#technically that's half of what I'm talking about

[clairewritesfanfics]

Omg I love how you write Mark and his variants!

Okay I may or may not have dived into a deep hole of neglected batfam reader so is it okay if I request for reader to happen to just find an escape through a Angstrom portal that appeared randomly in her bedroom, so just peace out and was transported into the Invincible universe where she met Mark (and his variants), fall in love and told him about how horrible her family is.

Only for him to find a way to open up a portal to her world (this is mostly goes for the variants instead main mark), and caused havoc on the DC world and reader has to stop him, confront her family and leave to her new home with him

Author's Note: My last request! (technically, it's not) YAHOO. And my first Batfam fanfic.

Your Character Settings: AFAB, daughter of Bruce Wayne and an unknown woman

“Would like seconds, miss?” Alfred asked after you finished your meal. 

Tonight's dinner was a hefty serving of tomato and basil spaghetti. Before you moved in with the Waynes, your meals were usually jam and bread or a cup of instant noodles. The old you would have eaten as much as you were allowed. The old you would have gotten angry at you for not asking for another serving. But you weren't living paycheck to paycheck on a cashier's salary anymore. 

“I'm fine,” you answered the butler. You glanced around the long table. Alfred said it was improper for servants to dine with the masters of the home, so you ate alone again. You didn't know why you felt upset. Even after months of the same routine, your disappointment continued to fill half your stomach. 

“Very well. Tonight's dessert is a chocolate ganache cake served with black tea. I take it that you will be having your slice in your room?”

You smiled.

“I’ll have it upstairs in fifteen minutes.”

“Thank you.”

“I hope this time you actually answer the door. I don’t mind leaving the food outside but tea should be appreciated hot.”

“I’m sorry, you know how it is when I get in the zone.”

“How many words did you write today?”

You beamed. “Exactly two thousand just this morning. I’m hoping to get another thousand before midnight.”

“I hope you do, maybe you can finally start waking up before noon.”

You laughed, standing up from your seat.

Alfred was the only one in this entire mansion to actually hold full conversations with you. 

Dear old dad was always away on business trips. Your younger half-brother Damian never uttered a word to you, only regarded you with disdain and walked away before introductions were over. Tim was polite enough to nod in greeting–when he was lucid, which was seldom the case every time you saw him. Dick was nice, he smiled and made small talk when he was around, but you can count on one hand the number of times he was at the manor, or in Gotham in general.

You had another brother. His photos were rare, finding one was like finding an Easter egg. On the outside, he was no different from the others with his black hair and blue eyes, and from what you’ve seen of him, he could be blood-related to Dick. But Alfred said that Jason was an orphan, too. 

Little Jason, always smiling brightly in every image you found. He died years before you arrived here. You liked to pretend that he would be exactly what you wished for when Mister Wayne invited you to live with the family: a kind, present and supportive older brother.

You doubt it was healthy to project such feelings on not just a ghost but a stranger’s ghost, but pretending to have someone care beyond the bare minimum helped you adjust to your life as a Wayne kid. 

Alfred let you borrow books from Jason’s room and you made a point to treat every novel with care and refused to fold the pages or write on them. Jason really loved romance books and happily ever afters, and reading his collection inspired to take up writing. Hobbies were a luxury you couldn’t afford while juggling two part-time jobs, but now you had all the time in the world.

You stared at your monitor. Did you jinx yourself earlier?

You’ve hit a wall for today’s chapter.

The insertion point blinked mockingly at you. 

You only needed a thousand more words. That’s child’s play, but whatever you typed did not meet your standards, even for a first draft. 

You checked the time.

You’ve been sitting here for ten minutes. Usually, you’ll be typing like crazy the moment your butt was on the chair.

You plopped your elbows on your desk and squeezed your cheeks, an exasperated sigh leaving your mouth.

Ten minutes feels like forever when you’re trying to start something important.

Maybe a sugar boost will help.

Just as you thought of this, you overheard movement outside. 

Smiling, you rushed to open the door. 

“I was beginning to think you forgot about me–” 

Your lips twitched as you were greeted by the sight of Damian and Tim, holding a comically large mug of coffee. They were quarreling when your sudden appearance caught them off guard. 

“Hi.”

Damian’s lips pursed and he grumbled something under his breath.

“It’s rare to see you guys here,” you said plainly.

Tim laughed awkwardly. “I guess so.”

“Did you eat dinner already?”

“I–”

Damian pushed his back. “Let’s go, Drake, we’re busy.”

“Right, um, sorry–” Tim threw you an apologetic smile “–see you around.”

You smiled back as politely as you could. “See you.” There was no point in getting offended, you were the oldest one in this hallway and you were too exhausted to feel angry.

You watched Damian nudge Tim even farther away until they disappeared from view. 

Shaking your head softly, you stepped back inside your room and shut the door. You weren’t a warm person, but you didn’t have a family before. It was always just you bouncing between foster homes and sleeping in dumpsters when you had no other choice. You had no one to fall back on, and you were prepared to live the rest of your life like that, because what other choice was there? 

But then Mister Wayne arrived in the 24-hour mart while you worked the graveyard shift. Dingy apartments with creepy neighbors were replaced with a Gilded Age mansion. Hours spent on your feet catering to all sorts of customers became days of ennui (you learned that word from one of Jason’s books). Sodium-loaded canned and instant foods were now sodium-loaded fancy meals. You were grateful, and while it hurt not to have the family you’ve always dreamed of, you can deal with the wall between you as long as you never had to go back to being actually alone. 

You returned to your desk. The blinking line on the word document continued mocking you.

You reached for the latest novel you borrowed from Jason’s personal collection, A Little Princess, and flipped back to where you stopped yesterday, at Chapter Four: Lottie. 

“Things happen to people by accident," she used to say. "A lot of nice accidents have happened to me. It just HAPPENED that I always liked lessons and books, and could remember things when I learned them. It just happened that I was born with a father who was beautiful and nice and clever, and could give me everything I liked. Perhaps I have not really a good temper at all, but if you have everything you want and everyone is kind to you, how can you help but be good-tempered? I don't know"—looking quite serious—"how I shall ever find out whether I am really a nice child or a horrid one. Perhaps I'm a HIDEOUS child, and no one will ever know, just because I never have any trials.”

You paused. You haven’t read A Little Princess before, but you’ve seen the film multiple times because one of your foster mothers adored it.

Family? Love? They were nice, but you didn’t need them. 

It was true that you were Bruce Wayne’s illegitimate kid and he took you in out of a sense of responsibility. You weren’t a child anymore, far from it, most people your age are in college while you just finished your GED. You haven’t spoken with Mister Wayne about university and frankly, you were too scared; what would he or the others think? Would they think you were getting too greedy?

Pride and dreams were reserved for people who can afford them. You may share Bruce’s blood but it was clear that he loved his sons more, regardless of their origin. 

Food, shelter–money, that’s what you needed, and the Waynes gave it to you. You had no right to complain or wish for more. You didn’t want to reach for the sun only to end up getting burned. 

You were about to continue reading when a green light illuminated your eyes. You looked away from the page and saw a green hole forming on the floor, right in front of the door. A faint shearing sound accompanied its undulating outline as it grew bigger. 

You set down the book and walked closer. You can see a different place inside the emerald ring. This wasn’t some hole, it was a portal. 

Honestly, not the weirdest thing for a Gothamite. 

Still though…

Against all common sense, you knelt down and glanced inside. You were usually smarter than this, not to toot your own horn, but your intelligence is what kept you alive in Gotham for all these years; however, something about this portal called out to you. You dipped one hand inside. 

The air was warmer than it was in your room. 

You were going to pull back when–

knock, knock 

“Miss?”

You yelped, caught off guard and lost your balance–you fell straight into the portal.

Main Mark

He was doing his usual routine, flying around, helping people and preventing city-destroying disasters when he heard your screaming and caught you just in time.

You thanked him and asked if you could please take you back to Gotham.

He raised his eyebrows at you. “What’s Gotham?”

“Crap.”

You both figured out that you were on a parallel Earth and he offered to let you stay with him until you found a way back.

Debbie was a sweetheart. She was super understanding and kind and you imprinted on her instantly. You didn’t want to be a burden so you helped maintain the house and cooked for them. 

Mark fell in love with you, because of course, he did. He found himself getting more and more excited to finish his missions early just so he can come home to your smile. You liked him, too, you didn’t know if it was love, but when he found the courage to ask you out you agreed, hoping that maybe you’ll learn.

It was a relatively simple love story, world-hopping aside. You and Mark were friends first who soon became soulmates. You didn’t mind that he missed dates and you kept yourself busy helping Debbie as a real estate agent. 

You supported Mark throughout his struggles, listened to his problems and comforted him when he was in pain. In turn, he taught you how to love, and maybe more importantly, how to be loved. He surprised you with gifts–nothing big but always extraordinary–like daisies he found while flying over the countryside or a bracelet that reminded him of you. He always asked if you were hungry or thirsty before going to get his own snack, and even when you said no he’d return with your own food and drink. He looked at you that made you unable to look at him, he made you shy in the best way possible. He was everything you didn’t know you wanted. 

***

When a portal appeared again, it wasn’t green, it was gold–and the men on the other side didn’t hesitate when they jumped into Mark’s universe. 

They weren’t violent, but they were not nice. Invincible got into a fight with the tiny one in red and green. The “hero” who called himself Nightwing was friendly, but Mark could tell he was on edge like the rest of them.

“We’re looking for a girl,” Nightwing said, flashing a holographic album full of your photos. Neither you nor Mark knew anything about your family’s nightly activities so your boyfriend became more suspicious of these masked heroes. 

“Why? What’s wrong with her?”

Mark could tell that everyone knew that he knew who you were, but Nightwing remained calm. “We’re not going to hurt her. It’s hard to believe since we’re basically aliens, but we just want to bring her home. Her family misses her.”

That made Mark scoff. You told him about your family. You didn’t hate them, but Mark certainly did. You were… too used to loneliness. And that pissed him off. You were amazing, you deserved nothing but warmth and your so-called family ignored you. 

He wanted nothing more than to flip these guys off with a message, “Tell her family that she’s happier here and that she doesn’t need them holding her back,” but that wasn’t his decision to make. 

“I know her,” Invincible said. “I’ll tell her about you guys, but if she says she doesn’t want to come back, you leave her alone. Got that?”

“That–”

“No,” Batman said firmly. “She’s coming back. She needs her family.”

Mark’s eye twitched, but he kept his cool. “We’ll see.”

“I can’t believe it,” you muttered, gripping tightly on your copy of Pride and Prejudice like it was a stress ball.

Mark had been late for date night, no biggie, so you spent the evening reading a novel on your TBR list. When he came back from patrol, his whole body was tense, his face solemn when he pulled off his mask. He then joined you at the table and explained what happened.

“Talk to me, baby. What’re you thinking about?” He asked, placing a grounding hand over your cold fingers.

You let go of the book and squeezed his hand. “I’m not sure. After a year, I was sure that I’d be here forever–and I would’ve been okay–happy with that, but now…”

“I know.” He thumbed your knuckles. “What’re you going to do? Are you..”

Were you planning to go back?

“I don’t know.” You looked into his eyes. “What should I do, Mark?”

He wanted to grab you by the shoulders and beg you to open your eyes. You were miserable back in Gotham. You were better off here, with him. 

But instead, he cradled both of your hands between his and he smiled. “I can’t tell you what to do, only that I’ll support you no matter what.”

Main Mark is the only one who will step aside if you decide to return and fix your relationship with your family. It will hurt. And he will crack when it’s time to say goodbye; he’ll pull you into his arms and beg you to stay with him, but if you have made up your mind, he won’t force you otherwise. 

His variants aren’t so selfless. Omni, Head Cap, Maskless, No Goggles and Full Mask won’t even bother telling you about the portal appearing, intent on keeping you by their side. 

Flaxan, Target and Viltrumite Mark would have already whisked you away from Earth and it would take a while before the Bats found you. 

Mohawk, Prisoner, Shiesty and Sinister will tell you about the portal and the foreign superheroes that have come for you and plead with you not to leave–and this is after they’ve decided to pick a fight with Batman and crew.

a/n:

Hi anon, I’m sorry this took so long but I knew that if I opened this door to DC I'll end up fawning over Jason and get distracted (and I was right). You’re my last request (technically no but I'm still not prepared to share Shiesty's origin story), but YAYYYY 

Also, I know that anon specified that the Bats were horrible to Y/N, and I did try to write them like that initially, but it was hard for that scenario to fully form in my head. The Bat family is dysfunctional as heck, but I usually write about a normal, civilian YN and I can't see them being purposefully abusive to someone like that. Despite DC's many fumbles, the Bats are supposed to be good people at their core so the words just wouldn't flow. 

DON'T GET ME WRONG, considering my love for revenge stories, I do want to write about the Bats being neglectful and unintentionally awful to YN and then her waking up and realizing that she doesn't care anymore, and then she stops chasing after them, which in turn, makes them chase after her, but that's a story for another day.

Anyway, I hope you still liked it!! (I'm going to cry about Red Hood and Huntress now.)

(ˊᗜˋﾉﾉ

Disclaimer: The images used in this post do not belong to writerclaire.

Gotham City, lifted from: https://heroism.fandom.com/wiki/Gotham_City

Invincible flying, lifted from: https://gamerant.com/invincible-every-character-fate-comics/

ദ്ദി(｡•̀ ,<)~✩‧₊

MAIN MASTERLIST

Any questions for the author? Ask here.

PS can you guess which Batboy is my favorite? LOL

[sweeterthanmydreams]

Desperately need to motivate myself to get words written but cannot. be. arsed.

I think I'll make my goal finishing typing up the material I have, then adding 3000 words to the end of it to account for hitting par on Tuesday. I really wish I hadn't been sick at the start of this month, so I could have gotten rolling sooner. =.=

Things fell apart last Saturday, me thinks, when I was trying to squeeze a puzzle out of my brain for the last leg of the dungeon. It went well in the end, and I came up with a puzzle in the end, but it was a whole 24 hours of panic and brain rot. I think I forgot to turn off "oh-god-I-need-to-finish-designing-this-dungeon-before-six-so-I-can-run-it-and-it's-noon-and-I-still-haven't-slept" mode once I no longer needed it.

Also spent all of last night finishing Rigel for when the next DM takes over on Saturday (we have a cool rotational system in which DMs break larger campaigns into arcs so we can all take turns) which is a big plus for task completion but boy howdy. I thought it would take a few hours, but it actually took all night and I still haven't settled on a hair color for him.

I think I'm going to make big goals for writing tonight be: 1) everything is typed up 2) 3000 new words written before midnight & 3) 3000 more new words written after midnight. If I hit point two before midnight, I'll allow myself to finish my Heather's Surprise illustration (it just needs a background & it's complete!) but if I hit point two after midnight I'll wait until I finish point three. I'd love working out Rigel's design to be an incentive, but I can totally see myself getting carried away and losing track of time.

(There's also an oc ask meme I was thinking of using as an incentive, but I'm not yet sure how I want to go about that so I'll save it for tomorrow. I'm thinking each character sent is a word sprint of a finite length & each so many words I complete in the time allotted is how many questions I can answer. Still gotta roll this one around.)

[transusopp]

you ain't ever have to lie to me, i'm everything that i've strived to be! so do i look like him...? i don't look like him! (no text under cut)

i'm predictable. all i do is draw this man suffering during wci. sorry sanji

[canon-notcanon-warriorcats]

i've heard criticisms about sunbeam x nightheart and i expected to not like them together or not care

but i'm gonna be so real with y'all, they're SO CUTE TOGETHER, i love them, they're so sweet

like yeah, the pacing was a little weird for a second of when they were actually falling in love, but they were SO CUTE TOGETHER even before they were in love and you could actually see them getting closer and warming up to each other

both of them thinking completely separately how they wished the other was there because they felt so comfortable talking to each other when they were both having trouble with their parents/friends/clanmates

i didn't know that nightheart just jumped into joining shadowclan like that, i thought he was going to have a more thorough conversation with sunbeam about it and they have a more classic confession scene but no that little idiot just jumped right in

AND SUNBEAM LATER THINKS ABOUT HOW HIM JUMPING RIGHT INTO THINGS IS SOMETHING SHE FINDS ATTRACTIVE ABOUT HIM IS SO CUTE

like they sprinkle in these little thoughts for both of them thinking how pretty or handsome or attractive or cool they think the other is and appreciating the other's skills and they're just so cuuuuuuuuuute

and the fact that they actually have conversations and communicate about problems and even if they disagree on something or something upsets them they compromise or work it out before it causes a bigger problem, like how nightheart actually TALKED to sunbeam about what berryheart told him instead of just assuming the worst things and ruminating on them and getting irrationally angry or upset about it and ending up causing a big fight or something

and also I FUCKING LOVE FAKE RELATIONSHIPS TURN TO ACTUAL LOVE TROPE LET'S GOOOOOOOOOO

[newsies-united]

i liked (most of) my teachers better this year but why did this year suck more academically. get me out of here june 10 cannot come fast enough

[youremyonlyhope]

I'm not a "new musical theatre style music" person. Never have been.

Even when I was doing voice lessons, I'd steer towards the golden age or jazzy musical theatre songs. My voice teacher would have to drag me kicking and screaming towards adding anything new musical theatre to my repertoire. For a while, the most modern song in my book was I Know The Truth from Aida, and I wouldn't count that as new musical theatre style since I mean more the Pasek&Paul or Joe Iconis type.

And now I have an audition coming up for a small production of a show in that style and I'm supposed to sing a song in a similar style. And I'm looking at all my sheet music like... let me do some Cole Porter... or Gershwin... at least Sondheim please...

[wavernot4love]

hello i see ag 2morrow for the second show of boom done tour i am so excited

i haven't been to a show since thursday @ the end of january in typical northeast "no one, quite understandably, tours here in the winter" fashion & i very much need this i am so very much looking forward 2 it also this is gonna be a GREAT month 4 shows

[blackvahana]

Hmm. Yeah. Didn't consider the fact that they were going to attempt (and did) to kill Grey and Black in my lifetime. so then M absolutely could've just taken my body, killed my physical family like he kept trying to do, and either offed me or kept - I mean. yeah. kept my body and made it an incarnation of him. Ahhh I love our family

[charlotteking27]

The pretty interviewer

Max Verstappen x reader

Summary: You are Max's favorite interviewer...so much that he will not stop flirting with you.

PT2: Pursuing the journalist

Three Races Earlier…

You stand off to the side of the paddock, fiddling with your Sky Sports F1 microphone. As the newest member of the broadcasting team, you typically handle the less significant interviews, while the veteran reporters get to speak with drivers like Max Verstappen. Today, you're set to interview one of the midfield teams.

The buzz in the paddock suddenly grows as Max comes out of the Red Bull garage after his stunning pole position. A crowd of reporters quickly surrounds him, microphones pushed forward, voices overlapping with "Max! Max, a moment, please!"

You watch from your quiet spot while he walks past them, his expression neutral and barely acknowledging them. This scene is familiar. Max is known for being choosy with the media and often speaks only to a select few senior reporters.

That’s why your heart skips a beat when his eyes suddenly turn to you. His face brightens with a smile, and before you realize it, he changes direction and walks confidently toward your corner.

"Sorry," he tells the stunned reporters behind him, not sounding sorry at all. "I'm giving my first interview to her."

You hear your producer’s voice in your earpiece: "Wait, what's happening?"

