#mostly science applications

[werederg]

Ugh I need to do Excel work today but I do not want to

[queensnarf]

I am begging you all to use Google Scholar. I beg. It is SO useful.

That said, there are some easy ways to check if something is credible without relying on a website or AI to do the research for you. To start– checking citation numbers of the article (the total number of times the article has been cited), impact factor of the journal the article is published in (number of citations per document each year with respect to the previous year), looking up the first person and the last person credited on the published work and looking into the number of times their other works been cited (assuming they have any), double checking that the people credited do not have any conflicts of interest (this can often be determined by looking into where they work and what their occupation is), checking if the article is peer reviewed, and also checking to see if the people that wrote or published their work received money to do so– all are effective ways to do your research for a credible source.

Not all of these individually are guaranteed indicative of if something is credible or not, but it's important to keep these details in mind if they start to add up, as they can offer insight into whether something is trustworthy. Especially if you happen to spot a lot of inconsistencies. Things like: "not a lot of citations" or "has only published once" or "received a grant for this publication" to name a few should raise a a few brows as unreliable. These are indicative of their lack of experience in their field and whether they had ulterior motives to publish (like monetary gain), meaning their work could've been rushed or they didn't do their due diligence in preventing human or written error.

For instance, a lot of pseudoscience or political think pieces rely on big name publishers and journals to trick people into thinking they're a reliable source. So if you happen to spot a name that's easy to identify from a quick Google search, sometimes people won't dig further into it. That's why the "vaccines cause autism" guy got away with what he did. Everyone saw the journal he published in (Lancet) and immediately believed him, because the journal he was permitted to publish in was famously believed to be credible. Actually reading the article he published though gives away so much that is wrong with the study, specifically that he didn't do any sort of research and essentially wasted paper talking in depth about how he abused a bunch of children.

And this is not to say that it's anybody's fault for falling for it, it is so easy to get caught up in a cleverly constructed lie. Just that if something sounds too good to be true or genuinely terrifying, it's usually an exaggeration and they're not as trustworthy as you might think. Double check if you stumble upon an article like this!

Generally, for an article to be a credible source, you want to find a peer reviewed article with a lot of citations and a high impact factor for the journal it's published in, as well as no sign of conflict of interest by the publisher. Most of the time, you'll find that a credible source comes from a long-time professor at a university, but even then, not even professors or graduates at big name universities can fully be trusted. The numbers don't lie though, find them on Google Scholar and check out their published works and total number of citations to see for yourself.

Lastly, most of this can easily be done on Google Scholar but I feel the best place to check for impact factor is SJR. Just type in the name of the journal you're looking into and scroll down to view the citations/doc. You might find that some of journals you believe are highly reliable have had a significant downturn in citations over the years. That doesn't automatically mean the journal is no longer credible, just that it may be "less" credible than it once was. And this can happen for all sorts of reasons, including having publishing an article in the past that was later disproven.

Anyway hope this offers some helpful insight! I'd post a tutorial on how to check for these things but I'm afraid I'm out of time. Best of luck out there!

[maryse127]

Applied for a job and my diploma, filled in surveys about my masters degree program and summer school and did laundry. Which is more useful things than I have in a while. But as usual this has come at the cost of eating. So yeah, let's have some very late lunch now I guess

[haorev]

I’ve been working on redstone stuff lately. I made a kind of janky 3x3 piston door (with the hole in the middle) all by myself yesterday without looking up a tutorial. I figured out how to have a staircase come out and part of the wall above it open so when the staircase is out you can go into a room upstairs and when it’s not you can go into two rooms downstairs without being able to see the upstairs room at all! It took me so long to figure it out bc pistons kept getting powered bc they were too close!

It’s a mess of redstone and I’m not even 100% sure how it works (other than copper bulbs are a LIFE SAVER since they’re t-flip flops on their own), but it does and it’s so cool.

Here’s a picture of the corner that kept giving me problems. I don’t know why it ended up working but it did. It’s on Java, I just have the bedrock-ify mod along with some other things so that’s why you can see the coords and the fps.

Here’s a video of the piston door. This one is on Bedrock btw (on my switch). The reason it has a hole is because I haven’t figure out how to do a vertical double piston extender on Bedrock bc quasi-connectivity isn’t a thing. I almost go it tho, but it only works every like 10 button presses and I don’t know why.

Am I shooting myself in the foot trying to get better at redstone on both Java and Bedrock at the same time? Honestly I don’t know enough to say for sure.

[jessiso]

"Culinary Experiment"

A Criminal Minds one-shot | Spencer Reid x reader

When Spencer Reid tries to cook dinner for you using a spreadsheet, flow chart, and a whole lot of science, the evening turns into a hilariously chaotic and heart-meltingly sweet experiment.

cw: just fluff

w/c 1,120

You weren’t sure what was more unbelievable—that Spencer Reid had insisted on cooking dinner for you, or that he’d done so with a spreadsheet.

Yes.

A spreadsheet.

You watched from your spot on the barstool at your kitchen island, elbow propped up, chin resting in your palm, as Spencer stood in your kitchen, completely focused. His brow furrowed like he was deconstructing a complex crime scene, not boiling water.

“Are you sure you don’t want help?” you offered gently, your lips twitching with a smile as he flipped through a very detailed, very color-coded printout.

“I statistically perform better in unfamiliar activities when I can approach them independently,” he said, without looking up. “Also, I took into account your favorite flavors, preferred spice levels, known allergies, and a few commonly paired palate enhancers based on culinary studies from the Journal of Food Science.”

You blinked. “Did you just say ‘palate enhancers’ like it was a crime scene clue?”

Spencer finally looked over at you, a crooked grin forming on his face. “I mean, taste is subjective, but it is largely guided by science. Flavor is a multisensory experience, affected by smell, texture, and even expectation. This pasta should be a success.”

You looked past him to the stovetop, where a suspicious amount of steam was rising from a pot he hadn’t checked in at least five minutes.

“Spence… do you even like cooking?”

He hesitated. “I like learning. And I like you. Therefore, cooking for you is… an intersection of meaningful variables.”

You melted just a little. Because of course Spencer couldn’t just say something simple. He had to say it like it was a thesis. But it still made your heart squeeze.

“Well, you’re cute when you’re concentrating,” you said.

He smiled again—this time shyly—and reached for a whisk.

Unfortunately, that’s when things started to go downhill.

“I believe this is the part where you fold in the cheese,” he said aloud to himself, eyes scanning the page like it might solve all of life’s mysteries. “But it doesn’t say how to fold it… there’s no actual folding.”

“It’s just a saying, Spence. Like, stir gently.”

He squinted. “That’s extremely vague.”

You got up to help, mostly because he was trying to pour a mountain of shredded cheese into the boiling pasta water, which was most certainly not correct.

“Wait, no—cheese doesn’t go in the boiling water. That’ll turn into a clump. Look, here.” You gently took the spoon and showed him the right pot. “It goes in the sauce. With the cream.”

“Oh,” he murmured, his cheeks going a little pink. “I guess I conflated two steps. I was trying to streamline the process using a flow chart.”

You giggled. “You made a flow chart for pasta?”

“Well, it is carbonara-adjacent, and I wanted to make sure the egg didn’t scramble. It’s all about heat application. Did you know that the Maillard reaction—"

“Spencer,” you interrupted softly, “I love you, but if you start talking about amino acids right now, I might laugh so hard I snort wine through my nose.”

He looked sheepish, and adorable, and you kissed his cheek.

Somehow, despite the chaos, you managed to help him get everything sorted.

The sauce thickened—though it was a little lumpy—and the pasta boiled just enough. He’d made salad (drenched in dressing, but lovingly assembled), garlic bread (a little burnt), and even tried to chill the wine (but forgot and put it in the freezer for an hour, so it was practically a wine slushie).

When everything was ready, he lit a candle in the middle of your tiny table like it was a Michelin-starred restaurant, and pulled out your chair.

“This is…” you paused, looking at the slightly clumsy but genuinely sweet meal in front of you, “perfect.”

He sat across from you, tucking one hand under his thigh like he always did when he was nervous. “You don’t have to pretend it tastes good. I know the sauce is uneven. And the garlic bread might be carcinogenic.”

“Spence,” you said seriously, setting down your fork. “You cooked for me. You made a literal spreadsheet of my favorite foods. You practically did math to make me dinner. That’s… the most ‘you’ thing ever, and it’s also the sweetest.”

He gave you a soft, earnest smile. “I just wanted to do something for you. You’ve been so supportive lately, and work’s been difficult, and—statistically speaking, couples who engage in acts of service for each other report higher relationship satisfaction and oxytocin levels. I wanted to raise your oxytocin.”

You burst out laughing, nearly choking on a bite of pasta. “You’re trying to hack my brain chemistry with pasta?”

He blinked. “Yes.”

You reached across the table and took his hand in yours. “You don’t have to hack anything. Just sitting here with you, sharing a half-burnt dinner and wine slushies, is better than anything five-star.”

His ears turned red.

You both ate slowly, sharing glances and laughter. The food really wasn’t bad—lumpy in parts, sure, but the flavor was there. And Spencer kept up a running commentary of “fun facts” about pasta origins and sauce viscosity and the psychology of comfort food.

“Did you know that food memories are some of the most emotionally potent memories we form?” he said between bites. “There’s a direct neural pathway between the olfactory bulb and the amygdala. So the smell of garlic, for example, can immediately evoke childhood memories or emotional states.”

“So what you’re saying is… twenty years from now, if I smell burned garlic bread, I’ll think of you?”

He tilted his head, thoughtful. “It is likely.”

You leaned forward, resting your chin in your hand again. “I really do love you, you know.”

His expression shifted, soft and full. “I love you too.”

Then, like he couldn’t help himself, he added, “And I’ve loved you since 57 days after we met. I know the exact day because you brought me coffee and remembered I don’t take sugar, and you smiled at me like I was the most interesting person in the room.”

Your heart completely melted.

“You remember the exact day?” you whispered.

He nodded. “I remember everything about you.”

You stood and moved to him, crawling into his lap without hesitation, curling your arms around his neck. He was warm and familiar, and you could feel his heartbeat picking up.

“You are such a nerd,” you whispered against his ear.

“Guilty,” he murmured, his hands sliding gently to your waist. “But I’m your nerd.”

You stayed like that for a long moment, the dishes forgotten, the candles flickering.

Eventually, he whispered, “So… does this count as a successful experiment?”

You smiled against his cheek. “Best. Date. Ever.”

[elodieunderglass]

Hi! I was wondering if you could help me out with a word I've forgotten? I'm trying to remember the name for a concept that (I think) talks about how people better understand or process Things once they have vocabulary to describe it - I've heard it talked about in regards to the colour orange, or coercive control, etc.

long story short i've just read a paper saying ancient Greeks and Romans weren't racist bc they had no word for racism and am trying to form an argument against!

(no worries if this is unanswerable, i'm aware its a bit of a long shot but you struck me as a person who Knows Things)

That’s extremely kind and funny of you. i don’t know much but i am ok at synthesis.

I think you might be thinking of the concepts loosely called the “Sapir-Whorf hypothesis”, which describes something called “linguistic determinism.” This idea has been “disproven”, as it is just too reductionist as a concept - people are clearly perfectly capable of having experiences that are tough to describe with words. There will be plenty of papers showing how this reasoning is applied.

but it is still commonly thrown around and still considered a useful teaching framework. That’s why you’ll see it referenced online as if it is fresh, new, and applicable - people learn about it every year in college. Also, elements of the framework are probably perfectly sound. It definitely seems to be the case that language shapes brains; it just doesn’t seem to be the case that humans who don’t have specific words for them can’t experience orange, or the future.

