#What Is A Dissertation Proposal | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

thepencilnerd · 1 month ago

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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.

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.

535 notes · View notes

verinarin · 1 year ago

Note

recently found your blog and I really love your writings about Dr. Ratio 💖 I was wondering if i could req a headcanon or a scenario where him and the reader were engaged or arranged marriage, and the reader feels a lil left out in their home bcz he seem to not GAF 😮‍💨 I'd love to see how he'd open up to the reader, feel free to ignore this req or decline it, and of course take your time, thank you! ♡♡♡

Aaaa thankuu so much for supporting mee !, tbh Ratio is the only character that I want to write rn ahahahaʅ（◞‿◟）ʃ

Fluff & Angst | Angst w comfort because I refuse to write angst without comfort !!!

It’s not a secret anymore, your engagement with Veritas is widely spread throughout the Intelegensia Guild, even the Genius Society heard about the news, how can it not spread ?. You’re both highly respected scholars although both have different approaches to teaching you both still excel in your respective fields. However, no one knows that this arrangement of yours is out of convenience, but you and he agreed that it’ll be mutually beneficial if you both marry

“Let’s marry, I know well that this proposal lacks romance since I’m not marrying for love it’s just I’m quite tired of people pestering about my personal life and it seems you too are tired of people pursuing you, even if it is a loveless marriage I would take care of you and be loyal to you till the end of my breath, so please do think about my proposal because to be frank I can’t seem to imagine spending the rest of my life with someone else,”

That was what he said while you were in the middle of discussing a project with him, the sudden proposal shocked you of course but after mulling it for a week you decided to agree with his proposal, you weren’t expecting a ring but he did give you one, surprisingly it first your ring finger perfectly

You know very well that love is out of the equation in this future marriage of yours, Veritas never seemed to be interested in pursuing love and you respected that but now it seems like you’ve been craving more than you signed up for, it’s started when he first asks you to live with him, it was shocking of course but you’re going to be his wife anyways so why not start early to assimilate to the new environment and dynamic

Things start to go downhill from there since he does these little things. For example, all of the cutlery, knives, plates, and spices were high up on the shelves when you first moved in. He noticed that you struggled grabbing simple things from the shelves, hence he redesigned his whole kitchen to make things more accessible to you

Well the other thing that made you develop feelings for him is your sleeping arrangements, he made you a room inside of his house fully furnished with your favourite books and even your own office inside, the room is hand painted beautifully with your favourite colour when you ask who decorated the room he bashfully replied that all of the things inside your room is fully constructed and decorated by him, is this a loveless marriage you keep pondering over and over as you lay your restless body on the couch

Veritas promised you that he would come home early today to help you with your dissertation, but it seems he’ll be late again. You can’t help but wonder if he has someone out there, but it can’t be he told you himself he would be loyal to you, but you can’t seem to dismiss such a thought

You knew what you signed up for but you still can’t help but fall for him, how naive. Your eyes crystallised as you tried to conceal your feelings, the warmth of your cardigan couldn’t help to warm the loneliness you’ve been feeling, if Veritas was here he would laugh at you, you thought to yourself

You fell asleep on the couch, tired from the stress of your upcoming dissertation. It seems that when you’re already blissfully unaware of the real dimension Veritas comes home. He calls your name to no avail only to see you sleeping soundly on the couch, your cheeks wet from the tears you shed, it tugs a string on his chest as he examines you curled up all by yourself to produce some kind of warmth

Without much thought he quickly took off his coat and put his briefcase on the coffee table in front of you, he sat beside your head before slowly lifting it and resting it upon his thighs. He had always hated to admit his feelings towards you, he thought it was a weakness for him to have, but he has always liked you

He finds it hard to express himself and find it harder to acknowledge that he wants more than this loveless marriage, he was too afraid that you’re not keen towards the idea of loving someone with his track record, and he certainly does not have the best qualities to possess as a husband, yet he would try to become better to make you happy

But it seems he fails to do so, he silently gazes upon your expression, his thumb wipes away the tear stain of your soft skin, he can’t help but question himself, if you wake up would you hate him for this ?

