#Comparative Media Studies/Writing

[jcmarchi]

MIT students build connections with Black and Indigenous Brazilians to investigate culture and the environment

New Post has been published on https://thedigitalinsider.com/mit-students-build-connections-with-black-and-indigenous-brazilians-to-investigate-culture-and-the-environment/

MIT students build connections with Black and Indigenous Brazilians to investigate culture and the environment

In January 2024, at the height of Brazil’s summer, a group of 20 MIT undergraduates will arrive in São Paulo, Brazil, for the Independent Activities Period (IAP) course WGS.247/21L.592 (Race, Place, and Modernity in the Americas) jointly offered by the School of Humanities, Arts, and Social Sciences’ programs in Women’s and Gender Studies, Literature, and Writing. 

Continuing a program developed in 2019 and launched as a special course in 2020, the three-week course offers students opportunities to study how American and Brazilian Black and Indigenous writers, artists, and filmmakers’ art and cultural activism — particularly women’s — can impact racial justice and environmental issues. 

The class will visit historical sites, cultural centers, nature reserves, and museums while also engaging in conversations with local scholars, activists, religious leaders, community organizers, and artists. 

By mixing classroom discussions with on-site exploration and cross-cultural exchanges, the course offers innovative pedagogy that is experiential (learning by doing), immersive (learning within an environment), and interdisciplinary (learning across different fields).

An immersive course, years in the making

Joaquin Terrones ’99, a lecturer in literature and women’s and gender studies, was already teaching this material when he considered expanding its scope. “It seemed like the natural next step was to take students to Brazil so they could experience its incredible culture, art, and activism for themselves,” he remembers.

In 2019, he and Wyn Kelley, a senior lecturer in literature, received a Higher Education Innovation grant from the MIT Jameel World Education Lab (J-WEL) to develop the course and teach it as a special subject the following year.

Generous support from MIT-Brazil, the Office of Minority Education, and MindHandHeart completed its transformation into a full-fledged course in women’s and gender studies, literature, and writing as part of MIT’s Independent Activities Period (IAP) last January.

Helen Elaine Lee, a professor in MIT’s Comparative Media Studies/Writing program, co-taught the subject in its first full year, sharing her experiences using creative practices to further social justice.  

Undergraduates from across MIT’s five schools, particularly Black, Latino, LGBTQ+, and first-generation college students, have enrolled. This outreach is important because some studies have shown students from these groups are underserved by study abroad programs, participating at significantly lower rates.

“Our students want spaces like the one created by this course to think deeply and collectively about the daunting array of crises we face, from catastrophic climate change to entrenched violence against communities of color,” says Terrones.

No day at the beach … well, maybe one or two

Although a few weeks in South America during January might sound like a vacation, the course is rigorous and intense, packing a semester’s worth of material into three weeks. Students spend mornings in seminar-style discussions, head out across the city for field trips in the afternoon, and return to their residences in the early evening for a few hours of readings or screenings. 

For Tamea Cobb, a senior double majoring in chemical engineering and literature, the class trip to Rio led to an epiphany. “I remember waking up super early to watch the sunrise on the beach, where we saw a man practicing capoeira, an Afro-Brazilian martial art form disguised to look like dancing by enslaved Africans forbidden from practicing martial arts. We had just learned about capoeira the week prior, so it was a beautiful full-circle moment.”

In addition to class outings in São Paulo and Rio, students also organize their own weekend trips within Brazil to places such as Salvador, the unofficial capital of Afro-Brazilian culture, and Inhotim, a vast open-air art museum and botanical garden in the middle of the Atlantic Forest.

Beyond Brazil

The course’s impact continues well after its completion as participants incorporate what they learned into their work and lives. 

“The course was a priceless experience that further revealed the interconnectedness of African experiences in the Americas,” says Afura N. Taylor ’21, who double majored in physics and writing. “It has influenced my writing by providing examples of literature and cultural practices that center ancestral memory.”

Educators also see benefits. “I had no idea it would give me a new research project on the presence of Brazil in Black U.S. print culture from the early national period to the present,” says Kelley. 

In fact, the course’s success has inspired two new IAP subjects in Brazil this year: 21G.S07 (Language Conversation and Brazilian Culture) by Nilma Dominique from the Global Studies and Languages Section, and 10.496/1.096 (Design of Sustainable Polymer Systems in the Amazon) by Professor Bradley Olsen in the Department of Chemical Engineering.

When asked what makes the course special, Professor Lee describes “[a] unique power [that] derives from rigorous discussions of challenging texts and films that question prevalent assumptions about history and politics, and immersive cultural experiences that open mind and heart, expanding and empowering students who often feel isolated and excluded on MIT’s campus.”  

She adds, “In addition to deepening my intellectual and political understanding, this class gave me a profound experience of ancestral recovery that has fed my artistic work. For our Black, Latinx, and LGBTQ+ students, it was a liberatory experience of community. A re-education. A cultural and personal homecoming.”

[pallas-cat]

next therapist appointment im dedicating time to my horribly, horribly frayed relationship w writing and reading before school starts again lmao

[phenoob]

political/historical rpf is special to me because the moral quandary (if there is one) isn't so much "am I respecting these peoples' boundaries?" as "should these awful people be allowed to fuck??"

[coralaura]

Primadonna

"You say that I'm kinda difficult”

Your father was never a present figure; sometimes, he would see you, give you a pat on the head, and disappear into the darkness of the mansion.

In reality, he vanished for the entire day, especially when the sun set, and the moon greeted the sky. Like all the other inhabitants of the mansion, nighttime was when you were left alone and could wander without anyone noticing or caring.

Every now and then, you’d see Alfred, but he, too, would soon disappear. It didn’t bother you; in fact, it gave you free time, allowing you to take late modeling jobs without anyone asking the typical questions: “Why are you coming home so late?” or “What were you doing outside so late?”

Sometimes, you went out with friends (if you could call them that people you used and who defended you when someone doubted your innocence). Rarely, you stayed in the enormous mansion, but honestly, you didn’t care where you were.

And it wasn’t like they cared about what you did or where you were, so maybe that’s why you didn’t care when Dick left the mansion. When Jason arrived—his unwanted presence and lack of manners—it was annoying, especially when he dared to compare his mother to yours. How dare he compare the two?! Despite that insult, spoken right to your face, you simply smiled. But inside, you were about to beat him senseless, to put that fool in his place for comparing your beloved mother to his and when he died, you cried at the funeral, pretending to be in pain, mourning the loss of a life.

But deep down, you felt nothing for him. Sure, his death was gruesome and ruthless, but it wasn’t like you felt anything beyond antipathy for the poor devil in the coffin. When Tim arrived at the mansion, you couldn’t have cared less. After all, you would only see him for a few weeks before heading off to university, so your interactions were minimal, barely enough to count on one hand.

Alfred saw you off with a smile, though there was a hint of sadness in it. He didn’t try to stop you or convince you not to move out; in fact, he encouraged you to pursue your career, as long as you sent some sign of life a letter or a text message. But let’s be honest, student life was expensive, and as a model, you made little money for just a few hours of work. So, when you had to choose between your studies and a full-time modeling career, the choice was obvious you went with the long-term option and pursued your modeling career. No one was supposed to know. You’d write to Alfred, telling him you were still studying, just to keep him from worrying.

In reality, you could have been in Metropolis, about to step into a photoshoot. But of course, things couldn’t stay perfect forever. Some idiot spotted you and then compared you to Bruce Wayne. And for the first time in years, people seemed to have more than two brain cells because the question immediately popped up all over the internet:

"Is it just me, or do Bruce Wayne and Y/N look alike?"

And unfortunately, they attached your image right next to that billionaire’s. To say that the media explosion and the interview requests for both you and Bruce were the worst possible thing that could happen was an understatement. As headlines and news reports flooded in, you bit your nails in frustration, enraged by your inability to control the situation.

So, when they asked about your parents or if you were a poor orphan, you responded with a warm smile—though deep inside, you were disgusted that you couldn’t just avoid answering or shut those nosy reporters down.

"I have no parents."

Most people, moved by your kind smile and the false tears welling in your eyes, dropped the subject and moved on with their lives. But the press always loved fresh, juicy gossip, especially when it involved Bruce Wayne.

Since your father didn’t comment or give an interview, part of you assumed he either didn’t care or considered it a minor issue his PR team could handle. For a moment, you thought you had dodged this problem. Until you saw him in the middle of a photoshoot—waiting for you to finish so he could talk to you. And, of course, right behind him was his family… or rather, his walking orphanage.

Alfred believed in you. He loved you like a father loves his child. You were practically the normal kid he had always wished Bruce could be so sweet, so innocent. But when he saw your face in the morning paper, next to your father’s, with the full story laid out, for the first time… he felt disappointed in you.

Why would you hide something like this?

Did you not trust him?...

It hurt him, but deep down, he knew you must have had a reason for keeping your modeling career a secret. Maybe his thoughts consumed him for too long because Damian’s voice pulled him back to reality.

“What are you reading, Pennyworth?"

“It seems the press has discovered the connection between Master Bruce and Master Y/N.”

Damian frowned in confusion. He had never heard of you. Taking the newspaper from Alfred’s hands, he scanned the headline and the full story, noting your features and how similar you looked to his father. The picture they used of you was… bold, striking. He wondered if you were really family, but Alfred had called you "Master Y/N," so you must have been. Damian didn’t waste time.

He stormed to his father, slamming the newspaper onto his desk, demanding answers. Bruce raised an eyebrow at his behavior until he read the headline and saw your picture. The only thing Bruce thought in that moment was how much you had grown.

How tall were you now?

He picked up the paper, reading the article, noticing how you denied any connection to him or his family. He didn’t understand.

Had he done something to make you reject him?

Thinking about it left a bitter taste in his mouth. The more he read, the more that bitterness spread.

“Who are them, Father?”

Finally, Damian asked. The answer was simple yet so complicated. You were his child, his firstborn, and yet he had no idea how to be a proper father. He had never seen you in the mansion, maybe because he never had time, maybe because he felt guilty, knowing he could never raise a normal child. He could only raise someone to become a vigilante.

"They are your siblings."

And that was the beginning of the end of your modeling career. Because, in the end, it was only natural for your father to crave control, both as Bruce and as Batman. It was something you had inherited from him.

When you saw your father there, standing in the middle of your shoot, clearly annoyed that you had noticed him and yet continued with your session, you knew he would eventually step in. Still, you wanted to push his patience, to see how long he could endure before leaving. But you hadn’t counted on your manager asking you to stop the session to talk to him instead. You sighed. He was just doing his job, though a part of you couldn’t help but glare at him, hating that he was wasting your time.

"What is it, Ethan?"

You didn’t even acknowledge Bruce. Instead, you spoke to your manager, Ethan, who forced a tense smile, silently begging you to be respectful.

"Bruce Wayne is here to see you."

He emphasized the last name, almost as if reminding you of your place beneath the great Wayne name. Not that he knew the truth, that Bruce’s blood ran through your veins and that your striking resemblance was nothing but shared genetics.

"Mr. Wayne, Mr. Grayson, and company, what brings you here?"

You didn’t bother greeting them. You recognized a few faces, but most were either forgotten or simply unknown to you. And honestly, you didn’t care.

"Y/N, we need to talk."

Your father's deep voice and condescending gaze turned to you, hating that he spoke to you that way, as if you were a child, when in reality you were more than him, more than any of them, you were Y/N, the person that everyone would pay for because at some point you would look at them or simply greet them, there were people who would kill for a simple touch from you.You hid your displeasure in the mask that you always wore on your face that was difficult to remove, the one that had buried itself in your face and had taken root until you simply couldn't get it off, at least not until you were alone and no one could see your true and unpleasant personality that eclipsed your cute face and false golden boy personality.

You thought about the possibility of being rude to them, after all it's not like they could prove that you were something of theirs, you still had your mother's last name and they had never seen you with the Waynes until now, besides, who could blame you? Being rude was your privilege for being a model and also being attractive, it would be your first time being rude to someone, besides, everyone knew you, you were so kind that the ones who would end up being reproached for things would be the Waynes, so you decided.

“I don’t want to and if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do”

For the first time, your father stopped looking at you with that condescending look and in its place there was something you couldn’t identify. Anger? Indignation? Frustration? Surprise? You didn’t know and honestly you didn’t care, you were surely the first or at least one of the few people who says no to your father’s face and in front of so many people, that thought made you smile to yourself, it was the satisfaction and pride of making that cold expression of your father go away.

“But it's always someone else's fault”

[my-chemical-rot]

Looooove it (/s) when people who haven’t taken an art class since 5th grade make all kinds of judgements about college-level art classes and say shit like “isn’t it an easy class though? Don’t you get an A just for showing up? Or just for participating? You don’t actually have to be good at art to pass that class right?” Like okay maybe when you’re ten years old your art teacher isn’t gonna grade you by technique and skill but contrary to popular belief you actually have to be *good* at art and work your fucking ass off every single day to get a good grade in an art class

[kakao-lovey]

⁉¿? Wait a minute... Who are you?

Journaling prompts to find your identity when you're drowning in labels and subcultures

Let me be real with you. I'm a teenager, as I assume most of you reading this are (And if you're not, that's totally OK), and trying to find your identity often means trying on persona after persona, hoping that someday something will fit. Which, yes, it will, but I personally believe writing it out and exploring is so much more rewarding (and so much less embarrassing).

۶ৎ Create an overview

This is like writing a discord intro. Include your (Actual, chosen) name, gender identity, and so on, if you would like, but the most important part isn't that obvious.

How do I feel about my nationality? Am I proud of where I live? If I had to choose somewhere, anywhere to live, where would I choose?

What are my feelings towards my assigned gender? Where do I fall on the spectrum? Is my energy more masculine or feminine, or completely neutral?

What is my body image like? What do I like about the way I look, and what do I don't?

Do I actually feel like my bodily age? Younger, older?

Am I aligned with 'Human nature'? Do I enjoy being human, or would I rather be something else?

By taking these traits you were born with and evaluating, you start to get an idea of what you identify with, and what you don't. This is very important, but people often don't question things like this, as they seem a given (But end up unhappy with their view of themselves).

۶ৎ This versus that

Divide your page into a left side and a right side. On the left, write down your real-life answers to these questions. On the right, write what your 100% ideal version of yourself would say. Then compare.

How do I feel about going to school / university / my job?

How do I wake up feeling in the morning?

How do I express myself? (Clothing, makeup, art, music)

What does my friendship circle / lack thereof look like?

How does my brain think people see me? Do I care?

What does my living space look like?

How do I treat myself? Is it fair?

What goes on daily inside my head?

What are my goals in life?

How do I react to failure / disappointment?

What is my main coping mechanism?

What is the strongest opinion I have about myself?

How do my hobbies / activities contribute to my life?

What is my biggest vice?

What am I proud of, relating to my identity?

If it doesn't match up at all, no worries. The most important step to creating an identity for yourself is knowing who you want to be. For a long time I had no idea, and ended up becoming someone I strongly disliked, which is counterintuitive and mentally draining.

