#just gotta make it through grad school

[simple-and-cozy-life]

Can't wait to be a mom someday

[yuwuta]

gojo would kill your work husband. but if he were the work husband, that's a different story

REAL!! he’s such a hypocrite because if someone mentioned you had a work husband, his entire world would stop and he wold devise the absolute worst plans to make sure that your co-worker, everyone at your job, and everyone in the next building over knew that he was happily committed to you 

but if he is the work husband, he’s very........ dutiful in his role. there’s a loose office/lawyer au in my head where satoru is your secretary, and for all intents and purposes, your personal assistant, and he’s good at his job, but mostly because he considers his job to be pleasing you. he has coffee for you when you arrive, he moves your schedule around without you asking, he has answers to questions before you can even ask them, he has fresh flowers on your desk weekly, pokes into your meetings to pretend to hand you a file that’s really just maybe a single document in a manilla folder with candy on top of it—he’s made himself your business, your partner; he’s made himself irreplaceable, and he loves to remind everybody of that fact. 

he’s also extremely loyal. sure, he could day a week’s worth of work done in about a day, but that doesn’t mean he’ll just use his talents for anybody. he’s your secretary, so he’s at your beck and call, and everyone knows it. they know he’s the best, but also that he’s off limits—not because you won’t share him, but because satoru won’t let himself be shared. 

he also extends his duties beyond work, of course. when he hands you a print out of your schedule for the day and you’re confused by the three-hour block of time you have in the middle of the day, satoru just helps you shrug your coat of your shoulders and smiles, “that’s for the lunch date you have with me, of course!” hanging up your coat in your closet for you, “i’m paying, see you soon, sweets.” and because you’re great at your job, and satoru helps you be great, nobody really questions when the two of you have time for a 13-course tasting menu at 1pm on a tuesday afternoon. and if they did, all satoru would say that you two had a lovely date 

[christinegrrl]

Full thesis draft clocking in at 65 pages 😭

[cardigan-jam]

Stressing cause the internships I applied for have been silent like no response nothing so I'm like ???? What do I do now

[inkskinned]

for a while i lived in an old house; the kind u.s americans don't often get to live in - living in a really old house here is super expensive. i found out right before i moved out that the house was actually so old that it features in a poem by emily dickinson.

i liked that there were footprints in front of the sink, worn into the hardwood. there were handprints on some of the handrails. we'd find secret marks from other tenants, little hints someone else had lived and died there. and yeah, there was a lot wrong with the house. there are a lot of DIY skills you learn when you are a grad student that cannot afford to pay someone else to do-it-for-ya. i shared the house with 8 others. the house always had this noise to it. sometimes that noise was really fucking awful.

in the mornings though, the sun would slant in thick amber skiens through the windows, and i'd be the first one up. i'd shuffle around, get showered in this tub that was trying to exit through the floor, get my clothes on. i would usually creep around in the kitchen until it was time to start waking everyone else up - some of them required multiple rounds of polite hey man we gotta go knocks. and it felt... outside of time. a loud kind of quiet.

the ghosts of the house always felt like they were humming in a melody just out of reach. i know people say that the witching hour happens in the dark, but i always felt like it occurred somewhere around 6:45 in the morning. like - for literal centuries, somebody stood here and did the dishes. for literal centuries, somebody else has been looking out the window to this tree in our garden. for literal centuries, people have been stubbing their toes and cracking their backs and complaining about the weather. something about that was so... strangely lovely.

i have to be honest. i'm not a history aficionado. i know, i know; it's tragic of me. i usually respond to "this thing is super old" by being like, wow! cool! and moving on. but this house was the first time i felt like the past was standing there. like it was breathing. like someone else was drying their hands with me. playing chess on the sofa. adding honey to their tea.

i grew up in an old town. like, literally, a few miles off of walden pond (as in of the walden). (also, relatedly, don't swim in walden, it's so unbelievably dirty). but my family didn't have "old house" kind of money. we had a barely-standing house from the 70's. history existed kind of... parallel to me. you had to go somewhere to be in history. your school would pack you up on a bus and take you to some "ye olden times" place and you'd see how they used to make glass or whatever, and then you'd go home to your LEDs. most museums were small and closed before 5. you knew history was, like, somewhere, but the only thing that was open was the mcdonalds and the mall.

i remember one of my seventh grade history teachers telling us - some day you'll see how long we've been human for and that thing has been puzzling me. i know the scientific number, technically.

the house had these little scars of use. my floors didn't actually touch the walls; i had to fill them with a stopgap to stop the wind. other people had shoved rags and pieces of newspaper. i know i've lost rings and earring backs down some of the floorboards. i think the raccoons that lived in our basement probably have collected a small fortune over the years. i complain out loud to myself about how awful the stairs are (uneven, steep, evil, turning, hard to get down while holding anything) and know - someone else has said this exact same thing.

when i was packing up to leave and doing a final deep cleaning, i found a note carved in the furthest corner in the narrow cave of my closet. a child's scrawled name, a faded paint handprint, the scrangly numbers: 1857.

we've been human for a long time. way back before we can remember.

[seokshinedk]

Powering my way through the day with both coffee AND green tea. Today warrants some double-dipping.

[daisynik7]

test drive

Pairing: ex-boyfriend!Eren x f!reader

Word Count: ~4.9k

cw: exes-to-lovers, a breakup scene (flashback) established past relationship, fluff, some angst, smut - car sex (cowgirl), blowjob, cunnilingus, face-riding, 69 position, sex with no condom, multiple orgasms, pet names (sweetie, sweetheart, princess, baby)

Summary: You’re moving back to your hometown of Paradis after completing two long years of grad school in Marley. In desperate need of a car, you’re surprised to hear from your ex-boyfriend Eren, who graciously offers you one.  Author’s Note: Had this in my head for a while, brain is a little fried at the moment, but I just had to get this out! Likes, comments, and/or reblogs are always appreciated! Header image found on Pinterest, mdni divider by @/mikeykuns.

“Eren, do you think we should break up?”

The two of you are in your bedroom, finished packing the last of your luggage before you fly out to Marley tomorrow morning. It’s near midnight on the last day of summer. The windows are open, and the chirping of crickets is loud amidst the silence of the night air. He zips your suitcase closed, peering at you, confused. “What?”

It’s been the lingering question on your mind the past couple of weeks, but you were too afraid to mention it. Maybe you were hoping that the thought would go away on its own. You didn’t really want to break up. You love him. The idea of being apart scares you, though. The uncertainty, the unknown. Two years isn’t very long in the grand scheme of life, but who’s to say you don’t end up deciding to remain in Marley for good? Eren has already made it clear that he has no intentions of leaving Paradis. Would staying together be a waste of time when the future is so unpredictable?

You bite your lip, nervous to elaborate, voice timid. “I’ve heard that long distance is really hard.”

He stands up, crossing his arms over his chest. “So? We’ll get through it.”

“Will we, though? I’m going to be busy with school, and you’re starting your new job. Plus, Marley is so far away. When are we ever going to see each other?” 

He stares at you as if you’re sputtering nonsense. “We’ll make it work,” he answers, definitive. 

“It’s not going to be easy.”

He scratches his scalp, frustrated. “I don’t understand. Do you want to break up?”

You stay quiet, contemplating. When you don’t respond right away, he says, “You do, don’t you?” He sounds like he’s been betrayed, which in retrospect, he has been. By you, of all people. The person who’s supposed to love him. 

Breathing staggered, tears welling in your eyes, you murmur, “I just don’t know if we can do it.”

He begins pacing the floor, voice increasing in volume, rightfully upset. “You don’t know if you can do it. Me? I’m all in. You’re already giving up before we try.”

“I just don’t want either of us to get hurt!” you cry.

“What do you call this, then?!” he yells, tears rolling down his cheeks. “This fucking hurts! Why didn’t you tell me you were feeling this way sooner?”

“I don’t know! I wasn’t sure! I was scared.” You sob into your hands. “I’m sorry, Eren.”

He’s shaking his head erratically, fists bunched in his hair. “I can’t believe you’re doing this right now. After all we’ve been through. You don’t even want to give it a shot.”

You swallow hard, wiping snot from your nose. “We can try it out. Let’s try it out,” you plead with him, regretting it. 

“No. It’s too late now. You already set us up for failure. Since you’re not confident about us, then maybe this isn’t going to work out after all.” He sounds spiteful. Daggers piercing through your heart in the form of harsh words. And while you struggle for breath, drenching the fabric of your t-shirt, you can’t blame him for reacting this way. You spent an amazing summer together, and the night before you leave, you drop a grenade like this. What were you thinking?

“Eren,” you beg, sniffling

“I gotta go,” he mutters, grabbing his keys, avoiding your gaze. 

“Eren, wait!” you shout, following him out the room. Down the stairs. Through the front door. In front of his car. “Eren! I’m sorry! I take it back!”

“Have a nice life in Marley,” he spits out, getting into his car, slamming it shut, and reversing out of the driveway without another word. Headlights reflect off the shimmer in your eyes, watching him leave.

That’s the last time you saw Eren. The next day, you boarded your flight to Marley and moved into your new home. You tried to call him, text him, even pestered friends and family to urge him to reach out to you. He never did. And all the while, you still don’t blame him for reacting the way he did. 

The two of you were happy. You loved each other. And when an inkling of hardship reared its ugly head, you ran for it instead of facing it. There’s no way you could have predicted that your relationship would fall apart. In fact, there’s many times that you’ve considered how much stronger the two of you would have gotten if you did stay together. Distance makes the heart grow fonder. If you had believed that sooner, you wouldn’t be living with this remorse. 

It's been over two years since that day. Life continued, though it was tough not having Eren around anymore. He was always your biggest supporter, the anchor that kept you afloat. Grad school wouldn’t have been as stressful if you had him by your side, but you managed to scrape by. You made new friends along the way while maintaining your relationships from home. Mikasa and you would chat regularly, and on occasion, she would mention Eren’s name in passing. You received little footnotes of his life through her, but overall, he’s a stranger to you now. 

That being said, you’re shocked to finally hear from him after that fateful night two years ago. 

Following graduation, you secured a job in Paradis nearby your hometown. For now, the plan is to move in with your family until you save enough money to move out. Unfortunately, you don’t have car. So, in an unexpected turn of events, you sit in the rear of a taxi, on your way to Eren’s. 

Eren: Heard you’re home and you need a car.

Those were his first words to you after two whole years of radio silence. After telling you to have a nice life in Marley. Of course, you were stunned when his name popped up on your screen in the first place, even more so to see his offer to help you. Most likely he was informed about your current situation by Mikasa. Nevertheless, it shocks you that he wants anything to do with you. 

You actually want to meet with him. It may be no more than a business transaction, but to see him in the flesh will be nice. Will it fix what happened? Probably not. It’s worth a shot, though, for some peace of mind. Maybe this is his own way of telling you that he’s over it, and that the two of you can finally put this to bed. 

So, you arrange a time to meet at his place. He gives you an unfamiliar address; it seems he moved out of his parent’s house not long after he started working. Mikasa had mentioned that before. What she’s never disclosed with you is if he’s been dating. On your way to him, your belly begins to fill with dread. Could you handle seeing Eren with another woman? Living together, happily in love? You want him to be happy, but with someone else? Deep down, you still love him. You never dated anyone seriously during your time in Marley. No one even came close to him. He’ll never get back together with you, not after what happened. In fact, you’re positive he’s already found someone, a person who will appreciate him and love him for all he is. Someone who isn’t afraid. It’s better he’s with someone else; you actually hope you see that today, so that you can finally move on. 

The trip takes over half an hour. You recognize the route being taken; the same one you would take on the way to Paradis University, where you and Eren met for the first time. During freshman year, Mikasa, your roommate at the time, introduced you to him. The two of you became fast friends, even faster lovers. The spark was there the moment you shook his hand, the moment he gazed into your eyes, flashing that charming smile at you. It was casual at first, no labels, no strings attached. Two horny college kids fulfilling their sexual desires exclusively with one another. Kisses and sex soon became something more, something special. By the time you were sophomores, it was official: he was yours and you were his. 

The driver enters a quaint neighborhood, pulling up to the front of a modern apartment complex. Once you pay the fare, you step out, inspecting the building. Eren lives on the third floor; each unit has a balcony overlooking the neighborhood, the nearby cityscape in the near distance. It’s a beautiful location and your curiosity gets the best of you. Who is he currently sharing his life with? Do they watch sunrises together from their grand view, sipping their morning coffee in domestic bliss? Should it be you instead? 

Before you get carried away with your imagination, you retrieve your phone from your bag, texting him that you have arrived and are waiting outside. There’s no reason for you to head up into his apartment, right? You’re here to check out his car; that’s it. You can’t help thinking that it would be fun to check out. For research purposes, of course.