He quietly sighs as he drags his coat and covers your body with it, his hand brushes through your hair softly while grabbing your dissertation off the table, he feels worse than before seeing that you prepared a hot drink and snacks for him before you accidentally fell asleep

So the least that he could do is to let you rest while he reads the contents of your dissertation, your hair feels soft so soft that he can’t seem to focus on your dissertation without petting it

Reading your dissertation is like reading what’s inside of your captivating mind he loves so much, he can’t help but feel lucky that you’ll have his last name soon, that he could flaunt you as a partner as someone equal in future events because he truly thinks that you are his other half

You both have disagreements on certain things yet somehow complement each other so beautifully that he can’t help but feel like he was made to be yours, feeling your skin against his palm as he cups your cheek further proves his hypothesis that his hands are made to hold you, love you, worship you

But his foolish ego seems to restrict him from such necessities, his inability to profess his love verbally would cost him you sooner or later, he just hopes that you could feel how he cares

He never explicitly told you about his adoration for you, yet he’s willing to show you instead hoping one day you’ll see how badly he has fallen for you

He kept lightly tracing your cheeks as he continued to read your dissertation, that’s when you flutter your eyes open, feeling ticklish from the light touch, “Veritas ?,

“Yes dearest ?,” once your eyes meet with his, he knows very well that’s the moment the walls he built and the ego he has dissipate into thin air

#honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #dr ratio #dr ratio x reader #dr ratio hsr #dr ratio fluff #dr. ratio #dr. ratio x reader #dr. ratio fluff

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smilingformoney · 1 month ago

Text

Champagne Problems

Chapter 4. How Did It End?

Lionel/Reader

Summary: In 1989, an argument breaks out at Sinclair's wedding; in 1971, Lionel and Sinclair move to Cambridge to start university.

Word Count: 14.2k

cw: drug misuse (specifically cocaine), cheating

All chapters here!

Read on Ao3 or WattPad or the below the cut:

1989

You weren’t surprised to discover that Sinclair’s wedding was taking place at a vineyard. It seemed exactly the kind of unnecessarily extravagant place a rich person would hire out for a wedding.

You couldn’t help but wonder how much Natalie was contributing towards it. Between Helen’s millions and Sinclair’s millions, the Bryants had more than enough to fund the whole thing; you didn’t expect Natalie’s job as a secretary paid nearly as well.

The whole thing had Sinclair all over it. It was in a vineyard in France, because of course it was, and most of the guests, you discovered as you mingled, were people Sinclair knew. Relatives, co-workers, friends, friends of friends, partners of all the above. They all knew Sinclair somehow, and had either never met Natalie, or like you had met her only briefly in the shadow of Sinclair’s energy.

Not for the first time, you wondered what Sinclair saw in her. She seemed nice enough, and she was certainly pretty, but she wasn’t very interesting.

As you met more and more of Sinclair’s friends, you began to feel out of place, not because you weren’t rich - he had plenty of normal friends - but because you weren’t married. Sinclair’s last minute invitation had included a plus one, but you’d come alone, and you were feeling it.

You wondered if maybe this was, at least in part, the reason Sinclair had proposed to Natalie after only six months: all his friends were married. You heard countless stories about Sinclair being a groomsman; at 36, he was probably feeling like he was missing out by not being married. And Natalie, pretty and nice Natalie – she was good enough.

You hoped she really was good enough for him. Sinclair was one of the sweetest, funniest, kindest people you’d ever known, and you didn’t want him wasting his heart on someone he was settling for.

You certainly weren’t the only person who thought they were something of a mismatch. Numerous guests made comments about their strange pairing, and how quickly Sinclair had proposed.

“Has he had many girlfriends before her?” you asked one of Sinclair’s old university friends who’d introduced himself as Nigel. “I’m a bit out of touch, last one I knew about was Emily.”

“Emily!” Nigel exclaimed. “Now that’s a throwback. No, he’s had plenty since her. Poor thing, he was devastated by that one. Devastated by all of them, really, he throws his whole heart into every girlfriend he has.”

“I’m not surprised; he throws his whole heart into everything.”

Nigel nodded in agreement. “Aye, that he does. Right, let me think — so you knew Emily. That ended in third year — he was balls deep in his dissertation when she wanted him to be balls deep in her.”

He guffawed at his own joke.

