ll be the support that you always offer to others but never ask for. He’ll let you—make you, if he has to—rest; he’ll take care of you the way you do for everyone else. 

And above all, he’ll be the person to prove to you that you are incredible. Not just for being good at tutoring, not just for being good at math, not just for being good at school, but that he’s in awe of you and who you are. 

He’ll love you how you should be loved. 

He swears it.

⨭ closing notes; very very attached to this one bc i started it in 2019. yes, 2019. she's gone through an insane amt of rewriting and cuts, but i am super proud of this final draft and i rly rly love it. this is also 1/3 of my asu trilogy so look out for that!!! as always #comment #like #reblog i literally see them all and it keeps me going :') thank u all sm if u made it to the end!

[whencyclopedia]

Book of Kells

The Book of Kells (c. 800) is an illuminated manuscript of the four gospels of the Christian New Testament, currently housed at Trinity College, Dublin, Ireland. The work is the most famous of the medieval illuminated manuscripts for the intricacy, detail, and majesty of the illustrations. It is thought the book was created as a showpiece for the altar, not for daily use, because more attention was obviously given to the artwork than the text.

The beauty of the lettering, portraits of the evangelists, and other images, often framed by intricate Celtic knotwork motifs, has been praised by writers through the centuries. Scholar Thomas Cahill notes that, “as late as the twelfth century, Geraldus Cambrensis was forced to conclude that the Book of Kells was “the work of an angel, not of a man” owing to its majestic illustrations and that, in the present day, the letters illustrating the Chi-Rho (the monogram of Christ) are regarded as “more presences than letters” on the page for their beauty (165). Unlike other illuminated manuscripts, where text was written and illustration and illumination added afterwards, the creators of the Book of Kells focused on the impression the work would have visually and so the artwork was the focus of the piece.

Origin & Purpose

The Book of Kells was produced by monks of St. Columba's order of Iona, Scotland, but exactly where it was made is disputed. Theories regarding composition range from its creation on the island of Iona to Kells, Ireland, to Lindisfarne, Britain. It was most likely created, at least in part, at Iona and then brought to Kells to keep it safe from Viking raiders who first struck Iona in 795, shortly after their raid on Lindisfarne Priory in Britain.

A Viking raid in 806 killed 68 monks at Iona and led to the survivors abandoning the abbey in favor of another or their order at Kells. It is likely that the Book of Kells traveled with them at this time and may have been completed in Ireland. The oft-repeated claim that it was made or first owned by St. Columba (521-597) is untenable as the book was created no earlier than c. 800, but there is no doubt it was produced by later members of his order.

The work is commonly regarded as the greatest illuminated manuscript of any era owing to the beauty of the artwork and this, no doubt, had to do with the purpose it was made for. Scholars have concluded that the book was created for use during the celebration of the mass but most likely was not read from so much as shown to the congregation.

This theory is supported by the fact that the text is often carelessly written, contains a number of errors, and at points certainly seems an afterthought to the illustrations on the page. The priests who would have used the book most likely already had the biblical passages memorized and so would recite them while holding the book, having no need to read from the text.

Scholar Christopher de Hamel notes how, in the present day, “books are very visible in churches” but that in the Middle Ages this would not have been the case (186). De Hamel describes the rough outline of a medieval church service:

There were no pews (people usually stood or sat on the floor), and there would probably have been no books on view. The priest read the Mass in Latin from a manuscript placed on the altar and the choir chanted their part of the daily office from a volume visible only to them. Members of the congregation were not expected to join in the singing; some might have brought their Books of Hours to help ease themselves into a suitable frame of mind, but the services were conducted by the priests. (186)

The Book of Kells is thought to have been the manuscript on the altar which may have been first used in services on Iona and then certainly was at the abbey of Kells. The brightly-colored illustrations and illumination would have made it an exceptionally impressive piece to a congregation, adding a visual emphasis to the words the priest recited while being shown to the people; much in the way one today would read a picture book to a small child.

Continue reading...

[tentacion3099]

From the Bronze Age, the magnificent Rhos Rydd shield.

Expertly made c. 3,000 years ago from a single disc of bronze. 20 concentric circles are decorated with 3,700 singly punched bosses.

Found in a bog near Blaenplwyf, Wales, in 1804.