He replies quickly, mentioning how he’ll head down to you. You take a few deep breaths, mentally preparing yourself to see him for the first time ever since your bitter goodbye. Do you hug him? Keep your distance? Should you say anything personal or keep it strictly professional? All of these conflicting feelings are fighting with each other in your head. There’s so much you want to tell him: your life the last two years, how sorry you are for the way it ended, how much you miss him. At the same time, you want a clean slate, almost as if you’re strangers meeting for the first time. 

As he steps out from the lobby, you freeze on the spot, dazzled by his presence. What strikes you initially is how long his hair has gotten; it’s enough to put up into a small bun, with a few stray strands scattered around his face. His eyes are as brilliant as ever, barely visible dark circles underneath from age or stress, most likely the lather; it hasn’t been that long. There’s still that youthful charm about him, though. That will never fade.

He's dressed in a plain white t-shirt and black sweats pants, an outfit reminiscent of his college years, laid-back and casual. You’ve always liked this look on him, always found it sexy. Too many memories of you stripping this exact attire off him, hasty to make love in the twin bed of his dormitory. You try to shake these thoughts away as he approaches you with a rigid disposition, hesitant and a bit awkward. He clears his throat before saying, “Hey.” His hands are in his pockets as he greets you. 

You respond with a gentle smile. “Hi.”

This is going to be harder than you thought. 

~~~

Two years. That’s how long it’s been since they broke up, since he last saw her. Two whole fucking years. 

Eren didn’t want to break up. The thought never even crossed his mind. He was determined to be with her the rest of his life, of their lives. That’s why he got so upset when she suggested it. They spent an entire summer together, perfect in every possible way, and she had the nerve to ask that question the night before the big move? Do you think we should break up? He couldn’t believe the words coming out of her mouth. They were supposed to love each other forever. 

It doesn’t excuse the way he behaved to her afterwards. Instead of discussing it like a mature adult, he exploded, too caught up in the storm of emotions raging in his head. His ego was hurt, pride shot down, heart betrayed. Following that night, Eren was too ashamed by the whole ordeal; he thought it’d be easier to ignore it and move on. 

Move on. Yeah right.

He replays those scenes constantly. Her pleas of We can try it out. Let’s try it out. I’m sorry! I take it back! ringing in his ears like a broken record, reminding him that if they talked about it, if he had just turned around to work it out, maybe they’d still be together. They’d be happy. It’s the biggest regret of his life; not fighting for her and letting her slip away. A fleeting moment of weakness and fear leading to their ultimate demise. A tragic ending to such a beautiful story. Can they ever get the happy ending they wanted? 

He tried to date other women; it never amounted to anything serious. Eventually, Eren gave up on the dating scene all together, focusing his energy on other priorities like his career and friendships. He was hoping that one day, he’d magically be over her.

When Mikasa informs him about her move back to Paradis, he knows immediately he needs to meet with her. Seeing her one last time might be the key to moving on once and for all. So, he finally decides to be mature and contact her, under the guise of giving her one of his cars. In his defense, he’s been meaning to sell it anyways. He never could quite let it go, though, considering it’s the car he drove all throughout college, with her. Late night drives to Maria’s Point, holding hands and kissing beneath the stars. Fast food runs at their favorite drive-thru, her feeding French fries to him from the passenger side, cruising through the empty streets with their favorite music blaring through the radio speakers. Even the backseat has seen plenty of action during those years, the foreground to many naughty trysts away from campus. Every corner of it carries a memory of her; that’s why he’s been so reluctant to let it go. He still loves her. But that’s all in the past. This car will be the final peace offering that will allow him to move on. He’s got it all planned out. 

What he’s not prepared for is the rush of emotions that flood his chest upon seeing her. This is definitely not part of the plan. 

When he greets her, she smiles at him, the same radiant smile he’s yearned for the two years of her absence. One that instantly warms his soul. He does his best to maintain his composure. Keep it together, he thinks to himself, stuffing his hands in his pockets while he clenches his fists, bursting at the seams. This isn’t part of the plan. 

He kicks the ground with his heels, fidgeting. “So…it’s been a minute, huh?” He does a mental eye roll to himself. Did he really say that? Idiot, idiot, idiot. 

She giggles, and he nearly combusts. How is it that a simple laugh can ignite every fiber of his being? He’s a fool for assuming he could get through this unscathed. “Yeah. It has. How are you?” Her expression is sincere; he always loved that about her, how intently she listens, how much she cares. Even after their harsh breakup, that sincerity remains. She’s making this much more difficult than he expected. 

He shrugs, nonchalant. “I’m okay. You?”

She mimics him, raising her shoulders. “I’m alright.”

He chews his lip nervously before asking, “Well, do you want to check out the car?” Stick to the plan. Stick to the plan, he reminds himself. 

She nods, following him to the parking garage to his designated spot. Her eyes widen when she sees it. “You want to sell me this?”

“Yup.”

She inspects it, mouth parted, surprised. “Wow. The Titan.”

He busts out in laughter, amused that she remembers the silly nickname they came up with freshman year. “I can’t believe you remember that.”

She turns to look at him, eyes twinkling, lips curled into a warm smile. “How could I forget?”

He swallows hard, saliva thick on his tongue. Fluttering in his core, tingling through his fingers. The question stumbles out quickly. “Want to take it out for a spin? A test drive?” 

Eren’s aware that this is dangerous territory. The two of them, enclosed in the small space of his car, memories in every crevice of the interior. It’s his chance to properly apologize for what happened. That’s how he justifies it, at least. Part of him also wants to recreate their past together. Riding in his car, fingers laced together on the center console, singing their favorite songs with the windows rolled down, wind blowing on their smiling faces. It’s infeasible; he doesn’t even know if she feels the same way. There’s that tiny portion of him that holds out hope; she did agree to meet him. That means something, right?

She contemplates for a moment. “Sure. Can you drive, though?”

“Still the passenger princess, I see.” 

“Some things never change, right?” She gives him a wink before stepping to the side of the car, waiting for him to unlock the doors. 

He gulps, thrilled and jittery at whatever adventure they’re about to embark on. In the corner of his mind, all he can think is 

Fuck the plan. 

~~~

You weren’t supposed to get in it with him. The idea was to meet him and do the exchange, simple as that. When you recognize the car, all the memories you shared flood into your mind. You let your emotions get the best of you; you want one more special moment with Eren. It’s only fair to your relationship to end it on a good note, right? You weren’t expecting anything more than closure, which was what the both of you needed. 

He doesn’t tell you where he’s driving to, but he doesn’t have to. By the time you’re on the highway, you watch the sun set in the distance from the rearview mirror. You pass by multiple signs, indicating Maria’s Point in x number of miles, the amount decreasing the closer you approach it. The two of you chat, condensing all from the past two years into a half hour car ride. You describe your experience in grad school, he talks about his full-time job. It’s cordial, like two old friends catching up after a while being apart. Except the both of you are fully aware of the elephant squished in the backseat of The Titan. Neither of you mention anything about it.

He drives up the familiar hill leading up to the panorama at the top of the cliff. This spot of Maria’s Point is often secluded, which was perfect for you and Eren back in the day. He parks away from the edge, the last rays of orange and pink hovering on the skyline. With a twist of his keys, he shuts off the ignition and it’s silent. Suddenly, after effortless conversation, you’re shy, unable to speak. 

Luckily, he does. “I actually want to talk to you about something important.”

You snap your seatbelt off, adjusting to give him your full attention. His hands remain on the steering wheel, drumming his fingers nervously. “I’m sorry for the way I acted that night.” He doesn’t need to elaborate; you know exactly what he’s referring to. You’re caught off guard from the apology, so you keep quiet, waiting for him to continue. 

After a deep breath, he explains, “I blew up, and I shouldn’t have. I got upset because I thought you had given up before we even tried. But I know you were scared; I was too. Regardless, it wasn’t right and I’m sorry. For that and for avoiding you after.” He slides his hands around the wheel, dropping them to his lap. His eyes are forward, avoiding you. 

When he doesn’t have more to add, you respond. “Thank you. I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have blindsided you. I should have told you how I was feeling instead of ignoring it until the last minute. Like you said, I was scared, so I ran away from it without even giving it a shot. It wasn’t fair to you, and it wasn’t fair to us.” He’s focuses on you now, listening carefully as you talk. “Just so you know, I never blamed you for how you reacted. I deserved it.”

He shifts his body towards you, shaking his head. “No, you didn’t deserve that. I didn’t even say goodbye.”

You blink away the oncoming tears from your eyes. “It’s okay, Eren. We can do that now.”

The stillness that follows is concerning. He studies you with an unreadable expression, contemplating. Then, he leans closer to you, elbow resting on the center console, his breath tickling your cheeks, whispering, “I don’t want to say goodbye.”

You gravitate towards him, lessening the space between you, gazing at his lips. “You don’t?”

“I never wanted to in the first place.”

Drifting forward, you rest your forehead to his, the skin-to-skin contact rekindling the spark that burned so brightly not too long ago. “Eren.”

“I miss you,” he confesses. “Every fucking day.” 

His lips graze yours, eyes watching you, waiting. Unable to hold back any longer, you kiss him, melting into him seamlessly. The two years of remorse vanish in an instant, and you’re transported in time, as if you were never apart. You touch your palm on his chest, his racing heartbeat thumping against your fingertips. He slides his hand around the nape of your neck, cradling you gently, deepening the kiss. His lips are soft on yours, prudent and delicate, careful not to overbear you. 

You pull off to catch your breath, clutching at his t-shirt so that’s it’s bunched into your fist. “I missed you, Eren.”

He swallows loudly, eyes half-lidded in a daze. “I missed you so fucking much,” he mutters, driving his tongue inside your mouth, kissing you desperately now. He drinks you up like he’s dying of thirst, the only cure to his drought. You match him, opening wider, swirling your tongue with his. His lips trail to your neck, sucking on the pulse point beneath your chin.  

“Eren,” you moan, running your fingers through his hair. 

“I love hearing you say my name. Fuck,” he swears, licking at the spot. He marks you on the other side, nibbling lightly at your skin with his teeth. “Did you ever think about me?”

“Every day,” you admit, eyes closed as he moves to your ear, pinching your lobe between his lips. “And you?”

“All the time,” he answers. He breaks away, cupping your cheek tenderly in his palm. “I’m still in love with you. I love you.”

Your breath hitches, throat tight with emotion, though you manage to utter, “I love you too.”

He beams at you before suggesting, “Should we get out of here? Go to my place?”

Tugging at his collar, you shake your head with a smirk. “I can’t wait that long.”

Understanding what you’re implying, he suggests, “Backseat?”

You give him a wet smooch and a nod. He chuckles, unbuckling his seatbelt. “Are you that needy for me, baby? Can’t even wait to go home?”

Glancing at his lap, the evident bulge protruding from his sweats, you scoff at him playfully. “Don’t act like you aren’t either. Look how big you are already.”

He grins, exiting the driver’s side and quickly sliding into the backseat, spreading his legs wide, hoisting his shirt off to reveal his chiseled torso. “You’re right. I’ve been waiting two years, please don’t make me wait any longer.”

You follow him to the rear, shrugging your blouse and pants off hastily until you’re down to your underwear. He marvels at your bare figure, licking his lips while you kneel beside him. “God, you’re beautiful,” he whispers, scanning you up and down, almost in disbelief. “Would you think about me whenever you touched yourself?”

Nestled to his lap, ass sticking out, you nod, rubbing your face on the erection straining against the fabric. “I only thought about you, Eren.”

“Fuck,” he groans, mesmerized. He pets you, brushing his thumb across your cheeks. “Me too, sweetie. No one makes me come the way you do.” He lifts his hips to slide his bottoms and boxers down his legs, exposing his hard cock standing stiff and pretty, glistening with precum leaking from the tip. 

You’re salivating, spit coating your entire mouth, hungry for his cock. Without wasting another second, you swallow him, surrounding him in your wet heat until he hits the back of your throat. He bucks up slightly, thighs trembling beneath you. “Fuck,” he swears, trailing your spine, gliding to your ass. “Always so good to me.” He slips beneath your panties, teasing your entrance. “Can I fuck you with these fingers? Please?”

You nod with his cock in your mouth, slurping the drool trickling on his shaft, bobbing on him. He slides one in, then another, pumping them in and out of you as you moan around his dick. He wriggles inside you, stimulating your sweet spot, gushing on his digits with your first orgasm. His follows immediately after, his load spurting onto your tongue, guzzling every last drop of him. 

You release him, turning over so your head is resting on his lap, peering up at his face. His hand is between your legs, rubbing the soft plush of your thighs, smiling down at you. He teases your clit, flicking his wet fingers on it, causing you to whine. 