(Many things in college are taught using teaching frameworks that may not be, technically, true; the framework is intended to give a critical structure for interpreting information. Then, when we later find evidence that disproves the hypothesis, that single piece of information doesn’t destroy our expensive college education; what we paid for is the framework. This is mostly frustrating in the sciences, when fresh crops of undergraduate students crash around on social media, grappling with their first exposure to (complex concept) and how it’s DIFFERENT to what they learned BEFORE and their teachers LIED TO EVERYBODY and they’re going to save the world from POP SCIENCE by telling the TRUTH. You’ll notice that these TOTALLY NEW INFORMATION reveals map along the semester schedule. The thing here is that getting new information, or information being different from what you were previously told, does not cancel out the fact that you are getting what you pay for - an education. Learning new facts that change our relationships to hypotheses isn’t a ✨huge betrayal ✨ , but the expected process of academia. Anyway.)

You have an interesting response here, and can start by looking at the ways that Sapir-Whorf has been disproved. There will be loads of literature on that.

However, it would be interesting to look at the argument as an unpicking of the other side’s rather weird, ritualistic superstitious belief that a behavior doesn’t exist if the creatures doing it can’t describe it. It is not on the ancient Greeks and Romans to categorise and interpret their behavior for a modern educated audience. They do not have the wherewithal to do so. They are also fucking dead. We can name the behaviors we see, and describe their impacts, however the hell we like.

Sure, the ancient Greeks used “cancer” to refer to lumpy veiny tumors. We can infer that they still had blood cancer, because their medical texts describe leukaemia and their corpses have evidence of it - they just didn’t know it was cancer. But we do, so we can call it cancer. Just because Homer said “the wine-dark sea” in a flight of girlish whimsy doesn’t mean he was unable to distinguish grape juice from saltwater, which we know, because we can observe that he was an intelligent wordsmith perfectly capable of talking about wine and oceans in other contexts. We are the people who get to stand at our point of history with our words, and name things like “this person probably died of leukaemia” and “poets say things that aren’t necessarily literal” and “this behaviour was racist” and “that’s gay” and “togas kinda slay tho” despite Ancient Greeks having different concepts of cancer, wittiness, prejudice, homosexuality, and slaying than we do today.

Now just to caveat that people do get muddled about the concept of racism. Our understanding of racism from here - this point of history, with these words, probably from the West - is heavily influenced by how we see racism around us today: white supremacy and the construct of “whiteness,” European colonial expansion, transatlantic chattel slavery, orientalism, evangelism, 20th century racial science, and so on. This is the picture of racism that really dominates our current discourse, so people often mistake it for the definition of racism. (Perhaps in a linguistic-deterministic sort of way after all.) As a result, muddled-up people often say things like “I can’t be racist because I’m not a white American who throws slurs at black American people,” while being an Indian person in the UK who votes for vile anti-immigration practices, or a Polish person with a horrible attitude about the Roma. Many people genuinely hold this very kindergarten idea of racism; if your opponent does as well, they’re probably thinking something like “Ancient Greek and Roman people didn’t have a concept of white supremacy, because whiteness hadn’t been invented yet, so how could they be racist?” And that’s unsound reasoning in a separate sense.

Racism as the practice of prejudice against an ethnicity, particularly one that is a minority, is a power differential that is perfectly observable in ancient cultures. The beliefs and behaviors will be preserved in written plays, recorded slurs, beauty standards, reactions to foreign marriages, and travel writing. The impacts will be documented in political records, trade agreements, the layouts of historical districts of ancient towns.

You don’t need permission to point out behaviours and impacts. You can point them out in any words you like. You can make up entirely new words to bully the ancient romans with. You are the one at this point of history and your words are the ones that get used.

Pretending that “words” are some kind of an intellect-obscuring magical cloud in the face of actual evidence is just a piece of sophistry (derogatory) on the part of your opponent here. It’s meant to be a distraction. You can dismiss this very flimsy shield pretty quickly and get them in the soft meat of them never reading anything about the actual material topic, while they’re still looking up dictionary definitions or whatever.

[yuurei20]

Hello! I love watching ur videos on youtube💕, and this is my first time asking you a question, because I just finished reading the Book 7 part 10 in English. And I JUST FOUND OUT WE HAVE A CLUB?!

And I wanna ask when and how did this happened is there new clubs?, did they mention it in the main story and I just forgot? Thanks if u have time to answer!

Hello hello, thank you for this question! 🐱🍖

Yes yes, Grim and the prefect are in a club! 🥳

I am not sure if it was mentioned in the main story before 7-10, but it was mentioned in Ortho's College Gear vignette, Grim's labwear voicelines and is also listed in his profile!

(When Ortho comments on Grim's constant foraging for things like berries and grass Grim responds, "I ain't foraging! Eatin' stuff that looks edible is a legitimate Gastronomy Club activity!")

I found a twstsoku thread from 2021 of JP-server players wondering if the club existed previously and Grim joined later or if he founded it himself, and someone makes the point that as Deuce's blastcycle club creation application was denied, maybe first-year students are not allowed to found their own clubs? 📝

From there conversation is mostly around who the other members are, such as Pomefiore students and probably Ruggie at some point, but we learn in the novel that it was a club that Grim founded himself!

(There are theory-related reasons behind the rejection of Deuce's blastcycle club application, but nothing has been confirmed in-game.)

The novel and the game vary on many, many points, so it is safer to consider novel information as being canon only to the novel itself, as there might be entirely different circumstances within the game ^^

But as we do not have very much game information, it might be useful as a reference point!

From the second novel:

"Yuuya and Grim were told by the headmage that they would both have to choose the same club. As they were only able to enroll at all on the condition that they form two halves of a single student, it seemed like a reasonable request to Yuuya, particularly as he has also been charged with corralling Grim, as his prefect. Yuuya had no objection. Their issue had been not being able to decide on what club to join until right up until the deadline. Grim had not shown much interest in most of the clubs they visited. He had seemed intrigued by the Science Club, as their activities sometimes involved cooking, and the Pop Music Club, where the members share snacks during breaks, but his stubborn personality led to rejections from club advisors and members alike. Grim can simply not resist food. While debating what they should do, Crewel had shared with them that, while it involves numerous, complicated procedures, there are students who form new clubs on their own. And that is what they decided to do. Together they founded the ‘Gourmet Research Club.' Of course, it was Grim’s idea. ‘An’ what’s wrong with it? It’s the best club there is. All the delicious food we can eat.’ ‘If there's a relatively easy way to get that delicious food, that is.’  Due to financial restraints it was already difficult enough to acquire gourmet food at all. With some persuasion Grim had finally been convinced to focus on comparing edible wild plants, and their current mission is to find the apple tree with the most delicious apples on campus. When Yuuya explained that they were making a list of all the apple trees at the school, Ace and Deuce had burst out laughing."

I have seen curiosity that Grim would ever be rejected from the Pop Music Club, but that is possibly why it is emphasised that he was also rejected by club advisors? :>

Who the advisors are is a little vague (Crewel says that the arts clubs are his responsibility, so maybe him?), but it was possibly the Pop Music Club's advisor who rejected Grim rather than Kalim, Lilia or Cater 🐱

[yellowhollyhock]

Rise Raph vs 1987 Donatello

Raph likes to smash. He wants to go in there and smash things. Most often his plan is to smash, smash, and smash again. And this is because he loves to do it, not because he can’t think of other plans. Like, he faked defeat when Big Mama made them all fight different guys for I don’t remember why. Very clever plan. He also dealt quite handily with what’s her rabbit. But mostly he chooses to smash because he loves to so much and he is so so good at it.

Donatello likes to triangulate the position of something or other and be almost finished with his new machine. But when it comes down to fighting, he likes to BONK. And sometimes poke. Or even launch. Anyway for a little guy he can sure get in a lot of force. If anybody can outsmash Raph I really think it might be 87 Donatello.

Raph gets a definite advantage for passion. He loves to smash (did I mention that he loves to?). Donatello does enjoy some bonking once he gets going, but it’s not like, his first choice of activity. He would rather be triangulating to be honest. He is likely riding the high of so thoroughly beating Next Mutation Raph though, and he does love attention. Like a lot. No like you guys think Rise Donnie loves attention. Rise Donnie mainly wants attention specifically for being smart with science. 1987 Donatello has to give himself a silly voice when he dresses up in an outfit. He gives speeches unprompted about the nature of their existence and the woes of being a turtle. He stole a tank. He also just? Mocks Michelangelo? Unprovoked? Wakes his brothers up to see what he made, or has them waiting at the door because he’s been talking up what he is about to unveil but NO ONE IS ALLOWED TO SEE UNTIL THEN. He is the definition of are uncomfortable when conversation is not about me?? He has more restraint as far as technological capabilities compared to application but the thing is you see I think he does that for attention.

So anyway I’m back to them being equally motivated to win, Raph for his love of the game and Donatello for praise and adoration. They both have cartoonish durability. Donatello will be better at seeing the big picture, Raph will be better at seeing and responding to what happens in the moment.

[dayasfilms]

Chapter One - The In Between

Summary: It’s your senior year, so it was the time to submit your college applications. You still don’t know if you should take the next step with Steve. You also couldn’t help but worry about Barbara’s parents selling their house when you go to their house for dinner with Nancy.

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Fem!Reader

Warnings: No use of Y/N. Mentions of death.

Word Count: 3.7k

Note: Season two has begun! Not too much happens in this chapter since it’s the beginning.

Series Masterlist

ㅤ♡ ㅤ♡ ㅤ♡

The night sky stretched above you, scattered with stars through the darkness. The roads were mostly quiet, save for the occasional headlights flickering past. As you turned into the familiar parking lot, the neon glow of the Arcade sign came into view. You pulled into a spot, turned off your car, and stepped out, making your way inside. The glow of screens and music surrounded you before you spotted Mike, Lucas, Dustin, and Will, huddled around their favorite machines.

You leaned against one of the machines, arms crossed as you watched them play. “God, you guys are such nerds,” you called out, your voice loud enough to rise over the music.

Dustin spun around, squinting at you. “And you’re what? You think you’re so cool?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Uh, yeah. I’m literally the coolest person any of you know. I just hide it behind my straight A’s.”

Mike didn’t even look away from the game as he shot back. “Please, you’re a bigger nerd than all of us combined. You read a science textbook for fun.”

“Yeah, because I helped you finish your stupid science project,” you said, rolling your eyes.

Lucas laughed. “Nerd!”

You flicked Lucas’ head. “I didn’t say being a nerd is a bad thing. I love being a nerd.” You looked at Mike. “Plus, Wheeler said it himself. I’m smarter than all of you combined.”

“I said you’re a bigger nerd than all of us combined.”

“That’s literally the same thing, Mike,” you snickered.

Will laughed softly beside you, nudging your arm. “They won’t admit it, but they missed you.”

Dustin threw his hands in the air. “Did not!”

“I did,” Will said with a small smile.

You glanced down at Will, ruffling his hair. “You’re the only one here with manners, unlike these losers.”

Mike crossed his arms. “You know, for someone who calls us losers all the time, you hang around us an awful lot.”

“I only ever hang around you guys when I’m with Jonathan or Nancy,” you corrected. “I have no interest in being around any of you.” You looked down at Will. “Well, maybe except Will.”

“Yeah, sureee,” Lucas dragged.

You pushed off the machine and motioned to Will. “Come on, Will. Time to get you home before your mom gets worried.”

As you walked off with Will, you heard Dustin mutter. “Why do I like her?”

“Because you’re delusional,” Mike replied.