Max stops right in front of you, that familiar half-smile on his lips. "Hi," he says casually, as if he hasn’t just brushed off every major broadcaster in the paddock.

"I… um…" You struggle to collect your thoughts, acutely aware of the jealous stares from the other reporters. "Hi?"

He laughs softly at your surprise. "You're new, right? I've seen you around. You ask good questions – technical ones. Not just the usual PR stuff."

"I… yes, I started this weekend," you manage to reply, still in shock. "But shouldn't you be talking to—"

"I'm talking to exactly who I want to talk to," he cuts in, his Dutch accent somehow stronger when he speaks softly. "So, would you like to hear about that qualifying lap?"

𐙚

That first interview changed everything. Since then, Max has asked to give you his post-session interviews. Each one became more flirtatious than the last. This brings you to today.

The Red Bull garage looms ahead as you adjust your Sky Sports F1 microphone for the thousandth time. Post-qualifying interviews are routine by now, but nothing about interviewing Max Verstappen has ever felt normal. Especially not since he started doing whatever this is.

"Three minutes," your producer says through your earpiece. You try to focus on your questions, but all you can think of is last week's interview. Max had deliberately held your gaze so long that you forgot the second half of your question.

He emerges from the garage, race suit tied at his waist as usual. Your heart skips a beat as he approaches, wearing that annoying half-smile that makes you forget basic English.

"Max, congratulations on another pole position," you begin professionally.

"Thanks," he interrupts, eyes shining. "I was hoping it would be you interviewing me today."

You feel warmth creeping up your neck. Stay professional, you remind yourself. "That last lap was incredible. How did you find the grip through—"

"The grip was good," he says, leaning slightly closer than necessary. "But you seem a bit nervous today. Everything okay?"

Your producer chuckles in your ear. Traitor.

"I'm perfectly fine," you manage, though your voice comes out higher than you wanted. "About turn three—"

"You're cute when you're flustered," he says quietly, just low enough that the microphone won't catch it. The smirk on his lips tells you he knows exactly what he's doing.

You almost drop your notebook. "I'm trying to conduct an interview here," you whisper back, fighting a smile.

"And I'm trying to ask you out," he counters smoothly before raising his voice back to interview level. "But yes, turn three was tricky today. The crosswind made it challenging."

Your face feels like it's on fire. You're painfully aware of the camera rolling, capturing what must be the most unprofessional blush in F1 broadcasting history.

"Speaking of challenges," Max continues, clearly enjoying himself, "there's this great restaurant in Monaco that's almost impossible to get into. I have a reservation for two tomorrow night if you're interested in discussing race strategy, of course."

You hear your producer choking back laughter. "The interview, Max," you remind him, trying to sound stern despite your racing heart.

"Right, right. The interview." He grins. "But about dinner…"

"Maybe we should finish talking about your qualifying lap first?" You're fighting a losing battle against your smile now.

"Fine," he sighs dramatically, then winks. "But just so you know, I'm going to keep flirting with you until you say yes."

Your producer is practically cackling now. "Best. Interview. Ever," she whispers in your ear.

"The qualifying lap, Max," you insist, but you’re grinning too.

"The qualifying lap," he agrees, finally sitting up straight and attempting to look serious. "But I should warn you, I'm very persistent. Almost as persistent as I am on track."

You shake your head, trying to remember your questions through the butterfly storm in your stomach. One thing's for sure—this interview is definitely going viral on F1 Twitter.

And maybe, just maybe, you'll say yes to that dinner in Monaco.

𐙚

You barely remember how you finished that interview. Your mind is still spinning from Max's dinner invitation. But the real chaos is just starting.

Your notifications have not stopped buzzing since that interview aired. #MaxAndTheReporter is trending on Twitter, and F1 TikTok is having a field day with edited clips of every moment you and Max shared during the past three races.

"OMG THE WAY HE LOOKS AT HER," says one viral tweet, featuring a slow-motion clip of Max's eyes softening when he sees you in the paddock.

"Remember when Max used to HATE interviews? Now he’s literally running to them. #MaxAndTheReporter." This tweet includes a side-by-side comparison of his usual stern media face and his smile when he approaches you.

Your producer sends you a link to a fan-made compilation video titled "Every time Max Verstappen has flirted with the Sky Sports reporter (so far)." It has already gathered 2 million views.

Not everyone is convinced. "She's just another reporter," one skeptic tweets. "Max is probably just being nice."

That theory gets blown away during the next race weekend. You're interviewing Carlos Sainz when Max casually walks by. He does such an obvious double-take that Carlos starts laughing mid-answer.

"I think someone wants to interrupt this interview," Carlos teases, watching Max hover nearby with barely hidden impatience.

"He can wait his turn," you respond professionally, though your cheeks warm when you hear Max chuckle behind you.

"Can I?" Max calls out. "Because I'm pretty sure my dinner reservation is in an hour, and someone still hasn't given me an answer."

Carlos raises his eyebrows and grins. "Ah, so the rumors are true?"

Your producer's voice crackles through your earpiece: "The social media is going absolutely crazy right now. This is better than Drive to Survive!"

Later that evening, a photo appears of you and Max at a hard-to-get-into restaurant in Monaco. He is looking at you instead of the camera, with that soft smile on his face that F1 Twitter has named the "reporter smile." Fan theories start to explode:

"HE REALLY TOOK HER TO DINNER, I'M SCREAMING." "The way he only smiles like that for her.❤️" "Remember when we thought Max would never date someone in the F1 media? This man really said 'Watch me."

Your phone buzzes with a text from Max: "Have you seen we’re trending again?"

You reply with an eye roll, trying to ignore the butterflies that haven't settled since that first interview.

"Good," he responds. "Maybe now everyone knows why I only want interviews with you."

Your producer sends you a message: "Just wait until they see tomorrow's pre-race interview. The internet might actually break."

You smile, thinking about how a simple paddock interview three races ago changed everything. From a reluctant interviewee to whatever this is becoming, Max Verstappen has definitely kept his promise about being persistent.

And honestly? You wouldn't have it any other way.

[fennthetalkingdog]

It's Gendering Time Baby (aka Fenn's weird thoughts about his gender in essay form)

Okay, so it's really late at night while I'm writing this (not the same time that I'll post probably) but my brain's going on a spiral tangent thing so I wanna go down it while I can. So I'm prolly gonna ramble, I apologize in advance.

So anyway, I feel like my relationship with my gender is... unique? I don't know, I see a lot of people talk about how they feel like a man or woman or nonbinary person, or how they feel like nothing or something neutral or "just themselves" but from what I've heard the latter usually call themselves agender or neutrois or something like that. If I had to pick one, I legitimately don't know what I'd say. I know your experience as a kid isn't the end-all-be-all for your identity, but I tend to look back at mine a lot to make sure I'm not adopting a label that doesn't represent me at all—but when I was a kid, I had no conceptualization of gender. It just wasn't something I noticed. Hell, I noticed differences in height more than I noticed differences in gender at the time. If you asked kid me, they'd probably just say, "Huh? What do you mean? How can you feel like a gender??" So that's not particularly helpful.

I didn't really start noticing gender until I learned that trans people existed (high school; had Christian parents and was overall pretty sheltered). And I only really learned about it in the context of "some people feel so strongly about gender that they wish to transition." So of course little me, who barely noticed gender at all, thought that they must be a demigirl because they were born a girl but didn't really feel anything. (I know now that's not what "demigirl" necessarily stands for lol but give lil me a break.) But their parents rejected them and of course, since they now had no other way to express this potential side of them, little me went exploring more. They found labels like "agender" and "neutrois" that seemed to fit their experience so much better, and so the demigirl label was dropped. But it still didn't feel like them, and they still don't feel like me.

You see, my gender is a pretty complicated thing that I like to ignore most of the time. But there was one time I tried to give a friend a metaphor to describe it, and that's the best thing I've got even now so here it is. I have a slightly interesting physical problem when whenever I strain my shoulders too much, the skin on my back becomes really sensitive and if I move in the slightest, it feels like my shoulder blades will break through my skin (consequence of carrying too heavy bookbags in grade school). But sometimes I can feel it starting to get bad because it feels like a hole is forming between my shoulder blades, like a cavern, where muscles that should be chill and calm feel almost like they're being sliced. (I promise this isn't a medical problem.) And my gender almost feels like that cave: a wide, open space lined with smooth, water-worn stone and closed to the open air, with a massive lake at the bottom and a single stalactite hanging from the ceiling. Water occasionally drips down from the stalactite and into the lake, and that's my gender, except the lake feels like nothing and my gender is diluted once it hits the surface of Me. I have a gender, maybe, but it's in parts per million instead of wholes.

So I'm basically agender, right? Or I'm some sublabel like libramasculine if my gender feels important to me still, but problem solved, right? Well, those labels technically fit from a technical perspective, but they still feel wrong. I may not have a gender, or at least a strong one, in the sense of having strong preferences about how I'm treated or seen, but at the same time I do? But it comes more in the form of likes and dislikes. I like being seen as a masculine (gender-wise) person over a feminine (gender-wise) person. I like being seen as a feminine as fuck (presentation-wise) dude instead of as a girl who doesn't care for themself. These feel like they come more from my personality than from a gender, so my gender is still technically nothing, but it still feels wrong to label myself as agender or something similar when I have such notable feelings about the matter.

So what do I do instead? Well, I play gender, like how a toddler "plays" as an animal or how a kid "plays" as a character from their favorite TV show. Everything I perform is still me—it's my desires, dislikes, and personality—but I get to be a boy thing instead of what people wanted me to be. If my birth gender is old and crusty and doesn't fit, then I get to choose something cooler, a new role I can play. The difference doesn't really matter on a day-to-day basis, does it? No one can tell if I knew since birth or if I'm faking it or if I'm somewhere in between, so what does it matter? What I know for sure is what I want to do with my body: I want to lop off my boobs and I maybe want to take testosterone. And I like being a boy in a dress. So, technically I don't really feel a gender? But I still don't identify with agender or any of the adjacent "lack at least some gender" labels because it feels weird trying to put a label on something that isn't there. I just call myself a transmasc nonbinary boy/man and move on with my life, because if I stop and think about it I'll confuse myself all over again.

[cosmic-dust-poltergeist]

Another Clone Danny x batfam au, Danny was also full dead before he's shoved into a clone body, but it's not really relevant in this part.

[Pt2: here]

Danny isn't a hundred percent sure how he got here. Last thing he remembered was running away from the GIW and his parents. They got a lucky shot on him, and he was losing ectoplasum fast. He's pretty sure he was about to fully End. He remembers being mildly amused over his parents' inventions killing him twice, before it all goes dark.

He woke up as a baby. A clone baby by the looks of his environment, an underground lab(?). His creator(?) is staring at him as if he's a miracle, and given the fancy sci-fi screen thingy (a tablet? Or ipad? He's not sure how he knows these terms) in front of the cloning tank say "attempt 99", he probably is this guy's miracle.

Danny doesn't see anyone else around, and this guy, a teenager about Jazz's age (?), seems happy on a personal level to see Danny wiggling in the tank. So it's not likely he was forced to do this. Whatever this is..

"I did it...? Holy shit! I did it!" The teen cheers before freezing, "I'm a parent now.. I did not think this through... welp, I'm a parent now."

The guy checks his vitals before draining the tank. Danny is handled as if he's the most precious, yet breakable thing in the world to this kid.

"Hello, I'm Tim, your dad, I guess." The kid, Tim, introduces himself, and Danny giggles at him because if Danny was a normal baby, he'd have no idea what he was saying. "You're the clone of my dead best friend. He was half kryptonian. I promise to do my best to help you learn your powers and culture. I'll break into Clark's ice fortress if I have to to do it."

Danny has no idea what any of that means, but Tim seems determined, so Danny isn't too worried. He's more worried about the power thing. Are they going to be completely different from his old ones? Does he still have access to his ghost powers?

His little baby body can't handle his big emotions, and he starts crying. Tim panics, checking for mess, before realizing he doesn't have baby supplies. He clearly didn't think his cloning attempt would work with how unprepared he is. And that's valid if Danny really is his 99th attempt.

Tim bundles Danny up and rushes them to the nearest store that has baby supplies. Danny is clothed and fed promptly and given a wolf plushy. Danny isn't sure about the wolf thing, but the stuffie does sooth his baby instincts, so he rolls with it.

"Alright, baby. I... I didn't think of a name for you. I originally was trying to make a clone closer to Kon's age and figured they could name themselves, like Kon did." Tim sighs, slightly rocking Danny in his arms. "Man, I must seem insane talking to a baby. A baby I made because I couldn't deal with one more person in my life being dead or gone."

Danny notes the interesting wording.

"Okay. Can you understand me at all? I forgot to adjust the knowledge download to a year old's level, but that doesn't mean your baby brain absorbed any of the info."

Ooooh, that explains why he knows things that didn't exist where he's from.

Danny blows spit bubbles and attempts to nod. It's a bit hard, his baby muscles not developed enough for the action. Tim understands, though.

"Okay, okay." Tim looking both scared and relieved. "How about you pat me once for yes and twice for no? At least for now. I don't want you to hurt yourself."

Danny lightly smacks a hand to Tim's face. They both giggle over it.

"Alright, so I'm going to list off names, and you can tell me yes or no, okay?" One pat. "Okay, let's see."

Danny wonders if he can get a new name that can still let him have Danny as a nickname.

"Jasper" No

"Darin" No

"Dugu" No??

"Presh?" No! Tim? Where are you getting these names??

"Ratan" No

"Cicil" No

"Matthew" No

"Theo?" No

"Alihan" No

"Atiya" Nope

"Tesher" No

"Senai" No

"Uuum... Habwat?" No

"Geoffrey" No

"Amari?" Nope

"Jordan" ... huh, technically could get Danny from that, but still. No.

"Riley?" No

"Drew?" Nope

"Nova" Oooo so tempting, but no

"Esteban" Nope

"Izar" No

"Aedan?" You know what, good enough. That's Danny's new name.

Tim looks misty eyed when Danny finally agrees to a name.

"Alright, welcome to the world, Aedan Drake." Danny blows bubbles at him. "We'll visit adding Kent and getting you a proper kryptonian name when you can actually speak and understand what those names mean. Kon's human name was Conner Kent, and his kryptonian name was Kon-El. It translates to abomination of the house of El. He was a clone of Kal-El and wasn't treated well for it. I won't let the Els treat you as they treated him."

Tim looks pissed on his friend's behalf and cradles Danny protectively.

"The Els don't matter anyways. You will always be a Drake. And Drakes protect what they claim with viciousness." He kisses Danny's forehead. He then moves to the fanciest computer Danny has ever seen, and with the hand not supporting Danny's body, starts designing what appears to be a bulletproof and stabproof baby carrier. "I should have waited til after I finish hunting for clues to get Bruce, he's my adoptive father, out of the timestream. My siblings think I'm crazy, which creating a clone isn't helping my case over, but I know he's alive. I found evidence, just not enough to prove it to them."

Danny starts nodding off. Tim's ramblings are soothing and his hold gentle, Danny's tiny baby body doesn't stand a chance at staying awake. He's sad he's missing out on all the dad lore because of it.

Once the carrier is ready, Tim starts going out and taking Danny with him. Danny is actually pretty safe on these outings. The carrier is bulletproof, stabproof, has tinted bulletproof glass so Danny can get sun without people seeing him, it's temperature controlled, well ventilated, and has plenty of cushion. Seriously, Danny is sure the whole thing is like 60 pounds with him in it, but Tim gives zero fucks. He's determined to keep Danny safe.

It's super touching. And Danny swears to one day return the favour. The day is closer than he thinks when a creepy old fucker crawls out of the woodworks. Danny hates him instantly. Tim explaining the creep's relation to Tim's family doesn't change Danny's mind. In fact, it probably makes his opinion on this Ra's Al Gul even worse. And once he sees how that pedo looks at his sweet new dad, he plans to be an absolute menace.

[nereidprinc3ss]

pillow talk

in which spencer reid chooses a very odd time to reveal an anecdote from his past to fem!reader

18+ (fluff, extremely suggestive) warnings/tags: fingering but nothing graphic whatsoever, it's basically fade to black sex, discussions of spencer's gsw from season 5, medical talk (and inaccuracies), spencer is a sarcastic little shit a/n: found this super random little thing in my drafts and it was done and i think it's silly and cute so i'm posting it! 600 words, short n sweet!

“You got shot in the knee?”

It’s perhaps said too loudly for the setting—tucked into Spencer’s bed in the late hours of the night when up until this point the conversation had been nothing but murmured stories and quiet giggles. And before that, well—before that there hadn’t been much conversation at all. 

Still you can’t find it within yourself to apologize as you sit up, holding the top sheet to your chest and looking down at Spencer incredulously. His eyebrows raise like he’s surprised by your reaction. 

“Thigh, technically. And it was years ago. Come back.”

You huff but allow yourself to be pulled back down, head on his shoulder as his hand finds its place stroking your hip once more. 

“How have you never told me that?”

“You never noticed the multiple incision scars on my leg?”

“What? No! Can I look now?”

“You won’t be able to see them. It’s too dark.”

You angle your head toward him, and he does the same, tilting his down until your noses almost brush. 

“So turn the light on.”

“If I turn the light on I’ll get distracted.”

“Distracted by what?” You ask, realizing what he means and voice quickly fading even as you finish the sentence. He chuckles and kisses your head. 

“I’ll show it to you in the morning. Come here.”

“I am here,” you grumble. He hums, leaning down further to try and kiss you. 

“Closer.”

So you scoot up the mattress and roll onto your side, pressed right against him, to meet him halfway in a sweet kiss. 

“You’re kind of spoiled,” you laugh against his lips as he begins pushing the sheet from your body. 

“You have to be nice to me. I got shot, remember?”

“Right. And how long ago was this, approximately?”

“It was 19 days before my 28th birthday.”

So much for approximations. 

“Aw. You got shot for your 28th birthday?”

It’s his turn to laugh into the kiss as he carefully rolls over you but recovers quickly, assuming a deadpan delivery. 

“Yeah. And it was really bad.”

“Sexy,” you murmur as he kisses down your jaw. “Tell me more.”

“Shots to the leg can be life-threatening if the femoral artery is nicked. Thankfully the bullet missed mine. You’re welcome.”

Your heart skips with a split second of true anxiety, but you snort at his cavalier attitude. 

“Yeah? This is really working for me.”

He lowers his voice to the one he uses in more intimate contexts and you giggle as he explains his gunshot wound to you like it’s dirty talk. 

“The bullet went in through my rectus femoris…” now uninhibited by the sheet, he finds the spot on your thigh and pinches lightly, “and came out clean through my semitendinosis muscle.”

“Clean? No bone fragments?”

“Nope. The doctors said I was extremely lucky it didn’t splinter my femur but it completely destroyed my muscles. I had to do physical therapy for a year and a half and I had a cane for months.”

“That’s kind of hot,” you breathe, losing commitment to the bit as his kisses get lower and his hand creeps higher. 

“Wait until you hear about the mid-surgery aortic clamping and ligature complications. You’ll love this—I was awake the whole time.”

A soft moan slips from between your parted lips and your brows pinch. 

“Spencer—”

“What?” He murmurs. “Me getting shot in the leg isn’t sexy anymore?”

You manage something between a breathy laugh and a mewl as your back arches. 

“I’m gonna kill you.”

He hums against your throat. 

“Good luck. You’d be far from the first to try.”