“You still like it when I play with you like this,” he purrs, watching you twitch from the pleasure. “My good girl always comes so much for me.” He caresses your forehead gently, toying with your swollen bud. “Can you give me another one, princess?” Too many times do you remember him pleasuring you, sitting in the passenger seat, you gripping to his wrist, directing his hand to your pussy. Tonight is no different; he’s just as relentless, tapping away at you until your creaming for him once more. 

“I need to fucking taste you,” he growls, slipping his fingers past his lips, licking them. “Sit up, sweetie. Ride me while you make me hard again.”

It’s clumsy maneuvering in the cramped space, but eventually, you get into position. He’s below you, slurping at your sopping pussy as you’re bent over his cock, licking the head as you stroke him off. The windows begin fogging up, the air sweltering and humid. Your knee digs uncomfortably into the cushion, the other hangs off the edge of the seat, foot planted to the floor. Eren manages to fit his impressive stature, one leg angled and stretched towards the driver’s side, the other laid across the backseat, enough space for you to blow him while you ride his face. 

“I missed this sloppy cunt,” he muffles, spreading his tongue on you. He spits, smearing his frothy saliva across your clit, puckered around it, sucking. 

Once he’s hard again, you beg, “Fuck me, Eren.” You’re close to another climax and you’re desperate to come with him in you this time. “Please.”

He laughs, lifting you off, his face glossy with your slick, covering his nose, mouth, and chin. “Whatever you want, princess.” He sits up against the seat, legs splayed like a throne for you to sit pretty on. You straddle his lap, rubbing your pussy on his cock before guiding it into your entrance. 

You both drawl out, “Fuck,” kissing messily, arms wrapped around each other in a snug embrace. You ride him feverishly as he fucks up into you, gripping onto your hips tightly, bouncing you on his dick. You’re both sweating immensely, the temperature in the car sweltering, but neither of you mind it, too concentrated on each other’s orgasms, too addicted to the high you’re chasing together. 

“Fuck, baby. I’m so close,” he groans, picking up the pace, his thighs slapping lewdly against your ass.

“Come inside me, Eren. Fill me up,” you whimper, pushing the hair away from his sweaty forehead. 

“Yeah? You want it? Take it then. Take it sweetheart.” His eyes are shut tight as he shoots his load, thick cock pulsing inside you. You ride out your orgasm with him, scattering delicate kisses on his face. He grins, gazing at you with a hazy expression. 

“What’s that look for?” you ask, booping his nose. 

“Nothing,” he replies, cheeks rounded into a bigger smile. He squeezes your face between his palms. “I’m just happy. So unbelievably happy right now.”

You place your hands over his, leaning into his touch. “Me too.”

You stay comfortably like this for a few minutes, Eren cracking the windows open to let out some steam. You joke, “So, are you still going to sell me this car?”

He chuckles. “How about I give it to you. I was going to anyways.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. It was supposed to be a peace offering. But I like this outcome way better.”

“Me too. But I’m not going to just take it from you. Let me pay you for it.”

He tips your chin to look at you, grinning wide. “How about you move in with me instead?”

“What?” you giggle, unable to contain your smile, thrilled by the suggestion.

“Move in with me,” he repeats, nuzzling his nose to yours. 

“Isn’t this is a little too soon, considering we just got back together?”

He stretches his arms out, relaxing into the seat, smirking at you. “We already wasted two years without each other, I’m not wasting any more time.”

You scoot closer to him, kissing his cheek, then his lips. “Okay, you’ve got a deal.”

[wintersoldiersoul]

Hi.

Saw you are taking requests.

I got shingles the weekend close to my birthday, i confuse it with allergy because i am allergic to basically anything and then on my 24th birthday i got that it was actually shingles, doctor told me that my immune system went down and that is why i got it. Before that i was under so much stress because of work that i developed burn out and had to quit my job (literally spent months, weeks of my life visiting the emergency ward because i kept getting sick due to stress and burn out) probably that Triggered the shingles.

Could you write something with Bucky in which the reader suffers similar sh**? I just need comfort from my fave character 😭

If you dont feel comfortable is fine, i understand 😁

KUDOS!

I'm so sorry you went through that! I hope you are much better now. I tried to make this as medically accurate as possible (I texted my friend in med school LOL) but I am definitely not a doctor so if some stuff isn't accurate, just pretend it is.

You threw your hair up into a ponytail to get it out of your face. Hours slumped over at your desk weren't doing any favors. You grabbed the energy drink and chugged it to prevent your eyes from closing. You were almost done with this assignment. Just a little bit longer, you told yourself. 

Working full time and being a grad student was taking a toll on you. You spent every day from 9-5 in your office and every night from 6-10 in classes. You crammed homework in anywhere you could, which often meant staying up most of the night. It was approaching 4am, now. 

The office door creaked open and Bucky strolled in, sleep still filling his eyes. “Baby,” he sighed. “Come to bed.” He had woken up and the bed was cold without you beside him. He walked over to you, kissing your forehead.

“Can’t,” you mumbled without looking up from your computer.

“You gotta get some sleep, darlin’.”

You sneezed, still typing away. “I’m fi-” your words were interrupted by another sneeze.

Bucky stood, looking at you with a stern expression. “Well look at that. You’re getting sick.” 

You waved your hand. “No, I’m not. It’s just allergies,” you said, sniffling. “You know this time of year is bad.” The past few months, you had been sick on and off multiple times. A cold, a small fever, you were sick more than you weren’t. 

“Honey, please just get some sleep. You haven’t slept in days.” He was practically begging. He knew how much stress you were under and getting no sleep wasn’t going to help. He was extremely worried about you.

“Just give me 10 more minutes, okay?” You compromised.

“Fine. But I’m sitting right here and setting a timer. The second it goes off, I’m carrying you to bed.”

He did exactly that, throwing you over his shoulder when you didn’t get up immediately at the ring of his phone. Despite the intense amounts of caffeine you had consumed, you fell asleep the second your head hit the pillow.

Bucky woke up before you the next morning, smiling at your sleeping form. Your hair was sprawled over your face and he gently pushed it away to kiss your cheek. But as soon as he moved the strands, he noticed that your cheeks were flushed. He put the back of his flesh hand on your skin. Heat radiated off of your face before he even touched you. You were definitely sick.

He got up, being careful not to wake you. He left the bedroom returning a few minutes later with water, Advil, and a thermometer. You groaned as your alarm rang, sending shooting pains into your skull. You groaned, opening your eyes. You felt like absolute shit. Your whole body ached, your throat was on fire, and even your skin hurt.

“You’re sick.” Bucky stated, as if he was informing you.

“Yeah, I can tell,” you retorted, wincing at the pain in every cell of your body. He smiled softly, brushing your hair behind your ears. 

“I got you some water and Advil. Can I take your temperature, doll?”

You nodded and he put the thermometer under your tongue. He looked it, eyes widening. “Shit baby, that’s not good. Your temp is 102.8. How do you feel?”

“Horrible,” you pouted.

He sighed. “I’m not surprised. That’s a really high fever, baby. I think we should go to the doctor.”

You groaned, not wanting to move. You felt so horrible that the thought of having to get up and out of bed was a nightmare. You felt like you couldn’t stay awake, eyes closing no matter how hard you tried to keep them open. “Can’t move,” you whispered, coughing slightly. “My whole body hurts so much. Just wanna sleep.”

Bucky didn’t know what to do. In his mind, sickness meant calling a doctor. He had spent so many years worrying about Steve back in the 40s, sitting with him while he got looked at. He still wasn’t used to how things were today. The google search he did on his phone told him that if your fever went above 103, to take you to the hospital. In his opinion, you were close enough that he wanted to rush you there right now, but he could see how exhausted you were.

“Alright, rest for now. But if it gets worse we’re going to the hospital.” You didn’t even hear him as you had already fallen back to sleep.

You woke up in a daze, cold sweat clinging to your body. You were shivering aggressively, shaking the entire bed. “Babe?” Bucky said, noticing you were awake. “You cold?”

You nodded, teeth chattering. He quickly grabbed you another blanket, wrapping you up like a burrito. He wrapped his arms around you, hoping that his body heat would help, too. One of the major perks of dating a super soldier was that the chances of getting him sick were very slim. He held you as close as possible, trying to keep you warm. “Oh, honey,” he whispered, voice dripping with sympathy.

 “Can you take your temperature again for me?” He asked after your shivering had subsided a little bit. You put the thermometer back in your mouth, waiting for the beep. Bucky took it from you, heart stopping as he looked. “I know you don’t wanna move, but we gotta go to the ER. You’re at 103.6. That’s really really bad.”

You groaned. You felt so horrible, his words barely even registered in your mind. He picked you up and carried you to the car, whispering words of encouragement along the way. You closed your eyes again, finding it physically impossible to stay awake. Bucky held your hand the entire car ride before picking you up and carrying you into the ER. He let you sleep as you waited, positioning your head on his shoulder. He constantly watched you to make sure you were still breathing. He didn’t wanna wake you until he absolutely had to.

When you were finally called in, he shook you gently. “Can you walk?” He asked. You weakly nodded and he helped you to your feet letting you lean on his body as you went to the exam room.

The doctor hooked you up to an IV immediately to hydrate your sick body as they examined you.

“How have you been sleeping?” She asked you.

“Um, not great,” you answered, voice sounding raspy. “I’ve been under a lot of stress.”

“She hasn’t slept in a week,” Bucky interjected. “She’s been getting sick a lot these past few months since she started grad school.”

The doctor nodded. “Okay that’s very good to know.” She proceeded to ask you a few more questions and then said, “Did you have chicken-pox as a kid?”

You nodded. “Yeah. When I was 5.”

She carefully rolled up your shirt, revealing a rash on your side. “It looks like you have shingles. The stress you’ve been under seems to have weakened your immune system which is why you’ve been getting sick so much. It makes sense that with all of that the virus would come back now.”

Bucky held your hand. He was relieved that you had a diagnosis but of course he was terrified. Back in his time, that would have been a death sentence. “Is she gonna be okay?”

“I’ll be fine, Buck,” you answered. 

“Yes,” the doctor agreed. “We’re gonna keep her here for at least tonight because your fever is so high. But you will be okay.”

Bucky exhaled. “Oh, thank god.”

“Can I go to sleep now?” You asked the doctor. You were so exhausted.

“Yes. I’ll let you rest,” she smiled before leaving the room.

“I’m so sorry you feel so shitty,” Bucky said, holding your hand. “Will this make you take it easy?”

“I don’t know what I can do to change anything,” you said with tear filled eyes. “Literally the only time I have to get things done is in the middle of the night.”

He looked into your eyes. He wanted to help you so badly that his heart ached. He wanted you to be happy and healthy. “What if you quit your job?” He suggested. “You only took this as a temporary thing anyway. I know you don’t wanna stay there when you’re done with school.”

“I can’t not have a job, Bucky,” you argued.

“Baby,” he looked in your eyes. “Do you have any clue how much the Avengers pay me?” He smirked. “Trust me, you don’t need a job.” You opened your mouth to argue, ready to tell him that you didn’t need his money. “I know you’re your own person and you can make your own money. And one day, with that brain, you will make so much all on your own. But baby, you’re drowning. You’ve been sick more days than not the past few months. Please, let me take care of you. Just for a bit. I’d never tell you what to do and if you really wanna stay, you can. But you’re killing yourself, darling. And I can’t just sit back and watch as it happens. Just think about it. Please.”

You lazily smiled. “Okay. I’ll think about it. But not right now. Right now, I need to sleep.”

He stroked your hair and kissed your forehead. “Go to sleep, my love. I’ll be right here when you wake up.” 

[cleolinda]

A tale retold

I first told this story some twenty years ago, and it happened even earlier than that, so here's the Modern Retelling with Historical Context:

For many years, I had—well, you've heard of naturally curly hair? I had unnaturally curly hair. I had a stylist so brilliant that she was able to give me occasional perms that no one could tell were chemical. NO, FOR REAL, I constantly got compliments on my long, rippling hair. In reality, my hair is deplorably fine and flat, although I'm told I have a ton of it; putting in some wave made me feel better, you know? I just wanted to co-wash, air-dry, and go live my tousled life. But after my spinal surgery, I just couldn't spend 2-3 hours in a stylist's chair anymore. And so, after 20 years of my best Galadriel impression, I've had to make peace with my natural texture, the only thing about me (I realize now) that is actually straight.