“Oh, here’s the kicker though — two weeks they’d been broken up, he was still miserable of course, and she went and slept with his cousin.”

You choked on your drink.

“What, you mean Lionel?”

“Yep, nothing gets you over an ex like shagging his nearly identical cousin, I suppose. Well, after that was Amiee, lovely girl she was — he was gonna propose, actually, but she moved abroad. Then there was Laura, now Natalie. No, wait, there was Alex just before Amiee. Anyway, I suppose this time he decided to lock Natalie down before anything went wrong.”

You grimaced. “That’s not really the reason to get married.”

Nigel shrugged as if it were no big deal. “Not everyone gets married for true love. Sometimes it’s enough love.”

The door to the ceremony room was opened then, and an usher announced that it was time to take your seats.

You’d been to a lot of weddings by now: like Sinclair, your friends around you were all getting married. And at every one, the ceremony room had had a groom’s side and a bride’s side. There was no such arrangement here: apart from the front rows reserved for family, anyone could sit anywhere.

You wondered if it was because there were very few, if any, guests for the bride’s side.

You decided to take a seat near the back. You didn’t know anyone, and you were a last-minute invite; you’d feel a bit of an imposter ingratiating yourself into the swarms of family and friends.

A figure appeared next to you, and although you were staring off into space, you just knew who it was.

Maybe you had a connection. Maybe you recognised his scent. Or maybe you just recognised the energy of a self-absorbed arsehole.

“Sinclair wants you to sit up front with the family,” Lionel said.

You reluctantly looked up at him.

Dammit. Why did he have to look so handsome in his three-piece suit?

You glanced up to the front of the room. Sinclair was hovering around the altar with his other groomsmen, but he caught your eye and waved you over with a grin.

“Alright, but he’s responsible if Georgina kills me.”

The corner of Lionel’s mouth twitched, as if he were trying not to smile.

“It’s been seventeen years, [Y/n]. She’s over it. Come on.”

You took a steadying breath, then followed Lionel up the aisle. Sinclair greeted you with a grin and a bear hug, as if seeing you at his wedding was the best thing that had happened all day.

“[Y/n], I’m so glad you made it! Here, you sit with Mum. Mum, you remember [Y/n], right?”

You turned to where Helen and Georgina were sitting, Georgina at the end of the row on account of her wheelchair, and a seat next to Helen left empty for you. They were both in their sixties now, but neither of them let that stop them looking absolutely amazing: they were both completely grey, and while Helen had cut her hair short, Georgina had styled hers into an elegant ‘do that had definitely taken hours.

If either of them held any resentment for you, they didn’t show it. Helen stood to greet you, and you found yourself pulled into another bear hug.

“Of course I remember you! I’m so glad you’re here, [Y/n]. I couldn’t tell you how excited Sinclair was when he told us you were coming. Come, sit, sit.”

She practically pulled you into your seat. The seat on the other side was empty, and you really hoped Sinclair wasn’t doing something stupid like putting you next to Lionel.

As Helen chatted away to you, out of the corner of your eye, you saw Lionel was standing with Sinclair, talking to him in hushed tones.

The three groomsmen were all dressed identically to Lionel, except that his pocket square was a different colour, denoting that he was the best man.

You smiled. Of course he was the best man. Who else would Sinclair have asked? He had more friends than you could count, but Lionel had always been his best friend.

To your relief, Lionel didn’t sit next to you; when the ceremony began, he took his seat across the aisle from Georgina. You ended up sat next to one of the other groomsmen instead.

Sinclair certainly seemed happy. But whether he was happy to be getting married to Natalie or just to be getting married at all, you weren’t too sure.

The wedding breakfast was, of course, extremely generous. Sinclair went all out on the food, and when he gave his speech, he used cue cards to stop himself going off on tangents, though you did see Lionel nudge him a few times to bring him back on track.

When finally the speeches were done and the food cleared away, it was time for the first dance.

Sinclair was very good at a lot of things, but dancing wasn’t one of them. They’d clearly rehearsed it, and you could see Sinclair’s brow furrowed in concentration as he focused on remembering the dance moves and not tripping over Natalie’s feet.