۶ৎ Words

Get yourself a blank piece of paper, and write down as many things as you can that interest you, describe you, or that you love. It doesn't have to be cohesive, follow a theme or anything like that, just words on a page. I'll do an example here:

Boba tea, meditation, blogging, Laufey, Cinnamoroll, studying, wonyoungism, skincare, medical dramas, Murakami, dusty pink, journaling, aquarium, cats, that girl/boy, Turkish delight, vanilla

۶ৎ Mood board / Vision board

As a highly visual person, I make collages from Pinterest all the time, and making one or a couple for yourself, or who you want to be, is a great exercise for identity and manifestation. Ideas for what to put on:

Photos related to your aesthetic

Indoor design that speaks to you

Photos of your hobbies

Items you would love to own, or already do

'Goals': photos of good grades, your desired appearance, money etc.

Fashion styles that you wear, or wish you could

Your future occupation

Photos conveying your mood lately

Media (Games, books, movies, shows) that you really enjoy

Your favourite album

An example:

Feel free to reply to this post with your answers!

𓂃˖ ࣪⊹ Kakao

[toudan]

Homecoming

You’re a casual fan, you think. Spider-Man is cool, and you just really like him. That’s all... until you learn that the friendly neighbourhood web-slinger is so much closer than you think.

PAIRING.⠀Xia Yizhou | Caleb x Reader

CONTENT.⠀female reader | superhero AU & Spider-Man Caleb | descriptions of anxiety, fluff, happy ending, mentions of blood and bruises, secrets, slice-of-life (as much as it can possibly be), some angst and hurt/comfort | ~7,6k words

A/N.⠀I really said "I'm going on a writing hiatus" and "I'm gonna lock in" with my whole chest knowing damn well I'm a liar ... anyway yeah this fic was inspired by this Spider-Man Caleb fanart... it made me go crazy.... I hope you enjoy!

available on AO3 | reblogs and comments are always appreciated!

@hunters-association @theseabreezestreet

You were on the verge of a breakthrough. You just knew it.

You were absentmindedly swinging your legs back and forth as you sat at the table. Your laptop was open and displaying several windows—some were images of Spider-Man, some were news articles. Your tablet, and in turn, your notes, had gone completely forgotten. Spending time passively scrolling social media was far from productive, but compared to what you were reading, exam revision was totally dull.

Developing an interest in Spider-Man had been unintentional. You saw him mentioned in the news. Out of curiosity, you looked him up, and all of a sudden, you found yourself deep in the rabbit hole. Before long, you were up-to-date with daily news, keeping up with his movements and making friends with fellow Spider-Man fans. It was swift and unexpected, but you found it more fun than whatever you were previously doing.

He was far from the first superhero Linkon City had seen. There used to be rumours about the God of the Tides and how he ruled the seas for centuries before he found the love of his life. There was also Lumière of the N109 zone, a vigilante who suddenly stopped being active about fourteen years ago. Legends of the Abysm Sovereign and the Foreseer were passed down through generations. No one had proof they existed, only the product of their labour. It was as if they didn’t want to be seen. Still, that didn’t stop your interest from getting piqued.

The difference between Spider-Man and the past legends of Linkon City was that Spider-Man was still active. A web-slinging genius with a no-kill rule, he made the streets significantly safer. Photos and surveillance footage of him were constantly shared, but no one had any luck finding his identity yet. You weren’t investigating him for malicious reasons. You were just, for the lack of a better word, nosy. You wanted to know the man behind the mask instead of the neighbourhood guardian the news always talks about.

You looked at your screen. There was a rough timeline of his appearances the past week. He was in different parts of the city, catching robbers and other criminals with his presumably handmade technology. There wasn’t a strict pattern to how he operated. It seemed that he liked to lurk before making a move. It was how he brought down the corrupted colonels of the Farspace Fleet. Fighting crime appeared to be easy for him, and he wasn’t as destructive as some were. It was impressive. Everything he did had you in awe. His dexterity and swiftness, his strength and courage—he was just what Linkon City needed, you thought.

Just as you were about to go into another deep dive, a hand pushed your laptop shut. Caleb was towering over you when you snapped your gaze to him, brows furrowed as you gave him an offended look. He lightly jabbed your forehead and only smiled in response, seemingly pleased with your reaction.

“You’re supposed to be studying.”

You sputtered. “I was studying!”

“No, you weren’t. You were looking at Spider-Man again.” He tapped his fingers on your tablet, reilluminating the screen once more. “Your exams are next week. You need to focus.”

“I can multitask,” you argued half-heartedly. “And, I’ve never let you down, have I?”

Caleb took the seat across from you with an exaggerated sigh. “I guess not.”

“Why do you hate Spider-Man so bad anyway?” You frowned, trying to move his hand away. He didn’t budge. “He’s keeping the city safe. That’s a good thing!”

“I don’t hate him, but you’ve been distracted. I’m trying to help you.”

“You sound jealous,” you joked. Resting your cheek in the palm of your hand, you looked up at him with a mischievous glint in your eyes. “Are you sad I’m not giving you enough attention?”

He pursed his lips, visibly unimpressed. “Set the table. Dinner’s ready.”

“You’re no fun!” you whined. “It’s not my fault there’s finally something interesting!”

You begrudgingly moved your items to the side and got up to make your way to the kitchen, slippers sliding against the floor. The savoury aroma swirled into the air, making your stomach growl involuntarily. Your irritation now forgotten, you made quick work of setting the table and pouring two glasses of water. With your job finished, you waited at the table, eyes drifting over to the TV on the wall. The screen displayed two reporters behind a desk beginning the evening segment. It faded into a clip of men webbed stuck to a lamppost, undoubtedly the work of Spider-Man himself. They were looking to rob an innocent passerby before the webslinger caught them red-handed.

“Huh. That’s where we live,” you spoke up after rereading the headline.

Caleb placed the plates on the table. “That’s why I always tell you to be home before curfew.”

“It’s not like I break curfew anyway,” you grumbled. “You know I hate being out when it’s dark.”

Distracted, you kept your eyes on the screen. The public had mixed opinions about Spider-Man himself. You, along with your circle of friends, thought of him as a hero, feeling safer knowing that he was out there protecting innocent people. From helping an old woman cross the street to busting evil plans, he was using his talents and intelligence for good. He worked tirelessly every day to keep the streets pristine and harmless. The police, on the other hand, weren’t as fond of him. The LCPD openly expressed their distaste for Spider-Man, citing that he was an obstacle in their investigations. Some people thought he was just another guy with a gimmick. These criticisms didn’t seem to bother him at all. If anything, every time someone said anything negative about him, he’d work even harder just to prove them wrong.

You knew it was far from wise to idolise a public figure, but with Spider-Man, he inspired you to do your best every day. You liked to imagine he’d be proud of you if he knew you. You worked hard and powered through no matter how many setbacks you had. As silly and childish as it sounded, he made for great motivation. He was a good guy, he was cool, and—

Caleb waved his hand in front of your face, a warning tone in his voice. “Pipsqueak.”

You jolted, snapping back to the present. “Sorry!”

“Why do you like Spider-Man so much?” he asked, poking at his food. “You got a crush on him?”

You sputtered. “What? No!”

He gave you a look that urged you to continue. Heat rose to your face as you felt a spotlight shining down upon you, giving you the floor. It was hard not to feel embarrassed about something that felt so childish. You hummed thoughtfully, trying to think of words to say. Knowing you were going to sound like a child regardless, you sulked, defeated, and finally gave him a response.

“It’s just… I really like superheroes,” you mumbled timidly, fiddling with your fingers. “I admire people who use their strength for good. Like you!”

The corners of his lips twitched. He seemed pleased. “So do you like me or Spider-Man more?”

“You are jealous!” you said with an accusatory tone. “Caleb, it’s not like that! It’s like… You know when you have a favourite celebrity? That’s what Spider-Man is to me.”

He made a face, though he ended up relenting. “Okay. I get it.”

“Yeah! It’s kinda like how you used to like—”

“Your food’s gonna get cold,” he interrupted, flustered. “I put all my effort into making your favourite. Don’t let it go to waste.”

“Fine,” you drawled out, unable to hold back the smile from stretching across your lips.

Spider-Man eventually faded to the back of your mind throughout dinnertime. You found yourself engrossed in conversation with Caleb, slipping into the normal banter and routine with ease. Somewhere in between, he changed the channel to natural documentaries instead. When you gave him a questioning look, he just shrugged and said that you should take a break with him. Not one to deny his requests, your laptop went forgotten as you spent the remainder of the night on the couch with him.

It was nearing midnight, and from the way that you yawned, you were nearing your limit as well. The documentary was long finished; the past few minutes were just advertisement after advertisement, regular products with unnecessarily catchy jingles. You glanced over at him, suddenly curious. Unlike you, he didn’t seem to be tired at all. If you were more awake, you’d notice the anxious bouncing of his leg or the worried furrow in his brow, but fatigue was catching up to you fast. With another yawn, you pushed yourself to your feet, taking the throw blanket with you.

“Goodnight, Caleb.”

He smiled at you. “Goodnight. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Fully sated and worn out, sleep came as easily as breathing. Images flickered behind your eyes, displaying dreams and vignettes in film reels. You dreamt of endless summers and sweetness, of growing up and exploring the world. When you woke up the next day, only a fragment of those memories remained. Caleb was already gone when you left your room. He left a note saying he’d left early and that breakfast was in the fridge. After treating yourself to his homemade cooking, you set off for classes and got the day started. It wasn’t very eventful. Classes weren’t particularly interesting. Lectures were about things you already knew, and a majority of your classmates were absent, leading to little to no conversation. Before long, the academic day was over, and it was time to return home.

The streets were bustling with activity as you waded through the crowd. Clamour and chatter were more than loud, people surrounded you, and the scent of car fumes mixed with savoury food bombarded all of your senses. You were starting to see now why people liked to say that Linkon City never sleeps. With everyone getting off work, the city was beyond crowded. Restaurants were fully seated, as were the cafés. Traffic went by incredibly slowly. Dogs barked to the sound of car horns and people were emerging from the train station in groups. You gripped your bag tightly, anxiety clawing at the back of your mind. News and posters about pickpockets were nearly a regular occurrence; it was better to be safe than sorry.

You managed to make it to a street where there were less people. You recognised some of the vendors out and about, offering them warm smiles as you walked past. Occasionally, you stopped by and bought a few snacks to take home. Now having your hands full, you were more than ready to go home and unwind. You hummed a catchy pop tune under your breath, leisurely walking down the path when the TV screens in the electronic stores came alive. You came to a stop, standing in front of the clear glass. It was a news segment. You couldn’t hear what they were saying, but the screen displaying surveillance of Spider-Man was context enough.

He single-handedly stopped a burglary, moving with inhuman agility and fighting with incredible strength. It showed a group of men bound together by his webs, cursing and fruitlessly struggling to break free. It took a few seconds before the familiarity of the background sank in. The convenience store, the townhouses and the DVD store… The incident happened not too far from home. A frown overtook your features. Despite the crime rate being significantly lower thanks to Spider-Man’s efforts, the curfew was still in place, and the unrest remained. It was not any different for you.

As you made a move to continue your walk, you felt something being snatched from your grasp—your bag. The thief ran at full speed, deftly navigating through the crowd as you yelled for help and followed him, aggressive footfalls slapping against the concrete. Absentminded apologies left your lips whenever a complaint was heard from a passerby. Your chest was beginning to ache, but you needed it back. It had everything. Your phone, your wallet, your house keys with the chain Caleb bought for you. You couldn’t afford to lose it.

The traffic light turned red just as the thief crossed to the other side. You contemplated just dashing through, but anxiety kept you rooted to your spot. They were going further into the distance. You bounced on your heels nervously, eyes glaring at the timer. 40, 39, 38…

It was now or never.

Cars honked at you as you ran to the other side, the combination of noise nearly sending you jumping out of your skin. You pushed through your fatigue and kept running until you tripped over your shoelaces, collapsing to the ground with a loud thud. You hopelessly reached out, watching the thief’s silhouette disappear into the distance. Tears of frustration sprang up to your eyes and you buried your face in your hands, uncaring of how you looked to other people. You weren’t fast enough. All your important things were gone, about to be left somewhere you could never find, and your information would be stolen—

“This yours?”

Your bag was dangling in front of you. Were you so distraught that you were hallucinating having someone come to your aid? You blinked and stared at it dumbly, your mind trying to grapple with the situation. The person crouched down to your level, and Spider-Man’s face came into view.

Wait…

You screamed in surprise, frantically pushing yourself away from him. “What—”

“Hey, hey, It’s okay. It’s just me. I webbed him. He’ll be stuck there for another three hours,” he said casually, speaking as though he was just another regular pedestrian and not the famed vigilante of Linkon City. “I had to look at your ID card to make sure it was you, but I’m glad I got to you in time. Here, take it.”

You barely managed to catch the bag as you were still gawking at him. What felt like a thousand questions were popping up rapidly in your head. How did he know? When did he get here? What was going on? How was he so fast? Caught off guard by your stunned silence, he brought a hand up to scratch the back of his head sheepishly, feeling awkward under your stare.

“Everything okay?” Spider-Man asked tentatively, waving a hand in front of your face. “Are you hurt?”

You shook your head, your reaction slightly delayed. “N-No.”

“Listen, I have to go. There’s gonna be a robbery on Ninth Street.” He helped you get on your feet, carefully making sure you had your balance. “Get home safe, okay? And don’t leave past curfew.”

“Okay,” you said, dumbfounded. It didn’t take long before you managed to snap yourself back to awareness. “Yeah, okay. Thank you for getting this back to me.”

He did a casual salute before aiming his web shooter at a building, swinging away with ease. Digging through your bag, you were relieved to find that everything was intact. Once the confusion went away, excitement came rushing in. You hastily grabbed your phone and dialled Caleb’s number, lips curling into a grin. He picked up after the first ring.

“What’s up?”

“You will not believe what just happened to me,” you said in one breath. “I just met Spider-Man.”

A loud crash was heard in the background.

You hesitated. “Are you busy? It sounds like you’re in the middle of something…”

“Everything’s fine, don’t worry about it. So, you met Spider-Man?”

You nodded, forgetting that he couldn’t see you.

“Uh, pipsqueak?”

“What? Oh, yeah. I did! I’m walking home right now. Someone tried to steal my wallet and I couldn’t catch them, but Spider-Man did and he got it back for me. Isn’t that crazy?”

“Someone tried to rob you?” You could practically hear the frown in his voice. “Why didn’t you call me?”

You blinked. “You’re at work. What were you gonna do?”

He fell silent. It took a couple of beats before he spoke up again.

“Well, I’m glad you got your stuff back. Just make sure to be home before sundown. Tell me when you’re back, okay?”

“Okay.”

“I’ll be back in time for dinner, I promise.”

“It’s okay! Take your time,” you reassured him. “I’m heading home now. See you.”

You had a pep in your step for the rest of the way, feeling in high spirits after the encounter. The weight on your shoulders was lifted, leaving you feeling lighter. You didn’t realise how much you needed to breathe. Relieved would be an understatement—it was as if everything fixed itself in front of you. You didn’t generally consider yourself a lucky person, but today, you had won. The encounter with Spider-Man replayed itself in your mind, echoing his voice, reminding you of the proximity you shared.

After sending Caleb a quick text to let him know you got back safely, you began to cool down from the day. You tossed your keys on the counter and went straight for your room, determined to change out of your sweaty clothes. Since he was normally the one to cook dinner, you didn’t have to do much preparation in the kitchen. You put away the clean dishes, washed the leftover ones in the sink, and decided to tidy up a little. With your tasks done, you returned to the living room and flopped down onto the couch with a groan. Though you didn’t hold high expectations for what was on TV, you turned it on for background noise anyway, half-listening to the dialogue in the show that was playing.

