#today is Research Methods Paper Day

[lightblueminecraftorchid]

Had a productive hour and a half! Knocked out my methods, results, and figures (the easy part of this paper). Now to find more sources so I can have a cogent introduction and discussion…

[nshtn]

// Cardiolipin

Albert Wesker has better uses for you than scientist-turned-secretary, and a secretary has much better uses than counting all the port caps he's used.

5.2k, tags: gloves, medical - dubious science;labcoat, nsft - handjob;leather & hand kink;mildly dubious consent;role switch;accidental voyeurism;bottom wesker, PW(much)P/gn reader, themes of obsession, TRICELL - office setting

2nd fic of Cytochrome C. AO3

It was late at night at TRICELL. You'd just completed the last of the documents that Albert Wesker had assigned for you: today had been a day of nothing but record-keeping, pouring over entry after entry to inventory the things you'd both used in the pursuits of your knowledge. 

It was a rough pile of paperwork, but someone had to do it – and Wesker told you he had deadlines to meet. He could stave your own off for this, but he couldn't push back his own. 

Typical. You’d come to expect it, really.

While you appreciated the subtle cover, his arrogance peeked through the paper-thin veil. At least he tried to make it sound better than it was: that he simply didn't feel that it was his place to do inventory, even if it was under his job title, and, technically, not your own. Not anymore, at least.

Sometimes you felt a little like his secretary.

Well, a lot of times, actually – the way you two had... gotten along, how closely you worked and the strange, unearthly bond that had blossomed between you. At times, you handled some of the tasks he couldn’t busy himself with – sorting e-mails, tech support, confirming the formidable math that went into organic chemistry formulas (he really hated those).

But perhaps it was in the way he’d lean over you a little more than was necessary, cologne creeping up and onto you as he read over the paper you held about results towards your own research. A glove at your back. An impressed sound, gruff, escaping the confines of his lips…

...the methods he used to congratulate you, like he was perpetually locked in some kind of social chess, obvious in the way his voice would lilt upwards into an unnaturally high register – and the rewards he’d present as if he were trying to condition you towards success. Admittedly, you let him get away with it most of the time – to glitter with free dopamine wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, was it?

Did he think you were dumb enough to come when called, like some kind of pet?

Though, admittedly, you’re sure you would if he rewarded you well enough. As long as he made it worth it, you didn’t pay his transactional nurture heed; it wasn’t malice, it was business, and you’d learned that well enough against his lips in your last close encounter.

You’d outpaced the average quite significantly, then. You still lasted now. Something in you beamed a little dangerously at that, spine prickling with the rattlings of your subconscious. It was a warning – you sidled yourself too close to someone who didn’t share the same base human values. 

You disregard that as your pencil glides.

You were curious if it’d lead anywhere some day. Physically, it had done so once before: your breakthrough in the selective application of tardigrade-specific proteins to a biological scaffold of human cells without interfering with neurons was a major leap forward for his own research. He’d asked you to use rudimentivirus progenitorensis as a vector, and that had been a very odd, very difficult request, but... given the sample, you got to work on an ‘exuprogenivec’ – it was hard, but the tendency for it to run away with what you gave it and produce virulent offspring was annoying. When you finally managed to produce something you thought viable, even in a forever flawed state, he’d taken the entire project off your hands in exchange for something you could hardly believe you’d taken him up on.

You could still hardly believe he’d allowed it. Him, of all people – Wesker! You thought he’d scoff, then. But had he read into the way you tolerated him and found that tolerance bled into something more? Had his own bled in recognition, or in turn?

Given how you no longer had the steam to work on the project, and seeing that it was in a state someone of his qualifications was better suited to, you did acquiesce. And, more importantly, you didn’t regret it. That hung between you, now, and Wesker took advantage of your attraction whenever he thought you needed a boost. 

Or, perhaps, when his ego needed one – sometimes he slid up on you or called you over with the express purpose of something you’d initially found most uncharacteristic until you’d finally gotten used to it: completely unsubtle flirtation, your response to his efforts something you could tell he locked himself in on even through the privacy of his shades. 

You’d learned. He’d learned your tells, too, though.

So, that left you here, now, neatening up the stack of papers with tired hands as you meant to deliver them and play the act of the paper boy. He was up in his office, a little farther from your unit, free from biohazard bags and agar plates. 

You sigh with a trained sort of anticipation that makes you double-take as you stand from your desk. Without further adieu, you pass through the door that separates your well-lit unit and into the dimly-lit bowels of midnight TRICELL.

At night, the lights would dim to stimulate the natural circadian rhythm and help avoid accidental time-blindness in employees. Sometimes, though, you wished they were a little brighter – they imparted a sort of creeping, heaving otherness when they were this dark. The gaps between yellow-green fluorescence cast harsh, deep slices of darkness like prison bars as you pass each glittering light. 

Was that intentional? Did it mean to paint the theme it did, so drab and macabre? Sometimes you felt like you weren’t in the know on something larger than yourself. Something eluded the tips of your mind. Maybe it was just the many mysteries of Wesker that made you feel this way – he scantly shared the level of social detail that was appropriate for a situation, preferring to remain a miserable little pile of secrets to your wandering mind.

But maybe it was something else. Maybe it was something deeper than what bobbed cleanly on the surface. Your gut demands it, but your mind is empty of factual conclusion.

You just can’t place it.

Eventually you find your mark and let your overthinking slide away, even if it’s a thick, gooey, embittered thing. It’s a little odd how quiet it is, save for the echoing scuffs of your shoes, but you’re here – now’s not the time to be lost in thought when approaching a man who would surely question you if he saw it drawn across your face; you weren’t interested in the debate, it wouldn’t be a fruitful discussion.

Should you knock? Surely he knows you mean to come in…

Ignoring your own silly protests, you pass your papers to your other hand securely and rap at the door twice before you’ll politely invade. 

No answer…

That’s odd – certainly a first. Could he have fallen asleep at his desk or left work without you to resume it tomorrow? No, no – he was married to his work, and it’d recently gotten interesting... one of those pill hotel resting zones in the nap room, then?

But that was unlike Albert Wesker. He was a man who stuck to his schedule, and there had been no indication that he’d recently been pulling any seventy two hour benders that ended in you finding him curled up in his unfinished paperwork, rare as that was. 

With a different curiosity occupying your head, you turn the handle and nearly throw your papers, hand coming up to cover your mouth as your eyes lay upon the scene before you. Oh, no, Wesker hadn’t left. He was right there at his desk, head in one gloved hand, the other tugging a fistful of himself just as preoccupied as your mind had been mere moments ago. You feel warmth sprint across the surface of your cheeks. You should turn around. He lets out a breath, the edge of his lips letting gritted air out from the clench of his canines. You should turn around and leave. As he completes several languid strokes from the tip to the base of himself, you are privy to the lewd sound of the way his skin slides across pre-stained leather. Is this the same pair he wears around you? God, you should really turn around and leave. But your body isn’t responding to the heed of your mind. It’s too busy heeling to the sound and sight, which you are certain now has become a degree of purposefully theatric, of Wesker willingly letting his arousal bubble out thick and growling from the bare column of his throat. His head tilts back a little, adams apple bobbing as he swallows a mouthful of saliva. You turn, and your clothing ruffles. Your fate is sealed like the potting of a slow-boiling frog. “Well, I didn't take you for the type to voyeur, but I suppose I could have been wrong in my calculations,” Wesker breathes, suddenly, voice oozing with intention and perfectly unmarred as he continues to stroke himself, pace slowing to offer him an even greater degree of composure. You were certain he was looking directly at you. He shifts his position to something a little more upright than hunched, as if professionalism still clung to him.

You clear your throat. “I-I can lea–”

“Nonsense. Come here,” he beckons, letting his propped elbow shift as he wags a finger at you, grunting with the weight of sexual frustration as he pauses. His hand lays over himself but never tucks his length away as the wheels of his chair slide back a little. “I’ve better use for you than fretting over every syringe.” 

You want to open your mouth and say something – you want to curse him out, maybe, for making it out like your work was so menial and pointless, but the offer he presents has your mouth firmly shut as if taped as you nearly drop your papers. You stride over to him promptly, diverting your eyes with equal parts respect and shyness as you approach the side of his desk, pushing the papers onto a part of it that has yet to find itself swamped. You want to offer him privacy even if he– even if…

“That’s better. Now,” he begins, and you think he’s going to admonish you for something, but instead his free hand comes up to his shades to push them down a little as he gives a single stroke from the top to bottom of himself. His eyes, slit and predatory, bore into you with no less a degree of control than he’d normally have, but they swim with the weight of endorphins in the degree of their visible dilation. 

And they look you up and down, slow and searching, before they stop at your own pair. You’re certain you’re red, now. “...are your hands only good at pencil-pushing, or do they hold some other useful talent for the occasion?”

Your brain stutters. “I-I was just going to leave the paperwork o-o-on your desk, as I believed that you’d– that you’d gone home, but then I saw you a–”

“You don’t need to pile on excuses.” He hums a little, lets his eyes divert to the paperwork you’ve delivered as he pauses once more in thought. Then, with a small, perceptible smirk, viperous and serpentine as they roam back to you, he leans back in his chair and lets his hand – the only barrier between your eyes and his intimacy – slide away.

He’s hard and leaking, and he thrums to attention as your vision seems to tunnel in on him automatically. Why did you do that? You can’t help yourself. You’re supposed to be better than this, and you crawl with a heady mixture of shame and desire that makes Wesker huff again. “Perhaps you’d like to get a grip on the situation, hm?” Clearly he sees past your aching repression, even as you deny yourself.

And it’s never been more clear to you that your brain is prioritizing, because it’s certainly processing that.

You move forward before he’s even finished taunting you, drawing in a breath as you let your hand draw forward. You’re slow, offering him the space of rejection if he chooses, but he just lays back and watches you as you wrap your hand around him. He’s not quite relaxed, no, but something close to it, hips still taut and growing a little tauter, wriggling forward as your hand breaches him. But he’s thick, and warm, and wet, and, fuck, he’s beautiful. 

His lips curl into a devilish, self-satisfied smirk.

There’s something to be said about how he obviously trapped you in this situation with this intention, but in the heat of the moment you cannot find it in yourself to make that comment. In fact, your glazed-over mind cannot find it in itself to care, much too busy with the outline of pumping veins that crawl along his shaft and natural wrinkles, committing them to memory like you’ve taken a private, filthy Polaroid.

You let a pathetic, guileless whimper slide from your throat. He chuckles, ego undeniably preening at your uncoerced truth. You feel nice, he qualifies to himself. “Mmm, you’re so warm...” he says – breathes, huffing as he lets his glove almost but not quite wrap around you, wrapped around him. But he stops before it makes contact with its’ intended destination. “...but something’s missing.”

Wesker bares his wrist to you in a move that feels more intimate than it should, one hand moving towards the latch of his glove. 

He does it with an air of reverence that has you mimicking, mirroring. “Yes,” you dryly, quietly concur, nodding your head as if entranced – and perhaps you were – as you let go of him, leaning in and undoing the latch gingerly, further soiling it as if it weren’t already coated in a helping of his own lubricant. Your eyes are so occupied with your task, fingers curling around the underside of his wrist and the muscles at the base of his thumb, that you do not notice the scalding degree with which his gaze follows you. 

He is breathing shallow and stuttered and perhaps a little more stuttered as you begin to pull off the glove. Wesker is thrumming, basking in your mimicry and care as if a starved man in a way that you are entirely blind to. Your attention holds more weight than others, don’t you know that?

You must. You must! But you don’t seem to acknowledge it, not truly, and that frustrates him. And it shouldn’t.

It should relieve him. You shouldn't be privy, but his own selfish want for your attention outweighs the danger of such an honesty.