[sortagaysortahigh]

Taste | Joaquin Torres

A/N: Hey guysss, this is based on this req! for a sex pollen fic. NOW YALL DON'T BEAT ME UP OK THIS IS MY FIRST SEX POLLEN FIC EVER! But anyways, yall know i had to throw exes to lovers/idiots in love in the mix, I'm a plot girl what can I say! Everyone say thank you to @love-chx for beta-ing ts for me, love that hoe <3

Summary: Desk duty at the Avengers compound was simple work, but throw in your obnoxious ex-boyfriend Joaquin, and a plant from a different planet, and you have a whole other problem on your hands.

Warnings: spelling and grammar errors (girl it is what it is ok), 2nd person POV, use of y/n, cursing, SAMBUCKY SUPREMACY WOO!!!, mentions of overdose (ibuprofen/in a joking way?), implied childhood trauma, Smut: Dubcon bc sex pollen, kissing, handjobs, oral (f & m receiving), smacking/spanking, spitting, choking, hair pulling, unprotected p in v, rough sex, biting, hickies, joaquin is mister munch ok, multiple orgasms/overstimulation, creampies, squirting, dirty talk, praise, idk sex love confessions (i am who i am once again), switch!reader and switch!joaquin these two are UGH

Word count: 8k

Joaquin Torres x Fem!Reader

Honestly guys, i just wanna kiss this man on the mouth <3

Today is simply not your day. 

You had a terrible morning, waking up late with a headache that had you contemplating overdosing on Ibuprofen—if that was even possible—and because you were so late for work, you were stuck on desk duty. 

Desk duty wasn’t inherently bad or boring, not when you worked with the Avengers themselves, even if the team was an odd mixture of clearly depressed ex-criminals and happy-go-lucky heroes that loved their job.

But desk duty meant dealing with Joaquin Torres. 

A year and a half ago you would’ve been perfectly content working out of the compound with Joaquin at your side. At that point in time, you and him were actually in a happy relationship, but following his accident and his depressed period, the relationship got worse, and he constantly pushed you away.

Eventually, you were tired of being pushed away. It wasn’t as if he was subtle about it, you two would get into fight and fight, all of which revolved around him telling you that you were ‘too much’ or that you needed to ‘stop trying to make him feel better’. So you’d broken up with him.

It’s been almost eight months, and of course, the first few were awkward and tense. However, you both chose to swallow your pride and force the facade that nothing was wrong. Well, at least whenever everyone else was around. 

Technically speaking, you weren’t an Avenger, you just worked for Sam and Bucky post-Blip. Granted, they did recruit you in Madripoor when they’d realized you were a one-way stop for any and all information. 

You didn’t have any superpowers or enhanced abilities, you just knew your way around blackmail, fighting, and information reconnaissance. It was obvious that they needed someone like you, and after questioning why you were in Madripoor, they did feel a bit bad for you.

The whole ‘childhood trauma, parental abandonment in a country with no real laws’ thing solidified their need to take you in. Although if it was anywhere but Madripoor, their method of getting you on their side would’ve been considered kidnapping, especially considering one minute you were in Madripoor at a bar, the next you were waking up on a plane flying back to the States.

But that was several years ago, and you were over it.

For the most part.

Working for Sam and Bucky wasn’t exactly difficult, you just dealt with recon, sometimes going on missions with the team, and other times you’d be in the air or at the compound. 

Desk duty typically correlated to being at the compound.

Today, things weren’t difficult, all you really had to do was hack into a few satellites, pull some information, and that was it. Then you’d be free to wander around the tower or take a trip through the city—the same things you did every day.

However, it was as if Joaquin made it his end goal to piss you off every single day or maybe that was in your head. 

The second you’d gotten down to your typical workspace—a smaller room located off of the main lab filled with different sized monitors, a few seats, and of course, your series of neatly organized pens and stationary—Joaquin was already in your usual seat with one of your pens between his teeth.

He was slightly hunched over the desk, pulling geographical data from several different sources, brows knit together with his teeth grinding against the green pen as he concentrated. He also had a set of headphones on, so he didn’t notice your presence in the room, not until you were snatching the pen out of his hands with an annoyed expression.

You waited for him to push the headphones off, he looked at you as if you were utterly insane.

“The hell was that for? What, you woke up in a pissy mood or something?” 

You rolled your eyes. “Get the hell out of my seat. And stop chewing on my damn pens! Don’t you have another room to work out of! This compound is gigantic and somehow you always end up in my space.” 

Joaquin shrugged. “It’s nicer in here. You’ve got the whole room decked out like the blonde from Criminal minds. Besides, I’m supposed to be working with you—so why would I work somewhere else? Y’know if you would’ve gotten up three hours ago, you could’ve been on the plane out of here with Buck.”

He leaned back in the chair, still looking directly at you, a smirk on his face at the sight of you clenching your jaw. You were visibly angry, that much he knew. 

Joaquin always knew how to get under your skin, he also knew almost everything about you, the perk of being your annoying ex-boyfriend. It wasn’t as if he had it out for you, and he completely understood why you’d broken up with him in the first place. But, deep down, he did still harbor his feelings for you, so he liked being close to you.

Even if you hated it.

“You’re insufferable, Torres. Now get out of my seat!” you grabbed his arm, planting your feet firmly before practically hauling him off of the chair, the action catching him by surprise, leading to him stumbling directly into you.

The pain in your head was now in your back as you laid flat on the ground with Joaquin on top of you. He practically tackled you to the ground, you tried grabbing onto one of the large tables to brace yourself, however, you hadn’t let go of his arm.

“If you wanted me on top of you, you could’ve just asked baby.” He winked as he rolled off of you, softly laughing while he smiled, glancing over at you.

You stared at the ceiling, blinking several times as you tried not to scream at him. Plus you were in pain. Admittedly, you could take a hit, however, today wasn’t your day, and you were five minutes away from crying tears of frustration. So you opted to get off of the ground, giving him the middle finger before sitting in your usual desk chair, swivelling to face the screens, picking up directly where he’d left off.

Joaquin got off of the ground, pulling another chair beside you before plopping into it.

“You okay baby?” He placed a hand over your forearm, which you quickly shoved off.

“Fuck off Joaquin, I’m already have a shitty morning, now my back hurts and my head hurts and I’m tired. Just shut up so we can sit in silence and work.” 

He slowly nodded, except instead of scooting away, he stood up, moving behind you before lightly pushing your upper body forward. Then his hands were on your shoulders, thumbs applying the perfect amount of pressure into your tense shoulder blades. The way he always used to—except he used to do way more than just your shoulders.

You tried to shrug him off at first. Joaquin sighed, “Don’t start, just let me take care of you for five minutes. You can go back to being the Wicked Witch of the West after.”

You nodded, jaw clenched as you tried to remain annoyed with him. But it was always hard to be annoyed with Joaquin. Sure you absolutely wanted to wring his neck half the time, but following your break up, you’d gotten to see him recover in more ways than one. It’d taken time, but he was finally himself again, and he learned how to cope with the mental and emotional stress from the incident.

Part of you always considered what it would be like to get back together with him. The other part, the part that was still a bit heartbroken, always shut it down. 

It was easier to be mean to Joaquin than to be his friend. Being his friend was a slippery slope that you weren’t ready for. 

Or at least, you’d convinced yourself you weren’t ready for it.

The next hour passed in a peaceful silence. Joaquin eventually sat back down, pulling up different screens, comparing his information to yours, ensuring that the both of you were actually pulling the correct satellites and getting into the right systems. He’d even had time to run a few different programs, sorting through bits and pieces of foreign software.

But the lab going into lockdown caught you both off guard. The lights flashed red for several seconds before the typical lockdown alarm went off. Typically this only happened when foreign or dangerous substances needed to be contained. 

You were the first to stand up, shushing Joaquin when he tried to protest you going into the main lab. You blinked a few times, looking around the room, trying to figure out what would’ve set the security system off.

There were several different specimens that had been brought back from multiple missions worldwide over the past two months, most of them were deemed safe enough to leave in the open, as long as they were in their own containment cubes. So you walked through the lab, taking a mental note of everything, trying to remember what was what based on the information Peter Parker had provided.

Joaquin groaned, following right behind you. “Could you not run into the face of danger every five minutes?”

You shushed him again. “Please, this is a highly secured base. The only people breaking and entering would be literal aliens, and we would’ve already known that. One of the specimens is probably in a broken container or something.” 

He nodded, following you, eyes tracing the room, until they landed on a pink glittery mist surrounding a somewhat shattered glass case which contained a very large plant. He cleared his throat, then elbowed you lightly.

“Uh—like that?” Joaquin pointed directly at the mist, which was clearly spreading through the air.

“Yeah, exactly like that. Move so I can go get a better look.” He grabbed your arm as you tried to walk past him.

“Is this really a good idea?” 

You rolled your eyes at him. “Joaquin, we’re already in the room with the mist, it’s most likely already in our systems. It’s just a plant, it’s not like we’re gonna die.” 

He scoffed, shaking his head as you walked across the tiled floors, humming a tune as you got closer to the mist. Joaquin grimmaced as he followed behind you, teeth clenched tightly together as if he was anticipating getting hit by something.

But the mist didn’t do much, if anything it smelled just like you—like your favorite perfume mixed with your shampoo. It was nice and soothing, before he was even processing it, he took a deep inhale of it as you stepped around the broken glass to get a better look at the plant behind it.

Your brows knit together, the smell was incredibly familiar, it didn’t take much for you to recognize it as Joaquin—which was odd. Considering a plant wouldn’t smell like him. Then you were slipping your hand into the large broken gap of the glass container—this glass was supposed to be the equivalent to bulletproof so it was strange that a plant managed to shatter it.

Then you felt the thickness in the air, as if the container was humid and the air was condensed. 

“What the hell are you?” you whispered as you got closer, getting a better look at the large vibrant plant. It was clearly not something earthly, probably one of the items found at an old Hydra base. But you couldn’t deny that the plant was beautiful, however, when it spurred a gust of pink air into your face, you inhaled deeply as you gasped, coughing from the impact.

Clearly that’s how the glass managed to shatter, a buildup of pressure from whatever the hell the plant was releasing.

You stumbled back, directly into Joaquin—who managed to steady you. His hands were on your waist while you stared ahead. Then you felt it, the heat overtaking your entire body. You were practically on fire, and incredibly uncomfortable in the confines of your clothing. 

The second you moved away from Joaquin, the heat became painful, your eyes widening at the shooting pain in your waist specifically. Then you turned to look at him, his eyes were blown with lust—you recognized that look. You’d known it well at one point. 

He bit his bottom lip as he stared at you with hooded eyes, a clear red flush to his skin, chest rapidly rising and falling as he tried to process what was happening to him. Joaquin’s entire mind was consumed by you, consumed by memories of you writhing beneath him, moaning his name like a prayer, your hands on him—his hands on you, it was as if his brain was managing to replay each and every time the both of you had sex.

Joaquin was hard, harder than he’d been in a long time, and he was sweating. His skin was on fire to the point that he was shrugging off the U-Miami hoodie he had on as he stepped away from you, and away from the slowly dissipating—or rather slowly spreading—mist. 

“Shit—baby you need to get the hell away from me. Like now.” 

You blinked a few times, looking at him, watching as he ripped his sweater off, tossing it on the ground before reaching for his belt—that’s when your eyes caught the prominent bulge. The sight sent a shock through you, then you had goosebumps. You were somehow freezing and burning simultaneously.

Then the memories started flooding in, the sight of him on top of you, below you, between your thighs, the way he’d moan in your ear, his teeth and lips against your skin. It had you taking several steps back, nearly falling after walking directly into a metal side table, knocking its contents to the ground.

Joaquin groaned, running a hand through his hair, the heat unbearable at this point. He pulled his shirt off, throwing it elsewhere as fast as possible. “Shit—don’t look at me like that baby.” He ran both hands along his face, looking up at the ceiling, hands clenching and unclenching. 

The pain that came with the heat made it difficult to breathe, Joaquin leaned against the closest table to him, letting out a few laughs, shaking his head at the circumstance.

“You mean to tell me, there’s a sex plant just sitting in the lab, and of all people to get stuck with it—it’s you and me baby? It couldn’t have been like Sam and Bucky—or John and Ava? Or really anyone else?” 

You scoffed at that, pulling your own sweatshirt off, tossing it on the table to your side. “Oh what, you wanted to get stuck in here with Ava or Yelena—or maybe even Kate?” 

He now turned to face you, blinking several times as he shook his head. “Are you trying to start a fight with me right now? As if I’m not over here dying—thinking about you and all of the things I’ve done and want to do to you? Now you choose to act jealous and mean?”

You shook your head at him, taking a few deep breaths, trying to fight the pain, but your knees were feeling wobbly, and you couldn’t stop staring at Joaquin’s chest—eyes tracing his defined abdomen and the familiar trail of hair that had you licking your lips. You did your best to lean against the metal table, both hands gripping the edges of it.

“It hurts doesn’t it? Fuck—I know it’s hurting me.” Joaquin winced as he spoke, gaze on you, watching as you struggled to hold yourself up. He knew better than to go help you, he truly did, but that didn’t stop him from walking across the area and pulling you closer to him before picking you up bridal style, practically whimpering at the feeling of you against him—then he walked away from the broken glass, scattered tables, and the plant. 

He put you down on the small sofa you’d forced him to move into your office space a year ago. Joaquin tried not to focus on the way you winced the second he let go of you.

Then you looked at him, holding eye contact as you licked your lips. “Joaquin I need you to fuck me.” There wasn’t an ounce of hesitation in your words, and that had his eyes widening.

“Are you sure this is what you want—baby I don’t think I can control myself—like once we start I just—” 

You sit up, ignoring the pain shooting through your body as you pulled him into you, smashing your lips against his.

Joaquin easily melted into the kiss, and the relief you both felt at the contact was mind-numbing. 

You pulled back first, biting his bottom lip. “I don’t give a shit about control Joaquin, I want you to fuck me—I’m in so much fucking pain.” Your words were harsh before kissing him again, hands in his hair, tugging at the strands while he leaned closer into you, lips parted, tongue against yours, moaning against your lips.

He pulled away for a few seconds, just to sit on the sofa and pull you into his lap, lips back on yours, his hands on your waist, bunching up the old t-shirt you had on. Fingers now digging into your skin as you started grinding yourself against him.

“You gotta take these off, Hermosa—” He tugged on the waistband of your sweats. You nodded at him, biting his bottom lip again before standing back up, letting him tug them off before you were kicking them to the side.

It wasn’t long before you were undoing his belt and tugging at his jeans. 

Joaquin moaned beneath you, you were like a woman possessed, and he would do anything and everything for you. 

His lips moved along your jaw, then down your throat, leaving a series of nips against your skin. Joaquin moaned against your throat as you slid your hand below his jeans, then as you grasped his cock, he bit against your shoulder—earning a loud whine from you. 

“Fuck—okay stop—shit.” His strained voice caught you off guard, you blinked a few times, pulling your hand away while he rested his forehead against your shoulder. 

Joaquin’s head was spinning at this point, all he could think about was being between your thighs. “I need to taste you—shit baby y’gonna let me taste you?” He sounded so breathy and desperate as he looked at you.

You nodded, without any hesitation and let him manhandle you back onto the couch. He was shoving you against the cushions while making his way between your thighs.

Joaquin moaned at the sight of your damp panties, a large dark spot on the grey fabric. He leaned in closer, nose against it, inhaling your scent before licking a flat stripe along the gusset of your panties. He then kissed along your inner thighs, biting into the skin a few times—leaving marks while your hands were in his hair.

“Fuck—missed you so much. Taste so good—all the time. I dream about this—about you like this.” He spoke as he kissed along your panties again, then he was pulling them to the side, moaning while taking in your glistening cunt.

Your back arched the second his tongue was on you. Joaquin licked a flat stripe along your cunt from top to bottom—over and over again. Groaning against you before sliding his tongue along your sopping entrance.

“So fuckin wet—” Then his tongue was inside of you and you were practically seeing stars. Joaquin liked it messy, that was a fact that you’d learned early on in your relationship with him. He practically pressed his entire face against your cunt, the sharp angle of his nose pressing firmly against your clit as his tongue darted in and out of you.

He was allconsuming. You felt like you couldn’t breathe, your back arched even more as you tried to close your legs—attempting to push him away. 

Joaquin wasn’t having that, he held your thighs in place, practically pinning you down as he continued his motions, pushing you closer and closer to the edge until you were moaning his name and creaming all over his tongue. 

He was a moaning, whimpering mess between your thighs. But he didn’t let up, making you cum somehow made him feel better—it soothed the burn throughout his entire body. He moved from your fluttering hole to your clit, tongue swirling around the swollen bundle as he finally looked up at you—your eyes squeezed shut as you bit your bottom lip, grinding your hips against his face as best as you could.

“Joaquin—fuck—fuck!” The overstimulation had all of your nerve endings on fire, or maybe it was the pollen, you didn’t know and you didn’t care. Not when he was sucking on your clit and moaning against your cunt. 

Then you felt his fingers against your entrance, two easily sliding in, the stretch was so familiar. It had your head spinning.

Joaquin alternated from sucking on your clit to swirling his tongue against it. Even taking the time to rapidly flick his tongue along it, listening to your high pitched moans as his fingers slowly curled into you. He pulled away from your clit to look at you. “Look at me baby, let me see those pretty eyes.”

You nodded slowly, eyes fluttering open as you looked down at him, his mouth back on your clit, fingers moving a bit faster inside of you. Your ears were ringing, and the heat in your body was finally dissipating, but there was a lingering pain—as if this wasn’t enough.

You shook your head at him “Joaquin—I need more.” 

He raised a single brow, fingers rapidly fucking into you as he slid in a third, the newfound stretch had you practically mewling, tugging his hair so hard his scalp was starting to sting. Then you were whimpering his name, struggling to keep your eyes open as he sucked on your clit—pushing you right over the edge.

Joaquin’s fingers kept going, fucking you through your orgasm, ushering a new wave of heat in your body.

You were shoving him away this time, shaking your head, low pleas for him to stop. 

Then he sat back on his haunches, looking up at you, his lips and chin covered in your slick as he slowly slid his fingers out of your cunt. 

“S’fuckin greedy—look at you. Just begging for more huh? Tell me what you need, baby, I’ll give you everything.” His voice was deeper than usual, he was still on fire, a thin layer of sweat coating his skin as he looked at you, eyes trailing over your figure, still wearing the same loose t-shirt. Except now he was processing that the shirt was his.

“I need you—” 

He nodded his head, brows raised, smirking, “Yeah, what about me?” 

You rolled your eyes a bit, sitting up further before taking off the shirt and tossing it at him, fanning yourself with a hand, trying to combat the heat, wincing at the pain in your abdomen. 

“Joaquin, please I need your cock—please.” You sounded so needy and miserable as you looked at him, shaking your head slightly “It hurts—need you to make it stop hurting.”

That’s all it took for him to be up, kicking his jeans off, letting his clothes fall to the ground before he was back on the sofa, pulling you directly onto his lap without a care in the world. He took a few seconds to undo the frilly pink bra you had on, moaning at the sight of your tits in his face.

“Missed these a lot.” Then his hands were on them, massaging them before tugging on your nipples. A few high pitched gasps leaving your lips. Then his tongue was along your throat again, licking across your salty skin, letting out a low moan as he sucked a few marks against the swell of your breasts. 