“Because she’s hot and smart,” Lucas added.

“Exactly,” Dustin said dreamily, then blinked. “Wait…what?”

As you opened the door, you caught a glimpse of a guy from your school, Keith, staring at you while loudly munching on a bag of chips. You grimaced and quickly looked away, stepping outside before he had the chance to say anything.

You and Will climbed into your car and you turned on the radio. Backing out of the parking lot, you glanced at Will from the corner of your eye. “So, did you have fun tonight?”

Will nodded eagerly. “Yeah, I did.”

“I’m glad,” you said, flashing him a smile as you turned onto the road. “Did anything interesting happen?”

“Yeah! Someone named Mad Max beat our high score on Dig Dug,” he said, sitting up straighter in his seat. “It was over seven hundred thousand points!”

“Woah, that sounds super high!” You responded, genuinely impressed, even if you didn’t know much about video games.

“It is. We tried to find out who Mad Max was, but Keith…you know Keith, right? He goes to your school?” He asked, glancing at you.

You hummed, raising an eyebrow. “Unfortunately, I do.”

“Well, he said he’d tell us who it was…if we got him a date with you.”

Your jaw dropped. You blinked and quickly recovered, letting out a startled laugh. “Oh, uh…seriously?”

Will nodded. “Yeah. We told him no, of course. No way were we going to hand you over to some guy like that.”

You burst out laughing and reached over to affectionately pinch his cheek. “I knew I could count on you guys.” He grinned proudly, and you let the silence settle for a moment before glancing over again. “Anything else happen?”

Will went quiet. You noticed the way he stared out the window, his expression distant.

“Will?” You said softly.

He blinked and turned to you. “Huh? Oh, no. Nothing else.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” he said, looking back out the window.

You didn’t want to push him. If it was important, you trusted he would tell you eventually. If not you, he would tell his mom or brother. Still, a part of you couldn’t help but wonder what was going on in his head.

Soon, you pulled up to the Byers’ house. The porch light was on, a warm glow spilling over the driveway.

“Tell your mom and Jonathan I said hi, okay?” You said as Will unbuckled his seatbelt.

He nodded, giving you a small wave. You watched him until he disappeared inside safely, then turned your attention back to the road.

A loud honk echoed from outside, prompting you to grab your bag and rush toward the door. “Bye, mom! I’ll see you later!” You shouted over your shoulder.

Yasmin appeared at the top of the stairs, zipping up her jacket. “Bye, sweetie! Stay safe and make sure Steve isn’t speeding this time!”

You rolled your eyes with a grin and shut the door behind you, locking it before jogging to Steve’s car and getting into the passenger seat.

“Hi,” you said, a little breathless as you settled in.

Steve leaned over the console, giving you a quick kiss. “Morning, honey.” He watched you toss your bag into the backseat, then pulled down the sun visor to check yourself in the mirror. “How’s my girl doing this morning?”

You felt warmth flooding your face at the name. You smoothed a hand over your hair. “Tired. I had to finish my English paper after picking up Will last night. I fell asleep as soon as my head hit my pillow.”

He chuckled, pulling out of your driveway. “I already know that you wrote the best damn paper in that class.”

“I don’t know,” you sighed. “I’m hoping it wasn’t too bad but I feel like it was a little rushed.”

He rolled his eyes and took one hand off the steering wheel to gently squeeze your thigh. “You worry too much.”

You glanced at him with a soft smile and laced your fingers with his, holding it there as he continued driving to school.

It had been almost a year since you and Steve started whatever this was. You weren’t officially back together. You told him you weren’t ready to take that step, not yet. Still, he remained by your side, affectionate as ever. He’d kiss you in the hallways, carry your backpack, and wait for you after class. People asked all the time if you two were dating again. But you never said anything.

Whenever Steve gently brought it up, you would dodge the conversation. You changed the subject, made a joke. And Steve never pressed further. He hoped you would tell him when you were ready.

As Steve pulled into the school parking lot, you both sat in silence before he shifted the car into park.

“Hey,” you said, turning toward him. “Didn’t you say you finished writing your college essay? Did you do it?”

Steve hesitated, then reached into the backseat and pulled out a crumpled sheet of paper from his bag. “Uh, yeah. Can you read it? Just tell me if it sucks.”

You took the paper from him and leaned back in your seat, scanning the handwritten pages. Steve watched you closely, trying to read your face as your eyes moved across the lines.

You didn’t say anything right away, trying to think of the nicest way to put it.

Steve let out a sigh. “It’s crap, I know.”

You looked at him sharply. “No, it’s not crap, Steve.”

“It’s not good.”

“It’s going to be.” You grabbed a pen from your bag. “Can I mark it up?”

Steve shrugged. “Yeah, I guess.”

You circled a few phrases, tapping one part. “Okay, so you used the basketball game against Northern as a metaphor for your life, which is actually clever.”

Steve looked surprised. “Really?”

“Yeah,” you said, giving him a small smile. “But then here…” you pointed to the middle of the page. “You start talking about your granddad’s experiences in the war. I don’t really see how it connects.”

He shrugged, trying to explain. “It connects because…” He realized it made a lot more sense in his head. “Because, you know, we both won.”

You blinked, head turning away from him back to the essay in your hands.

“Do you think I should start from scratch?” He asked, voice tight with worry.

You hesitated. “Don’t start over…just refocus it. When’s the deadline?”

“It’s tomorrow for early application,” he answered. “Can you come and help me tonight?”

You winced. “I have my dinner tonight with Nancy and Barbara’s parents, remember? We had to reschedule from last week.”

He let out a frustrated sigh, running a hand through his hair.

“I’m sorry,” you said softly.

He didn’t say anything at first, just stared through the windshield.

“Okay, look,” you offered. “Work on this tonight, okay? I’ll look at it again tomorrow.”

Steve didn’t respond.

“Steve.”

He finally looked at you. “What’s the point? I’m just gonna end up working for my dad, anyway.”

“Don’t say that.”

“I don’t know,” he said, saying your name. “Is that such a bad thing? There’s insurance and benefits and all that adult stuff.”

You frowned. You knew how strained things were between Steve and his dad. The idea of him settling for that life, not by choice, made your heart ache.

“And hey,” he said, voice softening. “If I stay here…I’d be close when you go off to college in the city. Someone’s gotta keep an eye on you.”

You pressed your lips together. “Steve…”

He smiled. “Just to make sure you don’t forget about this pretty face.”

You laughed under your breath but quickly sobered. “What if I move out of state?”

He paused, then smiled again. “We’ll figure it out.”

You looked at him for a long moment before he reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his hand cupping your cheek.

“I love you,” he murmured, his forehead resting against yours.

You didn’t say anything back, instead closing the gap. He gently kissed you, soft and warm, like he meant every second of it.

A loud engine revved in the distance, cutting through the quiet buzz of the parking lot. You and Steve turned your heads just as a blue Camaro came roaring in, the tires screeching a little as it made a dramatic turn before pulling into a space.

Both of you stepped out of the car, eyes locked on the scene.

A guy about your age climbed out of the driver’s seat. From the passenger side, a much younger girl with red hair hopped out, grabbing her skateboard, and pushed off toward the middle school.

“Is he new?” You asked, slinging your bag over your shoulder.

Steve shrugged, shutting the door behind him. “I think so. Never seen him before.”

The two of you started walking toward the school entrance. Steve kept glancing back, clearly sizing the guy up.

Just then, Tina’s voice rang out from across the lot. “Would you check out that ass?”

You turned to see her standing with Carol and Vicki, all three of them openly staring at the new guy like he was some kind of movie star.

You made a face. “Gross.”

You looked at Steve, who had the exact same unimpressed look on his face. The moment your eyes met, you both cracked up, laughter spilling out as you walked.

You waved at Jonathan in the hallway, his classroom directly in front of yours as the two of you walked out. The two of you walked side by side to your locker, where you put your math textbook back.

“How was bio?” You asked, balancing your books on one arm.

Jonathan shrugged, adjusting the strap of his bag. “We had a sub. She made us watch this weird documentary. Half the class fell asleep.”

You smiled. “Jealous. Mr. Davis just gave us thirty questions on logarithms. I think my brain is still smoking.”

Jonathan let out a quiet laugh. “Sounds like hell.”

“Eh, I love math. It was still exhausting though.” You swapped out your books before you looked at him with a smirk. “So, how’s Nancy?”

Jonathan looked over, brows slightly raised. “Good? Why?”

After Steve and Nancy broke up, you and Nancy began to hang out more, building a closer friendship. Sometimes, Nancy would hang out with you and Jonathan. The two weren’t as close, but they shared quiet moments here and there. Occasionally, the three of you and Steve hung out together. The tension was never awkward between Steve and Nancy, so Nancy didn’t mind your relationship with him.

Still, you could always sense a different kind of tension between Nancy and Jonathan. The kind people pretend isn’t there but it so obviously is. You weren’t sure why it was taking them so long to admit it.

“No reason. Just curious.” You nudged him with your elbow, before closing your locker. “How’s Will?”

He shrugged. “He’s…okay. Thanks for dropping him off last night.”

You waved a hand. “Of course, no need to thank me.”

“Still though,” he said, before turning the conversation. “How’s Steve?”

You looked ahead, falling into step with him again. “He’s good. Just stressed about college, I guess.”

Jonathan nodded slowly. “I keep forgetting it’s your last year of high school. Can’t believe you’re going to be gone next year.”

“I know,” you sighed, a quiet ache settling in your chest. You didn’t want to think about leaving Jonathan behind.

“Are you two officially together yet?” Jonathan asked, glancing sideways at you.

“Um,” you hesitated. “No.”

He furrowed his brows. “Why don’t you just tell him?”

You shrugged. “Whenever I think about it, it just…seems like a stupid reason to get mad over, you know?”

Jonathan gave you a puzzled look. “Then why don’t you want to take the next step if it’s something so stupid?”

You opened your mouth to answer, but nothing came out. That caught you off guard.

Before you could think of anything to say, the warning bell rang overhead, followed by the usual rush of footsteps and voices flooding the hallway.

“See you later?” You said, adjusting the strap of your bag on your shoulder.

He nodded, watching you walk away. “Yeah, later.”

“Hey,” Tina called your name, shoving a flyer into your hand as you passed her in the hallway. “Be there.”

You gave her a tight-lipped smile, before it dropped as soon as you turned the corner. You glanced down at the orange paper inviting you to Tina’s Halloween party and barely noticed the figure leaning casually against your locker.

Two arms suddenly wrapped around your waist and spun you in a circle. You let out a startled shriek. “Steve!”

He set you down with a grin, and you turned to face him, still catching your breath. “I missed you,” he said, his voice low and teasing.

You raised an eyebrow when you spotted the sunglasses on his face. “Take those stupid things off.”

“Why? You don’t like it?” His lovesick grin was impossible to ignore, his hands still resting lightly on your waist.

You laughed, shaking your head as you opened your locker and stuffed your textbooks inside. “It’s a little goofy.”

Before you could say anything else, he cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing gently against your skin as he leaned in. His lips met yours softly at first, but the moment you leaned into him, he deepened the kiss, tilting his head slightly to the side.

His fingers slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, holding you close like he didn’t want to let go. The kiss made your thoughts melt away, until you remembered where you were and pushed him away. His forehead rested against yours, a crooked smile tugging at his lips.

“I really missed you,” he murmured.

You rolled your eyes with a small grin. “I saw you an hour ago.”

“Yeah, an hour too long.”

You sighed, a playful smile tugging at your lips, before showing him the orange flyer. “Tina gave me this.”

He glanced at it. “She gave me one too. You want to go?”