The clock on the wall continued to tick. Caleb would get off work soon. You ended up smiling to yourself, excited to tell him about your day. Lying comfortably on the couch, you continued to passively scroll through social media to kill time. You were beginning to hear the telltale sounds of people returning home. The sound of a car door closing, your neighbour’s doorbell ringing, eager dogs overjoyed to see their owner home. Considering the traffic you’d seen earlier, Caleb returning a little later than usual wouldn’t be that irregular.

With that in mind, your worries were eased a little. But as minutes faded into hours, nighttime came, and not a single call or message from Caleb was seen. Worried, you sent him a text, only for them to be left on delivered. Calling him led straight to voicemail. Growing increasingly agitated, you called him again and again, only to achieve the same result. He always told you if he was going to be late. He always picked up after the first ring. But your attempts to get through to him went unseen, and it was getting harder trying not to sink into your anxiety the longer his silence went.

You paced around the room, fingers clutching your phone as the call went to voicemail again. Your eagerness for dinner had long dissipated and was replaced by immense dread. Worst-case scenarios were starting to appear in your mind, fuelling your panic with its increasingly violent visions. You chewed on your nail as you paced back and forth, trying to reach Caleb to no avail. The situation was growing more dire with each passing second.

You glanced at the time. It was three in the morning. You were wide awake on pure adrenaline and distress. You couldn’t bring yourself to feel tired. It was as though all of your senses were on high alert. Everything was too loud, too much, and your clothes felt rough against your skin. Instinctively, you made your way into his room and crawled into his bed, hugging his pillow and rocking back and forth. The smell of his detergent and perfume soothed you enough to have you breathing normally again. Your fingertips dug into the material, knuckles going white and shaking from how rigid your grip was.

The world started to feel less daunting when you finally calmed down. You felt exhausted, completely boneless. Your eyelids were getting heavier, and as you lay there surrounded by everything he owned, you found yourself falling slowly. The room is dim with only the city lights outside peeking in through the curtains. You felt a cold draft coming through the window, sending shivers running down your spine. Fabric rustled and you felt the mattress dip, immediately jolting you awake. A mixture of relief and fury washed over you.

“Caleb?”

His breath hitched.

You blindly patted the nightstand in search of the lamp switch. Once the room was illuminated, you squinted at him through half-lidded eyes. “Where the hell have you been?” you asked groggily. “I’ve been—”

Your eyes dropped to his outfit. It was the same suit that Spider-Man wore, although more torn and worn down. Whatever tiredness was left in your system dissipated when you saw him. You sat still for a few moments, trying to contemplate whether you were imagining things or if this was real. You didn’t know where to begin. It was as if time stopped. There he was, the person you had been waiting for, standing at the foot of the bed like a deer caught in the headlights. You stared at him with your mouth agape, your mind struggling to put the pieces together despite the obviousness in front of you.

You didn’t know where to begin. Did he always sneak back home like this? What happened to him? In the end, you settled for the most urgent one in your mind—

“How long have you been hiding this from me?”

He forced a smile, the gesture awkward and tense. “A couple of months.”

“Months?” you asked, voice rising in volume. “You’ve been—you—god, I don’t even know what to say.”

“I’m sorry.”

You pursed your lips. “Come here.”

He tentatively complied, sitting down in the spot next to you. Your hands cradled his face, thumbs brushing over the bruises and making him grimace slightly. He didn’t say a single word. It was as if he was also dumbfounded himself. You were still upset, but the longer you looked at him, the more the anger faded. At least he was home. Injured, but still home in one piece. It was leagues better than the thousands of scenarios your mind was conjuring up earlier.

“You have a lot of explaining to do.”

“I know,” he murmured, voice uncharacteristically meek. It was unlike the Caleb you grew up with.

“But it can wait,” you said, pulling him into a hug. “I’m just glad you’re okay. I was worried about you.”

His arms wrapped themselves around your waist and he held you close to him, a shaky breath escaping his lips. He held onto you with a desperation you’d never seen before. He relaxed into your touch just the slightest, reassured by feeling your warm body against his. You pressed your cheek to where his heart would be, feeling its steady rhythm remind you that he was here—that he was home.

Your voice was meek when you spoke. “I thought you left me.”

“I didn’t want to worry you.”

“So you decided with radio silence?” you snarked back. Something in his expression flickered, making you calm down once again. You frowned at the amount of bruises visible on his face and the dried blood on his split lip. Softening, you told him, “Go take a shower and get changed. I’ll patch you up.”

He didn’t argue. He only nodded and disappeared into the bathroom, walking sluggishly. The sound of running water filled the stifling stillness as you took a proper glance around the room. There was an evidence board, several open books, and a well-used first aid kit on the desk. Your heart sank. Just how long had he been doing this, getting himself hurt and having to mend himself? Didn’t he trust you? Why did he keep this a secret from you? You heaved out a sigh and hid your face in your hands, frustration and sadness simmering beneath the surface.

There were a lot of questions you wanted to ask, but this wasn’t the right time. Right now, all you could do was be there for him.

He emerged a handful of minutes later, dressed in comfortable clothes. You scooted over and patted the space next to you, lips pressed in a taut frown. Now that the suit was off, you could see the hits he’d taken more clearly. Splashes of blue and purple were scattered across his skin, some big and some small. There were a couple of cuts and scrapes close by, both old and new. It was the worst you’d ever seen him.

“Sit,” you urged timidly. You gingerly applied the ointment on his bruises, careful not to hurt him as he stared up at you. He looked so vulnerable and so fragile that it made you feel like your heart was going to burst out of its confines. “Talk to me. Please.”

“It was Gran,” he said. “She made a serum. I didn’t know it until a few days later. I was stronger, faster… I could hear everything. I could feel everything.”

“How come I never knew this?”

“I didn’t want to worry you. I’m supposed to be your hero, remember?” He laughed in a self-deprecating way, avoiding your gaze. “I had to stay strong. Figure things out, get stronger… Make sure you’d always be safe.”

Setting the first aid kit aside, you pulled him into your arms once again. He held onto you tightly, fingers grabbing the fabric of your shirt so tightly that his hands were trembling. You raked your fingers through his hair and brushed them back, keeping them away from the wounds on his face. For a moment, it felt like there were only the two of you in the world. All you could hear was his quiet breathing as he latched onto you, unwilling to let go.

It broke your heart to see him this way.

“I’m sorry I made you feel like you couldn’t rely on me.”

“No, that’s not it,” he sighed. “I’d go through anything for you. I just… I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“Then don’t keep any secrets from me anymore.” You pulled away. He looked up at you with a pained expression, years of secrecy and isolation making themselves known in his glossy eyes, the quiver of his bottom lip. “Can you do that for me?”

He nodded weakly.

“I need words, Caleb,” you said, your voice firmer than intended. You cupped the side of his face, feeling him clasp your hand with his own, warm and calloused. “Can you promise me that?”

“I can,” he exhaled shakily. “I promise.”

The tears you were holding back brimmed at the corners of your eyes, small droplets sliding down the sides of your face. A hushed whimper broke out of you. Caleb held on to you like you were his lifeline, refusing to let go for even a split second. The gravity of his words weighed heavy, as did him baring his heart. He melted in your embrace, sinking deep into your comfort as you gently scratched his scalp, easing every worry he was holding.

“Don’t lie to me again, okay?” you murmured into his ear.

“I won’t anymore. I swear.”

—

Though months seemed to have passed in the blink of an eye, the emotional turmoil stayed deep in your heart the entire time.

Life had turned completely upside down. With the new knowledge of him being Spider-Man looming over you, you were having trouble placing yourself. Some days, you felt excited and happy for him. He was more open with you when it came to his successes. He’d tell you about the petty criminals he caught or the passersby he helped while swinging through the city. He was passionate about his identity as Spider-Man, and he was committed. You wanted to support him in every step of the way. Some days, you’d feel like you were sinking. You previously didn’t worry all too much when Caleb returned home late, but since that day, fear and anxiety kept you company on lonely nights.

He didn’t always return looking completely beat up. Sometimes he was unscathed. Sometimes it was just a couple of bruises. But you hated being home alone, especially in the dark where everything seemed to get much worse. You were losing sleep because you’d stay up to wait for him to come home. You needed to see him with your own eyes, otherwise you wouldn’t be able to go to sleep in peace. He tried to give you estimated times to soothe you, but it didn’t always work. You’d wait in the living room, rock yourself back and forth as you wondered if he was coming home.

Your mind wouldn’t let you forget that he lied, either. You already forgave him a long time ago, but you remembered. You’d question yourself, question him, and what would come after was an overwhelming sense of guilt. He was trying. He was more open. He was showing you an important part of himself, bringing you along with him on his journey, yet doubts still lingered in your mind. He kept his cheerful disposition, constantly reassuring you that everything was going to be fine, but your mind was filled with what-ifs. What if he was hiding more from you? What if he was lying? What if he thought of you as a burden?

It was irrational to feel this way. You knew that very well, and yet, you still felt like you were fading out of his life. You talked to Caleb normally, interacted with him like you always did, but something felt different. It was as if he was drifting further and further away from you. Your outstretched hand, desperately trying to reach him, and his fading silhouette. Everything had changed. You felt like you were losing him in real time and there was nothing you could do about it. Everything had changed, yet it was all the same. You still had breakfast together. He still picked up the phone after the first ring. He still smiled at you, looked at you like you were his whole world. You were teetering between security and uncertainty. You didn’t want to feel this way, but you were helpless. These feelings came by themselves, and the more time you spent alone, the more difficult it became to ignore them.

Your sentiments towards Spider-Man had only grown stronger with the knowledge that Caleb was him. His name was more well-known in the city, growing popular among kids and women, and he was constantly being praised by the press. You supported him. You had total faith in him, trusted in him and his strength. But sometimes you’d stay awake stressing about how safe things truly were. More fame meant more notoriety among criminals, and you’d often wonder how long it would be before something drastic happened. You wanted the best for him, you really did, but something guttural gnawed at you. The desire to keep him to yourself, the need to protect him. You wanted to sink your teeth into his flesh, to keep him in your maw. You wanted to hide him away somewhere only you knew.

You dreamt of it sometimes—of risking your life for him just to keep him safe. You constantly wondered if things would be easier for him if you left. You knew there was much that he wasn’t sharing with you yet. You knew it would take time regardless of how much he trusted you, Still, you felt as though you were being kept in the dark. Being Spider-Man seemed to be so easy for him. It suited him, even. You couldn’t see anyone else doing the same thing that he did. But you didn’t know what you were meant to be. You felt for him very deeply, as did he, but the vagueness in the air bothered you more and more every day.

Were you only being selfish?

You thought back on one of the mornings you spent with him. A full spread of breakfast lay across the table and the news played in the background. The sun was shining bright, peeking through the gap between the curtains, and the weather was good. But there was a sense of foreboding that loomed over you, one that you couldn’t keep to yourself. You called his name softly, leading him to look away from the screen.

“Are you okay?” you asked. He blinked at you, confused by the question.

“Yeah. Everything’s fine.”

Somehow, it wasn’t enough.

“Are you okay?”

You didn’t know.

“I’m good. Sorry, I just thought you looked a little distracted.”

The lie slipped out of you with ease. You felt childish. You felt burdensome for needing reassurance from him that he wasn’t going to leave you behind, but you could never bring yourself to say it. Between your pride and the overwhelming fear of rejection, the words you desperately wanted to stay would remain within the confines of your mind. He didn’t seem to be convinced by any means, but he didn’t push the matter. A part of you wished he did.

It wasn’t a fight. There was nothing wrong. Even when he returned home blood and bruised, exhausted out of his mind, you took care of him with love and care. It didn’t matter that you didn’t understand why he was risking his life. Caleb never broke his promises or broke away from the path to his goals. He wasn’t about to let you stop him. With great power comes great responsibility, he said. But was this responsibility thrust upon him, or was he doing it out of his volition?

You hated feeling helpless. You knew he didn’t need you to do anything, but you felt like you weren’t an integral part of his life anymore. You felt like a bystander, like someone he was slowly forgetting. You shouldn’t feel this way. You should feel happy that he still cared about you, that he cared about the city to give his all into protecting it, yet your mind just wouldn’t let you. Your thoughts on Caleb hadn’t changed. You still thought he was the most important person to you, but what used to be admiration and even love for Spider-Man was turning into resentment little by little.

Some days, you hated him. You felt like a little kid without her favourite toy. You felt like a lonely child in a class full of people. You knew it was useless to dwell on these things, so you tried to occupy yourself. You put all your effort into your studies. You kept yourself busy doing chores even on the days when it was his turn. You didn’t wait to eat dinner with him; you went out for food and drinks with your friends, came back a bit later than the sunset. It wasn’t as if he’d notice. He wasn’t home when you needed him to be.

His name was constantly trending on social media. Spider-Man rescues bus from hijackers. Spider-Man stops bank robbery. Spider-Man comics and merchandise releasing. His name became the talk of the town, earning the attention of the rest of the country. The newfound fame kept him even busier to the point where people were starting to dig deeper into his true identity, leading fans and investigators to wait outside your home. You kept ignoring them, but they were persistent. Your declining of their questions only made them more curious. Not only did you feel like he was slipping out of your grasp, but also like the safety of home was in jeopardy.

It wasn’t his fault. You couldn’t blame him for it. But sometimes you wondered if he knew just how much this was affecting you, as self-centred as it seemed. The satisfaction you expected from uncovering the truth about Spider-Man never came. The final piece of the puzzle was right in front of you, living and breathing under the same roof as you were, and all you could harbour was disappointment.

What Caleb was doing was major. He was keeping the city safe—keeping his home safe, for you and everyone. You found yourself sinking further into guilt and bitterness, the light at the surface growing smaller as you fell deeper and deeper. It was childish of you to be throwing a tantrum over something like this. So, you decided to grin and bear it. He understood you like the back of his hand; doing the same to him was the very least you could do. You pestered him less about his missions, stopped trying to call again and again when he didn’t respond. He’d always come home, even if it took days. He never broke promises. He promised he wouldn’t.

If he noticed the change in you, he didn’t mention it. His actions, however, said otherwise. He did his best to pay more attention to you. He tried to spend as much time with you as he could despite your conflicting schedules. He listened to everything you spoke about, promised you to be careful when you asked, and continued to protect you in his own way. You didn’t know exactly what it was that seemed to switch the dynamic completely, but at a certain point, you were no longer drowning in the pool of negativity. The sun seemed to shine brighter, the flowers in full bloom, and your cheeks ached from how much you’d been smiling. The lingering sense of foreboding faded into nothingness, replaced by pure optimism and trust. The future didn’t feel so glum anymore.

You supposed all you needed was time.

Time to heal, time to process everything. Time had a way of turning wounds into scars, healing phantom pains into a comfortable stillness. The claws that had your heart in a death grip had loosened, letting go of the chains they wrapped around it. You felt lighter, happier. Some semblance of normalcy had returned—as normal as it could be considering his dual life, but you weren’t going to take it for granted. You felt like you could finally breathe after being underwater for so long. Even here, where you were alone in the apartment, you didn’t feel lonely. It was… normal. A relief. It didn’t feel so suffocating anymore.