God, how can he help it when you’re this fucking adorable? Such a good little thing, so good at following unspoken direction. You naturally flow the way he diverts your stream. Reducing you is fun – dangerously so, drawing him in a feverish light he doesn’t quite like. This is some kind of knife’s edge, and he’s not sure if letting it dig deep into him is the right choice when it comes to the importance of his research. 

You add an unknown variable to something very fragile…

...and yet he cannot find it in himself to stop at once, instead seeking his own destruction in the way his digits beckon the glove from your fingertips, taking the clean edges of it. “Hold your hand out.”

You obey unquestioningly.

He slides the leather – something you find smells faintly of leather oil and something else, something a little different, ruined at the palm and latch – over your splayed hand, pulling until it’s a second skin over your waiting, wanting fingers.

“Thank you…” you breathe, moving to latch it.

“Not necessary,” he hisses, impatience creeping up him like a vine. There’s another reason he doesn’t want you to latch his own glove on your hand that he doesn’t voice – it’s his, and he doesn’t want to mentally associate you with that, too, lest he drown in seeing you in everything more than he already does.

Wesker’s free hand slides up your wrist, tracing a path to your face which starts off gentle, tilting your head towards his length beckoningly. There’s a sharp demand inlaid, and you follow the natural lead, letting your vision admire him a little more as you fall into an obedient crouch, and then again, more comfortably, on your knees.

Where he thinks you belong. He wants to say it with his mouth, but he knows better than to voice something so brash, instead letting out an almost imperceptible groan if not for the proximity you found yourself. You don’t bother to bite back your pleased hum as you let your gloved hand rest at the base of him, thumb tracing a vein with deep-seated curiosity that makes him bite his lip.

The way you lack his secretiveness, how openly and wantonly you allow your admiration to stick out, is something that he finds himself both unreasonably attracted to and grievingly envious.

And while he’d like to continue to bathe in the sickening reverence he’s molded out of you in this heated moment, he must first attend to something of great importance: you really shouldn’t see what he’s been busying himself with. He doesn’t want to risk your wandering eyes landing on any one of those screens. He’d rather you see the result of it – the direct result of you. 

Letting your mind wonder about what was on them is a much kinder fate than true, free knowledge. If you knew how deep this all ran, you’d...

He tightens his grip subconsciously, pinning your vision on him as he leans up a little with a creak, deftly flicking the monitors off before he returns fully to you, shifting in the chair so that you can better make out the shape of him, which flexes with the movement of his hips.

“There. That’s better.” Wesker sighs a little, and you find that the sound echoes nerves as much as it does the first pricklings of arousal. You lean into his grip instead of away, as if the near-painful pinch is comfortable, and in response he regards you, head tilting down.

You lock eyes. You feel so small.

You’re sure he’s about to say something teasing to chafe the seams of you, but instead he says something surprising in its sudden painted depth, distracting. “Does it not bother you to dedicate your mind to this?” He doesn’t add the ‘to me’, but he sees it’s how you take it in the turn of your expression. It’s so silly to him, how you ascribe meaning to words unsaid – it is bared in the furrow of your brows, so deeply caring. His glove lets go of your chin as it cards through your hair as if you aren’t on your knees, in his office, labcoat pooling at the wheels of his chair. 

You are his the way his car or glasses are, and whether known or not, he does not hold doubt of that. Albert Wesker’s confidence is not nearly as much of a false pretense as other things. 

You’ve caught onto a few of those, haven’t you? 

“So intelligent,” he croons, something that sounds less mocking than he intends it to be, “and yet here you are…” ...on your knees for me, at my beck and call - but it trails off before he finishes the thought . Doesn’t it bother you to feel like a tiny, rotating gear in his grand machine? Do you not find it insulting to feel so utterly human, at the mercy of what surrounds you? But if you stopped, he’d find you so much less appealing. It wars with him, this.  

Yet the expected punctuation of a chuckle eludes you. It is not present to cushion the blow. The statement belies that he views your mind with a certain degree of respect. It makes clear that to do what he does now is, to him, the reduction of your mind to something simpler, more base instinct and gnashing teeth than a white-coat and fluorescent strip lighting.

It’s domination.

“Should it?” you reply, shrugging a little, hand tightening its’ grip around him, which he allows. Wesker is a man whose analytical mind leads him down paths not just less traveled, but untraveled entirely – you don’t ascribe the level of transactional thought to pleasing him that he does. You are doing this because you want to, not because it plays some higher role.

“I like…” you trail off, searching for the words, something that isn’t so hard for him to swallow as your gentle fist slides up and up his shaft. ‘To serve’ - No, that’s not it, you have a spine. ‘To make you happy’ - that feels too raw. “...to make you feel,” you settle, though you find it doesn’t capture your own feelings.

It is vague enough to pass, though the natural, sweet look you give him certainly helps, devoid of any hint of betrayal. That is such a foolish look to offer him… but right here, right now? It makes his hips jerk a little. He lets a small and thoughtful ‘hm,’ pass with it. 

Wesker is a man who feels like a raw, open wound beneath a nearly-impenetrable shell. His own defenses dig into scar tissue that cannot close. When you see him for what he is, at his most penetrable, you want to make him feel what he won’t allow himself. 

To say this in its’ truth will only alienate him. You must wait for an opening to let even a little of your intention encapsulate him. No matter what you do, you must do it gently.

Some part of him must know it, because he releases a breathy sigh as your gloved hand glides up and down faster, the leather a sinfully pleasing texture, the image of you in his own a far more sinful picture. “Is that it?” he quips, but he gentles as he sweeps your hair back in your slow rhythm, his turn to mimic, “A mutual debasing?” 

No, a mutual debriding.

His own brows find themselves drawing together as you milk the tip of him, thumb at the edge, the motion far too much and too quick, thin lips tight and wide with shut eyes to accompany them. An uncharacteristic, dark flush scrawls over the apex of his cheekbones as you continue without pause. “Mmmhmm,” you reply, a noncommittal, accepting hum that is more focused on his pleasure than the topic at large. You see it: the tension in the twitch of his leg, the way his hand tightens in your hair, his other hand gripping the arm of his office chair. 

But he doesn’t stop you. No, he quite likes this ‘mutual debasing’ more than he lets on, you figure. You hum a little as you let your fist tighten and drop down further, finally, letting up on the relentless rhythm you’d previously established. 

The moan he lets out in return is more than worth it, and he doesn’t even hide it. It is the reward for your foolishness, so bold. The walls are well-insulated – this isn’t just any office, after all. What is decided in the room you incriminate with your shockingly gentle sin can change the endless upwards race of humanity. And perhaps, though you see it as phonetic, metaphorical change, Wesker knows it as genetic change. 

Wesker rocks his hips alongside you as you pick up your pace, hissing through his teeth. Each stroke is matched one to one. The sound fits him, but he forces his mouth open near the end of it and he heaves the ends of a hot breath out that he repeats in puffs as you draw him closer to the crest of this distraction. “F-fffuck you’re good,” he states, a truthful thing, finally beginning to see the end of the rope of his composure.

His hand has long stopped traveling through your locks. Instead, he’s gripping your head in place, eyes cracked open and baring down a brilliant fire into your own. They are ruby red, filigree of a golden yellow surrounding wide black slits that are losing themselves in your earthly pleasures. To think he felt himself beyond this… he did not want to be. He wasn’t.

“Hnnh…”

Not… not if it felt like this. Not if it was you. Not if it was you. He will contend with the meaning of that later. His jaw is slack as you let your pent-up admiration cascade directly through how tight and fast you grip his cock.

“Does that feel good?” you ask, tone indecently polite. Though you’re well aware it does, the sight before you more than obvious, you want to hear it made known. It is a confirmation you know you can edge out of him if he won’t give up the goal.

Wesker responds with a growl more like a chuff that rises readily from him as he pulls at the edges of your hair in warning, letting his nose crinkle. 

Your pace, then, tortures him in how it slows at his lack of a lingual reply. Just who do you think you are? But he can’t force it out of himself, so caught up in the need for you to continue that his anger holds no teeth, thick rim no match for the true whole of desperation that clamors up his spine and pools as a tight, demanding heat. If he chides you, you might stop, and then…  

“Yes it feels g-good,” he snaps, not quite as envenomated as he envisioned as his brows furrow more meaningfully, chasing the pops of pleasure with every completed stroke, “don’t… don’t stop now.” You are so much better than his hand, and so much of this hinges on it being you that it's sickening. 

He is beautiful like this in his own way, open to you and repressing the urge to writhe. His eyes shut tight as the sensation mounts. 

Wesker loses sight of his grander goal in the scent of your proximity, a sweet temptation. You smell like something he cannot admit to himself. Attempting to place the true depth of it fails – he cannot discern what about you feels so known, fog of pleasure pushing away proper analysis. Instead, he forces himself to bear down on the pheromones of your shared arousal as he bucks slightly to meet your hand.

And the statement he’s made, too, passes, even though you could very well cease entirely and steal away this pleasure. You could flip your roles. You are unbalanced equals right now, teetering into something more, and though it should make him feel uncomfortable, instead it makes him feel like he’s going to burst. He is unsure if the unbalance lies in the lack of defined submissive and dominant, or if it lies elsewhere, and he doesn’t care – not now, at least.

Not as you speed up again, and his short, trimmed, perfect nails dig past the leather and into the side of your head, scrunching in your messied locks as your frantic pacing pushes him up and over.

Wesker’s other hand grabs the other side of your head, holding it in place like a support brace as his hips stutter. At the last moment, your free hand cups itself around his red hot tip to catch his glory. You’re so thoughtful, even now. Had he the mind, he’d soften the blow, but in the crescendo of feeling his mind demands he take, take, take.

He hisses and whimpers and writhes as release bares down on him, and it’d be beside you not to notice how intentionally he forces his mouth to remain open and venting out the sound on you, intent clear in the rejection of the trained response to be entirely silent as his hot breath fans you through teeth that beg to clench. As staged as this is – as controlled as the interaction’s beginning was, the appearance of letting himself go entirely is just that: it is something he does willfully, shaking over his own cup until it pours out for you. His hips roll as the glove steadies and slows and stops on him. 

In a way, he’s giving, and this is its’ own breed of equivalent exchange. It’s payback for your timeless adorations, pointed in the direction of a dangerous, deceitful receiver; it is also the inevitable continuation of the reward you get when you steer progress forward. 

And, oh, you steer progress so well it’s sin. Wesker feels himself go slack, feels you pull away and closes his jaw as he draws himself back to the shore of an unbreakable – lest it’s you – composure. He smells more now of himself than the vetiver and ambergris clinging to his neck, the lingering remains of your bared affection.

The timing of this dawns on you. There is nobody here to interrupt you, nobody to pass rumors at this time of night. It is perfectly private.

You look up at him with wonder at his appearance, the sides of his sideburns slick with sweat. Your hungry mind, so adorably human, imagines how much of his scent is hidden in the suit he’s wearing, how much of it you could extract and roll your hips into if— 

There is no time for the opportunity. Wesker cleans himself off and pushes the glove off him, tucking himself neatly away. There’s a moment of silence as he cleans your hands off, too, before he begins to undo the latch of his glove to retrieve it again. Once retrieved, they’re both set aside. Wesker looks so different without his gloves – less unapproachable, almost, even if his appearance had never quite deterred you.

He is the first to break the quiet, of course, a sigh snaking out from his maw as he lets his fingertips splay through your hair, languidly attempting to sweep it out of your face. “I was right. Your hands are very precise.” He tucks a lock behind your ear, the tips of them flushed. You look up at him, but his eyes don’t meet yours - there’s a distance placed in them. 

“Thank you.” You’re a perceptive one. Had you taken things too far? Surely he hadn’t meant for you to take control of the situation the way you did. But, then, he didn’t stop you - he’d seemed to enjoy himself… the dull, remaining glow of his eyes is undeniable evidence that you’d definitely made him feel. 