You shrugged. Parties were never really your thing, but since this was your senior year, you wanted to make the most out of it. “I mean, I don’t see why not?”

“Are you sure?” He asked genuinely. “I know you never really go to these parties.”

You laughed. “Yeah. We can show off our matching costumes we planned out a month ago.”

His eyes lit up, his lips curving into a grin as he leaned in again, brushing his nose against yours. “Okay, honey, sounds good to me.”

You bit your bottom lip to hide the smile creeping up, then stepped back as you shut your locker.

You pulled up into the Wheeler’s driveway, beeping the horn lightly as you waited for Nancy to come out. After a moment, she appeared, stepping out of her house and shutting the door behind her before walking to the passenger side of your car.

“Hey,” she greeted, smiling as she slid into the seat

“Hi, Nance,” you replied, returning the smile before backing out of the driveway.

The drive was quiet, but comfortable. The two of you had grown closer over the past year. You would even go as far as to say she was one of your best friends.

Barbara’s parents invited Nancy to dinner, but knowing how hard it might be for her to go alone, she’d asked you to join her. You knew how much Barbara’s loss weighed on Nancy, the guilt still there whenever her best friend’s name came up. It was hard to watch her struggle with it, especially since she blamed herself for what happened.

The car rolled to a stop in front of the Holland’s house, now glaring with a ‘For Sale’ sign in the front yard. You both stepped out of the car, making your way up the driveway. Both you and Nancy paused, glancing at the sign, then at each other. Nancy’s lips pressed together tightly, her eyes momentarily clouded with sadness before she quickly masked it.

As you reached the front door, you and Nancy stood quietly.

“Ready?” You asked softly.

The girl nodded her head. “Yeah.”

You pressed the doorbell, and moments later, Mrs. Holland opened the door with a warm smile, immediately pulling you both into a gentle hug.

After a few polite exchanges and questions about how everyone had been doing, the three of you walked to the dining room. Mr. Holland was already seated at the table, and he stood briefly to greet you both. “Girls, good to see you. Sit down, please.”

You and Nancy took your seats across from the couple. Spread across the table was a familiar assortment of food in KFC boxes.

“I’m so sorry I didn’t get to cook,” Mrs. Holland said, clearly flustered. “I was gonna make that baked ziti you guys like so much, but I just forgot about the time, and before you know it, ‘Oh, my God, it’s five o’clock.’”

Nancy offered a small smile, barely touching her food. “It’s fine. It’s great.”

You nodded reassuringly. “Please don’t worry about it, Mrs. Holland. This is more than enough.”

She smiled at you both and began to eat.

After a moment, Nancy glanced your way, then looked back at the couple. “So, I noticed a ‘For Sale’ sign out in your yard. Is that the neighbors’, or…”

Mrs. Holland looked at her husband with a small smile. “You wanna tell them?”

He gestured towards her. “Go ahead.”

She turned back to you and Nancy. “We hired a man named Murray Bauman. Have either of you heard of him?”

You and Nancy exchanged puzzled glances, both shaking your heads. “No,” you said.

“He was an investigative journalist for the Chicago Sun-Times,” Mrs. Holland explained.

“He’s pretty well known,” Mr. Holland said, handing you the guy’s business card. You read the name and number as Nancy leaned in beside you to get a look.

Mrs. Holland continued, her voice more hopeful than you’d heard in a long time. “Anyway, he’s freelance now, and he agreed to take the case.”

You looked up from the card, lips parting. “That’s…Wow, um, that’s…” you paused. “What do you mean?”

Nancy echoed your question. “Yeah, what exactly does that mean?”

Mr. Holland spoke this time, voice tinged with frustration. “Means he’s gonna do what that lazy son of a bitch Jim Hop–” His wife put a hand on his arm. You looked at him, tilting your head at the name he called Hopper. “Sorry. What the Hawkins police haven’t been capable of doing. Means we have a real detective on the case.”

“It means…” Mrs. Holland began, her voice shaky. “We’re going to find our Barb.”

“If anyone can find her, it’s this man,” the man said, a hopeful smile on his face. “He already has leads. By God, he’s worth every last penny.”

You looked down at your plate, your appetite gone. A tight feeling crept up into your chest. You glanced at Nancy, whose face had grown pale, her eyebrows drawn together.

“Is that why you’re selling the house?” She asked quietly.

Mrs. Holland placed her fork down. “Don’t worry about us, sweetie. We’re fine. More than fine. For the first time in a long time, we’re hopeful.”

Nancy blinked quickly, her jaw tightening. She stood up from the table. “Excuse me. I’ll be right back.”

You watched her disappear down the hallway, your heart aching. A strange, sinking feeling stirred in your stomach. Barbara’s parents were going to give up their home, give up everything, all in search of answers they would never truly find.

[kissesandcigarettes]

0:1 | air ball

LOVE ON COURT ╱ MINISERIES

↳ MASTERLIST

— pairing: basketball player!vinnie/tutor!reader; college!au

— word count: 5.9k+

— warnings: language, drinking, broken family dynamics, grief, mentions of past abusive relationships, terminal illness, character death, mentions of sports-related injuries, uni students doing nsfw things, character death, implied and explicit smut

summary: vincent hacker has the hearts and love of everyone in the 32,423 student body population of UCLA, on and off the court. everyone except for you, that is. you would chug down an entire bottle of ethylene glycol before you would think about placing your name in the same sentence as “love” and “vincent hacker.” it really is too bad that you didn’t think of this before you agreed upon tutoring him for an entire year.

a/n: longer author's note is at the end, i hope you enjoy the first part of this story🤍

the main floor of the tutoring center in the science and engineering library is uncharacteristically quiet, devoid of the constant, never-ending disorder that gives life to the machine-like organized chaos otherwise running this space. 

your eyes flit back and forth between the clock on the wall and the blue piece of paper – a student pre-evaluation sheet – laid down in front of you on the table. your fingers are busy with spinning and flipping a stray pen you found lying on the table earlier, a poor attempt at trying to stop yourself from leaving if you keep track of time with each passing minute. you’re itching to go, sitting close enough on the edge of your seat to fall, one leg bouncing up and down as the heel of your foot keeps rhythm. your body is taut with unreleased tension, wound up so tight you’re scared that if you let it unravel its hold around your muscles, there will be nothing to stop you from bolting out the door. 

you tell yourself that you will for sure leave this time if the student you are supposed to be meeting doesn’t come exactly in the next five minutes – but then again, you had said the same thing more than an hour and half an ago, so you doubt you’re going to stick to your word now. 

you laugh a quiet laugh that tastes bitter on your tongue as your mind spins up some out of place joke about how you got stood up over a tutoring meeting before you have ever gone on a first date. 

leaning your pounding forehead against your open palm as you shake your head in the tragically comical nature of your current reality, your eyes focus on a marker scratch on the table as you freefall into your thoughts. the dimly-lit room consoles your headache, your eyes falling shut against your will as exhaustion wraps around your resolve.  

you have been a tutor for almost two years now, having started working as one when you were a first-year student. you had applied for the job on whim after seeing a flyer about it among the many others on the main bulletin board in the student union’s plaza and stuck with it ever since. at the time you were desperate for a job, having moved away from your home without the luxury of having someone to rely on for supporting your finances if you fell on hard times. after numerous applications and unanswered emails, the green and blue flyer appeared before you like a beacon of light. over the course of the following quarters you spent as a student at UCLA, you grew immensely attached to your position, the main reason being your deep passion for teaching and providing equal learning opportunities for all. 

more than that, you liked the structured and steady routine the job had allowed you to get into amidst the chaos of your first year trying to figure out the workings of university. as your schedule was determined for that quarter, everything fell into place naturally – going to class during the day and tutoring at night, with your spare time mostly devoted to studying and/or getting involved in some student organizations, and of course looking for research opportunities, which you had done by floating through various labs in the chemistry department, with the help of professors who welcomed your eagerness and strong work ethic with open arms.

now that you think about it, your routine back then hadn’t changed all that much as a third-year student. your days still consisted of those dreadful 8am lectures and long study sessions in quiet reading rooms and devoting your spare hours to tutoring in the science center – only now, whatever little spare time you had were spent locked up in dr. ratanawa’s lab, whose cohort you had decided to join at the beginning of your second year, poring over samples and running batches of experiments and writing scrupulously detailed notes for the ever-growing-almost-final draft of your thesis stored in the depths of your laptop. you had claimed a lonely lab bench in the corner of the lab as your own, the top of which now was covered in colorful test tube racks, various pencil holders filled with bright neon highlighters, notebooks that contained all of your recordings and taped scraps of paper and post-it excerpts for your thesis that came about in your mind spontaneously, and other miscellaneous equipment you needed the most, such as pipette tips and clean test tubes. 

sprinkled throughout all of this were brief coffee breaks in the trustee garden - a coveted square piece of lush, shaded greenery, dotted with wood-and-metal benches and cut through with large cobblestone pathways, hidden amidst the towering giant concrete buildings of the sciences - for cherished moments of sunlight, almost falling asleep in the shower when you were the last one to come home and your flatmates were asleep, the campus cafes’ baristas knowing your order by name too much for your liking, and if you needed to put the pent up stress in your body to good use, going to the campus gym. the last one didn’t happen as often as you wanted, but it was better than nothing. 

long story short, you had managed to somehow elongate your 24-hour days into 25, sometimes 27 hours. if he could, einstein would rise up from his grave to give you a kiss on the forehead.

well, that was before the school’s athletics department decided to throw a fucking bulldozer of a wrench into all of it.

you don’t know who you should be more angry with: the head of athletics, who put pressure on the head of the science center to find a tutor in your group of already overworked and overstressed tutors, or yourself for being the one who readily accepted to take on the extra, un-paid hours in a brief moment of sheer, pure fucking stupidity that would make michael from the office break the fourth wall and reach through the screen to throttle you if he witnessed it.

bless your heart for your endless supply of senseless altruism. 

as the clock ticks the minutes away, it being almost 7pm and the student already being two hours late to the meeting, your anger is shifting dangerously more in the latter direction. 

after the initial wave of pure red you felt towards the balding and wire-glasses wearing man, steven or steve something, for not even bothering to learn if what he was asking was allowed or not - or not being considerate enough to wonder if you had a life of your own - dissipated, you felt much of that misplaced anger had been towards yourself from the start. anger for not being able to say no to authority figures when you needed to, anger for not being able to form firm boundaries between yourself and overcommitting, anger for your boss’ attempts to advocate for you going unheard. anger that an entitled and spoiled ball chaser’s needs are being prioritized over students who don’t have guarantees for a cushy future and have no choice but to succeed in the ruthless, cut-throat environment that is academia and beyond.

your thoughts come down crashing and burning, shattering throughout the scattered corners of your mind as your fingers stop mid spin to firmly slam the pen down on the table. 

“fuck it.” you mutter behind gritted teeth. you have waited more than long enough for this entitled brat who can’t read a clock to take the courtesy to show up and you refuse to wait any longer. you move to gather your stuff, shove your laptop in your bag with more force than necessary and grab your water bottle—

—just as the door swings open so hard it creaks at its hinges, hitting the wall behind it with a loud bang that makes you bite your tongue in alarm as it rams through the absolute silence of the building. the water bottle in your hand drops first onto the table’s edge, then onto the floor, rolling away soundlessly. 

a guy stumbles through the door, looking as if he ran all the way from the other end of the campus, quite literally breathless as his chest heaves, loud enough that you can hear the shudder of his breaths that struggle to fill his abused lungs. he looks like a racehorse trained to the brink of exhaustion, with his hair falling down to conceal his face as he bends over, hands clasped on his knees, back moving like a rising and falling mountain.

thank fucking god that you have grown to develop nerves of steel since childhood, because if you had been someone with less wits, you would’ve let out the most inappropriate shriek.   