It was quiet save for the sound of your nails tapping against the keyboard. It was a sunny afternoon. Having had a productive morning, you aimed to finish the rest of the day in the same way. You were focused and determined to finish the essay quickly so you had more free time. But as the hours went by, that determination waned, and you found yourself at a dead end. You blankly stared at the blinking cursor on the word document. It almost felt like the thing was mocking you. Fatigue and boredom were catching up to you increasingly quickly. You knew the material by heart. You knew what you wanted to talk about. Yet no words came to mind—you were drawing a blank, and the thoughts in your mind were already drifting off elsewhere.

The counter was littered with snacks, surely something Caleb would chide you for. Your tumbler was long empty, left with nothing but melted ice cubes at the bottom. The dishes awaited cleaning in the sink and the TV remained turned on, playing a rerun of some generic soap opera. Defeated, you closed the word document, eyes drifting to the window beside you.

Outside, the skyline was painted in hues of orange and blue. Birds flew over the horizon, ready to migrate elsewhere for the upcoming spring. Your chest rose and fell with your exhale as you let your mind wander. You used up your creativity for the day, you thought. You haven’t made significant progress on the essay since you started it a few hours ago. Before you could beat yourself up about it, three loud knocks were heard from the window. Caleb’s masked face peeked over the wall as he gave you a gentle wave. Giddy, you got off your chair and skipped over, fingers deftly undoing the lock on its doors. You slid it open, allowing him to crawl in.

“I thought you were busy fighting crime,” you teased, watching as he took the mask off. His hair was tousled and his cheeks were flushed from exertion. “Are you slacking off?”

He huffed, amused. “I can multitask.”

He unhid his hand from his back and handed you a large bouquet of sunflowers, the gesture immediately making you melt. Flowers weren’t that out of the ordinary. Caleb liked bringing you gifts and trinkets he thinks you’d like. You got an equally large bouquet during your high school graduation and another one when you were accepted into university. You took it with a smile, murmuring a quiet ‘thank you’ and curiously looking at him. He bounced on the heels of his feet, seemingly nervous about something. His brows knitted together.

“You okay?”

He met your gaze. “Do you still think Spider-Man is better than me?”

You blinked a few times, confused. From the way he said it, it appeared that it wasn’t the first time he thought of something like this. You chuckled and crossed your arms over your chest, shifting your weight to the other leg.

“Getting jealous of yourself, Caleb?” It was your turn to be amused. “I never said he was my number one hero.”

“You never said I was your number one hero either.”

You sighed in mock exasperation. “Why is this important? You’re the same person.”

“I just wanna know,” he said, uncharacteristically sheepish.

“First of all, that happened once,” you corrected, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “Second of all, I love you. Spider-Man or not.”

His lips curled into a smile. “You love me?”

Warmth blossomed across your chest, rising all the way up to your cheeks as your lips parted in surprise, sputtering incoherent syllables. You awkwardly turned your head away, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye. Love had never been discussed, not really. It just felt like an unspoken commitment since you were children. He was the most important person to you, and you were the most important person to him. You never really thought about labelling your relationship.

Your eyes widened when you remembered you always referred to him as your partner whenever you spoke of him to your friends. You already gave it a label without realising it. You opened and closed your mouth like a fish, struggling to come up with a reply. You could feel his gaze on you, hear the satisfaction and mischief in his words. Clearing your throat, you tried to compose yourself and decided to follow through. You couldn’t take it back anyway, and even if you could, you didn’t want to.

“Yeah. I do,” you said, feigning indifference. “I thought you knew that.”

He couldn’t stop the smile from expanding into a grin. A breathless chuckle left him. His cheeks seemed to be getting even pinker as he fidgeted in his spot. He scratched the back of his head with flustered giddiness, struggling to keep eye contact with you. You didn’t think you ever saw him this shy. He was always your brave hero Caleb, the same boy who held you when you had nightmares, the same boy who held your hand when the thunderstorms got too loud. He was the same boy who defended you from bullies and got into trouble for getting into a fight with them. He was the same man who held nothing but affection in his words for you, the same man who would fall into playful banter with you.

You sighed softly, the corners of your lips twitching up. “You’re not gonna say it back?”

Though he didn’t need to, there was still a hint of insecurity in your tone. You looked at him expectantly, still watching as he tried to maintain composure. You weren’t used to seeing him this way, but you thought you could learn to do it. It made for a rather nice sight.

“I love you too, pipsqueak,” he finally said.

You beamed at him, placing the bouquet on the counter before leaping into his arms, delightfully laughing when he caught you effortlessly. You looped your arms around his neck and hooked your chin on his shoulder. Your legs were wrapped around him, your body supported by his arms around your waist. He held you as if you were as light as a feather. He nuzzled into your hair, letting out a content sigh. The air felt so light, so carefree. The remnants of your worries disappeared into the air, replaced by pure joy and unbridled affection.

“So… What’s the plan? Are you done with the day?”

“I’m going back to work. They need me,” he replied. With a jovial tone, he continued. “But I’ll be back for dinner.”

“You mean it this time?” You pulled away, searching into his eyes for honesty. You were still prone to worrying. His vigilante lifestyle was full of unpredictable moments, so it consistently kept you on your toes, leaving you unaware of what to expect. You were desperate for his words to be true. You felt as though you’ve been away from him for way too long. You craved his presence, his warmth—you craved him.

He gave you a boyish smile. “Yeah. I do.”

And that was a promise.

[deminetly]

—ㅤ꒰ྀིㅤ ACTIVITIES FOR SHIFTERS ಿৎ

activities for people with fame drs

⠂⠁⠈⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠂⠁⠈⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂

⋆ journal as your dr self

⋆ make a collage about your dr self (face claim, hair claim, body claim, hand claim, pets, room, house, style, general vibe)

⋆ write love letters to your s/o

⋆ watch storytimes of other ppl shifting to ur dr

⋆ make your social media profiles (twinote)

⋆ make moodboards for your drs/people in your drs

⋆ design your outfits (everyday, red carpet etc)

⋆ make a uquiz called “which one of my drs are you”

⋆ think of a trend to start in your fame dr

⋆ make up slang that people in your dr use

⋆ make shifting memes

⋆ make your dr room in roomsxyz

⋆ design your dr camera roll (from pinterest or go for a walk and take the pictures yourself)

⋆ go out and take pictures of places that remind you of your dr

⋆ draw/make picrews of your dr selves/friends

⋆ fill in pinterest templates about your dr self and your dr friends

⋆ make up a holiday and script it in your dr

⋆ make your own notion script template

⋆ make your own timetable for your school dr (make up new classes)

⋆ make a shifting bingo card of things you want to do in your dr

⋆ make posters about your drs (movies you acted in, your band, your school etc)

⋆ make yourself look like your dr self

⋆ go on google maps and walk around the area you want to shift to/serach up a yt video of someone walking around that place

⋆ organize your wardrobe and outfits (pinterest, combyne)

⋆ make up the whole film lore for your actor dr

⋆ write down (or even make up new) foods you would like to eat in your dr

⋆ make a playlist about your s/o or just dr in general

⋆ make up shifting methods

⋆ write down shifting methods, try them out and rate them

⋆ research the void state

⋆ make new places ans their lore for your dr, find pictures

⋆ watch documentaries about shifting

⋆ scroll through shifting tumblr and reddit

⋆ write down what a typical day in the life looks like for your dr self and follow that schedule for a day

⋆ write articles about your fame dr drama

⋆ script in a new tiktok trend you can do with your s/o

⋆ plan a halloween group costume for your dr self and friends

⋆ make a vision board for each dr

⋆ invent your own currency system for your dr

⋆ design a flag for the place youre shifting to

⋆ design merch for your fame dr

⋆ give random memes a twist so they would be about your dr

⋆ script a secret society (a hidden group in your dr with its own rituals, symbols and purpose)

⋆ design and script in tattoos for your dr self

⋆ write fanfic about random people in your dr/you and someone else from your dr

⋆ create new seasons for your dr

⋆ invent new amusement park rides to ride in your dr

⋆ invent a new zodiac system for your dr

⋆ make a board game based on your dr (locations, inside jokes etc)

⋆ script in a new restaurant and menu specifically for you

⋆ start a tumblr blog just for your dr (post things like day in the life of me, haul of what i just bought, new concert announcement etc)

⋆ make comics about your drs

⋆ make your own shifting school system (script: schedule, homework, building, uniform, topics you study, friend group, foods they offer during lunch, dorm room etc)

⋆ make a wikipedia about your (fame) dr self

⋆ make a magazine/newletter about your dr

⋆ take the rice purity test as your dr self then as your cr self and compare them

⋆ write a story/journal page/blog post of a success story as if you shifted (where did you wake up, who did you first talk to, what did you do, how did it feel, what was better than you expected, etc)

⋆ make a script for your cr

⋆ talk to people from your dr through tarot cards

⋆ make instagram stories as your dr self (collage pictures that fit the vibe and add a song your dr self would listen to)

⋆ script in fashion shows (think of cool themes, design the stage and outfits)

⋆ draw you and your dr friends / s/o together

⋆ make peope from your dr in metahuman (or other games like that)

⋆ worldbuild your dr in sims

⋆ karaoke your whole discography (fame dr specific)

⋆ make your s/o a gift for their birthday and celebrate it in your cr

⋆ make a list of foods to eat in your dr

⋆ write a story/book/song about shifting

⋆ make up a new video game so you could play it in your dr

⋆ make up a new show/movie so you could watch it in your dr

⋆ go for a walk listening to a playlist you made about your dr and write down everything that reminds you of your dr

⋆ shuffle your dr playlist and think of a scenario that remind you of your dr relating to a lyric of that song/the vibe of the song (credits to shiiiftz on tiktok)

⋆ write songs or poems about situations in your dr (credits to shiiiftz on tiktok)

⋆ make a script about your dr selfs childhood (credits to shiiiftz on tiktok)

write a letter to the universe titled why you should let me shift and list reasons

make a shifting bucketlist (ex: ride a dragon, jump out of a window)

make up new snacks you want to exist in your drs

put people from your drs names in a random headcannon generator

make an “oc lore poorly explained” about your dr

[jcmarchi]

Steven Strang, literary scholar and leader in writing and communication support at MIT, dies at 77

New Post has been published on https://thedigitalinsider.com/steven-strang-literary-scholar-and-leader-in-writing-and-communication-support-at-mit-dies-at-77/

Steven Strang, literary scholar and leader in writing and communication support at MIT, dies at 77

Steven Strang, a writer and literary scholar who founded MIT’s Writing and Communication Center in 1981 and directed it for 40 years, died with family at his side on Dec. 29, 2024. He was 77.

His vision for the center was ambitious. After an MIT working group identified gaps between the students’ technical knowledge and their ability to communicate it — particularly once in positions of leadership — Strang advocated an even broader approach rarely used at other universities. Rather than student-tutors working with peers, Strang hired instructors with doctorates, subject matter expertise, and teaching experience to help train all MIT community members for the current and future careers becoming increasingly reliant on persuasion and the need to communicate with varied audiences.

“He made an indelible mark on the MIT community,” wrote current director Elena Kallestinova in a message to WCC staff soon after Strang’s death. “He was deeply respected as a leader, educator, mentor, and colleague.”

Beginning his professional life as a journalist with the Bangor Daily News, Strang soon shifted to academia, receiving a PhD in English from Brown University and over the decades publishing countless pieces of fiction, poetry, and criticism, in addition to his pedagogical articles on writing and rhetoric. 

But the Writing and Communication Center is his legacy. At his Jan. 11 memorial, longtime MIT lecturer and colleague Thalia Rubio called the WCC “Steve’s creation,” pointing out that it went on to serve many thousands of students and others. Another colleague, Bob Irwin, described in a note Strang’s commitment to making the WCC “a place that offered both friendliness and the highest professional standards of advice and consultation on all communication tasks and issues. Steve himself was conscientious, a respectful director, and a warm and reliable mentor to me and others. I think he was exemplary in his job.”

MIT recognized Strang’s major contributions with a Levitan Teaching Award, an Infinite Mile Award, and an Excellence Award. In nomination letters and testimonials, students and peers alike told of a “tireless commitment,” that “they might not have graduated, or been hired to the job they have today, or gained admittance to graduate school had it not been for the help of The Writing Center.” 

Strang is also remembered for his work founding the MIT Writers Group, which he first offered as a creative writing workshop for Independent Activities Period in 2002. In yet another example of Strang recognizing and meeting a community need, about 70 people from across the Institute showed up that first year.

Strang is survived by a large extended family, including his wife Ayni and her two children, Elly and Marta, whom Strang adopted as his own. Donations in his memory can be made to The Rhode Island Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.

[allgoodnamesrgoneee]

Please can you write a fic about reader feeling insecure about other female athletes and models hitting on Jude. Jude reassures reader and comforts her that she’s the only one he wants, no/one else. I want it to end in smut please 🥰

P.S. Don't forget my Patreon is now available for ONLY $3 ($4.50 on iOS) for the summer from June 7 to August 25; don't miss your chance to catch up on all the exclusive content!

I've uploaded way more fics to it. I just haven't posted them on Tumblr.

In Every Universe

Masterlist

𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚 — It was supposed to be just another event. But one look at the women circling him and suddenly, you’re spiraling. Good thing Jude knows exactly how to bring you back—soft words, gentle hands, and a reminder that there’s no one else he wants but you.

𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 — Jude Bellingham x You

𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 — 5.7k

Warnings! ANGST!! Emotional angst, jealousy/insecurity, FLUFF!! comfort, Jude being the most reassuring and attentive boyfriend ever, NSFW! SMUT (18+), unprotected vaginal sex, soft dom!Jude, soft smut, oral (f receiving), praise kink, sweet and sensual lovemaking, deep emotional intimacy, you are enough and he makes sure you know it

The problem with dating a famous athlete is that he’s constantly around other beautiful women.

You don’t mean to stare.

Really, you don’t.

But there’s something about the way she laughs—head thrown back, perfect teeth flashing, perfect lips curling into a perfect smile—that makes your stomach twist.

And okay, maybe you're being dramatic, but… she’s kind of everything you’re not. Tall, legs for days, ponytail high and sleek , bouncing with every step she takes. A body sculpted like it was designed by the gods. The way she stands, one hip cocked and arms crossed, radiates pure confidence, a sense of self you don’t think you’ve ever possessed.

You have a feeling she’s the kind of woman who knows what she wants, who’s always gotten what she wants. You don’t know, and honestly, you don’t want to.

Because what really matters is that she’s currently pressed against Jude’s side, fingers curled around his bicep, and you know that she wants him.

And he’s smiling.

Not that kind of smile, you tell yourself. It’s the polite, I'm-in-a-room-full-of-cameras-and-people-watching kind of smile. The sponsor event smile. You know the one. You’ve seen it. But still—your chest tightens anyway.

You shift where you’re standing, suddenly way too aware of how your heels pinch and how your dress keeps riding up no matter how many times you yank it down. The mirror in the bathroom earlier had made you feel decent—good, even. But now? You feel like a misplaced background extra who accidentally wandered into the frame of a photoshoot.

And it’s stupid. God, it’s so stupid. You trust Jude. He’s never given you a reason not to.

But you also have eyes. And social media. And the basic ability to compare yourself to every woman he comes into contact with—and lose.

You try to distract yourself with a tiny cupcake from the dessert table. It’s half melted, the frosting drooping like it’s over this night too. But you don’t want it. The cupcake or this night. Still, you take a bite. Anything to keep you from staring at them and wondering if he ever feels the same way.

"Hey."

You freeze.

You don’t even have time to swallow the bite before Jude’s beside you, nudging your arm with the back of his hand, like he can read your thoughts. Like he always does.

