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baigepueckers · 5 months ago

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Nika Mühl X Reader

Beyond the Game

The arena surrounds you like a heavy blanket. It’s a sound you’re used to a mix of cheers, whistles, and the squeak of sneakers on the court. But tonight it feels different. Heavier. More personal…maybe it’s because you’re facing the Seattle Storm and more specifically, her.

Nika.

You spot her as soon as you walk onto the court for warm ups. She’s sitting on the Storm bench, her brown hair pulled into a sharp ponytail her posture upright and alert. Her warmup jacket is loose over her shoulders, but you can still make out the slight bounce of her knee a telltale sign she’s nervous. It’s one of the little things you’ve picked up about her over the years, first as teammates and later as something more.

Your heart clenches and you force yourself to look away. You can’t afford distractions tonight.

The two of you met back at UConn, thrown together in the intensity of one of the best women’s basketball programs in the country. It didn’t take long for you to click. Nika’s fiery energy balanced out your quieter focus and her teasing always managed to get you out of your head when the pressure felt like too much. Over time, the late night study sessions and post practice hangouts turned into something deeper. You fell in love…deep and unshakable.

But love didn’t keep you on the same team. The draft came and went, and now you’re a Las Vegas Ace while Nika is across the country in Seattle. Different jerseys. Different cities. Different teams.

You hadn’t anticipated how hard it would be to face her on the court.

The first quarter flies by in a blur. Seattle’s defense is relentless and your team is fighting for every point. You catch glimpses of Nika on the bench, her eyes fixed on the game but every so often, they dart toward you. She doesn’t smile when you glance her way. She doesn’t need to. The way her gaze softens, just for a moment tells you everything.

The second quarter is more physical. You’re battling for position, driving into the lane when you can trying to keep your team ahead. You catch a rebound off a missed shot and bolt toward the other end of the court, the sound of your shoes pounding against the hardwood echoing in your ears. Somewhere in the chaos, you hear her voice…sharp and commanding as she shouts instructions to her team.

It sends a shiver down your spine. You’ve heard that voice a hundred times in practices, but this is different. Now, she’s an opponent.

By the third quarter, exhaustion is creeping in. The game is tight and the tension on the court is heavy. Every possession feels like a battle.. your body aches, but you push through. You always do. You’ve learned that from her…Nika, with her relentless fire.

The fourth quarter is where everything unravels.

You’re running hard, cutting toward the basket…when it happens. A Seattle forward steps into your path setting a blindside screen. You don’t see it coming. Her body collides with yours and the impact sends you flying backward. There’s no time to think, no time to react. The back of your head hits the court with a sickening thud.

Pain explodes behind your eyes, sharp and overwhelming. The world spins and the crowd’s roar becomes distant. You blink rapidly trying to clear the haze but all you can see are the harsh overhead lights and blurry shapes moving around you.

Through the haze, you hear your name.

“Y/N!”

It’s her. You know it’s her.

You manage to tilt your head just enough to see the Seattle bench. Nika is on her feet…her hands gripping the edge of her seat like she’s about to bolt onto the court. Her eyes are wide with panic, her mouth slightly open as if she’s holding back a scream.

She wants to run to you. You can see it in the way her body leans forward…as if the only thing stopping her is the weight of the game and the unspoken rules that keep her on her side of the court.

The trainers are beside you now asking questions you can barely process. “What’s your name? Can you hear me? How many fingers am I holding up?” Their voices are gentle but insistent. You try to answer but your attention keeps slipping back to her. To Nika, who hasn’t moved from her spot even though her entire body looks like it’s trembling with the effort to stay put.

You try to lift your hand a weak signal, something to let her know you’re okay…but it barely moves. She sees it anyway and her hands fly to her mouth, you can see the tears welling in her eyes.

You don’t know how much time passes before they help you to your feet. The crowd cheers as you’re led off the court…though the noise feels distant and strange. Your legs feel shaky and your head is pounding but you glance over your shoulder one more time.

Nika is still standing…still watching. Her hands are clasped in front of her chest now, like she’s holding herself together.

Back in the tunnel you’re taken to the trainer’s room for evaluation. Your head is spinning and the bright lights are making your eyes sting but all you can think about is her.

Your phone buzzes on the bench beside you. You reach for it, fumbling slightly as you try and unlock the screen…It’s a text from her.

Nika💗: Are you okay? Baby Please. Please tell me you’re okay. I can’t sit here anymore.

Your chest tightens and your eyes blur not from pain, but from the ache of knowing how much this is killing her. You type back with shaky hands.

You: I’ll be okay. Don’t worry. Play your game.

The response feels hollow but you know it’s what she needs to hear. You imagine her reading it…clutching her phone like it’s a lifeline.

The game finishes without you on the court. The trainers cleared you from anything serious…a mild concussion, bruises that will ache for days, but nothing crazy. The anxiety in your chest hasn’t eased…you know your girl. You know she’ll be looking for you the second she can.

You’re just outside the locker rooms, every passing second dragging. Your phone vibrates in your hand, and you glance down at the screen.

Nika💗: Where are you? Are you still with the trainers? I’m coming to find you.

You barely have time to respond before you hear hurried footsteps echoing down the hallway.

Nika rounds the corner, her hair damp from a rushed shower and her Storm warmup jacket thrown hastily on. Her eyes are scanning the hallway frantic, until they land on you. She stops for a split second, and then she’s running.

Before you can say a word, her arms are around you pulling you into a hug so tight it almost knocks the air out of your lungs. She buries her face into the curve of your neck, her breath warm and uneven against your skin.

“You scared the hell out of me, ljubav.” she whispers her voice full of emotion. “I thought…I didn’t know if you were okay. I couldn’t come to you. God, I hated it.”

Her words spill out in a rush like she’s been holding them in since the moment you hit the court. You wrap your arms around her pulling her even closer. The tension in her body is noticeable and her hands are clutching at your jersey.

“Baby,” you murmur, your own voice thick with emotion. “I’m okay. I promise, I’m okay.”

She pulls back just enough to cup your face in her hands, her thumbs brushing lightly over your cheeks. “You don’t look okay,” she says, her voice soft. “You’re pale, and your head God, your head…”

“Gee thanks babe” you tease her while covering her hands with your own. “The trainers cleared me. Nothing serious…just some bruises and a small concussion.”

Her jaw tightens and for a moment, she doesn’t say anything. Her hands drop to your shoulders, holding you at arm’s length as her gaze hardens. “Don’t you ever do that to me again Y/N, you hear me?”

You blink at her surprised by the sudden intensity in her tone. “Do what?”

“Scare me like that” she says, her voice sharp but cracking under the weight of her emotions. “I couldn’t move, baby. I couldn’t come to you when you were lying there and it was killing me.”

Her words hit you, the raw vulnerability in her voice. You reach for her hands, squeezing them tightly. “Nika, you didn’t do anything wrong. You were there in the way I needed you to be. I saw you. I felt you.”

She frowns and she shakes her head, a tear slipping down her cheek. “You’re not allowed to get hurt like that again” she mutters, her voice quieter now but no less serious. “I don’t care if we’re on opposite teams. I’ll get ejected if I have to. I’ll run across the court next time.”

You chuckle softly, the sound broken but genuine. “I’d expect nothing less from you.”

Her lips press into a thin line but you can see the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corners. “You think I’m kidding babe?”

“I know you’re not.”

The two of you fall silent for a moment, the noise of the arena and the post-game chaos fading into the background. She leans down to kiss you, it’s passionate and intense. It makes you melt against her.

“I love you,” she says suddenly, her voice barely above a whisper. “You know that, right?”

Your chest tightens, and you nod, leaning into her touch. “I love you too. Always.”

She swallows hard and pulls you back into her arms, holding you like she’s afraid to let go.

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deadsnakey · 7 months ago

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𝐒𝐋𝐘𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐍 𝐁𝐎𝐘𝐒 —> 𝐃𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐎˚ᡴꪫ

ꪆৎ ˚⋅ !fluff ೀ Headcanons. . .ᐟ 0.6k words ┈─★

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

જ⁀➴ was rude to you but would be worse if you turned down his friend request. Js like Harry did.

જ⁀➴ you'd probably team up sometimes if you're also a Slytherin but if you're not then the hatred he has for you is probably worst I'm so sorry. (Specifically as a Gryffindor)

જ⁀➴ in the third year close to fourth year, you guys start being a little more respectful towards each other for whatever reason and that's when your relationship slowly starts forming.

જ⁀➴ once you do start dating after pining over each other for soooo long, he's definitely only nice to you.

જ⁀➴ it took a loonnggg while to get through him and have him open up to you but once he does he lets all of his walls down for you.

જ⁀➴ once he knows he can trust you he starts acting like a true gentlemen, always so gentle and sweet to you and youre low-key a spoiled brat but its ok because its you!!!! he's so so in love with you!!

જ⁀➴ will defend you and your name soo badly like he ain't playing if he so much as get a hint that you're trying to disrespect his amazing y/n he's going straight to disrespectful and dirty and will fight for you if it comes down to it. (though its not preferred.)

જ⁀➴ he's just suddenly the sweetest like ...where's Draco Malfoy and what did you do to him?

જ⁀➴ no but seriously you got teachers and people you've never even interacted with asking you how you did it, yk, what's your secret?

જ⁀➴ like girl only if you knew😭

જ⁀➴ he's big on gifting you things he knows you'll like but on holidays like Christmas, valentine or even your bday? Girllll he's going alllll out nothing is too expensive or too much if anything, its never enough (in his opinion).

જ⁀➴ but that's just because you deserve the world and more and he wants to give you anything and everything you want and need

જ⁀➴ I'd say his love language (giving) would be quality time and love language with a little sprinkle of acts of service.

જ⁀➴ he loves having his hands on you, especially if you're chubby or a little thicker, have more curves ugh his hands won't leave you even in public.

જ⁀➴ he has no problem doing stuff for you, ask and you shall receive!!! Even if he's mad at you or sum he'll still do what you ask of him or if you're pissing him off, it doesn't matter.

જ⁀➴ now, with quality time this is specifically alone.

જ⁀➴ yeah, it's fun hanging with you and friends but he loves it even more when it's just the two of you, doesn't matter where y'all are, just hanging out.

જ⁀➴ you don't even have to be talking or cuddling. Literally just doing your own things near each other gives him comfort.

જ⁀➴ although, he wouldn't mind giving you a few cuddles or kisses from time to time. He's I N L O V E with you bae!!!!

જ⁀➴ carries your books or bag, he insists.

