#help in Submit a Thesis

[saintsylestine]

Man you’d love abadon of the luna wolves/sons of Horus

Anon…

You can’t just drop a line like that and disappear into the void!! I’m pacing. I’m spiraling. I NEED CONTEXT.

Because honestly, I can absolutely see the appeal.

Please. Tell me more. Convince me. Or better yet—give me your take. Favorite era? Most underrated trait?

I’m listening. For research, of course.

[myrskyisaa]

I have my first oral exam in years and I'm so nervous I've just been lying in bed trying to delay the start of my day to avoid it.

I know can do well but I'm still nervous aaaghh!!!

[picklesinabottle]

hot girls (gn) watch once upon a time while they stare at a blank word doc and a news article about ai making up legal cases

[lastofthe20thcenturygirls]

so i passed 🤭

[le-agent-egg]

hey chat i’ll return from the dead on friday. just gotta make it through the week.

[sixeyesonathiel]

academic rival!satoru who starts pulling all-nighters and obsessively rewriting his notes not just to beat you—but to catch your attention. he tells himself it’s strategy, war, rival stuff. but deep down, he’s hoping you’ll finally look at him. not glare. look. and when you do—when your gaze sharpens like a blade and you hiss, “how the hell did you score higher than me?”—his heart flutters like it's prom night, like you proposed marriage with your rage. he circles the date on his planner. he writes a haiku about it in his margin. “her eyes could kill me / but in that moment, i’d die / a scholar in love.” he considers submitting it to the campus poetry zine. he doesn’t. but he thinks about it. constantly.

he didn’t mean to start this rivalry, but he absolutely doubled down on it once he realized you were finally taking him seriously. the first time you muttered “smug bastard” under your breath in class, he swore he saw the face of god and got addicted to the sound of your frustration. he spiraled that night. rewrote his planner in pen. made a color-coded timeline of “her fury levels vs my grades.” it’s posted on his wall like an artifact. so now he’s trying harder. not just studying. overstudying. outscoring you on every test, quiz, class poll, kahoot game, group project ranking, and even the stupid little brain break games professors throw in. he shows up with research articles printed and annotated just so he can leave them on your desk, post-it commentary signed with a heart. he calls it “scholarly banter.” his friends call it “a cry for help.”

everything he does is soaked in neon desperation and pastel affection. he's convinced every time your voice raises in exasperation, it’s basically flirting. he calls it “intellectual foreplay.” his friends call it “delusion with extra steps.” you once slammed your textbook shut mid-discussion and muttered something about transferring schools just to escape him. he marked that moment in his journal as “peak chemistry.”

he still steals your pens, but now he leaves behind new ones. personalized. glittery. cursed with horrible puns. your name spelled out in cursive on the cap. once he got one custom-made with your initials and a tiny heart, and when you used it during a test, he almost fainted. he says it's to maintain “balance in the rivalry.” really, he just wants to see you roll your eyes, maybe sigh in that way that means you’re exasperated but not homicidal. progress. baby steps. thesis-worthy milestones. he once emailed the campus stationery supplier to ask if they could make pens that smell like your favorite shampoo. they said no. he cried a little.

his google drive has twelve folders named after you: “rival data,” “her essays (aka masterpieces),” “evidence she’s smarter than me but i’m hotter probably,” and “her favorite snacks ranked by study mood.” he makes spreadsheets comparing your academic scores. one chart tracks your moods based on how many hours you spent in the library, cross-referenced with your spotify activity. it’s color-coded. he thinks it’s romantic. it looks like a CIA threat report. he once gave a presentation with you as a case study on academic excellence. you weren't in the class. he did it anyway. he said it was “practice for when we’re co-professors someday.”

you treat him like a nuisance. a threat. a very loud, very cerulean-eyed glitch in your academic routine. you work harder just to obliterate his smirk. you glare when he gets the top score, mutter insults when he raises his hand, scoff when he compliments your writing. he thinks it’s all part of the enemies-to-lovers pipeline. it is not. you hate him. you're convinced he's mocking you. and he’s too stupidly in love to realize his plan is imploding like a dying star. he writes motivational quotes on his mirror. they’re all just things you’ve yelled at him.

he thinks it’s banter. you think it’s war. he flirts through footnotes, you throw sharpened stares. he doodles hearts on your thesis draft, you circle them in red and write “grow up.” he writes fake references in his essays like “her eyes, personal observation, 2025” and wonders why you haven’t confessed yet. he once tried to footnote your handwriting as a primary source of inspiration. you reported it as academic misconduct. he thanked you for noticing. he still has the warning email. printed. framed.

he believes in your intellectual excellence like it’s gospel. once said, “she’s a walking academic citation,” and got choked up about it. when you won the department award, he clapped so hard he got a bruise. told everyone later he was clapping for the future mother of his academic children. you told him to shut up. he saved the moment anyway. printed the photo. it’s in his wallet. laminated. waterproof. just in case.

his grades are rising but his romantic odds are tanking. he’s winning tests and losing dignity. one time he scored 100%, looked at you for validation, and you said, “congrats, nerd.” he wrote a poem about it. it rhymed. poorly. he performed it at the campus open mic. people clapped. you left halfway through. he said it was symbolic. a metaphor for your metaphorical emotional walls. he made a mood board. labeled it “the walls she built, the man i became.”

to him, you're the rival-slash-muse of his dreams. to you, he’s that annoying guy who somehow has your cat doodle as his lock screen. how? why? you don’t know. you don’t want to know. he says it “inspires him to rise above academic mediocrity.” you tell him to get therapy. he writes that down. “note to self: look into couples therapy.” you threaten violence. he updates his will. adds a note: “to be read by her, preferably with tears in her eyes.”

he's convinced you're in the slow burn arc. you're convinced he’s an incurable idiot. he messages you late at night with things like, “what’s your stance on fate?” or “if we wrote a thesis together, what would the topic be?” you leave him on read. he screenshots it and stares for hours. once he printed out a message you sent—“we’re not friends”—and taped it above his desk like motivational hate mail. then made it his lock screen for a week.

of course you and him aren’t friends. don’t be ridiculous. you’re soulmates, silly. academic rivals to twin flames. enemies-to-lovers speedrun. he’s delusional, yes, but passionately.

his delusions are so loud they echo in the lecture hall. he sees you win a class debate and writes a 2,000-word reflection on intellectual passion. titles it “she spoke, and the earth wept.” submits it anonymously to the school literary mag. signs it with your initials and hopes you’ll take the hint. you do. you write a rebuttal titled “the earth weeps because you talk too much.” he hangs it next to his bed. says it’s proof of your connection. invites people over just to show them.

you once muttered, “you’re a walking distraction,” and he whispered “she noticed me” before fainting dramatically onto his desk. his friend had to fan him with a syllabus. he calls that day “the awakening.” he includes it on his personal timeline of academic enlightenment. writes a song. badly. uploads it to soundcloud under the name “midterm romeo.” it has 101 plays. 99 of them are him.

the only reason he joined the academic decathlon was because you signed up. when asked his motivation, he said “to defeat my nemesis and earn her begrudging respect.” you stared at him. he winked. you nearly punched him. he said, "was that a spark?" and held an ice pack to his cheek with a lovesick smile. wrote a limerick about it. no one laughed but him. he printed it on a mug.

he's tried subtle confessions, like changing his discord status to “she's my thesis.” no one knew who “she” was. except everyone did. the group chat roasted him for six hours. he left and rejoined under a new name: “GPA 4 HER.” it got worse. made a spotify playlist named: “studying her like a sacred text.” you blocked him on everything but email. he started ending all peer reviews with “ps: hi.”