"Was wondering where you went," he says. “Are you alright?”

You nod a little too fast. “Yeah. Just needed a sugar hit.”

Jude studies you for a second. Really looks. And you hate how that gaze—so warm, so full of you—only makes the knot in your stomach tighter.

“Did something happen?” he asks, gentler now. “Or… someone?”

You shake your head, eyes on the floor. “It’s fine.”

“Doesn’t sound fine.” He takes a step closer, dipping his head down a bit to catch your eye. “You wanna talk about it?”

There’s a beat of silence, but he doesn't try to feel it. Because the thing about Jude is that he knows you better than anyone. And when you’re like this? He knows the worst thing he can do is push.

The music hums in the background, low and bassy, as conversations blur into the kind of buzz that only happens at expensive events full of fake smiles and champagne.

You hate this.

Not the party. Not even her. You hate how easily your brain makes you feel like you’re not enough—like no matter what you do, you’ll always be the before to someone else’s after. The benchwarmer girlfriend in a league of starters.

You glance at him, finally. “She’s really pretty.”

Jude’s brow furrows. “Who?”

You tilt your chin subtly in her direction.

He follows your gaze. And then… he laughs. But it’s not his usual laugh.

Not in a mocking way. Not in a cruel way. Just—soft. Like he’s confused and endeared and trying to understand what universe you’re currently occupying. A universe where you think that someone like him would ever look twice at someone like her. Like you’re anything less than everything he's ever wanted.

“Baby.”

You look away, cheeks burning. “I know, okay? I'm—I'm being crazy. I’m sorry.”

Jude catches your chin. “No, don’t apologize.” His thumb brushes your cheekbone, just once. “Just… talk to me, alright?”

The room is suddenly too loud, too hot. You can’t do this here. Not with everyone watching. Not when you know how many people are already waiting for you to mess this up, to screw it up, to prove that you don’t belong in Jude’s life.

And here you are, practically handing them the proof on a silver fucking platter.

“Can we go?” you ask, voice barely a whisper, feet already turning for the exit. You’re tired. You’re hot. You’re sweaty. And all you want is to be alone with him.

But Jude’s already reaching for your hand, tugging you just slightly behind one of the tall decorative pillars, away from curious eyes and camera flashes.

You follow, reluctantly.

“Better?” he asks. You shrug, but his eyes are already searching your face, like he’s trying to figure out how to fix this, fix you. “Hey,” he murmurs. “Look at me.”

And you do.

Because you can’t not when he says it like that—soft and low and so achingly kind it makes your throat ache in return.

The light from the chandelier hits him in a way that makes him look like an angel, all golds and browns and soft, gentle eyes.

It’s not fair, you think. How can someone be this hot and this sweet? It’s like the universe decided to put every good thing into one human and then sent them your way, just to make everyone else look bad by comparison.

You almost want to laugh at the thought. Because isn’t that exactly your problem?

“I know what you’re thinking,” Jude says. “But you’re wrong.” He moves a little closer, voice dropping to a low murmur. “And I really wish you could see yourself the way I see you.”

You duck your head. Because you can’t. Not now. Not with the way you feel so small and stupid and unworthy of all of this. Of him.

His hand lifts to your chin again. “Hey, don’t do that. Look at me.” When you do, he smiles, eyes soft and crinkled at the corners, and you melt a little despite yourself. “You’re right, yeah? She’s beautiful.”

You nod, just a little. He does the same.

“But she’s not you.” His voice is low, a little rough, and so fucking earnest you can't help but feel the words in your chest, in your gut, in every part of your body that’s been aching all night.

You blink once. Twice. Your throat tightens. “Yeah, but she—”

“She’s not you,” he repeats, firmer now. “She didn’t hold me when I lost that match and felt like shit for a week. She doesn’t know how I take my tea or that I can’t fall asleep unless you’re touching me somehow. She doesn’t laugh-snort at memes I send at 2AM or dance around in the kitchen when she thinks I’m not looking.”

He tilts his head.

“She’s not the first person I wanna call when I land after a game. Or the last person I wanna hold when everything’s gone to hell.”

Your eyes start to sting. Stupid mascara. It’s not waterproof.

Jude cups your jaw, voice lower, softer. “You’re it for me. Don’t you get that?”

You blink again and your vision goes blurry. And then the first tear escapes.

And you try to move but he's already leaning in, eyes flicking between yours, thumbs already brushing the tears away.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, as he swipes another tear from your cheek. “I don’t—I don’t know why—”

“I know.” His mouth hovers close to yours, lips just a breath away. “It’s okay.”

“I know it’s dumb. I just—”

“It’s not dumb.” He swipes another tear and another until there’s nothing left. “You’re allowed to feel. But I need you to know—” His hand curls around your neck. “—It's you. Alright? There’s no one else. Not her. Not anyone. You.”

And then he's kissing you, lips soft and gentle, hands cupping your face because you're something so so precious to him. You press your hands against his chest, his tie, his shoulders. You’re not sure. All you know is that you need to be as close to him as possible. As close as two people can get.

He pulls back but his hands don't move from your face. “Let me show you.”

You barely remember the drive home.

Somewhere between his hand on your thigh and his eyes flicking to you every few minutes because he can't stand not looking, the world outside just faded into blur. Streetlights turned to stars. Red turned to gold. And before you know it, he's pulling into the driveway, headlights cutting off, engine quiet.

The house is dark, save for the porch light that's on a timer. It's still. It's quiet.

You love this house.

You love how it feels like a home. It's warm and full of light, full of things you've picked out together, things you've found on random trips to random shops you fell in love with. You love the kitchen island, the big bed, the bathtub that fits both of you. And the shower.

God, the shower.

You had only been dating for five months when he asked you to move in. You said yes immediately, despite your better judgment, because the thought of waking up next to him every morning was more than you could pass up.

You've never regretted it.

He's out of the car before you can unbuckle your seatbelt, opening your door and helping you out in one smooth motion.

“Thanks,” you murmur, as he shuts the door behind you.

He doesn't respond, just takes your hand and leads you to the porch.

The sound of the door opening, the door closing, the lock clicking shut—it's so familiar, so comforting, it immediately settles something in you. Like a deep sigh. Home.

He tosses his keys in the bowl and your purse on the table.

It's dark. Moonlit.

He doesn’t turn the lights on.

Just pulls you gently by the hand, past the kitchen and down the hall—quiet footsteps against warm wood, every step echoing with something thick and tender.

Your heart pounds louder than your heels. You don't know why.

You know what's going to happen when you get to the bedroom. You know what he wants to do. You know where this is going. But still. Your heart pounds anyway.

And when he finally shuts the door behind you, he doesn't say anything. Just stands there. Quiet. Watching you, like he's taking you in for the first time.

You're suddenly too aware of everything—the strap digging into your shoulder, the tightness around your ribs, the way the neckline dips lower than anything you'd ever wear on a normal day. But he’d insisted you wear it. Because you loved it.

But now, you just feel exposed.

Vulnerable.

“Can I help you with your zipper?” he asks.

You nod, turning for him.

He takes a step forward. And then another and another. Until there's only the smallest bit of space between you. Just enough that you can feel the heat of his skin, smell the cologne lingering on his collar, his neck, the underside of his jaw.

You feel his hands lift and inhale, sharp.

They hover at your neck, his knuckles brushing your bare skin, as he gently tugs the zipper down. It’s slow—so slow—slipping down your spine. Bit by bit, inch by inch. His touch lingers, thumbs stroking circles into your back. It’s deliberate and soft and makes your eyes flutter shut. Makes your heart pound a little louder.

He brushes your hair over your shoulder and then he’s leaning down, lips skimming your skin, hands sliding the dress down your arms, following the path of the zipper. The air is cool where he just touched and you shiver, a little.

You can hear the fabric pooling at your feet. It's soft and heavy and you can't bring yourself to care about stepping on it. Because he’s still kissing your neck, one hand on your shoulder and one on your waist, and all you can think about is how much you want him closer.

How much you need him.

“Jude,” you breathe. “Please—”

He hums against your skin. “Shhh. Let me take care of you.” His hand slides up your front, just once, just barely ghosting the underside of your breast before moving to your collarbone, thumb sweeping up. “I've got you.”

He says it like a vow, a promise he’s sworn a thousand times and will swear a thousand more.

I’ve got you.

And he does.

You feel it in the way he wraps his arms around you from behind, bare chest warm against your back as his lips graze the shell of your ear. You’re only in your underwear now—your skin humming, warm—but somehow, you’ve never felt safer.

He kisses a line from your shoulder to the back of your neck, each press of his mouth soft and open and reverent. Like if he’s gentle enough, he can undo everything you felt tonight.

“I hate seeing you doubt yourself,” he whispers against your skin, voice low and ragged. “You don’t need to.”

You tilt your head back against his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut as his hands slide down your sides, slow and careful.

“I just wanted to be enough,” you whisper. It slips out before you can stop it.

Jude freezes for the tiniest second. And then he turns you around gently, and tips your chin up with a touch so light it almost doesn’t land.

“You are,” he says, like it’s the most obvious truth in the world. “You’re my everything.”

You don’t get a chance to answer before he’s kissing you again—this time slower, deeper. The kind of kiss that makes your knees go soft and your stomach flutter like you’re sixteen again and in way over your head.

You let him guide you backward until your legs hit the bed.

And then he’s lowering you down—gently, carefully, like you’re made of something soft and sacred. The back of your knees press into the mattress, and your spine sinks into the familiar give of the sheets you picked out together. Jude follows, easing between your legs, the weight of him settling on top of you in a way that feels both grounding and electrifying.

It’s familiar and easy and everything. It’s a warm night and a soft bed and everything you could ever want. It’s home.

The light from the window cuts across his jaw, catching the edge of his cheekbone, casting soft golden shadows over his skin, as he kisses you again—sweet and unhurried. His lips taste faintly like peppermint and champagne.

You reach for his shirt, fingers fumbling with the buttons. Your breath is coming in quick, uneven puffs now, making you feel like you're falling in love all over again, every time.

He pulls back slightly, bracing on his forearm, giving you room.

“I’ve got it,” you murmur, but your hands tremble just a little.

He chuckles, low and soft, kissing the side of your mouth. “Take your time, sweetheart.”

Your fingertips skim each button, slowly, deliberately, and he watches you with a look that makes your stomach flutter—like he wants to memorize this moment, like he’s never wanted anything more than your hands on him, touching him, loving him.

When the last button slips free, you push the shirt open. He shrugs out of it, tossing it somewhere off the side of the bed without looking, and your palms immediately find his chest—warm, firm, solid. You drag your hands down the taut lines of his torso, over the smooth plane of his abs, to the sharp dip of his hips. He’s so fit, so beautifully built.

His pants are next. You undo the button and slide the zipper down, knuckles brushing his skin, and he hisses softly through his teeth.

“Baby,” he breathes, and the word curls in your belly like heat.

He kicks the pants off, then reaches for you, pulling you into another kiss—long, deep, and slow. You can feel him hard against your thigh, straining through his briefs, and you reach between you, palm pressing against him. He groans, hips rocking into your touch.

Your fingers glide along the shape of him through the fabric, teasing, dragging slowly from base to tip, and his mouth stutters against yours.

“Fuck,” he mutters, low and strained. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You smile against his lips.

You dip your fingers beneath the waistband, hand wrapping around him, and he jerks slightly—his hips instinctively chasing your touch. He’s thick and hot and heavy in your palm, and when you stroke him—slow and purposeful—his head falls forward, forehead resting against yours.

“Hold on, baby,” he whispers, catching your wrist with a firm but gentle grip. His voice is so low, so rough, it practically vibrates in your chest. “Let’s take this slow, yeah? Tonight’s about you.”

He kisses you one last time—deep and lingering—then starts his descent, eyes never leaving yours as he moves lower. You feel the warmth of his breath against your stomach, then the brush of his hands against your hips as he hooks his fingers into your panties.

He peels them down slowly—agonizingly slow—eyes flicking up to watch your expression as he does it. It’s intimate. Almost too much. Your breath catches in your throat as the fabric slips past your thighs, your knees, your ankles, and then you’re bare for him. Entirely.

Jude kneels between your legs, hands sliding up your calves, then your thighs, slow and reverent. His thumbs press into the softest parts of you, grounding you, making your breath stutter.

He leans in, his voice a low rasp against your skin. “Open your legs for me, baby.”

The words make your stomach tighten, a flush spreading hot and fast across your chest. But you do as he asks, parting your legs slowly, your pulse roaring in your ears.

He kisses your inner thighs first—one, then the other—soft and open-mouthed, lips dragging over your skin, tasting you inch by inch. Your muscles twitch beneath him, the anticipation building until you’re squirming.

And then—finally—he moves higher. His mouth hovers so close, you can feel his breath.

He groans, low and quiet, and the sound makes your hips lift off the bed just a little.

“Jude, please—” you breathe.

“I know, baby. I’m gonna take care of you.” He says, a vow. “Just relax for me, alright?”

Your heart is pounding so hard you can feel it in your neck, in your stomach, in the tips of your fingers. But then his mouth is on you, and the noise that slips out of you is somewhere between a gasp and a whine.

It's so good.

So good.

The kiss is soft against your clit, just the barest hint of contact, but it’s enough to send a bolt of pleasure straight through your body.

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous like this,” he breathes against you, his words turning to vibrations that make you shudder. "So fucking wet for me. How could you ever think I want anyone else?”

His mouth finds you again, this time with more pressure, and you can’t help but cry out. He groans into you, tongue circling your clit slowly—too slowly—deliberate and purposeful.

Your back arches off the bed, hands gripping the sheets, and he moves with you, following you, holding your hip down with a firm touch. His other hand slides beneath your ass, tilting you up, giving him better access. He’s so focused, so intent on this one thing—on you—on making you feel good—that it almost makes you feel dizzy.

He circles your clit again—slowly, firmly—then takes it into his mouth, tongue flicking softly. The rhythm is easy and unhurried, like he has all the time in the world to do this. And you know he does. You know he’d stay here for hours if you wanted him to, just because he loves it.

The knowledge makes your chest ache.

You want to close your eyes but you don't. Because you like watching him like this—head buried between your thighs, eyes half-lidded as he glances up at you like he can’t quite believe you’re real.

And then he sucks on your clit—gently at first, and then firmer, tongue swirling softly—and the moan that rips out of you sounds almost animalistic.

“Yeah? You like that?” He murmurs against you, the words buzzing against your skin. He doesn't wait for an answer before he dives back in, licking a broad stripe across your cunt, the vibration of his groan humming against you. “You taste so good, baby.” He kisses your clit once, twice, three times—soft and lingering. “So perfect.” Another kiss. Another. “All mine.”

His mouth moves lower, tongue dipping inside you, fucking you with slow, lazy thrusts, and you grip his coils, holding him against you. Your hips rock against his face, but he doesn’t slow down. If anything, he gets more intense. More deliberate. More focused on making you come undone.

His thumb presses against your clit, circling slowly as he tastes you, drinks you in. It doesn’t take long before the pressure starts to build—low and hot in your belly. Your legs start to tremble, thighs tightening around him.

“I’m gonna—” You can barely speak. “Jude, I’m gonna—” The words get lost in a gasp, hips bucking against his mouth.

He lifts off just long enough to say, “Give it to me.” Then his mouth is back on you, sucking your clit between his lips as his tongue flicks against it—over and over and over again. It's too much, too fast. You can't—you need—

“Baby.” Your back arches, hands gripping his hair, holding him to you as you grind against his tongue. “Oh fuck, I'm coming—”

And you do.