જ⁀➴ does not give one Doggystyle damn if your or his friends tease or make disgusted faces at y'all being lovey dovey or even just a simple interaction. He's gonna show his girl off!!

જ⁀➴ if your e a Gryffindor, your friends probably hate him and only tolerate him because they care about you and your happiness, and clearly, you're pretty damn happy!!!

A/n: I finally decided last minute to finish this and post this as its been rotting in my drafts for months!! Lmk what you thought!

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atlaswav · 10 months ago

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CATACLYSMIC ☾

INFO: 5252 words..... dr ratio x fem! reader SYNOPSIS: You hate him, of that you're certain. You hate the man behind the alabaster figurehead, and you want to see him unravelled, but you don't know exactly what you do to him. WARNINGS: um alcohol and one kiss. also some swearing but mostly fine AUTHOR'S NOTE: rising from the grave to bring to you this thing i found this in my drafts from who knows how long when I was obsessed with this man (still am). someone help. i can no longer write this much for one fic. what was i on.

Veritas Ratio made it no secret that he despised those who lived in ignorance. He openly shunned those who were stupid enough to turn their eyes from knowledge – they’d be beggars in due time. They didn’t know how the world was governed, and ignorant fools would play victim to fate’s cruel touch.

With this philosophy of his, you often wondered whether or not his ivory figurehead would soon burst with the tumultuous storm of the man’s self importance. You wondered what would lie underneath. Surely, the divine makers would’ve allowed balance in his creation – surely, his face was horribly disfigured in exchange for such otherworldly intelligence.

He was both delightfully astute and horrendously ill mannered at once. Brighter than your entire class combined – your entire university combined, no doubt – but his pretentiousness was overflowing, and you believed he was in dire need of being put in his place.

Arrogant and pretentious were two of the words that came to mind when someone mentioned Dr. Ratio, and you were sure you weren’t the only one who refused to worship his word like the gospel. In turn, he seemed to despise your very existence, as if you were merely a faded annotation in the footnotes of an ancient epic. Vandalising a work of art. A moustache on the Mona Lisa. Circe in the Odyssey, if she’d welcomed sailors with open arms, allowing them to degrade her as they would a common concubine, not a descendant of the gods.

Yet instead of sharing the witch’s beguiling, seductive nature, you only shared her mortal voice. Thin, reedy, quiet, compared to the booming voices of gods. The voice of Veritas Ratio. Your achievements could only pale in comparison to his, and it took everything within you to clap politely as he received his third – fourth? (you weren’t intent on keeping track) – diploma.

God you hated that man. You’d muttered as much under your breath countless times.

“Dr. Ratio is fine. No need to worship me.” he’d once corrected. But the attempt at humour was lost on you as your classmates began to laugh. The divine makers likely brought him into existence just to spite you. Oftentimes, you fought your urges to hurl the nearest textbook at his caricature head and watch the plaster crack, fall to the floor, and reveal his disfigured face.

Not that you’d seen it before – lingered around him enough to see it disappear.

His scorn held no favourites, and certainly not when it came to you. He’d openly dragged your work through the dirt a couple of times before, and it was only a matter of time before he did it again. His words were scalding, leaving burns across your thin skin and leaving your mouth tasting of ash. Your voice, faint and human, fell quiet at his ‘gospel’.

If it weren’t obvious, the hatred was mutual. He’d never admit it outright – he was far beyond these meaningless, trivial things such as immature hatred – but you felt his scathing glare in your soul, even through that perturbing headpiece, and that was enough.

“Have you found it?”

You turn around, meeting the cold, blank, unseeing gaze of his caricature head behind you. It was disconcerting to say the very least, but no one else had asked him about it, so you never pushed him further. None wanted to invoke his wrath, no matter what circumstance. It was a miracle neither of you had exploded at each other yet, but you suspected that he’d gladly put aside any type of loathing he harboured for you so that this project would get done faster.

You were happy to oblige as he took the lead. A free credit was a free credit. But you did have your limits.

“Nope. The text is ancient. I doubt this library has it.”

“Nonsense.” he clicked his tongue, glancing to the side. “I’m asking the professor. Go work on your part.”

Patience is a virtue, as you keep reminding yourself.

“Sure. Let me know if you find anything.” you say instead of the retort that sits on your tongue. False niceties and biting, underhanded remarks. This charade was entertaining, at the very least.

How did everyone love him? There had to be people like you who shared your dislike towards that conceited scholar. With a long suffering groan, you took a seat at one of the plethora of tables in the university’s library, clicked your pen and began to write.

Maybe the reason he despised you so was because of your ideas, arguably the opposite of his own way of thinking. Where his twisted logic, rearranged rationality and pulled apart natural reasoning to formulate new material, you cut and stitched the work of others together to create your own emulations. (Frankenstein's monster. Was that a cliche? For Ratio, it probably was.)

He’d likely scrap what you’d written as soon as he returned, but that didn’t stop you from trying to spite him anyway. You hoped your readings wouldn’t go to waste as you recorded your findings, then started to draft an outline for your project.

The scratch of paper became white nose, your hand struggling to keep up with the pace of your mind – was it even worth it? He’d likely call it worthless, snatch it from you and throw it into the recycling bin, then start writing his own outline. It only angered you further as you frowned at the page, wondering how he’d approach the project.

The thump of a heavy tome on the wooden desk snapped you out of your sombre thoughts.

“Here.” Ratio took a seat at the chair opposite of yours, brushing the dust off the thick text, leafing through its yellowed pages. “I told you they’d have it. You just need to search better.”

You offer him a tight smile. “Noted.” More false niceties, more flat remarks.

Then the figurehead disappears in a blink, and you nearly drop your pen. He barely pays you any mind as he runs a hand through his hair, flipping through the text. You’d heard the rumours of the handsome face beneath the statue, but you’d never have imagined him to be so disgustingly perfect.

Statuesque.

His deep violet locks looked unbelievably soft. His crimson eyes showed laser focus as he scanned the text in front of him, ignoring you completely as he noted something down. After a brief silence where you skim over your outline and he presumably attempts to decipher the undeniably unreadable and ancient text which you were opposed to reading in the first place, he turns to you with a sigh. “What did you do while I was gone?”

“I wrote an outline.” you hand the papers to him begrudgingly, fidgeting with the pen in your hand. You don’t meet his gaze, afraid that his calculating gaze might see too far into your soul.

“This?” his distaste seeps through his tone. You don’t need to look at his face to know that he’s frowning.

You say nothing as he skims through your work, twirling your pen between your fingers.

“...It’s not the worst thing I've ever read.”

Your eyebrows shoot up.

“It’s not good, either.”

You scowl at him.

“I can salvage it.” he nonchalantly throws it back onto the table, returning to the text at hand.

You want to shove his grotesquely perfect face into the book. He really was put on this earth to spite you.

“Don’t just sit there. Go look for texts on criticism of our stance.”

You don’t know how you’re going to find the patience to survive this project. If anything, it irked you further to find that there wasn’t some monstrosity hidden behind that figurehead. In everything he did, he seemed to be inventing new ways to get on your nerves. However, unbeknownst to you, Veritas Ratio held you higher than you gave yourself credit for. He believed your ideas to be invigorating. Refreshing, almost. A welcome reprieve from the same reiterated, chewed, swallowed and regurgitated approaches that your other classmates had.

You weren’t like the rest of the mindless, studying machines at the university. You could be brilliant, and it annoyed him that you didn’t know this. He’d admitted as much to himself before, but he’d never tell you. But it was still not good enough for his standards – far better than what the imbeciles in your class could’ve come up with – but still far behind him. Or so he kept telling himself.

Days passed by without a word from either of you. You were content to write your part in the solitude of your dorm, and he seemed perfectly content mulling over whatever he’d found in that indecipherable ancient text. By the time you’d nearly finished your part, he decided to meet with you once again to share your findings.

His definition of deciding to meet with you meant simply cornering you after class and asking you to follow him.

You started to protest, but he’d already turned and briskly walked out of the classroom, so you groaned and followed after him, winding up in the library again. This time, in a secluded corner with the late afternoon sun pouring through the window, illuminating the small table and workspace with a warm glow.

You wondered how he wasn’t winded after trekking across the entire campus. You certainly were. His muscled build suggested that a mere leisurely walk couldn’t possibly have tired him out. What did he eat? Was he what Nietzsche had in mind when he wrote of the Superman?

“What are you doing? Sit.” he gestures to the seat across from him, and you sink into the armchair, taking out your papers. His headpiece disappears once again, and your breath catches in your throat.

His hair cast a faint shadow across his face, and his eyes seemed to glow. As you leaned in closer, you realised there was a thin ring of gold around his pupils.

“Are you done with your part?” he demands, breaking you out of your trance.

You silently hand over your drafts, watching his eyes flit across your paper. His eyebrows furrow slightly, eyes narrowing, but he remains quiet. Were his eyelashes always this long? They created an indistinct shadow on his cheeks. His skin was pale, fair. Not the sickly kind of pale you thought he’d be. Did he exercise? You wouldn’t be surprised, with all your classmates always fawning over his broad, strong chest and narrower waist.

Was it your imagination, or were his cheeks slightly flushed? It might have been the light.

“It’s deplorable.”

Your heart sinks in your chest as you sit back against the armchair.

“Your ideas are rudimentary. Have you been reading at all?” he sighs, holding his head in his hand. “No matter. I can fix it. I don’t need you to do anything anymore. You can go.”

You stay seated in shock, unable to move. You’ve heard the anecdotes of people crying over being scolded by him, but was he always this harsh?

“You know it’s a group project, right?” you begin before your better judgement can decide against it, “My work is just as important as yours, it doesn’t matter if you think my work is ‘deplorable’. I’m in the same class, I take the same course, I learn the same things as you do, you don’t get to look down on me no matter how stupidly smart you are.”

He raises an eyebrow, unamused. “Why not?”

“Take that stick out of your ass, Veritas Ratio. Get off your high horse.” you snatch your papers out of his hands and take your leave, ignoring his calls of your name.

Were you dramatic? Yes, but not without reason. Given Ratio’s reputation for prioritising academics over everything else, you suspected that it wouldn’t take long for him to find you, either.

You were so wrong.

More days passed with no contact. He didn’t seem to be affected by your dramatics, and never once batted an eye in your direction unless necessary. It seemed your hypothesis of him inventing new ways to get on your nerves was on the track of being proved correct. But if you didn’t do something within the next few days, you trusted him to turn in the project without your name on the paper, resulting in a zero.

He was just as stubborn as you, and though you were nothing compared to him in actuality, you were so close to grabbing his face and forcing him to look at you for who you were.