Wesker bats his lashes, the weight of your gaze not entirely comfortable when he’s submerged in the dangerous tranquility of afterglow hormones. Perhaps he’d felt, indeed - felt far too much. 

It’s the awkward moment between, and the sigh through his nose before you rise to your full height - something he does in turn as if you’ve done so to spite him - is what sets your gears in motion. You can’t help the way you quirk a brow at how he fixes his tie, grabbing the edge of his shades to hide himself as he prepares to leave his office. Had he really stayed just for this? “You could’ve asked, y’know.”

Wesker turns his head to you with a mild tilt, as if the notion of genuine, clear communication escapes him. His reply is filtered through the tight sieve of carefully placed intention. “Ah, yes,” he begins, and then he tuts in rebuttal, “but where’s the fun in that?” 

You return him the sassy arch of your brow.

He’s decided he’ll let you live.

[srbachchan]

DAY 6057

Jalsa, Mumbai Sept 17, 2024 Tue 11:26 pm

The impotency of content :

"The term "impotency of content" suggests a situation where content—whether in the form of text, media, or other forms of communication—fails to achieve its intended purpose or lacks meaningful impact. This concept can be explored from multiple angles, including the relevance of the content, its delivery, and the broader context in which it exists.

Content becomes impotent when it fails to resonate with its intended audience. Relevance is key; if content does not address the needs, interests, or concerns of its audience, it is likely to be ignored or dismissed. For instance, a marketing campaign that does not align with the target demographic's values or preferences is unlikely to generate engagement or drive sales. Similarly, academic content that lacks practical application or fails to address current research gaps can be deemed impotent in the context of advancing knowledge or solving real-world problems.

Even if content is relevant, its effectiveness can be diminished by poor delivery. This includes factors like the format, accessibility, and clarity. Content that is poorly organized, difficult to navigate, or presented in an unappealing format may fail to capture and maintain the audience’s attention. For example, a well-researched academic paper presented in dense, jargon-laden prose might be ignored by those who could benefit from its findings. Effective delivery involves not just the substance but also the style and method of presentation, ensuring that the content is engaging and accessible.

In today’s information-rich environment, content is often lost in a sea of competing messages. The sheer volume of content available can lead to saturation, where individual pieces struggle to stand out or make an impact. This is particularly relevant in digital media, where algorithms and social media platforms amplify popular or sensational content while less eye-catching material may be overlooked. In this context, even valuable content can become impotent if it cannot rise above the noise. Content must be timely and contextually appropriate to be impactful. Content that is outdated or irrelevant to current events or trends can quickly lose its significance. For instance, historical analysis or commentary that does not consider contemporary developments might appear disconnected or obsolete. Understanding the broader context in which content is produced and consumed is crucial for ensuring its relevance and impact.

Ultimately, the effectiveness of content is measured by its ability to engage and elicit a response from its audience. Content that does not prompt interaction, reflection, or action is often considered impotent. This engagement is not just about attracting attention but also about fostering meaningful connections and responses. Content that encourages dialogue, provides value, or inspires action is more likely to be perceived as potent and impactful.

In conclusion, the "impotency of content" underscores the abd not a word about the mediaimportance of relevance, delivery, and context in determining the effectiveness of communication. To avoid impotency, content creators must carefully consider their audience’s needs, ensure their delivery methods are effective, and remain mindful of the broader information landscape. By addressing these factors, content can transcend its potential impotence and fulfill its purpose, whether that be to inform, persuade, entertain, or inspire."

and hahaha .. 🤣 and not a word about media for which it was intended .. the most protected, educated, ultimate genre in this Universe ..

Love and in the more of reality ..

Amitabh Bachchan

[morganbritton132]

My friend is a high school teacher, and the other day, he told us this story of when one of his students said, "Going 90." And proceeded to type his chair AND his desk to the side aka 90°. The kid landed on his side and got out his paper to start working. He said, "I think better this way." And my friend just had no clue what to do, lol.

I could help but think of Steve just standing there with his hands on his hips, trying to hide his laughter with a look of disappointment. And one of the other students gets it on film. So Eddie sees it and starts doing it everywhere as a joke.

The whole class is in on it which is how it ends up on TikTok for Eddie to see.

Mr. H hasn’t been in a bad mood per se, but there’s something off about him that his whole sixth period has picked up on. It’s not the low energy tiredness that sometimes lingers after he misses a day of work because of a seizure or the tense stiffness that’s present when he’s trying to work through a migraine.

It’s something else. It’s like he’s…sad.

He just seems really sad and the students do not like it, so sixth period looks towards their class clown and Jeremy says, “No problem, guys. I got this.”

They are waiting in anticipation as the class starts.

Steve takes attendance, nothing. He passes out a worksheet and notes, nothing. He starts the lesson and nothing happens until Steve asks, “Can anybody tell me what the characteristics of a right triangle are?”

There’s a moment of hesitation as everybody waits to see if that’s the moment but when Jeremy doesn’t do anything, Annalise answers, “One of the angles is ninety degrees.”

“That’s ri-“

“Going 90, Mr. H!” Jeremy shouts from the back of the classroom and then proceeds to yeet his desk, his chair, and himself sideways onto the floor.

The reverberation of the desk hitting the tile echoes around the room, followed by a round of giggling as Jeremy casually gets his spiral notebook and a pencil. He presses both of them to the desk so they don’t fall.

He’s writing his name at the top corner of his worksheet when he sees Mr. H’s shoes approach. His socks match his tie today. Jeremy thinks that’s very stylish of him. He mentions it.

Steve makes a strangled noise and when Jeremy looks up at him, he sees that he has his hands steepled in front of his face like he’s praying for patience. At the angle that Jeremy’s at, he can see Steve pressing his lips together like he’s trying not to laugh.

Finally, he puts his hands on his hips and asks, “Why?”

“I’m putting myself in the mindset of a right angle so I can learn better,” Jeremy answers and Steve presses his lips together again. He shakes his head so Jeremy presses on, “It’s like method acting but for math. I’m becoming the angle. There’s like, a whole bunch of research and stuff about it online.”

Steve’s shoulders shake when he asks, “That so?”

“Yep, Mr. H. I’m surprised you didn’t hear about it.”

“Yeh, that’s up,” Steve composes himself. “That’s hypoten-news to me.”

The whole class groans.  

Eddie rolls his eyes at the pun but laughs at the three different videos he sees of the interaction. He thinks it’s hilarious and he thinks it’s even funnier when Steve retells the story later. He comments on one of the videos, “V funny, gonna steal this.”

A few days go by and then Eddie posts a Tiktok that’s just a compilation of him shouting ‘Going 90’ and Steve scrambling to catch him before he falls over. With each clip, Steve’s reaction gets slower and slower.

The first time Eddie does it, Steve drops everything he’s holding to stop Eddie tipping the barstool he’s on onto the floor. The second time, he follows Eddie into the grass when he goes 90 off the deck. The fifth time, Steve bear hugs him before he can get the phrase out. The fifteenth time, he just lets Eddie fall. 

[grad-premed-suffering]

2024.02.29 | Day 40/100 days of productivity

Happy leap day!! My day is pretty calm, with an NVIVO workshop in my class this afternoon (which I think I may already know most of) and otherwise just grinding away to get my communicable disease term paper drafted. I don't have any classes tomorrow so I'll just push all my readings for next week until then. After this term paper, the last big assignment I hjave this semester is my thesis proposal, so I should be able to get back into doing more of my research shortly.

I hope you all have a lovely and productive day!

Today's goals:

Qualitative methods class

Draft communicable disease term paper

Drink water (0/2)

Pick up prescription

Buy a few groceries on the way home

Read before bed

[2024-grimoire-challenge]

July Week 1: Dreams, Astral Work, Life and Death Philosophies

So this week we will focus on some pretty broad topics, so that we can pack more learning and practical things into the second half of the year. Let's start with some pretty heavy topics for the week! These days will be very chock full, so feel free to save these prompts for rainy days or to keep working on after this week!

Monday - Dreams and Dream Work

Research/ New Page - scientifically speaking, what are dreams? How do they work? Why do they occur? When do they occur? Now apply a spiritual and magical lens to what dreams are. Then apply a philosopical lens. How do all of these definitions and functions work together to form what dreams are to you?

Research - Sending, Receiving, Shaping and Controlling Dreams. How does one send dreams or influence the dreams of another? How does one become more open to recieving dreams? What are the methods and ways we can shape our dreams? How can we control our dreams? Make a list of any terms, practices, methods, or articles on the subject you want to look further into. Or read and define things now! Learning is understanding. Also look into ways to help you better recall your dreams after you wake up!

Research - Look into the history of dream work, and the study of dreams in general, both in a magical and scientific way.

Tuesday - Astral and Astral Work

Research/ New Page - Define Astral and astral work. What is the astral or astral plane? How do we reach it? How do we see it, sense it, and connect to it? What things can we do when doing astral work? What does this influence, if anything, within your craft?

Introspection - Expectations vs Reality. What are the things you expected from astral work and what you thought you knew? Now compare that to the reality of what you've learned. What did you expect to see/ hear/ feel/ etc when you did astral work? What was the reality of the work you did? It is important to be able to differentiate between reality and your mind and perceptions tricking you.

Research - Gem Study - Pick a gem or other item from your list and study everything about it that you can!

Wednesday - Life, Death and Beyond

Introspection/ Meditation/ Journal - Think on the three topics listed. What is life? What is death? What is beyond those things (before and after)? Really dig deep into your beliefs about the world and the way these things work and how they are connected. Why do you believe those things? What influenced these beliefs in you? How do you feel about each of these things?

Research/ Introspection - Do you believe in reincarnation or a "beyond" where your spirit or soul or what have you goes after death? Define it, describe it, how does it work and why does it work and who is in control, if anyone, of this process or place? Are there multiple places or levels? What are they? Where do they exist? How do they function? The idea of a 'beyond' flows into and around the ideas of life and death. Connect the dots in yourself and in your beliefs.

Research - Herb Study - pick an herb from your list and learn all that you can about it! Magical, mundane, everything!

Thursday - Some fun stuff!

Practical/ Craft - Take today to do some design work on your pages! Color them, decorate them, add paper or notes, stickers or flowers, anything that helps make your grimoire feel more at hand and connected to you! Example: If you've made a page on Basil, find a basil leaf and dry it, then add it to the page! Or draw a picture of a basil plant!

Practical - Attempt some dream work or connection to the astral plane. Journal the experience, start to finish and look back on the experience to learn how to improve it!

Friday - Casual/ Catch Up

Use today to dive deeper into the topics discussed earlier this week, I know these were some big topics to broach. If not, rest! It's important to take breaks on projects as big as this challenge!

Well that’s a lot for the first week! But we’re gonna be getting deeper into a lot of broad topics this month! Stay tuned everyone and thank you for participating! I’m hope you’re all having a wonderful summer so far!

-Mod Hazel

[pjo-tvs-version]

Fanfic no. 3 !! Wohooo!!! I never thought it would happen. I am sticking with Annabeth POVs currently as I enjoy writing them. This one's based on @liesmultixxx's suggestion of the day Percy goes missing. Title from Love Story by yet again Taylor Swift. Enjoy!

Beggin' you, "Please don't go, " 

I stand outside by the gates of my school, excited. It was a lovely Saturday afternoon and Sally had insisted on having lunch with her. The crowd around me was buzzing with enthusiasm too. Today was the last day of school. Everyone was planning their summer vacations. I smiled knowing that I had already planned how to spend the entirety of the few days I got. Training at camp, finishing the plans for the renovation of Olympus, helping out with the architecture of the new cabins, teaching the new campers a few tricks, chatting with Sally and of course, spending time with my Seaweed Brain.

I was told by a particular green eyed boy that I often get lost in my thoughts. As much as I hate accepting that, it's the truth I realise now. As I’m happily going over my to do list for this summer, I hear a car’s horn, startling me. It’s Paul’s Prius with Percy in the driver’s seat, wearing his orange camp shirt. “Did I scare you, Wise Girl?” he says mockingly. There is a mischievous twinkle in his eyes and it feels wonderful to observe it without a Greek apocalypse taking place.