[galaxytittus]

Frat party.

the Alpha Kappa Rho house, c. 2016

(3/4) prev/next

transcript:

[door creaking closed]

D: So, uh... You're sure you're not prostituting? Last chance to come clean.

[lock clicking]

A: [scoffing] Uh, yeah, I'm sure, asshole. Look, Adderall. Prescription, too. You wanted four, right—

D: Do you think I'm stupid, bitch? Do I look stupid to you?

A: I don't know what the fuck you're talking about, let GO!

D: You think you can just come in here, to MY house, and overcharge me and all these other sorry motherfuckers in here for some dinky pills? You and that f*g you're with think y'all were gonna pull a fast one on us? Sorely mistaken, bitch.

[loud thud, Alex huffing]

D: Now, I got $200 for you, but I'm not buying your drugs.

[SPLAT]

[loud thud]

[Alex coughing and wheezing, fabric shuffling]

[loud, labored wheeze]

[Daniel hissing]

D: [shrieking] FUCK!!!

[Daniel grunting and growling]

D: [screaming] Fucking whore BITCH! I'm gonna fucking kill y—

[SMASH, glass shattering loudly, Daniel grunting]

D: [crying] My eye! My fucking eye!

[Alex hyperventilating, lock clicking repeatedly, door knob jiggling]

[postsofbabel]

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[kipercrow]

How I imagine wrestlers fart

because I'm bored

Br//on Bre//akk//er: Shy around his co-workers, and doesn't really let it out/try to make it loud when he's fishing with his buddies. With his father and uncle (T//he Ste//in//ers) however he's loud and proud about it, mainly because they are too.

Co//dy Rho//des: 100% loud and proud with his guy friends. Rips without care when around them. Doesn't try to be obnoxious about it when he's at home with his wife

Na//th//an Fr//az//er: Not really that big of a farter. If he's alone he'll rip it or if it'd make his friends laugh and he has one ready. But beyond that, not more reserved but he's just not farting a ton

C//M Pu//nk: Allegedly would rip a sbd in the ring (alongside Ed//ge) to prank the referee of the match. Totally farts outside when he's alone or is just with his wife and blames it on ducks. Definetly a car and bed farter, rips farts into his couch

Jo//hn Ce//na: I feel like when he was younger he'd prank people with his farts. He's tightened up since he's gotten older and more famous, only farting in the bathroom or when he's alone. He will make a fart joke to make a kid/someone laugh though

Th//e Mi//z: Definetly doesn't hide his farts unless they have important company over. Likes to be a goofball with his farts. Will fart in the car when he's alone or with guy friends. Won't fart in bed

Ho//ok: Probably farts when he's stoned. Doesn't fart a ton but if he's alone and he has to he'll let it rip

Tri//ple H: Loud and proud with friends. Will ask "do you smell that?" after letting go a sbd. Loves to do a fart joke when he's not in business mode

Sha//wn Mic//ha//els: Doesn't fart a ton. Farts in his car and couch but excuses himself when others are around. Will laugh at another person's fart joke

[d1rlin]

☆﹔Flower & Spring themed names

Poppy , azalea , iris , aster , flora , abelia , cedar , aspen , daphne , acacius , cordelia , poppy , elowen , clover , willow , sylvie , juniper , amaryllis , sage , rosalie , marigold , maren , cynthia , magnolia , cassia , ione , zephyr , lennox , sylvia , cassiopeia , elara , rosalind , fleur , pandora , rue , linnea , ewan , lilac , aveline , ianthe , florian , Iris , Calla , Flora , Heather , Rose , Zinnia , Aster , Clover , Dahlia , Daisy , Erica , Ivy , Kalina , Lily , Violet , Blossom , Bluebell , Hyacinth , Jasmine , Lavender , Leilani , Flora , Fleur, Floor, Flora , Flora, Flower