But this story takes place back in 1996; I was a junior in high school, and I had the freshest of perms. Just absolutely exuberant. Downright Pre-Raphaelite. It had only been done the weekend before, and it usually took about two weeks for the curls to settle down and look less poodly natural, but I wasn't going to miss Baz Luhrmann's Romeo + Juliet. When I was in grad school years later, my Shakespeare professor went to the mat for this movie, declaring it the best adaptation of any of his plays. And she wasn't a Leo fangirl, either. I tend to agree. And I got to see it on a big screen, opening night, with my best friend and my fresh luscious elbow-length '90s 'do. Banger soundtrack, the big bold visuals that tip over into Maybe Too Much in Moulin Rouge—I'm enthralled, I'm absorbed. Claire Danes is weeping over Dead Romeo, and we all know what’s about to happen in this, a 400-year-old play, but you still hope against hope that somehow it won’t this time. And then I feel something that's not emotion.

Something behind me. In my hair.

It's clammy. This tiny moist hand... creeping... up my neck.

Bear in mind, these are classic movie theater seats, not the big recliners you get now. My head is vulnerable to rear attack. And these tiny fingers, like a gummy little doll's hand, are crawling up my neck, under, through my hair. I am now sitting bolt upright, frozen. What the fuck is going on. It’s still creeping like a little spider up my scalp to the back of my head—put your hand up to yours, get your fingertips to the roots of your hair and really get a sense of what this feels like—

These fingers close, slowly, around the greediest handful of hair they can get hold of, and YANK.

I whip around while Juliet is sobbing—darkness.

To this day, I have no idea who (or what?) that tiny hand belonged to. I mean, you gotta think it was a small child enticed by the siren song of my curls, right? Some parents just didn’t spring for a babysitter on a big opening night, and there’s a Millennial out there with some real interesting core memories, I guess? I couldn't make out anything in the darkness behind me, and we were at kind of a key cinematic moment, so I didn't have time for more than a stern warning glare To Whom It Might Concern. And then I held onto my hair for the remainder of the movie. I chopped it all off within a few months, and went to college with short, straight hair, unable to forget the Cursèd Touch of the Hand. lol jk I just wanted a change and regretted it instantly.

So, happy 20th anniversary to the story I told on the Fametracker forums all those years ago. I can still remember exactly what that hand felt like: tiny. And moist.

[hhighkey]

Nanami Kento Headcanons

AGE GAP SERIES - GENERAL

f!reader

series: how you met,

the most perfect man

you’re a good amount of years younger than him let’s say between 5-7 years for our sake but i feel like you gotta be old enough to drink for this man to consider

be prepared to be courted

like properly taken out on dates, sent flowers, constant calls, and check-ins

you’ll never be left on the dark with this man

never opening a door around him i am convinced

i saw someone say he’d keep his hands on your waist as someone’s passing by to move you and ugh yes

lowkey dads you

will straight up scold you if you’re being a brat or doing something risky

sometimes he’s a little too mature for your liking, you’re upset and just looking for an argument and he doesn’t argue. he wants to communicate- you’ve never had that before and it’s foreign

he can be impatient about detrimental things, childish things, but he’s always patient with you

or tries to be patient… will always listen to you ramble and try to see it from your side. but he’s like wow that’s such an immature way of thinking and just has to deal with it

i imagine if you vape it pisses him off sm he’ll just rip it out of your hand and scold you idk why i had this thought

you’re literally his perfect girl

he adores you in every way

calls you dear and honey

always walks behind you when going up stairs so no one looks at your ass

always brings a jacket when you two go out, regardless if he needs it because you always do even when you insist you don’t

he’ll go to the bar with you and your friends ofc if you ask, but he’ll feel out of place. he’s more of the fine establishments type person where everyone’s dressed up and that’s where he’d prefer to spend his time off with you besides home

loves spoiling you

loves watching you get flustered as you’re not used to it- pretty jewelry and bags make you red in the face

you’re just always trying to tell him you don’t need all that stuff like you’re good!

friends joke he’s your sugar daddy (he borderline likes it too)

you’re a civilian as i can see him needing a constant to come home to

loves when you are just hanging out and you lay your head on his lap so he can play with your hair and keep you close

but that means you’re stuck worrying a lot

sometimes turns into him having to console you and support you over his career more so than anything else

which you feel so guilty but you’re too young to deal with the emotions and be able to set them aside to support him

but you try- like shoulder massages after a hard job, sitting with him in silence until he’s ready to talk

you see him all bloody once as he had a tough job, gojo got you from school (pls why do i see you being a grad student) or work

and you’re traumatized seeing him beat up like that- he’d wait days sometimes to see you again to rid of major injuries

you don’t know how to handle it. you don’t know if you can handle it but you love him

sometimes the age gap does take its toll on both of you

you still love going out, drinking, making dumb decisions not ready for the real world whereas he’s cynical about life, works tirelessly

i would say that’s where all the arguments stem from

his frustration with your actions and lack of care towards yourself. you can barely cook to save your life, you hardly do laundry, and you’re deathly hungover when he wants to get breakfast

why doesn’t he want to get black out drunk with you? he doesn’t want to go to girls night? or why is he still at work late? you’ll blame gojo for that one

it probably forces y’all to sit down and really talk about what you both want out of the relationship

which is each other

i wanna write so much age gap stuff for him

nsfw

dom! pleasure dom like always complimenting you and singing you praise about how good you feel

if he’s your first- he’ll take that very seriously

gentle with you like you’d break in his arms

walks you through everything he’s doing

preps you so perfectly, making you finish with his tongue before he even touches you, is very big on foreplay always

is more for your pleasure than his own

large :)

stretches you out, your gasping for him as you grasp his biceps

calls you princess in bed

“such a good girl.”

“so tight for me.”

“you like that?”

“feel so good around my cock.”

“c’mon princess, come for me.”

teases you so much, has you begging for him to fuck you, touch you, let you finish

king of aftercare with baths and cuddles aw

[atinylittlepain]

Firehouse Harrington - Chapter 2

fireman!Steve x f!reader/f!oc

series masterlist

warnings | 18+ SMUT, angst, toxic relationship dynamic

a/n | gonna keep writing for this pathetic, sexy, messed-up man, that is all

Steve Harrington is puzzling. That’s the only conclusion she’s really reached. He’s taken her on more than a few dates, now seeing each other for a little over two months, and the stark contrast between the simply sweet gestures - always showing up with flowers, always opening doors for her, insisting on paying for her meal - and the downright nasty, bordering on violent sex sends her head reeling. She’s having a hard time discerning where he ends and where these staggeringly high walls he’s built begin. She knows he’s the last thing she needs right now. Her last year of college, grad school tentatively on the horizon. But Christ, she just can’t seem to get him out of her system.

She’s meeting him at the station tonight since his twenty-four hour shift ends at six. They’re going out for dinner. She’s learned that he doesn’t like movie theaters, concerts, or crowds in general, only tolerating bars when he’s good and drunk. She’s learned that she doesn’t like him very much when he’s drunk. So, most of their dates have been in quiet, hole in the wall restaurants, usually leading back to his uncharacteristically nice apartment. She didn’t think firefighters were exactly swimming in cash, but he seems to be quite comfortable. He had explained to her how he’s only on shift at the station three or four days out of the week, the rest of the time working at a mechanic’s shop. She knows he served, growing quickly accustomed to his dog tags dangling in front of her face, but he’s never told her anything about it. It’s difficult to get Steve to say much about himself. 

When she reaches the station, she finds the garage open, Steve just stepping down from one of the trucks, all geared up, his jacket undone to show the damp, clinging t-shirt beneath. The first thing she notices is the soot smearing across his face. She hovers just at the edge of the garage, anxiously wringing the strap of her purse, the other men too focused on getting out of their ashy uniforms to notice. Steve glances her direction before doubling back to fully take her in. He always looks her up and down when he first sees her, like he’s practically devouring her whole. It makes her squirm.

He lets out a sigh, shuffling over to her in his heavy boots. He reaches for her, but his hands flex, thinking better of it as he’s still so filthy from wherever he just was. 

“Hey, doll. I’m real sorry. We got called out this afternoon. Massive blowout in an apartment building. Can you give me like ten minutes? Just gotta get cleaned up for you and I’m all yours.” She swallows around a thickness in her throat.

“I-it’s fine. Steve, are you sure you’re ok to go out?” She reaches her hand up to tuck some of his damp hair back behind his smudged face, but he somewhat unkindly swats her hand away, she flinches.

“I’m fine. Just need to clean off. Why don’t you come wait inside, huh?” She nods, feeling both frustrated and floaty at how easily he takes control, renders her meek.

He guides her into the station. It looks like how she’d expect a house full of middle-aged men to look, comfy, lived-in, if not a bit sparse. She sits down in an armchair in what she supposes could be called the living room, watching Steve’s figure retreat up the stairs. 

She’s starting to regret the dress she wore as the other men start to filter through the station, letting their eyes linger on her bare legs a little longer than she’d like. 

“You Harrington’s girl?” An older man with a thick mustache walks up to her, sizing her up like a piece of meat. She clears her throat, trying to make herself as big as possible.

“I suppose I am, yeah, what’s it to you?” The man chuckles before letting out a low whistle.

“He better keep a close eye on you, sweet thing.” His grin makes her stomach twist unpleasantly. Another man sidles up, sitting down on the armrest of her chair. She leans into the other side, jerking away as he takes a strand of her hair between his fingers.

“What’re you going out with Harrington for, baby? Pretty little thing like you could do a whole lot better.” She scoffs, crossing her arms over her chest after flicking his hand away. 

“Well, I’m really sorry, gentleman. I didn’t mean to bother you, but I’m just trying to wait for my date. So if you could, you know, fuck off, I’d appreciate it.” The men both laugh at her bite. Mustache shuffles forward, bending over until he’s level with her face. She does her best to meet his gaze, unblinking.

“Harrington better teach you some manners, honey. That’s no way to be talking to men. I suggest you show us a little more respect.” He grins again, crooked, beer-stained teeth and breath that reeks of cigarettes.

“And I suggest you get the fuck out of my face.” 

“Now listen here, you little–”

“Michaels, Cahill, I see you’ve met my girl.” Both men immediately back off. Her stomach drops, knowing that Steve is not going to like what he heard one bit. He didn’t like her swearing, sure, but in the brief time they had been together, she had also learned that Steve was a violently jealous man with a very short temper. He offers his hand to her and she takes it, getting pulled into his side with his arm around her waist.

“You’ve got a real spitfire on your hands there, Harrington. Gonna have to hose that one down to handle the heat.” The two men laugh, slapping Steve on the back as they walk away, Steve’s face set in a tight smile that really looks more like a grimace. She sees the way his jaw is ticking. He pulls slightly away from her, taking her hand to lead her out of the station, a muttered “let’s go” is all she gets. What a great start to the night.

He hails them a cab outside, and when they get in, she furrows her brow at him when he gives the driver directions that are definitely not to the restaurant they were supposed to be going to. She goes to question him, but he cuts her off.

“We’re going back to mine. That ok with you, spitfire?” She swallows hard, a cold weight settling at the base of her spine. She nods, but that wasn’t what he was looking for. The hand not draped over her shoulder reaches up to grab her jaw, forcing her to look at him.

“I asked you a question, bunny. And I expect an answer.” She does her best to steady her voice, but it still comes out a little shaky.

“Yes, Steve. That’s ok with me.” 

The rest of the car ride is silent, Steve’s hand coming to wrap around the swell of her thigh. She hates to admit it, but even as much as his tough guy act upsets her, it also makes something in her twist, heat already starting to build.

Even when he’s pissed, Steve is still polite. He gets out of the cab first, jogging around the side to open her door for her, holding her hand all the way up to his apartment’s floor. But once they get inside it’s a different story.

The second he closes the door, he’s got her pinned up against it, palms framing her face. Normally, she’d play along, fine with skipping the date and going straight to fucking. She liked it as much as he seemed to, the intensity. But tonight, she was exhausted, hadn’t eaten since this morning because of her stupid class schedule, running around all afternoon trying to console and advise her hopeless freshmen, and had been really looking forward to at least some quiet, simple time with Steve. Plainly put, she wasn’t having it.

She shoves lightly at his chest, huffing above his head that had already dipped to bite and suck at her neck.

“Steve, Steve. C’mon, j-just slow down a bit. There’s no need to get so f-fucking worked up.” She knows it was the exactly wrong thing to say right now, but quite frankly she’s too tired to care. He freezes in what he’s doing, letting out a low scoff before leaning back to peer at her. 

“What did I tell you about that mouth, baby? Embarrassing me in front of those pricks. Tell me, is that how you talk to all your little college boys, huh?” He’s brought one hand to rest right at the base of her throat, thumb pressing up the length of her neck.

“Wha– what are you talking about? What boys, Steve? I’ve only been seeing you. You know that.” He laughs and the edge to it makes her stomach clench.

“I don’t know, doll. With a mouth like that, I find it a little hard to believe you haven’t been whoring yourself out. Spreading your legs to whoever’s looking. Such a stupid slut.” This is new. Sure, Steve can be degrading in bed, but it’s always superficial stuff, never crossing some unconsciously agreed upon boundary. But this is starting to graze bone. She shoves him again, this time successfully dipping out from his grasp before whirling around to look at him.