“h-hey, are you okay?” your first instinct is to say, your hand instinctively reaching out to hover in the air as you hesitate whether you should reach for the guy or let him recover on his own. you swallow with difficulty as you watch his back spasm in a way it definitely shouldn’t. your other hand reaches for your phone in the pocket of your coat, your mind working on figuring out what you would say to the operator in the likelihood of dialing 911. 

“are-are you looking for someone–?” you try next, unsure of what to say when you don’t know if he can even hear you. you haven’t taken a single anatomy course outside of high school but have been around pre-meds too often to know that his ears must be ringing with the deafening beat of his pulse, loud enough to make your words go unheard, the thick rush of blood throbbing in his forehead.

“the tutoring center is closed for the night,” you say, your voice louder this time and steady despite the blood rushing past your own ears and your heart thundering a bruising beat against your ribs. you place a tentative palm over the left side of your chest, gently stroking over the spot as if you can calm it down.

you think that he may not have heard you once again when he doesn’t acknowledge you, but his breathing seems to be in better condition, so you repeat yourself after clearing your throat. you taste blood on your tongue when you speak. nerves of steel, indeed.

“the tutoring center is closed for the night. can i help you?”

the guy moves to stand upright, breathing more under control than when he first barged in, the only indication of his earlier exertion being the redness staining his cheeks and neck on his otherwise pale skin.

“i was–” he still sounds a bit winded, drawing in a deep breath that scrunches up his face before continuing, “–i was supposed to meet with a tutor named (y/n)? are–” another deep breath, a pant, “are you her?” 

as your startle reflex diminishes, your heartbeat reverting back to its natural rhythm and your hands left feeling clammy, you realize this must be the student you were paired with. the ringing in your ears subsides as your initial shock quietly but swiftly gives way into your earlier anger. keeping your face neutral despite your mind trying to go against you, you decide to go along with where he is taking this conversation to.

“yes,” you speak more coolly now, no trace of your earlier worry for the guy’s wellbeing left in your tone. pulling up the zipper of your coat, you shove your hands into its pockets as your lips move around the metallic taste in your mouth. “do i know you?”

“i’m vinn–i mean, vincent hacker–” he stops abruptly when you don’t make any indications of showing that you know or at least are familiar with his name. you continue to stare at him blankly, cocking an eyebrow as if what he said explains everything. you hope that you are at least masking the anger you felt earlier as it kindles back to life, not wanting him to realize he’s gotten under your skin already. 

the look on his face is that of confusion, his eyebrows pulling into a light frown. “uh, i’m…vincent hacker? i’m on the basketball team? i was told that you are the tutor assigned to me? for chem 30A? dr. orlov’s class..?” 

you get the feeling that this situation is not common for him, and neither is the lack of confidence in his words. when you don’t make any attempts to reply to this either, he stops talking all together, an expression of unease and uncertainty beginning to rise rapidly over his face. his frown deepens into one that strains his forehead. 

“am–am i in the right place? this is the science and engineering library, right?”

“right,” you say tightly, slinging the straps of your bag over your shoulders as you walk around the table to stand in front of him, yet maintain a good distance. “let me ask you this, then. do you realize what time it is, vincent?”

he blinks a few times as if it takes a moment too long for him to register your words. his eyes look around then for a clock in the room, even though you can see the lit-up screen of an apple watch peeking underneath the sleeve of his student athlete-issued hoodie. 

“um–” he stammers while his eyes continue to dart around, and you can almost taste the panic on his face seeping into his voice. 

“it’s quarter past seven, vincent.” your voice snaps his attention back to you, eyes still moving about everywhere except for your face like he is searching in his mind what the time means, and finally remembering it as his panic shifts into a sinking sense of realization across his features in one single sweep. 

“we were supposed to have a meeting - this meeting to be specific - exactly two hours and fifteen minutes ago.” you say dryly, tilting your head slightly towards the side. “you know, to discuss how i can help you do better because you are struggling in the class? so that you can stay in the team for the rest of the season? or did your coach not tell you about this?”

you see the flush of red that had settled down crawl steadily up his neck and reach his face once again, no doubt his ears that are hidden underneath his hair, too. he shifts in place awkwardly, crossing then uncrossing his arms, then finally tucking his hands in his pockets and looking away from your accusing eyes when he meets your scalding gaze for a brief second. he doesn’t say anything, but the response is as clear as day on his face that you don’t need to waste your time with giving him the benefit of the doubt thinking it could be something else. the ticking of the clock on the wall accompanies your breathing, the slight shudder you feel as you draw air in through your nose. it’s so quiet that you would hear a pin drop on the carpeted floor.  

“i’m so sorry. i didn’t mean to be so late.” his voice is apologetic, colored with what you think is shame, which catches you off-guard. you had expected him to be defensive, not standing here with his head bowed and cheeks burning with embarrassment. you don’t know what to make of it and if you should believe him. is he being truthful? you want to believe he is. you think the downward curl of his lip and the way his eyebrows have scrunched up and his voice is so quiet and the flush on his skin has become deeper with each word isn’t an act. you notice the puffiness surrounding his eyes, most visible underneath where you also notice are prominent bags and darkness as if he hasn’t been sleeping. you almost feel sympathetic towards him, ready to ask – 

is everything okay?

– but the small, cruel voice that hides in the back of your mind and rears its ugly head out only at times when you want to give in to your emotions pipes up. whispering cold, sharp words mockingly into your consciousness, it pulls you back from the edge you’re standing on of softening your gaze and dulling the bite of your words. you don’t even realize the shift within yourself until you start thinking again. you highly doubt his words. it’s just another way for people like him to charm others to gain undeserving sympathy and make the situation when they’re at fault work in their favor. the shame you saw in his face and heard in his voice suddenly makes red flash across your vision and burn your tongue as if you held it over an open fire. there is a bitter, all-consuming ache blooming in the middle of your chest that winds up your throat and settles in the back like an unmoving lump. you swallow with difficulty around that weight, your fingers catching on the material lining inside the pockets of your coat as your hands curl into fists. 

he cracks his fingers one by one as his hands hang by his side, voice timid almost as if he wants to disappear the way the syllables disappear at the back of his throat. “the coach made us all stay back longer because we started late and there weren’t any shuttles running at night because it’s friday so i–”

something in you snaps. the small voice chuckles like nails scraping on ice. your throat aches in tandem with the ache inside your chest. 

you stupid fuck. stupid, stupid girl. 

“no. no–vincent–just stop.” you cut him off with a startle, shaking your head as his words die out underneath the force of yours. “are you really going to do this? i mean, isn’t this getting old for your crowd – blaming your coach every time? like, what are you trying to accomplish by giving me all these excuses to cover up the fact that you’re lying?

he almost does a double take at the way your tone shifts - not a slow build, but a snap that echoes like a crack in the air between you. the pressure of the weight behind your ribs finally bursts, the ache filling the space inside like steam rising from a fissure. you watch as his eyebrows rise - not too much but enough so that you see the movement on his forehead - his lips parting open. the flush of warmth on his face dissipates away like water going down the drain as your words hit him across the face like a bucket of cool water. this, you can tell, was not what he expected to hear from you. 

you continue when he doesn’t speak, letting out a dry scoff that sticks behind your tiredly aching teeth, pushing loose tendrils of hair out of your face. the words seem to tumble out before you can reel them back in or find the reason in yourself to stop and address your logic. “i don’t have to do this, you know. i really don’t. i don’t know if you even thought about this, but do you realize i’m taking time that i don’t have out of my night to come here, only waste all these hours i could have used otherwise to instead wait on you?”

he looks at you with an expression you can’t pinpoint as to what exactly it is when it’s a combination of many things at once – shock, surprise, embarrassment, confusion. except for that moment just before a rising swell of anger, which you know all too well. you don’t like the way he’s suddenly scrutinizing you, as if he is looking at you underneath a microscope, as if he could see right through you if he wanted to with just a few turns of the focus knobs and tuning the sharpness, holding light to whatever you are keeping hidden inside you in dark corners. 

“are you done so that i can get a word in too? or do you think everyone likes listening to you speak as much as yourself?” he says in a steady voice that betrays the ticking in his jaw, yet the words bite deeper than just at the surface level like you pretend they do. 

“i’m just wondering, do you automatically accuse everyone you’ve known for less than five minutes of being a liar if you don’t like what they say? or am i the only exception?” he continues, his eyes narrowing slightly as he continues to scrutinize you with that searching gaze you think you don’t like at all. 

you hold back a scoff that had been climbing its way out of your throat. “i would say the head of the athletic department coming to request private tutoring for you, plus the fact that your spot on the team hinges on your grades and gpa, should’ve been enough to ring some bells, don’t you think? or do you still think i’m automatically accusing you, just wondering?”

his frown deepens at your words, and you take that as a sign of his growing frustration as you confront him with the truths that brought you here into this moment. 

“i know the logistics of what i need to do to stay on the team.” he deadpans, his movements stiff as he straightens his stance now that the initial surprise has worn off and he can match you head on. a simple straightening of his back fixes his posture, which makes you look him up and down when you realize how imposing his frame is when you see him this close in the flesh. “what i don’t get is how you made me out to be a liar when you don’t know anything about me besides the fact that i’m an athlete and doing poorly in a class.”

so, he’s not entirely as dense as you thought. 

crossing your arms to meet his stance, “it’s simple, really, and it’s quite easy to understand. you just don’t want to.” you quip back. “this meeting was arranged almost a week ago, which means you should’ve been well aware of meeting me here today last friday. which means that there should be no excuse for you to be more than two hours late. you’re just arguing-”

“–i’m arguing? you’re the one who started going off on me the moment i walked in here-”

“–because you’re trying to cover up your own ass for being neglectful and not taking responsibility over your academics and you’re trying to make me look like the bad person here-”

“–trying to make you look like the bad person?” he tilts his head in confusion, eyes widening and face scrunching like he ate something sour. “what are you talking about? i was trying to apologize to you and you would’ve rightfully gotten it if you didn’t cut me off like that when you did. seriously, do they hand out attitude like it’s candy when you get hired? because i’m starting to think it’s part of the job.”

“on the contrary, vincent, does every single athlete i have the misfortune of working with have to read a manual on how to make entitlement and arrogance a part of your personality? because i’m starting to wonder if humility exists for you only when you’re speaking to the cameras for espn courtside.” your palms grip around your forearms so tight that the material of your coat wrinkles to stop your voice from wavering as your anger threatens to boil over. “why don’t you think about bringing your sense of responsibility off the court too, rather than blame the ones who are actually doing well and trying to help incompetents like you?”

yikes yikes yikes. that was a blow so low that it would have made your mom slap you across the face in retribution if she were in your life.

he barks out an incredulous laugh, like a hot knife poking at your nerves, but you don’t miss the expression of deep hurt flash across his face as quick as lightning or the way he flinches at the insult like you physically struck him. a deep, chasm-like silence stretches between your bodies before he breaks it.

“incompetent? no - now you’re just taking this way out of proportion and making it into something else entirely. who gave you the right to be this disrespectful, my god-”

you should stop. you really should. 

but you don’t. 

“-you’re the last person to be giving me a lecture on disrespect when you-” you point your finger towards him, “-don’t even have the decency to come up to me and ask me to give you tutoring yourself-” then point at yourself with the same threatening gesture “-or the courtesy to let me know that you will be late and make me waste my night by sitting here doing nothing.”