I dump my books in the back seat, taking my place beside Percy as we set off to his New York apartment. A lunch by Sally’s and then we will be off to Camp Half Blood. I was eager to go to camp as I hadn't seen it in a while. I am looking forward to seeing the new campers, even the ones from minor gods. Yesterday Chiron had even Iris messaged me about my requirement for building the new cabins. Percy was most probably picking on my thoughts (that was something I realised that he is pretty good at doing since we started dating.)

 “Well someone looks happy today despite her pessimistic attitude”, said Percy. “Let me remind you that you have an English research paper to write a History project to work on and not to mention solving questions from Trigonometry” I replied.  Percy let out a groan and said “Well you take the win on this one but please tell me you are helping me out with trigonometry.” I laughed. It was so funny to see the Savior of Olympus complaining about maths homework. I retorted “Only if you give me an extra blue cookie.” Percy looked aghast and I was just enjoying the banter. I knew I hit the right bargain.

 “You drive a hard deal Annabeth. Can’t we just stick with something nicer like I give you an extra goodnight kiss and you help out with the soul destructive maths?” “Hmm let me think about it” I pause dramatically and pose to be in deep thought and then add “nope.” “Please Miss Owl Head. I am begging you” Percy adds with the cute baby seal eyes. Oh no! I stared at them and it was a mistake. The eyes always got me. “Okay fine the extra goodnight kiss it is in exchange for the maths homework. But I am warning you beforehand, I’ll just teach you the method, you are solving them yourself. Also the good night kiss better be good.” I say with a sigh. He grins and I can’t help but adore his raven coloured hair. The rest of our ride passed with more banters about school, camp and dates. I enjoyed every minute of it.

I waited as Percy parked the Prius. Sally is already standing at the door. I could smell the delicious lasagna bubbling in the oven. As always Sally hugged me. She smelt of cookies and honey suckles. It always filled me with warmth whenever I was with Sally. She was like the parent figure I never had. She always treated me so warmly, like her own family. It always managed to make me feel cosy and warmed my heart every time.

“Come in quick! The lasagna is almost done, my dear. The blue cookies are in the oven right now. They will be ready soon too. "Sally said as she beckoned her inside the Jackson apartment. Percy eyes always glazed with amazement whenever a Sally Jackson styled blue cookie was in a 1 mile radius from him. Percy helped Sally set up the dining table as I went to his room to freshen up and change. 

When I returned to the table, a table was ready for three. Paul I had been told by Percy was in school, teaching. Sally and Percy were seated already and were waiting for me. A dish full of mouth watering Lasagna, Sally’s classic seven layer dip with tortilla chips and a jug of lemonade were kept, ready to be eaten.

“Dig in '' Sally said and that is exactly what we did. Gods, it was delicious. We talked as we ate. Sally inquired about my school, Percy sprouting out facts about marine life and me going over my plans for the summer. There was utter chaos as the three of us ate and chatted and it was soo much fun. When our meal finished, I along with Percy helped clear up the table. It sounds weird but I had fun doing the dishes. 

When everything was done we sat on the couch with the blue cookies. Percy’s eyes rolled up in ecstasy at the sight of them and I was pretty sure that my face was pretty much the same. As I savored my last chocochip bite, I glanced at the watch. It was almost 4. I stand with Percy in tow. We had to leave for camp now.

Sally hugs us goodbye, packing a few cookies for our trip to camp too. We hail a taxi to Long Island. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 Percy and I stood on Half Blood Hill, enjoying the view. Camp Half Blood was buzzing with excitement everywhere. Many of the Apollo kids were doing target practice. The satyrs were playing a sweet tune on their pipes to grow the strawberries. The sun was dipping and the view was breathtaking. “Race you down the hill. Whoever loses doesn't get the last cookie” I shout before sprinting down the hill. “Hey, that's not fair! You went first. But you're on Chase. Anything for my blue cookies.” Percy retorts and he races against me. 

As always it ended as a tie so the cookie will be divided into half. Chiron was there to greet us. After exchanging a few hugs, I went to meet my siblings in Cabin 6. Malcolm welcomed me back warmly. I make my way towards my bed to start settling in. Unpacking took way more time than I expected. “Hey Annabeth, time for dinner. We are even having a campfire tonight.” Malcolm calls out as I stack my last book on the shelf. Perfect timing. “Coming Malcolm," I reply.

After a filling dinner everyone gathers around the fire for a song night. I sit beside Percy, a little at the back of the crowd. We sing, laugh and dance till our throats are sore from shouting and our knees are worn out from the dancing. The crowd dispersed albeit reluctantly since we were having so much fun. Me and Percy walk, hand in hand towards our cabins.

The walk was purposely slow since we were savouring the solitude. As we reach the entrance of his cabin we both halt. A drop of water fell on my nose then another on my shoulder and then on my hand. Before I knew it, I was standing under a mini raincloud. Percy was getting drenched in the rain too but he was smiling, that classic troublemaker smile and his sea green eyes were full of amusement. “May I know exactly why Perseus Jackson is it raining only above us? Considering that you are a Son of Poseidon, it puts you in a quite suspicious position. There is no scien-” I say before I am cut off. 

Percy’s lips are on mine as kisses me soft and slow. As he pulls away grasping for breath, I remember that he kept his promise about the goodnight kiss. Something must have shown on my face as I leapt to the realization because Percy’s smile widened. “So this is your special goodnight kiss I see. Where both of us are drenched in rainwater” I say. “I always wanted to kiss you in the rain. Might be romantic you know. But I kept my promise. So math homework tomorrow?” he replies. He really is a Seaweed Brain. He looked so cute with his hair plastered across his face and pearl like water droplets on his eyes that I could’nt help but kiss him again.

I will begrudgingly admit that it was actually kind of romantic but there is no way I am saying it out loud. We pull away and I say with a sigh “Okay, maths homework lesson in the morning in the strawberry fields. Okay?” “Thank you so much Wise Girl. Good night.” he says with a yawn. “Goodnight Seaweed Brain” I reply, feeling sleepy too. I make my way towards my cabin with my heart content. Tomorrow will be a fresh new day and I can finally enjoy myself after so many taxing years of war.

I wake up to a sunny morning. I freshen up and grab my supplies. Chiron had requested me to meet him first thing in the morning as he wanted to discuss a few new cabin designs for me. As I make my way to the Big House, I am interrupted by Clarisse. “Have you seen your kelp-filled headed boyfriend? He was supposed to spar with me to a death battle.” Clarrise asks. I laughed. So Percy and Clarisse are going toi spar. Guess I’m going to watch a good show. “I’ll go check on him. He’s most probably snoring in his cabin.” I reply. Clarisse nods and goes to her cabin. 

I knock on the doors of cabin 3. No response. I knock again but still not a single reaction. That was weird so I just pushed against the doors to find an empty bunk bed. Where was Percy? He most probably must be playing one of his pranks on me. I step out and call out his name. Still no answer. I find Chiron waiting at the steps of the Big House. I’m sure he would have some idea. “Have you seen Percy Chiron?” I ask. There is a look of concern in his eyes. “Annabeth, dear I thought Percy was somewhere with you though it is unlikely that he would be awake so early in the morning.” Chiron responds. “What no! I just got up and was on my way to your office when Clarrise asked me if I knew where Percy was. I said no and went to his cabin to find him but he was’nt there.” I say, panic seizing me. “Annabeth, you are not the first camper who inquired about Percy. Are you sure you have no idea where Percy is or is it some joke?” he asked me.

“I swear on the Styx Chiron that I have no idea where Percy is.” I say as my dread increases in my heart. “Well this is serious then. I am going to announce this immediately” Chiron said.

Every camper was searching every possible place. I was getting terrified with every passing second. Percy pulled off pranks but they were light hearted. When I find him, I’m seriously going to threaten him about this. He has no right to give me such panic attacks. After a while of searchin everyone gathered in the Amphitheater. “We’ve looked everywhere, only the strawberry fields are left for us to-” Connor says before I cut him off.

The strawberry field, of course he must be there. Maybe he wanted to surprise me by getting up early and being ready to study. I race against the wind. As I reach the entrance of the field I shout out “I’m here Seaweed Brain. Time for maths.” Still no reply. He was’nt there. My heart was thudding against my chest and I fell to my knees. Where was Percy? The rest of camp arrives to find me there in this miserable condition. Malcom approaches and kneels beside me. “Don’t worry Annabeth, we'll find him. He must be somewhere, I’m sure of it.”

I burst into tears not being able to control them. Percy was gone? Overnight? He kissed me goodnight yesterday and now he is gone? There was no trace of him. He wasn't in camp and I realise with a foreboding fear that this isn't a prank. Chiron removes the crowd as Malcolm hugs me fiercely. “He’s gone, he’s gone” I say with shuddering breaths. “I was supposed to teach him maths, go on a date with him tomorrow and…”. “Annabeth, it's okay. He will be fine” Malcolm tries to reassure me. “You don’t understand. Where is he? Is he alive or…….” I didn't complete the sentence. That’s not possible. I was going to search for him until I found him. A part of my brain nags me- what if I don’t. I push that thought away. I stand up with shaky legs and reach for my cell phone and dial Sally. After a few rings she picks up, “Hey Annabeth how are you and Percy? Any issue?”. “Sally is- is Percy at home?” I say even as my heart slows with dread. “No Annabeth! Why would he be here?”. I can’t reply. I lost my voice and I didn't know how to respond. What should I tell her. Sally must have sensed the silence was not a good one because there was concern in her next words “Annabeth honey Annabeth are you okay? Is Percy okay…” If only I knew that my happy, planned summer was going to be my worst possible one….

So how was this? Positive criticism is appreciated. Thank you @liesmultixxx for the lovely suggestion. Hope you liked it!!!

You can read it here on AO3 too

[cappucinosandnotes]

100 days of productivity

4/100 - 11/7/24

really struggling to feel productive today, i just cannot bring myself to focus on anything but i have so much stuff piling up that i am getting stressed

today's to-do list:

orgo hw

ALS case study

case study evaluation

research

methods and results section

english paper

carboxylic acid and esters reading, notes, and practice problems

at least its almost the weekend so i can catch up on everything and rest and recover

[cnestus]

If you don't mind me asking, what exactly is your job and degree? Getting into the field of entomology is a bit intimidating and I would appreciate any any advice.

i tend to be a little cagey about my exact job since my field is quite small and there's enough people following me that the chances of someone deciding to take offense to something and Get Weird at me are nonzero, but that's probably excessive paranoia on my part. then again beloved internet bug person mossworm got recently sacked from their job on account of weirdo online tattletales so maybe not.

anyway i can say i work for a government agency identifying insects from a pretty wide geographic range, looking for new exotic species and potential pests. during the busy season i spend most of my time processing huge volumes of raw trap samples, pulling out insect groups of interest, mostly woodboring beetles, for myself or one of the other entomologists in the lab to identify to species. during the off-season when we're not getting tons of new samples i get a little more free reign to work on other projects of my own design, so for example lately i've been working on my bee identification skills and am slowly putting together a large reference collection of native bee species that i reserved from years of insect trap by-catch.

i got my PHD in entomology without a specific career in mind but knowing i wanted to do something that wasn't just about developing products and methods for killing unwanted insects which seem like the main entomology jobs anyone wants to fund anymore. in a perfect world i'd love a entomological curation job in a museum but those positions are rare and in-demand and i didn't have the mental fortitude to do the kind of academic work in grad school to make me competitive for that field. but then i went ahead and got a job that lets me do some curatorial work anyway so i sort of won? my position is still at least on paper about controlling unwanted insects but in practice i rarely have to do much of that work, at least directly.