“Jesus christ. You need to grow up, Steve. Quit being such a fucking tough guy for five seconds,” she scoffs lightly, pinching the bridge of her nose, “I need to sit down.” She turns to walk over to his couch but he quickly grips her wrist, pulling her back to him until her forearms are crashing into his chest.

“You don’t fucking walk away from me. You’re my girl. Mine. And when you talk to me you’ll do it with some fucking respect–”

She’s doing it before her brain can even process, arcing her free hand out and slapping him clean across the face, his head jerking to the side. He lets go of her, a look of shock dragged down his face.

“You sound just like them and it makes me sick.” She storms off down the hall towards his bathroom, slamming and locking the door behind her. Truthfully, she has no clue what she’s doing, or what she just did. She should have marched right out the front door, but now she’s stuck, sitting on the edge of the bathtub with her head in her hands. She can’t help the sobs that start to softly roll through her, a culmination of a terrible day.

She’s startled by soft knocks at the door.

“Baby? Baby, please come out. I’m so sorry, honey, please– will you please come out? I didn’t mean it, baby, I just– you know how I get– just still worked up from the job this afternoon, that’s all. Please, pretty baby, let me make it up to you? Please, honey.” Steve’s voice is soft, a mumbling murmur of pleas slipping under the door.

She doesn’t say anything. Wouldn’t know what to say in the first place. For now, she stays seated, counting her breaths, trying to calm down, to figure out what to do next. She can hear him let out a long sigh, and the sound of feet shuffling. It’s been maybe forty five minutes when she opens the door, finding him sitting right next to it, his back against the wall, his forehead resting on his drawn-in knees. She can’t help but notice how small he looks.

His head shoots up and if she didn’t know any better, she’d think he had been crying.

“I’m sorry, baby.” She sighs, kneeling down in front of him.

“It’s ok, Steve. I-I forgive you. But you can’t get like that everytime something upsets you. What you said really hurt. You call me your girl and I am your girl, but you have to trust in what that means.” He swallows thickly, nodding, allowing her to take one of his hands in hers.

“I do trust you, pretty. It’s everyone else I don’t trust. S’just, you could have anyone. So fucking smart, and beautiful. Sometimes I don’t get why you’re with me.” She squeezes his hand, scooting a little closer to him.

“Steve, I want you. Don’t care about anyone else. But I need you to trust me when I tell you that. Need you to talk to me about what you’re feeling instead of just taking it out on me. I do want you, baby, but not enough to stick around if you keep treating me like that.” Steve nods hard at that, slowly shifting to stand up, bringing her along with him. He wraps his arms around her waist, pulling her into a tight hug. Her cheek squishes right above his heartbeat.

“I’ll be better, baby. I promise. Be the kind of guy you deserve.” She sighs into his chest, letting herself relax into his arms a bit more. Steve pulls back just slightly to look down at her.

“You hungry, pretty?” She smiles, a bit sheepishly, nodding up at him.

…

They order chinese and have dinner on his couch. He feeds her bites of his lo mein and she can’t help but feel a sense of whiplash, looking at this sweet man who just a few hours ago was an angry mess. But he is sweet, just enough to put earlier this evening out of her mind. 

He takes both their finished containers and sets them down on the coffee table, turning to look at her lazily smiling at him. He clears his throat.

“I really am sorry, pretty. Didn’t mean to hurt you. Never wanna hurt you.” She reaches out to card her fingers through his hair and his eyes flutter shut for a moment.

“I know, baby. I accept your apology. Just don’t do it again, yeah?” He nods, shifting on the couch until he’s pressed up against her, his arm around her shoulders. He drops a soft kiss to her lips.

“Wanna make it up to you, doll. Will you let me? Let me make you feel good?” She takes a sharp breath as his hand on her thigh starts to skirt up, her dress riding up her legs along with it. She nods, a hummed “mmhmm,” all it takes for Steve to slide down onto his knees in front of her.

He brings both palms to splay over the softness of her thighs, dragging them up and up until he finds the band of her panties. He doesn’t even have to say anything, she lifts her hips for him as if on command, letting him slide the light blue cotton down her legs, tossing them off to the side. It’s quiet, save for her broken exhales, as he guides the backs of her knees over his shoulders, shifting her hips down to the edge of the couch. He lets his lips drag along the insides of her thighs, leaving open-mouthed kisses in his simpering wake. He keeps getting frustratingly close to her cunt before dipping back to nip and suckle at her thighs. She lets out a long whine the next time he does it. He grins up at her.

“What is it, pretty? You gotta tell me what you want.” She huffs at his teasing.

“I want you, please.”

“You got me, baby. Gonna have to be more specific.” She pulls the one card she knows will stop his toying with her.

“I want your mouth, daddy. Please, daddy, need your mouth.” She can see the corners of his mouth flickering. Got him.

“Good girl. Daddy’s gonna give it to you. Anything you want, baby, just gotta ask.” He mumbles the last bit as he dips his head down, drawing a long arc through her folds with his tongue. She preens under the sudden contact.

Steve works her over with a desperate hunger, only pulling away to spit roughly at her cunt before chasing after the pooling wetness there. There’s a lewd squelching sound as he suckles on her clit, making her throw her head back in a low moan, digging her heel into his back.

“That’s it, bunny. Let daddy hear how good it feels, give it all to me.” He dips lower, fucking his tongue into her cunt and she gasps, fisting one of her hands in his hair, earning a low thrumming groan from him that burns through her core. His nose is catching her clit just right as he continues to lick into her before he draws his mouth back up, letting two fingers slide in where his tongue just was. She lets out a broken cry when he finds that spot inside her, stroking it with each thrust of his hand. He’s panting when he comes up for air.

“Want you to come on my fingers, bunny. Can you do that for daddy? Make a fucking mess of me, baby.” She whimpers, nodding frantically, her eyes scrunched shut as she rocks her hips against his face and palm, chasing a high that’s teetering dangerously close.

“Open your eyes, pretty. Want your eyes on me when you come. Be a good girl.” She does what he says, eyes blowing wide and the sight of him, hair a mess, cheeks damp with her, his pupils blown out, is enough to send her right over the edge. She cries out, hips lifting up, pulsing around his fingers before slowly melting into a breathless mess. Steve sits up on his knees, pulling her in for a kiss and she groans at the taste of herself on his tongue.

He murmurs for her to wrap her legs around him and she does, always surprised by his stolid strength when he lifts her up off the couch, carrying her to his bedroom. He lays her back on his bed, caging her in between his forearms as they meet in another kiss. He presses his hips firmly into hers and she can feel his hardness as he shunts his hips forward, dragging along her sensitive cunt.

She fumbles for the hem of his shirt before he gets the hint, peeling away from her to yank it off by the collar before unbuckling his belt. She quickly pulls her dress off over her head and when he dives back down to meet her, his mouth goes to lick over a peaked nipple through the thin fabric of her bra. She sighs, pressing her chest up towards his mouth, giving him the space to reach around and unclasp her bra before sliding it down her shoulders. He pauses for a moment, slack jawed, as he takes her in. His hand comes to her jaw before running his thumb over her bottom lip, he sighs.

“So fucking beautiful.” She takes his thumb into her mouth, sucking on it, earning a low grumbling moan from him before he takes it from her mouth with a startling pop.

He shuffles his jeans and boxers down his legs before hovering back over her, pressing the fat head of his cock through her folds. They both groan at the contact. 

“P-please don’t tease me, daddy. Need it so bad.” He scoffs at her crumpled expression.

“I know what you need, baby. Daddy’s got you, huh?” With that, he lines himself up with her entrance, pressing forward. It always has been and continues to be a stretch, a pleasure that dips into pain as he digs his hips into hers, bottoming out. She draws her nails down his back, feeling him shudder under the delicate scrapes he’s sure to be left with. He dips his face into her neck, pressing chaste kisses along her jumping tendons.

“Can I move, pretty. Are you ok?” She gasps out a “yes” and he rolls his hips experimentally, a long, digging thrust that makes her eyes roll back. He grabs onto the plush of her thigh before guiding her leg to wrap around his hip, spreading her out for him. The pace he sets is slow but harsh, punches of his hips that send her rocking up the length of the bed. They’re wrapped in the sounds of their heavy breathing, the sloppy wetness of his thrusts into her, and the headboard lightly banging against the wall.

He brings the rough pads of his fingers down to swipe across her clit and she cries out, clenching hard around him. Everytime they fuck, she’s reminded that she’s never had anyone press this deep into her, a feeling that churns her insides and sets pleasure pooling in her stomach.

“Need to feel you, baby. Need you to come on my cock. Come on, pretty, let go.” His groaned words are all it takes for that pleasure to spill over for the second time, her arms pulling him down until he’s practically laying on top of her. He continues to grind into her, fucking her through her high in a way that keeps her pleasure thrumming at an almost unbearable high. 

He presses up onto one hand, the other holding onto her hip in a way she’s sure will leave bruises. His hips are starting to stutter and she can tell he’s close.

“You’re mine, right doll? Tell me you’re mine.” She gazes up at him, dragging her fingers through his hair.

“M’all yours, daddy. All for you, baby. I’m yours.” He lets out a broken moan at her words, digging his face back into her neck.

“Fuck– say my name, baby. Say my fucking name.” “Steve, want you to come for me– p-please come for me.”

“M’close, baby– fuck– s-so close. Where do you want me?”

“Inside, wanna feel you, Steve– give it to me, baby– please, wanna feel you f-fill me up.” He lets out a warbly curse before pressing his hips into hers bruisingly as she feels his warmth start to spread inside her. He sighs into her collarbone, letting his lips dance across her skin.

They lay entangled for a few moments, listening as their breaths start to slow down. She winces as he pulls out of her, immediately feeling the way his spend drips onto the sheets. Thank god for birth control. He presses a firm kiss to her lips before getting up and stepping into the bathroom, coming back with a warm towel to clean her up.

He murmurs a sorry into the soft swell of her stomach when she hisses under his ministrations, already feeling the ache settling into her hips. He tosses the towel into his hamper, sliding on a clean pair of boxers and bringing one of his t-shirts over to her. They move silently, they’ve done this many times.

She offers him a soft smile as she slides the worn-out shirt over her head. Steve settles back into bed, pulling her to rest her chin on his chest. They share another small kiss before descending into silence. There’s nothing left to say. She wants so badly for him to have meant what he said earlier, that he’ll start to let her in a bit more. But she also knows they had a very similar conversation just last week, when they had gotten back to Steve’s place with him nursing a set of bloodied, swollen knuckles from the face of the poor guy who had tried to talk to her. Everytime, she swears that the next time he pulls something like that, she’ll leave and not look back. And everytime, he draws her right back in. There’s something in her heart for him that she’s not yet ready to press on, to speak aloud. Too afraid of what it could mean.

He falls asleep before her, the gentle rise and fall of his chest underneath her cheek. She shifts slightly to gaze up at him, one of the rare moments when his features are soft, at peace. She thinks that maybe there’s hope for Steve Harrington yet.

[simple-and-cozy-life]

I've been so stressed from the changes happening in my life that I forgot that, even though this is going to suck, God is going to get me through this transitional time. Eventually, I will have the stability that I need and I will have a family.

Life will persist and so must I.

[skyrim-forever]

What inspired you to write?

This is such a great question, thank you so much <3

I gotta do a bit of background first. Growing up I was an art kid, I liked painting, drawing, charcoal, whatever I could get my hands on. My best friend was (and still is) a very gifted writer so I (incorrectly) fell into the idea that I shouldn't even bother to write because she could do it so much better. Then when I was 16 I went through something that caused me to develop PTSD and I couldn't do art anymore. All the life had gotten sucked out of me.

I enter university and suddenly I am surrounded by all these people who didn't have hobbies so much as they had competitive skills. I remember mentioning I liked dancing and had taken some free classes run by someone in my hometown; turns out they had been competitive dancing since they were four! I mentioned I used to do art, they blew anything I ever did out of the water! So I just stopped even trying things because it felt like if I wasn't doing something to be great at it there was no point. I also had other insecurities that played a bit part but I don't want to discuss them publicly.

Then I get to grad school, I end up making a new tumblr account for tes stuff and I start making friends with people who write fanfic. I've been reading fic since I was 14 so it was so cool to interact with wips and seeing things develop. Overtime seeing how supportive everyone was I started to get interested in trying. Some authors I'm very glad to call friends like @dirty-bosmer @lucien-lachance and @thequeenofthewinter are who inspired me to just do it.