☆﹔Flower & Spring themed pronouns

petal/petals/petalself , sprout/sprouts/sproutself , stem/stems/stemself, leaf/leafs/leafself , bud/buds/budself , fleur/fleurs/fleurself , bloom/blooms/bloomself , fern/ferns/fernself , ama/amara/amaran/amaranth/amaranself , bloom/blooms/bloomself , bo/bel/oss/bloss/blossomself or blosself , bud/buds/budself , ca/cam/mel/mellia/camelliaself or camellself , ca/car/carna/carnati/carnationself , ca/uc/yuc/ucca/yuccaself , co/lum/bi/bine/columbineself or columself , dai/daisy/dais/dais/daisyself , do/dog/gwo/gwod/dogwoodself , fir/firs/firself , fleur/fleurs/fleurself , flo/flor/flori/florid/floridself , flor/flora/floraself , flow/flower/flowers/flowerself , frie/friez/freesi/freesi/freesiaself , fu/fuch/uch/uchia/fuchsiaself , ha/hib/bis/cus/hibiscuself , haw/hawth/thor/thorn/hawthornself or hawthself , hy/cin/hyas/hyacin/hyacinthself or hyaself , hy/hys/hyself (hyacinth) , ir/ir/iris/iri/iriself , ja/min/jas/jasmi/jasmineself , je/min/jes/jessa/jessamineself , lil/lily/lils/lilies/lilself/lilyself , lo/lot/lotu/lotus/lotuself , ma/mag/nol/nolia/magnoliaself or noliaself , nar/narc/narcir/narcirs/narcself (soft c as in certain, narcissus) , pe/peony/peo/peon/peonyself , pe/per/peri/peri/periself or periwinkle , petal/petals/petalself , po/pop/py/oppy/poppyself , rho/rhod/rhode/rhodes/rhodeself , rie/orch/id/chid/orchidself, orchiself, or orchself , ro/ros/rose/roses/roseself , rose/roses/roseself , sa/sap/saps/saps/sapself , sy/syr/rin/ringa/syringaself , ti/tul/ul/uli/tulipself , to/mis/misel/miselt/mistletoeself , tul/tulip/tulips/tulips/tulipself , vi/viol/viols/viols/violself (violet) , wi/win/winkle/winkle/winkleself or periwinkle , wi/wist/wis/wister/wisteriaself, wistself, or wisterself , zi/zin/zin/zinni/zinniaself , moss/moss/mosses/mosses/mosself , shroom/shroom/shrooms/shrooms/shroomself , spring/spring/springs/springs/springself , dew/dew/dews/dews/dewself , shine/shine/shines/shines/shineself , flower/flower/flowers/flowers/flowerself , honey/honey/honeys/honeys/honeyself

[spacetimewithstuartgary]

Rho Cas and its kin: Study provides new insights into the mysterious outbursts of yellow hypergiants

A recent five-year study has uncovered new insights into the properties of yellow hypergiants, a heavy star class known for their dramatic outbursts. Scientists focused on Rho Cassiopeiae (Rho Cas), HR 8752, and HR 5171A, revealing that Rho Cas exhibits cyclical outbursts every 10 to 40 years, with large fluctuations of its surface temperature.

Alex Lobel from the Royal Observatory of Belgium (ROB) was part of this international study that combined historical data covering 138 years. The results, published in Astronomy and Astrophysics, show that vigorous pulsations trigger these massive eruptions. They also offer a clearer understanding of the yellow hypergiants' fast evolution and their potential transformation into luminous blue variable stars or explosive supernovae.

Yellow hypergiants

Hypergiants are among the most massive and luminous stars in our galaxy. They show recurring and dramatic outburst events that have puzzled astronomers for decades. Important members are Rho Cassiopeiae, HR 8752, and HR 5171A. They are in the final stages of their fast evolution, offering unique insights into the life cycle of very heavy stars, having surface temperatures comparable to the sun, but being up to half a million times more luminous.

The study of hypergiants offers astronomers a rare glimpse into the late life of massive stars. In particular, we get a look at the stage just before they evolve into core-collapse supernovae, or alternatively, into a different class of hotter hypergiants called luminous blue variables.

This transition occurs when yellow hypergiants quickly evolve through the so-called yellow evolutionary void in the upper Hertzsprung-Russell diagram of stellar temperature vs. luminosity. Understanding the recurring outbursts and pulsations of the yellow hypergiants helps astronomers to refine theoretical models of advanced stellar evolutionary stages and to improve understanding of cyclic stellar eruption phenomena.

The new study, conducted over the last five years by an international team of scientists in The Netherlands (Leiden University), Belgium (ROB), and the UK (Durham University) also incorporates valuable data contributions from amateur astronomers worldwide.