at some point, your mutual friends start noticing. they ask if you two are dating. you respond with horror. he responds with “not yet.” you threaten violence. he updates his will again. adds a footnote: “if she cries at my funeral, i win.” writes a powerpoint: “our enemies-to-lovers arc: a predictive analysis.” presents it to himself in his dorm at 2am. cries. adds transitions. makes a playlist.

you don’t know he wrote you into his valedictorian speech. he calls you “his greatest academic challenge and muse.” he practices it at night, staring at the mirror, pretending you're there in the crowd, not fuming—but finally, finally smiling at him. he’s rehearsed your nonexistent wedding vows more than his intro paragraph. sometimes he grades fake exams you never wrote and gives you 100 just to feel something. he once drafted a fictional university recommendation letter for you just to imagine what it’d be like to praise you publicly without you throwing a pen at his head.

and maybe, if he’s lucky, when the final grades are out and you tie for first place, you’ll look at him again. not with fury. not with confusion. but with something soft. maybe interest. maybe curiosity. maybe the beginning of something stupid. something sweet. something research paper-worthy.

strictly academic, of course. unless... extra credit?

[darlingsblackbook]

Alhaitham x Academic Rival!Reader | Part Two

Why is apologizing so hard!

Genshin Masterlist

I | Alhaitham doesn’t apologize right away - not because he doesn’t regret it, but because he has no idea how to approach you without making it worse.

II | Alhaitham tries to be logical about it at first: If I gave offense, I should simply clarify. Done.

III | When Alhaitham sees you again - sitting a little farther away in the lecture hall, eyes a little dimmer - his carefully constructed plan crumbles.

IV | Alhaitham approaches you with a book in hand, pretending it’s business. “I thought this might support your argument from last week. You were close, but your conclusion lacked support.”

You stare at him blankly. “Thanks.”

No sarcastic smile. No flustered stammer.

He walks away feeling worse.

V | Kaveh catches Alhaitham pacing at home.

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re rereading the same page for 20 minutes. She finally ignore you back, huh?”

VI | The next time you see Alhaitham, he’s weirdly lingering. Hovering near your desk like a ghost with a PhD.

“You didn’t submit your paper this week.”

“Wasn’t feeling up to it.”

“It’s not like you to fall behind.”

“…Maybe I’m not on your level.”

That hits. Alhaitham stands frozen, unsure what to say.

You pack up and leave without waiting.

VII | The guilt builds until it spills over into Alhaitham's writing. Your name shows up in the margins of his notes.

She would’ve argued this… Her stance would be this…

He realizes he misses you. Not just your intellect — you.

VIII | So… Alhaitham buys sweets. They’re not even your favorite. He doesn’t know what your favorite is. He just remembers you once picked a pastry over lunch and mumbled something about it being “comforting.”

IX | Alhaitham leaves it on your desk with a sticky note:

“For research recovery.”

You stare at it for a long time.

X | The next day, you leave your corrected paper on Alhaitham's desk.

He reads it three times.

He circles a line of your argument and writes in the margins,“Impressive.”

XI | That afternoon, Alhaitham finds you in the library.

“I was unfair to you.”

You blink.

He's standing there like he's about to defend a thesis, but his voice does not have that edge to it at all. No, it's soft - gentle.

“You were right to walk away. I… didn’t mean to hurt you.”

XII | Your heart stirs — not because of the apology, but because it’s Alhaitham. Stiff posture, untrained words, but sincere eyes.

XIII | "Why do you even argue with me if you think I’m beneath you?”

“I don’t.”

“…Then why say it?”

“Because when I talk to you, it doesn’t feel like I’m wasting my breath. You’re the only one who pushes back. And—”

He hesitates. “—I value your mind. Even if I don’t always… speak kindly.”

XIV | You soften a little. “You don’t have to be cruel to show respect, you know.”

“I’m learning that.” Alhaitham looks away. “But… I’d like to keep hearing your voice. Debating with you. Even if you win.”

XV | “You’d let me win?”

“No,” Alhaitham says, deadpan. “But I’d tolerate it.”

You laugh. It’s the first time he’s heard it in a while. He hides his relief badly.

XVI | From then on, Alhaitham starts catching himself before speaking. He still throws jabs, but they’re lighter, more teasing. You start teasing back.

XVII | One day, Alhaitham catches you staring at him.

“What?”

“Just wondering when you turned into someone kind of… sweet.”

He blushes and immediately hides behind a book. “Must be projection.”

XVIII | When you pass Alhaitham your next paper, there’s a note at the end,“Try to be nicer, or I’ll start winning on purpose.”

He smiles. Actually smiles.

XIX | The rivalry never ends — but now it’s charged with something electric. And when Alhaitham finally kisses you (a long time later), he still prefaces it with,

“This doesn’t mean you were right about your theory.”

You grin. “Sure, Haitham. Whatever helps you sleep.”

All Rights Reserved © 2025 Darlingsblackbook

[lovingjingyuan]

Just thinking about Yan Sunday with Layla reader…

Reader is so tired, weak and stressed all the time about her study and thesis… reader’s state could be vulnerable to him since he can grabs her so easily.

Or Cryo Vision? He just need to keep away from you, make you lose memories and lies that you are his lover.

Please, I need Sunday post with Layla reader..

Yess Ofccc! I love Layla sm she's so pretty and I relate to her a lot, but I ignore my work on purpose. But her design is so pretty when I first saw her she became my favorite immorality like Furina! I Barely sleep now because of tests and exams. Also Thank you for the request <3

Pairing: Sunday x Layla reader

Warnings: Yandere Sunday, a bit ooc, mention of drugging/spike drink, manipulation

-♡-♡-♡-♡-♡-♡-♡-♡-♡-♡-♡-♡-♡-♡-♡-♡-♡-♡-♡-♡-♡-♡-♡-♡-♡-♡-♡-♡-

The paper, assignment, and late work kept piling up on you. You can't catch a break even after completing each assignment. Your sleep schedule started getting messy which raised concern from Sunday.

Yet Sunday never liked how you pushed everything aside to focus on your academics. He secretly hated the mentions of your future that’s without his picture in there. How you'll leave the dreamscape in Penacony once you graduate and finish your studies here, yet he kept a happy smile pretending to support your goals.

Recently a big project and essay was coming soon. You need to submit your thesis and get it approved as soon as possible. Writing endless papers piling up anything to get this approved like your life depends on it.

Sunday lent you his office since the library was packed with others trying to get their thesis approved too. Sunday quietly works on his paperwork reading the new bills and policies trying to get passed. Work was keeping you both busy yet you still couldn't help but start dozing off.

Your head and eyes felt heavy falling slightly. Your tired body rested against Sunday's shoulders causing him to look up from his paperwork and towards you. He raised an eyebrow before smiling and caressing your cheeks.

The tea he offered you really seemed to take effect quickly. He couldn't help but to spike your tea before offering it to you. He couldn't stand seeing the eye bags under your eyes when you forced yourself awake even though your body was already weak enough. The way you've been ignoring him and growing distant from him to focus on your studies, he despises the fact you cared more about your academics than him.

He caressed your hand gently. He was glad you were deeply asleep knowing he was soon going to perform the last step to keep you for himself…

You woke up in a room and stretched. You felt more at ease but a sinking feeling appeared in your heart when you realized your thesis and project was due.

You scrambled, throwing the blanket off and seeing Sunday's hands stopping you and shushing you holding you in his arms.

"What's the matter? You looked at peace when sleeping?" He cooed at you brushing his hands through your strands of hair.