You come so hard your vision goes white, spine lifting off the bed as pleasure crashes through you in wave after wave after wave. He doesn’t stop, riding you through it until you’re shaking and boneless beneath him. Until you’re begging him to stop, to slow down, to please—please—you can’t take anymore.

He sits up, lips slick and shiny, and kisses the inside of your thigh softly, sweetly, as you come down. The muscles in your legs twitch and you can’t quite catch your breath, but you manage a soft, “Thank you.”

He chuckles against your skin, the sound so fond it makes your chest go soft. “Always so polite.” He kisses the other thigh. Then the delicate skin between your hipbones. “So good for me, baby. So sweet.”

He moves higher, lips pressing against your stomach, then the swell of your breast, then the hollow of your throat, where he sucks, soft and gentle. The mark he leaves is a promise—To show you. To prove it to you.

To make you understand, once and for all, just how much he wants you. Just how much you’re the only one he’ll ever see.

You pull him into a kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue, and it makes something hot and primal curl low in your stomach. Your hands find his briefs again, tugging at the waistband. He helps you, shifting his hips just enough to shove them down.

When he settles against you again, he’s still achingly hard. The thick line of his cock rests heavy and hot against your hip. He doesn’t break the kiss as he kicks them off, his body never straying far from yours. The soft drag of his skin against your thighs sends shivers up your spine. His hands bracket your hips, grounding you, anchoring you to this moment.

When he settles against you again, he’s still achingly hard. The thick line of his cock rests heavy and hot against your hip. It makes you shiver.

Jude’s nose brushes against yours, the tip of it warm. “Are you ready?” he asks.

His voice is barely a whisper, rough and quiet and full of something deep. You barely get a nod out before he’s moving—he doesn’t wait for an answer, just reaches between you to line himself up, his forehead resting against yours. The tip of him catches your entrance and you both groan softly, breath tangling in the small space between your mouths.

You feel the moment he starts to push inside. He's so hard, so thick, it almost takes your breath away.

“Shit,” you whisper.

The stretch is slow, deep, almost overwhelming. His hips rock against you gently, working himself deeper with every roll, every press. He’s shaking a little bit, and you know it’s from the effort of holding back. The thought makes something inside you squeeze. It always does.

He moves slowly, letting you adjust, letting you feel every inch of him as he presses into you. Your breath hitches, back arching slightly, and he catches your mouth in another kiss. It’s all lips and breath and heat. A kiss that says I’m here. You’re safe. You’re mine.

“Almost there, baby,” he murmurs. “Fuck, you feel so good.”

His words are wet against your lips, his hips pausing when he’s fully buried in you. When he finally bottoms out, you both pause, just breathing each other in. His chest rises and falls against yours, sticky with sweat. His hand finds your thigh, strokes it, calming. The silence is warm. Full.

“Jude.” You whisper his name, hands curling against his chest. Your fingertips find the curve of his collarbone, trace the muscle there.

“I know.” He pulls back, eyes searching your face—so dark, so soft. “I’ve got you.”

And then he moves—slow and deep, hips rolling against yours in a way that makes you melt. It’s a lazy kind of thrust, and he groans, dropping his forehead to your shoulder.

“Fuck, baby. You feel so perfect.” He sucks a mark into your neck, another on your collarbone. His rhythm never falters, never speeds up. He moves like he’s making love to every part of you at once. His breath falls in sync with yours.

Every stroke, every thrust feels like he’s trying to get closer, to show you how much you mean to him. Every drag of his cock against your walls makes pleasure spark bright behind your eyes, until you can barely remember to breathe.

He grips your thigh, lifting it slightly to give himself a better angle. “You’re so beautiful like this,” he murmurs, his voice rough, not taking his eyes off of you for a second, watching every little expression on your face with so much focus, so much intent. Memorizing everything about this moment.

His hand slips between you, thumb pressing against your clit. You're so sensitive, the touch almost makes you jump, but he doesn't relent. He circles the small bundle of nerves gently, the pressure perfect as his hips rock against yours, over and over and over. The rhythm is slow but strong—designed to destroy you.

“So fucking tight for me, honey.” His voice is low, broken, and it sounds like it’s been pulled from somewhere deep in his chest. His thumb presses harder against your clit, rubbing slow and firm as his hips snap forward, grinding against you. The fullness is almost overwhelming.

“Look.” He guides your gaze down to where you're connected. “Want you to see how good you take me.” He pushes in deeper. “Feel how perfect this is.” Another thrust. “See how fucking beautiful you are.”

You glance down, and the sight makes your breath catch. The slick glide of him sliding into you, the way your bodies fit like puzzle pieces, the dark flush of his cock disappearing into your body—it’s obscene and intimate and so fucking tender it makes your eyes sting.

“So good for me.” He's slurring his words now, his breath is a wet puff against your ear. “So sweet.” He nips the lobe gently, begging for control as your warm, wet, gummy walls clench down on him so fucking good. “All mine.” His teeth drag your neck, tongue soothing the sting. “Tell me, baby. Tell me you’re mine.”

“I'm yours.” You don’t recognize your voice—broken, breathy, needy. “Yours.” Your fingernails dig into his back, dragging down his shoulders as the pleasure starts to build again.

He groans against your neck, hips starting to lose their rhythm. “Yeah?” He pants. “Mine?” Another thrust. A harder one. “Say it again.”

“I’m yours.” You reach for him, arms wrapping around his neck, pulling him down until his face is pressed against your neck, until you’re so wrapped up in each other you don’t know where he ends and you begin. You can feel every inch of him. Every breath. Every beat of his heart. “Only yours.”

He moans against you, hips snapping forward, driving into you so deep and so full you swear you can feel him in your throat. “Mine,” he agrees, and there’s a possessiveness to the word that makes your toes curl. “Always mine.”

Your nails drag across his back and he shudders, hips jerking against you, and… fuck.

The angle is perfect. His cock hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision go white, over and over and over, each thrust pushing you higher, closer. You try to tell him but you can barely form the words, let alone say them out loud.

“Shit.” You finally manage. “Oh my god.”

“Here?” He asks, knowing. He drives in again—harder, deeper, grinding against you just right—and you see stars.

“Yes.” You gasp. “Jude. Please.” Your hips lift, legs wrapping around him, pulling him closer, deeper. “Don’t stop.”

The sound that rips from his throat is something between a growl and a groan. His pace quickens, hips slapping against yours in an obscene slick slap of skin against skin. The sound of him fucking you—thrusting into you—is so fucking dirty, it makes your chest tighten. You're so fucking wet.

His body is slick with sweat, muscles tight with the effort to keep his pace.

“That’s it,” he murmurs into your ear, his voice barely more than a low, breathless rasp. “Just like that. Fucking made for me. So fucking wet…this pussy, I swear—” He chockes on the words, lips drag up your throat. “So tight, baby, so good. Can’t believe you're mine.”

You cry out, gripping his hair, pulling him into another kiss. His lips taste like sweat, like you—like everything. And you want to fucking drown in him.

“I—I love you,” you whisper. “So much.”

“I love you too, baby.” His voice cracks on the last word. It’s so fucking genuine, so full of everything, it almost makes your heart stop. “So much.” He pants against your ear, hips still working against yours. “You're all I think about. All I want. All I fucking need."

Your eyes flutter closed as you press a kiss to the side of his face. He feels so good. He always does, but this? This feels like worship. Like he's praying to you with every thrust.

The pleasure is building again, so fast, so sharp, it almost makes you dizzy. Your nails dig into his shoulders, legs tightening around his waist.

“I can’t—I can’t—” Your breath is coming in sharp gasps. “Jude—I need—”

“I know.” He lifts up just enough to look at you, eyes soft and glassy, a little unfocused. His forehead presses to yours, damp and warm. “Me too, baby.” He kisses the corner of your mouth, the edge of your jaw. “Come with me.” Another kiss. “Please.” Another. “Wanna feel you.” His lips drag across your cheek, breath fanning out on your face as his jaw goes slack, head dropping forward, the veins in his neck standing out. “Fuck. I’m not gonna last.”

You cling to him, tighter, closer, every muscle in your body tensing and squeezing. He feels it.

His thumb finds your clit again, rubbing softly as his hips press against yours, grinding, thrusting. You can feel the exact moment you start to come—the way your body tightens, the way your breath catches, the way he groans against your skin and chases you over the edge.

Your orgasm rips through you like lightning. It’s sharp and bright and so fucking intense you feel like you’re breaking apart, right there in his arms. And he holds you through it. Holds you so tightly, so gently.

It doesn’t take him long to follow after, hips snapping against yours one last time as he buries himself as deep as he can go. He groans, low and long and ragged, his whole body going tense, shaking, "Oh, fuck. Baby—I—"

And you can feel it. You can feel him come inside you—hot and wet and so fucking deep.

Your hands find his back, stroking up and down his shoulders, his spine, the nape of his neck. The touch is soft, soothing, and it seems to relax him, ease him. His muscles go slack, the tension bleeding out of him with every breath. He nuzzles into your throat, lips soft and damp against your skin.

Neither of you speaks.

Not yet.

The only sound in the room is your breathing—yours, fast and uneven; his, heavy and deep.

He doesn’t pull out right away. He just stays there, inside you, wrapped around you, his arms sliding under your back and pulling you in tighter, tighter, like he can’t bear to let go.

You turn your head just enough to brush your lips against his temple.

“I needed that,” you whisper.

He hums against your neck, nuzzling into the soft skin there like a big, satisfied cat. “Me too,” he murmurs. “So fucking much.”

He finally lifts his head, just enough to look at you. His eyes—God, his eyes. They’re soft. Adoring. Full of that same love you feel burning in your chest.

“You okay?” he asks.

You smile, hand finding his face, thumb sweeping across his cheek. “Better than okay.”

He leans into your touch, eyes fluttering shut as he turns his head to kiss your palm.

You stare at him for a second. At the fan of his lashes against his cheeks, at the softness of his lips against your skin. And it hits you, just how lucky you are.

And in that moment—with his heart beating against yours and his arms wrapped tightly around you—you finally believe him. You believe all of it. Every word. Every touch.

You are enough.

You are his.

And he is yours.

-Bianca🌻

[prettieinpink]

MAKING YOUR PHONE TO BE INTENTIONAL

MAKE A VISION BOARD WALLPAPER. Create one that aligns with your goals and dream self, so that every time you pick your phone up, you’re reminded of your goals and future vision. Also, great for manifesting! 

KNOW YOUR APP’S PURPOSE. For me, tumblr is a way I share advice and learn, YouTube I also learn from others, pinterest I get inspired, netflix is a way for me to unwind etc. If for any app, you cannot name a proper purpose/intent to use it daily or to help with your goals, delete it. 

DECIDE WHICH TYPES OF APPS YOU WANT. If you have a new phone, or you want to completely reset your phone, write or type, the apps, that you want and those you don’t. 

E.g I want to learn a language, practice mindfulness on the go, get some mental gratification that isn’t addicting, organise my life better and have a way to track my progress. I don’t want apps that support doom-scrolling, make me compare myself and are addictive. 

BE MINDFUL OF WHAT YOU SIGN UP TO. Newsletters, social media, subscribing to YouTubers and so on, just think about your goals and vision and if they align with them, every time you think about signing up/subscribing. 

HAVE NO PHONE TIME/ZONES. For me, my phone is not allowed to be used in bed. If I must use my phone, I have to get out of bed first. My phone is also not allowed during study time, so I put it in a separate room which makes it inconvenient. 

REGULARLY DO A DIGITAL DECLUTTER. Delete any old contacts that you don’t talk to, unsubscribe from newsletters and YouTube channels, organise your socials etc. Removes space and helps us to see our phones with more clarity. 

SET PURPOSEFUL WIDGETS. These can be anything, motivational quotes, your daily to-do list, reminders of your habits and so on. However, make sure you’re looking at them and they're not just taking up space. 

[vixen-academia]

Free MIT online courses that sound interesting

Arts & Literature

Introduction to World Music

Reading Fiction

Literary Interpretation: Virginia Woolf's Shakespeare

Introduction to Photography

Foundations of Western Culture II: Renaissance to Modernity

Studies in Poetry - Briths Poetry and the Sciences of the Mind

Studies in Literary History: Modernism: From Nietzsche to Fellini

Screen Women: Body Narratives in Popular American Film

Studies in Poetry: "What's the Use of Beauty"

Queer Cinema and Visual Culture

Monteverdi to Mozart: 1600 - 1800

Writing and Experience: Reading and Writing Autobiography

Advanced Topics in Hispanic Literature and Film: The Films of Luis Buñel

Major Authors: Rewriting Genesis: "Paradise Lost" and Twentieth-Century Fantasy

Arthurian Literature and Celtic Colonization

Contemporary Literature: Britsh Novel Now

Studies in Poetry: 20th Century Irish Poetry: The Shadow of W. B. Yeats

Writing About Literature: Writing About Love

Introduction to European and Latin American Fiction: Great Books On The Page and On The Screen

Popular Culture and Narrative: Use and Abuse of the Fairy Tale

Victorian Literature and Culture

Reading Poetry

English Renaissance Drama: Theatre and Society in the Age of Shakespeare

Introduction to Fiction

International Woman's Voice

Major Authors: Oscar Wilde and the "90's"

Prizewinners: Nobelistas

American Authors: American Women Authors

Shakespeare, Film and Media

Japanese Literature and Cinema

Woman's Novels: A Weekly Book Club

Classics of Chinese Literature

Major English Novels

Topics in South Asia Literature and Culture

Introduction to Literary Theory

History & Social Studies

American Classics

The Middle East in the 20th Century

Africa and the Politics of Knowledge

The Rise of Modern Science

European Imperialism in the 19th and 20th Century

Philosophy of Love

Human Rights: At Home and Abroad

The Nature of Creativity

Introduction to Comparative Politics

Riots, Rebellions, Revolutions

Introduction to the History of Technology

Ancient Philosophy

Youth Political Participation

[nadvs]

Hello! Im the anon who asked for a fic with rivaly at college 😍 OMG! I love what this turned in to. You are an incredible writer!! I hope you know that. You have me hooked. You write dialog amazingly. It feels so real. Never stop writing!!

Can you write something about when she get jealous? Maybe when he is in the NBA?

Hope you have a great day!

Love from Sweden

HIII omg it’s such a good premise!! i remember being in love with it the second i read your ask 🙂‍↕️ thank you so much 💘 i’m so touched that people like the au and want more of it 🥹

based on this fic

» au masterlist

rafe can get wildly, intensely jealous. and while they often joke about how similar they are, that’s one trait she doesn’t share with him. until he gets signed and moves away.

he doesn’t have as much time for texts and calls. he’s training with his new team, working up to the season. she gets it. or at least, she tries to.

she already had unwelcome thoughts swimming in her head when he had been signed to a team states away about him getting lost in the fame and potentially being unfaithful. she never worried about him cheating before. and she hates that she’s doing it now.

but she tries to keep it in. things between them are already tense. accusing him of something just because she’s insecure isn’t fair and will likely just push him away.

then, she visits him. they share their first i love you’s. they’re in a good place.

but when the season starts, that’s another story. it’s surreal seeing her boyfriend play on tv on such a massive scale, thousands of seats surrounding the court filled. she’s so happy for him and whenever the camera focuses on him, she can tell he’s nervous and she loves that she’s the only one in the world who knows it.

but then between periods, she catches glimpses of his team’s cheerleaders before the cuts to commercial. and she can’t lie to herself that these girls are beautiful. and she wonders if maybe he already lived out the college fantasy. maybe now that he’s a professional player, he’ll have his eyes on professional cheerleaders. or really, any girl, because she’s sure he could get any girl he wants.

as the season goes on, because she likes to keep up with the nba on social media, specifically him and his team, her tiktok automatically shows her videos and edits of her boyfriend, some comments from fans about how he’s the next best thing, but most from girls going crazy over how hot he is.

it puts her into a funk. he sees gorgeous cheerleaders at every game. he gets comments on his instagram from beautiful girls. the internet is losing their mind over him. how can she possibly compare?

so, the next night she’s on facetime with him, she can’t hold it back any longer. after they talk about their days, she starts to pick at a string on her shirt, looking down.