i get semi-regular requests for advice on getting a job as an entomologist and i often feel like i don't have much constructive or encouraging to say, since it's hard not to feel like it's one of the many disciplines being squeezed to death by the iron hand of capitalism. more and more positions in the government and academia are being cut or downsized by bureaucrats who don't see the benefit of taxonomy or any other research that doesn't directly result in their department or some corporation making a bunch of money. whole subdisciplines are dying out as the elder entomologists who were the sole sources of knowledge about them die off. there are entire groups of insects and other arthropods that are effectively impossible to identify to species now because the one taxonomic wizard who specialized on them died without having anyone to pass that knowledge onto. Donald Bright, the only living expert on bark beetles in the preposterously diverse and morphologically subtle genus Pityophthorus, died a few months ago without an heir that i'm aware of.

also most of the taxonomic research that is being done these days is all molecular systematics which i have Opinions about but this post is way too long already.

sorry. that was a bummer. i guess i'm proof that it is still possible to get a job like this today, even if i can't help but feel like it was mostly luck that got me here. plenty of the others in my academic cohort (that didn't burn out from grad school stress) also went on to get degrees in their field of study or at least adjacent to them. and again there are still plenty of entomology jobs in other sectors like agriculture, public health, nonprofits and NGOs and stuff like that. you also don't necessarily need an advanced degree in entomology for a lot of these, and a lot of people in the entomology field came in sideways through related disciplines like ecology, evolutionary science, general biology, or even things like viticulture and forensic science to name a couple examples from my own cohort.

looking back, that was mostly a lot of vague grumbling and not much concrete advice, but to be fair asking for "any advice" is a hard prompt to go off of so i tend to default to the kinds of grim thoughts that are usually rattling round in my brain. i may also be in an especially dour mood at the moment because even though my job isn't to my knowledge at any risk of being eliminated, my lab is currently being passively if not outright antagonized by higher-level bureaucrats for genuinely mysterious reasons and i will not elaborate on that any further for reasons i mentioned at the beginning. anyway! i am always happy to at least attempt to give more specific advice but i can't promise there won't be at least a little grumbling in that as well.

[uncleasad]

This post came past my desk today, and I thought folks here might find it interesting/helpful, particularly the suggestions (from the academic paper, as summarized by the author of the blog post) for clearing a block—or at least a specific type of block:

Take a break from writing: “Stop writing, decide tomorrow is another day, and walk away from the computer until the next day.” (26%)

Work on a different writing project: “Jump from the work on which I’m currently engaged to another.” (13%)

Keep writing: “Force myself to write to a certain page number” (12%)

Revise or reread current work or skip ahead to work on a later section: “Reread notes or drafts” (10%)

Read a book or watch a movie: “I read the work of authors I admire to become inspired.” (10%)

Take a walk: “I go for a walk” (6%)

Discuss ideas with others: “Ask for advice. See what other people think. While you usually won’t use what they suggest their ideas can kickstart you brain.” (8%)

Change writing location or writing method: “Switch up locations or methods of writing – write using a pen, a typewriter, etc.” (6%)

Exercise: “Exercise/movement” (3%)

Research: “Researching relevant or related topics” (3%)

Eat or drink something: “Drinking coffee or snacking” (2%)

Meditate/do yoga: “Meditate for five minutes” (1%)

Number 2 is responsible for pretty much the entirety of my In-Progress list as well as for the Tales from the Salvatore Kitchen series. I’ve also done a lot of #4 (especially on After Ten Long Years, which currently consists of 5 distinct sections, but I also successfully employed the reread/revise strategy on the final part of the Josie Saltzman’s Final Holidays trilogy), some #6—which is really a specific subset of #9 I think—(often working in the yard/garden or mowing the lawn instead of walking per se), sometimes #7 (looking at you, friends 😀)…and #10 is a good procrastinator 😂

One thing I don’t see mentioned, and the source of all my best ideas (as I’ve mentioned before) is take a shower; the article I linked to in that post explains why that works.

(Sadly, none of these suggestions are relevant for my current case of writer’s “block,” which is entirely a lack of time. Maybe I should stop visiting tumblr 😂)

[firewalkwithmme]

☾𖤓 — 19 October 2024

˚˖𓍢ִ໋🦢˚ — Today’s accomplishments:

did 1.5 hours research for a film paper analysing Meshes of the Afternoon (1943)

practiced russian and dutch for 20 min

I am working on becoming a better student as I return to university tomorrow from my fall break. I often struggle with getting work done and today was one of those days, but my new method is remembering something is better than nothing. Whatever I get done today is one more thing I’ve completed. It’s the little things! Tomorrow I will study for my economics exam and do some more work on my film paper

[literally-in-too-many-fandoms]

Wreck When I'm Without You

Fire Emblem: Three Houses Fanfic

characters: Linhardt von Hevring, Caspar von Bergliez, Ashe Ubert

Alternate Universe - College/University, Fluff and Angst, Established Caspar/Linhardt Relationship, Polyamory

. The new year at Garreg Mach University brings a series of crises to the happy relationship of Linhardt von Hevring and Caspar Bergliez, and to Caspar's new lacrosse teammate, Ashe Ubert.

Between unexpectedly attractive teammates, getting cut off from family, and navigating new social situations, these three are going to navigate an eventful year. And as we all know, the best solution to any problem is to panic and avoid communicating your needs to the partners and friends who explicitly offer to care for you.

They'll figure it out, probably.

Chapter 1: all my emotions feel like explosions when you're around

Sophomore year of medical school was honestly two years further than Linhardt expected to ever get.  So even though that was when this tiny piece of perfection he’d carved out for himself began to crumble, Linhardt was merely grateful for the time he had had.

Okay, that was a lie. 

He was full-on panicking.

First, there was a series of emails from the university and his bank. 

[Tuition payment method has been changed] [Please confirm your billing method] [Your Upcoming Tuition Payment] [New Billing Statement Available] [PLEASE READ: Tuition payment options]

Second, there was the error message he got when he tried to message his father. 

The text chain was old: scattered check-ups with one-word responses, a message on the holidays and birthdays.  The last text was dated three months prior, when his father had asked him to come home for a distant relative’s funeral.  Linhardt had begged off with an excuse about a term paper.  His father had responded that of course, he should prioritize his studies, as long as his civic engineering minor wouldn’t impede his business major.  Now, his newest message bounced.  A physical representation of how it always felt to communicate with his father.

Third, Caspar was shouting (this was not unusual) that they were out of milk again (this was also not unusual) and asking Linhardt to order some from the store pretty please (this was also also not unusual). 

What was unusual was that as Caspar stumbled into the room, pulling his jacket on one shoulder, a piece of toast hanging out of his mouth, he stopped before he approached Linhardt’s bed.  Usually, Caspar did not hesitate before bodily scooping him out of his blanket cocoon, ignoring Linhardt’s protestations.  This was their deal.  Caspar would wake him up before practice or games on Saturdays, because otherwise Linhardt was liable to sleep through the whole day without seeing his boyfriend, given that Caspar had work in the evening.  Linhardt would not protest too much because this was what he wanted from university.  Good research, and the chance to be with Caspar.

What hurt most about it, was Linhardt had been excited about today.  His next research project for school was interesting.  New data from Lysithea, who was the bright star up and coming in the biomed department, with her statistics background.  Professor Hanneman had suggested some promising studies on the degenerative disease which linked to certain “crest” genes.  He’d been up late studying and was looking forward to waking up in order to read more.

But then he’d glanced at the cascade of emails.  His father’s radio silence.  And now Caspar was hesitating, eyes caught on his.  Caspar was, for all his faults, unerringly honest.  Linhardt had never known him to hesitate.

There was a honk from outside. 

“von Bergliez!  Do not make me tell our lovely team captain that you made us late again!”

And then Caspar blinked, and the hesitation was gone; he swooped over, one arm under Linhardt’s knees while the other tucked the blanket around his shoulders and lifted him up and close to Caspar’s chest.  He started talking around the piece of toast in his mouth.  It was spraying crumbs across Linhardt’s favorite blanket, and it was somehow still endearing.  “—‘n can you help me wi’ the one reading assignment for Prof Eisner, I know I can read, but in their class I feel like I can’t—”

It was almost lucky that Caspar didn’t give him even a breath to respond, because Linhardt couldn’t formulate words.  There was no space in his brain between the sudden onslaught of nerves that those emails had inflicted.  One thought screamed he needed to tell Caspar right now because rent was due soon and Linhardt didn’t have a job or steady income if his father had cut him off.  Another thought choked it, that Caspar could never know because Caspar was putting himself through college on a partial lacrosse scholarship and part-time job for Linhardt.  Caspar was at Garreg Mach because of Linhardt and if Linhardt failed at this, all his work would be for nothing.

There was a breath of quiet weightlessness in Caspar’s arms before he deposited him on Linhardt’s favorite study spot, the corner of the couch with the good pillow behind his back.  There was already a cup of tea on the coffee table.  Caspar swallowed the last of the toast and pressed a kiss to his forehead.  “—Thanks again Lin!  Text you after the game, I’ll try not to need stitches again this time!”

And then Caspar was gone, the whirlwind out the door, accidentally scraping the doorframe for the nth time with his lacrosse stick on the way out.

Linhardt was stuck in the aftermath.  The house was silent.  There was birdsong outside, the robins startling to trickle back after the winter.  Ferdinand’s and Caspar’s yelling from the car before it drove away, blasting what had to be Dorothea’s music from the speakers.  But the house held that kind of quiet after a storm had blown through.  Usually Caspar was the only storm that inhabited.  This time, the winds howled inside Linhardt’s head.

He took a deep breath.  Deep breaths were conducive to clear thinking.  Linhardt had learned breathing exercises early.  They got him through high school, through panic attacks, through the worst possible dinner parties that his dad’s company hosted.  The winds quieted.  They still swirled, thoughts like detritus cast back and forth across his head, each important and incomprehensible.

The first one to parse was not the clear-cut, easy to understand bank statements. 

No, the first thing that his mind wrapped itself around was the quiet knife through his ribcage that his father had blocked his number, and cut him out entirely.  It was not surprising.  Waldemar was a proud executive of his own company, from a long line of graduates from Garreg Mach’s school of business.  He had one plan for Linhardt, one that allowed no deviances.  Waldemar had thrived under the same plan; Linhardt had long since stopped trying to convince his father that the same path would only choke him.  There was a sense of loss there, but it was muted.  He’d resigned himself to this outcome when he’d committed to trying med school out for the hope of his own future.  He’d thought, in some abstract way, that his father would at least have the dignity to text him first.  Call.  Ask for an explanation.  Not just slam the door and leave Linhardt virtually penniless on the other side.

The second to make its way to manageable in his head was the university emails.  They were easy to follow.  Fake-sympathetic language about his payment being declined.  About the grace period while he arranged for the next payment.  The number of zeroes on the tuition payment stacked up like stones in his throat.  They far outnumbered his current bank statement.

This spawned quieter questions in the back of his head.  How fast could he get a job, could he juggle the major and minor and honors and a job, how much was this going to impact his sleep schedule?  If he couldn’t make it through university, would he be stuck at a dead-end job til he died of a disease he should’ve been treating as a doctor?

Eventually, Linhardt extracted one arm out of his blanket cocoon and reached over with slow hands to the mug of tea which Caspar had left for him. 

It was in Linhardt’s favorite mug, with a cartoonish fish that said “Women want me, fish fear me”, except Caspar had taken a sharpie to it and crossed out “women” and wrote his own name.  The tea had long since gone tepid.

There was a tight grip of cold fingers wrapped around his stomach, but Linhardt quietly diagnosed it as psychosomatic and likely the aftermath of not having any solid food in almost 24 hours and then extreme emotional stress.  He took a sip of lukewarm tea that had steeped too long, but it was soothing on his throat.