Joaquin didn’t hesitate to run his tongue along your nipples, then he pulled one into his mouth, sucking on it before lightly biting into it. 

Your hands were all over him, moving from his hair, to his shoulders, to his chest. Nails scratching along his skin—the feeling had his eyes rolling back slightly.

Then you were grasping onto his cock again, hand wrapped around the thick shaft, slowly rising and falling, then your thumb was rubbing against the head of his cock, spreading his precum all around—using it to move your hand faster. 

He moaned against your chest, pulling away, resting his head against the wall, lips parted as he moaned your name. Then you leaned forward a bit, spitting directly onto his cock, moving your hand even faster before kissing along his neck, biting against his pulse point slightly—the way he liked it.

Joaquin bucked his hips up into your hand, guttural moans leaving his lips while you kissed along his exposed skin. Your open mouthed kisses cooled him down just enough, then you were practically mirroring his previous actions, licking a flat stripe along his neck, from the base of his shoulder to his ear. Then your tongue was trailing the edge of his ear before you tugged it between your teeth.

“C’mon baby—you know what I like.” His voice was strained as your hand moved faster. You let go of his ear, now inches away from his face, your free hand caressing his jaw as your thumb tugged on his bottom lip. He nodded his lead, licking his lips slightly before opening his mouth a bit wider. 

You didn’t hesitate to spit.

His tongue was against yours in seconds, the kiss was sloppy, spit practically gliding along your chin as he kissed you with his all. 

You moved the hand on his cock, gently angling it down a bit before sliding it right along your dripping cunt. He moaned into your lips at the feeling of you grinding against his length. Your hips moving back and forth against him. 

When you pulled back from the kiss, a thin string of spit connected your bottom lip to his, and he couldn’t stop staring at it. So Joaquin kissed you again.

Your hips shifted again, you whimpered against his lips the second you managed to line the head of his cock up with your hole—then you were sliding yourself onto him—moaning against his lips as he slowly stretched you out.

The burning pain was slipping away, but all you felt was want. You wanted all of Joaquin—every last part of him and then some.

He bit your bottom lip before moaning against your mouth. Joaquin practically shuddered at the feeling of you sliding down his cock, his entire head hazy now.

“Fuck—missed this pussy so much baby, feels so good wrapped around me. So fuckin’ tight, need you to move. Fuckin use me—” He moaned your name, head back against the wall as he bit down on his bottom lip. Joaquin’s eyes were shut as you started slowly rocking against him, then you were lifting up and dropping yourself back down. His hands dug into your waist, fingers bruising against the soft skin while you bounced on his cock.

You’d never felt this good before, the pleasure was short circuiting you. All you could focus on was fucking yourself against Joaquin’s cock. You barely registered anything you were saying. “So fuckin big—fuck feels so good—oh my god—Joaquin.” His name slipped past your lips in a low whine.

You used his shoulders as leverage, nails digging into his skin as you kept your motions up, chasing your own high without a singular care in the world. You smiled and bit your lip, head thrown back as you bounced.

You felt as if you were simultaneously fully conscious and absolutely out of your mind.

The pleasure had you on cloud nine, in a state of pure ecstasy. 

Joaquin looked at you, moaning at the sight of your tits bouncing with each movement, then he looked down, biting his bottom lip at the ring of your cream on his cock, watching as you practically swallowed his cock. 

“Just like that Hermosa, you take it so fuckin good—so fuckin pretty. Cunt’s so fuckin wet—missed me didn’t she?” 

You nodded at his words, eyes slowly opening as you looked at him. The second you’d made eye contact his hand was around your throat, fingers pressed against your pulse point—restricting enough to make you feel light headed. 

“Joaquin—fuck I’m gonna”  You took a sharp inhale one of your hands now grasping onto his forearm, hips slightly faltering as you gushed along his cock. He thrusted up into you as you came, nodding his head, mumbling praises that you couldn’t comprehend while you made a mess of him.

“Fuck—love it when you get messy for me baby.” 

You nodded your head at him, slightly out of breath as he kept fucking up into you. 

You thought the pain would’ve been gone by now, but even for the few seconds of relief you felt, another surge of painful heat would spread throughout your entire body. 

Joaquin was still painfully hard, he’d never lasted this long in his life. Especially not with you bouncing on his cock. His hips snapped up into yours as you leaned further into him, your face resting against the crook of his neck. His hands moved now, one still on your waist, the other planting a series of firm smacks against your ass.

You were whimpering, low moans and whines directly against his skin. 

This wasn’t enough for either of you.

Joaquin was gentle as he helped you slide off of him. You two shared a look, a silent agreement that had you on your hands and knees, while he used the sofa for leverage, two hands on your waist as you slowly spread your thighs apart more. He laughed as you gave up on holding your upper body up with your hands, instead resting your face against one of the decorative cushions on the sofa. 

Then he was teasing you—gliding his cock along your glistening cunt, tapping the head against your swollen clit a few times before fully lining himself up with you. 

“Ask for it nicely, Sweetheart.”

You groaned, rolling your eyes slightly, feeling a little more like yourself now. Or at least you did until he landed another smack to your ass, then you felt it—he used one hand to spread you open, spitting directly onto your other hole, his thumb now teasing it. There were a few things that you and Joaquin hadn’t tried before—and this was one of them.

“Joaquin—please.”

You blamed the pollen, it had to have been the pollen that was making you move your hips back into his hand, practically inviting his thumb in. 

“Fuck, you’re so filthy baby, missed you so much. I’ll be nice to you today.” Then Joaquin bottomed out, cock filling you in a way that had you practically drooling. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head at the new angle, he was so deep—you loved every second of it.

It wasn’t long before his thumb was sliding directly into your ass, the newfound stretch made your toes curl as your cunt clenched around him. Then your hips were meeting his strokes, grinding yourself back against him—lost in the pleasure.

Joaquin was a moaning mess, muttering curses under his breath as he fucked into you, thrusting hard and deep, listening to your whines and whimpers. 

“I’m sorry baby—It’s a lot I know—but, fuck, you feel so good.” He bit his bottom lip after speaking, you whimpered in response, then he was picking up the speed of his thrusts, practically pounding into you—the couch rocking against the wall with every movement. 

“Don’t worry pretty girl, I remember how you like it.” Joaquin’s voice was low as he spoke, gaze focused on the way your cunt welcomed every single thrust, your inner thighs with a sheen wetness from your dripping center—this had to be what heaven felt like.

Then he was leaning forward, practically caging you in before sliding a hand below you, wrapping it around your neck again. The closeness sent a shiver of relief down both of your spines, he paused his movements for a brief second as you did your best to look back at him.

“What's wrong baby? You need something?” 

You nodded at him, Joaquin always knew how to read you—even during sex.

“I need you to kiss me.”

He smiled at that, nodding his head before leaning further into you, lips on yours as you struggled to kiss him back. Then Joaquin started fucking into you again, holding you in place against him—forcing you to take everything he gave you.

You loved every second of it.

You were moaning against his lips, doing your best to kiss him back, your efforts were pathetic. Joaquin was all consuming, you couldn’t think of anything else but Joaquin and the pleasure coursing through your veins, your legs shaking as another orgasm swiftly approached.

“That’s it baby, squeezing me so good—fuck you’re gonna cum huh? Cum all over my cock—give it to me. Want you creaming all over me again.” His voice was low as he spoke, a mix of moans slipping out between his words while he kept fucking into you, the pace brutal—but so fucking good.

You nodded your head, forehead resting against his slightly, the angle a bit awkward as you whined his name, cunt squeezing his cock in a way that had his head spinning.

But Joaquin still couldn’t cum—and he was getting frustrated.

He fucked you through your orgasm, trying to chase his own, but it wasn’t working—he was so close but something was missing.

“F-fuck it’s too much baby—Joaquin please—” 

He nodded, kissing your forehead before pulling out of you, moaning at the sight of your fucked out pussy. Something possessed him in that moment, suddenly he was on his knees, hands on your upper thighs, holding you in place as his tongue was back against you.

Joaquin licked into your cunt as if it was his last meal—he loved going down on you so maybe it made sense that he just wanted to be between your thighs again. 

You were practically shaking as he tongue fucked you, landing rough smacks to your thighs and ass every now and then, your whines only spurring him on more. 

He had you cumming again in minutes—your back arching even harder as you reached back, tugging on his dark curls, grinding yourself against his face as you were coating his chin in your nectar again.

Joaquin kissed against your cunt one last time before pulling away. You were a panting mess on the sofa, ass in the air as you gripped against the cushions with tears falling along your cheeks.

Then you finally looked at him, eyes widening at the sight of his still hard cock. “Quino you still haven't finished?” you were so breathless as you spoke, but the old nickname had him biting his bottom lip, nodding his head at you.

Joaquin watched as you slowly sat up, now looking up at him while he stood a few steps away, then your gaze dropped to his cock, a shiny layer of your juices coating him. His tip was flushed red as he grasped himself, running a hand along his shaft—moaning softly at the sense of relief.

“Let me help you—I know what you like.” 

He nodded his head as you reached forward, grabbing his hand, a silent plea for him to sit down. Then you grasped a pillow, placing it on the floor between his legs before kneeling down. 

The sight of you on your knees between his thighs was enough to have him twitching, you bit your bottom lip as you looked up at him—right into his eyes. Then you grasped his cock, leaning forward to spit on it again, spreading it with your hand as you maintained eye contact.

At this point, your pain was gone, the lingering heat still there—but manageable.

Nothing compared to Joaquin, who felt as if he was burning alive in the deepest layer of hell.

You trailed your tongue along the thick vein on the underside of his cock, slowly—deliberately. You repeated the motion a few times before swirling it around the tip of his cock, pulling it into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks as you harshly sucked on it. 

His hand was in your hair in seconds, then you moaned against him—and that had him bucking his hips. Joaquin’s eyes widened as you gagged against his cock. Then he gently pulled you away from him. “Shit, fuck, I’m sorry baby—that was a lot.” 

You giggled, nodding your head “Yeah? You wanna fuck my face Quino?” 

Joaquin practically choked on air at your sultry tone, eyes wide as he looked down at you. “Please—fuck please.”

Then you wrapped your lips back around him, winking before taking more of his cock into your mouth and down your throat, gagging slightly as you bobbed your head. Then you grasped one of his hands in your own, a reassuring squeeze—a soft message. Joaquin nodded his head again, moaning before he started bucking his hips.

He started off slow, testing your limits, moaning every time you’d gag around him. But the pleading look in your eye—he knew that look and he knew you wanted it.

Before you knew it, Joaquin was guiding your movements and full on fucking your face, letting out strings of moans mixed with curses at the feeling. 

You were taking it, looking up at him with teary eyes, spit drooling along your chin. 

Joaquin was positive he was still in love with you—this exact moment solidified that. 

You tapped on his thigh a few times, he got the message, slowly pulling back, giving you a second to catch your breath. Your drunken giggle had him blushing—if that was even possible at this point. You looked so cockdrunk and fucked out as you stared at him.

“Joaquin” 

He nodded his head, looking at you, brows raised as he caught his breath.

“I want you to cum inside of me.” 

His jaw was practically on the floor at your words, and it wasn’t long before he had you flat against the couch again, slotted perfectly between your thighs as he looked down at you, a few loose curls slightly brushing against your forehead before you pulled him into a kiss.

As you kissed him, Joaquin lined himself up with your entrance and you locked a leg around his waist. Then he was bottoming out inside of you again, both of you moaning against one another’s lips. 

He kissed you with his all, pouring months of unspoken emotions into this as he rocked his hips into you, fucking you much slower than before. Hard, deep, and slow—the way he knew you loved it. 

Your nails dug into his back, scratching along his skin as you rolled your hips against him.

“Fuck—feels so good baby—still so fuckin tight.” He rested his head in the crook of your neck while he fucked you, his body still on fire, but this was different—he was chasing his high. He was so close, he could feel it in his bones, a numbing pleasure taking over.

“Just like that Quino, fuck, just like that! Oh my god—Oh my god!” your back was arching into him as you felt yourself getting closer and closer, the coil in your abdomen so tight it hurt, you needed to cum—desperately.

So did Joaquin.

Then you grasped his hair, tugging him back slightly, he looked down at you as you looked into his eyes. “I missed you—fuck missed you so much.” Then your lips were on his gain, pulling him into another sloppy desperate kiss.

He didn’t hesitate to kiss you back, and he kissed you until he felt as if he couldn’t breathe, pulling away to rest his forehead against yours, feeling himself right on the edge. 

“Want you to cum Joaquin—wanna feel it—please cum for me.” Yourwords were quiet whines as you pressed a few quick kisses to his lips. But that didn’t send him over the edge.

No, what sent Joaquin over the edge was your breathless whispers, praising him, and a short, almost shallow “I love you—”

He moaned your name like a prayer as his hips stilled, warmth spreading through you as thick ropes of cum decorate your walls. You moaned against him, feeling euphoric as you came again.

The two of you stayed like that for several minutes, neither speaking a single word as he practically collapsed against you. Your hands tracing circles into his back while he rested his head in the crook of your neck—avoiding looking at you. 

Then you cleared your throat. 

“As much as I like the whole, post-sex cuddle. We need to talk about what the hell just happened, Joaquin.” 

He groaned, nodding his head as he slowly pulled out of you, pressing soft kisses against your neck as you winced at the feeling. 

“Sorry baby, I know—shit I’m sorry.” He spoke softly while moving back, eyes trailing your face as you clenched your jaw and hissed, back arching uncomfortably. As soon as he pulled out of you, he was up, on his feet, pulling his jeans back on for a quick second before rummaging through your drawers until he found a box of tissues and an unopened water bottle.

You sat up on your elbows, brows knit together as you watched him. Then he was sliding your legs open, a breathy “fuck—missed seeing this” leaving his lips before he was gently cleaning you up, touches featherlight as he did his best to take care of you.

“Stop staring at me like I have three heads, you know I always do this for you after we have sex.” He spoke without even looking up at you, now focused on cleaning up your thighs, tossing the used tissues into a small trash can he also dragged over. 

“Yeah but we don’t have sex anymore, and we’re not together—so you really don’t need to do this.” You spoke softly, confusion evident in your tone while you looked at him. 

Joaquin rolled his eyes, raising a single brow as he finally met your eyes. “So I’m supposed to fuck the woman I’m in love with and leave her a jumbled, fucked out mess on the couch? Over the past eight months have you just been dating assholes or something?” 

You blinked a few times, now sitting up, arms crossed over your chest—trying to cover yourself as if he hadn’t seen you before. Joaquin handed you the shirt you’d been wearing before, one of his older worn out U Miami t-shirts that you’d stolen a month into dating him. You mumbled a quick ‘thanks’ before slipping it on. 

“And before you start thinking too hard, the way you always do. Yes I said I’m in love with you, I’ve never stopped loving you, and I know why you broke up with me. It was valid, and I don’t think I was ever really mad at you for it. I love you, without a single doubt in my mind, I love you. It didn’t take that weird sex plant for me to know that, I’ve known it since the day you punched me in the face.”

You blinked a few times, brows knit together. “I punched you on the plane leaving Madripoor because you scared the shit out of me!” 

“Exactly. Why the hell do you think I chased after you for so long? Because I just had a crush on you. I feel like we’ve had this talk before. What matters now is I tell you, I’m in love with you. I like to annoy you because I think you look pretty when you’re irritated with me.”

He paused, looking around for his shirt, brows knit together at the realization that it wasn’t there.

“I’m not sure if it’s safe to go back out there—but anyways. I like spending my time with you, I choose desk duty sometimes just to be around you, even if it makes you mad. I know you don’t hate me, not when you were whimpering that you loved me while we’re fucking in missionary of all positions.” 

Joaquin spoke with his hands, the sight made you laugh, then you bit your lip, trying to remain serious. He easily caught on to you laughing at him, shaking his head slightly.

“So, since we’re both on the same page—being you’re totally in love with me and I’m totally in love with you. I think we should go on a date tomorrow, give us a second shot?” 

You smiled at him, rolling your eyes. “Only if you promise not to chew on my pens anymore.” 

He scoffed. “Hell no! I can’t promise that, it’s a habit, besides, your pens are the perfect kind of plastic for it.”

“You’re such a child Joaquin!” You were full on laughing now, shaking your head at him.

“Okay, at least I can admit to having childish habits, little miss I still wear clothes I stole from my ex-boyfriend. Wait—did you ever wear my clothes around other guys?!” 

You rolled your eyes at him, now standing up and heading back into the main area of the lab, ignoring his protests as you looked around, now noticing a minor glitter in the air—but nothing as major as before. The plant itself looked calmer, as if it fulfilled its purpose and was now lying dormant again.

You were quick to collect your clothes and his, tossing it at him while he followed you around.

“Well! I need an answer baby, I’ll be heartbroken if any other losers got to see how sexy you look in my clothes!” 

You rolled your eyes, walking back into your office space as Joaquin followed suit, now pulling his shirt on.

“Joaquin Torres, do you really think I dated anyone over the time that we were broken up?” 

He shrugged as you turned to face him. “I dunno, maybe you tried the whole ‘get over one person, get under another’ thing. But you’re not really good at casual sex—I mean look at how we ended up.” 

You scoffed, shoving him. He was right though, the entire reason your relationship with Joaquin had ever started was because you were both drunk and decided to hook up on a random night, from there, casual sex quickly turned into something that wasn’t casual whatsoever.

“So that’s a no then? Good because I thought I was a desperate loser for holding onto the hope that I’d be able to win you back.” He pulled you against him, hands on your waist as he looked at you, a wide smile on his face. “You’re it for me baby.”

You rolled your eyes again, smiling before kissing him.

Then a loud shout caught your attention, both of you pulling away from one another at the sound of Sam and Bucky arguing over the mess in the lab.

“What the hell happened here?!” 

A scoff followed by, “Well Buck, maybe if you listened to me instead of leaving all of the weird shit we find on missions out in the open, there wouldn’t be glass all over the ground and that freaky ass plant sitting there.”

When Sam and Bucky came into sight, both of them paused, eyes wide as they noticed you and Joaquin’s disheveled appearance, the pile of clothing on the small coffee table in your usual office, and the very evident bruises along Joaquin’s throat.

“I told you it was a damn sex plant! Bruce said to burn it! Now look, those two were getting freaky on camera! Jesus Christ—” Sam turned his gaze from Bucky to you and Joaquin, voice louder now “You two, pull the last few hours of footage from in here and burn it! I don’t need to be traumatized tonight.”

Bucky sighed, patting Sam on the back as they started walking out.

“I’m glad you two made up!” was the last thing you heard before the lab doors shut again.

“If those two ever got stuck in a situation like this, who would break first? Sam or Bucky?” Joaquin glanced in their direction, then back at you while wiggling his brows.

“I’d say Bucky definitely, he’s touch starved—he’d be all over Sam. Now onto important subjects, where are you taking me for our date?”

Joaquin smiled, kissing you again. “Wherever you want.”