The song ended, and finally you were free of the formalities. You grabbed a champagne flute from a passing waiter and practically ran outside, where several tables and chairs offered a reprieve and some ashtrays.

“Not sticking around to dance?” said a familiar voice as you took a much needed drag from your cigarette.

You turned and, sure enough, there he was.

“I’m not drunk enough yet,” you said shortly. “But I’m working on it.”

Lionel took an unoffered seat next to you. He rested his chin on his steepled fingers and looked at you.

“You know, if you’re going to be friends with Sinclair again, you’re going to have to talk to me at some point.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

Lionel scoffed.

“Really? Nothing at all?”

“Is there something you expect me to say?”

“No, of course not,” Lionel said bitterly. “You had nothing to say that night either. No explanation, just… gone.”

You laughed. “I thought you were intelligent, Lionel. Did I need to explain myself?”

“After what you did to me? Yes! I gave you everything, [Y/n]! And I wanted to give you so much more! But you just… left. One word, that’s all you gave me. All our relationship came to was one bloody word. So, yes, a little explanation would have been welcome.”

You took a long drag from your cigarette and looked at him.

“Wow. All this time, I thought you knew. I thought it would be so easy for you to connect the dots. But you’re so fucking narcissistic, you probably don’t even realise you did wrong, do you?” You shrugged. “I’m surprised Sinclair didn’t spell it out for you.”

Lionel sighed and rubbed his temple, as if the conversation were giving him a migraine. “[Y/n]... I am not a man who asks for things. I take them. But I am asking you now to give me an explanation. Please.”

“Wow, the P-word. Did that hurt to say?”

Lionel slammed a fist on the table.

“Dammit, [Y/n]! I loved you! I fucking loved you and you didn’t even –”

“If you loved me, you wouldn’t have cheated on me!”

There was a long pause as you stared one another down, both daring the other to break, but Lionel’s silence told you everything you needed to know.

You scoffed and sat back in your seat. “You’re not even trying to deny it,” you muttered as you put out your cigarette in the ashtray.

Lionel groaned and held his head in his hands.

“How the fuck did you know?”

“Sinclair’s not stupid. He knew something was up. You really thought you could have it all, didn’t you? You thought you could fuck around when he wasn’t there and he wouldn’t notice. You didn’t even try to be discreet, because why would there be consequences for your actions? And you’re such an egotistical arsehole that even now, after seventeen years, you still can’t figure out that you fucking around and my leaving you were connected!”

“Of course I thought about it, but I didn’t think you knew! I didn’t think Sinclair knew, much less that he’d tell you.”

“Of course he told me! He may be your cousin, but that doesn’t mean he’s anything like you. He has morals. He knew what you’d done and what you were planning, and he knew he had to tell me.”

“Fucking bastard,” Lionel cursed. “I’ll have him for this.”

“No, you bloody well won’t,” you said sharply, standing up as if to block his way. “None of this is his fault. You cheated on me. You broke my heart. And, yeah, maybe I should have spelled it out for you. I’m not squeaky clean in this. But Sinclair is, and this is his wedding, and you are not going to ruin it by blaming him for something that was entirely your fault.”

“We could have worked things out!” Lionel shouted. He was on his feet now too, towering over you, though you showed no sign of being intimidated by his height. “I knew it was wrong, so I stopped! I wanted this” - he gestured around him - “and everything that comes with it. I wanted to give you everything, to be loyal, to live with you and share my life with you. I realised that I couldn’t have it all, and so I chose you. I wanted to give you the world, I could have given you the world!”

“We don’t need anything from you, Lionel! Not your broken promises, not your money, nothing!”

He stared at you, brow furrowed. You shook your head, grabbed your drink, and stepped away from him as you took a long gulp of champagne.

Eventually, Lionel spoke.

“What do you mean, we?”

You turned back to him, frowning. “What?”

“You said, ‘We don’t need anything from you.’ Who’s we?”

“Me, I meant me – I. I don’t need anything from you.”

He approached you slowly, methodically, like – well, like a lion hunting its prey. You knew from the stern expression that you were fucked, and when you backed into the wall, you had nowhere to run.

“[Y/n]. I’m going to ask one last time. Who - is - ‘we’?”

“Me…”

“...And?”