You stumbled over your words as you tried explaining your thesis still needed to be submitted before the due date. Sunday's face darkens slightly as he forms a wan smile

"Oh, the one you were working on? A friend of yours came in stating they were your partner for this thesis and were going to submit the thesis for you today," He held your hands in his.

Your face and heart dropped so far below. You sobbed as you scrambled hugging yourself and started ignoring his words. You were furious at Sunday even though you knew it wasn't his fault for falling for this trick. You’ve never told him what you were working on anyway.

"Oh dear, I'm sorry I didn't know," he said in his sweet tongue. Gosh, you really can't hate him but blame yourself.

In the end, the due date passed and it was too late. You sobbed and sobbed as Sunday held you in his arms comforting you. You were so fragile to him. A fragile weak human who needed his and The Harmony's protection, yet mostly for you to rely on him.

As you cried you looked in his pile of trash paper to see your thesis. You pushed yourself off him and grabbed the paper pushing aside his pile of documents and scattering them all over the floor.

Fury arose yet you sat there in complete silence and confusion, "why?" You muttered weakly dropping the paper as you broke out into a sob, "Why Sunday? Why did you lie?"

Sunday wing's on his head tense up as well as his expression as his smiles slowly fade away.

"What do you mean? Your thesis? I thought you meant the project you were working on earlier," He tries to hide his guilty expression by the fact he was caught in a lie.

Before you could comment you were dragged out by the Bloodhound Family. Sunday was going to make sure you never stress over any academics again.

You open your eyes in a white room. You sat up smelling a familiar white room and bed. A hospital? You looked and saw a man. Gray hair, white angel wings on his head, a golden halo floating above his head, and a sweet angelic smile plastered on his face.

"I'm Sunday... Do you remember me, darling?" The man named Sunday introduces himself with a question. Yet even though he felt similar you couldn't break down why.

"I feel like I know you"

"That's great darling" he brushed the hair from your forehead planting a kiss on your head. "I'm your lover, not just your boyfriend."

You didn't stop him but sympathized with his feelings. Sunday was never going to let you leave this dream now. You'll never have to cry or mess up your sleep schedule and health anymore. You were just too fragile to face reality so he’ll insist the dreamscape is the only safe haven for your fragile body. This was the true dream he longed for and he will make sure you love it too. 

[thatdeadaquarius]

So like I just went through almost all your language posts and I was wondering what if like the creator sometimes just switches languages out of no where and everyone is just like:😃. Cuz like they don’t understand what they mean and it happens randomly too or when they’re irritated and they just start cussing in like 3 different languages at once

IM SO SORRY TO DO IT TO YOU-

but i think ive written some stuff abt this before?

u know what tho.

ive got an even better idea. my “go-to” if you will.

Torture Alhaitham.

>:)

^^^ ALHAITHAM RUNNING U DOWN AFTER YOU SAY EXACTLY (1) WORD IN ANOTHER LANGUAGE HE’S NEVER HEARD-

☆

Sun: Gender neutral Reader (you/they/them)

Orbit: SHORT headcanons-ish?, Language shenanigans!

Stars: Alhaitham (suffer lol)

Comets & Meteors: Content Warnings: None Known & Trigger Warnings: None Known.

he’s watching you. constantly.

he’s always writing about you.

he’s following you around Sumeru City.

he’s following you around Port Ormos.

he’s at your house-

Alhaitham learns you speak multiple languages before any other akademiya schloar, and he’s submitting a thesis about “the Greatest Lords languages from their home world”

before you can even say “I’ll think about it” in any language u know lol

people have definitely mistaken him as your favored acolyte (not that he does much to deny it)

and talk to him like he’s your secretary?? …oh, welp.

Alhaitham knows your schedule for the next month within a week of following you

mans is willing to do the MOST to get you to sit down and just start talking in a language at him

want food? his specialty dish ingredients are always at the ready at his house

want literature? he’s offering to literally break into the akademiya (or giving you a copy of his house key to have access to his personal library all the time)

(tho kaveh is practically hugging you to his chest as you walk around perusing as he talks ur ear off lmao)

Haitham (he sometimes insists you call him when it’s just you two) wants to singlehandedly be the first person who understands every word you say when u coo at dogs in another language

or cuss out a fictional character for being stupid

CRYING U CANT EVEN GET MAD AT HIM BC

every time u get pissed he’s interrupting every other word you say to ask for definitions/clarifications of slang 😭

send help he’s made a red string theory board of all the languages you’ve used to try and just- make sense of all their rules and when you use them and how to tell the difference and oh no-

Alhaitham’s hanging pictures of you mid-sentence with ur mouth open or even worse when ur yelling.

…u know maybe its not for an akademiya project, maybe he’s just trying to humble you. 💀

☆

thanks again for sending this ask in!! :D

language sagaus my beloved <3

tbh i have likeeeee 54 things in my drafts rn? so needless to say im slow, BUT IM SO HAPPY U GUYS GAVE ME THIS MUCH TO FAWN OVER, REQUESTS OR NO <333333333333

:]

an iced coffee? for me?? :O

☆

Safe Travels Ariasdream,

💀♒

☆

♡the beloveds♡

@karmawonders / @0rah-s / @randomnatics / @glxssynarvi / @nexylaza / @genshin-impacts-me / @wholesomey-artist / @thedevioussmirk / @the-dumber-scaramouche / @chocogi / @fallen-starr / @areaderofbooks

[fanhackers]

Help a Researcher

Leigh Ingram, a student at the University of Ottawa, in Canada, is completing a Master of Information Studies. The proposed research for their thesis is on information seeking behaviours in the fanfiction community, with a specific focus on how AO3 users search through the archive and use the embedded search functions on the website.

This study has received ethics approval for an anonymous online survey, followed by a few interviews. The survey will remain open for approximately 6-8 weeks depending on the volume of response. Following completion of the research, the intention is to share the anonymous data collected and potentially submit an article to Transformative Works and Cultures for consideration, so any findings will be shared with OTW/AO3. 

Survey takers must be 18 or older to take part. If you would like to learn more about the study you can review its consent form, which contains the researcher's contact information.

[prettygirl-gabi]

Five Minutes Late

Pairing: Reader x Jana El Alfy

Fandom: UConn Women’s Basketball

Summary: Jana is there to catch you when you fall.

🏷️: @paigeshirleytemple , @cowboybueckers , @unknowgirlypop , @yailtsv , @nicebellee , @sitawita , @thatonesuschix , @vamptizm , @elalfywhore , @starfulani , @authentic-girl03 , @paxaz535 , @azziswrld , @jadasogay , @paigeluvvr , @melpthatsme , @lessi-lover , @courtsidewithlani , @imnotkaizer , @italyyy , @lightsgore , @private-but-not-a-secret , @aubreygriffin , @issilovesherself , @graceeeeeesblog

People don’t really get it when you’re still showing up. When you’re laughing at memes, making your friends soup when they’re sick, handing out high-fives after practice, or even kissing your girlfriend like the world isn’t tilting inside your head.

They don’t get that you can be drowning and still swim laps.

Most days, I hold it together.

Actually, I hold me together.

Bit by bit. Smile by smile. Deadline by deadline. The occasional crying session in the shower, but I still dry off and get dressed and act like I didn’t just think about disappearing for five straight minutes.

I was at the library that night.

Trying to get through the last 300 words of a paper for my psych class—funny enough, on burnout and academic pressure.

I had started strong.

Annotated sources, thesis outlined, even a funny little metaphor in the intro. But somewhere between paragraph two and the conclusion, my brain short-circuited.

I stared at the blinking cursor and felt the air shift. Like gravity just doubled.