“i didn’t have any way to contact you.” he says as if that’s supposed to be the explanation for everything. “you didn’t leave any of your personal info with anyone from the team, so i couldn’t reach out you even if i wanted to.”

what? you’re absolutely sure you had your phone number and university email written on the form you gave to the athletics office – if anything it’s mandatory for you to provide that for the benefit of the student. how did they not give it to him all this time? 

but still. you don’t think that’s valid enough to justify his negligence when you’re keeping up with the responsibilities on your end more than someone else in your position would have. 

“that’s no excuse.” you almost seeth, the words coming out of your mouth rapidly as if they can hurt him with their speed. every new piece of information that leaves his mouth adds onto the notches that you’re collecting in giving rise to your fury. “you could’ve come here during our regular hours. there’s a secretary here that you can leave a message with, she could have saved it for me and let me know when i was here the next time.”

vincent lets out an exasperated sigh, rubbing a closed fist over his eyes which you notice look very red and irritated even from the distance. “i don’t have time during the day, do you not get why-”

“then you make the time for it!” you slap the back of your hand against your palm in frustration. you realize distinctly that you’re yelling, but you can’t seem to stop once you let it out. “just like i am trying to make the time for you when i don’t have to. you’re all so inconsiderate–you just–you just look out into the world from a tunnel and can’t see anything around you besides yourselves and that fucking court. do you think i want to be here at this time of the night? that i just have free time lying around to use up because i’m bored? no, i’m stretching myself thin to help you out, but you obviously don’t even care about any of this!”

a muscle tics in vincent’s jaw as he grits his teeth, staring at you behind narrowed, wet looking eyes and a sharp, dissecting gaze. you think it would indeed be intimidating to be on the receiving end of that stare if you weren’t the person you were. 

when he talks, his voice is cold as ice and distant as the look in his eyes. there’s no sharpness, no emotion behind his words, which scares you more than if there was underlying anger in them. with the latter, you would know that he is matching you head on, that he feels the same as you do so that you are right in some way to be so harsh with him. but when he is completely numb like this, as if this brief argument just carved his insides and left him hallow, you feel as if you are yelling at a child who doesn’t know any better. 

“where are you getting all of this from, huh?” his voice is rough, but there’s something else beneath it too - not just anger, but something close to exhaustion. “who made you believe you’re so special that you think anyone who’s not like you is stupid or not busy enough? do you know what i have to do to–” 

he cuts himself off as if he realized he was about to give himself away, jaw clenching hard as he bites down on the words that almost escaped out, as he looks at you with an expression you can’t understand. his face slackens at his near mistake, but shutters back up just as quickly. a sharp inhale makes his chest shudder. shaking his head, he wipes a hand tiredly down his face. you shove down the urge to rub your eyes, moving past the stinging ache that’s consistently been there the entire day. you are once again thankful that the room is dimly lit and you don’t have to squint to see him like a newborn mole rat.

“nah,” he huffs out an empty sound that breaks into shards in the air. “nevermind. it doesn’t matter what i tell you. nothing i say would change your mind, would it?”

you scowl at his words, raising an unimpressed eyebrow. “i don’t have a reason to when all you’re going tell me is how hard it is for you to practice every other day and just do the bare minimum to pass your classes-”

his eyes flash. “-here you go again with this crap, who gave you the right-”

“regardless of whatever else you have going on outside of your academics, the fact that i was asked to accommodate you, by someone that i wasn’t given much of a choice to say no to, for you to act like this, says a lot about how this will go.” 

vincent looks at you in disbelief, as if he can’t comprehend how the conversation spiraled so out of control so quickly. you feel like you are stranded on a floating raft in the middle of the ocean, struggling to stand on it. you are trying to stay afloat, keeping the raft from tilting too far in one direction by constantly shuffling in place. but one movement too much, just one sudden disturbance, and you will both get swallowed in the salty depths of the waves. eventually, though, one of you will move too much, and you will both fall over into vast, unknown darkness. you just don’t know who it will be yet. 

vincent looks at you in what you can only call puzzled, hurt disbelief. “i seriously don’t understand you. i told you i was sorry, i was trying to apologize until you decided to go off with that tirade.” he shakes his head, a hollow laugh escaping him. “forget it. i can’t– i can’t do this if you’re just gonna give me this-this attitude, whatever this is-” he gestures at you with his hands, “-every time you see me. i would rather fail that class and retake it than have to see your face every day.”

you laugh bitterly; you knew in your gut your argument would end in this way. the raft is slippery and unsteady underneath your feet as vincent inches away to the other edge, jaw tight and shoulders squared as if he’s bracing for the incoming fall, and you think you will need to push only a little more before you are both drowning. you’re not surprised, but disappointed in yourself for believing maybe this would have been different. you really should reduce your expectations if nothing else but for your own sanity.

“it pains me to say this, but i think we finally agree on something here.” your left eye pulses in a slow twitch from the exhaustion of the past couple days catching up with you. it’s crowding inside your brain, your thoughts and words going fuzzy as you grip onto your adrenaline to keep you awake until you can get home. “i don’t think that we’re a pair fit to be working together. i can’t tutor someone who won’t take responsibility for his own actions and don’t know what his priorities are when they’re so obvious.”

you walk up to him, closing the distance between you by reaching out to hand him the piece of paper you had been holding onto just in case. “here’s the form that you need to fill out to have someone else replace me. it might take a while since there’s only a few of us, and everyone is booked already for the year. thanks to you and your team for that architectural monstrosity you call an arena, we lost our previous budget and had to settle for a new one that cut down half of the staff here.”

his eyes are seething and red as he rips the form out of your hands - too fast, too rough - the sharp edge of the paper slicing clean through the underside of your finger as you move your hand back. the cut is clean and burning, but you don’t register the pain right away - you feel the breaking sensation through your skin before you feel the pain. it sends a small shock through your hand and you bite down on your stinging tongue to trap the small gasp that forms at the back of your throat. instead, you match his gaze with an equally furious one of your own - and you’re horrified to find that he’s not looking at your face, but at the hand you’re cradling in your palm. you don’t look down to see what damage lies there; instead, you close your fingers over it tightly and completely to hide it away, putting your arms down, which makes him look back up at you. underneath the redness and swelling in his eyes, you see something else flicker in his pupils - something like regret, but it’s gone before you can catalog it for processing later when your mind isn’t so consumed by anger. 

you stare at him for one more second, then shoulder past him as roughly as you can and head out the door with big steps, shutting it behind you hard enough it slams close with a bang that echoes in the empty hallway. you don’t bother with calling the elevator, knowing it will take ages to get to the fourth floor, and make your way down the emergency stairs, taking them as fast as your feet will move. 

you notice the sensation of something sticky and warm pooling inside your closed palm when you push open the door to step outside, the crisp, chilly night air hitting your coat-warmed body all at once. you open your trembling, tightly closed fist to see that the cut is bleeding, more than you thought it would. there is a thick rivulet of it running down that you look at with a dull gaze. you blink away the angry tears forming in your eyes as a shiver settles into your body, wiping them away harshly with the back of your hand as you let out a shaky breath. the pain of the cut is acute, but it’s real, grounding you when everything else feels like it’s spiraling. you walk to the bus stop with your free hand pressed around your bleeding finger, prying it away only when you can’t tolerate the cold wind chilling the warmth of the tears sliding down your cheeks. 

you just want to get to your apartment and sleep this night off to forget about it, hoping that tomorrow morning you won’t remember any of it.

a/n: it's been such a long time since i've been active on here, let alone write anything, but this was a little something i had been working on while i was away. the university i went to was HUGE on their men's basketball team and i started to think about if vin was in an engineering major student athlete on the basketball basketball team with a fireball of a STEM tutor thrown into the mix and here we are.

i love my reader character already, she means so much to me you guys don't understand. right now it looks impossible for her and vin to be in a romantic relationship, let alone a friendly one, but doesn't the transformation make it all the more satisfying?

i want to hug vin in this chapter. i just know it that he was holding it together when the reader was there but the moment she left and he went home he had a good angry/hurt crying session lying down on his bed. he may or may not have listened to music, i'll leave that up to you to decide and pick the song.

i was debating whether to make it one-post long or divide it up into a multi-part series and considering this part is almost 6k words alone...i think it's the healthiest option to do a multi-part miniseries. i still feel rusty about writing and edited this so many times (and will undoubtedly come back to edit again after its posted) so i hope it's not boring or dull or a drag to get through. thank you thank you thank you if you finished this rambling all the way here. if you enjoyed, please leave down your thoughts about any part of it - your words mean the absolute world. until next time, sending much love to all of you🤍

[tryingahandinholdingapen]

thinking about the "consensual but not safe or sane tag" but like. what if instead of referring to sex it was referring to Tobirama's dubiously ethical science?

Imagining a fic/universe in which Tobirama is actually pretty well liked by his clan because he invents so much cool stuff they can then use (seals, jutsu including healing jutsu, knowledge, miscellaneous inventions) but you know, Tobirama needs to test things out sometimes. Theory is all well and good but ideally you don't want to be testing something for the very first time when you actually NEED it to work. But the ethics are. Dubious

Like he'll make sure he's certain of the theory before he does anything, and if applicable he will try to test it on mice or something before leaping to human testing. But if animal testing would be difficult/impossible for a particular invention (including diagnostic or healing jutsu, and some combat jutsu) he WILL just jump straight to human testing. Also sometimes "certain of the theory" means "I am certain one of two things will happen here, one of which is the desired result and the other...Isn't."

When talking human experimentation he prefers his subjects to be allies if possible. This is partly because of Hashirama (he assumes Tobirama wouldn't do anything too unethical/harmful to their allies, which may or may not be a flawed assumption but so far hasn't been an issue) but mostly because Tobirama is like. Well. One of the main advantages of testing something on humans is that they can give me coherent feedback on exactly what they experienced/felt/etc,but if the human in question is a prisoner or captured enemy they'll probably just fucking lie to me about it and that would impede further research quite significantly. Nah. Best stick to allies as test subjects

I want to say this is a universe in which a) because naruto-verse is so anachronistic and what people know is further complicated by jutsu vs technology vs keeping secrets, Tobirama's first step in helping the Senju clan develop the more complex healing jutsu was "figure out anatomy"; AND b) rumours abound about Senju Tobirama being an evil mad scientist who aims to steal bloodline limits and experiments on prisoners and there's always screaming coming from his lab... most people either fully believe this or are like "I'm sure he doesn't do any unethical experiments or test anything on humans or hurt anyone at all ever (except in battle/missions)" both of which are, of course, wrong. Just, in opposite directions

Anyway

Scenario in which an insignificant Senju is captured by another clan (Uchiha? or would it be funnier for them to learn secondhand?) and one of the first things the captors are discussing is after stripping them of weapons etc and possibly changing their clothes (look its pretty standard practice to have ninja wire, senbon, etc hidden in your clothes, it's a BAD IDEA to leave a prisoner in the clothing they had prior to capture) is "hey what the hell are these scars about?? were they tortured before or something??"