[thepencilnerd]

A Lesson In Fear Extinction | part I

pairing: professor!Jack Abbot x f!psych phd student reader summary: You’re a senior doctoral student in the clinical department, burned out and emotionally barricaded, just trying to finish your final few years when Jack Abbot—trauma researcher, new committee member, and unexpectedly perceptive—starts seeing through you in ways you didn’t anticipate wc: 11.9k content/warnings: academic!AU, slow burn (takes places over 3 years lbffr), frat boys being gross + depictions of unwanted male attention/verbal harassment, academic power dynamics, emotional repression, discussions of mental health, mutual pining, hurt/comfort, angst, so much yearning, canon divergence, no explicit smut (yet/tbd but still 18+ MDNI, i will fight u) a/n: this started as a slow-burn AU and spiraled into a study in mutual repression, avoidant-attachment, and me trying to resolve my personal baggage through writing ~yet again~ p.s. indubitably inspired by @hotelraleigh and their incredible mohan x abbot fic (and all of their fics that live in my head rent free, tyvm) i hope you stay tuned for part II (coming soon, pinky promise) ^-^

The first thing you learn about Dr. Jack Abbot is that he hates small talk. That, and that he has a death glare potent enough to silence even the most self-important faculty members in the psych department.

The second thing you learn is that he runs his office like a bunker—door usually half-shut, always a little too cold, shelves lined with books no one's touched in decades. You step inside for your first meeting, and it feels like entering a war room.

"You’re early," he says, without looking up from the annotated manuscript he’s scribbling on.

"It's the first day of the school year."

"Same difference."

You take a seat, balancing your laptop on your knees. Your fingers hover over the keyboard, unsure if you should even bother.

Dr. Abbot finally glances up. Hazel eyes, sharp behind silver-framed glasses. "Let’s make this easy. Tell me what you’re working on and what you want from me."

You hesitate. Not because you don’t know. You’ve been rehearsing this on the walk over. You just hadn’t planned on him cutting through the pleasantries quite so fast.

"I’m running a mixed methods study on affective forecasting errors in anxiety and depression. Lab-based mood induction, longitudinal survey follow-up, and semi-structured interviews. I'm trying to map discrepancies between predicted and experienced affect and how that mismatch contributes to maladaptive emotion regulation patterns over time."

A beat.

"So you're testing whether people with anxiety and depression are bad at predicting their own feelings."

You blink. "Yes."

"Good. Start with that next time."

You bite the tip of your tongue. Roll the flesh between your teeth to ground yourself. There is no next time, you want to say. You’re only meeting with him once, to get sign-off on your committee. He wasn’t your first choice. Wasn't even your second. But your advisor's on sabbatical, and the other quantitative faculty are already overbooked.

Dr. Abbot leans back in his chair, examining you. "You’re primary is Robby, right?"

"Technically, yes."

He hums, not bothering to hide the skepticism. "And you want me on your committee because...?"

"Because you published that meta-analysis on PTSD and chronic stress. Your work on cumulative trauma exposure and dysregulated affect dovetails with mine on stress-related trajectories for internalizing disorders and comorbidity. I thought you might actually get what I’m trying to do."

His brow lifts, just slightly. "You did your homework."

"Well, I’m asking you for feedback on a dissertation that will probably make me break down countless times before it's done. Figured I should know what I was getting into."

Dr. Abbot's mouth twitches. You wouldn’t call it a smile, exactly. But it’s something.

"Alright," he says, flipping open a calendar. "Let’s see if we can find a time next week to go over your proposal draft."

You arch a brow. "You’ll do it?"

"You came in prepared. And you didn’t waste my time—as much as the other fourth years. That gets you further than you’d think around here."

You nod, heart thudding. Not because you’re nervous.

Because you have the weirdest feeling that Jack Abbot just became your biggest academic problem—and your most unexpected ally.

You see him again the next day. Robby was enjoying his last remaining few weeks of paternity leave and graciously asked Jack to sub for his foundations of clinical psychology course. Jack preferred the word coerced but was silenced by a text message with a photo of a child attached. The baby was cute enough to warrant blackmail. 

He barely got through the door intact: balancing a coffee cup between his teeth, cradling a half-closed laptop under one arm, and wrangling the straps of a clearly ancient backpack. His limp is more pronounced today. The small cohort watches him with a mix of curiosity and vague alarm.

You’re in the front row, laptop open before he even gets to the podium.

Jack drops everything onto the lectern with a heavy exhale, then glances around. His eyes catch on you and pause—not recognition yet, just flicker. Then he turns back to plug in his laptop.

You don’t expect to see him again two days later, striding into the 200-level general psych class you TA. The room’s already three-quarters of the way full when he walks in, and it takes him a moment before he does a brief double-take in your direction.

You return your attention to your notes. Jack stares.

"Small world."

"Nice to see you too, Dr. Abbot."

He sighs. "Why am I not surprised."

"Because the annual stipend increase doesn't adjust for inflation, I'm desperate, and there aren't enough grants given the current state of events?"

Jack mutters something under his breath about cosmic punishment and unfolds the syllabus from his coat pocket like it personally betrayed him.

When he finally settles at the front—coffee in one hand, laptop balancing precariously on the desk—you catch him bending and straightening his knee just under the edge of the table, jaw set tight. It’s subtle. Anyone else might miss it. But you’ve been watching.

You say nothing. 

A few students linger with questions—mostly undergrads eager to impress, notebooks clutched to their chests, rattling off textbook jargon in shaky voices. Jack humors them, mostly. Nods here, clarification there. But his eyes flick to you more than once.

You take your time with the stack of late enrollment passes. He’s still watching when you sling your tote over one shoulder and head for the door.

Probably off to the lab. Or your cubicle in the main psych building. Wherever fourth years disappear to when they aren’t shadowing faculty or training underqualified and overzealous research assistants on data collection procedures.

Jack shifts his weight onto his good leg and half-listens to the sophomore with the over-highlighted textbook.

His eyes stay on you when you walk out.

You make it three steps past the stairwell before the sound of your name stops you. It’s not loud—more like a clipped murmur through the general noise of backpacks zipping and chairs scraping—but it cuts straight through.

You turn back.

Jack’s still at the front, the stragglers now filtering out behind him. He doesn’t wave. Doesn’t beckon. Just meets your gaze like he already knows you’ll wait. You do.

He makes his way toward you slowly, favoring one leg. The closer he gets, the more you notice—the way his hand tightens on the strap of his backpack, the exhausted pull at his brow. He’s not masking as well today.

"Thanks for not saying anything," he says when he stops beside you.

You shrug. "Didn’t seem like you needed an audience."

Jack huffs a laugh, dry and faintly surprised. "Most people mean well, but—"

"They hover," you finish. "Or overcompensate. Or say something weird and then try to walk it back."

"Exactly."

You both stand there for a beat too long, campus noise shifting around you like a slow tide.

"I was heading to the coffee shop," you say finally. "Did you want anything?"

Jack tilts his head. "Bribery?"

"Positive reinforcement." The words trail behind a small grin. 

He shakes his head, mouth twitching. "Probably had enough caffeine for the day."

The corner of your lip curls higher. "As if there's such a thing."

That earns you a half-huff, half-scoff—just enough to let you believe you might have amused him.

"Well," you say, taking a step backward, "I’ve got three more RAs to train and one very stubborn loop to fix. See you around, Dr. Abbot."

"Good luck," he says, voice low but steady. "Don’t let the building eat you alive."

The next time he sees you, it’s after 10 p.m. on a Thursday.

You hadn’t planned on staying that late. But the dinosaur of a computer kept crashing, two of your participants no-showed, and by the time you’d salvaged the afternoon’s data to pull, it was easier to crash on the grad lounge couch than face the lone commute back to your apartment.

You must’ve fallen asleep halfway through reading feedback from your committee—curled up with your legs splayed over the edge of the couch and laptop perched on the cheap coffee table. The hall is mostly dark when Jack walks past. He’s heading toward the parking lot when he stops, mid-step.

For a moment, he just stands there, taking in the sight of you tucked awkwardly into yourself. You look comfortable in your oversized hoodie, if not for the highlighter cap still tucked between your fingers and mouth parted in a silent snore. 

He doesn’t say anything. Just watches you breathe for a few seconds longer than necessary.

Then, maybe with more curiosity than concern, he raps his knuckles gently against the doorframe. Once. Twice. Three times for good measure. 

No response.

Jack steps inside and calls out, voice pitched low but insistent. "This is not a sustainable sleep schedule, you know."

You stir—just barely. A vague groan escapes your lips as you shift and swat clumsily in the direction of the noise. "Just five more minutes... need to run reliability analyses..."

Jack chuckles, genuine and surprised.

He leans against the wall, watching you with no urgency to leave. "Dreaming about data cleaning. Impressive."

You make a small, unintelligible noise and swat again, this time with a little more conviction. Jack snorts.

After a moment, he sighs. Then carefully crosses the room, picks up the crumpled throw blanket from the floor, and drapes it over you without ceremony.

He flicks off the overheads and closes the door behind him with a quiet click. The hallway hums with fluorescent buzz as he limps toward the parking lot, shoulders tucked in against the chill.

A few weeks into the semester, the rhythm settles—lecture, discussion, grading, rinse and repeat. But today, something shifts.

You’re stacking quizzes at the front of the general psych lecture hall when Jack catches movement out of the corner of his eye. Two male students—frat-adjacent, all oversized hoodies and entitled swagger—approach your desk.

Jack looks up from his laptop. His expression doesn’t shift, but something in his posture does—a subtle, perceptible freeze. He watches from where he’s still packing up—hand paused on his laptop case, jaw tight, eyes narrowing just slightly as he takes in the dynamic. There’s a flicker of tension behind his glasses, a pause that says: if you needed him, he’d step in.

They swagger up with the kind of smirks you’ve seen too many times before—overconfident, under-read, and powered by too many YouTube clips of alpha male podcasts.

"Yo, TA—what’s up?" one says, leaning far too close to your desk. "Was gonna ask something about the exam, but figured I’d shoot my shot first. You free later? Coffee on me."

His friend elbows him like he’s a comedic genius. "Yeah, like maybe we could pick your brain about, like, how to get into grad school. You probably have all the insider tricks, right?"

You don’t even blink.

"Sure," you say sweetly. "I’d love to review your application materials. Bring your CV, your transcript, three letters of rec, and proof that you’ve read the Title IX policy in full. Bonus points if you can make it through a meeting without quoting Andrew Tate—or I’ll assume you’re trying to get yourself suspended." 

They stare. You smile.

One laughs uncertainly. The other mutters something about how "damn, okay," and both slink away.

Jack’s jaw works once. Then relaxes.

You glance up, like you knew he’d been watching.

"Well handled," he says, voice low as he steps beside you.

You offer a nonchalant shrug. "First years are getting bolder."

"Bold is one word for it."

You hand him a stack of leftover forms. "Relax, Dr. Abbot. I’ve survived undergrads before. I’ll survive again."

Jack gives a small, amused grunt. Then, after a beat: "You can call me Jack."

You glance up, brow raised. 

"Feels a little formal to keep pretending we’re strangers.

You don’t say anything right away. Just nod once, almost imperceptibly, then go back to gathering your things.

He doesn’t push it.

It’s raining hard enough to rattle the windows.

You’re having what your cohort half-jokingly calls a "good brain day"—sentences coming easy, theory clicking into place, citations at your fingertips. You barely notice the weather.

Jack glances up from your chapter draft as you launch into a point about predictive error and affective flattening. He doesn't interrupt. His eyes follow how you pace—one hand gesturing, the other holding your annotated copy, words sharp and certain.

Eventually, you pause mid-thought and glance at him.

He's already looking at you. 

Your hand flies up to cover your mouth. "Shit. I'm sorry—"

Jack shakes his head, lips twitching at the corners. "Don’t apologize. That was… brilliant."

You blink at him, the compliment stalling your momentum. The automatic response bubbles up fast—some joke to deflect, to downplay. You don't say it. Not this time.

Still, your fingers tighten slightly on the edge of the desk. "I don't know about brilliant..."

Jack doesn’t look away. "I do."

The silence stretches—not awkward, exactly, but thick. His gaze doesn’t waver, and it holds something steady and burning behind it.

You glance down at your annotated draft. The silence stays between you like a taut wire.

Jack doesn’t fill it. Just waits—gaze unwavering, as if giving you time to come to your own conclusion. No pressure, no indulgent smile. Just a quiet, grounded certainty that settles between you like weight.

Eventually, you exhale. The tension loosens—not completely, but enough to keep going.

"Okay," you murmur, almost to yourself.

Jack nods once, slowly. Then gestures at your printed draft. "Let’s talk about your integration of mindfulness in the discussion section. I’ve got a few thoughts."

Ethics is the last class of the week. The room's heating is inconsistent, the lights too bright, and Jack doesn’t know how the hell he ended up covering for Frank Langdon. Probably the same way he got stuck with Foundations and General Psych: Robby. The department’s too damn small and apparently everyone with a baby gets to vanish into thin air.

He steps into the room ten minutes early, coffee already lukewarm, and makes a half-hearted attempt to adjust the podium screen. The first few students trickle in, then more. He flips through the lecture slides, barely registering them.

And then he sees you.

You’re near the back, chatting with someone Jack doesn’t recognize. Another grad student by the look of him—slouched posture, soft jaw, navy sweater. The guy’s grinning like he thinks he’s charming. He leans in a little too close to your chair. Says something Jack can’t hear.

Jack tells himself he’s only looking because the guy seems familiar. Maybe someone from Walsh’s lab. Or Garcia’s. 

You laugh at something—light, genuine.

Jack tries not to react.

Navy Sweater says something else, more animated now. He gestures to your laptop. Points to something. You nudge his hand away with a grin and say something back that makes him blush.

Jack flips the page on his lecture notes without reading a word.

You’re still smiling when you finally glance up toward the podium.

Your eyes meet.

Jack doesn’t look away. But he doesn’t smile either.

The guy beside you says something else. You nod politely.

But you’re not looking at him anymore.

The next time you're in Jack’s office, the air feels different—autumn sharp outside, but warm in here.

He notices things. Not all at once, but cumulatively.

Your hair’s longer now. It’s subtle, but the ends graze your jaw in a way they hadn’t before. You’ve started wearing darker shades—amber, forest green, burgundy—instead of the lighter neutrals from early fall. Small changes. Seasonal shifts.

He doesn’t say anything about any of that.

But then he sees it.

A faint smudge of something high on your neck, near the curve of your jaw.

"Rough night?" he asks, lightly. The tone’s casual, but his eyes stay there a second too long.

You look up, blinking. Then seem to realize. "Oh. No, it’s—nothing."

He raises an eyebrow, just once. Doesn’t press.

What you don’t say: you went on a date last night. Your first real date since your second year. Navy Sweater—Isaac—had been sweet. Patient. Social psych, so he talked about group dynamics and interdependence theory instead of clinical cases. A refreshing change from your usual context. He’d been pining for you since orientation. You finally gave him a chance.

You’re not sure yet if it was a mistake.

Jack doesn’t ask again. He just shifts his attention back to your printed draft, flipping a page without comment.

But you can feel it—that subtle change in the room. Like something under the surface has started to stir.

Jack doesn’t speak again for the rest of the meeting, at least not about anything that isn’t your manuscript. But the temperature between you has shifted, unmistakable even in silence.

His feedback is sharp, incisive, and you take it all in—but your focus tugs sideways more than once.

You start to notice little things. The way his hands move when he talks—precise, economical, almost always with a pen twirling between his fingers. The way he reads with his whole posture—leaned in slightly, brows furrowed, lips moving just barely like he’s tasting the cadence of each sentence. How he always wears button-downs, sleeves pushed up to the elbows, like he’s never quite comfortable in them.

You catch the faint scruff at his jawline, the flecks of gray you hadn’t seen before in the fluorescent classroom light. The quiet groan of his office chair as he shifts to get more comfortable—though he never quite does. The occasional tap of his fingers against the desk when he’s thinking. The way his eyes track you when you pace, like he’s cataloging your rhythm.

When he leans in to gesture at a line in your text, you’re aware of his proximity in a way you hadn’t been before. The warmth that radiates off him. The way his breath hitches just slightly before he speaks.

When you ask a clarifying question, he meets your eyes and holds the gaze a fraction too long.

It shouldn’t mean anything. It probably doesn’t.

Still, when you pack up to leave, you don’t rush. Neither does he.

He walks you to the door, stops just short of it.

"Good luck with the coding," he says.

You nod. "Thanks. See you next week."

He hesitates, then nods once more. "Yeah. Next week."

And when you leave his office, the echo of that pause follows you down the hall.

At home, Jack goes through the same routine he always does. He hangs up his coat. Places his keys in the ceramic dish by the door. Fills the kettle. Rinses a clean mug from the rack without thinking—habit, even if it’s just for himself.

Then he sits down on the edge of the couch and unbuckles the prosthetic from his leg with practiced efficiency. He leans forward, slow and deliberate, and cleans the area with a soft cloth, checking the skin for signs of irritation before applying a thin layer of ointment. Only then does he begin to massage the tender spot where his leg ends, pressing the heel of his palm just enough to release tension. The ache is dull tonight, but persistent. It always is when the weather shifts.

He doesn’t turn on the TV. When he buckles it back on and gets up again, he moves around his apartment quietly, the limp less noticeable this time around.

While the water heats, he scrolls through emails on his phone—most from admin, flagged with false urgency. A few unread messages from students, one from a journal editor asking for another reviewer on a manuscript that costs too much to publish open access. He deletes half, archives another third. Wonders when it became so easy to ignore what used to feel so important.

The kettle whistles. He pours the water over the tea bag and sets it down, not bothering with the stack of essays he meant to look at hours ago.

He doesn’t touch them.

Not yet.

Tonight, his rhythm is off.

Instead, he looks over your latest draft after dinner, meaning only to skim. He finds himself rereading the same paragraph three times, mind somewhere else entirely. Your words, your phrasing, your comments in the margins—he's memorizing them. Not intentionally. It just happens.

Later, brushing his teeth, Jack thinks of how you’d looked that afternoon: eyes sharp, expression animated, tucked into a wool sweater the color of cinnamon. Hair falling forward when you tilted your head to listen, then swept back with one distracted hand. A little ink smudged on your finger. The edge of a smile you didn’t know you were wearing.

He wonders if you know how often you pace when you’re deep in thought. How your whole posture changes when something clicks—like your bones remember before your voice does. How you gesture with the same hand you write with, sometimes forgetting you’re holding a pen at all.

He tells himself it’s just professional attentiveness. That he’s tuned into all his students this way. That noticing you in detail is part of his job.

But it’s a lie. And the truth has started to settle into his bones.

He closes his laptop, shuts off the light.

He dreams in fragments—lecture notes and old conference halls, the scent of rain-soaked leaves, the sound of your voice mid-sentence. The ghost of a laugh.

He doesn’t remember the shape of the dream when he wakes.

Only the warmth that lingers in its place.

Across town, you’re on another date with Isaac.

He’s funny tonight—quick with dry quips, gentler than you'd expected. He walks you to a small café far from campus, one you’ve driven by a dozen times but never tried. He orders chai with oat milk. You get the pumpkin spice out of spite.

"Pumpkin spice, really?" he teases. "Living the stereotype."

"It’s autumn," you shoot back. "Let me have one basic pleasure."

You talk about everything but your dissertation—TV shows, childhood pets, the worst advice you’ve ever received from an advisor. Inevitably, you steer the conversation into something about work. It's a habit you seem to remember having since your earliest academic days, and one you don't see yourself breaking free from anytime soon.

"My undergrad advisor once told me I’d never get into grad school unless I stopped sounding ‘so West Coast.’ Still not sure what that means."

Isaac laughs. "Mine told me to pick a research topic ‘I wouldn’t mind reading about for the rest of my life.’ As if anyone wants to read their own lit review twice."

You laugh—genuine, belly-deep. Isaac flushes with pride and takes a long sip of his chai, eyes bright.