“so…” she says. “do you ever get a chance to talk to the cheerleaders?”

rafe looks at her with knitted brows. she’s been off since she picked up the phone, seemingly mad at him. it’s not like them to not be direct.

“baby, what’s wrong?” he asks.

“nothing,” she lies. “just wondering if you ever talk to them. they’re good dancers.”

he hates the way her lips are turned into a frown, her eyes off the screen.

“i only wanna talk to one cheerleader and she’s pretending she’s not mad at me right now,” he says.

this earns a smirk from her.

“they’re all so pretty,” she says. “i’m not blind. and you’re not, either. there’s no way you haven’t noticed them.”

“i moved here to play,” rafe tells her.

“and you know girls online are going crazy for you,” she continues. “don’t act like you haven’t seen all the comments on your instagram.”

rafe studies her image on the screen.

“you know you have nothing to be jealous of, right?” he says. he hates to admit it, but it’s kind of flattering, especially because she isn’t usually the intensely jealous type. it shows him she still wants him.

she sighs. of course he sees right through her. not like she’s being subtle anyway.

“i do, though,” she says. “and maybe it’s stupid to talk about because i’m annoying you and making you feel like i don’t trust-”

“you’re not annoying me,” he interrupts. “you’re being really cute, actually.”

“cute,” she scoffs, her eyes still low.

“look at yourself on your phone,” he says. she rolls her eyes and obliges, gazing at her reflection on the screen.

“now what?” she mumbles.

“if you can’t see how beautiful you are, maybe you are blind,” he says.

“stop,” she laughs softly. “it’s not that i don’t trust you. it’s just that… it has to feel like a waste to be getting all this attention and ignoring it all because of some girl back home, doesn’t it?”

“some girl,” he echoes. “you think you’re just some girl?”

she shrugs. his chest aches.

“you’re my best friend,” he says. “i wouldn’t fuck this up for anything or anyone in the world. you’re it for me.”

her vision blurs with tears. she flattens her lips together and finally nods.

“sorry,” she says weakly.

“for what?”

“for being so jealous.”

“i already told you it’s cute,” he says. she smiles again.

“i love you, okay?” she mumbles.

“i love you, too, okay?” he teases.

they talk for another hour, then she tells him she needs to go to sleep so she’s not totally exhausted for her morning lecture. he has the day off the next day, so he stays up a bit longer on his phone after they hang up.

when she wakes up, she sees hundreds of instagram notifications on her phone. rafe posted a photo of them from the last time she visited, tagging her with the caption: All I need.

before she even gets out of bed, she’s crying. because of how good he is to her. because he’s telling the world he belongs to someone already. because she’s sure that he loves her just as much as she loves him.

[gamora-borealis]

I think dan and phil are special but not because they are special people. like don't get me wrong, they are extremely talented and creative and funny and phil does seem to have inherited some kind of special intuition from his northern grandma but! there's a million other queer / neurodivergent people out there just like them... just as talented and intuitive or whatnot. what's special is that they were in the right place / right time to broadcast this unique kind of existence on a mass scale to a broad audience but more importantly a kindred audience. and they've kept it authentic by balancing their entertainment personas and working relationship with their real selves. It's like we've been watching a reality tv series about them for 15 years except they are the producers (who maybe exaggerate some things like producers do but, it's their own choices)... and they never meant for the show to make money but it did so yeah they need it to maintain their lifestyle now but in general their intentions are less clouded by clout or success compared to some influencers/creators out there. What's special is the insane parasocial relationship we have with them and they have with us that truly is a product of a specific context that I don't think will ever quite exist again. They learned from the first YouTubers and mastered the art form to the point where they are able to go on these huge tours that to this day no one can top because YouTube and the Internet have changed far too much with algorithms and advertising and etc. They are a testament to the lost dream of what the internet could be and a showcase of what can happen if you give gay dorks the perfect ingredients to build a media empire. and as a result we know them so intimately as they truly have been open about so much over 15 years and yet they've still kept so much private, to the point where there's still so much that people speculate on. It's like the perfect case study for Web 2.0 media produsage and digital community building amidst the decline of in-person connections because of the progression of capitalism... anyways if by chance there are any phannies getting degrees in media and communications and need help with paper topics and writing please hit me up I'm yearning for grad school again 😭

[andy-15-07]

I REALLY REALLY LOVE UR WRITING FOR DANNY RAMIREZ CHARACS, COMPLETES MY DAY EVERYTIMEEE. Can I make a request on Ash Graver in a College AU? Could be enemies-to-loversss

Tysm <3

From Rivalry to Right Here

PAIRING: Ash Garver x Reader 💋

WORD COUNT: 1762 ✍️

REQUESTS: Open! 💌 (send yours my way — I love writing them all!)

🌟 Danny Ramirez Masterlist 🌟

You glared at the back of Ash Garver’s head as he breezed into the lecture hall ten seconds before class started,again. You tightened your grip on your notebook, resisting the urge to stomp your foot. Of course he was here to steal the best seat, the comfiest spot by the window, the one you’d been gunning for all semester.

“Save a seat for me, Y/N?” he called over his shoulder with that trademark smirk. His dark curls bounced as he sat down three rows ahead of you, fully expecting you to march up and lecture him on civility.

Forget it. You weren’t giving him the satisfaction. Ever since you’d both been assigned to the same Political Science seminar, he’d made it his life’s mission to needle you,correcting your out-loud annotations, raising his hand before you could, and giving you that smug half-smile whenever you stumbled over an argument.

Professor Chen strode in, tapping the microphone. “Good morning. Today: interest-group theory. Let’s,”

Ash raised his hand. “Professor, would you clarify the way collective action models apply to our local chapter example?”

You rolled your eyes. Of course he had to steal the first question, too.

Later that afternoon, you headed to the campus coffee shop to drown your frustration in a triple-shot latte. You pulled out your laptop, determined to finish your seminar paper on women’s suffrage lobbying. Your fingers danced across the keyboard until,

“Y/N?”

You looked up to see Ash holding his own coffee, giving you a tentative half-wave. Your heart lurched,why was he here? The coffee shop was huge. You were in your corner for a reason.

“What do you want?” you asked, punctuating your words with a glare.

He glanced at his latte, unscrewing the lid. “I heard you’re behind on that group project for Poli 302.”

Your jaw dropped. “That’s none of your business.”

He leaned in closer. “It is if we’re partners.”

“Partners?”

He nodded, discomfort flickering in his eyes. “When I got the email, I thought there was a mistake. But apparently you and I are the two ‘most prepared and motivated students’,Chen’s words,so he teamed us up.”

You stared at him. “He called us motivated?”

He shrugged, dark lashes brushing his cheeks. “Don’t look at me.”

You closed your laptop with a snap. “Fine. Let’s get it over with.”

Ash smiled,genuinely,like the world had momentarily righted itself. You hated that smile.

You met two days later in the deserted library wing. A stack of journal articles lay between you. He offered you a seat.

“I looked at interest-group strategies for environmental policy,” he said, launching right in. “What angle are you thinking for campaign messaging?”

You crossed your arms. “I’m focusing on demographic targeting and media framing for women’s rights.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Ambitious.”

“Necessary.”

He considered. “Okay. So environmental and women’s rights. We could do a comparative case study,examine how both groups used social media, rallies, and direct lobbying in 2018.”

You blinked. “That’s… actually a good idea.”

He grinned and slid a spreadsheet across the table. “I made a draft outline.”

You blinked again. “You’re organized.”

He shrugged modestly. “I know my weaknesses.”

A pause,then you realized he was looking at you. Really looking. His green eyes were curious, almost gentle. You swallowed.

“Thanks,” you muttered, clearing your throat.

He straightened. “Let’s divvy up the sections.”

Over the next week, you discovered unexpected things about Ash. He was the kid who volunteered at local shelters. He read novels,Tolstoy was a favorite. He remembered your coffee order without you reminding him. And he worked late in the library until it closed, sometimes nodding off into his laptop.

You, in turn, surprised him. He learned you’d grown up writing letters for your grandmother’s nonprofit, which sparked your passion for policy. You were an ice-dancer,your summers spent training on real ice, dreaming of Olympics that never came. He’d always assumed you were just a studious bookworm.

Late one evening, you stayed behind at the library to finish editing your section. Ash came in, rubbing his eyes.

“You locked yourself out again?” you teased.

He gave you a half-smile. “Copy/paste error. I didn’t see that duplication until just now.”

You scooted over. “Here,let me help.”

He sighed and let you. You pointed out missing citations. He nodded, gratitude soft on his face.

He closed his laptop. “I owe you dinner.”

You laughed. “In your dreams. I’m not your research assistant,”

He cut you off with a grin. “What about as gratitude for saving my grade?”

You bit your lip. “Tell you what: if my part gets an A, you buy dinner. If yours does, I buy.”

“Deal,” he said, and the weight of his handshake sent a thrill down your spine.

Presentation day arrived. You and Ash stood before the class, nerves humming in your bellies.

“This study examines comparative strategies used by environmental and women’s rights groups in 2018,” Ash began. His voice was strong and steady. He clicked slides showing campaign timelines. You watched him, admiration curdling into something warmer.

When your turn came, you stepped forward, laying out messaging frameworks with the confidence that only long practice could build. Ash caught your eye from the back of the room, giving you a subtle thumbs-up. Your heart sped up,and not just from nerves.

You finished to applause. Professor Chen beamed. “Impressive work. A.”

You exhaled beside Ash as students filed out. “I think we both get A’s.”

He smirked. “Guess you owe me dinner.”

You punched him lightly. “Go pick the place.”

That evening you met at your favorite taco truck, laughing at spilled salsa and awkward tofu choices. Your shoulders brushed, and you felt static,a current you could no longer pretend wasn’t there.

“Here,” he said, handing you a spicy mango taco. “Your victory taco.”

You bit into it, flames of chili dancing on your tongue. You squealed. “Too spicy!”

He chuckled, offering you a milk shake. “Here. Peace offering.”

You took it gratefully, smiling around whipped cream. “Thanks.”

He watched you eat, smoky lamplight accentuating his features. He looked… soft. Vulnerable.

“Y/N?”

You looked up at him. “Yeah?”

He cleared his throat. “I,uh,I had fun tonight.”

You grinned. “Me too.”

He hesitated, thumb brushing yours. “I was wondering… maybe we could do this again? Outside of academic obligation.”

Your breath caught. “I’d like that.”

Over the next month, you worked side by side and flirted in between research. You borrowed his hoodie; he stole your fries; you stayed up debating constitutional amendments until the dawn. The more time you spent together, the more your rivalry melted into something tender, something deliciously complicated.

One crisp evening, you walked the campus quad under golden streetlamps, the autumn air sharp enough to sting your cheeks. You crossed your arms, shivering despite your layers.

Ash fell into step beside you, eyes flicking to your trembling shoulders. “You’re freezing,” he said, his tone soft.

You forced a laugh. “I’m fine.”

He reached out without warning, slipping off his leather jacket and draping it over your shoulders. The warmth spread through you instantly. “No, you’re not.”

You glanced up at him, surprised by the gentle concern in his eyes. “You don’t have to,”

He cut you off, placing a finger under your chin to tilt your face toward his. His breath ghosted over your lips. “I want to.”

You caught the jacket’s scent,his cologne mixed with leather,and your heart fluttered.

“Is this… okay?” you whispered.

He smiled, brushing the back of his thumb across your cheek. “More than okay.”

Your breath caught as his jacket settled over you, bridging the space between rivalry and something undeniably tender.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for weeks,” he admitted, voice low.

He pressed a kiss to your temple, then gently took your hand in his and led you silently through the dorm to your room. The door clicked shut behind you and the corridor noise faded as he turned to face you.

His gaze was intense, hungry yet tender. He reached out, brushing your hair behind your ear. “You’re all I want tonight.”

You swallowed, heart pounding. “Then show me.”

He needed no further encouragement. His lips found yours in a deep, searing kiss, hands roaming your back as he pulled you toward the bed. You melted against him, hands tangling in his shirt as he lifted it over your head.

You shivered in anticipation, and he responded by trailing kisses down your collarbone, each one igniting warmth beneath your skin. Your fingers fumbled with his belt, and he helped, lowering both your layers simultaneously until you stood before him in delicate lace.

His breath hitched as he surveyed you. “Beautiful,” he whispered, voice thick.

You stepped closer, hands sliding down his chest. “Ready?”

He nodded, cupping your face. “Always.”

He guided you onto the bed, positioning himself above you. Slowly, deliberately, he entered you, giving you time to adjust to the exquisite fullness. You gasped, lifting your hips to meet his.

He began a rhythmic pace, each movement strong and sure, building a delicious tension that pulsed through your body. You met him in every thrust, gasping his name, nails tracing his back.

“Y/N…” he groaned, voice rough. “You feel perfect.”

You arched into him. “Don’t stop.”

He didn’t. Instead, he picked up speed, hands gripping your hips as he drove you both toward the edge. Waves of pleasure crashed through you, and you cried out, clinging to him.

He flipped you gently onto your stomach, kissing a line down your spine before pulling you up onto your knees. “I want to see all of you,” he murmured.

You whimpered as he thrust into you from behind, the angle even deeper, overwhelming. His name spilled from your lips with every movement.

He reached around to rub tight circles over your clit, the double sensation making you shudder. “Come for me,” he whispered in your ear. “Let me feel it.”

You came undone with a scream, body wracked with waves of pleasure. He followed moments later, voice broken and needy as he spilled into you, holding you against his chest as you both came down.

He collapsed beside you, arms tight around your waist. You turned in his embrace, pressing your lips to his shoulder.

“You okay?” he murmured.

You nodded, breath still shallow. “Never better.”

He kissed your forehead. “I love you,” he murmured.

You smiled, sliding your arms around his torso. “I love you too.”

He held you close as sleep claimed you, rivalry now a distant memory. All that mattered was here and now,right in his arms.

[lightsoutmatthews]

Hii! I was wondering if I could please request Joseph Woll x younger reader like by 5 years? or maybe Willy/ or auston with younger reader with not too big of a gap but like 6 years difference? Something about them connecting and she’s like someone with a background who isn’t really connected to the hockey world (moreso legal/psych) like the NHL players association member and how she’s not as open to wanting to explore the connection with Joseph because she’s different compared to other WAGS (not like the standard; like non-white)?? Thank you if your down to do this ask!!

I will preference this by saying I am NOT a person of color, any and all experiences described in this are inspired by what friends told me or from media!!

If anyone is in any way shape or form uncomfortable with me writing about people of Color please don’t hesitate to let me know!!