Seemingly, even in the battle of wits, he seemed to emerge victorious.

“Ratio.”

He barely glances up, engrossed in his writing. “What?”

“Are you done with the project?” Biting the bullet stings your teeth and left a bitter taste on your tongue.

“No. Not yet. Why? You’re finally going to help?”

“Are you going to stop looking down at me?”

The library is nearly empty. The sun is barely a sliver on the horizon, and the voices of students float down the corridor beyond the grand stacks of books, yet you’re here. Why do you bother? Are you really that desperate for his validation?

“Are you going to keep writing such reprehensible work?”

You glare at him. “Guess not.” you turn on your heel.

“You’re absolutely infuriating.” he sighs, leaning back in the armchair. “You’re not aware of what you can do, are you?”

You glare at him. Your chest stings.

He looks at you, then. Truly. His complexion relaxes, and he rubs his temples. “Sit. Let’s go through your part.”

“Why?”

“I mulled it over. Your part is brilliant.”

Your eyes widen.

“But your expression and research is appalling. Have you learned how to write academically at all?”

You’d never simultaneously wanted to slap and kiss a man at once until today. “What happened to getting off your high horse?”

“I got off it. Now sit and listen, I won’t repeat myself.”

You supposed that was the closest to an apology he’d ever give you, so you sat. It pained you, but you did. Besides, he had called you brilliant – your part – but still, you couldn’t force the smile from your face as you listened to his instruction.

“Your ideas in your introduction are well formed, but from there, it all goes downhill. You have to reorder your logic for it to make sense, and we will be deducted points if you don’t elaborate on the principles of your concept first.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “So how would you do it?”

“For one, I’d restart completely and get straight to the point.”

You sigh exasperatedly. “Show me, then, if you’re so good.”

His eyes narrow at you, but he says nothing as he motions for you to come closer.

The librarian was likely too scared to kick either of you out after closing time. Your arguments were heard by all of your neighbouring desks, and whenever there was a break in conversation, it seemed as if everyone held their breath. There was pin drop silence except for the two of you – but neither of you realised it.

He was blunt, and had no idea what you were thinking, but perhaps this is what entrapped him.

You, on the other hand, couldn’t stop thinking about how he had called your ideas brilliant.

You quickly learn how good of a teacher he is. Maybe it’s his forced patience or once-in-a-millenium genuine praise that spurs your decision, but you find yourself so willing to prove yourself, and he finds himself willing to help.

Maybe this wasn’t so bad.

“Just fix it, stop arguing with me. I’m right.”

“Why? Do you know every single thing about our topic?”

“No, but I have four degrees and more experience than you.”

“Jackass.”

“Change it.”

You grumbled another insult under your breath, yawning as you scribbled out the section you wrote and began to reword your thoughts. The sudden quietude was jarring, and as you looked around, you realised the overhead lights were off, the only source of light from the lamps illuminating the desks.

“Is everyone gone?” you ask, sitting up straight and stretching.

“Who cares? Finish up, then we can head back.”

“Fuck you, give me a break. I don’t write at the pace of a robot.”

“Then learn.”

“Fuck you too Veritas Ratio.”

“Expand your vocabulary while you’re at it.”

“Why are you so intent on irritating me?”

“You get irritated easily. Not my problem.”

“If you know I get irritated easily, why do you keep provoking me then? Do you want me to hate you more?”

He seems to pause. Minisculely, almost unnoticeable had your gaze not been trained on him for the past few hours. He had a habit of pausing and furrowing his brows when you said something slightly out of line.

“Just finish the paper. You talk too much.”

You sigh and get back to work as he leafs through his own research.

Amicable silence passes. The night is alive outside, gleaming and glistening with the touch of benevolent gods and whispers of long gone wishes – pearls stitched by fate’s knowing hands.

“I’m done.”

“Show me.”

You pass the paper to him as you watch his expression carefully.

Crimson eyes flit across your work, gold ringed irises flickering in the scarce light. If you could capture the way the light reflected in his eyes in a jar, you think wishfully that you’d stare at it forever; Until the light died out, or it decided to escape the ephemeral glass confines.

But you’d never admit it out loud. It was wishful. If Veritas Ratio could read minds, he would undoubtedly reprimand you.

He clears his throat, and you snap to attention, swatting away your fantasies of stealing and bottling evasive light.

“It’s good.”

You wait for him to speak further, but he says nothing. “Just good?”

“Well, by my standards, no, but for you, it’s good.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“I mean,” he leans on the table, forearms flexing. “That you’re finally starting to live up to your potential.”

“Huh?”

He blinks. “What do you mean?”

“What potential?”

He shakes his head absently, almost in disbelief. Forget light, you’d barter with the lady of fate to let you preserve this moment in a frame so that you could glimpse this expression forever. You’d never seen him so dumbfounded and awed at once – you doubt anyone ever has. He’d always been a man of knowing, and whatever he didn’t know, he would find out. Nothing was ever a “maybe,” or a “probably,” it was always absolute. It had to be absolute in his philosophy.

You happened to be the one exception.

“You’re not aware of the potential you have?”

“You think I have potential?”

“Aeons,” he murmurs under his breath, before standing and gathering his belongings. “I’m going to bed. See you in class tomorrow. We’ll finish up then.”

He leaves before you have the chance to question him, but as you slump back in your armchair, you can’t help but smile.

Potential was as close as you’d ever get to a compliment from Veritas.

—

The lady of fortune and lady Themis looked him in the eyes and saw their mortal emanator at his birth. He’d never been certain what he was made for, but he never let it burden him. Things like these weren’t made for him to ponder, that was up to the dreamers and inventors.

He was a being of logic. A doctor of calculations and reason, and everyone knew him as such.

But he simply couldn’t figure out what it was about you – your naive gaze or that pout that absently curved your lips – that had your words and scent and eyes lingering in his mind like a vengeful phantom.

You were the being of all chaos and irrationality, but you were so bright. Unhoned, rough and unhewn. A gemstone shining with impurities but shining still, casting a beautiful mosaic cast across the ground with indecipherable shapes and patterns.

It was deplorable. He hated you for being on his mind, and hated you even more for your wasted potential. He hated how you stared, how his cheeks would redden from the intensity of your gaze, and how he’d have to pretend he was unfazed, because he couldn’t afford any distractions.

You were the being of his undoing, he was sure. You were brought into existence to spite him, to bring an unaccounted variable into the equation of his being, and present a causality dilemma for all he was.

He wanted you gone, but he wanted you closer all at once.

He hated it.

It wasn’t common for him to sleep in either, so when he woke five minutes before class was supposed to start, he cursed you with all the spite in his heart and rushed to class, clutching papers from the night before, still imbued with traces of your lingering fragrance. Just how long had you pored over those papers for your smell to latch to them? It should be impossible. Fate was clearly against him.

Fate brought you back together as he entered the brimming lecture hall, and the only vacant seat was the one next to you.

“Did you get the papers in order?” you asked, glancing at his dishevelled state. The Dr Ratio you knew was never dishevelled, but this was the closest you’d ever seen him to it.

“Yes. Just write your name on your bits and sign the sign off sheet and it’s complete.”

You take the paper from him, scrawling your name across your work, then handing it back.

With your project finally submitted, you could breathe easy again – never endure his biting remarks and criticism again.

But as the class progressed, you realised you were in trouble.

The professor was merciless. He flicked through the presentation on the new topic with haste, rushing through new concepts, formulae and calculations with record speeds. You’d nudged Ratio, whispering for help, but he rolled his eyes and kept his stare attentively on the presentation.

You wanted to slap him.

Was he tolerating you because of the project? Was he going back to cold stares and dismissive glances?

You wouldn’t allow it. Not when you were so close to discovering the man behind the alabaster figurehead. As soon as the professor signalled the end of the lecture, a collective sigh was released from the class.

You turned to Ratio, and he was already staring at you.

“What was it you wanted to say?”

“Tutor me please.”

He raised a brow. “Why?”

“Because you’re smart.”

“Pick someone else, then. I don’t see why I should.”

“You asshole, I’ll buy you lunch if you tutor me.”

He frowns at you as he begins to leave. You trail after him. “Please?”

He sighs deeply. Like a man burdened with the weight of his own world on his shoulders. Byron’s brooding, romantic hero, in his melodramatic glory. “Fine. Stop annoying me.”

You smile. “Thanks. Meet you at your dorm after dinner?”

He sighs again. “ Don’t be late or I'll lock the door and go to bed.”

He watched the seconds tick by in agonising motion – a man awaiting his sentence, but also his reprieve. Is this what his classmates felt before they took tests? It certainly seemed like it. Relief was on the horizon, and yet great suffering was imminent. He’d never known the feeling until now.

But as they say, the harder the rain, the sweeter the sun, and he wasn’t about to relinquish his quest to decipher you.

It seemed mutual as he paced in front of his front door, having eaten dinner at the cafeteria early to mentally prepare himself.

When your knock finally sounded at his door, he sighed, checked his watch, then reluctantly opened the door.

You were a picture to behold.

Hair slightly damp from a shower, drowning in loose, oversized clothing. It was all painfully domestic to see you walk through his doorway, scanning his living space. In the back of his mind, he thought it felt right, but he shook his head.

You were messing with him again.

Two could play that game.

“Take a seat.” He pulled out a stool from his kitchen island. “Want a drink?”

“What, like alcohol?” you huffed.

“Are you an alcoholic?”

“Only if you want me to be.” you shrug, setting down your notes on the bench.

He sighs exasperatedly, already berating himself for agreeing to this. He never agreed to tutor anyone. Why were you the exception? You shouldn’t be.

His hypothesis: you were trying to get something out of him. A way to cheat the class, his academic favour, something hedonistic, even. It seemed plausible enough, but you listened intently as he explained the concepts the professor spoke of in the lecture, asking questions and actively engaging with his explanation.

It didn’t seem like there was any ulterior motive. So why was he letting you break his rules and defy his nature?

“God, why didn't the prof explain it during that lesson? Everyone struggled.”

“You’re not smart enough to understand his concise methods, then.” he huffed.

“You’re too smart.”

“You’re not smart enough.”

“Smart ass,”

“Get back to work. You did that question wrong, by the way.”

You groaned. “Where?”

He was so caught up in your quarrels that he didn’t notice the time grinding away at the pestle. It was nearly midnight when you’d finally caught up with that day’s classwork, and he sighed in relief.

“You understand?”

“Yes. You don’t have to worry now.”

“I won’t. Now get out.”

“No drink?” you frowned, pretending to sulk at his expense. He simply stared at you, getting up from his stool and walking to the fridge.