The team focused on Rho Cas, one of the most well-studied and naked-eye hypergiants, analyzing the long-term brightness variability from 1885 to 2023. This extensive dataset allowed them to investigate its exceptional physical properties, as well as the onset and progression of three major atmospheric outburst events in 1986, 2000, and 2013.

These long-term observations reveal a fascinating pattern: Rho Cas exhibits cyclical atmospheric eruptions about every 10 to 40 years, each involving a significant fluctuation of the surface temperature, ranging from approximately 4,500 to 7,500 °C. The new findings provide a unique opportunity to follow a very massive star amid accelerated evolutionary changes.

Hypergiant outbursts

For the first time, the team calculated precise temperature calibration relations based on reliable spectroscopic data, combined with photometric observations between 1962 and 2020. This new methodology allows for a more accurate analysis of these extreme stars, in particular the dynamic behavior of their huge atmospheres (yellow hypergiants have diameters of 400 to 700 times that of the sun).

The study reveals that the pulsations of Rho Cas become more intense when approaching an outburst event. Specifically, the pulsation periods observed in the hypergiants' V-band (or visible) brightness curve lengthen, and the pulsation amplitudes increase in the years leading up to an eruption event. This signals that strong radial pulsations play a crucial role in triggering recurring outbursts, which have occurred six times in the last 138 years, with time intervals of 10, 41, 40, 14, and 13 years.

According to Dr. Lobel, co-author of this study, "It is the first time a thorough investigation was done with pretty much all of the available historical data of Rho Cas we collected from the literature, reaching far back to the 19th century. Moreover, we could combine it with new observations, including valuable contributions by amateur astronomers."

The research also investigated two other notorious yellow hypergiants, HR 8752 and HR 5171A. HR 8752 was found to evolve on a blue-ward evolutionary track after 1996, with its visual brightness staying nearly constant between 2017 and 2023. HR 5171A resumed its pulsation pattern in early 2018 after a period of gradual brightness decline.

The new study and observations are significant because they provide important insights into the sped-up evolution of yellow hypergiants. Overall, it not only improves our understanding of extreme stars, such as Rho Cas and its recurring eruptions, but also contributes to the broader knowledge of yellow hypergiants, their variability and importance for stellar evolution.

IMAGE: Artist's impression of the Yellow Hypergiant star Rho Cassiopeiae around which gas shells form due to recurring outbursts observed in the last 130 years. Credit: Alex Lobel

[gingersnaptaff]

🍩 for all three of the Arthurian yrio, why not *grins evilly*

🍩 -Who is your OC’s arch-nemesis or rival?: Gwyn: It's Tywanwedd currently, although later it'll be Fach. I definitely see Gwyn and Tywanwedd's rivalry being based on Gwyn's resemblance to her mum and basically being what Tywanedd wishes she could be. (Queen of Rhos, is the long and short of it.) And I do think Tywanwedd might be driven by her hatred of bastards considering a) she's one herself as was gwyn's mum so, y'know, she's got COMPLICATED FEELINGS, b) Her husband has two bastards (Owain and Morfudd) and Owain is Urien's heir and not one of her kids, and c) Gwyn is pregnant with a bastard!!!! Eigyr had a bastard before she met Uthyr! I think Tywanwedd is sick to death of bastards.

Dylan: Y'know, originally I thought of Lleu because they're brothers and are diametrically opposed to one another (light and dark, sun and waves) but now I think it's Gofannon. I can't go into why because I don't want to spoil but suffice to say it's juicy. (And is connected to Ireland because I love writing Oisín).

Arthur: His biggest enemy is himself. He's going through a lot of shut (his dad is dead, his mum is grieving, his cousins HATE him for various reasons and he's alienating allies left, right, and centre, his mentor is an absolute bastard, he's marrying Gwyn but she loves Dylan and he loves Dylan too!!!! Shsjdjd) He cannot catch a break. He definitely is just trapped in a cycle of self-loathing and pity. He uses his self-aggrandizement, flirting with Indeg, and swaggering to cover it up but if you're perceptive enough (like Gwalchmai) you can see through it. (There's also this fuckin baby, right, called Medrawd, but don't worry about him he's FINE.)