From different worlds – Joseph Woll

You weren’t even supposed to be at the game. It was one of those last-minute “you work too much, come out for once” nights.

One of your co-workers had gotten tickets from her brother who worked in media and dragged you along.

You weren’t dressed in blue or white, you didn’t know any of the chants, you didn’t follow hockey aside from the occasional headline that was popping up on your feed.

You worked in legal and that world didn’t exactly intersect with the sports one.

Your days were full of NDAs, document review, contract language and arguments about the intent versus the execution. Sitting in the lower bowl, with overpriced beer in hand, watching grown men slam into each other wasn’t your usual Thursday.

Still, something about the way the goalie moved coughed your attention. Calm. Efficient. Focused.

You didn’t know much about the position, but even a newcomer could see he was solid back there.

His name flashed across the jumbotron: Joseph Woll.

You made a mental note to look him up online later, more out of curiosity than anything.

Later, in the private media lounge (which you had no real business being in, but your co-workers brother waved you through), he walked in. He was taller than you expected, hair damp, suit neat but not flashy.

He didn’t carry himself like someone who wanted attention.

You didn’t notice him approaching until he stopped in front of your group, offering a polite smile and a greeting for your co-workers brother.

Then his eyes landed on you. “Hi,” he greeted.

You didn’t say anything at first, just nodded. It wasn’t nerves, it was some sort of distance. Like you weren’t sure what he wanted or if you wanted to be seen by someone like him.

Your co-worker elbowed you. “This is my friend. She´s the brilliant one who talks circles around judges.”

You gave a polite, short smile. “I work in legal. Mostly compliance,” you explained.

“Sounds complicated,” he offered.

“It is.”

He chuckled softly, clearly not thrown off. “I´m Joseph.”

“I know,” slipped out of your mouth before you could stop it.

There was a beat of silence, but not an awkward one. More like he was studying you, in a quiet, respectful way.

Then someone else pulled him aside and you figured out that was it.

You didn’t belong here anyway.

---------------

You didn’t expect to see him again.

The charity fundraiser was just another work assignment. Your form had sent you to oversee legal logistics for a client´s nonprofit initiative. Contracts, permits, donation tracking.

It was hosted in a boutique downtown venue, full of glass walls and strategic lightning.

You wore a structured black suit dress with minimal jewelry; your work badge clipped at your waist. Efficient and professional, invisible to everyone who wasn’t actively looking for you.

Then you spotted him.

Same calm posture, same composed energy.

His suit was different this time, lighter and a little sharper, but he still didn’t walk like someone trying to be noticed.

He was surrounded by people. Event photographers, fans that managed to get an invite and someone who looked like a PR person.

You didn’t think you were near him long enough to notice you, but he did, and when he did, he smiled.

No big wave, no dramatic move to get your attention. Justa simple, small smile. Like he remembered you.

You nodded politely, then turned back to your laptop.

------------

A few days later your phone buzzed with a new Instagram dm.

@josephwoll: Hey. I hope I´m not being weird here but it was wondering if you ever wanted to catch coffee or something.

You stared at it until your phone went dark, opened it again and starred some more.

You didn’t reply, at least not right away because if you were being honest with yourself, the whole thing made you feel a little uneasy.

Not in a really bad way, just in a way that forced you to think too much.

You weren’t one of the women he probably saw all the time. You weren’t blonde. You weren’t bubbly. You didn’t post curated outfits or spotted team merch in the arena.

You were a little sharp. A little too direct. Quiet, but guarded. You grew up in a house where respect mattered more than looks, where ambition wasn’t optional, where you had to fight your way into law school scholarships and navigate cultural codes every that just to be taken seriously in rooms that weren’t made for you.

And hockey? That wasn’t your world.

You didn’t grow up skating even though you lived in Canada and you didn’t watch the Leafs with your dad.

You didn’t know what a power play was until two months ago. You only knew his name because it had flashed across the screen, and even then, you had forgotten it until you saw him at the even.

Why would someone like him, who could easily date someone who fit the image, someone who already knew the system, be interested in you?

You weren’t naïve. You heard what people said about you. They said it like it was a compliment, but it always meant different.

And you weren’t in the mood to be a novelty.

So, you didn’t answer. For two days you left the message unread.

You kept working. Reviewed contracts, drafted redlines, responded to firm emails like nothing was sitting in your inbox that made your stomach flutter and twist at the same time.

On the third day, after a long day and a later dinner alone in your apartment, you opened the message.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, typed a few words but deleted them, then, tried again.

In the end you sent: I´m not really part of your world.

The typing bubble appeared almost immediately.

@josephwoll: That´s kind of the point.

You didn’t reply again. instead, you stared at the wall above your couch for ten minutes, trying to decide what kind of person you wanted to be in this moment.

Cautious? Or curious?

You weren’t sure yet. So, you waited.

-----------

Two weeks passed before you agreed to meet.

Not for dinner. Not for anything that felt too much like a thing. Just coffee at neutral ground.

He picked a small café off Queen Street. Something quiet and local with no cameras.

You showed up five minutes late, not because you meant to, but because you debated going right up until the moment you locked your apartment door.

A part of you were still tense when you entered, like you were about to walk into a room that required a code you didn’t know.

When you saw him, seated at a small table in the corner, hoodie and cap, sipping on something that looked like tea, you almost turned around.

But he looked up and smiled like he was genuinely glad you showed up.

“Hey,” he said, standing, not making a move to hug or assume.

“Hey,” you replied, sliding into the chair across from him.

The first few minutes were awkward. Not in a bad way, both of you were just guarded.

He didn’t push. You appreciated that.

He asked about your job and actually listened when you talked about compliance, how it was less about catching people doing bad things and more about preventing the bad things in the first place.

You expected his eyes to glaze over. They didn’t

“Do you like it?” he asked with genuine curiosity.

You paused. “I like what it means. I like that I´m the person they call when someone is trying to slip something shady through. It´s like quiet justice.”

He smiled at that. “That´s a great phrase.”

You shrugged. “It´s not catchy enough for a TED Talk.”

He laughed and for the first time, your shoulders relaxed a little.

Eventually, you asked about hockey. Not because you suddenly cared about stats, but because it felt fair.

He kept it light. Told a funny story about a miscommunication on the bench. Mentioned a teammate´s obsession with weird superstitions. Nothing arrogant or an over explanation.

You liked that.

When the conversation slowed, something pushed at you though. “I´m not…I don’t really fit the WAG thing,” you mumbled.

He looked up from his drink, seriousness overtaking his features. “I didn’t ask you out to fit a thing.”

“It´s not just that,” you added, “I don’t look like the rest of them. I didn’t grow up in this world. It feels too far away.”

You figured you should be clear with him from the start to prevent something from happening that would end up in chaos and catastrophe.

“Far from what?” he asked.

You hesitated for a second. “From me.”

He didn’t try to talk you into it. He didn’t say “That´s not true” or “Don’t think like that”. Instead, he said, “Yeah, I get that.”

You looked at him, skeptical. “Do you?”

He nodded. “I went to a school where most of the guys were trust fund kids who played golf and wore blazers for fun. I didn’t fit either.”

You snorted. “Not the same thing.”

“No,” he agreed. “Absolutely not, but I get what it´s like to feel like you´re visiting someone else´s life.”

That stuck with you.

Neither of you filled the silence for a while.

Eventually, you said, “I´m still not sure what this is.”

He tilted his head slightly. “It´s just coffee.”

That made you smile.

---------------

Dating Joseph wasn’t a performance. Not for the media, not for the team, and definitely not for Instagram.

There were no hard launches. No coordinated photos, no tagging locations or sitting front row in Leafs gear. You didn’t post anything, and he didn’t ask you to. If anything, he seemed relieved by how private you were.

It started with a few more coffees. Texts that didn’t feel obligatory. A night walk in Trinity Bellwood’s when the city was quieter and you didn’t have to share him with a hundred eyes.

You told no one at work. Not because you were embarrassed, but because explaining it felt like inviting opinions you didn’t need. You weren’t interested in becoming office gossip, or in fielding questions like “Wait, the hockey player?” followed by the subtle once-over, followed by the even subtler but you don’t seem like the type.

Besides, you liked keeping it yours.

At first, everything between you stayed in this safe, in-between space. Not casual, but not quite defined. You’d meet after his practices, usually later in the evening when your work was winding down.

You’d talk about nothing, or everything. Sometimes he’d come over, still in sweatpants, and you’d sit on your couch eating takeout and laughing over some weird legal story you’d picked up during the week.

He always asked questions. About your cases, your background, your parents, who he learned were immigrants with strong opinions and even stronger expectations.

“So, they don’t know about me?” he asked one night.

You gave him a half-smile. “Not yet. They think I’m working too much again.”

He didn’t push. Just nodded, and said, “I get it.”

And he did.

You could tell by the way he never assumed things. He didn’t act like his world was more important. If anything, he seemed to tiptoe around it, like he was wary of how much space it could take up.

But the space came anyway.

The first time you really realized was at a team dinner.

You weren’t supposed to go. He had RSVP’d solo; told you there was no pressure. But a few days before, he mentioned offhandedly, “I’d like to bring you. If you want.”

You said yes.

Then spent the next three days debating it.

You changed your outfit six times. Settled on a long-sleeved cream blouse and tailored pants. Clean, simple, nothing flashy.

When you walked in, holding his hand, you saw the way people glanced your way. Curious, maybe a little confused. Not rude. Just...surprised.

The other partners were friendly, mostly. Smiling, sweet, and immaculately styled.

A few made genuine conversation but others asked vague, surface-level questions that circled around the same invisible curiosity:

What are you doing here?

You laughed politely. Answered things like, “I work in legal compliance,” and tried not to wince when someone said, “Oh wow, you must be smart.”

But what stuck the most was the comment made halfway through the night.

One of the girlfriends leaned over during dessert, smiling at you like she meant well. “You’re really pretty. So… unique looking. Kind of exotic, you know?”

You blinked.

Joseph heard it too. His hand stiffened just slightly under the table.

You smiled thinly. “Not really a word I like.”

“Oh?” she blinked. “Sorry, I meant it as a compliment.”

You nodded once. “That’s what everyone says.”

Later, in the car, neither of you said anything at first. The silence sat there between you. Heavy, but not hostile.

Finally, he spoke. “I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t say it.”

“I still hate that it happened.”

You shrugged, looking out the window. “It’s not the first time.”

“I know,” he said quietly. “Doesn’t mean it should keep happening.”

You exhaled. “It’s not about her. It’s… the feeling. Like I’m a tourist in your life.”

He looked over. “You’re not.”

“You say that. And maybe you believe it. But people look at me and wonder why I’m there. They see you, and then they see me, and it doesn’t line up.”

“It does to me,” he said firmly. “You’re the only thing that feels real sometimes.”

That surprised you.

He didn’t say it like a line. It wasn’t rehearsed or dramatic. He said it like it had been sitting in his throat for a while and just came out.

You looked at him.

Really looked.

And in that moment, you realized how alone he probably felt too.

Everyone assumed athletes lived in the center of the world. But Joseph didn’t act like someone in the center. He moved around it quietly and cautiously. Like he didn’t want to get swallowed.

You weren’t so different, after all.

Maybe just in opposite corners of the same room.

------------

You didn’t call it a relationship.

Not because it wasn’t one but because calling it that felt like something you weren’t ready to explain. Not to your friends, not to your family, and maybe not even to yourself.

It was easier to keep it unnamed.

You weren’t hiding him, but you weren’t ready to invite him into the part of your life that came with history, culture, expectations, and a family that had never been subtle about what they thought made sense for you.

Still, the more time passed, the more you realized this thing between you wasn’t staying casual.

Joseph was consistent. He wasn’t intense. He didn’t overwhelm you with messages or big gestures. But he showed up in quiet ways, small ways that chipped away at your usual distance.

He noticed when you were tired before you said anything. He remembered the case you were working on and sent you good luck texts the morning of court filings. He made sure you ate, even if it meant dropping off dinner outside your office when you worked late.

It wasn’t showy. It wasn’t loud. It was steady.

That steadiness made it harder to keep the lines blurry.

So, one night, sitting on your couch with your legs tucked under you and his hoodie slouched over your frame, you asked the question that had been hovering for weeks.

“Is this something?”

He didn’t pretend not to understand.

He looked at you, calm and open. “Feels like something to me.”

You nodded. “It feels like that to me too.”

But the words caught in your throat again, so you looked away and said, “It’s just… hard to bring people into my world.”

Joseph shifted closer, careful. “What part?”

“My family. My culture. The assumptions.” You exhaled. “It’s not that they wouldn’t like you. You’re impossible not to like. It’s just that you wouldn’t be what they expected.”

He nodded slowly. “They want someone like them.”

“Exactly.”

“I’m not threatened by that,” he said simply.

You raised an eyebrow. “You should be.”

He smiled a little. “I’m not.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. You weren’t used to people not being intimidated by your background or, worse, trying to flatten it to make it more palatable.

Joseph didn’t do either. He never tried to decode you. He just listened.

Later that week, he asked, “Would it be easier if I met them as a friend first?”

You blinked. “You want to meet my parents?”

He shrugged. “Eventually. Not if it’s too soon but I’d rather show up than have you carry it alone.”

That did something to you.

Because no one had ever said that before. Not in that way.

You didn’t say yes that day. But you didn’t say no either.

----------

A few more weeks passed before you finally told your parents.

You mentioned him on a Saturday call. Your mom asked if you were seeing anyone, casually, like she always did. You hesitated, then said, “Kind of. His name is Joseph.”

There was a pause. Then: “What does he do?”

“He’s a goalie. Hockey.”

Longer pause.

“Like… for a team?”

“Yeah. Professionally.”

Another beat. “So… he plays for fun?”

“No, Mom,” you said gently. “It’s his actual job. He plays for the Leafs.”

Silence.

Then your father’s voice, in the background: “You’re dating an athlete?”

You sighed. “He’s not just an athlete.”

That’s as far as it went that day. They didn’t ask to meet him. They didn’t say much else, but you could tell they were turning it over in their heads. Running it against the mental checklist they had built since you were old enough to spell lawyer.

Still, you were proud of yourself for saying it out loud.

It didn’t fix everything. But it was a start.

-------------

A few nights later, Joseph came over with groceries.

You had been too tired to cook, and he showed up with enough ingredients for a real meal, chicken, rice, some kind of salad you wouldn’t normally bother with, but that he somehow made look easy.

You sat on the counter, watching him chop and season like it was second nature.

“Do you always do this?” you asked.

“What? Cook?”

“No. Show up like it’s nothing.”

He glanced over. “It’s not nothing.”

You looked at him, serious now. “Why me, Joseph?”

He looked up, took a second to answer. “Because you don’t treat me like I’m something I’m not.”

You tilted your head. “And what’s that?”

He dried his hands. “Famous. Special. A job.”

You blinked.

“I like that you talk to me like a person,” he added. “You push back. You challenge me. You don’t perform.”

You swallowed, because something about that made your throat tight.

He stepped closer, leaned against the counter next to you. “And if I’m being honest… I think I need someone who sees me that way.”

You didn’t say anything for a long minute.

Then quietly, you said, “I think I need that too.”

He smiled. Just a little.

And that night, for the first time, you let yourself believe that maybe – maybe – this wasn’t something you had to keep at arm’s length.

Maybe you weren’t a tourist in his world.

Maybe you were just new to it.

And maybe that was okay.