Remarkably, he pulled out two beers.

“Don’t speak. If you do, I'll regret allowing you over again.”

A smile befell your lips. “I’m not saying anything.”

“I don’t like the look on your face.”

“Wipe it off then.”

A frown. His new hypothesis: you were trying to seduce him for better grades, more tutoring sessions, or for his own downfall.

“Drink and leave.”

“If you say so.” you take the chilled bottle and drink. He watches your throat move, and he thinks of himself as pathetic as he drinks as well, wincing at the bitterness.

“Do you live by yourself?” you ask, head propped onto your hand.

“I do.”

“Are you lonely or something?”

“No, people are irritating.” Like you.

“What a ray of sunshine you are.” You’re not much better.

“I don’t have to put up with any idiocy.”

“If you say so.”

Quiet passes as beer fizzes in the bottles, golden liquid sloshing at the sides of the glass.

One thing you learn that night is that Veritas Ratio, the famed multiple time valedictorian of your university, is an extreme lightweight. His cheeks become red quicker than you can finish your bottle, and he starts to grumble nonsense under his breath.

“You’re really smart, you know?” he suddenly says after mumbling something about quantum physics.

“What was that?”

“You’re really smart. Really smart. Impressive.”

“Really?”

“Yes, you idiot, how many times do I have to repeat myself?” he leans on the bench, not entirely aware of his surroundings as he does so. He squints at the ground.

He’s a cute drunk, you realise begrudgingly.

“Thanks, Veritas. You’re smart too.”

“I know.” he drinks from his bottle again, swirling the dregs. “But I can’t figure you out.”

“Hm?”

“Why are you acting like this?”

“Like what?”

“Do you hate me?”

You hesitate for a moment. “Yes.”

“Then why are you like this?”

Your eyebrows raise.

“You’re making me irrational. I can’t figure it out.”

“...Sorry?”

“You should be. You know, I was nearly late to class today because of you. You kept me awake.”

“Really?”

“I couldn’t stop thinking. Thoughts. And things.”

You laugh at his predicament, draining your beer and gathering your things. Trying to leave before he said anything that could turn the encounter south.

“Wait. Don’t go.” he slams his palm onto your notes, determination in his eyes.

“I need to go to bed.” you say as if scolding a child.

“I need to figure you out. You’re still an enigma to me. The anomaly of my behaviour. Is this your intention?”

“What are you talking about? You’re drunk.”

“I can think. I can move. I can see fine. I’m not drunk. Answer me.”

“Maybe I'm just so mesmerising to you.” you joke, but his brows furrowed in thought.

“Maybe.” he retracts his hand from your notes, and you stow them away into your bag, slinging it onto your shoulder before he can do anything else.

As you’re halfway to the door, he pushes you against the wall.

You never realised how tall he was until then. How much of a height difference you had, or how muscular he was. He had to have worked out on a daily basis. The pungent smell of alcohol lingered on his breath, and his cheeks were tainted with deep red as he searched your gaze.

You decide he’s officially lost his mind, but who were you to complain?

“Are you mesmerising?” he whispers, eyes trailing down your face, examining and analysing, his hand tracing down your body with those slender scholar’s hands.

“You tell me.”

Then he grabs your face and mashes your lips together. The kiss is rough, biting and rushed. You freeze for a sliver of a second before returning it, letting him decide your allure with his own devices.

He pulls away almost too fast, lips kiss bitten, breath fast.

“You’re a siren.”

“Am I?”

“You’re going to ruin me.”

“What a weak man you are, if it only takes one woman to ruin you.”

“I hate you.”

“Really?”

“I hate it because I’d probably let you.”

“Are you a masochist?”

“Not in my right mind. I’ll wake up and regret everything, but it’ll all be the same, fundamentally.”

“So what’s your conclusion?”

He still has you pushed against the wall, caged within himself. “You were put into this world to bring about my destruction.”

“How? Why?”

“You’re my opposite. Brash, naive, carefree.”

“Are you normally this analytical of people?”

“No, which supports my point.”

“I see. So you’re going to let me ruin your image?”

“No. I hate you for it.”

“Let me go then.”

He wordlessly steps away, and you stumble to the door.

“So what are we?” you ask, turned away from him. You can’t see the way he drinks in your visage like a starving man, and the small, sober part of him is grateful for it.

“Polar opposites.”

“I mean who am I to you?”

He’s silent for a while, so you turn back to him to find him leaning on the wall, gazing into space.

“Veritas?”

“You’re my undoing. A catalyst, maybe, for my downfall. But there must be balance, right? So what are you?”

“What am I?”

“I don’t know.”

You knew then that he was beyond reason. Was this what you did to him? You took some sadistic pride in seeing a man such as himself reduced to a mumbling, questioning, incoherent mess. You were somewhat pleased with the effect you had on him., but you could never let him know this.

He crumpled to the floor, back to the wall, clutching his head in his hands. “I’ll figure you out.”

“Sure you will. Goodnight, Veritas.”

“Night.”

Your smile was brighter than the morning as you left his apartment, embracing the night’s welcoming chill.

written by @atlaswav , published 15th of July 2024

674 notes · View notes

missmaymay13 · 6 days ago

Text

complete mess - w.smith

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

w.smith x fem!oc | 3k

masterlist

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

The rink is cold. Not just the kind that stings your nose and cheeks—this cold is bone-deep. Lonely. The kind that settles in your chest and makes your heart feel hollow.

Will leans against the boards during warmups, his stick clutched loosely in one gloved hand. The San Jose Sharks crest weighs heavy on his chest tonight, heavier than it ever has. He should be proud—rookie year, NHL dream realized, playing on the biggest stage in the world.

But all he feels is empty.

Because when he glances up at the stands, he knows she's not there.

She used to be. Every game. Every practice, when she could swing it. Always in that same hoodie—his hoodie—her coffee clasped in both hands like it was the only thing keeping her warm. Or grounded.

April Murray. The girl who knew him before all of this. Who sat with him through draft night, who helped him pick out his first apartment, who walked him through his first panic attack when the pressure of being Will Smith, top pick, future of the franchise became too much to breathe through.

And he let her go.

No—he pushed her away.

He doesn't even remember when it started. Maybe it was after the third game of the season when the headlines started turning. Promising, but inconsistent. Maybe it was when the media began comparing him to players he'd grown up idolizing, asking why he wasn't already there yet. Maybe it was the fourth night in a row he stayed late watching film, trying to be everything for a team that didn't even know how to support him back.

He started canceling plans. Ignoring her texts. Tuning her out when she tried to talk to him about anything not hockey. He blamed it on stress, on timing. On things she couldn't understand.

But she did understand. She always did.

And eventually, she stopped trying.

"Will, I'm not asking you to give it up," she'd said once, quiet and careful. "I just need to know that I still matter to you. That we still matter."

He'd scoffed. Cold. Tired. Empty. "I don't have time for this right now, April."

"Right. You never do."

She didn't cry. Not in front of him.

She just left.

He thought she'd come back. She always had before.

But this time—she didn't.

It's been three weeks since she moved out. Since she left her key on the counter and didn't say goodbye.

And Will? He hasn't scored a point since.

The team says it's a slump. A rough patch. The media calls it nerves. Rookie inconsistency. But Will knows what it really is.

He's a mess without her. A complete f*cking mess.

The kind that can't be taped over or fixed in the weight room. The kind that doesn't go away with a win.

She was the only thing keeping him grounded, keeping him human. And he treated her like a footnote to his career.

Now he's skating on autopilot. Eating alone. Sleeping in a bed that feels too big and too cold. Going home to a condo that still smells like her shampoo and can't be aired out, no matter how many windows he opens.

After the game, he sits in the locker room long after the others have cleared out. His head in his hands, the sharp scent of sweat and gear clawing at his throat.

His phone is on the bench beside him. A message unsent. It's been there for days.

"I'm sorry. I miss you. I don't know who I am without you."

He doesn't send it. Because it's too little, too late.

And maybe she's already moved on.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Will used to call her his "safe zone." Not to her face—he didn't know how to say that kind of thing back then. But she was. Every time the weight of being Will Smith, the phenom, got too heavy, he'd end up at her off-campus apartment. No questions. No lectures. Just soft music playing from her speaker, ramen on the stove, and her voice cutting through the noise like sunlight through blinds.

It didn't matter that she had three midterms the next day. Or that she'd been pulling double shifts at the campus bookstore just to make rent. When Will called—she answered.

Always.

The first time he cried in front of her, he was sitting on her tiny futon, head in his hands, the pressure of the Frozen Four and NHL scouts looming over his shoulders like ghosts.

"I'm not ready," he'd said. "Everyone thinks I'm ready, but I'm not. I don't even know who I am without hockey."

April didn't try to fix it. She didn't tell him he was wrong or feed him the same lines his coaches did. She just crawled in beside him and pulled his head into her lap, running her fingers through his curls until the shaking in his chest finally stopped.

"You're still Will," she whispered. "You're still mine."

And for that night, it was enough.

She missed her sister's wedding to fly to Denver for the Hockey East semifinals. She called in sick to her internship when he had food poisoning and was throwing up between classes. She sat in hospital waiting rooms when he got concussed freshman year—even though no one would tell her if she was "family."

She was. She always had been. She just never needed the title.

And what did he do when he finally made it?

He forgot.

He let the weight of the NHL chew up his time and spit out his patience. She became background noise—until one day, she was gone, and the silence was deafening.

Now he walks through his condo like a ghost, brushing past memories like cobwebs. Her hoodie still hangs on the coat rack. Her mug is still on the counter. The photos are still framed on the mantle—Boston, Denver, Nashville.

She was always there.

Until she wasn't.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

The worst part wasn't that Will forgot their anniversary. Or that he left the pasta she made untouched on the counter three nights in a row. It wasn't even that he stopped texting goodnight.

The worst part was how he used to care.

Back then, it was little things.

Him dropping off coffee before her 8 a.m. class. Reminding her to eat during midterms. Crawling onto her dorm bed with his laptop open just so she wouldn't feel so alone during late-night study marathons.

"I'll quiz you," he'd offer, head on her stomach, eyes fluttering half-shut from practice. "Just don't make me read the long-ass definitions."

She'd laugh. Toss a pen at his forehead. He'd grin like she hung the stars.

That Will—the one who saw her, who wanted to take care of her too—that's the one she fell in love with.

But the version she followed to San Jose? The one that let hockey consume him? That Will barely remembered she existed.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

She tried to be understanding. God, did she try.