You glanced away instinctively, but you steeled yourself and looked him in the eye.

“Our son.”

- - -

1971

After your Paris trip, you were hit with some serious post-holiday blues. Not only did you have to return to boring old England, but you missed being in a bubble with Lionel. You’d spent the entirety of Sunday in your hotel room, having sex and ordering room service, drinking and smoking, having sex again, and resting as much as you could before Lionel was ready to go again.

He hadn’t been exaggerating — he really was like a wild beast that had been unleashed. He’d been able to hold back before, when sex was just a fantasy, but now that he knew what it was really like, he couldn’t get enough.

And he was adventurous. He wanted to have sex on every surface possible. On the sofa, in the jacuzzi - which was a godsend when your muscles ached - and even, occasionally, in the bed.

You were, of course, very eager too. But he really seemed to be aiming for the fifty times a day that lions apparently shagged when they were in heat. And Lionel was definitely in heat.

“I’m going to buy my own private jet one day,” Lionel murmured to you on the plane home — first class, of course. “Then we can fuck in midair while I fly you around the world for romantic getaways. Where do you want to go next? I hear Italy’s very romantic.”

You went straight home after landing, as you knew your mum would worry if you didn’t, and on Tuesday you went back up to Windsor to see Lionel again.

“You should just move in, [Y/n],” Sinclair said as he greeted you with a bear hug, as if you’d been away for months, not days. “Lionel’s so grumpy when you’re not around. He mopes around like a lovesick puppy.”

“No, I don’t,” Lionel insisted. “Come on, [Y/n], let’s go upstairs —”

“Aww, c’mon, you guys just spent a whole weekend together, and you wanna run off for some privacy already? I’ve been so bored here on my own!”

Sinclair flopped down on a nearby armchair dramatically.

“And you want to leave me alone again!”

You laughed at his endearing antics.

“Alright, fine, let’s have some lunch first,” Lionel agreed reluctantly.

Sinclair cheered, whether for food or company or both, but he was too distracted by stuffing his face and telling you every thought he’d had since last week to notice that Lionel was getting very handsy with you on the sofa.

After pulling his hand away from roaming under your t-shirt for the third time, you made an excuse about needing the bathroom, and snuck away upstairs.

Lionel got the hint, and he followed you soon after.

“Christ, I thought he’d never let us go,” he growled as he tugged your t-shirt over your head. “I could have stuck my hand in your knickers and he wouldn’t get the hint.”

You giggled. Lionel pushed you backwards onto the bed and climbed on top of you, condom already in hand as he pulled your shorts down your legs.

“Those little booty shorts aren’t helping. All that thigh on display, just waiting for me to do this…”

He placed his hands on either thigh and pushed them apart, then growled with desire when he saw his prize.

You tried to be quiet, conscious that Lionel’s bedroom was right above the sitting room you’d left Sinclair in, but he had other ideas.

“What do you know? My bed squeaks,” Lionel laughed as he pounded into you hard enough for the bed to start protesting.

Your response was a garbled moan, and Lionel grinned. He loved it when he rendered you speechless. It was usually then that he asked you questions - how does it feel? Can you feel my cock stretching you out? Do you want me to slow down? - just to hear you trying to formulate a response.

You burnt through condoms like wildfire. Lionel had to buy a new box at least every week, and you just knew that he was so confident and smug when he returned to the pharmacy yet again for more condoms.

The summer ended far too fast. Lionel never ran out of fancy places to take you (when you managed to convince him to put some clothes on and get out of bed), Sinclair never ran out of interesting things to tell you about, and it was only when you physically saw Lionel packing up that it really hit home that he was leaving.

“You’ll come visit me, right?” you asked him for the umpteenth time as he tried to squeeze all of his identical white shirts into one box.

“Of course I will, chérie. I can’t promise how often, I’m sure I’ll have a lot of studying to do, but I’ll come back as much as I can.”

“Mmm, I don’t think your cock’ll let you stay away for very long,” you teased, coming up behind him to trace your hands over his shoulders as he continued folding shirts. “You’ll be going from fucking every day back to wanking every day, it’ll be torture.”

Lionel smirked.

“We’ll just have to make up for it when I come back.”