[paradoxcase]

Chapter 3 of Nona the Ninth

Huh, so:

I guess this is definition 7, then. I've never heard that word used to refer to a person before, but it's not marked as being regional

So Nona looks old enough that people are fine with hitting on her, but not old enough that anyone thinks she's graduated from middle school. This is not a fun fact

Also, this school has "almost 20 children", this is like a one-room schoolhouse from the 19th century except it's in the middle of New York City for some reason, what even

I mean, is it really that hard to pimp out Augustine? If she'd said "I'd have had better luck pimping out Mercy" that would have been something, but maybe it actually is easier to pimp out Nona and Camilla than it is to pimp out Mercy

Can Camilla and Palamedes have regular conversations with each other? Very curious as to how that might work

Quasi-telepathic abilities sounding more and more likely

There's been descriptions of it being hot, and I'm not sure if a) it's just summer, and that's what summer is like wherever New Rho happens to be, or b) this planet is just hotter than Earth by virtue of being closer to the sun or having a naturally thicker atmosphere, or c) some kind of climate change is happening here

It sounds like she has some still-repressed memories of learning this stuff?

So they live in basically a cop building, and Pyrrha did say that one of their neighbors is a cop and another one has militia connections, so I'm guessing they are probably being specifically kept there by BOE or some other entity because of their Nine Houses connection, and Camilla doesn't want Nona telling people where they live because people might infer that based on the building?

Given that a lot of people here don't speak each other's languages, I wonder how much of this is just another culture's kinship system being mistranslated into whatever language the kids are using. Like, Brother Father and Younger Brother Father sound like they're probably uncles, Eldest Father could be a grandfather, and New Father could possibly be a step-father

I mean, first of all, Palamedes has been living here for a while, I think he should be used to BOE (or whatever you want to call this culture) names by now, but also, Honesty is a perfectly fine name. Like, Wake's name was silly, Hot Sauce is a silly name, We Suffer And We Suffer and Crown Him With Many Crowns are at least fairly odd from an English-language naming standpoint, and many of our common names are borrowed from ancient languages and don't mean anything in regular conversation, but we totally 100% also name people things like Grace and Faith and Hope and Joy and Harmony and Prudence and Felicity and Constance and I'm sure there's plenty of cultures where boys are named this way too and Honesty is a perfectly fine and reasonable name. While we're at it, Beautiful Ruby and Born in the Morning are also pretty good names? The only thing odd about these names is that we're not used to seeing them

Anyway, possibly the kids are speaking some non-House language (or are at least named in non-House languages) and Nona is translating their names into House for this conversation? It's a little odd in that case that she's not translating "Kevin" at least in the narrative text, since Kevin is just an anglicization of Irish Caoimhín which means "of noble birth" in Irish. But if Nona's language abilities are based on some sort of telepathic sense, she might fail to translate Kevin's name because Kevin doesn't know Irish? Irish seems unlikely to have survived the apocalypse, at any rate

She definitely can lie, though, she successfully lied and told the teachers at the school that Camilla was her sister and Pyrrha was a friend of her father's and that she had been through many resettlements, didn't she? She just doesn't seem to know on her own when she should be lying and when she shouldn't be

There are some implications for how language is being processed for someone who really can't lie, basically the science fiction premise of Embassytown by China Miéville, and in that book the aliens who could not lie also had an empathetic aspect to how they understood language. But I don't think Muir knows enough about linguistics to write that kind of linguistics science fiction

Is this why Nona's legs are sore, she is running around with these young kids all day and having trouble keeping up?

Very curious if this is actually some kind of possibly war-related movement of things through the underground tunnels, or if this is just a vernacular name for something else

So BOE is recruiting children on this planet to join their militia, and they are also executing necromancers here by burning them to death

It's kind of funny that Honesty is calling her stupid here - he knows there are spies who are necromancers and/or zombies, and Nona is in fact a necromancer (or used to be one at one time) and she also lives with Palamedes for that matter, but it doesn't occur to Honesty that there is actually a chance that Nona or someone she lives with could be one of the spies

So this is what they call the resurrection beast? Except we know that resurrection beasts don't come for regular necromancers, or else they would be all over the Nine Houses, they only come for Lyctors. I guess it's entirely possible that this one could be here for any of Nona, Pyrrha, or Camilla/Palamedes, or it could just be here to eat a living planet because that's what they do. I wonder if the mythology of these people is that the resurrection beasts are like God's punishment for necromancy or something, it seems like Hot Sauce believes that to be the case, at least. Possibly it's not completely wrong, depending on what the relationship was between the deaths of the nine planets and the occurrence of necromancy

[aboutanancientenquiry]

"How to spell Herodotus?