I didn’t even notice the time.

Until I did.

12:05 a.m.

“No. No no no no no—” I said, scrambling to the submission tab.

Canvas.

Loading…

Due: April 24th, 11:59 p.m.

Late: 12:00 a.m.

“No!” I slammed my laptop shut and my heart instantly took off like I’d just run stairs. “Shit, shit, shit.”

When I got back to the dorm, I dropped my backpack by the door with a thud.

Jana was sitting cross-legged on my bed in a hoodie and shorts, scrolling through TikTok with her hair pulled into a low messy bun. She looked up instantly, like she’d been waiting for me.

“Hey, babe—” she started. Then saw my face.

“Bubba?” Her voice softened.

I didn’t answer. I just sat down on the edge of the bed and buried my face in my hands.

Jana slid closer. “What happened?”

“I—I missed it,” I whispered.

“Missed what?”

“The psych paper. It was due at 11:59 and I clicked submit at 12:05. Five minutes, Jana. Just five. And now it’s late and she’s not gonna take it and I’m screwed and I’m—I’m—” My voice cracked.

“Okay, okay,” she said gently, touching my back. “Hey. Look at me.”

I didn’t want to. But I did.

Her brown eyes were calm, soft. The kind of steady you could cry into for hours.

“You’re okay,” she said. “It’s five minutes. She’s not going to fail you over five minutes.”

“You don’t know that.”

“She said she’s lenient.”

“But what if she changed her mind?” My voice rose. “What if she’s tired of me being on the edge and just decides—‘that’s enough’? I’ve been turning things in barely on time, emailing about extensions. She probably thinks I’m lazy.”

“You’re not lazy, love,” Jana said immediately. “You’re tired. And overwhelmed. There’s a difference.”

That broke me.

Because yeah—I was tired. So tired. Not just physically, but in the bone-deep way where your soul feels wrung out like an old sponge. And I was overwhelmed, but I’d been pretending not to be. Pretending so well, I almost fooled myself.

Almost.

“I—I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” I said, voice cracking. “I do everything. I show up. I get shit done. I smile and make jokes and I even helped Mike with his project last week when I didn’t even finish my own. And it’s like—I’m doing everything right, and it’s still not enough. I’m still falling behind. I’m still a mess.”

Jana wrapped her arms around me from behind, resting her chin on my shoulder. “You’re not a mess,” she said quietly. “You’re a person. A person who’s been holding way too much without letting anyone help.”

“I didn’t want to dump it on you,” I whispered. “You’re busy with games and practice and media—”

“You’re never a dump,” she said. “You’re my girlfriend. You’re my bubba. You’re the person I want to help.”

I started crying then.

The ugly kind. Chest-heaving, nose-running, couldn’t-even-breathe kind.

And she didn’t flinch. She held me tighter, rocking us slightly, rubbing circles on my back like I was the only thing that mattered in the world.

“I don’t know how to fix it,” I choked.

“You don’t have to fix it alone,” she said. “We’ll figure it out together.”

We sat like that for a long time.

At some point, Jana got up and brought me a hoodie—hers—and tucked it over my shoulders. Then she handed me her water bottle and a banana from her drawer.

I laughed through tears. “Did you just… therapist me?”

She smiled. “Maybe. But I did it out of love. And because I know you didn’t eat dinner.”

“Guilty,” I sniffled, chewing slowly.

When I finished, she tugged me into bed and wrapped herself around me like a shield.

“You don’t always have to be the strong one,” she whispered into my hair.

“I don’t know how not to be.”

“I’ll teach you.”

The next morning, I woke up to her gently nudging my shoulder.

“I emailed Professor Harris for you,” she said.

“What?”

“I explained that you had a rough night, said the paper was done and just got turned in a few minutes late. She responded already.”

My heart nearly stopped. “And?”

Jana passed me her phone.

The email was simple.

Hi — thank you for the heads up. I appreciate the honesty. I’ll accept the assignment with no penalty. Take care of yourself.

• Prof. Harris

I blinked at the screen. “She’s not mad?”

“She’s not mad,” Jana said, kissing my temple. “She’s human. Just like you.”

I pressed my face into her neck. “Thank you, babe.”

“You’re welcome, bubba.”

I let her brush my hair.

Let her draw stars on my back with her fingertip while I lay face-down on her lap, half-asleep and half-broken but whole enough to keep going.

“I’ve been so scared,” I admitted quietly. “Of messing up. Of not being enough. Of dropping something and it all falling apart.”

She kissed the back of my neck. “You can drop things. I’ll catch them with you.”

I smiled into her hoodie. “That was poetic.”

She laughed. “I’ve been practicing. You inspire me.”

It’s not fixed.

Functional depression doesn’t just go away after one breakdown or one kind gesture. It lingers. It resurfaces. But it doesn’t win.

Not when someone sees you through the mask.

Not when your girlfriend notices the way your smile doesn’t reach your eyes, and doesn’t push—but stays. Waits. And holds you when the weight gets too heavy.

So yeah—I’m still swimming. Still showing up. But now, when I get tired, I have a place to rest. Arms to catch me. A voice to remind me I’m not a failure just because I’m exhausted.

I have Jana.

And for the first time in a while, I’m starting to believe I’m going to be okay.

■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■

                 -Thank You For Reading!💚💙

                             -prettygirl-gabi✨💗

[stuckygeekevents]

Stucky Historical Fiction: Mini Bang 2025

I’m so excited to finally share the schedule for Stucky Historical Fiction’s very first bang! 🏛️✨

A huge thank you to everyone who filled out the interest form—it was incredibly helpful in shaping the event. While we’re still not 100% sure we’ll be able to pull off a full bang (depending on artist participation), we’re going to do our absolute best!

And no matter what happens, everyone who signs up will still receive a custom fanfiction cover, just like in previous years.

Also! Since we’re drawing a bit of inspiration from Thunderbolts (and older, possibly grumpier Bucky), we’re opening the door to time travel for the first time ever in this event! ⏳

That means you can bring modern or post-canon characters into historical settings or pull historical versions forward in time—whatever suits your story. Just make sure history still plays a big role in the fic!

DATES TO KNOW

Sign-Ups Open: May 2

Sign-Ups Close: May 16

Join Our Discord (required to participate): by May 17

Prompt Suggestions Open: May 2–May 20

Brainstorming & First Writer Check-In (idea summary or WIP snippets): May 20–June 10

Claims Open (for artists to claim summaries): June 15

Claims Close: June 19 (optional, gives you a day to finalize)

Teams Announced: June 20

Artist First Check-In (basic idea, vibe, or rough concept): June 30 (alongside writers)

Custom Fanfic Cover Collaboration (Writers will be contacted by a mod to create a fanfic cover based on their summary!): July 1–July 31

Final Art Due: July 31

Posting Begins: August 15

You can check out our previous runs here. And join our Discord!

RULES

❌ DON’Ts

To keep this event respectful, fun, and inclusive for everyone, please do not:

Include incest or explicit underage content in your story or artwork.

Set your story/art in a fantasy kingdom or world that isn’t based on actual history or mythology (historical fantasy based on real time periods is okay!).

�� This Year Only Exceptions:

Time travel is allowed!

Modern-day settings are also permitted—as long as they include a historical connection (e.g., time travel, flashbacks, or historical research as a plot element).

✅ DOs

Your work should:

Be complete by the final draft deadline.

Be beta read before posting (we'll help you find one if you need!).

Be informed by historical context, events, or figures—some research is encouraged, but remember, it’s fanfiction, not a thesis. Do your best and have fun!

Be respectful of the cultures, histories, and mythologies you’re engaging with.