The one tumbleweed left bouncing between his ears was Caspar’s hesitation this morning.  Was he nervous about the first game of the new semester?  No, that wasn’t like him.  And no assignment had ever stumbled Caspar truly, for all that he struggled in any subject that wasn’t his practical classes for sports medicine.

No answer rose to him, no matter how long he tossed it back and forth. 

And Linhardt had always understood Caspar, had been close enough to him in their childhoods to see him in every mood, and had long since discovered that Caspar’s relentless optimism and drive ignited something in Linhardt himself.  They’d been together since junior year of high school, when Caspar burst into his room and said a very long string of words which amounted to him having a conversation with Dorothea and she had told him that boys could have boyfriends too, and Caspar had run directly to Linhardt’s house to ask him to date him.

And that was the thought that haunted him, even as Linhardt put away his med books and started planning to save his future from collapsing around his ears.  The thought that there was something about Caspar he didn’t know or understand.

////////////////////////////

Caspar was having a crisis.  This was pretty new to him, all things considered, since the last problem he couldn’t solve by yelling or fighting was also the one he’d worn the longest, and to this day he didn’t know how to shake off his father’s dismissal.  He’d yelled his way through a sexuality crisis in high school, through finding a part time job, through 5am lacrosse practices, just to name a few.  Crises he couldn’t solve by yelling were not usual.

The current crisis was just a few inches taller than him, had silver hair, and had managed to win Edelgard’s respect within the first half-hour of the new season of lacrosse with his pinpoint accuracy. 

Now, falling for the new guy on the lacrosse team was maybe not as big of a crisis as it once might have been.  It wouldn’t have been a problem at all, were it not for the sleepy pile of blankets and green hair which Caspar had left at the house this morning.  See, Caspar and Linhardt had not much talked about their relationship; their friendship had morphed naturally into something more after the year in high school when Caspar realized it was possible to like guys.  They already knew each other so well that there was no need for discussion or boundary-setting.  Linhardt had kissed him once on the forehead, shocking Caspar into three minutes of stunned silence, and then it was smooth sailing for the rest of their partnership.  Moving in together at college hadn’t even been a conversation—especially since it was the only way Caspar could afford to not live on campus. 

So, it wasn’t so much that liking Ashe was a problem.  It was that he liked both Ashe AND Linhardt, and had no idea how to bring up the conversation with his boyfriend, without potentially breaking something he couldn’t live without.  Sometimes Caspar felt left behind by his boyfriend’s genius, or maybe just that he was running a different race entirely and had no real context for how far ahead of him Linhardt stood.  He knew Linhardt wouldn’t drop him, no matter that they were in different sports.  But sometimes when he saw the way Hubert and Ferdinand smirked in the same way when they won a match together, and he wondered if Linhardt would always be happy with him in a different arena. 

He and Linhardt worked because they’d never known life without each other.  Too much change, and Linhardt might realize there were other paths of less resistance. 

But Caspar had managed to get Ashe to smile before their match, and Caspar’s heart had raced. 

Ashe had dimples.  His quiet chuckle filled Caspar’s chest and then when it morphed into a full-blown laugh, Caspar felt the same warmth of pride as when he managed to get Linhardt to smile.  And their friendship felt almost as comfortable: they both babied the stray cat which haunted the gym and when Ashe admitted to feeding it in the mornings, Caspar had grinned and shown him the bag of cat food which he stored at the front desk for that express purpose.  Ashe tutored him in literature class.  Caspar had become Ashe’s unofficial tour guide around the school.

The additional problem was that Ashe’s calendar was formatted the same as Linhardt’s.  They color-coordinated their notes in similar patterns.  And Ashe laughed at the same jokes which made Linhardt chuckle.

There was some math in there that Caspar couldn’t figure out.  Him and Ashe were great friends, and Caspar couldn’t stop wanting more.  Ashe and Linhardt had never interacted and it was simultaneously Cas’s greatest hope and deepest nightmare that they would.

“Eagles,” Edelgard’s voice cut through Ashe’s laughter.  She was getting ready to give her pre-game speech.  Caspar’s heart was still racing.  Petra nudged him, and he knew his cheeks must be burning too—hopefully she’d think he was just hyped up for their first match of the season.  He always got a little too into it, as Hubert said.  “Form up!”

Ashe continued to grin as they walked over.  Caspar wanted to pin that smile to his jersey collar.

Edelgard was talking—something about “a strong start to the season means more than simple numbers on the scoreboard” or some such—and Ashe was listening intently.  Caspar, not so much.  Edelgard’s pre-game pep talks were not important, he’d come to realize.  He needed to listen to her during games and needed to pay attention if Hubert started looking like he was going to strangle Caspar with his own intestines (this was a separate look from his usual murder-face).  But right now, Hubert had his smug smirk as though he’d helped Edelgard write this pep talk.  Right now, Caspar could bounce back and forth on the balls of his feet to get out the constant energy thrumming in his veins (while glancing intermittently at Ashe’s focused expression, because he realized that Ashe’s freckles were brighter in the sunlight).

“—and I am proud to be an Eagle, on this, the start of our new season!”

The rest of them gave a pre-match battle cry, as across the field the opposing team did the same.  Caspar was a moment behind, but they moved as one out on to the field.  It was still too early in the year for the warm spring and the best field conditions, but it hadn’t rained in a few days and the chill was easily driven away by the weak sun and the way Caspar’s whole nervous system lit on fire when Ashe nudged him—and Caspar physically had to shake his head, shove the warmth away, because there was a hole in the pit of his stomach at the thought of Linhardt shutting the door in his face.

The opponents were some no-name team from a no-name college which Caspar only knew because Linhardt had laughed when he’d gotten their letters in senior year.  Linhardt had gotten a lot of those college letters in senior year.  If Caspar asked, he’d tell him about their programs or look up their lacrosse team.  He’d offer to call them on Caspar’s behalf.  To ask about their scholarships.  But Caspar only applied to Garreg Mach.  Their lacrosse program was not the best, nor did they offer the best scholarships.  But once he knew that was where Linhardt was going, that was the only option for him.  And he’d been happier the past two years than he could ever remember being before.

So Caspar shook his head again, only nodded in return to Ashe’s mildly nervous smile.  He readied his lacrosse stick and fell in behind Edelgard at the line.  If he couldn’t fight or yell his way out of this crisis, he would ignore it.  And one day he’d learn to bear it like he bore his father’s lack of interest.

That day was not today though, because Caspar kept getting so distracted by Ashe’s freckles that he managed to get clocked over the head when the opposing team checked him. 

They finished the match but Caspar’s vision was still swimming.  Petra was worriedly buzzing around him and Edelgard was muttering something disparaging, but the only thing Caspar could focus on was Ashe’s face.

“Caspar, are you okay?”

Cas grinned back, unable to contain it.  “We win?”

Petra sighed and Hubert said something that contained a lot of numbers and statistics but amounted to yes. 

“Then… ‘M doin’ great!”

“Guys, I think he might have a concussion,” Ashe said, and turned away to look at Edelgard, at Coach Jeritza.  Caspar frowned, and reached out for him again.  Ashe obediently grabbed his elbows again, kept him upright.  Caspar was delighted to find that he could support his weight.  Ashe was so strong!

“Yes, he is having a concussion again.” Petra said, and Caspar realized with horror he probably said that aloud.

“Take him back to his place, Linhardt will take care of him,” Edelgard said.

Somewhere in his mind, part of him balked at that.  Wasn’t that the thing that he was so preoccupied about this morning?  But right now, Ashe was warm, and Caspar could lean against him.  And if they were back at his place, Linhardt could help—Linhardt always helped.  Caspar wanted to know if he and Ashe took their tea the same way.

“—you don’t need tea, Caspar, you need a nurse,” Ashe was saying, but Ferdinand and Edelgard were talking over both of them, and before Caspar knew what else was going on, they had bundled him into Ferdinand’s car. 

////////////////////////////

The semester was going “great.”  It’s what he told Lonato on their weekly phone calls.  He liked his classes, and the profs were great.  The lacrosse team that he’d joined due to his little siblings’ gentle bullying was great.  The campus was great (though the food was only tolerable since he didn’t have his own kitchen and the dorm kitchen in terrible shape so he couldn’t cook anything) and he was making great friends.  These were not lies, technically.  Lonato always joked that he was losing his eloquence as a Lit major if everything was only “great.”

Ashe could amend those statements: His classes were interesting, and his profs were very supportive.  The lacrosse team was the perfect kind of insanity and only sometimes made him miss his old team.  The campus was something out of a fairy tale, all old stone and vines.  And he was making new friends, while ignoring the urge to make anything more than that with Caspar.  Those were also not lies.  And they gave a better impression that he was adjusting well to the sudden transfer to Garreg Mach halfway through his college career.

And he was!  Adjusting well.  Comparatively.

This particular Saturday morning was maybe the first time the whole semester that he’d thought about going back to Gaspard.  And it wasn’t that it was bad, per se.  Today had been good, a strong opening match to the season.  His teammates were wonderful, and Caspar had been in rare form: captivating in the way he moved, the way his erratic energy coalesced into an unstoppable force on the field.  Ashe was more than happy to have Caspar lean against him in the car, though he did not appreciate that Caspar had to be delirious with a probable concussion for it.

The problem was that they were going back to Caspar-and-Linhardt’s house. 

Ashe knew that Caspar was in a relationship.  It was hard not to: Caspar talked about Linhardt like he’d hung the moon.  The other lacrosse teammates spoke of Linhardt often, hung out at their shared house off-campus on the weekends after practice.  Ashe always begged off.  He enjoyed his friendship with Caspar, and tried very hard to remind himself constantly that it could never be more than that.  Anytime Caspar-and-Linhardt came up, Ashe tried to be respectful.  He didn’t know if he was afraid that Linhardt was secretly a terrible person who Ashe could then resent, or that Linhardt was secretly the best person ever.  Or maybe he was afraid that Linhardt would see through him and know he had a crush on his boyfriend and banish Caspar from talking to him ever again.  Whichever outcome, it would change the easy friendship he had with Caspar. 

But there he was, Caspar potentially injured beside him, bundled into the car as Ferdinand monologued, unconcerned, about some training plans he had discussed with Edelgard (which Edelgard was going to throw out the window, honestly).  He didn’t know how he’d got there.  Why hadn’t any of the other guys come with them?  Ashe didn’t want to take Caspar back to his house and meet his probably-perfect boyfriend and be immediately crushed that he’d be alone forever.  But Petra had plans afterwards with her partner, and Edelgard and Hubert were busy planning training regiments, and Caspar was already half-collapsed in Ashe’s arms.

To make everything worse, Ferdinand had hopped out long enough to open the door, and Ashe had started helping Caspar up the steps to Caspar-and-Linhardt’s house. 

It wasn’t until he had already knocked that he looked around to realize Ferdinand had gotten back into the car without him.  “Ferdinand?!”

Ferdie waved out the window.  “I am afraid I would be more harm than help in this case!  Linhardt has banished me from their place after last time, anyways.  Let me know when you need a pickup, and I will be over as swiftly as possible!”

“Ferdinand!” Ashe yelled, but the car was already pulling away.

He had just enough time to think longingly of the familiar streets of Gaspard, and his old friends who would never abandon him at a random house.

Then the door opened, and Ashe looked up to see a green-haired man in comfortable, cozy attire, with a disinterested eyebrow raised in question.

Ashe was not ashamed to admit it, but the second he laid eyes on Linhardt, he knew Caspar’s boyfriend was out of his league.  He had the perpetually tired look of all the other overachieving students Ashe knew, but there was the quality of his sweatshirt (nicer than all the ones Caspar wore), the three stacks of old Starbucks cups on the counter, the unimpressed way Linhardt glanced at the mud Ashe would be tracking into his home.  He looked like the kids that Christophe always complained—always used to complain about when he was dragged to Lonato’s fancy dinners.  He was pretty in the way that came with good genes and a good skincare routine.  He probably fit in well among Edelgard with her name-brand cleats, Ferdinand and his outdoorsman club membership.  Ashe was tired of meeting people at this school who could buy new textbooks instead of scrounging through Chegg for used copies or borrowing from a friend of a friend.