It's easy with him, you think. Talking, breathing, being. You lean back in your chair, cup warm between your palms, and realize you should feel more present than you do.

He’s exactly what you thought you needed. Different. Outside your orbit. Not tangled up in diagnoses or a department that feels more like a pressure cooker every day.

But still, your mind drifts. Not far. Just enough.

Back to the way Jack had looked at you earlier that day. The pause before he spoke. The silence that wasn’t quite silence.

You can’t put your finger on it. You don’t want to.

Isaac reaches across the table to brush his fingers against yours. You let him.

And yet.

You catch yourself glancing toward the door as he brushes your fingers. Just once. Barely perceptible. A flicker of something unformed tugging at the edge of your attention.

Not for any reason you can name. Not because anything happened. But because something did—quiet and slow and not easily undone.

You remember the way his brow furrowed as he read your chapter, the steadiness in his voice when he called your argument brilliant, the way he looked at you like the room had narrowed down to a single point.

Isaac is sweet. Funny. Steady. You should be here.

But your mind keeps slipping sideways.

And Jack Abbot—stubborn, sharp, unreadable Jack—is suddenly everywhere. In the cadence of a sentence you revise, where you hear his voice in your head asking, 'Why this framework? Why now?' In the questions you don’t ask Isaac because you already know how Jack would answer them—precise, cutting, but never unkind. In the sudden, irritating way you want someone to challenge you just a little more. To push back, to poke holes, to see if your argument still stands.

You find yourself wondering what he’s doing tonight. If he’s at home, pacing through a quiet, single-family home too large for his own company. If he’s reading someone else’s manuscript with the same intensity. If he ever thinks about the way you looked that afternoon, how you paced his office with fire in your voice and a red pen tucked behind your ear.

You think about the hitch in his breath when you leaned in. The way he’d watched you leave, that pause at the door.

And then Isaac says something—soft, thoughtful—and it takes you a second too long to register it. You nod, distracted, and reach for your drink again.

But your mind is already elsewhere.

Still with someone else.

You take another sip of your drink. Smile at Isaac. Let the moment pass.

But even then, even here—Jack is in the room.

You don’t see Jack again until the following Thursday. It’s raining hard again—something about mid-semester always seems to come with the weather—and the psych building smells like wet paper and overworked radiators.

You’re in the hallway, hunched over a Tupperware of leftover lentils and trying to catch up on grading, when his door creaks open across the hall. You glance up reflexively.

He’s standing there, brow furrowed, papers in hand. He spots you. Freezes.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. The hallway is quiet, just the hum of fluorescents and the distant murmur of a class in session. Then:

"Grading?" he asks, voice lower than usual—quiet, but unmistakably curious.

You lift your fork, deadpan. "Don’t sound so jealous."

Jack’s mouth twitches—almost a smile. A pause, then: "You’re in Langdon’s office hours slot, right?"

"Only if I bring snacks," you quip, referring to the way Frank Langdon always lets the TA with snacks cut the line—a running joke in the department.

Jack raises his coffee like a toast. "Then I’ll keep walking." A dry little truce. An unspoken I’ll stay out of your way—unless you want me to stay.

You watch him disappear down the hallway, his limp slightly more pronounced than usual. And you find yourself thinking—about how many times you’ve noticed that, and how many times he’s never once drawn attention to it.

Your spoon scrapes the bottom of the container. You try to return to grading.

You don’t get much done.

Later that afternoon, you’re back in the general psych lecture hall, perched on the side of the desk with your TA notes while Jack clicks through the day’s slides. It’s the second time he’s teaching this unit and he’s not even pretending to follow the script. You know him well enough now to catch the subtle shifts—when he goes off-book, lets the theory breathe.

He doesn’t look at you while he lectures, but you can tell when he’s aware of you. The slight change in cadence, the way his eyes flick toward the front row where you sometimes sit, sometimes stand.

Today’s lecture is on conditioning. Classical, operant, extinction.

At one point, Jack pauses at the podium. He’s talking about fear responses—conditioned reactions, the body’s anticipatory wiring, what it takes to unlearn a threat. You’ve heard this part a dozen times in college and a dozen more in grad school. You’ve written about it. You've published on it. 

But when he says, "Fear isn’t erased. It’s overwritten," his eyes flick toward you—just for a second.

And your heart trips a little. Not in a dramatic, cinematic way—more like a misstep in rhythm, a skipped beat in a song you thought you knew by heart. Your breath catches for half a second, and you feel the heat rush to the tips of your ears.

It’s absurd, maybe. Definitely. But the tone of his voice when he said it—that measured, worn certainty—lands somewhere deep inside you. Not clinical. Not abstract. It feels like he’s speaking to something unspoken, to a part of you you've tried to keep quiet.

You shift your weight, pretending to re-stack a paper that doesn’t need re-stacking, pulse louder than it should be in your ears.

From your seat on the edge of the desk, you can see the way he gestures with his hand, slow and spare, like every movement costs something. The way he leans on his good leg. The way the muscles in his forearm flex as he flips to the next slide, still speaking, still teaching—none of this showing on his face.

Your eyes keep drifting back.

And he doesn’t look at you again. Not for the rest of the lecture.

But you feel the weight of that glance long after the class ends.

You stay after class, mostly to gather the quiz sheets and handouts. A few students linger, asking Jack questions about the exam. You hear him shift into that firm-but-generous tone he uses with undergrads, the kind that makes them think he’s colder than he is. Efficient. Clear.

When the last student finally packs up and leaves the room, Jack straightens. His eyes find you, soft but unreadable.

"Good lecture," you say.

He hums. "Not bad for a recycled deck."

You hand him the stack of forms. "You made it your own."

His thumb brushes over the edge of the papers. "So did you."

You don’t ask what he means. But the quiet between you feels different than it did at the start of the semester.

The room is mostly empty. Just the two of you. You're caught somewhere between impulse and caution. Approach and avoidance. There's a pull in your chest, low and slow, that makes you want to linger a second longer. To say something else. To ask about the lecture, or the line he looked at you during, or the kind of day he's had. But your voice sticks.

Instead, you shift again, adjust your grip on the papers in your hands, and let it all stay unsaid. But Jack’s already turned back toward the podium, gathering his things.

He doesn’t look up right away. Just slides his laptop into its case with more force than necessary, his jaw set tight. He’s annoyed with himself. The kind of annoyance that comes from knowing he missed something—not a moment, exactly, but the shadow of one. An opening. And he let it pass.

There was a question in your eyes. Or maybe not a question—maybe a dare. Maybe just the start of one. And he didn’t rise to meet it.

He tells himself that’s good. That’s safe. That’s professional.

But it doesn’t feel like a win.

His hand pauses on the zipper. He breathes out through his nose, not quite a sigh. Then glances toward the door.

You’re already gone.

You let the moment pass.

But you feel it. Like something just under the surface, waiting for another breach in the routine.

It happens late one evening, entirely by accident.

You’re in your office, door mostly closed, light still on. You meant to leave hours ago—meant to finish your email and call it—but the combination of caffeine and a dataset that refused to make sense kept you tethered to your desk.

Jack’s on his way out of the building when he hears it: a muffled sound from behind a half-open door just across the hallway from his own. He pauses, backtracks, and realizes for the first time exactly where your office is.

He hears it again—a quiet sniffle, then a low, barely-there laugh like you’re trying to brush it off.

He knocks.

You don’t answer.

"Hey," he says, voice just loud enough to carry but still gentle. "You alright?"

The sound of your chair creaking. A breath caught in your throat.

"Shit—Jack." You swipe at your face automatically, the name out before you think about it.

He steps just inside, not crossing the threshold. "Didn’t mean to scare you."

You shake your head, still blinking fast. "No, I just—burned out. Hit a wall. It’s fine. Nothing serious. Just… one of those days." You try for a joke.

Jack’s eyes sweep the room. The state of your desk. The way your sweater sleeves are pulled down over your hands. He shifts his weight.

There’s a long pause. Then he says, softer, "Can I—?"

You furrow your brows for a moment before nodding.

He steps in and leaves the door slightly cracked open behind him. He remains by the edge of your desk, a respectful distance between you. His presence is quiet but steady, and he doesn't pry with questions.

You exhale slowly, suddenly aware of the sting behind your eyes and how tight your shoulders have been all day. You look down, embarrassed, and when you reach for a tissue, your hand grazes his by accident.

You both freeze.

It’s nothing, really. A brush of skin. But it lands like something else. Not unwelcome. Not forgotten.

Jack doesn’t pull away. But he doesn’t linger, either.

Jack doesn’t move at first. He watches you for a moment longer, the quiet in the room settling unevenly.

"You sure you’re alright?" he asks, voice low, unreadable.

You nod, quick. "Yeah. I’m fine."

It comes too fast. Reflexive. But it lands the way you want it to—firm, closed.

Jack nods slowly. He doesn’t push. "Okay."

He steps back, finally. "Just—don’t stay too late, alright?"

You offer a smaller nod.

He hesitates again. Then turns and slips out without another word.

Your office feels warmer once he’s gone.

And your breath feels just a little easier.

Jack makes his way down the hallway toward the faculty lounge with the intention of grabbing a fresh coffee before his office hours. He passes a few students loitering in the corridor—chatter, laughter, the usual.

But then he hears your voice. Quiet, edged. Just outside the lecture hall.

"Isaac, I’m not having this conversation again. Not here."

Jack slows. Doesn’t stop, but slows and finds a small nook just shy of the corner. 

"I just don’t get why you won’t answer a simple question," Isaac says. "Are you seeing someone else or not?"

There’s a pause. Jack glances down at the coffee in his hand and debates turning around.

But then he hears your exhale—sharp, frustrated. "No. I’m not."

Isaac huffs. "Then what is this? You’re always somewhere else—even when we’re out, even on weekends. It’s like your head’s in another fucking dimension."

Jack feels the hairs on his neck stand up. He sees you standing with your back half-turned to Isaac, arms crossed tightly over your chest. Isaac’s face is flushed, his voice a little too loud for the setting. Your posture is still—too still.

Jack doesn’t step in. Not yet. He stays just out of sight, near the hallway alcove. Close enough to hear. Close enough to watch.

You draw in a long breath. When you speak, your voice is level, cold. "I just don’t think I’m in the right place to be in a relationship right now."

Isaac’s expression shifts—confused, hurt.

Jack watches the edge of your profile. How your shoulders lock into place. How your eyes go distant, like you’re powering down every soft part of yourself.

He doesn’t breathe.

Then someone laughs down the hallway, and the moment breaks. Isaac looks over his shoulder, distracted for half a beat, then turns back to you with something sharp in his eyes.

"You’re not even trying," he says, voice low but biting. "I’m giving you everything I’ve got, and you’re... somewhere else. Always."

You stiffen. Jack stays hidden, tension rippling down his spine.

"I know..." you say, voice tight. "I'm sorry. I really am. But this isn’t working."

Isaac’s face contorts. "Seriously? That’s it?"

You shake your head. "You deserve someone who’s fully here. Who wants the same things you do. I’m not that person right now."

He opens his mouth to say something, but your eyes have already gone cold. Guarded. Clinical.

"I don't want to whip out the 'it's not you it's me bullshit'," you continue, each word deliberate. "But this isn’t about you doing something wrong. It’s me. I can’t give more than I’ve already given."

Jack watches the shift in your posture—how you shut it all down, protect the last open pieces of yourself. He recognizes it because he’s done the same.

"I'm sorry." The words are genuine. "You deserve better." Your eyes don't betray you. For a moment, though, your expression softens. You look at Isaac like a kicked dog, like you wish you could offer something kinder. But then it’s gone. Your eyes go cold again, your voice a blade dulled only by exhaustion.

Then someone laughs again down the hallway, closer this time, and the moment scatters. Jack moves past without a word. Doesn’t look at you directly.

But he sees you.

And he doesn’t forget what he saw.

As he passes, you glance up. Your eyes meet.

Only for a second.

Then he’s gone.

Isaac doesn’t notice.

Time passes. You're back in Jack's office for your regular one-on-one—but something is different.

You sit a little straighter. Speak a little quieter. The bright curiosity you usually carry in your voice has hardened, now precise ,restrained. Not icy, but guarded. Pulled taut.

You’re not trying to be unreadable, but you can feel yourself defaulting. Drawing the boundaries back up.

Jack notices.

He doesn’t say anything, but you catch the slight narrowing of his gaze as he listens.

You’d gone all in on this program, this career—your research, your ambitions, your carefully calculated goals. Isaac was the first time you'd tried letting something else in. A possibility. A softness.

And it crashed. Of course it did.

Because that’s what you do. That’s the pattern. You’re excellent at control, planning, systems, at hypothesis testing and case management. But when it comes to anything outside the academic orbit—connection, trust, letting someone see the jagged pieces under the polish—you flinch. You fail.

And you’ve learned not to let that show. Not anymore.

At one point, you trail off mid-sentence. Jack doesn’t fill the silence.

You clear your throat. Try again.

There’s something steadier in his quiet today. You finally finish your point and glance up. His expression is neutral, but his gaze is… undivided.

"Are you okay?"

It catches you off guard. You blink once, not expecting the question, not from him, not here.

You start to nod. Then pause. Your throat feels tight for a second.

"Yeah," you say. "I’m fine."

Jack doesn’t look away. He holds your gaze a moment longer. Not pressing. Not interrogating. Just there.

"You should know better than to lie to a psychologist."

It’s almost a joke. Almost. Just enough curve at the corner of your mouth to soften it. You let out a breath—half a laugh, half a sigh. "Guess I need to reassess my baseline."

Jack leans forward slightly. Then, without saying anything, reaches over and closes your laptop. Slides it just out of reach on the desk.

You open your mouth to protest.

Jack cuts in, quiet but firm. "You need to turn your brain off before it short circuits."

You blink. He continues, gentler this time. "Just for a few minutes. You don’t have to push through every wall. Sometimes it’s okay to sit still. Breathe. Be a human being."

You look down at your hands, fingers curled around a pen you hadn’t realized you were still holding. There’s a long pause before you speak.

"I don’t know how to do that," you admit, voice barely above a whisper.

Jack doesn’t say anything at first. He lets the silence settle. "Start small," he says. "We’re not built to stay in fight-or-flight forever."

The words land heavier than you expect. You stare down at your hands, your knuckles paling against the pressure of your grip. Your breath stutters on the way out.

Jack doesn’t move, but his presence feels closer somehow—like the room has contracted around the two of you, warm and steady.

You set the pen down slowly. Swallow. Your eyes burn, but nothing falls.

Your jaw shifts. Just a fraction.

You don’t say anything at first.

Jack doesn’t either. But he doesn’t look away.

After a beat, he says—careful, quiet—"You want to talk about it?"

You hesitate, eyes fixed on a crease in your jeans. "No."

He waits. "I think you do."

You laugh under your breath. It’s not funny. "This how you talk to all of your clients?"

He doesn't bite.

"You don’t let up, do you?" You're only half-serious.

"I do," he pauses. "When it matters. Just not when my mentee is sitting in front of me looking like the world’s pressing down on their ribcage."

That makes you flinch. Not visibly, not to most. But he sees it. Of course he does. He’s trained to.

You look at your hands. He's not going to let this go so you might as well bite the bullet. "I'm not great at the whole... letting people in thing."

Jack doesn’t respond. Just shifts his weight slightly in his chair—almost imperceptibly. A silent invitation.

Your voice stays quiet. Measured. "I usually just throw myself into work. It’s easier. It’s something I can control."

Still, he says nothing.

You pick at the seam of your sleeve. "Other stuff... it gets messy. Too unpredictable. People are unpredictable."

Jack’s gaze never wavers. He doesn’t push. But the absence of interruption is its own kind of presence—steady, open.

Your lips twitch in a faint, humorless smile. "I know that’s ironic coming from someone studying emotion regulation."

He finally says, softly, "Sometimes the people who study it hardest are the ones trying to figure it out for themselves."

That makes your eyes flick up. His expression is calm. Receptive. No judgment. No smile, either. Just… presence.

You look down again. Your voice even softer now. "I don’t know how to do it. Not really."

Jack doesn’t interrupt. Just shifts, barely, like bracing.

And somehow, that makes you keep going.

"Grad school’s easier. Career’s easier. I can plan. I can control. Everything else just…" You trail off. Shrug, a flicker of helplessness.

He’s still watching you. The way he does when he’s listening hard, like there’s a string between you and he’s waiting to see if you’ll keep tugging it.

"I thought maybe..." You press your lips together. "I thought I could do it. Let someone in. Be a person. A twenty-nine year old, for fuck's sake." Your hands come up to your face. "But it just reminded me why I don’t."

You draw a slow breath. Something in your chest cracks. Not a collapse—just a fault line giving way.

Jack just stares.

Then, slowly, he leans back—not away, but into the quiet. He folds his hands in his lap, thumb tracing a familiar line over his knuckle. A practitioner’s stillness. A kind of careful permission.

"You know," he says, voice low, "when I first started in trauma research, I thought if I understood it well enough, I could outsmart it. Like if I had the right frameworks, if I mapped the pathways right, it wouldn’t touch me."

You glance up.

He exhales through his nose—dry, but not bitter. "Turns out, knowing the symptoms doesn’t stop you from living them. Doesn’t stop the body from remembering."

He doesn’t specify. Doesn’t have to.

His eyes flick to yours. "But you don’t have to be fluent in trust to start learning it. You don’t have to be good at it yet. You just have to let someone sit with you in the silence."

You study him. The sharpness of his jaw, the quiet behind his glasses, the wear in his voice that doesn’t make it weaker.

Your throat tightens, but you don’t speak.

He doesn’t need you to.

He just stays there—anchored. Steady. Unmoving.

Like he's not waiting for you to come undone.

He's waiting for you to believe you don’t have to.

It's Friday night. You’re walking a participant through the start of a lab assessment—part of the longitudinal stress and memory protocol you’ve spent the last year fine-tuning. The task itself is simple enough: a series of conditioned images, paired with soft tones. But you watch the participant's pulse rise on the screen. Notice the minute shift in posture, the tension in their jaw.

You pause. Slow things down.

"Remember," you say gently, "we’re looking at how your body responds when it doesn’t need to anymore. The point isn’t to trick you—it’s to see what happens when the threat isn’t real. When it’s safe."

The participant nods, still uneasy.

You don’t blame them.

Later, the metaphor clings to you like static from laundry fresh out of the dryer. Fear extinction: the process of unlearning what once kept you alive. Or something close to it.

You think of what Jack said. What he didn’t say. The silence he offered like a landing strip.

It replays in your head more than you'd like to admit—the dim warmth of his office, the soft click of your laptop closing, the unexpected steadiness in his voice. No clinical jargon. No agenda. Just space. Permission.

You remember the way he folded his hands. The faint scuff on the corner of his desk. The way he didn’t fill the air with reassurances or advice. Just stayed quiet until the quiet felt less like drowning and more like floating.

And it had made something in your chest stutter—because you'd spent years studying fear responses, coding reactivity curves and salience windows, mapping out prediction error pathways and understanding affect labeling.

But none of your models accounted for the way someone simply sitting with you could ease the grip of it.

Maybe, you think now, as you log the participant's final response, this is what fear extinction looks like outside of a lab setting. Not just reducing reactivity to a blue square or a sharp tone.

But learning—relearning—how it feels to let another person in and survive it.

Maybe Jack wasn’t offering a solution.