You tried not to cry when he left. You knew he liked to be stoic and strong, and he told you lions don’t cry. You were his lioness, as he loved to remind you, so you did your best to keep the tears at bay.

With many final kisses, hugs, I love yous and promises to call, you finally let him get in the car. You hugged Sinclair goodbye too, and he had no qualms about crying as he said goodbye to you.

It was three long, excruciating days before you had a phone call.

You almost fell down the stairs running when your mum told you Sinclair was on the phone.

“Sinclair, hi! How was the move? How are you? How’s Lionel? Is Cambridge boring? It’s totally fine if you wanna come back.”

Sinclair laughed on the other end of the phone. “Hello to you too, [Y/n]! I’m great, and Lionel’s great too! Sorry we haven’t called, it took ages to get the phone line installed in our flat. The guy literally just left, I called Mum first, then I called you. Lionel’s out, otherwise he’d be the one calling you, obviously, but I didn’t want you to worry. Cambridge is so fun! This first week is just social stuff, that’s what Lionel’s doing, he’s at the get to know you event for his course. Mine’s tomorrow. He misses you loads. So do I! I wish you could have moved with us, it would be so cool if the three of us were living together! Though we’d never get any coursework done I suppose, we’d be having too much fun. Lionel definitely wouldn’t. Do you want me to ask him to call you when he gets in?”

“Oh, yes, please!” you said, glad to finally get a word in. ”Mum said she’s gonna get a second phone that I can keep in my room since I’m gonna be using it so much. When do you guys start your classes?”

“On Monday! We got our timetables yesterday, we actually have one module together! Most of my classes are 9 o’clock starts, but I don’t mind, I like getting up early. It also means I have more time later in the day so I can do more societies! There are so many, I wanna join them all, but I don’t think I’ll have the time. I know Lionel wants to join the Future Leaders Society. That’s for people who want to be innovators, and we both know what his ambition’s like, and I bet he’ll make loads of connections. He said I should join too but it clashes with the Rambling Society, and I really wanna join that one. That’s rambling as in walking, not as in talking a lot, I don’t need a society for that, I know I do enough of it myself! Oh, wait, I think he’s just — hey, Li! Li, the phone’s working! [Y/n]’s on the line now, do you wanna talk to her?”

After a moment or two, you heard Lionel’s familiar voice, and just a simple “Hi, [Y/n]. Has Sinclair let you get a word in yet?” was enough to make you feel warm and comforted.

“One or two. How was your event? Sinclair said you were meeting people from your course.”

“Mmm, some very interesting people there… and some very uninteresting people. It’s a curious mix. Some are clearly only doing Business because that’s what their parents told them to do. I expect half of them will drop out by the end of the year.”

“Leaving only the best still in it, I suppose?”

“Exactly. I’d wager there’ll be no more than ten left next year, mark my words, and I’ll be top of the class, of course.”

“It’s not a competition, Li.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, everything’s a competition. I compete to be the greatest, Sinclair competes to be the loudest, and you compete to be the sexiest. We’re all winning, of course.”

You smiled and glanced around to make sure your mum wasn’t eavesdropping from the corridor again.

“I miss you,” you said quietly. “I keep thinking about you. Sleeping alone in my bed sucks.”

“I miss you too, chérie,” Lionel said in a low voice, similarly making sure Sinclair wasn’t eavesdropping. “Wanking into my hand’s just not the same anymore.”

You giggled, blushing. “Lionel! What if Sinclair hears you?”

“Oh, please, like he doesn’t do it too. I have to go, love, I really need a shit —”

“Charming.”

“— and I think Sinclair will burst if I don’t tell him how this event went soon. I’ll call you tomorrow, alright?”

“Okay. I love you, Li.”

“I love you too, chérie.”

“Tell her I love her three!” Sinclair called out in the background.

You laughed.

“Tell him I love him four.”

Lionel sighed. “Sinclair, she says she loves you four.”

”Yay!”

“I can’t believe I’m sharing a flat with him,” Lionel said, but you could hear the smile in his voice. “Bye, love.”

“Bye.”

Lionel called you again at the weekend, and you could tell by his voice he was hungover. He must have really drunk a lot to be hungover since, apparently, lions don’t get hungover.