The first piece I wrote I was from the Skyrim Sexyman Poll, last Feb. I don't think it's a good piece of writing, but I keep it up on ao3 because it's important. It needed to exist because it showed me I could, I could in fact write fanfic. And then I was like hmmm, fanfic is all about writing scenarios you want, what do I want? And I wanted Ondolemar smut I'll be honest. I've written some other fics that aren't about him and I like them, but having a blorbo is so good for the creative proccess. And it's helped me find my voice and now that I am freed from the shackles of grad school I'm feeling more creative than ever and want to start writing other characters and write weirder fanfic :P

The phrase "the first draft's job is to exist" has done wonders for me <3

TLDR: the cool authors here were so cool that I wanted to be like them too :P

[cowgurrrl]

yay you‘re an aries, too 💕

ugh i‘ve gotta write my term paper and i‘m sooo annoyed because i really hate one of the the authors whose work i‘m analyzing (it‘s about 16th century art literature) but i gotta do it because i‘m only two assignments away from my masters thesis and i‘m sooo exhausted ;_;

okay sorry for the rant. i was just wondering if maybeee you‘d like to write a cute lil’ drabble or hc about joel supporting a reader that’s struggling with their assignment for uni? >_<

anyhow, love you & your writing. keep up the good work & take care of yourself 💕

Congratulations on your master’s thesis!! You’re going to do amazing things! I took this in a little more of preoutbreak!Joel hc so I hope you enjoy 💓

Joel as your study buddy headcanons

Pairing: preoutbreak!Joel Miller x fem!reader

Author’s note: the lovely Joel “fractions” Miller gif is by @loregifs also I am slowly working through requests!! Thank you for sending me so many fun ones! 🫶

Warnings: school stress, fluff!!

I don’t think Joel would’ve gone to college and if he did, I don’t think he would’ve finished it out because of Sarah but when he meets you while you’re in the midst of your grad courses, he’s in awe of your work ethic and determination

He likes to look over your shoulder when you're transcribing notes or reading for class

Definitely would stop by campus to have lunch with you if he had a job nearby

One time Sarah had an early release day on the same day Joel had a rural site forty five minutes away so you picked her up and had to take her to lecture with you

She loved every minute of it. She liked roaming the campus and listening to your professor, even if she didn’t fully understand what she was talking about, and asked you a million different questions about college

Will literally listen to you ramble about the newest thing you’re learning because he likes seeing you get so excited/engaged

When finals roll around, he’s not quite sure what he can do to help the blanket-covered, ink-stained, stressed heap of grad student in his living room but he’ll occasionally walk by and kiss your temple, saying praises into your skin

“You’re so smart.” “You can do this.” “D’you need anything?” “You’re gonna do great.” “I love you.”

He’d definitely be the type of guy who would cut up fruit and wordlessly leave it on the table in front of you with a glass of water

When you’re crying because of the stress, deadlines, readings, he’s always there to soothe your anxiety and offer you a break

Sometimes you two will sit and watch some mindless reality show or talk to Sarah about her day or go for a drive, pointing out the wildflowers on the side of the highway. He’ll do anything to get your mind to reset so you can come back to your studying

He’d help you run through your flashcards so you can study but not before trying to make a stripping game out of it

“Joel, I need to pass!” “That’s why it’s effective!”

When you eventually do pass all your finals, he takes you and Sarah out to dinner and tells the waiter about how smart his girlfriend is when the poor guy asks if you’re celebrating anything

Joel takes any opportunity to gush about you

When you graduate, he makes the BIGGEST DEAL

He’s the loudest person at graduation and showers you with flowers, kisses, and attention. You and Sarah just laugh at his theatrics but love him for it anyways

He would definitely splurge and buy you the nice frame for your diploma and you very quickly tell him he doesn’t have to because they’re so expensive but he just kisses you to shut you up

“I wanted to. ‘M proud of you and I want everyone to know,” he mumbles against you. “Besides, when you make me a trophy husband, it’ll balance out.”

[plzu]

cookies and cocoa (and maybe some kisses) - (Peter Parker x Reader)

Summary: Here’s the thing about boys and bruises and living in the city: It is none of your business, and Peter Parker has a smile that can thaw ice caps, and warm cocoa brown eyes, and surely that can’t be a bad or dangerous thing. And you owe Peter some cookies.

A/N: this started out as a holiday fic but then turned into a fic that just so happens to be taking place during the holidays. reader is heavily implied to celebrate christmas but rest assured, there is no actual christmas/holiday celebration occurring. also worth noting that any temperatures used in this fic are measured in fahrenheit

Warnings: mild hurt/comfort (i really gotta learn to dig into the meat of these tropes), fluff, a chase happens with the reader, peter & reader are in their early-mid 20s (pictured a grad school peter the whole time)

Wordcount: 6.4k

The evening sky grows violet by the time you pass through the heavy metal door of your apartment building, escaping the wintry, late autumn chill for the slightly-less cold lobby. You absently -- though, fittingly -- hum Baby, It’s Cold Outside under your breath, gripping the plastic bag of Chinese takeout in your right hand while shopping bag handles dig into the coat-sleeved arm of your left.

You make your way towards the dull silver wall of cluster mailboxes, greeted by the familiar scents of cigarette smoke and old metal and the lingering waft of paint that never seems to dry. You’re focused on attempting to find the key for your own mailbox when you pause. There’s an unfamiliar figure idling on the other end of the narrow lobby, shifting restlessly from foot to foot.

It’s not that you know everyone that lives in the building. Even before moving into the city, you’ve always kept to yourself. But live somewhere long enough and you recognize the patterns of your surroundings. You start to expect to run into certain people at specific times of the day. People’s perfumes make them recognizable, or the specific cologne failing to mask the earthy stench of pot. Even the way someone moves, the way they walk, the very way they stand when sorting through their mail in the lobby, or waiting for the elevator. Children stick out like sore thumbs, even the shy ones. Silhouettes of your neighbors that live on your floor become comforting in their familiarness, particularly one that’s gangly with perpetually-tousled brown hair and warm eyes, but sadly distant smiles.

And the one thing everyone who lives here has in common is that their unguarded postures denote that they’re home. 

And this stranger in the lobby is very much not home. 

The keys tighten in the grip of your left hand. With forced aloofness, you attempt to make eye contact with the stranger to greet him with a head nod. The head nod. An upward jut of your chin signaling, I see you. When he fails to properly return it -- a slight jerk of his head before his gaze slides uncomfortably away from yours -- you decide checking the mail can wait. Even if he’s harmless, opening up your mailbox would unwisely shine a beacon on your apartment number. 

You back up, turn away from the mailboxes, and hastily make your way past the old elevator door in favor of the granite, off-white staircase. Having the option and space to run felt much more comforting than taking the elevator up ten floors.

Your booted feet stomp with each step, quick and loud and deliberate, the sound echoing in the dim stairwell. Panic starts to set in when you hear, when you feel, the other presence behind you; he’s following you, now. This panic propels you forward, even with the several bags you carry, you manage to take the steps two at a time, until you can no longer distinguish the rustling sounds of paper and plastic with your own, quick breaths. Whatever soreness was beginning to settle in your legs from shopping all day is subdued by the adrenaline that starts pumping in your veins.

There is the phantom feeling of hands on your back. You don’t think it’s real, that he’s entirely caught up to you, and, yet, shouldn’t he be? You are weighted down by the bags in your arms and you want to cry but there is something keeping your mouth shut, an impending scream unable to erupt from your throat. Like you’re subconsciously trying to preserve your breath for the run. 

It is a wonder you do not trip by the time you make it to your floor. There’s no time to count this blessing, however, as you make the split-second decision to make a sharp right turn, the exact opposite of where your apartment is. You march determinedly up to the door at the end of the hall, ring the doorbell, and hope with all your rapidly beating heart that your friendly neighbor is home. 

You hear the door unlock, the chain coming off, and you swear there is no sweeter sound. When the door opens, your brown-eyed savior -- Peter -- greets you with curiosity written across his features, left shoulder settled up against the doorframe while his right hand holds open the door.

“H-hey, babe,” you breathlessly announce, with wide, beseeching eyes. “I picked up dinner for tonight!”

He searches your face, curiosity giving way to confusion until he glances behind you, and confusion turns, blessedly, to understanding. He opens the door wider to let you in, guarded stare remaining above your head as you scurry past him. 

The apartment is quaint, like yours. Scattered papers on the kitchen counters and tabletop, a camera, a skateboard that has seen better days propped up against the side of the sofa. More things you do not have time to take in as you spin around to face him, and immediately begin apologizing as he shuts and locks the door.

“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to lead him to your door but I just- I freaked out, I didn’t want him knowing where I lived and I- I couldn’t think of anything else. You’re just- you’ve always been so nice but now- oh, I’m such a dumbass, I’m so selfish, I shouldn’t’ve-”

“Hey hey hey,” he steps closer, shushes you, “it’s okay, it’s alright.” His smile has not left his face since opening the door, a pretty quirk of his lips that’s both amiable and amused. 

P-pretty? 

It’s only once his hands gently encircle your wrists that you realize you’re shaking.

“You did the right thing,” he assures. Your vision is swimming with his kind face. His scent washes over you, a warm and comforting musk. “I mean, you could have knocked on Carmen’s door and she would’ve given that guy hell.”

This relaxes a laugh out of you. Carmen is your five-foot-three Colombian neighbor, whose take-no-shit personality makes up for her height. She is fiercely protective and, quite frankly, terrifying. She reminds you of your mother.  

“There we go, that’s it!” he chuckles. “Now, will you do me a favor? Can you let me take these bags for you?”

You remember the food that you actually did buy, and the bags of Christmas decorations for your apartment, and the weight of it all makes it feel like your arms are about to fall off. Gratefully, you let Peter take the bags from your hands, immediately bogged down by the sudden lightness. 

The adrenaline from playing the most wound-up game of tag in your life finally ebbs, and you are overcome by how overwhelmingly warm it suddenly is. You're sweating underneath your coat and beanie. You trekked up ten flights of stairs without falling even once and your legs have now turned into jelly. 

“I need’ta- can I sit?” you ask, breathless, ripping off the hat from your head.

“Of course,” he responds from the kitchen, taking a glass from a cabinet and running it under water in the kitchen sink.

You plop down onto the sofa, immediately sinking into its wornness. You absentmindedly shrug out of your coat so it falls in a heap around your hips. Your body needs a minute to adjust to feeling safe. 

Peter returns and offers you the glass of water, which you take and chug before you can remember to thank him. Peter (trying very politely to not look entertained by your obvious disarray) quickly shuffles some stuff around on the coffee table -- a newspaper, a couple of manila folders -- clearing it out so there's space for you to put down the glass. Meanwhile, you tell him about the shady guy that followed you, how you noticed him hanging around the lobby. How a rat would have been a more welcoming sight. 

“Y’know, like, at least the rats live here.” 

This shocks a genuine laugh out of him. One that you pause to admire before adding, with a shrug, “I’m probably overreacting, anyway.”

“A strange man you’ve never seen before follows you up ten flights of stairs instead of taking the elevator, and you think you’re overreacting?” Peter crosses his arms from where he’s standing on the other side of the coffee table, giving you a dubious look.

Well, when he puts it like that. 

You chuckle. “Whatever, it’s Christmas. I’m giving him the benefit of the doubt.”

“Christmas? It’s November 30th.”

Laughing again, you’re just grateful that Peter keeps it light and doesn’t say the quiet part out loud. How this guy was probably waiting for an easy, single target to lead him to their apartment to, at best, rob them. You think, grimly, that he should choke on the lumps of coal he’ll undoubtedly be getting this year.

Peter asks if you’re feeling better. You assess yourself. Your surroundings. The frayed blue couch you’re sitting on. The way the navy blue collar of Peter’s sweater looks just as worn as the couch, stretched out all loose around his neck. It makes you smile, until you notice you did not take your boots off at the door like you should have, and then your smile turns into a grimace. “Yeah, I’m good. I’ll get out of your hair in a second, promise.”

“Nah, no rush.” The grin on his face is disarming. Infectious. You feel gooey inside, looking at him, like the chocolate chip cookies your sister likes to bake around this time of year. You can almost forget what brought you here.

“I don’t have anything to give you right now-”

“Whoa, whoa-” he raises his palms up, stopping you- “you don’t owe me anything. We have to look out for each other, right?”

You wring your hands in your lap, uncomfortable with the idea of intruding in Peter’s space -- a man whom you’ve only shared a handful of conversation and friendly smiles in passing -- without giving him something for the trouble. “Sure, but- well, how ‘bout dinner?”

He quirks an eyebrow at you. “Dinner? You asking me out?” he teases.

Heat floods your face but you smile, try to play it cool. “I’m asking if you like Chinese food.”

“Sure,” he shrugs. “Who doesn’t?” But then he glances at the bag of takeout. “Oh, no, no, I can’t take your food.”