Maybe he was offering proof.

Is this what it looked like in practice? Not just in a scanner or a skin conductance chart—but in the quiet, everyday choice of showing up? Staying? 

Perhaps the data is secondary and this is the experiment.

And maybe, just maybe, you’re already in the middle of it.

The new semester begins in a blur of syllabi updates and shuffled office assignments. It's your final year before internship—a fact that looms and hums in the background like a lamp you can't turn off. You’re no longer the quiet, watchful second-year—you’ve published, you've taught, you've survived.

But you’re also exhausted. You’ve become adept at wearing competence like armor.

Jack is teaching an elective course this semester—Epigenetics of Trauma. You're enrolled in it—a course you didn’t technically need, but couldn’t resist for reasons you cared not to admit. 

When you pass him in the hallway—coffee in one hand, a paper balanced on his clipboard—he stops.

"Did you hear the department finally updated the HVAC?" he asks, and it’s not really about the HVAC.

You nod, a wry smile tugging at your mouth. "Barely. Still feels like a sauna most days."

Jack gestures to your cardigan. "And yet you persist."

You grin. It’s a tiny thing. But it stays.

Later that week, he pokes his head into your office between student meetings.

"You’re on the panel for the trauma symposium, right?"

The one you were flying to at the end of October—thanks to Robby, who had playfully threatened to submit your name himself if you didn’t volunteer. He’d needed someone to piggyback off of, he’d said, and who better than his best grad student—who was also swamped with grant deadlines, dissertation chapters, and a growing list of internship applications. You’d rolled your eyes and said yes, of course, because that’s what you did. And maybe because a part of you liked the challenge, academic mascochism and validation and all. 

You nod. "Talk and discussion."

He steps farther in. "If you’re open to it—I’d like to sit in."

You glance up. "You’ve already read the draft."

Jack smiles. "Doesn’t mean I wouldn’t like to hear it out loud."

You lean back slightly, watching him. "You going to grill me from the audience and be that one guy?"

Jack raises an eyebrow, amused. "Wouldn’t dream of it."

You hum. "Mmhm."

But you’re smiling now. Just a little.

It’s not quite vulnerability. Not yet. But it’s a beginning. A reset. The next slow iteration in a long series of exposures. New responses. New learning. Acceptance in the face of uncertainty.

The only way fear ever learns to quiet down.

Robby’s already three beers in and trying to argue that Good Will Hunting is actually a terrible representation of therapy while Mel King—your cohort-mate in the developmental area, always mindful and reserved—defends its emotional core like it’s a thesis chapter she’s still revising in her head.

Mentored by John Shen, Mel studies peer rejection and emotional socialization in early childhood, and she talks about toddlers with the same reverence some people reserve for philosophers. Her dissertation focuses on how early experiences of exclusion and inclusion shape later prosocial behavior, and she can recite every milestone in the Denver Developmental Screening Test like scripture.

She’s known for respectful debates, non-caffeinated bursts of energy, and an uncanny ability to babysit and code data at the same time. The kind of person who shows up with a snack bag labeled for every child at a study visit—and still finds time to coordinate the department's annual "bring your child to work" day. She even makes time to join you and Samira on your Sunday morning farmers market walks, reusable tote slung over one shoulder, ready to talk about plum varieties and which stand has the best sourdough.

Samira Mohan, meanwhile, sits with her signature whiskey sour and a stack of color-coded notecards she pretends not to be working on. She’s in the clinical area too—mentored by Collins—and her work focuses on how minority stress intersects with emotion regulation in underserved populations. Her analyses are razor sharp and sometimes terrifying. Samira rarely speaks unless she knows her words will land precisely—measured, deliberate, the kind of sharp that cuts clean.

Although still in her early prospectus phase, choosing to propose in her fifth year rather than fourth, her dissertation is shaping into a cross-sectional and mixed-methods exploration of how racial and gender minority stressors compound across contexts—academic, familial, and romantic—and the specific emotion regulation repertoires that emerge as survival strategies.

Samira doesn’t stir the pot for fun; she does it when she sees complacency and feels compelled to light a fire under it. That’s the Samira everyone knows and you love—the one who will quietly dismantle your entire line of argument with one clinical observation and a deadpan stare. She does exactly that now, throwing in a quote from bell hooks with the sly smile of someone who knows she’s lit a fuse just to watch it burn. 

It’s a blur of overlapping conversations, familiar inside jokes, cheap spirits, and the particular cadence of a group that knows each other’s pressure points and proposal deadlines down to the day. For a moment you let yourself exist in it—in the din, in the messy affection of your academic family, in the safety you didn’t know you’d built, much less deserved. Samira’s halfway through a story about a disastrous clinical interview when she turns to you, parts her mouth to speak, and looks up behind you—

"So is this where all the cool kids hang out?"

You feel him before you see him—Jack’s presence like a low hum behind you, the soft waft of his cologne cutting through the ambient chatter. The light buzz of conversation has your senses dialed up, awareness prickling at the back of your neck. You don’t turn. You don’t have to.

Robby lets out a loud "whoohoo" as Jack joins the table, hauling him into a bro hug with the miraculously coordinated enthusiasm of someone riding high off departmental gossip. Jack rolls his eyes but doesn’t resist, letting Robby thump his back twice before extracting himself but instead of settling there, he leans down slightly, voice pitched just for you. “Is this seat taken?”

Robby at 12 o'clock, Heather to his left, then Samira, Mel, you, and John. The large circular table meant for twelve suddenly feels exponentially smaller. The tablecloth brushes your knees, heavy and starchy against your lap. You feel warmth creep up your cheeks—probably from the alcohol (definitely not from anything else)—and scoot over slightly closer to Mel, giving him room to squeeze in between you and John. You can feel the shift in the air, the proximity of his sleeve against yours, the silent knowledge that he's there now—anchored in your orbit.

He slides in beside you with a quiet murmur of thanks, the space between your arms barely more than a breath. The conversation continues, but the air feels a little different now.

He nods politely to Shen on his left, mutters something about being tricked into another committee, then glances your way—dry, amused, measured.

Always measured.

You feel Jack beside you—not just his sleeve brushing yours, but his presence, calm and dense as gravity. His knee bumps yours beneath the table once, lightly, maybe unintentional. Maybe not. The cologne still lingers faintly and you try to focus on what Samira is saying about peer-reviewed journals versus reviewer roulette, but it’s impossible to ignore the warmth radiating from his side, the way your skin registers it before your brain does. He's like a human crucible. You keep your gaze trained forward, sipping your drink a little too casually, pretending you don’t notice the way your heartbeat’s caught in your throat.

The charged air gives you a spike of bravery—fleeting, foolish, and just enough. Before you let the doubt creep into your veins, you nudge your knee toward Jack’s beneath the table, thankful for the tablecloth concealing the movement. You feel him exhale beside you—quiet, but unmistakable—and something inside you hums in response.

You feel Jack’s thigh tense against yours. The contact lingers, neither of you moving. Moments pass. Nothing happens.

So you cross your legs slowly, right over left, deliberately, letting the heel of your shoe graze his calf.

He stills.

The conversation around the table doesn’t pause, but you’re aware of every breath, every shift in weight beside you. The air between you tightens, stretched across the tension of everything unsaid.

Everyone else is occupied—Robby and Shen deep in conversation about conference logistics, Heather and Samira bickering over which of them was the worse TA, Mel nodding along and adding commentary between sips of cider. Jack sees the opening and seizes it.

He leans in, just slightly, until his shoulder brushes yours again—barely perceptible. "Subtle," he murmurs, voice pitched low, teasing.

You arch a brow, still facing forward. “I have no idea what you're talking.”

"Of course not," he says, dry. "Just sudden interest in the hem of the tablecloth, is it?"

You swirl your drink, letting the glass tilt in your fingers. "I’m a tactile learner. You know this."

He huffs a quiet breath—could almost be a laugh. "Must make data cleaning a thrilling experience."

"Only when R crashes mid-run." You angle your knee back toward his under the table, a soft bump like punctuation.

Jack tilts his head slightly, eyes flicking to yours. "Dangerous territory."

"Afraid of a little ambiguity, professor?"

His mouth twitches at the title. 

You sip slowly, buying time, letting the quiet between you stretch like a drawn breath. His thigh is still pressed against yours. Still unmoving. Still deliberate.

"You always like to push your luck this much?" you murmur, keeping your eyes trained on your drink.

Jack hums low. "Only when the risk feels... calculated."

You glance at him, the corner of your mouth twitching. "Bit of a reward sensitivity bias tonight, Dr. Abbot?"

He shrugs. "You’ve been unintentionally reinforcing bad behavior."

You smirk, but say nothing, letting the conversation around you swell again. Robby starts ranting about departmental politics, Heather counters with a story about a grant mix-up that almost ended in flames. You sip your drink, Samira taps her notecards absently against her palm.

The rest of the evening hums on, warm and loose around the edges. When it finally winds down—people slowly gathering coats, hugging their goodbyes—you rise with the group, still a little buzzed, still aware of Jack’s presence beside you like heat that never quite left your side.

Under the soft yellow glow of the dim lobby chandelier, everyone says their goodnights—laughing, tipsy, hugging, good vibes all around. Jack is the last to leave the circle, and as you turn toward the elevator, you glance over your shoulder at him. "See you tomorrow," you say. "Last day of the conference—only the most boring panels left."

Jack lifts a brow. "You wound me."

You grin. "I’m just saying—if you show up in sweats and a baseball cap for your presentation, I’ll pretend not to know you."

The elevator dings. The doors slide open. You step inside, leaning against the railing. Jack stays behind. 

"Goodnight," he says, eyes lingering. You nod, then turn, pressing the button for your floor. Just as the doors begin to glide shut, a hand slides into the narrow threshold—the border between hesitation and something else.

Palm flat against the seam. That sliver of metal and air.

He steps in slowly. Quiet. And presses the button for the same floor.

The doors slide shut behind him with a soft hiss.

Silence hums between you.

You don’t speak. Neither does he. But your awareness of each other sharpens—your breath shallow, his jaw tense. The elevator jolts into motion.

Jack shifts slightly, turning his body just enough to lean back against the railing—mirroring you. His arm grazes yours. Then the back of his hand brushes against your knuckles.

A spark—not metaphorical, not imagined—zips down your arm.

Neither of you pulls away.

You glance sideways.

He’s already looking at you.

Your eyes meet—held, quiet.

Not a word is exchanged. But something breaks—clean and sharp, like a snapped circuit. Long-simmering, unvoiced tension rising to the surface, clinging to the pause between heartbeats and motion-sensor lighting.

Jack leans in—not tentative, not teasing. Just close enough that his breath grazes your cheek. Your breath catches. His proximity feels like a fuse. He’s watching you—steady, unreadable. But you feel the pressure in the air shift, charged and thick.

"I don’t know what this is," you finally whisper. Your throat feels incredibly dry. A sharp juxtaposition to the state of your undergarments. 

Jack’s voice dips low. "I think we’ve both been trying not to look too closely."

Your chest tightens. His hand twitches by his side. Flexing. Gripping. Restraint unraveling. His breath shallows, matching yours—fast, hungry, starved of oxygen and logic. And then, like a spark to dry kindling, you thread your fingers through his.

Heat erupts between your palms, a jolt that hits your spine. You don’t flinch. You don’t pull away. You tighten your grip.

He exhales—shaky, like it’s cost him everything not to close the distance between your mouths. The electricity is unbearable, like a dam on the edge of collapse.

And still, neither of you move. Not quite yet.

But the air is thick with the promise: the next breach will not be small.

The elevator dings.

You both flinch—just barely.

The doors slide open.

You release his hand slowly, fingers slipping apart like sand through mesh, reluctant and slow but inevitable. Jack's hands stay in a slightly open grip. 

"I should..." you begin, breath catching. You clear your throat. "Goodnight, Jack."

Your voice is soft. Almost too soft.

Jack nods once. Doesn’t reach again. Doesn’t follow.

"Goodnight," he says. Low, warm. Weighted.

You step out. Don’t look back.

The doors begin to close.

You glance over your shoulder, once—just once.

Your eyes meet through the narrowing gap.

Then the doors seal shut, quiet as breath.

For now.

Contrary to Samira's reappraisal of you joining her for Friday night drinks, you begrudgingly allow her to drag you out of your cave. Just the two of you—girls’ night, no work talk allowed, and no saying "I need to work on my script" more than once. She makes you wear lip gloss and a top that could almost be considered reckless, and you down two tequila sodas before you even start to loosen your shoulders.

You’re halfway through your third drink when a pair of guys approaches—normal-looking, vaguely grad-school adjacent, maybe from public health or law school. Samira gives you a look that says seems safe enough, and you need this, and so you nod. You dance.

The one paired off with you is tall, not unpleasant. He asks before he touches you—his hand at your waist, then your hip, then lightly over your ribs. You nod, give consent. He smells like good cologne and something sugary, and he’s saying all the right things.

But something feels wrong.

You realize it halfway through the song, when his hand brushes the curve of your waist again, gentle and careful and... wrong. Too polite. Too other.

You think of the way Jack’s fingers had curled between yours. The heat of his palm against yours for a single minute in the elevator. The way he hadn’t touched you anywhere else—but it had felt like everything.

You close your eyes, trying to ground yourself. But you can’t stop comparing.

You’ve danced with this stranger for five whole minutes, and it hasn’t come close to the electricity of the sixty seconds you spent not speaking, not kissing, not touching anything else in the elevator with Jack.

It shouldn’t mean anything but it means everything. 

You step back, thanking the guy politely, claiming a bathroom break. He nods, not pushy, already scanning the room.

Samira follows a song change later. "You okay?"

You nod. Then shake your head. Then say, "I think I might be fucked."

Samira just hands you a tissue, already knowing. She looks understanding. Like she sees it, too—and she's not going to mock you for it.

"Yep," she says gently while fixing a stray baby hair by your ear. "Saw it the second Jack joined us for drinks that night." 

The night air feels cooler after the club, like the city is exhaling with you. You and Samira walk back toward the rideshare pickup, her arm looped loosely through yours.

You don’t say anything for a long moment. She doesn’t push.

"I don’t even know what it is," you murmur eventually. "I just know when that guy touched me, it felt like wearing someone else’s coat. Warm, sure, but not mine."

Samira hums in agreement. "Jack feels like your coat?"

"No," you sigh. Then, after a beat, quieter, "He feels like the one thing I forgot I was cold without."

She doesn’t say anything. Not right away. Just squeezes your hand. "So what’re you gonna do about it?"

"Scream. Cry. Have a pre-doctoral crisis," you say flatly.

Samira snorts. "So… Tuesday." You bite back a smile, shoving her shoulder lightly but appreciating the comedic diffusion nonetheless.

She exhales through her nose, gentler now. "If it’s any consolation, I see the way he looks at you."

Your eyes flick toward her. She continues, tone still soft, sincere. "Not just that night during drinks, but during your flash talk. I’ve never seen him that… emotive. It was like he was mesmerized. And even back during seminar last year, when he was filling in for Robby? Same thing. I remember thinking, damn, he listens to her like she’s rewriting gravity."

You should feel elated. Giddy. Instead, you bury your face in your hands and emit a sound that can only be described as a dying pterodactyl emitting its final screech. "I hate my fucking life." 

"It's going to be okay!" Samira tries to hide her laughter but it comes through anyway, making you laugh through teary eyes. "You will be okay." 

You shake your head back and forth, trying to make yourself dizzy in hopes that this was all a dream. 

"Who was it that said 'boys are temporary, education is forever?'" Samira all-but-sang. 

"Do not quote me right now, Mira," you groan, dragging the syllables like they physically pain you. "I am but a husk with a degree-in-progress."

The week that follows is both everything and nothing. You go to class. You show up to lab meetings. You present clean analyses and nod through questions from the new cohort of freshmen. You even draft two paragraphs of your discussion section. One of three discussion sections. It looks like functioning.

Since submitting the last batch of internship applications, your dissertation committee meetings have gone from once a week with each member to once every three. You'd already run all of your main studies, had all the data cleaned and collated, and even coded all of the analyses you intended on running. Now all that was left was the actual writing and compiling of it all for a neat, hundred-or-so-page manuscript that no one would read. 

It’s your first meeting with Jack since flying back from the conference.

In all honesty, you hadn’t given it much thought. Compartmentalization had become a survival strategy, not a skill. It helped you meet deadlines, finish your talk, submit your final batch of internship applications—all while pretending nothing in that elevator happened. At least not in any way that mattered.

Now, seated outside his office with your laptop open and your third coffee in hand, you realize too late: you never really prepared for this part. The after.

You hear the door open behind you. A familiar cadence of steps—steady but slightly uneven. You know that gait.

"Hey," Jack says, as calm and neutral as ever. Like you didn’t almost combust into each other two weeks ago.

You glance up. Smile tight. "Hey."

"Come in?"

You nod. Stand. Follow him inside.

The office is the same as it’s always been—overcrowded with books, one stack threatening to collapse near the filing cabinet. You sit in your usual chair. He sits in his. The silence is comfortable. Professional.

It shouldn’t feel like a loss.

Jack taps a few keys on his laptop. "You sent your methods revisions?"

"Yesterday," you say. "Just a few small clarifications."

He hums. Nods. Clicks something open.

You sip your coffee. Pretend the sting behind your ribs is just caffeine.

The moment stretches.

He finally speaks. "You look… tired."

You smile, faint and crooked. “It’s November.”

Jack lets out a quiet laugh. Then scrolls through the document, silent again.

But the air between you feels thinner now. Like something’s missing. Or maybe like something’s waiting.

He reads.

You watch him.

Not just glance. Not just notice. Watch.

Your coffee cools in your hands, untouched.

He doesn't ask why you weren't at the symposium he moderated. Or if you were running on caffeine and nerves from recent deadlines. And definitely not why you booked an earlier flight home from the conference.

You search his face like it might hold an answer—though you’re not entirely sure what the question is. Something about the last two weeks. The way he hasn’t said anything. The way you haven’t either. The way both of you pretended, remarkably well, that everything was the same.

But Jack’s expression doesn’t change. Not noticeably. He just skims the screen, fingers occasionally tapping his trackpad. The glow from his monitor traces the line of his jaw.

Still, you keep looking. Like maybe if you study him hard enough, you’ll find a hint of something there.

A crack. A tell. A memory.

But he stays unreadable.

Professional.

And you hate that it hurts.

It eats at you.

Why does it hurt?

You knew better than to let this happen. To let it get this far. This was never supposed to be anything other than professional, clinical, tidy. But somewhere between all the late-night edits and long silences, the boundaries started to blur like ink in water. 

You tell yourself to turn it off. That part in your brain responsible for—this—whatever it was. Romantic projection, limerence, foolishness. You’d diagnose it in a heartbeat if it weren’t your own.

You just need to get through this meeting. This last academic year. Then you'd be somewhere far away for internship, and then graduated. That’s all.

Then you could go back to pretending you’re fine. That everything was okay.

The entire time you’d been staring—not at Jack, not directly—but just past his shoulder, toward the bookshelves. Not really seeing them. Just trying to breathe.

Jack had already finished reading through your edits. He read them last night, actually—when your email came through far too late. He’d learned to stay up past his usual bedtime about two weeks into joining your committee.

But he wasn’t just reading. Not now.

He was watching. Noticing the subtle shifts in your brow, the tension at the corners of your mouth. You didn’t look at him, but he didn’t need you to.