He was under pressure. Rookie year. Big expectations. So she didn't say anything when the late practices turned into full nights at the rink. Didn't complain when he forgot to call. Didn't show him the tears after another solo dinner eaten over the sink.

She told herself it was just a phase.

He loved her. He was just overwhelmed.

So she picked up the pieces. Of him. Of their life. Of herself.

Every rescheduled date, every night he stumbled in hours after midnight with nothing but apologies and excuses—she forgave.

She was fighting her own battles too. Online school had been brutal. Isolation made it worse. Her professors didn't care that she lived on Pacific Time. Her friends were all back in Boston. She'd built a whole life there—one she gave up for him.

But she didn't tell him. He already had too much on his plate.

So she swallowed the words every day until they burned holes in her chest.

Then one day, the letter came.

She almost didn't open it—thought it might be another bill or course notice. But her hands shook as she peeled it open.

"Congratulations. You have fulfilled all requirements for graduation..."

She reread it six times. Finished. Done. Four years of work in two and a half. Through COVID. Through relocations. Through loneliness.

She looked around their apartment—no, his apartment—and realized he didn't even know she'd been close. Hadn't asked. Hadn't cared.

The excitement turned bitter in her mouth.

So she did what she never thought she would. She packed a bag. Called the one person she knew would understand.

Grace.

Will's sister picked her up from the airport that night.

Neither of them spoke for the first five minutes of the drive. Then Grace reached over and took her hand.

"You should've told me sooner."

April's voice cracked. "I didn't want to make you pick sides."

"I would've picked you anyway."

April didn't leave a note. She didn't need to.

He wouldn't have read it.

And to this day, she knows he still doesn't understand.

He knows he pushed her away—knows he f*cked up—but he doesn't know what day it was. Doesn't know the meaning it held. Doesn't know that he missed her biggest moment—because he never thought to ask.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

The air was crisp. Familiar. Healing.

April stood in her cap and gown, surrounded by the people who mattered. Grace. Her old roommates. Her professors. People who saw her, celebrated her, even when she wasn't holding anyone else up.

They took a photo.

Grace posted it later that night.

"Proudest sister moment. Congrats to April for finishing her degree in record time. You're everything and more."

April's smile in that photo was real.

She never saw Will's reaction.

But Grace did.

And she never took the post down.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Will wasn't even looking at Grace's Instagram when it happened.

One of the rookies was scrolling beside him on the team plane, laughing about some TikTok when he paused and went, "Yo, isn't this your sister?"

Will looked over.

And there it was.

April. In a cap and gown. Grinning, radiant, unrecognizable—in the worst way.

"Congrats to April for finishing her degree in record time."

The words blurred.

Four years. Two and a half. She never told him.

He didn't even know she'd finished.

Didn't know the day she left was the day she got that letter.

Didn't know anything.

His stomach twisted into knots.

And worse—Grace knew. His own sister knew and never said a word.

The next few days, Will couldn't get the image out of his head.

She looked so proud. So sure of herself.

So gone.

His hands shook every time he picked up his phone, hovered over her name. But he never hit send.

When Grace and the family came to San Jose for a home game, it started civil.

Until it wasn't.

It was after dinner. Everyone had gone back to the hotel except Will and Grace. The air was stiff, sharp with unsaid things. Grace stood at the window, arms folded, jaw tight.

Will broke first.

"You couldn't tell me?" His voice cracked. "You let me find out on fcking Instagram*?"

Grace turned slowly, face hard. "You didn't exactly ask."

"Are you serious right now?" he snapped. "She graduated, Grace. I didn't even know she was close!"

"And whose fault is that?"

His hands clenched. "You knew. You picked her up from the airport and didn't say a word. That's—" he choked, voice rising, "—that's a betrayal."

Grace's eyes burned. "No, Will. You betrayed her."

The silence cracked like glass.

"You think I wanted to keep it from you?" she spat. "I had to pick up her pieces because you left her so f*cking shattered she couldn't breathe without crying."

Will staggered back like she'd punched him. "Grace—"

"She used to be everything to you," Grace pushed forward, voice shaking. "She gave up her life, her school, her friends—for you. She didn't ask for much, Will. Just to be seen. Just to feel like she still mattered."

"She did matter," Will argued, weakly.

Grace laughed, bitter and cold. "Then why didn't you act like it?"

He couldn't answer.

"She didn't tell you how hard school was getting," she continued, relentless. "She didn't tell you how alone she felt. You stopped asking. You stopped caring. She cooked you dinners you never touched. She sat alone in your apartment every night waiting for you to come home—hoping you'd remember she existed."

Will turned away, chest heaving, blinking hard against the sting in his eyes.

Grace wasn't done.

"She left on the day she got her graduation letter. You didn't notice. You didn't text. You didn't even call."

He swallowed the lump in his throat. "I didn't know—"

"Exactly," Grace snapped. "That's the problem. You didn't know. You didn't even try to know."

Will dropped into a chair, like the weight finally hit him. Hard.

"She won't go near a rink," Grace added, quieter now. "Not even to watch me coach. She says it makes her sick. You make her sick."

Will stared down at the floor.

"She loved you so much, Will. And you broke her."

The room buzzed with silence. A silence full of anger. Of grief. Of truth.

Will couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. The guilt closed around his chest like a noose.

He wanted to scream. Cry. Take it all back.

But the past didn't give do-overs.

That night, he didn't sleep. He sat in the dark of his condo, scrolling through old photos, old texts, old videos.

April in Boston. April on the beach. April half-asleep in his hoodie, laughing at something he'd said off-camera.

He didn't even know that version of her anymore.

And she sure as hell didn't know this version of him.

He was a complete mess. Without her. Because of her. Because of him.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Three Years Later

The Boston air smelled like old memories. Like the streets they used to walk, fingers laced between them. Like the rain that had soaked their jackets on late-night campus runs. Like the laughter that once echoed through the Smiths' home when everything still felt whole.

Will was back, older now. Calmer. The NHL didn't rattle him anymore. He'd weathered the pressure, the slumps, the spotlight. But no matter how far he came in his career, he never quite got over her.

He didn't even try.

He never fell in love again. How could he, when no one else even came close?

Grace's engagement party was loud—too many people packed into their childhood home, voices overlapping, champagne flutes clinking. Everyone was glowing, buzzing with joy.

Everyone except Will.

His chest had been tight the entire night, breath caught just under his ribs. Because she was here.

April.

She hadn't changed—at least not in the ways that mattered. Still graceful without trying, still holding herself with that quiet strength. But she was sharper around the edges now. More careful with her smiles. Especially when they were aimed at him.

She didn't look at him the way she used to.

He spent half the night trying to catch her eye. Half the night staring at the empty spot next to him at the dinner table where she should've been. Where she used to always be.

And the other half? He spent wondering if she hated him.

He caught glimpses of her—drifting between rooms, helping Grace in the kitchen, laughing softly with people he didn't recognize. But every time he inched closer, she slipped away. Like a ghost. Like muscle memory.

He almost gave up.

Until he saw her again—alone—in the kitchen.

She was restocking a bowl of crackers, hands moving mechanically, a furrow in her brow like she was willing herself to focus on anything but the memories pressed into these walls.

And then she froze.

She didn't need to look. She felt him.

Will stood in the doorway, hands shoved in his pockets, voice barely above a whisper.

"Can we talk?"

She didn't answer right away. He thought she might say no. Thought she might walk past him the same way she had all night.

But finally, she gave a small nod. Reluctant. Steady. And without a word, they climbed the stairs—like muscle memory.

His childhood room looked exactly the same.

Posters on the wall. Hockey trophies collecting dust. The twin bed still creaking under the weight of too many conversations never finished.

April sat on the edge, hands resting in her lap. Will sat across from her, just barely touching the opposite end of the mattress. The space between them felt like a chasm.

He couldn't look at her at first.

Couldn't even breathe.

He wanted to say so many things—had rehearsed them in the mirror, in hotel rooms, on empty plane rides across the country. But now, nothing came out.

Until—

"Congratulations," he said quietly. "I never got to say it to you. Not on the day. Not in person. But... I want you to know I'm so proud of you. I was then. I still am now."

April's eyes flicked up. Just barely.

He kept going.

"I don't know how I f*cked up so much that I let the one thing that was always so good to me slip away. But god, April. I'm so sorry. You didn't deserve any of that."

His voice cracked.

"You were always there. Always. And I—I took that for granted. I let the game chew me up and spit me out and I just... I let you disappear without ever realizing what I was losing. And by the time I did—it was too late."

He finally looked up. She was watching him.

Tears welled in her eyes, but she didn't cry. Not yet.

"I replay that year in my head all the time," he whispered. "And I think about everything I missed. Everything I should've seen. The way you kept trying. The way you kept choosing me. And I didn't even see how much it cost you to do that."

His hands trembled in his lap.

"I should've asked. I should've noticed. And I didn't. I didn't even know you graduated until I saw it on Grace's f*cking Instagram. And I should've been there. For that. For all of it."

The silence between them buzzed.

Then April's voice, soft but sure:

"It's okay, Will."

He blinked.

She was staring at her hands. Then she looked up.

"I used to think it would never stop hurting. That what you did—what you didn't do—would follow me forever." She paused. Swallowed. "But I grew up too. And I see it differently now. We were young. You were drowning. And I was too scared to admit that I was, too."

She looked down again, her thumbs rubbing circles over each other.

"You hurt me. A lot. But... I know you didn't mean to."

They stayed like that for a long moment.

Then slowly, like gravity pulled them together, they leaned forward. Their foreheads touched, eyes closed. Breathing in the moment. The years. The ache.

His voice came out like wind through a cracked window—shaky, fragile, but certain.

"I still love you so much, April. I never stopped. And I'm sorry I did that to you."

He felt her inhale, felt her hands twitch against her thighs. Then:

"I still love you too, Will."

It wasn't loud. It wasn't dramatic. It didn't need to be.

Because even after all this time— Even after all the distance— They were still in sync.

143 notes · View notes

pleasantlycrazyworld · 4 months ago

Note

Hiii I think it would be soooo adorable if you could write a waitress reader x Logan where he's only soft with her and protective and the story is like tooth rotting fluff ❤️❤️❤️

I absolutely loved this request and it helped get me out of my writing block! I have been sick so it isn't proof read but I hope you still like it <3 request are open and so is my messages if anyone just needs to talk

He's your regular. Not the restaurants. Truth be told, he couldn't stand the food that was on the menu, but he bared it and ordered the same thing every time just so he could get a glimpse of you.