Meet the minimum word count of 5,000 words. You’re more than welcome to write beyond the 5,000-word minimum if you’re feeling inspired—we’ve always loved long fics! But please don’t stress. Whether it’s 5k or 50k, do what’s realistic and fun for you.

For artists: submit at least one complete piece tied to a story or the event.

🏺 Acceptable Time Periods:

We welcome stories and art set in any of the following timeframes:

Prehistoric

Ancient Civilizations (Egypt, Greece, Rome, etc.)

Viking Age

Medieval Era

English History (Tudor, Regency, Victorian, etc.)

American History (Revolutionary War, Civil War, etc.)

World Wars I & II

1920s – 1990s

Cold War

Modern Day (only for this event!)

💬 Community Expectations

Hey @everyone — we know you're here because you love history and stories just as much as we do. We encourage thoughtful discussion and debate—but let’s keep it respectful.

History and mythology often carry deep personal and cultural significance. Everyone brings their own perspective and background, and that’s something we want to honor.

It’s okay to share your opinion.

It’s okay to disagree respectfully.

It’s okay to interpret history or myth differently.

Please remember: we’re here to tell stories and have fun doing it. Keep conversations kind, inclusive, and open-minded. There’s room for everyone at this table.

💙 With love, —The @mods

[bestiarium]

The Berberoka [Filipino mythology; Apayao mythology]

The Berberoka, also Berberoca, is a giant monster from the indigenous myths of Apayao, in the Philippines. It resembles a giant human-like creature and is sometimes called an ogre in English. It eats fish, but it also enjoys the taste of human prey. It is not entirely clear to me whether this monster is supposed to be a singular individual or a species of giants.

Interestingly, the Berberoka is afraid of crabs, despite its imposing size, because it fears being pinched by them. It also has the ability to change its size at will.

As the story goes, the (or a) Berberoka came across a group of fishermen. Upon seeing a man-eating monster, one would be excused for assuming it to be a dumb animalistic beast, as ogres in fiction often are. But the Berberoka was clever and cunning, and he devised a plan to trick the people.

He approached the humans with feigned kindness and said 'you people are working so hard to catch fish! But wait, with my help, you will catch many more fish in no time at all, without having to exhaust yourselves! I will lay down across the river, for my body is surely large enough to block the entire stream. The water will recede and the fish will be yours for the taking!' The people did not know the giant or his true nature, and they gladly accepted his help. As promised, the Berberoka dammed the river with his body, and the water level receded until the people could walk on the riverbed to pick up the fish that were now helplessly flopping around. As the water level rose against his back, the giant grew larger to compensate.

But suddenly, without warning, the Berberoka stood up and the water gushed forward, catching the humans by surprise and drowning many of them. Delighted, the giant could now eat both the drowning humans and the fish they had collected.

But although the Berberoka was powerful and cunning, it was still a living creature with a physical body, and thus it could be killed. Among the fishermen was a woman who, possibly out of distrust for the giant, had hidden an axe in her hair. When the monster swallowed her whole, she pulled out her hatchet and killed him from inside his body.

When searching for sources on Philippine mythology, one detail that showed up several times was that the Berberoka has the ability to drink large amounts of water and then forcefully launch it at his victims, not unlike a fire hose. Yet I failed to find an actual source for this claim, so it's unclear whether this is an obscure detail of the original story or simply a modern addition. Perhaps it is a modern interpretation of the scene in which the giant stood up and the fishermen were blasted by the river?

Sources:

Ramos, M. D., 1990, The Creatures of Philippine Lower Mythology, Phoenix Publishing House, p. 103-114, 424 pp.

Gaverza, J. K. M., 2014, The Myths of the Philippines, An Undergraduate Thesis Submitted to the College of Social Science and Philosophy Diliman, Quezon City, as Partial Fulfillment of the Requirtements for the Degree of B. A. Linguistics, p. 116, 177 pp.

(Image source 1: Patrick Gonzaga)

(Image source 2: Ralph Dela Cruz on Artstation)

[forthelorewick]

All the Wrong Ways to Know You

Chapter 9: Linger

< prev ch | masterlist | next ch >

Joel Miller x f!reader

18+ MDI !

Chapter summary:

WC 4.6k - life carries on, and so must you. but did it have to be so soon, and right where he could see it? did he ever mean to you what you still mean to him… or was he always just that easy to forget?

chapter content/ warnings:

angst! jealous!joel, allusions to past intimacy, emotional repression, pining/yearning/longing, brief violent thoughts, moral dilemmas, use of nicknames (exclusively with friends), etc.

· · ──────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒───────── · ·

Late September

| Joel

The heat hadn’t let up yet.

It clung to the corners of the day, thick and persistent even this far into September. The kind that made your shirt stick to your back and the air feel heavier than it had any right to be. The kind that made breathing, walking, and thinking just a little harder.

Joel Miller had always hated the heat, he’d tolerated it only because he had to. He’d worked beneath the Texas sun since he was barely old enough to lift a hammer, and it showed. In the weathered cut of his face, in the sun-roughened skin of his neck and forearms, in the way he carried himself like a man who knew heat didn’t care if you liked it or not.

Today, though, he welcomed it. Let it settle on his skin like penance. Let it cling to his back, soak into the fabric of his shirt, slick the hair at his nape. There was something grounding in the discomfort, keeping his thoughts and movements slowed and in check.

Campus buzzed softly around him as he walked, voices drifting from clusters of students stretched out across the lawns, backpacks spilled open like lazy declarations of effort. The heat made everything feel slower, looser, as if time had melted a little in the afternoon haze. He’d stepped off campus earlier for lunch with Tommy—just their usual start-of-semester transition, a loose tradition now.

Things settled easier than they used to. A few years back, the shift had been rockier. Going back to college in his thirties hadn’t been the plan, it hadn’t even seemed like a possibility. But life twisted sometimes, and when he and Tommy hit that merger at just the right moment, it bought them something rare: time. Security. A second shot. Joel had enough to put Sarah through school and finally chase down the things he’d buried beneath years of labor and responsibility… philosophy, literature, the pieces of himself he’d left behind somewhere when Sarah was born and he couldn’t afford to dream. Dreams didn’t pay bills.

But now he was here. Teaching what he loved, and finishing a goddamn thesis. He still wasn’t sure he believed it.

Summers though, those still belonged to the old life. He didn’t walk away from their company entirely. Couldn’t, even if he wanted to. He and Tommy were still co-presidents, but Joel preferred keeping his scope wide. Big-picture strategy, long-term investments, new hires. People and systems. All the shit that required instinct more than charm. Tommy handled the day-to-day with more grace than Joel could ever fake, but they made a good team.

He was damn proud of his little brother, growing into the man Joel always knew he could be. Tommy just needed someone to believe in him, and Joel did. As he always had. And it helped the morale of the company that Tommy knew Joel was only ever a phone call away, and on weekends when he wasn’t grading papers or submitting grades, he was on-site, making rounds, double-checking numbers if needed.

It didn’t pay quite the same anymore, not with Joel giving up year-round hours, but that wasn’t the point. Tommy was happy and Joel was steady. Their business partner respected the boundaries Joel needed, and every summer, it was a rhythm: back to the office and back in the grit of something he helped build from nothing. Then, just as the summer wound down, he returned here. To lecture halls, Socratic dialogue, red pens bleeding over margins. The slow, steady burn of academia. Shaping young minds, provoking thought, asking questions no one had answers for. He liked that part.