Jack studied people for a living. He’d made a career out of it.

And right now, he was studying you.

You snap yourself out of it. A light head bobble. A few quick blinks. A swallow. "All done?" you ask, voice dry. Almost nonchalant, like you hadn’t been staring through him trying to excavate meaning.

Jack lifts an eyebrow, subtle, but nods. "Yeah. Looks solid."

You nod back. Like it’s just another meeting. Like that’s all it ever was.

Then you close your laptop a little too quickly. "I think I’m gonna head out early, I don’t feel great," you offer, keeping your tone breezy, eyes still somewhere over his shoulder.

Jack doesn’t call you on it. Not outright.

But he watches you too long. Like he’s flipping through every frame of this scene in real time, and none of it quite adds up.

"Alright," he says finally. Even. Quiet. "Feel better."

You nod again, already halfway to the door.

You don’t look back.

"Hey—" Jack’s voice catches, right as the door swings shut.

Your hand freezes on the handle.

You hesitate.

But you don’t turn around.

Just one breath.

Then you keep walking.

You make it halfway down the hall before you realize your hands are shaking.

Not much. Barely. Just enough that when you fish your phone out of your coat pocket to check the time, your thumb slips twice before you unlock the screen.

He’d called your name.

And maybe that wouldn’t mean anything—shouldn’t mean anything—except Jack Abbot isn’t the type to call out without a reason. You’ve worked with him long enough to know that. Observed him enough in clinical and classroom settings. Hell, you’ve studied men like him—hyper-controlled, slow to show their hand. You’d written an entire paper on the paradox of behavioral inhibition in high-functioning trauma survivors and then realized, two weeks into seminar, that the paragraph on defensive withdrawal could’ve been subtitled See: Jack Abbot, Case Study #1.

You’d meant to file that away and forget it.

You haven’t forgotten it.

And now you're walking fast, maybe too fast, through the undergrad psych wing like the answer might be waiting for you in your lab inbox or the fluorescence of your office.

You don’t stop until you’re behind a locked door with your laptop powered off and your hands braced on either side of your desk.

You breathe.

In through your nose. Out through your mouth.

Again.

Again.

Still—when you close your eyes, you see the look on his face.

That same unreadable stillness.

Like he wanted to say something else.

Like he knew something else. And maybe—maybe—you did too.

[nephynes]

Hey actually i had an idea like jake or heeseung being an tattoo artist and reader getting her 2nd tattoo, but on butt/or any places that might get him turned on. starting off with normal convo but soon turned really freaky.

oou i was serious when i said i got some really good reqs 🙂‍↕️

MDNI

══════════════════════════

The first time you met Heeseung, it was on this same table, tilted to the side as he hovered over your neck with gloved hands and whispered, "You okay?" every two minutes while tattooing a tiny cross near your ear. He was painfully gentle, ridiculously focused. You remembered thinking, God, he smells so good.

You told yourself you wanted a second tattoo because they were addictive, but deep down, it was Heeseung you were addicted to.

So now you're back. And this time, you don't pick a hidden spot. No, you sit on the edge of the tattoo table and glance up at him through your lashes. "I want two butterflies," you say sweetly, tapping where the curve of your breast meets your rib.

Heeseung chokes on his own breath.

"L–Like there?" His ears flush pink as he gestures, like he's not exactly sure if he's allowed to look.

"Mhm," you hum. "Think it'll look cute?"

He clears his throat, pretending to flip through your intake form again. "Y–Yeah. Yeah, that's a good spot. Great skin there. Soft."

You smile. "You think my skin's soft?"

He freezes, eyes snapping to yours in horror. "I meant—it's—technically, all skin is—I just meant—"

"It's okay, Heeseung," you tease, already tugging your shirt down, slow and deliberate, exposing the top of your lace bra. "You're the professional."

He swallows hard, hands slightly trembling as he pulls on a fresh pair of gloves. The buzzing machine starts up, but his mind is miles away.

You're so warm under his hands. You don't flinch when he touches you to stencil the outline, but you do gasp a little when his knuckle brushes over the swell of your breast by accident. He pauses.

"I'm fine," you murmur, eyes fluttering. "You can keep going."

Heeseung doesn't speak, doesn't dare look you in the eye. But as the tattoo begins, your soft sighs start turning into barely-there whines. And you know exactly what you're doing when you shift slightly—just enough for your nipple to peek out under the fabric of your shirt.

"Shit," Heeseung whispers, backing away.

You tilt your head, biting your lip. "Something wrong?"

Heeseung's hand is steady, but his eyes keep flickering up—quick glances, like he's trying not to notice that your shirt has slipped low, the cup of your bra barely clinging on as you lean back in the chair with your arm behind your head, completely relaxed.

You're not helping.

"You've got such a soft touch," you murmur, voice lazy and warm, a little smile playing on your lips. "You always this gentle with your clients?"

He doesn't answer, he's been hovering over the edge of a breakdown since you walked in asking for a second tattoo so close to your fucking tit. Now, the top half of your breast is entirely exposed, your nipple just barely out of sight, until it's not. The lace of your bra shifts again, and it slips free.

You don't flinch. You just keep talking, easy as anything. "So... how'd you get into tattooing?" you ask, blinking up at him innocently.

Heeseung hesitates, machine paused mid-stroke. "Uh... I used to draw a lot. Got obsessed with linework."

"Mmm. You're really good at it," you hum, voice almost a purr now. "Do you have a favorite client?"

Heeseung looks like he's about to pass out. He pulls back slightly, setting the gun down on the tray with a clatter. "I—I can't do this."

You sit up just a little, letting the rest of your tit fall fully into view. "What do you mean?"

He stands, running a shaky hand through his hair. "I mean I can't fucking do this. You're sitting there with your—" He swallows. "—and you're talking like it's nothing. And I'm trying so hard not to lose it."

That's when you see it. The outline in his pants, painfully obvious, straining hard against the fabric.

Your grin is wicked. "Wait," you giggle softly, "are you hard right now? From a little side boob?"

Heeseung turns scarlet. "Don't—don't do that."

"Oh, come on," you coo, rising slowly, placing your palm right over the thick bulge. His hips jerk into your hand instinctively, and you feel the desperation. The way he's already twitching under your touch.

"Are you sure you want me to stop?" you whisper, lips close to his jaw now. "You don't look like you want me to."

He groans—like he's losing a battle. His fingers flex at his sides, jaw tight, body straining forward as your hand starts to move just slightly, stroking him through his jeans.

"I shouldn't," he mutters, voice cracking. "I'm—fuck, I'm your artist."

"But you want to be more than that, don't you?" you ask, low and syrupy, kissing up the column of his neck. "You want to ruin me right here, Heeseung? Make a mess on your own table?"

His hips roll again, seeking more pressure. He's rutting into your palm now, helpless and humiliated and so goddamn turned on he can barely think. His chest is rising and falling like he's just run a mile. Your hand stays exactly where it is, cupped over the thick outline in his pants and feeling it twitch in your palm like it has a mind of its own. He doesn't move. Doesn't even breathe properly. Just stares at you like you've short-circuited something deep inside him.

His eyes squeeze shut, a vein ticking at his jaw. "You can't just—" he rasps, hands clenched at his sides like he's physically holding himself back. "You can't just touch me like that and talk like everything's fucking normal."

You give him a slow squeeze.

He groans. The sound is raw, shame-laced, like he's already mad at himself for how good it feels.

"You don't want me to stop," you whisper. It's not a question this time.

His eyes flicker open, wild and uncertain. "Fuck—don't—"

You press a kiss just below his jaw, right where his pulse is hammering, and he shudders. That's when it happens—his hips jerk forward. Just a little. Just enough that you feel him grind himself against your palm more, chasing friction he doesn't even mean to seek.

"Oh my god," you whisper, smiling against his skin. "You're humping my hand, Heeseung?"

He lets out a pained whimper and grabs your wrist, not to stop you—he doesn't pull away—but just to hold it. Just to feel like he has some control over the unraveling.

"You're so mean," he mutters, barely above a whisper. "You don't even realize what you're doing to me."

You tilt your head, watching his breath stutter and shift your grip, a little firmer now, and he lets out a full-bodied groan, all low, desperate, and so fucking pretty it goes straight to your core.

His eyes are glazed over, dark and drowning. "If you keep doing that, I'm not gonna be able to stop."

"Who said I want you to?"

Silence. Thick and hot and full of tension.

Then something snaps. Something invisible but loud—like the sound of restraint giving way. He grabs your face and kisses you like he's starving. No hesitation now. No shy little glances or nervous coughs. His tongue is in your mouth, his hands already pulling your shirt off the rest of the way like it's in his way. And suddenly, it's not sweet or cute, it's needy and reckless.

You moan into his mouth as he manhandles you back onto the padded tattoo table, your legs spread wide without needing to be asked. He's on his knees a second later, yanking your shorts down your legs and tossing them somewhere over his shoulder. He's panting, lips swollen, sweat already forming at his temples.

"You—fuck—you don't know what you've started."

Then his mouth is on you.

And Heeseung? He eats like he's been fantasizing about this since the first day you walked into his shop. Tongue fucking you slow at first, savoring every flick, every whimper you let out. But the longer it goes, the more frantic he gets—sloppy sounds, fingers digging into your thighs, like he wants to make you messy, like he wants you to cum and cry and fall apart before he even thinks about getting inside you. "Oh fuck yeah." "Keep doing that"

You tug his hair hard, grinding against his face, and he moans into your pussy, shaking with it. When he stands, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, there's a different look in his eyes now. Something primal and ruined.

And his pants are off in seconds.

"Hope you're not expecting anything soft," he breathes out. "Not after the shit you just pulled."

You just smile, letting your legs fall open wider, and whisper, "Then fuck me like you mean it." And he doesn't hesitate this time. His hand wraps around his cock, guiding it to your soaked entrance. He groans under his breath, not even fully inside yet, just watching the way your slick coats his tip.

"Fuck, you're wet," he breathes, voice shaking. "You like teasing me this much, huh? Getting off on how desperate I am?"

You blink up at him, breathless. "I like seeing how long you can pretend you're not losing your mind."

And then he pushes in—slow, steady, the stretch making your back arch off the chair.

You moan, loud and unfiltered, head tipping back. "Heeseung—"

"Oh my god," he hisses, gripping your waist tight as your cunt swallows him. "You feel so fucking good. Oh fuck, f-fuck."

He's not shy anymore, not even a little. The second he bottoms out, he's already moving, slow thrusts at first, deep and dragging, like he wants to feel every inch. But it doesn't take long before he's picking up the pace, grunting every time your walls squeeze around him.

"Sound so pretty when you moan," he pants, thrusting harder. "Could listen to you cry for me all day."

You're gasping now, clutching at his shoulders, legs wrapped around his waist. He leans in close, forehead pressed to yours, and you can feel every ragged breath he takes.

"You always this tight?" he mutters, more to himself than you. "Or just for me?"

You try to answer, but it's just a sob, every stroke hitting that deep, perfect spot, your body giving out under the rhythm of his hips. The wet slap of skin-on-skin fills the room, and your moans rise in pitch as your release builds.

Heeseung watches your face twist in pleasure, eyes glazed and lips parted, and he groans again—louder this time, losing rhythm just slightly as he feels your walls flutter.

"You're close," he whispers, almost in awe. "You're gonna cum for me, aren't you?"

You nod frantically. "Yes—yes, please—"

"Then cum," he pants, barely coherent. "I'm not stopping."

You don't even realize you're crying out until your orgasm crashes through you, blinding and electric. Heeseung fucks you through it, watching your face, eyes hungry, loving the way you shake underneath him.

But he's not done.

He's still hard. Still moving, holding you open, pumping into your soaked, sensitive cunt like he's trying to mark you from the inside out.

"H-Heeseung, I—I can't—" you whimper.

"Yes, you can," he growls, kissing you hard. "You wanted this, right? Wanted to tease me? Now take it."

His voice drops, low and rough, and he drives into you harder, deeper, pulling your hips into his thrusts like he can't get close enough.

"Cum for me, baby. Wanna feel you fall apart on my cock again."

You break.

Your second orgasm tears through you like a wave, your body jerking, clenching down so hard Heeseung lets out a strangled growl and shoves in deep, staying there.

But he doesn't stop. Doesn't slow.

Heeseung is fucking you through it again, watching every twitch of your body, every sob, every cry of his name. You're limp under him, trembling and sensitive, and wondering where he learned to fuck like this, but he just keeps going, drunk off the feeling of your pussy pulsing around him.

You're not even sure when you start begging, not sure what you're even saying anymore, just broken little words, strung together with whimpers.

And that's when he loses it.

He pulls out, just for a second, stroking himself fast and messy, his hips twitching. "Fuck—fuck—I'm gonna—"

You grab his hand, your voice barely above a whisper. "Inside."

He freezes. "What?"

"Cum inside me," you whisper, eyes glassy, voice wrecked. "Wanna feel it. Wanna keep it in."

He lets out a ragged moan, stumbles forward, and presses in again, deep, so deep, until he's seated to the hilt. And then he spills.

You feel every pulse, every throb, the warmth flooding you. You're both panting hard when he finally collapses on top of you, body trembling, skin flushed. And then—so soft, so Him—he looks up at you and whispers:

"I... think you're my favorite client."

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• a/n: please don’t have raw sex with your tattoo artist just cause you think they’re cute, well unless it’s heeseung 🙂‍↕️

also this got really out of hand😭 why is it 2k words long

[willowsnook]

https://www.tumblr.com/willowsnook/777849918464393216/halfway-to-always-pt-2

more pleaseeeeeeee!!! maybe like their relationship growing more ? idk more relationship things since we technically haven’t see them together

pt. 1, pt. 2

Quinn hughes x sharks!reader

—-------------------------------------------

Long distance had not been easy, but you and Quinn were really trying to make it work. It was a lot of late-night calls, quick trips across the border, and constant texting. If you were at a different point in your life, you might complain, but where you are now was actually perfect. You didn’t have to worry about splitting time between work and a boyfriend, because your boyfriend lived 900 miles away, so he wasn’t expecting your physical time. 

It was easy for him too – he had strayed away from relationships ever since he was drafted in the NHL, not wanting to put someone through the experience of him being away all the time and always focused on hockey. The first half of the season came and went and you fell into a good routine: watch Quinn’s games when you could, call him after, fall asleep to his voice.

It was after a night Sharks game, when you saw that someone else had tried to call you: Ellen. The second you saw the missed call, you immediately dialed her number. 

“Hey Ellen, sorry I missed your call,” you said, concerned. It was pretty late where she was at so the unexpected call had you on high alert. 

“Hey sweetheart, I know you don’t have your phone on during games, but I wanted to tell you that Quinn got hurt tonight,” she said softly.

Your heart sank, “How hurt?” 

“Not terribly, but something with his obliques,” she said. “I talked to him an hour ago, he said it’s looking like there’s a good chance he’s going to miss some games.”

You were devastated for Quinn; missing some upcoming games likely meant he wouldn’t be able to play in the Four Nations tournament either. He was so happy when he was selected for the team and you knew this would crush him. You thanked Ellen for the call and called your boyfriend next. 

“Hi baby,” he greeted sleepily. 

"Hi, I just heard. Are you okay?" Your voice was tight with concern.

"I've been better," Quinn sighed, and you could practically see him running a hand through his hair, that frustrated gesture you'd come to know so well. "Doc says it's just a strain, but..." He trailed off.

"Ellen mentioned you might miss some games."

A heavy pause hung between you. "Yeah. And probably Four Nations too." His voice cracked slightly on the last word, confirming your fears.

"Oh, Quinn," you whispered, wishing more than anything you could be there to hold him. "I'm so sorry."

"It's hockey, you know? These things happen." He was trying to sound casual, but you could hear the disappointment weighing down each word. "I just... I wanted it so badly.”

He sounded so meek over the phone, and your heart broke in half listening. You tried to keep the conversation going but saying he was tired, all you could do was remind him that you were here for him before hanging up.

“What’s wrong?” Will asked, pulling you out of your thoughts. He had his bag thrown over his shoulder, his eyebrows furrowed in concern. 

“Quinn injured his oblique,” you told him, trying to keep your emotions at bay. 

“How bad?” He asked. 

“Bad,” you replied. “He’s going to miss four nations.” 

Will held open his arms, and you crumpled into them, trying to take deep breaths. You heard him talking to someone else so you pulled back, meeting Macklin’s sad gaze. He collected you from Will’s arms and held you tightly against him. 

“Okay, let’s make a plan,” Macklin told Will. “You deal with the flight stuff and I’ll get her stuff from the apartment?”

“Already looking up flights,” Will said, scrolling through his phone. “Last one of the night leaving in two hours. I’ll get it.” 

“How much is it?” You asked, turning to look at him.

He rolled his eyes. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Will,” you warned, and he gave you a look.

“Dude, we make so much money, it doesn’t matter.” 

He didn’t let you argue any further and after a quick stop by your apartment you were on your way to the airport. 

Macklin had driven you, and you sat in silence for a moment before he nudged your shoulder gently.

"He's going to be okay, you know," he said softly. "Hockey players are built differently."

You nodded, picking at a loose thread on your sleeve. "I know. It's just... he wanted this so badly."

"And he'll have other opportunities," Macklin assured you. "But right now, what he needs is you."

The flight to Vancouver was mercifully quick, though you spent most of it staring at the seat in front of you, unable to sleep despite the late hour. By the time you arrived at his apartment, it was nearly 3 AM. You used the key he had given you the last time you’d seen him to open the door to the quiet place. 

Being as quiet as possible, you set your bag down on the couch before heading towards Quinn’s room. Taking a moment, you admired his sleeping form, his eyebrows were unconsciously furrowed, an almost scowl on his face. 

You stepped into the room slowly, unsure if you should wake him. But as if sensing you, Quinn stirred, his eyes blinking open. The second he registered that it was you standing in his doorway, his expression softened.

"Hey," he rasped, voice thick with sleep and surprise. "What are you doing here?"

"I got on the first flight I could," you said, stepping closer. "I couldn’t just stay there knowing you were hurting."

He sat up with a wince, pushing the blankets down to his waist. “You flew all the way from San Jose… in the middle of the night?”

You nodded, climbing up onto the bed beside him. “Of course I did.”

His jaw clenched for a second, like he was trying to hold something in, but then he reached out and gently pulled you into him. His hand slid around the back of your neck, his lips pressing against your temple. “You’re crazy,” he whispered.

“I know,” you whispered back. “But I love you. And I wanted to be here.”

“You love me?” He asked, frozen in place. Your breath hitched, not realizing what you had let slip out. 

Your heart hammered against your ribs as the admission hung in the air between you. You hadn't planned to say it like this—in his darkened bedroom at 3 AM, both of you exhausted, him injured—but there it was.

"I do," you said softly, deciding to own the moment rather than try to take it back. "I love you, Quinn."

His eyes searched yours in the dim light, a mix of vulnerability and wonder crossing his features. Then, a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"I love you too," he whispered, his hand gently cupping your face. "God, I've been wanting to tell you for weeks, but I didn't want to say it over the phone."

Relief washed over you, followed quickly by a warmth that spread through your chest. You leaned forward, pressing your forehead against his. “I’m sorry you got hurt.”

“If it means I get to be woken up at 3am to you in my room, I’ll do it more often,” he joked and you laughed. His tone turned serious again, “I’m glad you’re here. I needed you.”

“I know,” you told him, bringing your lips to press against his. “I’m here, always.”