Then he shook his head, and tried to squash the instinctive vitriol in his heart.  After all, since Lonato had adopted him and his siblings, Ashe was one of them.  One among the echelon who could afford a big-name school.  And while Lonato only paid the (unfortunately large) portion of his tuition that wasn’t covered by student loans or Ashe’s job, Ashe was still doing better than most.  Better than he’d ever dreamed of.  And even his major—there was a quiet voice in his chest that told him constantly that he should be getting a “real” degree, that he was going to graduate and fall flat on his face in a world that didn’t pay you to read books.  Ashe was in no position to judge anyone for their socioeconomic status.

And then he realized he was still standing, dripping mud and possibly blood onto Caspar-and-Linhardt’s doormat, and Caspar was still mumbling deliriously about the game.

“Uh, I really don’t mean to intrude—” Ashe said, hating every second of this day that had led up to him being abandoned on this random doorstep. 

Technically, he didn’t even know that this actually was Caspar-and-Linhardt’s place.  Were the Eagles the type to haze?  Because this felt like it might be a hazing situation.  He didn’t think that Edelgard was the type, but then again she did get a really intense look in her eye when she talked about lacrosse that was only matched by her fervor in her poli-sci classes. 

“—Um, are you—is this Caspar’s house?  They said to bring him here but I tried to tell them he needed to see a nurse—”

Caspar stirred in his arms.  He shook his head, grinned in that all-consuming way that Ashe couldn’t help but enjoy looking at, and said the clearest sentence in the past hour: “No hospital, Lin’s got me!”

Ashe looked back at the green-haired man, who was still staring back with an unreadable expression.

“—And I don’t even know if you’re Linhardt,” Ashe said. 

“…Unfortunately, you’re at the right place,” Linhardt said, and finally uncrossed his arms.  His voice was languid, tone seemingly disinterested.  “And yes, that one is my problem to deal with, though I have considered dropping him at the ER if he gets concussed again.”

“Nooo, Lin,” Caspar moaned, still leaning half of his weight on Ashe’s chest, blue eyes unable to keep focus on where Linhardt stood but clearly trying.  “Pl’s no more.  It’s… so boring in there.  But, but I’ll stay in m’ room.”

Linhardt rolled his eyes, but then stepped closer, and the first real expression crossed his face.  His dark gray eyes softened to something kind, and some endearment eased the worry line between his eyebrows.  “No, I’m not going to banish you to your room,” Linhardt said, only to shudder and draw back when he saw the streak of red down his boyfriend’s face.  “Urgh, but I’m not dealing with your blood on the couch again.”

Linhardt turned his eyes to Ashe’s, and he unconsciously straightened up.  It wasn’t the stare of someone looking down their nose at him.  If anything, it bordered on introspective, some analysis taking place that Ashe couldn’t comprehend. 

Whatever Linhardt saw in him, it must have sufficed, because he turned and gestured to the kitchen, sighing.  “Well, if you’re nice enough to help Cas through the door instead of dropping him at the doorstep like Hubert is wont to do, you’ll probably be willing to help me clean him up.  I’ll even give you our wifi password for it, if you’ll just get some paper towels and stop that head wound from bleeding.  Cas would probably buy you a coffee but I don’t feel like pay—waiting, for DoorDash right now.”

“I—” Ashe stuttered, stumbled in. 

He couldn’t help but look around in amazement at the living room; there were more medical textbooks in the shelves than in the library, a collection of novelty mugs decorated in between the stacks, and more pillows and blankets than seemed reasonable for any two people to own.  It was the coziest reading room he’d ever seen, and Ashe shoved down the instinctive desire to ask if he could come back here to read sometime.  There was even a bay window with a couch cushion on it!  Ashe was definitely going to have to bribe Caspar into letting him do some homework here.  “—Yes, I can help, but I’m not—I’m just a Lit major, I don’t know the first thing about medicine.”

Linhardt was already walking to the kitchen.  At some point he’d swiped the two bags of lacrosse gear that Ashe had been holding and lugged them over with difficulty to be dropped unceremoniously at the fireplace. 

“That didn’t stop this idiot from trying to give himself stitches the first time he got injured in a game, so I’m sure you’ll be fine,” Linhardt said.

Ashe looked down in horror at Caspar’s face.  For all that he was still visibly drooping, Cas gave him a loopy grin.  Ashe refused to acknowledge that his heart sped up at the expression.

“He did what?”

Ashe didn’t know Linhardt well enough yet to say, but he thought that the way his voice lightened, even as it kept a dry edge, might have been closer to affection.  “Oh yes.  Thankfully I found him before he used an actual sewing thread to close something that only needed a butterfly bandage, but ever since then, I insist he comes here for treatment.  He’d duck out of it if they took him to the nurse.  At least he listens to me, once in a while, or if all else fails I can sit in his lap to make him stop running around the house.”

The kitchen was slightly a mess, but Ashe was struck with jealousy.  An actual kitchen!  Ashe missed having a gas stove… and pots and pans.  There was a crockpot—dirty, caked with day-old food—but it was the brand that Ashe had always drooled over in the supply store.  The kitchen was a narrow thing, but there was lots of counterspace, and there was a clear line of sight back into the cozy living area, and then out into their medium-sized backyard.  There was an old lacrosse goal against the fence.  Ashe imagined Caspar trained out here.

Ashe had to close his eyes against the wave of longing.  He wanted to cook.  There was a certain piece of belonging that came only when you made something and brought it to a table for others to enjoy.  It didn’t need to be spoken; Ashe didn’t need someone to tell him he was good at cooking.  He just wanted people who dug into a meal and gathered strength and joy from shared laughter and shared food.

For a second, as Linhardt led them over next to the sink and pulled out a rather large first-aid kit from some cabinet, Ashe let the cozy-ness of the house pervade him.  The place was eminently lived-in, dirty dishes scattered around and post-it reminders stuck on every conceivable surface, novelty salt & pepper shakers on the table. 

And as he supported Caspar over to lean against the counter, Cas smiled at him—eyes still closed, trusting Ashe wouldn’t lead him wrong.  And he couldn’t help but smile at Linhardt in turn, who handed him some paper towels and gauze, gesturing wordlessly at Cas and digging through the first aid kit with his other hand—scarcely needing to glance or instruct, as though this was a normal routine.

Ashe obediently pressed the wet paper towel which Linhardt handed him against Caspar’s forehead.  The cut was small, and Cas barely winced, but Linhardt at least looked relieved when the blood was cleaned away.  Ashe was almost sad when the blood was cleared off and he had to remove his hand from Caspar’s cheek.

“Thanksss, love,” Cas mumbled, eyes still closed.

“Uh,” Ashe responded, eloquently.

Caspar’s eyes flew open—an actual cognizant expression on his face for the first time since the match.  “Ashe!  Hi!”

Now his boyfriend stepped over, seizing his forearm in a loose but firm grip.  “Yes, you managed to drag another of your lacrosse friends over because of an injury in that stupid game.  You know you can just invite them here, right?”

Caspar’s ice blue eyes flicked between the two of them.  “Uh, haha yeah, no, I know, I didn’t, I—Lin, I promise I tried not to get hurt again this time!”

Linhardt took Cas by the chin, tilted his head back and forth while flashing a penlight in his eyes.  Presumably to check for a concussion.  That sounded like something Ashe had read in a book somewhere.  There was a flash of concern in his gut—maybe they did need to take Caspar to a nurse, because Linhardt was probably great, but he was a med student, not a nursing major, did he really know how to treat a potential concussion?  But then Caspar’s expression cleared, and he grinned, something wide and instinctive.  Ashe’s heart clenched.  It was the lovestruck look that the best writers liked to describe with flowery language, the one lovers gave each other at emotional moments of their journey. 

Ashe was painfully aware he was intruding on something.  The comfortable spot he’d imagined himself in moments previous scattered before him: Caspar and Linhardt were together.  They were happy.  Yet another landscape at this college with all its components already snug in their spots; no jagged edges or missing pieces.  Ashe had been hoping he’d find open spaces he could fit himself into, now that he couldn’t stand the gaping hole in his home back in Gaspard.  But almost everyone else in this school was already in a rhythm, in a clique, schedules unaccommodating of a new commitment.

He needed to leave, now.

“Uh, Linhardt, can I—Can I help with anything else?  I, I should get back to the dorm and work on some homework.  But, I can still help, if you need anything else, or can I get anything else for Caspar?”

The two of them turned to look at him.  Linhardt was still appraising, and his face was back to its apparent trademark blank look.  Caspar’s face tightened and then a grin possessed him again—it was a different one than how he looked at Linhardt.  It was still bright, affectionate.  Ashe had never thought he’d get along well with someone of Caspar’s somewhat abrasive personality, but the honesty in his gaze was something refreshing.  He was lucky to count Caspar as a friend.  He couldn’t hope for anything more than that.

“Wait, Ashe—” Caspar reached out for him.

Linhardt turned to look at Caspar.  They had a conversation in raised eyebrows and then Linhardt sighed.  “I can’t just throw you back out after you brought him here, now can I?  I’ll get you the wifi password and you can have some of our nice tea.  Maybe if you hang out for a little while, I can keep Caspar contained with less effort on my part.”

“Help me with my Lit reading?”  Caspar asked, and the hope in his eyes crumbled the last of Ashe’s defenses.

“You,” Linhardt said, poking Caspar in the chest, “Need to lay down.  No screens.  I don’t think you’ve got a concussion but I’m going to keep checking for the next day.”

“I… I can stay and help, but I don’t want to be in the way,” Ashe said, and the two of them shook their heads—Caspar wincing with the movement. 

Linhardt patted Caspar on the shoulder and pushed him gently back out into the reading room.  Ashe instinctively moved to support his shoulder when Caspar stumbled for a second for balance.

“Let’s get him settled on the couch and I will get tea started,” Linhardt said.  “If you want to take a shower, we probably have enough hot water for that.”

Ashe thought for a second about staying in his sweaty jersey, how it would crust up and he would feel filmy and disgusting for hours, and then thought again about using Caspar-and-Linhardt’s shower and flushed.  “I should be okay,” he said.  “Could you point me in the direction of the bathroom though?  I should just change real quick.”  Even that had his cheeks flaming.  He really had watched too many rom-coms if all his brain could think about was getting caught with just a towel around his waist by his crush, or by his crush’s attractive, aloof boyfriend.

...

CHECK OUT THE NEXT CHAPTERS ON Ao3! see reblog for link!

[laxmiree]

[CN] MLQC Lucien's Through Thousands of Mirrors event translation (Day 1 -Thursday)

⚠️ SPOILER ALERT ⚠️

This post contains a HEAVY SPOILER for the event that has not been released in EN yet! Feel free to notify me if there are any mistakes in the translation~

Through Thousands of Mirrors Event | Day 1 (You're here!) | Day 2 | Day 3 | Day 4 | Day 5 | Day 6 | Day 7 | HS/Uni SSR Story: Monochrome Scenery

-

[Tidbits: I don't wanna break the flow so I'll put some information here first 😂. Dr. Lawson is Lucien's post-grad professor. Before, he also appears in UR MQ Distant Similarity. During his post-grad he has three seniors Colt, Elliot, and Caroline.]

-

[Math]

Seeing the particularly puzzled expression on the classmate next to him, Lucien starts to consider whether he should offer some assistance within his capabilities.

For instance, he thinks about telling the classmate that the topic currently being discussed on the blackboard is not from the same chapter as the one in the textbook he's currently reading.

-

[MATH/BIOCHEMISTRY]

After the vending machine devours Lucien's one dollar and twenty-five cents for the third time, and with only three minutes left to get to his next class, he begins to seriously contemplate whether he should try some mysterious repair method—like giving it a good smack or a swift kick.