The two of you started to talk after the third or fourth time he came in, and he learned a lot about you. Usually, you wouldn't talk to regulars, especially about personal problems, but something about him made it easy to talk and not feel judged. With him coming in so often, it was easy for him to see if something was bothering you, and if something did, he made sure to take care of it.

As soon as you saw him walk in, you made sure to put in his order and grab his black coffee before going to sit him in your section. You were hoping he would come in today if you were being truthful. Earlier, there was a customer that was very flirty, and when he realized it wasn't going where he wanted, he left without paying. He did leave just a wonderful tip though...his number.

You sat Logan's coffee down in front of him and gave him a weak smile. "Your food will be up soon." You said as you started to turn to check on your other tables. His hand quickly grabbed your arm softly to stop you. "Can you add an order of fries to that?" He asked innocently. When you gave him a confused look, he just smiled sheepishly and shrugged. "They sound good...?" You giggled and wrote it on a ticket. "I'll go put that in right now for you."

Soon after, you returned with his order and sat everything down for him. "You need anything else?" You asked, not sounding as upset as you did when he first sat down. He nodded and pushed the plate of fries towards you, "sit down and eat, tell me what happened earlier, bub." You looked around before sighing and sitting down across from him once you noticed there was no one else in your section. "It's really nothing serious, just this customer..." You explained the whole situation, and Logan took note of how you described the man. Took note of his height, his hair color, his built, how he seemed like a cocky businessman. Logan made a promise to himself that he would handle anything that bothered his little waitress, and this was no exception.

Taglist:

@userchai

@mahi-tamashi

@100percentlazybonez

@lanassmarty

@western-pyro

@misscrissfemmefatale

@marit332

@navs-bhat

@fluffy-b33z

@chaimshelii

@aoi-targaryen

@eyes-ofhell

@sad0ni0n

@fries11

~~Note~~ happy new year!!! I hope 2025 is a great year for everyone! 2024 was tough for me but you guys really helped me in many ways and helped me find my love for writing again! Thank you to everyone who ever requested anything, I do still have some in my drafts that I'm working on but request are still open! I am starting student teaching soon so it might be slower uploads but I am determined to write as a form of self care this year 🩷

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eqt-95 · 11 months ago

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💙 for supercorp , pretty please!

oh brilliant! yes of course!! i was hoping for this one so i'd finally be motivated to write the scene that was inspired by this post. i have literally had it saved in my tumblr drafts since february. and yes i just scrolled through half of my 784 drafts to find it.

- - - - - -

“Actually no, we're not ‘dating’. We're bound together for infinity. Like the stars. So, fuck you, actually-”

Alex clicked the remote, freezing the screen to perfectly capture a very outspoken, very drunk Lena Luthor doing an uncanny impression of Taylor Armstrong in front of a throng of paparazzi.

“Can we watch it again?”

“No,” Alex answered tersely, setting the remote next to three overflowing folders, a coffee mug that needed to be filled with something a little stronger, and a cellphone she had to silence after the hundredth social media notification sent it rattling off the table.

Nia slouched in her chair with a ‘hmph’ and muttered something that sounded like garbled nothing to normal ears but very much like ‘never any fun,’ to Kryptonian ears.

“Right,” Alex continued, her attention directed across the table. She’d spent the majority of the recording with her face downturn and fingers pinching the bridge of her nose in what could only be described as ‘resignation’ mixed with the ‘I’m not mad, just disappointed’ strategy she had been trying with Esme.. “Care to explain what compelled you to proclaim you... infinite, cosmic link with Supergirl?”

“Not really, no,” a much more subdued, much less drunk Lena answered.

“Seems pretty self-explanatory,” Nia chimed in, spinning in the chair next to Alex. “Luthor can’t hold her liquor.” She bounced a clicky pen on the table-surface to accentuate the point. Alex gritted her teeth.

“I most certainly can-”

“Channel 7 says otherwise,” Nia grinned. The clicky pen was pointed accusingly.

“That,” J’onn began, and then pen clicked in offense, “is the least of our concerns-”

“Exactly,” Alex interrupted while blindly swiping the pen from Nia's hand and slamming it onto the table. “Do you have any idea how many conspiracy theories have started because of this? This has gone national-”

“International, actually,” Brainy added. “Canada and Australia have both picked it up.”

“Which means it’s only a matter of time before the rest of the world is needling around about- about…” Alex’s face plunged closer to a shade of raspberry.

“About what, Alex?” Lena asked. She leaned forward, arms crossed with her super sexy calm, cool, and ceo-collected face. It was almost working too, except for the mischievous glint and flicker of her eyebrow that revealed she was not taking this remotely serious enough for the eldest Danvers sister. “About my throuple with Kara Danvers and Supergirl?”

Alex’s face found her hands. Nia sputtered laughter from behind her own. J’onn stared longingly toward the closed door. Brainy scowled in confusion.

“It cannot be a throuple if two members are the same person,” Brainy said, glancing quickly toward Nia who nodded in confirmation.

“CNN doesn't know that. But fine, call it infidelity, stepping out on-” Lena offered lazily.

“Still not the point. You’ve jeopardized Kara’s secret identity,” Alex interrupted crossly. “And now you've put her in danger of-”

“I thought it was sort of sweet.”

Five pairs of eyes turned toward Kara who, until now, had remained silently observed. She sat at the head of the table wearing her suit and a recent bout of puppy love. Two pairs of eyes were gobsmacked, the third was failing to hide the glee over the entire exchange, and the fourth included a quick wink that made Kara’s cheeks flush even redder and bat her figurative tail even harder.

“Sweet. Right, well,” Alex began again, “‘Sweet’ doesn’t exactly handle the problem, does it?”

“It’ll blow over; these things always do,” Lena added. “We can have Andrea run a boring fluff piece about my night on the town being a slew of misguided comments. Say I said the earth was flat and that I challenged the Second Law of Motion or something. Make it dry. Everyone will chalk it up to part of that.”

“Fine.”

“And we can put this whole thing to-”

“Don't you dare-” Alex warned.

“-bed.”

Alex sighed, J’onn climbed to his feet like a tired high school teacher, Nia bounced giddily in her chair, and Lena was already glancing over at Kara and giving her a look that suggested they were not going to make it through the day without a trip to the broom closet.

Kara's cheeks flushed even redder if that were remotely possible.

•••••••

And so a fluff piece was written, the tabloids took a few lazy swipes at another Luthor edging toward instability, and then the story deflated entirely into obsolescence. The news cycle moved on, Alex's blood pressure returned to normal, and Kara was permanently living on cloud nine.

Everything was fine.

Everything was great.

Everything was going swimmingly.

Until the second video was discovered.

From the same night.

Nia brought popcorn. J’onn brought a heavy sigh. Alex brought a decade of instantaneous aging.

“Care to explain?” Nia asked with her best angry-Alex impression.

Meanwhile Alex was struggling to unclench her jaw.

“Deep fake?” Lena offered lamely.

“Deep fake,” Alex parroted. “You think someone somewhere invested the time to deep fake Lena Luthor and Supergirl making out? For what? Fun? Kicks? Laughs?”

“They already spend hours writing steamy fanfiction,” Lena shrugged.

“They what-?” Alex choked.

“Hot, steamy, inspired sex, really-”

“No-”

“Kara, darling, do you remember the one with my desk and the full-length windows?”

Kara flushed but nodded. Nia squealed with delight. Alex had had it.

“Enough-”

“Or the one where we lived in an alternate universe and you were a cowboy and was your-”

“Stop. Stop it.”

Lena leaned back into her chair, a smile of victory spreading across her face.

“I’m just saying, stands to reason someone might show us in the throws of deep, passionate-”

“I don't want to know. I don't. Want. To know,” Alex interrupted, hands cupped around her ears.

“Cosplay?”

Again five pairs of eyes turned to Kara.

“Could've been cosplay.”

“I can't believe… J’onn can you… handle… this,” Alex waved between the two.

“Should we watch it again?” Nia suggested. “Just to check Kara's theory.”

And without preamble, she clicked play again. It was far fuzzier, far more amateur, and far less deniable than the first.

“Charlie, Charlie, baby look here,” the phone holder shouted over a group of laughing, tipsy NCU students. “Do the impression again, please? I want it for-”

“Yo, yo, check it out.”

“Is that-?”

The camera pivoted from the ginger-haired Charlie to a dark alley between

“Oh damn, is that Supergirl?”

“And… Lena Luthor?”

“I knew it. I told you!”

The stage whispers were doing far more for Alex’s discomfort than the shaky camera zooming 2x onto what was very clearly Supergirl pressing Lena Luthor into a wall and doing a very good job of ripping Lena’s $1,200 blouse open.

“Ooph, Mrs. Fischer is not going to be happy about that,” Nia commented.

A glitter of buttons bounced off the sidewalk, and Supergirl’s mouth was moving hungrily and decidedly across the exposed skin.

“We’ve seen enough,” Alex chimed in and reached, some might say ‘desperately’, for the remote in Nia’s hands. “Once already scarred me for life-”

“But we won’t know until we see drunk, cosplay-Lena’s face. It’s for science, Alex,” Nia answered, clutching the remote like the lifeline to a sinking ship and climbing onto and over the conference table just as ‘cosplay’-Lena pulled ‘cosplay’-Supergirl’s mouth back to her.

“Bullshit,” Alex hissed, making quick work of scattering across the same table.

Meanwhile ‘cosplay’-Supergirl’s hands were no longer visible and the gang of NCU students were actively chanting them on. “Nia Nal, if you do not turn that off right now-”

The chase continued under the table, over three chairs, and around a trash bin Nia knocked over in a valiant attempt to slow her assailant. And while Nia and Alex made a mess of the conference room, ‘cosplay’-Supergirl was making an absolute mess of ‘cosplay’-Lena’s bun-

“Never!” Nia huffed and side-spun before making a poor calculation and tripping over an empty chair. Alex saw her window and lunged, tackling Nia, gripping the remote free and slamming pause just as ‘cosplay’-Lena found the zipper to ‘cosplay’-Supergirl’s suit.

“Do you have any idea the-” Alex’s vitriol stopped in its tracks. Why? Because they were totally and completely alone. No Brainy or J’onn and worse, no Lena or Kara. “What… where’d they go?”

“Probably the broom closet,” Nia mused.