But you’re already pulling the containers out from the bag and placing them on the table in front of you, releasing the pungent, mouthwatering whiff of soy sauce and garlic. “Well, you wouldn’t be taking my food. Believe me, after all the walking I’ve done today, I won’t just be giving away my hard-earned dinner.” You look up at him, so he can see the lightheartedness playing on your face. It makes his shoulders relax and an easy laugh spills softly from his lips. 

It is astonishingly effortless, being in the same room as Peter. Like you’re old friends. He grabs some plates and utensils from the kitchen and brings them to the table. He sinks easily into the space beside you on his couch, right knee just barely touching your left. You refrain from looking at his face too long, his eyes, or you might lose the confidence that’s enabling you to scoop lo mein onto his plate as though you’ve done this dozens of times before. 

And so you share your food with Peter, in his home, in his warmth. There’s laughter, and a can of soda that he stops you from opening. 

(“Didn’t you just sprint up the stairs? Don’t open that, sweetheart.”)

(Sweetheart. The sobriquet falls from his lips so easily, it lights you up like the Rockerfeller tree. You hope he takes no notice.)

Once you’re done eating, Peter offers to walk you across the hall. You say he doesn’t have to, that’s silly, you’re just across the way. But he insists. Even carries your bags of garlands and knick knacks for you. He walks on your left, keeping his body between you and the mouth of the stairs.

“Prepping for the holidays?” he asks, peering into one of the bags as you both amble across the hall. Neither of you in any hurry to part ways.

“Oh, yeah, it’s my favorite time of year!” you gush, eyes lighting up with sincerity as you glance up at him from trying to find the right key. “I know we’re adults now, but I never wanted growing up to take away the magic.”

You got so caught up in your newfound comfort with your cute neighbor that you forget to feel embarrassed by this admittance. Your smile falters, and you look back down, focusing once again on your keys. “Which- I mean, I know it’s silly. Sorry.”

“I don’t think it’s silly at all.” 

You’ve both stopped right outside your door, and you’re startled to see the earnestness in his features. You quickly look away to unlock your door, gulping through some emotion that comes crawling up your throat.

Door unlocked and partially opened, you turn to take the bags from his grasp. “Thank you, Peter,” you murmur. Heartfelt and, suddenly, shy.

“Hey, you know my name,” he notes, voice pleasantly soft. He leans against the outside of your doorway, hands shoved casually into the pockets of his gray sweatpants. There’s something about the way he’s looking at you that makes your tummy do somersaults.

You decide to be brave and look up into his eyes again, hold his gaze, and fully recognize that despite the tiredness in them, Peter is unbelievably good, and kind, and sweet. “Of course I know your name.” You smirk, teasing. “Does this mean you don’t know my name?”

His smile broadens, adds lovely crinkles at the corner of his eyes. There’s a bashfulness in the way his head ducks, gaze slipping away from your own before he looks back up at you. “Yeah, I know your name.”

He wishes you a good night, with a demulcent whisper of your name as he slowly backs away from the threshold of your apartment. 

You watch him leave with a giddy feeling in your gut as you slowly, quietly shut the door. You lean your forehead against the cool back of it, cheeks aching with cheer.

Heart thumping in your chest for brand new, pleasant reasons, you decide: you are going to bake Thank-You cookies for Peter.

The first time you ran into Peter in your building was a wonderful, breath-taking accident. You were bringing more things over from your parent’s house, a box of decorations to liven up the new living space. Unfortunately, the elevator in your building had, rather inconsiderately, decided to stop working, so you were forced to take the stairs.

The box was more cumbersome than heavy, cradled in your forearms as your fingers gripped painfully at the bottom edge of it. It didn’t help that you could barely see over it, unable to quickly find your footing as you traversed each step. 

Despite your trembling arms and gelatin legs, you were doing quite well! Sure, the whole of you was warm from exertion and you were grunting, out of breath, by the time you made it to the top of the second floor, but you were impressed by the amount of steps you managed to clear so far without wiping out. A feeling that was short-lived mid-way up the third flight of stairs as you overestimated your wobbly knees’ ability to keep you upright--

A sudden loss of balance. Gravity worked against you as your hovering foot was unable to find purchase forwards. Careening backwards, heart in your throat, grip tightening on the box in your arms. And before you could properly scream, a steadying hand met the small of your back, a gentle whoa, I gotcha- barely audible amidst the thundering in your ears. 

Once both feet were planted securely on the granite, you looked to your savior, whose hand was still firm and gentle on your back, and found honey-warm eyes.

Funny, how you had stopped falling, but still couldn’t shake the feeling of lurching in your heart. Unfettered butterfly wings. 

He offered to help you the rest of the way, and insisted on carrying your stuff. You did your best to dissuade him, except he had already taken the box from your hands and started waking up the rest of the steps with an effortless gait, looking back at you with an amused half-smile that you tried your damndest not to find charming.

What floor?

Tenth.

Perfect! That’s my floor, too.

A heartbeat. A slow, shy grin at his back as you attempted to keep up with his longer strides.

Lucky me.

When you run into Peter now, it is no longer with the passing friendliness of neighbors. There’s more chatter, and his charm flusters you something silly, schoolgirl giggling until you part ways and you have the mind to chastise yourself for being so damned smitten.

Twice, he leaves his apartment at the same time you are coming back home, and the way you both linger in the hallways makes your neighbors roll their eyes. Carmen is especially good at making you feel embarrassed about it, like you’ve been caught past curfew. It will break you out of your reverie, one that Peter so seamlessly traps you in. It’s not your fault, really; there’s something about the way he looks at you, his smile gluing you to the chipped mosaic tiles of the hall.

Today is one of those days. It is early afternoon on a Saturday, and you’re eager to bake with the ingredients you’ve just purchased. Peter is just locking up, and you both pause where you stand, slow smiles mirroring each other. Peter takes a few steps towards the stairs, but checks in on you, asks how you’re doing after everything that happened the other night. 

You do not want to tell him that you’ve timed your mornings with everyone else on this floor since then so that when you leave for work, you won’t be alone in the hall (and how you always hope he’ll leave at the same time you do). Or how, when you’ve come back home, you take a quick peek through the glass panel of the lobby door to make sure there’s no idling stranger. 

Instead, you make a lighthearted joke about being too overwhelmed with holiday shopping to even remember it ever happened. He does not miss the uncomfortable flick of your gaze to the mouth of the stairwell.

“Hey, you don’t gotta worry about that guy anymore. Haven’t seen him around.”

You try searching his eyes from where you stand, halfway to your apartment door. The thing about Peter is that there is a curious pull to him. The urge to reach your hands into the too-big jacket he wears, snake your hands against the soft worn hoodie underneath. This is a feeling that has existed since the first time you properly laid eyes on him, after moving in, and that feeling has only become overwhelmingly maximized since sitting on his couch a week ago, with only a breath of space between you, and an aching lack of touch.

Peter ducks his head, like he’s trying to hide from your searching gaze. You squeeze your keys in your hand so that they dig into the fleshy meat of your palm and grounds you. Keeps you from stepping towards him. Instead, you change the subject, wanting to bring his face back to you. “Do you wanna come over for hot chocolate later?”

There’s a rise in his cheekbones. He lifts his head back up, but away from you. The grin is still unmistakable from the side. 

“That is, if you’re not busy,” you quickly tack on, courage chased away by the sudden abashed warming in your cheeks.

“No, no, ‘m not busy. I think I can make it.” Peter casts a quick, reassuring glance your way, so you know he means it.

When he disappears down the stairs, someone clears their throat. You spin to find Carmen standing in her open doorway, her eyes on you weighted with warning. 

Feeling suddenly small and twelve, you blink at her. “What?”

“Be careful with that one, mija.”

You snort like she just told a joke, but her full, wide lips remain a concerned frown. “Who, Peter? He’s the sweetest guy, Carmen, you know that.”

“Sure, he's a good kid,” she says, her voice a warm nicotine rasp. “I can knock on his door and ask for sugar. But I’ve seen him with bruises more times than I can count. Someone with bloody knuckles every other day can’t be up to no good.”

She shuts the door, leaving you alone with your grocery bags and your thoughts.

You suppose you have noticed bruises on Peter, in the past. There are days when his face had been hidden behind his hood but you’d notice a smidge of discoloration on his jaw while in the elevator together. Even now, there was a slight darkening on the cusp of his cheekbone that you thought was just the hallway light fixture casting a strange shadow. But after Carmen’s words, it could have been the healing of a bruise. And you consider his words, how he mentioned you don’t have to worry about the lobby stranger anymore in an oddly confident declaration.

Here’s the thing about boys and bruises and living in the city: It is none of your business, you think, as you unlock your door and step into your apartment. It is none of your business, and Peter Parker has a smile that can thaw ice caps, and warm cocoa brown eyes, and surely that can’t be a bad or dangerous thing. And, anyway, it’s the holidays! A time of joy, not a time to be suspicious about handsome near-strangers that have been nothing but kind to you. 

And, most importantly: you owe that near-stranger some cookies.

Holiday music drifts with mellow merriment from your bluetooth speakers. Your apartment twinkles with the phosphorescent glow of string-lights strung about the space. The air is warmed by the cinnamon sugar scent of snickerdoodle cookies currently baking in the oven, and the bouquet of balsam from the 3-wick candle you’ve lit to replicate the tree you cannot put up. (And you wouldn’t, even if you could, because it’d feel silly to put up a tree when you live alone.)

Waiting for Peter makes you antsy. Nerves make your hands fidget restlessly when you run out of things to do. You wiped down the smattering of flour and cinnamon sugar residue from the countertops, and when that was clean (twice over), you kept going. Fluffed the couch pillows, vacuumed the area rug, dusted your cramped and tiny bookshelf. 

You hop over to the door and peer out the peephole, checking for Peter’s return, more times than you care to admit.

You feel silly about it. You feel giddy about it. 

When the timer dings, it is a brief but welcome distraction. You pull the cookies out of the oven and let them cool on the stovetop. 

You scurry back to the door. Peep for Peter. 

It’s The Most Wonderful Time of the Year croons from the speaker.

As it darkens, fat, lazy snowflakes begin to drift outside your window. It is almost ridiculously picturesque. You cannot believe you are going to have a cozy evening of cookies and hot cocoa with the boy next door (so-to-speak), on your couch, a flurry of snow at the window. A scene befitting a snow globe--

The cookies have been plated. A small saucepan sits ready and waiting on the front left burner, the packets of cocoa powder on the counter beside the stovetop. The milk in your fridge far from expired. 

The snow starts to stick outside. There are sounds of people coming home on your floor, keys jingling, doors unlocking. Stomping the snow from their shoes before entering their homes. None of them are Peter.

When the only thing left to do is wait, you browse social media. There is chatter online about Spider-Man sightings today. A truck that had slid and keeled over while turning onto a main road, the web-slinger swooping in just in time to rescue pedestrians crossing the street. A police chase he gets involved in. A disappointing reminder that crime still persists even during the holidays.

Well. You are in the city.

Something endearing, which serves as a momentary distraction as you wait for Peter to show, is that the circulating pictures and videos of Spider-Man tonight show him swinging around with a navy blue scarf wrapped around his neck, and a cute matching knit hat -- one with a little fuzzball at the top. Even superheroes need to keep warm, you suppose. It makes you grin.

But it gets late. The snow has not relented. Looking through the window, you see the snow is starting to pile up on the street. Covering parked cars. Blanketing garbage bags left out on the sidewalk. Fresh footprints getting dusted over within minutes.

It makes you worry. Is Peter stuck somewhere? Is he safe? If you fret over his safety, pacing back and forth in your living room, then you have no time to focus on the disappointment currently breaking your heart.

Not like it’s his to break.

When it gets well past the time for it to be appropriate for visitors to come knocking on your door, your shoulders have fully slumped. There is a kindness embedded in you, though -- one you hope will not be mistaken for desperation -- that has you taking a saran-wrapped plate of cookies to leave at his door. 

The floor outside of everyone else’s door is wet with snow-turned-to-slush, with the exception of Peter’s. When you bend down to carefully place the plate on the ground, you think you catch the faintest scuffling of sound coming from the other side of the door. It makes you pause. Turn your head a bit, nearly press your ear against it. 

You catch it again, a definite sign that someone is home. As you stand back up to your full height, you frown, glancing down. There’s no light streaming from the cracks of the door. 

Peter? When could he have gotten home? There’s no wet footsteps leading to his apartment, so it would have been hours ago. 

Have you been stood up?

Maybe he just forgot, you think, even through the glumness enveloping your heart.

But because you are still kind -- and not desperate! -- you square your shoulders and knock, determined to get these gratitude cookies to their recipient so that he can enjoy them as fresh as possible. You can deal with a little heartbreak, but you’d be downright upset with yourself if Peter didn’t get to properly enjoy your cookies before they got cold and hard and possibly rat-nibbled overnight.