Answer by Christine Plastow

Hello! You’ve reached the Herodotus Helpline. I hear you’re encountering problems with how to spell the name ‘Herodotus’. Don’t worry, I’ll be happy to help. Please try the following steps:

Firstly, locate Herodotus’ name in ancient Greek. You will want to use the nominative singular: Ἡρόδοτος. This will give you the spelling of Herodotus’ name in ancient Greek. If you would like to spell his name in modern Greek, please remove the breathing mark: Ηρόδοτος. If you would like to spell his name in a language using the Latin alphabet, please continue. (If you would like to spell Herodotus’ name in a language that does not use the Latin alphabet, you will need to contact a specialist in your target language.)

In order to spell Herodotus’ name in a language using the Latin alphabet, you will begin by transliterating the Greek letters: this means representing the Greek letters with their equivalent Latin letters. Transliteration into the Latin alphabet can be done fairly easily with many letters: for example ρ (rho) = r, δ (delta) = d, and τ (tau) = t. Some letters require more troubleshooting. Ἡ represents eta, long e, with a rough breathing mark; the Latin alphabet only has one form of e, and represents the sound of the rough breathing with h, producing two letters: He. The letter ο (omicron) is usually transliterated with the Latin latter o, but in some cases can be transliterated with Latin u, as in the second to last letter in Ἡρόδοτος. This is a matter of personal preference: if you would like your spelling to look more Greek, use Latin letter o, and if you would like it to look more Latin, use Latin letter u. 

After you have transliterated, you should have produced either Herodotus or Herodotos. This may be suitable for your needs, especially if you are writing in English. However, you may also wish to apply linguistic nuances to your spelling. For example, if you want to write about Herodotus in German, you will need to adjust your word ending: Herodot. If you want to write in French, you will need to adjust the ending and add an accent: Hérodote. If you want to write in Italian, you will need to adjust the ending and drop the H: Erodoto. These changes depend on the specific linguistic features of your target language. Other languages will have additional nuances, so please check the instruction manual for your language.

Congratulations! You have spelled Herodotus. If you would like to spell another word related to Herodotus, like Halicarnassus, the same principles apply, though watch out for κ (kappa), which can be transliterated with k or c in the Latin alphabet. If the problem recurs in future, please repeat the above steps. Thanks for contacting the Herodotus Helpline!

If you’d like to learn more about the Ancient Greek language, including how to read the Greek alphabet and identify English equivalents for Greek letters, try the following free courses from the Open University:

Getting started on ancient Greek

Discovering Ancient Greek and Latin"

From the site of Herodotus Helpline ( https://herodotushelpline.org/how-to-spell-herodotus/).

Dr. Christine Plastow, Senior Lecturer In Classical Studies, The Open University

[usafphantom2]

U.S. Navy declares IOC for its new UAS reconnaissance MQ-4C Triton

Fernando Valduga By Fernando Valduga 09/15/2023 - 14:00 in Military, UAV - UAV

The U.S. Navy officially declared the initial operational capability (IOC) of Northrop Grumman Corporation's MQ-4C Triton multi-manned unmanned aircraft on September 14.

Since its Early Operational Capability (EOC) milestone in May 2020, the MQ-4C Triton has operated within the U.S. Navy Pacific Fleet, conducting maritime intelligence, surveillance and reconnaissance (ISR) missions in the area of responsibility of the U.S. Indo-Pacific Command as the Navy's only unmanned, high-altitude, long-lived aircraft.

The MQ-4C Triton, manufactured for use by the U.S. Navy and the Royal Australian Air Force (RAAF), supports a wide range of missions. These include maritime patrol, signal intelligence, search and rescue operations, as well as communications relay tasks.

According to the producer, these aircraft offer persistent surveillance capabilities, assisting in predicting opposing actions and facilitating more effective joint military efforts and enterprises.

Operating at altitudes above 50,000 feet and boasting a 24-hour resistance, the Triton serves as a continuous communications retransmission center, ensuring connectivity between dispersed Navy units, while allowing commanders to operate with a shared operational overview.