- - - -

ask game

#this ending could've definitely been polished #but the queue is stacking up!#i've definitely landed way more asks than i was expecting!!#exciting times though #thanks for the ask!#fabulousglitch #ask game #qs with quinn

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gam3-b01 · 6 months ago

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winter

pairing(s): jeon wonwoo x reader

genre(s): angst

wc: ~1.3k

warnings: suggestive content (hankypanky related activities), just sad hours in general, minors dni just to be safe

(a/n: my first post on this blog, this was one of my earliest drafts and i needed to get it out of my system ahahsjdnd. the way some people might know who i am because i used the term hanky panky is concerning but also hilarious, if you see this i love you bro sorry for angst hours i stayed up too late to make sane decisions sorry i had to. song inspo for this fic is winter by two feet)

It's not a thing, right? This hasn't happened before.

But the familiarity with which you look up at him from under the covers slaps Wonwoo in the face before he has the time to process the content haziness clouding your eyes. His tense frame relaxes involuntarily, and he slips in beside you but not before checking your bare skin for any bruises he might have accidently left after almost soldering you to the mattress barely ten minutes ago. As he slips an arm around your middle and you tell him without any kindness whatsoever that his hands are way too cold for you (and that he should probably get checked for anaemia because, and he quotes, "even hell freezing over generates more fucking warmth than you do"), he realises he has to stop lying to himself and acknowledge the fact that realistically, this has actually definitely happened before.

This exact night, every single frame of it, happened last year. And the year before that. And the year before that one? No, the both of you were still together back then. Probably. What year was three years ago? Time was always a muddy, comically abstract concept when it came to each other for the both of you.

Maybe it would be easier for him to count the years winter to winter. Because when Wonwoo visits his hometown at the beginning of every December, a series of events occur. He sets his bags down at his place and spends the first week in radio silence recuperating with his family, ignoring the 20 odd messages he gets from Mingyu about his dog and updates (read: gossip) from their shared workplace. The next week usually is spent catching up with old friends mostly out of obligation, and the third week is occupied by Christmas. The fourth-ish week is when all of his friends asking about you begins to get to his head. By around the 28th of December, he's sick of lying awake in his childhood bed, staring at the ceiling as he tries to forget things that should never have happened in the first place. Eventually he sits up, runs a hand through his hair, puts on his glasses, and spritzes on something that you liked to call "sandalwood crack" before shrugging on his jacket and heading out.

Where to though? He pretends to think for a while before giving up. And when he steps into the bar after paying for his cab, he is never, ever surprised or secretly relieved when he spots you sitting in the stool furthest away from the air conditioning. You look wasted, but the soda cans strewn about you indicate otherwise. You've stopped drinking after the breakup. You're doing well with sobriety. He opens with that like the asshole he is, and you have the decency to cuss at him like a sailor and pass him a stool as you say something vaguely self-depreciating as a joke about the near-alcoholism you contracted back then. He opts for silence. And you ask him to take it easy despite him having opened the fire. Ever tolerant. Like the gentle undercurrents of a river (not like you didn't have a temper on you, you just tended to be nice when you saw him after long periods of time. Was it because you missed him? The mere thought had him shrivelling up a little inside). Wasn't he supposed to be the water sign between you both? He remembers the natal chart phase you had when you were nineteen, which reminds him you were his best friend of nine years before the both of you stopped talking. He expertly shoves that piece of information away before it tries to hurt him one more time.

(...What kind of best friend asks, no, begs him to leave and never contact them again? Maybe the kind whose best friend actually proceeded to do exactly that without ever putting up a fight? Fuck.)

Things somehow, without fail, end up leading you both to the nearest motel when one of you ends up saying something incredibly reckless and all the other person can do is gape hopelessly, words murdered in cold blood right when they were about to be bailed out from their throat. The rest of a night is a senseless, irresponsible blur, and then?

The rough part begins.

One of you is going to leave in the next thirty minutes if Wonwoo's doing his gut arithmetic right. He wished he sucked at math sometimes, he really did.

However, he blinks a bit. Something feels off, something feels different. You're not leaving (is it his turn this time..?). Instead, you're turning around, eyes vulnerable and still blown a little wide as you touch his hair with a flavour of fondness he could not imitate even if he tried his damndest to.

He freezes for only a second before his lips seek yours out of habit. He truly loathes the way he groans at how much it affects him, but what else is he supposed to do when he knows you're trying to hold back that little sound you make when you get desperate for him? He's almost willing to let you take the lead because he feels like his system is going into overdrive, willing to let you finally ruin whatever's left of him, but sanity prevails by a hanging thread as he takes back control from you with a firm hand on your jaw. His grip is gentle unlike earlier, and despite knowing you like it when he's mean to you, his eyes shine with something completely different when he breaks the kiss for a moment to take in everything he can about you right now and burn this anomaly into his memory.

(Because what else will he be ever be able to think of on every single cold, miserable night for many years to come after that look you gave him before he kissed you? That look that made it look like you still loved him, why did you have to do that?)

You're staring at him like you've been burned, and he's trying his absolute best not to flinch away when he sees raw, unabashed hurt begin to filter through your soft irises.

"Don't look at me like that." You start.

"Like what?"

"Like you-", you gulp nervously, eyes quickly losing the content sheen radiating off of you earlier.

"-like you actually want me or something."

Externally, the tenderness in his eyes is instantly replaced by whatever the fuck he usually looks like, but internally, he's trying his best not to scream. Your words are unfair, cruel even. How can the one person who knows him like the back of their hand not grasp the one fundamental truth that makes up his very core?

The alarm system inside his head built just for you tells him you feel sick, just like he does. He knows you've gleaned that much as well, and makes no effort to stop you as you slip out of the bed with the sheets hugging your chest in one fluid motion.

"I feel so sick, Wonwoo."

"I know."

Your heart is as tangled up as his is, and no matter how many times the both of you manage to land into each other's arms, neither of you seem to be capable of unravelling the other without tearing everything apart.

He watches you collect yourself before turning to him, face stone cold, with eyes that now look foreign to him as you deliver the parthian shot.

"I think that I should go."

#seventeen x reader #seventeen imagine #wonwoo x reader #seventeen fanfic #svt x reader #jeon wonwoo x reader #seventeen angst #svt angst #wonwoo angst #seventeen imagines #seventeen smut #svt smut #wonwoo smut #seventeen oneshot #wonwoo oneshot #wonwoo #jeon wonwoo #seventeen #svt

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ilovedainironfoot · 12 days ago

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@skrabnuti2

I keep adding more and more things/moments/little scenes in the fic so, again, a little snippet that I know I will keep but it's still a first draft for this one.

......................

A week had passed and nothing had changed. It was decided on the first day that Talla, to her great misfortune, would keep Klyden informed of any progress. Since then, every 12 hours she sent him an update, but it was the same thing, over and over again, every day, without missing a beat : “Sorry, there is nothing new.” She repeated it so often that by the end of the fourth day, she had simply recorded her voice, which she then played back when she needed it.

By the end of the week, Klyden felt like he was going crazy. In addition to Officer Talla's looped messages, which were becoming more and more like a downward spiral, Topa had woken up on the morning of the third day with only one idea in mind: to write a letter to his Papa, and no matter how much Klyden explained how impossible the idea was, the child wouldn't budge.

When on this seventh day Klyden accompanied his son to school, he took Professor Cassius aside : “Professor, I would d like to ask you a favor.”

Knowing the situation, Cassius wasn't surprised by the Moclan's request. If he himself was having trouble keeping his spirits up for Kelly, how was it supposed to be for Bortus's child ? So he smiled : “Of course, how can I help you ?”

“Topa has taken it into his head to write a letter to Bortus and I simply can not get him to understand the absurdity of it. No matter how many times I tell him, it is useless. Do you mind to you talk to him?"

"I understand. Don't worry, it might just be his way to deal with his father's absence. I'll talk to him."

"Thank you."

So during afternoon class, Cassius sat down next to the little boy who was writing what appeared to be a very long letter: “Hello, boy ! What are you writing ?”

Topa didn't even raise his head, too focused : "Hello. It is a letter for my papa."

“Oooooh ! That's very kind of you ! He'll be glad to read it when he gets back.”

Topa turned his head and smiled : “He is not going to read it when he gets back !”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I am going to send it to him, of course !"

It finally clicked in Cassiu's mind. THAT was the reason of Klyden's worry.

Very carefully, he took the child's pen, stopping Topa for writing further and very softly he asked : "Do you understand what is happening to Bortus ?"

"Yes. He is kept prisoner on the new planet."

"So...do you understand that sending him letters might be...difficult ?"

Topa looked down : "But Captain Ed can give my letter."

Cassius, as a teacher, had been prepared for anything but shattering children's dreams. Especially this kind of dreams. He bite his lips and tried to explain : "Topa, the captain doesn't know where Kelly and your father are kept on Rigor 2."

"I know ! Papa Klyden already explained it. But the captain can give it to the president. And the president can give it to my papa."

By the end of the day, it had been confirmed that neither Klyden's nor his teacher's explanations had been able to make the obstinately stubborn child listen to reason. That day, Cassius understood two things: making a Moclan see reason was a horror. Making a Moclan child see reason ? That was a hundred times worse.

When Klyden picked his son up at the school, Cassius didn't need to say anything. The moclan understood by the look on his face.

“Thanks for trying.”

#the orville #bortus #klyden #topa

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endwersed · 10 months ago

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oh man. my editing progress today has been abysmal.

#i still have like 4k left to go #and that's just to finish the second draft!#after that i still need to do third and fourth drafts for the whole 13k #... i think i may have been ambitious telling myself i could get this all done by the weekend lol #tuesday/wednesday next week miiiiight be more realistic

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miss-biophys · 8 months ago

Text

Work on a scientific article

What it actuallly entails:

Come up with an idea, define an interesting problem

Do thorough literature research. Maybe similar stuff was already done. Define the knowledge gap well.

Plan in detail, how we can solve the problem, design experiments

Reach out to potential collaborators, agree with them on a plan

Buy necessary equipment, chemicals

Do pilot experiment, optimize the conditions to get reliable data

Perform experiments, calculations, make everything multiple times so it's reliable

Analyze the data

Urge collaborators to deliver their parts

Coordinate your progress with the collaborators

Manage the collaborations, organize meetings

Be diplomatic, you don't want to make enemies in academia

Agree with direct colleagues, who worked on it, what will be the message of the article. Will it be a long story and we need to add some more data? Or will it be short and right to the point and we write a short "letter"?

Do literature research again. Maybe new stuff appeared, and for sure your data must be confronted and discussed with already known facts.

Write the first draft of the article

Send it around for feedback, first only to direct colleagues from your lab

Incorporate the feedback, maybe do more experiments and more analysis

Rewrite the manuscript

Send it around the second, third, fourth, fifth... time

Incorporate the feedback

Send the manuscript to all collaborators.