Which made having a good T.A. damn near essential. His lectures were demanding. His grading, even more so. He needed someone detail-oriented, hungry for the work, someone who wanted to earn his approval, not just check boxes. Most semesters, one was enough. But this year, his department had greenlit his request for a second. They knew how Joel ran his classroom. How invested he was in doing things right. He could do it without one, sure, but it’d mean a lot more late nights and fewer weekends for himself.

It wasn’t a bad way to live, not bad at all.

He nodded at a few familiar faces as he walked across the campus from the staff parking lot, Professor Hastings from Sociology, her arms full of binders; Dr. Moreno from Literature, sipping something too colorful for the morning and fanning herself with a syllabus.

“Morning, Miller,” Moreno called, her voice dry with humor.

He lifted two fingers in a quiet salute. “Morning, Doc.”

“Still refusing to teach in short sleeves?”

He smirked, “Not my style for work.”

“Shame. Might boost attendance.”

He chuckled under his breath and kept walking. He was used to her flirtations by now. The older woman, nearing seventy years old, had never outgrown her hopeless romanticisms. What could you expect from a literature professor? A doctor of love, practically.

The philosophy building loomed ahead, it was cooler as he stepped inside, and quiet. He let the automatic movements take over. Unlock the office, flip on the lights, drop the worn leather satchel on the desk.

He went through the motions, whiteboard cleaned, notes pulled from the folder, laptop opened though he hated the damn thing. All while his thoughts itched at the edge of discipline. That classroom would fill soon, seats taken by students he barely knew yet, voices blending together in that early semester haze.

And somewhere in that crowd, you’d be there.

He didn’t think about you the way he had that first week. Not all the time, hell he tried not to, at least. But sometimes, like now, in the silence before the chaos, it all crept in anyway. The smell of your skin after a shower, the way your laughter curved when you were pretending not to flirt. Your lips around a smile you didn’t want him to see. The way you’d sighed his name, breathless and bold, like it belonged to you. And maybe it did, maybe it still did.

He scrubbed a hand over his beard. Christ.

Students trickled in. The sound of shuffling bags, lazy greetings, the creak of chairs folding open, it was all familiar, all expected. Then the air shifted.

As it always does at some point every Wednesday and Friday.

He didn’t look up, and he didn't need to. Something in him tightened, his grip on the folder shifted just slightly. He could feel you. Like a change in the current, a warm pressure somewhere just outside reach. A flicker of heat that had nothing to do with the weather.

He didn’t look for you, or at least he told himself he didn’t.

But the moment his eyes skimmed past the fourth row where you and your friends had chosen as your own designated spots, there you were. Bent slightly over your notes, idly chewing your pen cap, like none of it ever happened. Like you hadn’t knelt between his thighs in a dim-lit shower or whimpered into his pillow with your fingernails in his back.

You weren’t not looking at him, you just hadn’t yet.

And that was worse, somehow. Because he knew how tightly your composure clung to you. He knew the tells of your body in a way he had no right to.

He cleared his throat, turned his body toward the board to hide the sharp inhale behind his teeth. He uncapped a marker, and started writing:

Moral Subjectivism and Meta-Ethical Theories

And the lecture rolled forward. It all came out smooth, practiced, mechanical, the rhythm of someone who had said these words too many times to let them falter now.

But every time he looked up, his eyes landed near you.

And every time, yours had just drifted away back to your notes.

It wasn’t cold, and it wasn’t necessarily avoidance. If anything, it looked too natural, like you wanted him to believe you’d forgotten about it, that you never thought about him, like you’d made yourself forget… just as he’d asked you to do.

You were pretending, he thinks… he’s pretty sure he could tell. And fuck, he was pretending too.

Joel felt it, the crackle under your stillness, the way your jaw tensed at the edges, the subtle curl of your fingers around your pen. The same way his palm curled around the marker until the plastic creaked, the way he felt his own jaw tense as his eyes betrayed him and traced the slope of your neck in a momentary lack of judgment.

He looked away and pushed on. Answered questions, scribbled important names and terms on the board. Called on students for answers, and paced the room like normal.

But he hated the way he just wanted to look.

To throw the whole performance away and let his eyes land where they always wanted to. To catch yours and see something, anything, that said you felt it too. That this was wrecking you as much as it was wrecking him. That you still wanted him the way he wanted you, even if neither of you could admit it or do anything about it.

But he couldn’t want that, he shouldn’t want that. He had to leave it alone, to let it fade out naturally, no matter how long that took, no matter how much he ached. He had to let you go.

He was who he was. And you… you were the one thing he could never touch again. You were forbidden fruit.

And now, after half a decade of teaching philosophy, parsing temptation in metaphor and myth… he finally understood it. The hunger, the ache, and the cost. The way the forbidden wasn’t just alluring because it was wrong, but because it made everything else feel alive.

You made him feel alive, and that was the problem.

When the bell rang, he capped the marker, cleared his throat, and said, “Chapters five and six. We’ll dive into moral conflict next class.” Ah, how fucking ironic.

The room rustled and exhaled as students gathered their things, then voices rose and scattered as everyone filed out.

He sat back against the edge of the desk, staring at the door you’d walked through. The faint ghost of your perfume still clung to the air, or maybe he was imagining it. Maybe he was going insane.

He dragged a hand over his face again and groaned. He was definitely going insane.

You were someone he couldn’t even hold a conversation with, couldn’t look at for too long without unraveling. He couldn’t reach for you like he craved, and most certainly couldn’t touch you. Hell, he couldn’t even act like he’d ever known what it was like to do just that.

But he wouldn’t have to see you until next Wednesday, he had his weekend to recompose himself again.

So imagine his surprise, walking back into his own goddamn classroom, late afternoon after the final classes had been let out for the day, sun slanting in through the blinds, only to find you perched casually on the edge of a desk, laughing.

With him.

Jamie. Or as you had called him, ‘Austin’.

The little TA who never shut up. The one who lived to test Joel’s patience, all charm and too-bright eyes and a tendency to linger wherever you were. And now he had you smiling like that… like it didn’t cost you a damned thing.

Joel didn’t falter, not visibly. He stepped through the doorway, quiet but not silent and made his way to his desk to grab whatever he’d come for.

Jamie glanced up with a grin, “Hey, Professor Miller! Just finishing up the notes you left… thought I’d rope in some help.”

Joel’s gaze shifted to you. Brief and pointed, like it didn’t matter. Like you weren’t the sharpest ache in his chest.

You gave him a polite nod. It was neutral and detached, like it didn’t wreck you to be this close to him again.

He forced a tight smile, “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Jamie waved it off, “You aren’t, she was just keepin’ me company, easier to get work done with some motivation.” Then he shoots you a goddamn wink and places his hand over yours where it rested on your leg.

Joel almost said something. Almost warned Jamie that this wasn’t a game he understood. That if he touched you the way Joel knew you could be touched, soft and slow or rough and raw, it’d be the last fucking thing he ever did.

But he didn’t, because he couldn’t. Because that wouldn’t be very professional of him, and he was pretty sure you’d never forgive him. On top of the list of reasons he morally shouldn’t do that.

Instead, he just gave a quiet hum, noncommittal, and walked to his desk. His jaw was locked, every breath through his nose tight and deliberate. The way a man does when he’s seconds away from breaking something.

He told himself he’d only stay a moment.

Only long enough to gather his notes, to appear casual, but not because it mattered. Not because seeing you here with someone else felt like the kind of hurt you couldn’t justify out loud. Not when it meant acknowledging that whatever it was had become more than what you’d let yourselves call it.

So now, here he was, watching you share pieces of yourself he’d never earned, because neither of you ever asked for them, never dared to.

Because it wasn’t supposed to be like this.