(okay pronouns are getting confusing with using plural they for captors+singular for prisoner+he for Tobirama so I'm deciding the prisoner uses she/her for sake of easy comprehension with pronouns for now)

And so at some point they question the prisoner and she's p out of it (concussion and or drugs and or shock and or genjutsu so she answers p easily she's like "which scars?"

and whoever is leading the questioning goes, "well, for starters, these scars here. when were you tortured and who by? how did you escape? (subtext: is this smth we need to be aware of/take into account and also how do we stop you escaping us the same way?)"

and she pauses a moment because what "I've never been tortured?? this is also the first time I've been captured. embarrassing really. normally people just try to kill me s'not like I'm important"

and the leader goes "..okay. how did you get these scars then?" whilst another of their group talks over them to say "wtf do you MEAN you've never been tortured it looks like someone cut you apart!"

and she goes "lab day :)"

and the leader takes a hint from the interruptor's wild gesturing to press "...how does a 'lab day' entail being cut apart?"

and she, alarmingly casually given shes talking about her own insides, clarifies "well, anatomy studies. duh. hard to study the insides of a person when the outsides are in the way, yknow?"

alarmed silence

"just cut...there, and there", jerking her chin towards two horizontal scars on one arm, "line between them..." there is indeed another scar connecting them, like a poorly proportioned H, "..and then pull the skin back to see underneath."

more horrified silence

"like flaps! or the pages of a book!" she continues (un)helpfully, "and then you draw out what you see under the skin, ideally with annotations and stuff. we've got some pretty good charts now"

"...and you say you've never been tortured before."

"nope!"

"and you don't classify that as torture because..?"

she's all blank confusion

"torture is damage or genjutsu or emotional pain inflicted by an enemy with the intention of extracting information and/or causing a victim to suffer," she reels off by rote. "that, another jerk of chin towards the scars in question, "was none of those?"

"...right."

"well I guess technically it was an attempt to extract information, yknow, the information being 'what does the inner arm look like in this spot', but if that alone classified it as torture then every conversation and observation would also be classified as torture, so..." she's still really out of it and getting distracted

"..of course. so your captor wasn't intending for you to suffer, even though you still have scars even now?"

"I mean, this was like. five months ago. I scar real easily but I also heal pretty well so those ones should be almost invisible in maybe three years?" she frowns belatedly processing "hey! captor's a bit harsh. I only had any restraints at all because I get real fidgety real quick and I kept moving too much when I tried to see what was happening. not a good idea to move around when someone's got their hands in your insides. my cousin is way better at staying still and still seeing what's going on, lucky bitch, so doesn't have to deal with restraints at all"

"you were conscious when this happened."

"yeah?"

"surely if they didn't want you to suffer the easiest option would have been to just knock you out until you had recovered from the.. injury. keeping you awake and not suffering, as you insist you werent, seems far more complicated"

she's kind of confused by this "well, yeah it was sort of complicated to figure out and implement and stuff but if I wasn't aware that wouldn't be nearly as useful?"

"...what"

"well. in this PARTICULAR case I guess it didn't really matter but USUALLY on lab days being aware is helpful. tobirama-sama says one of the top reasons to use human subjects is you can actually get active feedback on how they're affected since they can just tell you"

one of the interrogators, somewhat further from her and (mistakenly) too loudly not to be heard "god fucking DAMNIT I thought those rumours were exaggerated"

[slowd1ving]

Hi! I love your lookism fics, I would love to see your take on Seongji Yuk x gn reader. Something sweet and simple would be great!

I see that you like using science metaphors and im curious to how many can you use in one fic. I’m a complete chemistry nerd 🤓 😂

THE MUNDANE . 　⁺ ✦ SEONGJI YUK

In which an amateur stargazer finds that no, they do not teach biology in Cheonliang, and yes, gravity does in fact affect everything with mass. woah... gravitational fields.... woah inverse square law... woah, G.... ik you probably wanted more chemistry but I couldn't resist the physics gnawing away/// arghhh pairing: seongji yuk + gn reader warnings: prejudice (quite literally lookism) wc: 1.3k

LOOKISM MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

There’s a monster living in the Cheonliang mountains. 

A flutter of cloying kindness greets you when you first pull up to the rural village: tires burning on summer asphalt, senseless droning of cicadas, and warm rain seeping through your thin clothes. No rhyme or reason as to why you decided on this particular village to stop by; though, the rhyme might just be the hiccuping couplet of your pulse. Specifically, this pair of beats as your motorcycle drives past the tunnel; heavy, like two black holes encountering each other for the first time. Spinning, spinning. As the wheels on your bike do, naturally. 

Six fingers and toes, he’s cursed by the gods! Hark, my children—

Newton’s theory of gravitation dictates any particle with matter attracts any other with a force inversely proportional to the square of the distance between them. This is the inverse square law. It’s used for practical and theoretical applications, but it’s pretty useful when considering why people are drawn to something when they are close to it. Emotionally, physically, empathetically. Psychologically. See, once one begins to increase the proximity of two souls, there is a certain degree of attraction that occurs consequently. 

Pray should you ever encounter this one, for he is but a merciless, mad beast.

It’s a stagnated hum that twines through the fields. Little kids begin the verse, and their elders finish it while you leisurely drive past. Over and over. They play hopscotch to the rhythm in their secluded playgrounds, clap their small hands to the beat, and seem to have no eerie feelings behind their bright smiles. A distorted tale, wound through with the modest price of one person’s dignity. There’s a basis for every tale, after all—bitterly warped to suit the storyteller’s perspective. 

Do not pity the one abandoned by all. 

Thus, when you begin the winding slopes through the fields and up around the mountains, it reduces the distance between you and the epicentre. You trust your gut. You believe (mostly) that what compels you to park your motorcycle on this particular trail is no madness, but rather a tangible, logical reason. A scientific one, if you will. You’re a mass, the monster of Cheonliang certainly is a mass—thus gravity objectively binds you both. 

It’s not entirely implausible to suggest the rumours entice you as much as anything, but the heavy telescope bound to your vehicle is as good a reason as any to stop by this eve. And that: the buzz in your very cells, that seem to divide simply to tug you in the direction of the sprawled forest. Stargazing in Cheonliang it is, then. 

Despite your idle curiosity, you don’t go looking: quietly setting up your equipment in a clearing where the breeze flows cleanly, like fragile forgiveness in a peaceful room. It’s a saccharine solitude—as sweet as tanghulu when you close your eyes. 

“It’s dangerous.” Those are the first words you hear in this village that aren’t blighted by eerie insinuation. Here, where the mountain is solitary and sepulchral, that is the only time you find someone who isn’t the real monster in this mired town. Human, flesh and blood and warm. 

“Isn’t everything?” You peer through the eyepiece experimentally, focusing on the calm tide in his voice—

“No need t’be a smartass.” His cadence becomes slightly rougher as you hear a dull thump; by the movement of syllables, you’d judge he just leaned against a tree. “Was a piece of friendly advice.”

Hmm. You look away from the sky that’s somehow cleared up—miserable grey giving way to faint periwinkle, then atrament smattered with incandescent freckles—then at the stranger peering right back at you. 

“What should I be wary of, then?” There’s a relaxed sort of ease in your body, one you’re unfamiliar with. 

He stares at you askance, as though you’re an idiot. 

“Strangers,” he answers brusquely, pointing at himself. “Haven’t you heard the rumours about this place?”

“Oh.” You turn back to the equipment, leaning down to bring the height of the scope up comfortably. Stars, you think dreamily. “That stupid song? Here I thought you’d say boars or something.”

“Stupid song?” he echoes. “And you still went up?”

Six digits on his left hand as it sways downwards, six on the right hand nestled in his pocket. He’s tall, so much so that anyone would feel intimidated staring up at the guy. Close—he’s close by, which is perhaps why you gravitate towards him. Two masses, feeling greater force with greater proximity. This was the epicentre that drew you here. 

“Is biology class illegal here or something?” you counter incredulously. “Do I need to pay attention to fear mongering?”

“No,” he murmurs thoughtfully. “I guess you don’t.”

It’s strange. Your first encounter with Seongji Yuk can only be classified as abnormal. Gazing at the massive bodies scattered across the heavens, it’s perhaps common sense that the man next to you interests you as much as those heavenly giants. He’s closer, after all—kneeling down beside you so he can peek up at stars just as large as him. 

Maybe it’s fate. Maybe it’s simply science that ties the two of you together. He gives you his name, you offer yours in return. Seongji Yuk. Lying in the grass with damp seeping into your shirt, you ramble about astrophysics, while he carefully coats fruits in molten sugar. Shards as sharp as the words at the base of the mountain, though far sweeter. 

He’s cautious—you can feel his eyes on you as you sit on his wooden steps. In fact, his eyes trail after you when dawn breaks and it’s time to move on to your original destination. 

“I’ll come visit,” you vow, for the cycle of orbit has already begun. Two masses have drawn closer to each other, and naturally begin the spin round their counterpart. 

“No one told you about stranger danger?” You’re too damn trusting: haloed in ditzy stars, the type in cartoons when characters hit their heads. Except it’s permanent, and you don’t look stupid, but rather awash in their glow. 

“Everything’s dangerous,” you evade sheepishly, and that’s that. 

Summer comes and goes, but it’s fine not bringing your telescope in the chill of autumn. After all, you’ve found something equally as captivating to stare at. Inky eyes, dotted with such a shine that it looks like a star’s emerged rather than a pupil. 

It’s as if the year is put into distillation—monthly visits condensing into fortnightly ones, then weekly ones, before you’re driving the hour down to this place every few days. He’s made you a little space in his house: one where you can snooze on a spare futon with little worry for safety. For there’s no place more secure in a ‘monster’ lair than by the side of a so-called ‘monster’. 

“Quit staring,” he warns, matter-of-factly while the axe collides with the wood on the stump—cleaved neatly in two, almost too cleanly. 

“You’re pretty, I just can’t help it,” you sigh, leaning back on the creaky porch. There’s a book by your side: a thick text filled with particles and numbing quanta. 

You’re strange. He’s had this thought for a while, but especially today. In fact, you may be more supernatural than he, for each time you say such things, his heart skips one or two beats. Like clockwork, the mechanical nature of your spell is guaranteed: mouth going somewhat dry, ears seeping with a faint crimson, eyebrows creasing minutely. 

Why? 

“Have you seen yourself?” you counter incredulously, and that is when he realises he did not keep his thoughts silent. “You’ve literally got stars in your eyes, man. You….”

Ah. It’s moments like these where he feels so utterly ordinary; listening to you ramble on about things he doesn’t particularly understand, just like anyone else his age. 

It’s nice being bound to someone like this: close to another, experiencing the gravity that draws two people together for himself. 

Science is a perfectly plausible thing to believe in, after all. 

[rosebudshifter]

meet mary, the librarian - big bang theory dr-self

age: 22

𝑴𝑨𝑹𝒀 didn't think she would ever live on the west coast, but when her application as assistant librarian was enthusiastically received by the pasadena school district, she quickly finds herself in sunny southern california. a new apartment, new city... & knowing absolutely nobody.

𝑰𝑻 𝑰𝑺 𝑯𝑬𝑹𝑬 𝑶𝑼𝑹 𝑺𝑻𝑶𝑹𝒀 𝑩𝑬𝑮𝑰𝑵𝑺: her downstairs neighbors are (mostly) normal and are (mostly) happy to rope her into their science-based shenanigans...as long as she doesn't sit on one specific spot on the couch.

xo, 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐞𝐫

[ladykailitha]

I have decided today I am giving out my Steve Harrington headcanons, because I love him so much.

His parents are very rich. His dad is new money, self made. His mom is old money.

His father is Indiana born and bred, but his mother is from Kentucky. She doesn't have her accent anymore because she trained herself out of it. Though it does show up when she's drunk or angry.

I know everyone does Richard (Dick) for his dad mainly for the lols, which I respect, but I think his name is Clint. It's just rich dude bro enough, you know? And then for the mom I go back and forth between Maureen and Allison. Allison because that's Ally Sheedy's character in The Breakfast Club and I often use her looks as bases for Mrs. Harrington.

They were never meant to be parents. They had the one because that's what was expected of them, but no. They don't like kids.