“The Triton proved to be invaluable for the maritime patrol and reconnaissance mission in the Indo-Pacific. Now that the system has reached its initial operational capacity, commanders will be able to take full advantage of Triton's powerful set of sensors to detect and stop potential opponents around the world," said Rho Cauley Bruner, director of the Triton program at Northrop Grumman.

"The persistent global maritime awareness is fundamental to deter, or compete and win, our opponents. Triton ensures that we are making informed decisions and operating effectively anywhere in the world," added Captain Josh Guerre, manager of the U.S. Navy's persistent unmanned aircraft systems program.

Northrop Grumman provided the U.S. Navy with a total of five Triton aircraft equipped with multiple intelligence capabilities, with the most recent delivery occurring in June 2023.

Tags: Military AviationNorthrop Grumman MQ-4C TritonUASUSN - United States Navy/U.S. Navy

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Fernando Valduga

Fernando Valduga

Aviation photographer and pilot since 1992, he has participated in several events and air operations, such as Cruzex, AirVenture, Daytona Airshow and FIDAE. He has work published in specialized aviation magazines in Brazil and abroad. Uses Canon equipment during his photographic work throughout the world of aviation.

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[commander--wake]

i feel like i must: commander wake

THE POWER OF WAKE COMPELS YOU!!!!!!

sexuality headcanon: I mean bisexual I guess. it's not really that deep though b/c I don't think that post-apocalyptic society really has norms or attitudes toward sexuality the same way we do (e.g. born in the morning's fifteen dads, I'm sure there are other new rho examples of queerness) like wake isn't wearing a pride pin ykwim. but she seems like a woman who doesn't have time for much of a personal life, so when given the opportunity she's going to go straight for what and who she wants regardless of the gender shape they come in

gender headcanon: she's a wommon. see above. and btw my viewing her as a woman IS important to my thots on her character because i love vicious killer women, i love women who lie to & delude themselves in the service of their ambitions, and i especially love women characters who DO NOT WANT to be MOTHERS

a ship I have with said character: wake/pyrrha/g1deon duhhhh..... another less obvious fave is wake/mercymorn primarily on account of this great fic. and sorry i like wake/john on account of the Twisted Themes of it all so if anyone ever wanted to make my day/life they'd write me a little wake/john torturewhump gifty because imperial villain/defiant captured rebel is one of my formative ship shapes and it's only even better because they are also god & mary snarling mommy and evil justaguy daddy of lesbian jesus ^_^

a BROTP I have with said character: the tragedy of wake (one of them anyway) is that she has no one to really spill her heart out to!!! she has so many secrets and is juggling so many plates at once, and no one is really her equivalent in rank (esp toward the end) and she's too good an operative to spill classified info for the sake of her feelings. I guess we suffer would be a good genfic partner for her (but honestly that would be a bit more of a hero worship thing of a younger woman for an older one) (which is now getting shippy to me lol). oh I bet aiglamene would be fun too! but that would have to be pure fanon lol. I think I also read a wake/pelleamena or wake&pelleamena fic that was fun...

a NOTP I have with said character: wake/pyrrha while kicking g1deon out into the dumpster. he doesn't have to participate or be there (beyond his body being there lol...) but I despise when people devalue him as a way to up pyrrha. great way to make me click the <- arrow and make a mental note to never read it again lol

a random headcanon: wake is an amazing political actor and theorist. she would have to be to unite so many disparate wings of BOE to achieve these major goals. I was going to say she's a great realpolitik strategist but BOE actually seem to have a pretty active moral compass as well (I mean "no civilians" is such a low fucking bar but they still do better than most armies in history and modernity lol). so yeah we'll just say. she is an inspiring speaker and brilliant strategist as well as being a bloodthirsty killer cherished as the finest champion of her people

general opinion over said character: oh I don't know I don't have much of an opinion about her. I certainly haven't written a fic series about her or anything... who even thinks about a guerrilla general deadbeat mom who defied an empire until her hubris destroyed her then pursued her enemies even past the abyss of death

[justacryingbaby]

How Tumblr’s Platform Vernacular Shapes Digital Activism and Micro-Publics

Tumblr isn’t just a relic of 2010s internet culture - It’s a living, breathing ecosystem where *platform vernacular* fuels niche communities and redefines digital activism. But how do Tumblr’s unique language and norms empower marginalized voices while navigating the paradoxes of the “public sphere”?