Wait for the feedback, urge everyone to give it, maybe you don't have all data from all the collaborators yet

Incorporate feedback

Prepare the manuscript for journal submission

Get approval from all co-authors

Submit the manuscript

Wait for editor response, hopefully they send it to reviewers. If not, you need to rewrite a bit the article to adhere to the new journal's format and send somewhere else.

Get reviewers' reports, deal with them, reply truthfully, make effort to explain everything even if you know that the reviewer's suggestion is just impossible or irrelevant. Be diplomatic.

Maybe you need to do an additional experiment, analysis, or rewrite a major part fo the manuscript. This can take months.

Submit revised manuscript with all the changes

Wait for editor's nad reviewers' comments in the second round. You can get many rounds of review and still get rejected.

Finally get a "Congratulations, your manuscript has been accepted for publication"

Pop a shampagne! You deserve it!

What part of this do you usually do in different career stages:

BSc. and MSc. students: Perform experiments and analyze data

PhD students: Do all the experimental and analysis parts, write the manuscript, discuss with their supervisor and direct colleagues, incorporate feedback. But does not have to come up with their own idea and manage collaborations and diplomacy.

Postdocs: Do literally everything on the list

Group leader/Professor: Do the thinking and managing parts, help with writing and feedback, provide discussions and insight. Do not perform actual experiments and analysis.

Being a postdoc is the transformation between the student and the group leader.

As such, we just have to do all these tasks. It's stressful. It's challenging. It's definitely not boring. I am taking every opportunity to get a student, who can help with the experimental repetitions so I have time for all the other stuff.

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squeakyleftsneaker · 1 month ago

Note

Also enjoying your Voltron watch! It's nice and refreshing to see the perspectives of people who haven't been influenced by the..."fandom" (please forever avert your eyes from the western side). Had the same reaction to certain scenes, so I'm like :D!!! when you get there too. I'm a big fan of Keith which can sometimes be exhausting because the fandom either mischaracterizes him or outright hates him for "getting in the way" of their personal fav Lance or Shiro while still apparently shipping him in those pairings. I also like Pidge but I feel like if there's anyone in the main cast people should be mad about it's her--whitest character the only one who gets everything and a satisfying ending to boot. Straight up the writer's pet fav.

YOU MEAN TO TELL ME ONLY PIDGE GETS A GOOD ENDING???? BRO???????

I uh. My fandom interaction is PRETTY LIMITED so far lmfao, and I'm enjoying it that way. I am not a big shipping person mostly because like. I think a good writer can make near anything work!

I am again, a little... weirded out... that the only characters not voiced by white people are 2 aliens who have thus far lost an awful lot narratively (Allura especially so, in a way that is honestly so poorly handled by the show it makes my head HURT).

Hunk and Lance for me are.... falling pretty squarely into the unfortunate trope of Ambiguously Brown background characters which is a HUGE shame! They're SUPPOSED to be main characters! More to the point, Lance is like, our audience surrogate! He is us! Having him fall away so much is like having us viewers fall away.

I don't want erase the fact that the crew that worked on this show was NOT all white people. That'd be a massive disservice to all of the non-white people who worked on it! But I do think that the show would've significantly benefited from more time in the oven to ensure that white-biased tropes that are VERY COMMON to science fiction and can be reinforced subconsciously were less prominent in the show. Sci fi is Very White as a genre in the US. It just is. A lot of the language of the genre is HWITE. That's why good writers that CAN will take time to work through that! Make sure that you're not reinforcing racial biases in your writing! (Especially if 5/7 of your main characters are not necessarily white even by alien terms) (EVEN MORE SO IF YOU'RE GOING TO HAVE CHARACTERS THAT AREN'T WHITE BE VOICED BY WHITE PEOPLE)

And I think that (so far at least) for all that Lance and Shiro are, as you mentioned, compromised in service of Keith (which they are to some degree for sure lol), Keith too is compromised as a character in service of other ones– I remember REALLY EARLY in the show I pointed out that they made him a hypocrite without ever textually engaging with it, there's been several other instances of shit happening with him and being dropped or altered or just ignored.

Idk I think the character I'm most angry for rn is Allura, who is being forced to shrink down and lose her anger, lose her competence, lose her CONFIDENCE for them to make this plot happen rather than just letting her be herself and having the plot arise from there. Closely followed by my seething RAGE about how they treat Hunk. Just. Ugh. Makes me nauseous. Makes my skin crawl. It's horrible.

Don't be angry for just YOUR favorite characters! Be angry that there was so much story, so much life, so much cool stuff completely left on the table because this whole thing was clearly so rushed no one could guard against all this dumb shit happening!

WE NEEDED LIKE A SECOND, MAYBE THIRD OR FOURTH DRAFT OF THE WHOLE SHOW DAWG

(That said I am only about halfway done with it! So let's see how it pans out!)

#voltron #liveblogging voltron #voltron legendary defender #keith kogane #lance mcclain #shiro #princess allura #vld #vld keith #vld lance #takashi shirogane

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kairiscorner · 2 years ago

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For the I/atsv drafts:

14!

well hello hello again @sabcandoit >:) CONSIDER IT DONE !!

so imagine,

the atsv babes: when you lose your glasses

miles would probably see you at school as always, walk up to you and greet you a good morning, only to have you looking around, confused and restless, as you're muttering to a locker. "hey," he'd begin in the not-so-rizzing-up way and smile at you with his big, sweet smile as he looks at your back that's turned to your fidgety figure. "oh, hi miles." you say as you look at a mop erected on a clean up bucket by the janitor's closet. miles chuckles as he turns you around gently and holds you by the shoulders. "hey, quit playin', i'm over he--oh." he said in two starkly different tones as he sees your confused expression, your eyes seeming a lot smaller without those glasses that framed your cute face. you squinted to get a better look at miles, and you finally realized it was him. "oh, a cute baby deer is in front of me, i walked into a mystical forest, not school." you joked, and miles chuckled. "lost your glasses again?" he asked, to which you sighed and nodded. miles chuckled yet again, he loved you a lot, but you had a tendency to be a little scatterbrained. "oh, what would you do without me, chiquita?" he teased you as you pouted. he opened his locker, where there were photos of you two decorating the back of his locker's door, and with some of your stuff with him; notebooks, folders, pencil cases and books, and of course, your spare glasses if you ever lost your main pair. he handed them to you with a slight eyebrow raise and pout to match your expression. "for you, mi amor." he gestured so gallantly as you playfully rolled your eyes. "you practicing your spanish on me because of our test later, or because you want to impress me?" you quizzed him as you put on your glasses, him laughing a little at your bluntness. "come on, can't your boyfriend call you his one and only, linda?" he asked you sweetly as he took your hand. "you look really pretty with your glasses on, and even when they're off... i can't take my eyes off you."

gwen would have thought that a few lowlife bullies stole your glasses when she caught you in between periods at the hallway, wandering about, your hand extended in front of you slightly as you tried to weave your way through the crowd. gwen rushed over to you, knowing how bad your eyesight was, she was worried you'd bump into someone or something. she took your hand as she called your name, and you stopped. recognizing that voice, you turned your head to look at a fuzzy image of light blonde hair with light blue blobs on a face that looked distortedly concerned. "oh, hey gwinny." you said awkwardly, hoping it was gwen. "hi, where, uh, where are your glasses?" she asked you, to which you laughed nervously at that, scratching your cheek all the while, trying to come up with the right way to say it. "i... left them at home." you admitted. gwen sighed. "this is the, what, third time this month?" she asked as she held on to you tighter. you chuckled again. "ah, fourth time, actually." you corrected her as she shook her head and cracked a smile. "you can still read my handwriting, right?" "takes a while to register since you write your 'b's and 'p's so similarly, but i can manage. thanks, gwinny." you thanked her as she playfully hit your arm and smiled. "you owe me a tutoring session tonight for this."

pav would not have realized you needed glasses until he noticed how close you were to the papers that were posted on the bulletin board when he came up to you. "whatcha reading?" he'd ask you as he crept up towards you, and you'd've yelped a little in surprise, unsure who was in front of you until you saw a blurry shape of his signature hair. "now either it's spider man or it's just you, pav." you remarked sarcastically as pav grinned at you. "come on, don't kid around, you know it's me! spider man's not as dashing as i am, you know." he said. "sorry, you're just really blurry right now." you muttered as you rubbed your eyes. he tilted his head to the side. "blurry? wait... do you need glasses?" he asked, to which you perked up and looked at his direction. "...yeah." pav nodded as he leaned closer towards you. "well that explains why you keep leaning over to my side when we're in class, copying notes." he said as he brushed your hair off your face and smiled radiantly at you. "i've got you, though. i'll be by your side all day, i'll help you out as much as you need me to!" he beamed. "man, i really do wanna see you in glasses, though. bet you'd look super cute in them, and, oh, to have me pushing them up on your face when they're about to fall off..." he teased you as you blushed and pouted at him. "in your dreams, prabhakar." you spat at him as he chuckled.

hobie would have been slightly confused as you kept looking at the ground as you walked, and hastily looked up and around, waving your hands around as you tried to tread your way through the rows of people walking past you. he rushed over to you, concerned about what might've come over you. "you alright? you seem a little uncomfy." he asked you with a tone of slight worry as you looked up at the tall boy, making out a blurry image of his wicks and his dark skin as he placed his hand on your shoulder. "oh, don't tell me you got your lenses nicked off you." he said with a small smirk. you shook your head. "they weren't nicked, just... i lost them last night, and now i have to get replacements." you said with a sad sigh. hobie chuckled. "what's your eye grade?" he asked as he took your hand in his own larger ones. you blushed at the touch but cleared your throat to answer him. he nodded and smirked wider. "y'know, you could get yourself some replacements, go ahead, it's your personal liberty; but i'd... i'd like to make you some custom frames, courtesy of your beloved hobart. what do you say?" he asked as he leaned closer to you. "i'd... like that a lot." you admitted. "wonderful. now, let me make sure you don't stumble over your own cute little feet." he said as he lifted you up and carried you in a bridal style manner, out of concern you might bump into someone or something, of course.

a/n: HOBIE AND MILES KAKSKDJDJDKDFHFOFNFJDKKSNDKDLD

tags !! @k4tsu3 @pixqlsin @luvstarrstruck @fictarian

#atsv spiderman #atsv x you #atsv x y/n #atsv x reader #miles morales #atsv gwen #gwen stacy #hobie brown #hobie brown my beloved #atsv hobie #atsv pavitr #pavitr x you #pavitr prabhakar #gwen stacy x y/n #miles morales x y/n #hobie brown x you

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