I don't know if his dad is only verbally abusive, but he is some kind of shit. Steve was so scared of him finding out that there was alcohol the night Barb vanished that that was all that consumed his thoughts. And even in season 3 Steve tells Dustin (thinking he was his dad) that he doesn't do drugs, just marijuana. Meaning that's something they've fought about a lot.

Kids of good parents rarely smoke, drink, smoke pot, and have wild parties all the time as an under-aged teenager. There are no doubt exceptions, but most of the time it's kids who are neglected and abused that are the ones that act out like that.

Steve had nannies and baby-sitters growing up that he saw more than his parents. But he would still be taken on actual vacations with them. Mostly to show off that they do have a son.

He was in baseball in middle school but quit when he got into high school. His parents put him in as many after school activities as they could. He was taught piano. Went to swimming and was so good at it, he joined the team in high school. Played basketball throughout both middle and high school. But he was forced to dropout due to the concussion Billy gave him his senior year. It's why he sneers at Brenda at the game when she says it would ironic if they won the championship the year after he graduated. Because he wasn't even on the team his last year.

When he turned sixteen they gave him his BMW. No, he did not get to pick the car or the color, but he takes very good care of it. Does a lot of the maintenance himself. One of the few things his dad taught him, but because you needed to know enough to make sure your mechanic wasn't ripping you off.

He can cook. But only if he has a recipe to follow and will get upset if it doesn't look like the picture. Is a consummate baker though. Because everything has a reason it's done like that and it makes sense.

Definitely a fall baby. That's why he was able to lifeguard for three years even if he didn't lifeguard after his senior year due to him working at Scoops Ahoy.

He's bad at math and science which is why the Party teases him all the time, but he's great at English and history.

Only applied at the schools his dad thought were "appropriate" and didn't get in. But to be fair, he was still suffering from a concussion when those applications went out and he wasn't really at his best. Just above his worst if he was honest.

He likes his preppy clothes and while he laughs it off, it upsets him when he's made fun for it.

Alt rock fan all the way. Depeche Mode, The Cure, New Order.

Has a list of the Party's likes and dislikes for food and other things, so he is the best gift giver. He doesn't spend a lot of money, though he has been accused of that a couple of times. But he prefers well thought out gifts over expensive ones. It's why Max, Eddie, and the Byers boys love Steve gifts. They never feel pressured to one up him.

Complete romantic. Loves being in love, but it was hard to pick up the pieces of his broken heart after what happened with Nancy.

Loves Robin, but even though it is sometimes weird, it never veers into creepy or obsessive. Robin is absolutely the vodka aunt of the party to Steve's mom.

When Eddie comes into the group, they tease him that's he's the dad to Steve's mom. Because as goofy as Eddie is he absolutely wouldn't let the kids get into real trouble.

Steve the romantic gets absolutely wooed by Eddie and never is made to feel wrong footed when showers Eddie with the affection he would for a girl. It's nice for a guy to receive flowers sometimes too.

Steve favorite flower is sunflowers. But his favorite color is blue.

He absolutely keeps the vest. Refuses to give it back. Which Eddie is surprisingly okay with.

I could go on forever, but I'll stop there for now and if I come up with more I'll add them later.

[officialspec]

thinking really hard about your brisbane meshi au rn . any more thoughts u have that u haven't shared please my family is starving

none of this is fully fleshed out yet but i can drop some stuff ive been thinking abt in the background :}

the canaries

pattadols mother is a city councillor and started a restaurant as a rehab centre for community service (and then forced pattadol to manage it). either her or her mother is constantly on senshis ass for being unpermitted which is part of the reason he hates elves

mithrun is an ex-adrenaline junkie, im thinking either rock climbing or urban exploration. got disowned from his rich family after suffering a traumatic brain injury on an outing. currently works as line cook i think

fleki and lycion are both ravers, unsure if lycion would have the beastkin tats since im still undecided on magic existing in this au. they roughed it together for a while and now share a 1bed somewhere southside with a rescue dog and like 15 birds they dont technically own. lycion is waitstaff and fleki is a cook :9

otta i have no clue. sorry girl. shes waitstaff/cash handling and flirts w the customers

cithis is hostess OBVIOUSLY. got got doing fraud like 3 times and they couldnt make the charges stick until the fourth. also flirts w the customers but doesnt mean it as much

amendments to previous stuff

one of my friends suggested falin studying mortuary science and im mad i didnt think of it sooner. so thats what shes doing now

marcilles current thesis is on telomere length in jellyfish and the potential applications to oncology research. laios thinks its insanely cool and sends her a lot of (mostly unrelated) papers he finds on scihub

still trying to figure toshiro out. best i have currently is his father sent him to work retail in his late teens to become more worldly or whatever rich ppl do and thats where he met laios and namari at their first job. i feel like i had more but its not coming 2 me atm

[littlemisslomax]

if (Crush), return NEO;

college!pre-matrix!Neo x fem!Reader ch. 1 - choking on words inspo: @discoscoob 's College Neo Bot!

1993

It was a cool and breezy fall day at MIT; the sun shone, birds chirped, and students were all around the populated campus, getting to class or just meandering about.

Well... All students except for one: Thomas Anderson. A junior at this prestigious school, working towards his bachelor's degree in Computer Sciences and Engineering with a concentration in C++. He sounds very studious, doesn't he? Yeah, you'd think he would be, but here he is, in his campus apartment, fallen asleep at his computer. The chunky keys of the Macintosh II keyboard were imprinted into his face, and the drool dribbled out of his slightly agape mouth dripped down his cheek and all over the spacebar. It's 11:30 a.m. Thomas has a class in 15 minutes that he absolutely can't miss: Central Functions and Application of C++ with Dr. Brazhnikov. Will he wake up? God only knows... he's snoring like a freight train and is out. for. the. COUNT.

Thomas' dreamland is full of hot chicks, sexy all-black futuristic outfits, and being a total badass. Yeah, like that would ever happen. He is sleeping peacefully and soundly, that is, until one of his roommates, Chris, bursts through his door. "Thomas!!" He said frantically, running over and shaking Thomas awake. "Ugh-- Five more minutes..." Thomas whimpered and whined, not even opening his eyes, the keyboard clicking underneath his face as he moved. "Thomas, we'll be late for Dr. B's class!! Get the hell up!" Chris kept shaking him. It took him a minute, but once those words wafted into his foggy and sleepy brain, Thomas shot up from lying over his computer and quickly went into panic mode. He ran over to the dresser and threw on a plain white tee, a pair of black joggers, and some sneakers before Nerd and Nerdier ran out of the apartment to get to their class on the opposite side of campus.

11:43 a.m. -- Thomas and Chris are doing more physical activity in this moment than they've done in years. Sprinting across the quad, passing student organization tables, groups of friends socializing, and even a couple campus tours. Poor Tommy's heart is beating against his ribcage like a washboard. Sure, he was slim and lean, but he was by no means a runner; but that's not all that has him this way. What's mostly on his mind right now is you. That girl in his class that-- somehow by the grace of God himself-- was assigned by Dr. B to sit next to Neo. She always gave him the jitters, and he never could find the words he wanted to say to her. He wondered if she was in class already, they obviously can't just barge in and make fools of themselves. With a minute to spare, the boys caught their breath outside of the lecture hall and quietly entered to find their respective seats. A frown immediately donned Thomas' face when he realized that his crush... wasn't there today. Although there was a bit of relief that he didn't have to be nervous around her, he was disappointed that he wasn't going to get to look at her beautiful hair, smell her jasmine vanilla perfume, or see her curves in those hot outfits she wears... Anyways, the clock strikes 11:45 and Dr. Brazhnikov goes to close the door. Just as he grabs the knob to shut it, the sound of platformed Dr. Martens boots can be heard thudding against the tiled floor of the corridor. The older man paused upon hearing the sound and looked out the door. "WAIT! Dr. B, please wait!!" You called out desperately. Suddenly, Thomas' ears perked up at the silky sound of your voice, the once-disappointed butterflies now gaining a second wind as he looked attentively at the entrance of the lecture hall. He sat there, his big brown eyes watching as you entered, looking at you like a lost puppy looks at his owner. God, he was so smitten with you. Too bad he's just... kind of a loser. "You're late.." Dr. Brazhnikov said, crossing his arms and looking you up and down. Your only response was to just chuckle and rub the back of your neck as you headed to your seat. "Sorry, Dr. B, it won't happen again..." As you sit down to fling your backpack off your shoulder, your arm grazes Thomas' and he genuinely shivered a bit. His ears turned pink and he quickly looked away, covering the side of his face with his hand. But you paid him no mind; after all, he was just a nerdy guy in a sea of nerdy guys. You were one of maybe five girls in the entirety of the CompSci C++ concentration, and maybe 13 in the whole major, so all the guys just kinda blend into one big amalgam of nerd and geek after a while. Dr. B started class as usual before discussing the midterm project that was due next week: everyone was to turn in a roster of information of their choosing along with a floppy disk drive of a data management system that they were to code on their own using the units they've learned so far. Blah, Blah, Blah... Thomas zoned out as the older Russian man at the front of the class kept droning on and on. That was until he felt paper scrape against his arm.

His big, puppy dog eyes darted down at his arm, a bit startled as he was pulled out of his spacey daze. Shockingly, it wasn't just your notebook scraping up against him. It was a folded-up index card. Thomas looked at you with dazed eyes, but you didn't look back. God, it felt like he was vibrating, his hand trembled as he grabbed the paper. He hesitated to open it, afraid of what you could've written. What if it was something mean?? What if the note wasn't meant for him? The worst-case scenarios were enough to make poor Tommy sick to his stomach. He opened it, and there it was: the most beautiful handwriting he'd ever seen-- definitely prettier than his chicken scratch. Etched on the flash card in green ink:

"Do you have a spare floppy disk I could borrow? I'll wipe it and return it to you once Dr. B grades it."

Oh, you might as well have proposed to him right then and there. You were actually talking to him. Well-- maybe not talking per se... but it is more interaction than he normally gets with the opposite sex, which is little to none. He wasn't sure how to respond on paper, but he was swallowing back acid just at the thought of tapping you and actually speaking. He was such a ball of nerves, stuck at the fork in the road of this (usually mundane) situation. Thomas rifled through his backpack for a disk he knew he'd been carrying around. Hopefully, he didn't take it out... Where is it, where is it??? AH! There it is! Along with the disk, he pulled out a pen from his backpack and wrote in his less-than-legible handwriting:

Yes. Here you go. 💾

Unable to do so much as to touch you, Thomas cleared his throat and passed the disk towards you, leaving the note on top. Upon receiving the note and disc, you turn to this lanky, nerdy guy and flash him the sweetest smile you possibly can. "Thank you so, so, so much!" You whisper to him. "Uhh... N-No." Thomas choked out, his face bright red and his eyes involuntarily locked on yours. What the hell kinda response is that? 'NO??? YOU FUCKING IDIOT?? WHAT DO YOU MEAN NO???' Thomas thought to himself. "No...?" You can't help but laugh at the guy's response. "I-I mean... N-No, thank you... I-I mean No Problem... Y-Yeah... no problem..." Thomas stammered out and you couldn't help but laugh again. "Ohhh, okay..." You giggle and turn your attention back to the front.

He scratched the back of his neck and turned his attention to the lecture hall floor, the same floor which he had wished more than anything would split open and swallow him whole.

Suddenly, another note is passed to him.

Mind if we chat after class?

oh fuck... He checked his watch, lo and behold, 5 minutes left of class.

a/n: i hope y'all enjoy this. it's gonna be a verrrryyyy slow burn. (neo just doesn't get it, pls be patient with him. he'd just a silly little guy)