Micro-Publics and the Rise of Hashtag Vernacular

Habermas’s “public sphere” idealizes open, rational discourse, but Tumblr’s fragmented micro-publics - like LGBTQ+ blogs or fan communities - show how digital spaces operate differently (Simpson 2018). Here, hashtags like #BlackLivesMatter or #MeToo aren’t just metadata; they’re rallying cries that shape political discourse (Rho & Mazmanian 2020). 

For instance, the #bodypositive movement on Tumblr challenges beauty norms through user-generated selfies and essays, fostering a community-driven counter-narrative to mainstream media (Reif, Miller & Taddicken 2022). These hashtags act as vernacular glue, binding users through shared slang (e.g., “OTP” or “AU”), GIFs, and reblogs - a far cry from Habermas’s text-heavy ideal.  

Anonymity as a Double-Edged Sword

Tumblr’s lack of real-name policies creates safe spaces for marginalized groups, like LGBTQIA+ teens, to express themselves without fear of surveillance (Cavalcante 2018). Yet, this anonymity coexists with algorithmic biases. While Tumblr’s reverse-chronological feed *seems* democratic, studies show platforms like Twitter skew political discourse leftward, raising questions about whose voices get amplified (Huszár et al. 2021).  

Platform Vernacular in Action: Memes and Fandom 

Tumblr’s vernacular thrives on remix culture. Take TJLC (The Johnlock Conspiracy), a Sherlock fandom theory that spiralled into a meta-commentary on queer representation. To be more specific, the video of Sarah Z’s dissection of TJLC highlights how Tumblr’s “shitposting” and roleplay (RP) cultures blend humour with activism. Memes here aren’t just jokes - they’re resistance tools, as seen in political movements like #FreeHongKong, where absurdist humour critiques authoritarianism (Zheng & Li 2023).  

Challenges: Surveillance and Algorithmic Gatekeeping 

Despite its grassroots ethos, Tumblr isn’t immune to corporate or governmental surveillance. The Department of Homeland Security’s social media monitoring underscores how “safe spaces” can still be policed (Boyce 2016). Meanwhile, algorithmic curation risks homogenizing discourse - echoing Habermas’s fear of institutional influence.  

Conclusion: Tumblr as a Vernacular Public Sphere?  

Tumblr’s vernacular - reblogs, dashboards, and niche slang - creates a *participatory* public sphere where aesthetics and activism collide. Yet, its fragmented micro-publics remind us that the digital “public sphere” is plural, messy, and perpetually evolving. As platforms phase out hashtags, Tumblr’s survival hinges on balancing creativity with resistance to algorithmic control.  

Reference:

Anselmo, DW 2018, ‘Gender and Queer Fan Labor on Tumblr’, Feminist Media Histories, vol. 4, University of California Press, no. 1, pp. 84–114.

Boyce, GA 2015, ‘The rugged border: Surveillance, policing and the dynamic materiality of the US/Mexico frontier’, Environment and Planning D Society and Space, vol. 34, SAGE Publishing, no. 2, pp. 245–262.

Cavalcante, A 2018, ‘Tumbling Into Queer Utopias and Vortexes: Experiences of LGBTQ Social Media Users on Tumblr’, Journal of Homosexuality, vol. 66, Taylor & Francis, no. 12, pp. 1715–1735.‌

Huszár, F, Ktena, SI, O’Brien, C, Belli, L, Schlaikjer, A & Hardt, M 2021, ‘Algorithmic amplification of politics on Twitter’, Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, vol. 119, no. 1.

Reif, A, Miller, I & Taddicken, M 2022, ‘“Love the Skin You‘re In”: An Analysis of Women’s Self-Presentation and User Reactions to Selfies Using the Tumblr Hashtag #bodypositive’, Mass Communication & Society, vol. 26, Taylor & Francis, no. 6, pp. 1038–1061.

Rho, EH & Mazmanian, M 2020, ‘Political Hashtags & the Lost Art of Democratic Discourse’, pp. 1–13, viewed 16 February 2025.

Simpson, E 2018, ‘Integrated & Alone’, pp. 237–240.

Zheng, Q & Li, M 2024, ‘Foreign Movies and TV Dramas as the Source of Political Argot in an Authoritarian Context: Memes and Creative Resistance in Chinese Social Media’, Critical Arts, Taylor & Francis, pp. 1–19.