It was supposed to be purely physical. That’s how you kept it, that’s how he kept it. Just bodies, heat, need. The unspoken contract that whatever it was, ended when summer did. That it was just a temporary indulgence, something to want, but never keep. Surface level and nothing more. But you’d sunken deeper into his chest anyway, hollowed out a place for yourself between his ribs.

He could watch you now, eyes warm, lips parted in laughter as you and Jamie sat across the room from him just out of earshot, and know, know, that it wasn’t the sex that ruined him. It wasn’t your mouth or your skin or the sound you made when he touched you just right.

He should’ve looked away, but he didn’t.

He sat with it and let it carve into him.

Because you looked happy. Like someone who hadn’t unraveled in the aftermath.

Like someone who’d taken his silence and steadied yourself with it.

And maybe that was what stung the most. That you seemed to be doing exactly what he told you to.

That you were forgetting, or pretending like he had never been anything before being your professor.

While he… he was still haunted by every version of you that had ever curled into his arms and made him feel like maybe, just maybe, he was something worth being wanted for, worth being needed. He was still there in his head, in bed with you or on the couch, with you in his arms. Still full of you, still reeling from every goodbye you never said.

And what made it worse, what twisted in his chest every time he let himself think about it, was that it hadn’t been something he’d done. Not something you’d said. Not a fight, not a betrayal, just a choice you’d made that ended up being the right one. It was a cruel trick of circumstance that hardened into permanence before either of you could stop it.

And now, there was nothing left to do but pretend.

You weren’t his and you never were, but Christ, you’d felt like it.

And now, you were giving parts of yourself— soft, unguarded, everyday parts, to someone else. Someone who got to know your real, full name upon introduction, your routines by being a part of them, your tired smiles because he shared them. Your stories, and all the small, quiet details Joel never let himself ask for because it would’ve made it real.

Because if it was real, then maybe he could lose it. And if he lost it, what would that say?

That he wasn’t enough?

That all he had to offer was a good fuck and quiet devotion?

That even after baring the rawest parts of himself— his want, his gentleness, his damn soul, he still wasn’t enough?

He could still taste you in his mouth. Still hear your voice when he shut his eyes.

He knew you. Not just your body, but the tremble behind your laugh, the sting behind your silence. He’d learned you in a language that had no words.

And he loved you.

God fucking help him, he did.

For everything you were. For everything you didn’t tell him. For every unspoken truth that settled between your bodies like smoke. For every moment that lingered long after it ended.

And that, that, was what fucking gutted him. Because there had been moments when he thought you might’ve given that to him too, that closeness you gave to someone else so freely now. When he swore he saw it in your eyes, in the way you looked at him like you knew exactly how he’d fall apart without you. Like you wanted to stay.

Fleeting, sharp, dangerous moments… When he thought maybe, just maybe, you loved him too.

He couldn’t stay.

Not like this. Not when your laugh didn’t stutter, not when you wore a smile so easily. Not when Jamie leaned closer and you didn’t pull away.

It wasn’t fair to you, or to himself, to what you’d both agreed to try and forget. Because you had to. It wasn’t fair that he’d keep holding on despite knowing there wasn’t a goddamn thing he could do.

So he gathered his things slowly and let the sound of your voice follow him like an echo. Let the bitter warmth crawl up his throat like something unswallowed. Jamie asked a question, Joel didn’t hear it. Just nodded, muttered something half-passable, and walked out without looking back.

The hallway was cooler, quieter. But the silence didn’t help. It never did.

He reached the door to his office and paused, hand lingering on the knob. Your voice and your laugh still echoed behind his ribs. He closed his eyes and let the weight of it settle there, heavy and unforgiving.

Maybe this was what he wanted, what he needed. Maybe this was what moving on looked like, or how it started.

· · ──────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒───────── · ·

| You

Joel left the classroom and you finally let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. Your hands clammy around the pen you were using. You swallowed thickly, relieved that you could stop putting up your front.

He seemed angry at you being there, like he didn’t want anything to do with you. Only there because he had to be and then left as soon as he could.

You’d tried to show him, in the little ways you could, that it wasn’t intentional, that you hadn’t meant to end up here, near him, not like this. That you and Austin hadn’t expected him to be there at all. You were only sitting in that room on the quiet guarantee that you wouldn’t be in his way. So you laughed when Austin said something stupid. Smiled like you were fine. Because what else were you supposed to do? Acknowledge how close you were to falling apart with him so close, when he was so unreachable?

You kept your eyes on the notebook in front of you, tracing the margin with your thumb just to keep your hands busy.

“Well,” Austin’s voice was low and amused as he leaned back in his seat. “Someone’s grumpier than usual.” He nods towards the door Joel left through.

He stretched lazily, flipping through his planner, completely ignorant to the turmoil flowing through you. “Hey, what’s the date? I forgot to put it on the worksheet.”

You cleared your throat, “September twenty-sixth.”

Austin tapped his pencil against the desk. “Oh shit, that’s right… it’s his birthday.”

Your heart stuttered, “What?”

He didn’t even look up. “Professor Miller. It’s his birthday today.”

The silence that followed rang in your ears. You stared down at the page in front of you, but you couldn’t see it anymore.

Birthday. A piece of information so personal you weren’t sure you’d earned the right to know it.

Your stomach twisted.

Austin kept talking, but his voice blurred in your ears. You nodded vaguely, offered a smile you didn’t feel, and gathered your things with fingers that suddenly didn’t want to work.

“I’ll catch up with you in a sec,” you mumbled, already halfway to the door.

He didn’t question it, just waved you off and tossed his pencil into his bag.

You stepped out into the hallway, the air cooler than you remembered, your body moving before your mind could settle. You didn’t mean to end up there, outside his office, hand hovering near the door. You didn’t even know what you were going to say.

You just knew that the light was on, which meant he was right there on the other side of the door. And something inside you ached too sharply to ignore.

So before you could talk yourself out of it, you knocked, it was quiet and hesitant, barely there. Maybe you hoped he wouldn’t hear or acknowledge it, maybe you hoped he wasn’t actually in there and the knock was inconsequential.

But before you could get too hopeful—

“Come in.”

You freeze.

That voice, that low vibrato, rough around the edges, carved out of the same silence that had filled every corner of your mind for months now, echoed through you like it always did. Straight through your chest, your spine, your ribs. Wrapped its icy fingers around your throat.

You stepped in before you could stop yourself.

He looked up from his desk, eyes catching on yours, blinking a few times like he had to make sure you were real, he clearly hadn’t been expecting you.

You tried to smile, something small, but it didn’t land. “Hi, I just… I wanted to say happy birthday.”

There it was, your offering. A ribbon of sincerity wrapped around the guilt that had been clawing at your chest since the moment Austin said the words.

You were holding yourself together with trembling hands, and he could see it.

And still, you stood there, unsure how to end the moment, eyes locked onto his big, brown eyes, which were looking up at you.

For a long moment, he didn’t say anything. Just looked at you, like he was trying to figure out what this was, what you were doing here, standing in the doorway with that soft, sorry look on your face.

Then, finally, he nodded once, “Thanks.” He glanced down, like he couldn’t keep looking at you without something giving way, and closed the folder in front of him.

The silence stretched.

You shifted slightly in the doorway, unsure if you should leave or say something else. Maybe it was stupid to come. Maybe it only made things worse.

And then he looked up again, his eyes flashing with something you couldn’t identify, something new.

“When’s yours?” he asked quietly.

The question landed sharp and unexpected. It took you a second to process it, “My what?”

“Your birthday,” he said. Still soft, still steady, but there was something else there, something hungry underneath. “When is it?”