-

[BIOCHEMISTRY]

Lucien coincidentally runs into Colt by the sports field, just as Colt is about to attend a cricket practice session.

Upon realizing that his senior from the lab is not only managing coursework and a significant project workload but also juggling a 20-hour weekly part-time job and daily school cricket team training, Lucien begins to contemplate whether there is any room for further optimization in his own schedule.

-

[PREVIEW/COMPUTER SCIENCE]

During the brief half-hour period, Lucien typically uses the time to prepare for the upcoming class or visit the library to research and gather information.

In any case, that time should not be spent on arguing and explaining to people, like the enthusiastic campus volunteer in front of him.

"No, thank you. I'm not a high school student attending a summer camp. This is my student ID, and I'm indeed a student here, a graduate student. Yes, I'm not lost, and I need to get to my class. Can you please let me go?"

-

[COMPUTER SCIENCE]

Lucien presses the enter key, intending to ask the teacher if he can leave early once his coursework is done. However, the error message on the screen deters him from that thought. So, he sits back down and begins to examine it again.

But that's okay, he does understand the commonality between computer science and experimental research: it's often hard to know right away if the thing at hand will work, why it's not working, or even why it's even working.

-

[LAB]

Come on, come on, come on. After moving this box, there's another.

And after moving that box, there are three more to go.

The prospects for the future and the shine in one's eyes are often taken away by the God of research in such necessary yet mechanical repetitive work.

-

[LAB]

Lucien goes out to get some water and returns to find a school burger on his desk.

Colt, with dark circles under his eyes, waves at Lucien and saying, "No need to thank me, newcomer. Have some food, we might be staying here today."

Lucien quietly eats the burger, hesitant to tell Colt that he has spent more time in the laboratory than in the dorm.

-

[LAB]

When Dr. Lawson enters the laboratory, what he sees is a scene where his graduate and doctoral students are sleeping and sprawled all over the place.

On the laboratory whiteboard, several words were written in large letters: "Publish immediately! Guaranteed to be published in Nature!!"

Dr. Lawson retrieves small blankets from the cabinet, covering each of these research madmen.

He proceeds to organize the data and take over the finishing work on the project. Of course, when it comes to authorship in the paper, not a single one of these kids' names can be left out.

[mariacallous]

Vasectomies are on the rise, but not all men are ready to commit to a permanent form of birth control. While the surgery can sometimes be reversed, it's expensive and doesn’t always work. What if there was another option?

Virginia-based biotech company Contraline is testing a new type of male contraceptive akin to a vasectomy but made to be fully reversible. Today, the company announced that surgeons in Australia have safely performed the procedure on 23 men in an early-stage trial.

The approach uses a soft, water-based substance called a hydrogel that’s injected into the vas deferens—the pair of tubes in the male reproductive tract that transport mature sperm. Within 30 days of being inserted, the gel led to a more than 99 percent reduction in the number of moving sperm, according to the company. No serious side effects have been reported.

Kevin Eisenfrats, cofounder and CEO of Contraline, says it’s like an IUD for men. “Right now, there is nothing out there that’s long-lasting and reversible for men,” he says. “This is made for people who are not ready to have kids, are spacing out having kids, or think they are done having kids but maybe not ready for that permanent option.”

In a vasectomy, the vas deferens are cut and sealed so that sperm can’t travel from the testicles to the urethra, the tube inside the penis.

Contraline’s method involves making a small piercing in the scrotum and using a handheld injector to push the hydrogel through a catheter that’s connected to the vas deferens. The catheter is then taken out, and the puncture heals on its own.

Once injected, the hydrogel is meant to block sperm from getting into semen. Eisenfrats likens the gel to a coffee filter, where sperm are the coffee grounds. Sperm can’t get through the filter, but semen, a liquid, can still pass through.

Men in the trial ranged from age 25 to 65 and were placed into two groups that received different amounts of hydrogel: a lower volume and a higher one. Implanting the gel took about 20 minutes and was done under local anesthesia, unless someone chose to be sedated instead.

Eisenfrats says sperm concentration and movement in the men are comparable to levels seen with a vasectomy. “We’re seeing that this is working.”

The purpose of the current trial is to assess the gel’s safety and longevity, not how well it prevents pregnancy. Participants were asked to use a back-up form of birth control while being enrolled in the trial.

The gel is designed to dissolve at the end of its lifetime, so the men will be followed for two years to determine how long it takes for that to happen. Eisenfrats says the goal is to have a product that lasts one to two years.

But men might want to restore their fertility before that time frame, so Contraline wants to show that it can safely reverse the procedure. The company has tested the reversibility of the gel in dogs, showing that sperm counts and sperm quality rebounded after removing the gel. It plans to launch a second trial this year to test the on-demand reversibility in people. Only men who said they do not want to have children were included in the initial trial.

While the study is small, Heather Vahdat, executive director of the Male Contraceptive Initiative, a nonprofit based in North Carolina, is encouraged by the safety profile so far. Her organization funds research into nonhormonal male birth control and has contributed funding to Contraline. “Reversibility seems very feasible,” she says.

The nonprofit Parsemus Foundation has been researching a similar gel, called Vasalgel, for several years, but has faced delays getting it to human trials. The San Francisco-based health organization partnered with a biotech company, NEXT Life Sciences, in 2022 to further develop Vasalgel. In a 2017 paper, researchers with the foundation showed that Vasalgel could be flushed out in rabbits with an injection of baking soda. Sperm flow returned in the animals after reversal.

“These are not complex components in these polymers. They’re pretty well characterized, and we know how they behave,” Vahdat says.

But any medical procedure could cause side effects or complications. Raevti Bole, a urologist specializing in men’s health at the Cleveland Clinic who’s not involved in the trial, says an injection into the vas deferens could come with a risk of skin infection, mild discomfort, or minor bruising, she says.

And there are still unknowns about the gel itself. While hydrogels are biocompatible and generally safe, Bole says she would want to know if Contraline’s product could cause permanent scarring or changes to the vas deferens and whether repeat injections could be done safely.

One practical consideration is how doctors will monitor patients to make sure that the gel is still working. “Even if the risk of pregnancy is low, I would want to know the risk to counsel my patients and allow them to compare their options,” Bole says.

Contraline’s gel is still years from becoming commercially available. The company will need to conduct trials of hundreds of men and their female partners to test its efficacy in preventing pregnancy. Eisenfrats says the company aims to launch a larger trial in the US in the next few years.

Meanwhile, there are other forms of male birth control in the pipeline. The US National Institutes of Health and the Population Council, an international nonprofit focused on health and social sciences, are testing a hormone-based gel that men apply daily to their shoulders to block sperm production. And in December, a small trial launched in the UK to test a hormone-free contraceptive pill developed by YourChoice Therapeutics. It prevents sperm production by blocking access to vitamin A.

YourChoice and Contraline are avoiding hormones because they tend to produce unpleasant side effects. A previous trial of an injectable hormonal contraceptive for men was stopped early when a safety monitoring board found a high number of adverse events, including acne, mood disorders, increased sexual drive, and muscle pain. The rate of side effects was high compared to what women typically experience while on hormonal birth control.

There’s evidence that men are interested in trying new types of contraception. In a US survey conducted in 2017, the Male Contraceptive Initiative found that 85 percent of the 1,500 male respondents aged 18 to 44 were interested in preventing their partner from getting pregnant.

“Men want to step up. They’re realizing that their partners have all these effects from birth control,” Eisenfrats says. “They need more options to take charge of their reproduction.”

[trans-axolotl]

medical vent and such

doctor is testing for a new specific diagnosis and i am. having so many complicated feelings about this diagnosis partially because everything i research about it is so fucking ableist. have been reading lots of research papers + such about it the past couple days and so many of the researchers and doctors say such rude + cruel things to describe their patients--discounting the very real inconveniences and pain that this diagnosis causes people and accusing all of their patients of faking. i fully understand the concept of a biopsychosocial model for disease and can absolutely accept the idea that existing experiences of psych distress can contribute to causing disease + exacerbate existing vulnerabilities, but a lot of the literature just treats this as entirely "psychogenic" instead of actually developing a complex biopsychosocial model. or at least acknowledging that there is not an understanding of the biological risk factors. or the way that this diagnosis is positioned as uniquely contributed to by psych factors--so many different conditions and variations are known that stress exacerbates existing physical vulnerabilities. so many of the research papers written about this are just plain bad science--attributing causation without even finding statistically significant results, relying solely on cross sectional study data, and a lot of missing parts before you could actually prove causation.

and it's like. the idea that my madness could interact with my underlying chronic illnesses and cause another Set of Issues is something that feels believable to me, and i'm willing to try some of the treatment methods they suggest (Not CBT but some of the other stuff). i don't want to downplay or refuse to associate with my madness-- but it is so enraging to me to see this widespread saneism and ableism and dismissal of real experiences in a throwaway diagnosis seemingly used as an excuse to discard "problem" patients.

so far my neurologist has been really good and taken me seriously, it's just....frustrating to know the ways this diagnosis is treated and the way that there aren't really any good treatment options for it. idk. i'm tired of the medical system so much today

[2024-grimoire-challenge]

November Week 4 - Turning Magic Back

This week is all about magical defense as well as magical offense. Reflecting, negating, nullifying, diluting, whatever words and methods you’d like to refer to, in order to take magic or energy sent toward you and defeat it or send it back. Let’s dive in.

Monday - Breaking Curses

Research/ new page - we looked at what curses were before and you probably found some info on how to break them. But now we’re going to focus on that topic. What are some methods to break curses on you or others? What items/ tools are required to break curses? What kinds of energies and strengths and weaknesses are involved in breaking curses? Look at history, are there any historical instances of breaking curses? Generational or otherwise? Learn as much as possible!

Research/ New Page - Gem study - pick another gem from your list and learn everything you can about it! Where it comes from? It’s history, it’s chemical makeup, how it is mined, what it is used for, any myths or legends surrounding it! Everything!

Tuesday - Reversing Spells

Research/ New Page - how does one reverse a spell they have cast? How does one reverse a spell cast by another? What are the methods and tools to do so? When and where can you do so? Why do you reverse spells that either you have cast or someone else has? Look as deep into this as you can!

Research/ New Page - herbal study - pick another herb from your list and learn everything you can about it! Magical, mundane, medicinal, culinary and practical uses and associations! History and chemical makeup! Everything!

Wednesday - Breaking / Undoing Spells

Research/ New Page - sometimes reversing isn’t necessary. Sometimes we have to break it, or undo it. How does one do this? What tools and methods are there for doing so? When where and why does one do this as opposed to reversing one? And what is the difference (if there is one, in your opinion and point of view). Learn as much as you can!

Practical/ Journal - if there is a piece of magic or spell you’ve done in the past that you feel is still working, but it doesn’t need to be, why not try undoing it? Work out the process and tools in your lab notebook, down to the details of the day, then journal the experience so you can look back and reflect on your method and your feelings surrounding this prompt!

Thursday - Hot Takes

Ask any three witches the same question and get four different answers. What are some witchy hot takes you’re aware of? (There are plenty here on tumblr, search the tag lol) are there some you weren’t aware of? Make a list of these hot takes, then on a separate sheet of paper or in your lab notebook or your journal, work through each one and flesh out your stance on the hot takes. It’s a practice in self knowledge and introspection that may help you better understand your craft and yourself!

Friday - Catch Up Day/ Rest Day

Utilize today to catch up on any prompts or workings or grumpier detailing you’d like to! Hydrate, eat, take your meds and rest!

Only one month left till the end of the challenge! I’ll be sharing some images of my (once again) redone grimoire. The fancy one id been working on for the past five years got lost then damaged in my recent move. So I’ve had the fun of working through a lot of these prompts with you all! Thank you again for your support for this page!

-Mod Hazel