“Peter?” you call out, and are met with silence. Whatever shuffling was going on in there quieted.

You clear your throat, resolute. “Peter, I left you some cookies. You don’t have to open the door right now but please don’t leave them out here.”

The silence persists.

With a great big sigh, you trudge back to your end of the hallway. You’ve just barely clicked shut the door when you hear the echoing of another door closing out in the hall. You peer with a curious eye through the peephole and find the plate of cookies gone. 

In spite of it all, you smile.

A knock at the door rouses you from a stiff sleep. Just three gentle raps, as though worried they’d disturb you. You blink bleary eyes to the bright daylight that pours in through your living room window, emboldened by the snowfall; you had fallen asleep on the couch, curled uncomfortably into yourself, desiring the solace of blinking string lights to chase away dark and unwelcome thoughts. Those same lights still on, but barely detectable in the effulgence of morning swathing your living room.

“I’m comin,” you call out in what you hope is loud enough, voice raspy with sleep. You throw off the old blanket that became a tangle about your legs, only to realize in disgruntlement that you had fallen asleep in the clothes you were waiting for Peter in. Not exactly lounge clothes -- a pair of black leggings and an oversized knit sweater and only one, chunky knit sock (the other had been kicked off in sleep).

With a yawn and a stretch and a crack in your neck, you shuffle towards the door, the cold a shock to your single bare foot. Keeping the deadbolt secured, you open the door just a crack. Peter stands on the other side, contrite; boyish with his puppy-dog eyes. Maybe even a touch miserable.

You remove the deadbolt and swing open the door. The sight of Peter fills you with such immediate joy, a tide of sunshine filling up your lungs. But then you remember last night, and how he didn’t show, and another emotion lodges itself in your throat altogether. A calamity of mixed feelings that distorts your face, stretches your mouth into a grimace instead of the smile that usually blooms for him.

“I know, I know,” he says, reading your expression. “I’m sorry. I messed up.”

You think about the saucepan still sitting clean and empty on the stovetop. A forlorn reminder of what didn’t happen.

“Yeah,” you automatically agree. “I mean, no-”

“I did,” he interrupts your backpedaling, eyes big and insistent. “You invited me over, and I didn’t show. That’s messed up. I’m sorry.”

You blink back a well of tears that spring up, sudden and unwanted. “Okay,” you say, because what else is there to say? He’s just your neighbor. He doesn’t owe you anything. He’s not yours. 

“They were good, by the way.”

You stare at him. Is sleep still clouding your brain? It’s so bright. “Huh?”

“Your cookies. They were delicious. Best damn cookies I ever had. Swear it.”

As he talks, radiating apology and praise, his body comes to rest on the frame of your door. A familiar motion. But it lacks the usual air of comfort, laid-backness. It was more a lackadaisical slump of his shoulder. Still charming, and yet… you notice the pink of his nose, the puffy bruising under his eyes a stark contrast against the unusual pallor of his cheeks, and a navy blue scarf draped halfheartedly about his neck. The scarf elicits a foggy memory in the back of your mind, like it’s familiar somehow, but before you can work out where you’ve seen it before, a sniffle interrupts your train of thought and brings you back to the present.

“Oh, Peter. You’re sick!”

“Jus’ a little cold.” He shrugs, not without some effort, before lifting his hands. He’s holding two disposable cups. “Brought you hot chocolate to make up for last night.”

Relief is a palpable flutter in your chest when you realize that you weren’t stood up last night. Peter just wasn’t feeling well, but he ate your cookies and stepped out this morning to get you hot chocolate because he is terribly kind and sweet and good. Like you suspected.

A bubble of laughter bursts forth from your lips, and you step aside to invite Peter into your luminous little home.

“Wait, you believe in Santa?”

Peter’s shoulder knocks against yours as you walk in the cold, twinkling evening. December’s early nights are meaningless to the incandescent New York City skyline. 

After hearing how your family had booked a trip for the holidays that you couldn’t afford to join them on, Peter had lured you out of the apartment with the promise of a hot ramen dinner (and dessert, if you behaved. Whatever that meant). You’d been spending more time together since the Hot Chocolate incident, and have learned that Peter Parker is very difficult to say no to. Which is how you find yourself on a frigid evening stroll in Midtown.

An aggrieved huff forms a visible cloud in front of your face. “Of course I believe in Santa. Remember what I told you about not wanting to lose the magic?”

Peter laughs, and it shimmers in the air. “Sure, but- Santa? When was the last time you got a gift from jolly ol’ Saint Nick?”

You roll your eyes, goodnaturedly, at his ignorance. “Obviously he only delivers presents to the kids. Children are the priority, Peter. Adults have money and can get their own gifts.”

He is absolutely enthralled by your insistence, and your logic. 

“I’m just saying,” you continue, “if Spider-Man exists, I don’t see why Santa can’t-”

“Whoa, whoa- are you seriously comparing Santa -- an immortal man that supposedly uses flying reindeer to travel the world in one night -- to Spider-Man right now? What, because they both wear red? C’mon, sweetheart.”

“Oh, like crawling up buildings and shooting webs out of your butt is so much more believable,” you deadpan.

“It doesn’t- the webs don’t come out of-” Peter splutters, stopping to fully turn towards you. “There’s a scientific explanation for Spider-Man.”

Pausing alongside him, you scrunch your nose at Peter and his science, once again being reminded that he isn’t just awfully cute, but brilliant, too. You’ve both stopped beneath the wide awning of some gourmet cookie shop, profiles illuminated by the light spilling out from the glass plane of the store. There’s a heady aroma of chocolate blanketing the surrounding air between you both. 

“Why won’t you believe in Santa with me?”

“Well, for starters, I’m Jewish.”

“Oh my gosh I’m so sorry-” the apology comes out shaky with a kind of startled mirth. A tittering of giggles shake your shoulders as you hide your face behind cold, gloveless hands. For a moment, you were so caught up in defending Santa Claus that you forgot to consider his existence (or lack thereof) outside of magic, or science; you forgot faith. 

“Why’re you apologizing?” Peter chuckles, no bite in his tone despite your own ignorance.

“Embarrassed,” you whine, voice muffled behind your open palms. 

“S’alright, sweetheart,” he insists, and his hands engulf your wrists to gently tug your hands away from your face. “C’mon, don’t hide that pretty face from me.”

The compliment makes you freeze. For a second, there is nothing but the windchill caressing your cheeks and the burning feeling of Peter’s hands still touching you, scalding. Branding. Tethering. Air gets stuck in your chest, lungs forgetting to deflate, oxygen trapped within the balloon of the constricting organ.

You didn’t realize just how close you were standing to each other. Dark, coffee ground flecks in warm brown irises. Stubble dotting his jaw, framing his mouth, a sight that makes your heart twist. It’s a recent development this month. His mouth, pink, slightly chapped from the cold. Your gaze lingers on that mouth for a second too long, so you tear your eyes up and away and-

“Mistletoe.”

You blink. Your lashes are a frosted feather against the cusp of your cheeks. “Huh?”

Peter’s hands leave yours, leaving you momentarily weightless. But then his knuckle brushes against the underside of your chin, lifting your face up incrementally towards his.

There are a thousand, wordless thoughts running through your head that you’re worried are going to cascade from your parted lips in an inelegant tumble. 

“I won’t kiss you if you don’t want me to,” Peter murmurs, voice alluringly low, his breath skimming your lips like a partially answered prayer. 

“I want you to,” you breathe, barely audible.

As his face inches closer to yours, your eyes flutter shut, and your heart squeezes in painful anticipation behind your ribs. 

The press of his mouth against yours is cold and light, a snowflake of a kiss. His bottom lip slots itself between your own parted ones, a timid touch. Your hands, trembling, come to rest delicately against his chest, feeling it expand beneath his jacket. Staccato thrumming of his heart revealing he’s just as nervous as you are. 

He pulls away much too soon. Chaste and fleeting. Your fingers instinctively curl around the fabric of his jacket, clutching, not wanting him to go far. Something you didn’t have to worry about, as his face still hovers close enough that the tip of his nose bumps against yours.

“I’m probably not good for you,” Peter says, his confession fanning against your wanting lips. It goes through you, sends a shiver down your spine that has nothing to do with the fact that it was currently 32 degrees.  

You close your eyes to it, and because you are kind (not desperate, never desperate), you respond: “I don’t believe you.” And then: “I don’t even think I care.”

It is uncertain who closes the gap between you once again, but this time the kiss is more firm, and his hands come up to cradle your face, cold and grounding. The scratch of his five o’clock shadow creates a flurry of emotion in your breast that you don’t think you’ll ever be able to come back from. 

You sigh into his open mouth, and something guttural hums in his throat in response. Like a desperate ache, undoing him. He works your jaw open with a slight tilt of his head until he’s delving into the warm cup of your mouth, cloying taste of garlic and chili oil still residing on his tongue. 

It is thawing. Heat erupts from where you are connected, blooming dizzyingly until it brings a sweet sting to the apples of your cheeks, still clasped between the cooling caress of his thumbs. 

When the kiss breaks this time, you’re afraid of opening your eyes. You’re worried you’re going to wake up, alone, to your dark bedroom, and this will all have been a terribly wonderful dream. But when your eyes flutter open, you see Peter’s very real kiss-swollen lips and flushed face and an enigmatic flickering in his dark eyes.

You melt into his hands, still framing your face, releasing tension you hadn’t realized had been building in your shoulders. You feel too malleable too soon in his arms, like you gave something away about yourself that should have been withheld a little longer. 

But it is the season of giving, after all.

“So…” you clear your throat, breaking the spell before Peter can somehow take it all back. “Was that the dessert you promised me?”

Peter laughs, head thrown back to reveal his adam’s apple, and his hands slip free of your face to come to rest, pleasantly, at your waist. This thrills you, lightens you, and you grin in unrestrained joy.

-

-

taglist: @whatevermonkey​

[chaotic-archaeologist]

hey reid, hope you don't mind if i come for some advice, i love your blog and it has motivated me to pursue my academic goals.

i'm currently in my first semester of my graduate program and while i like my peers, professors and everything i can't help but feel crushingly depressed and alone lol. i'm managing grad work fine (i think) but my advisor will check in on how i'm doing overall and i don't think i can really say i've mentally been in a bad place if it's even relevant to bring up. i don't want it to get to the point of it affecting my work, though i don't want to be dishonest.

Okay, so the good news and the bad news is that what you're experiencing is a totally normal part of grad school. Everyone goes through this to a certain degree. You've just moved to a new place and started a massively imposing endeavor—it makes sense that you're lonely and depressed. There's nothing wrong with you for feeling this way.

Also, you said it yourself: you're in your first semester of your graduate program! Nobody is expecting you to have done anything monumental yet. Walk before you try to run. If you can go to a conference and apply for some funding by the end of the year, I would call that a win.

I bet you're probably used to being in the top of your undergraduate classes, and now in grad school you're thrown in with a bunch of other people who were also overachievers. It's intimidating. There's the temptation to look around at your peers and feel inadequate. Do not let yourself do this. That way, madness lies. I guarantee you that everyone else around you is feeling a similar panic about what they haven't done.

I would actually encourage you to talk with your advisor. You don't have to open up about your feelings. Instead, frame it around what you hope to accomplish, and check to see if they think that's reasonable. Last year around this time (when I was in my first semester) I sat down my advisor and we sketched out a rough two year plan. That included what classes I was going to take each semester, how I would spend my time in the summer, and opportunities I wanted to go after. If that kind of structure might help you, definitely do something similar.

Now here's my one piece of absolutely critical advice: you must find something that affirms your sense of self your outside of school. For me, it's volunteering with Big Brothers Big Sisters. One of my friends takes dance classes. Another does community organizing. Cooking. Roller derby. Anything that you can enjoy. The benefits to these sorts of activities are twofold.

First, they give you something to feel good about even when you're struggling academically. If your whole life is tied up in one thing, it can feel like the end of the world when you hit a rough patch. Spread your eggs out into other baskets. This is a form of self care.

Second, these activities introduce you to other people. A big part of making friends is just showing up at the same place as other people, and continuing to spend time with them. Grad school makes that difficult, but I promise you, your life will be so much better if you carve out some time for yourself.

Doing things with other students is also good! I took a bunch of my cohort to hockey games last year, and I'm planning on doing the same thing again. It can be a craft night, or a potluck—whatever you want. Build up some camaraderie! You don't have to be best friends with your fellow students, but it helps to have a friendly face around the department.

The thing about grad school is that you gotta spark your own joy, otherwise it'll eat you alive. Pull your nose back from the grindstone, take a breath, and do something to remind yourself that the world is beautiful and life is worth living.

-Reid