You blinked at him, stunned, “Why?”

He didn’t answer, he just watched you with that unreadable expression, as if he wouldn’t dare explain it. As if the asking alone had already taken too much.

You knew he could have found your birthday in the university’s database if he wanted to, but something about him asking you, carved the ache in your chest a little deeper. That and the softness of his brown eyes as he gazed into yours.

So you gave it to him anyway, “April fifth,” you said quietly.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t nod. Didn’t blink. Just looked at you like the sound of it meant more than it should’ve. Like he’d been waiting to hear it from your lips and not some line in a faculty database.

The silence that followed was thick and trembling, stretched between two people stubbornly holding their composure for the other, each unaware the other was just as wrecked, just as desperate, just as quietly aching beneath it all.

You shifted your weight, heart pounding. “I should go,” you whispered, almost apologetically. “Austin’s probably waiting.”

Still, he didn’t say anything. Just kept looking at you, something unreadable sharpening at the mention of Jamie’s nickname. His jaw ticked.

You tried to shake it off.

It had only been a joke, something you’d tossed at Austin in passing, that Joel probably thought the two of you were together because at that point he had only interacted with Austin with you in tow.

But now, you wondered if there was some truth behind it, and the thought that Joel might’ve been jealous made something twist, not with guilt, but with something far more dangerous.

Something like exhilaration.

Because he was the one who told you to move on, to forget everything you two could’ve been, to not even talk about what had happened, to just pretend none of it ever happened.

Yet he had no way of knowing your complete inability to do so, no idea that the teasing between you and your friends was purely platonic, he wouldn’t know any difference. Wouldn’t know that Austin was the furthest thing from heterosexual, regardless of how much he teased it.

Wouldn’t know that your true flirting and heat had always been reserved for him, and him alone.

Because when it came to him, nothing about it had ever been casual. Not the looks, not the quiet moments of peace and safety you’d found in each other’s arms, and most certainly not the way you’d let him touch you like he owned you.

Couldn’t he tell how much you still belonged to him? Even now, especially now, when you couldn’t have him. When every morning was just another day you woke up aching to kiss him, to feel the weight of him pressed against you, to feel his warmth seep into your bones, to feel like you belonged somewhere again.

The thought hit too hard, too suddenly.

You blinked, breath catching, and tore your gaze away from his. The weight of it all… the silence, the memory of his hands, the impossibility of what you still wanted… It was all too much.

“Anyway…” you started, voice uneven, already stepping back toward the door. “Happy birthday, professor. Have a good weekend.”

If he said something, you couldn’t hear it past the pounding in your ears. You could barely register your hand gripping the doorknob, twisting, then pulling.

Somehow you were outside and the breeze caught your skin, cooled the flush in your cheeks, but nothing could touch the heat still burning in your chest.

Austin found you a few moments later as he stepped out of Carson Hall, oblivious to the wreckage you’d left behind you.

You smiled at him and walked with him to the parking lot like it was just another day, but your heart never stilled, your mind still raced with the possibilities of Joel Miller, your professor, being jealous of a gay man. Just for being close to you and a little touchy.

Hell, you could be wrong. You could have completely misread that look in his eyes.

But it didn’t matter, because it gave you a hell of a rush. Like a chaser after a shot, used to soothe that ever-present sting in your chest. The first, brief relief from the pain you’d had bleeding out of your heart.

An inkling of guilt settling somewhere in there, but not quite enough to overshadow the thought of Joel, your Joel… still thinking about you. Still affected by you.

· · ──────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒───────── · ·

god, this story consumes my very being. thank you for any of you that are following these two with me.

I have a Spotify playlist that’s 31 hours long for this fic lol

Let the true pining begin.

xoxo,

wicker

taglist as requested: @magicxmiller @yslgreen

[dionysianivy]

Hello everyone <3 I hope you're having a beautiful and blessed Tuesday.🪻🪻 Today I officially submitted my bachelor's thesis yay and for a while I’ll finally get to relax a bit now that the stress is over. :D I'm done writing, soo I can enjoy Litha in peace 🌼 I’ll be celebrating it this weekend both in the city and back home in the countryside. Today I also started preparing for the Summer Solstice and wandered around the city looking for decorations and symbolic objects and I literally found nothing. I was a bit disappointed, but then I saw some beautiful statues of the gods on my way back from university and I was completely shocked. Seeing statues of Orpheus, Artemis, Apollo, Heracles, and Aphrodite was definitely not on my bingo card for things to see in my country :D And the weather is really hot, I can definitely feel the Solstice getting closer. ☀️🐮🌲 Even if I couldn't find decorations yet, I’ll try looking at the local market, maybe I’ll find some sunflowers or anything with summer elements like the sun, flowers, or birds idk I’ll just buy anything. I will also do my Litha magick jar over the weekend, since I don’t have the tools or resources with me here in the city. But on the first day of Litha, I think I’ll focus more on food, eating symbolic things that help me connect with solar energy and really feel the Sun at its peak. Also, I randomly found two mythology encyclopedias I’ve been searching for forever. They cover Egyptian, Greek, and Roman pantheons, but what made me the happiest is that they also include Celtic and Norse mythology!!! That really surprised me, since I’ve never come across them in any bookstore around here. And I was so happy to see some of my beloved deities Dionysus, Hermes, and Brigid in the books. 🍓🍇🍄🌈🍀 These next few days, I’ll try to rest and get into the Litha spirit. I'm mentally exhausted after all the work that went into writing and submitting my thesis, and next week I have to present it, which is giving me a lot of anxiety. But I hope everything will go well. I want to use the Solstice to calm my energy and rebuild my confidence. The solar symbolism of Litha reminds me of self-trust, self-esteem, and strength, so I’ll focus on that through food, some low magick activities, and of coure connecting with my gods. I really hope that by Thursday evening, when I set up my altar, I’ll manage to find something special for Litha. I’ve never celebrated it quite the way I wanted before, but this year I promised myself it will be meaningful. I really hope you’re all doing well and that you’re having a lovely time too. ☀️🌷🐝🧚‍♀️🍇🦋

[jstor]

Hello, JSTOR!

I'm about to graduate with my first Master's and two of my professors who have helped me with my thesis (which is a literature review because the IRB views the topic to be too sensitive to be empirical). Do you have any tips on how to pursue publication for the first time? Not many professors in my program have done a literature review and published it, nor has anyway with a Master's or PsyD/PhD at my job, so we're not sure about how to go about it. (I've been trying to search, it's hard between writing a thesis, working, and having Dr.s think my seizures are fake).

Thank you much for any information.

-🦎 Lizard

Hi there Lizard,

Thanks for sharing this with us. I'm happy to share a few best practices/advice based on what you've mentioned, but I'd also love if the community could hop in to share their experiences as well.

Before I get into that, I just want to remind you to prioritize your health and well-being first and foremost! It's great that your research is near and dear to you, but never feel guilty or like you need to justify putting yourself first. I'm sure there are plenty of relevant journals waiting in the wings for what you have to offer when the time comes. <3

It looks like you're in the psychology field. Publications like Psychological Bulletin and Psychological Review look like they may be a good fit after a quick search, but I have to disclaim this isn't my (the mod) particular field. Perhaps your professors have colleagues they know outside the program who have successfully published literature reviews. You may want to chat with them about their network.

Also worth noting that peer feedback can be invaluable, so if possible, have a few colleagues or mentors review your work before you submit.

Finally, we know the publication process can be challenging, especially when juggling other responsibilities. Don’t be discouraged by any initial setbacks or rejections—they’re a normal part of academic publishing. If needed, take your time to revise and resubmit.