Your mum got the second phone installed a few days later, and you were able to call Lionel with some privacy. He and Sinclair both already had lines in their bedrooms, and when Sinclair was out at his morning class and your mum was at work, Lionel called you with a very naughty idea.

“You want me to what?”

“You heard me. I want you to put your hand in your knickers and tell me how wet you are.”

“Not very, I just woke up… and you’re not here to wake me up with your wandering hands.”

“Mmm… we’ll soon change that, chérie. You’ll just have to be my wandering hands for me, won’t you? Let’s see… I usually start with touching your tits. I love feeling your nipples growing hard in my hands. Do you think you can make them hard for me?”

Lionel wasn’t the only one calling you regularly; Sinclair called often to catch up. Sometimes you felt like you were getting a university education by proxy when he rambled on about what he was learning on his course, although you didn’t really understand most of what he said. What you were more interested in hearing about, and what Sinclair was very happy to change the subject to, was a girl called Emily he’d met at one of his societies.

With no Lionel around to distract you, you became bored very quickly, so you asked your dad for more hours. He was trusting you more and more, and when he began scheduling you to open the cafe at 5 o’clock in the morning, you found it easier to stay at his the night before, rather than commuting in from Winchester — and so you found yourself spending half your nights at your mum’s house and half of them at your dad’s.

They weren’t the only parents vying for your time. Helen and Georgina had apparently decided, as Lionel’s girlfriend, you were the stand-in for their sons at the parties and events they were always going to. You couldn’t say yes to everything, as much as you wanted to — there was no way you could go to a fundraiser or whatever it was (you were never really sure) in London the night before you had to open the cafe at 5am – but you were always happy to attend when you could.

You were busier than you’d ever been. You had a full-time job now, working more hours in a week than you would have spent at school a year ago, and you had managed to find yourself caught between four parents in three different places — your mum in Winchester, your dad in Basingstoke, and Helen and Georgina in Windsor.

So when Lionel’s calls became less frequent, you didn’t notice at first. You were busy, and so was he. Even Sinclair was calling you less, busy as he was with the five university societies he’d finally settled on, and of course the girlfriend he was so in love with.

Christmas break finally came, though your dad reminded you every time you mentioned it that there was no such thing as Christmas break, and in fact the cafe would be busier than ever at Christmas with all the shoppers about. He wasn’t cruel, though; he let you take the weekend off when Lionel and Sinclair came home.

It was snowing harshly the day they were due back, and you spent the whole day worrying about their drive home. Georgina and Helen had the heating on and the fireplace crackling, and you were drinking them out of their hot chocolate, but you didn’t feel truly warm until you saw Sinclair’s car coming up the driveway.

You rushed out to meet them, the snow crunching beneath your feet as you ran as fast as you could without slipping over. Sinclair had hardly turned the engine off when Lionel was climbing out of the passenger seat, looking adorably grumpy in his big winter coat, and within moments snowflakes began landing in his soft blonde hair.

His grumpy expression quickly melted away when he saw you. He grinned, and you practically jumped into his arms.

“There’s my girl!” Lionel said with relief as he embraced you. “Oh, chérie, I missed you so much. Come on, upstairs, let’s fuck.”

You laughed and hit his shoulder playfully as he set you back down in the snow.

“Keep it in your pants, mister. At least let me say hello to Sinclair first.”

Sinclair was wading through the snow around the front of the car, his eyes barely visible between the hat pulled low and the scarf wrapped around his face. He waved at you, then promptly slipped and fell.

“Oh, no! Sinclair, are you okay?” you gasped, trudging over as quickly as you could to help him up.

“I’m okay!” came Sinclair’s muffled voice somewhere beneath his scarf. He finally stood up straight and pulled down his scarf to give himself some air to breathe. “Hi, [Y/n]! You wouldn’t believe how crazy the motorway was. I thought I was going to crash, like, ten times! But we made it!”

With a grin, he wrapped his arms around you as best he could considering his many layers.

“I’m so cold, though! Have Mum and Georgie got the fire going?”

“Yes, get yourselves inside, it’s freezing out here!”

The three of you carefully made your way into the house, treading carefully so as not to slip (again, in Sinclair’s case). A couple of the housekeeping staff were taking Lionel and Sinclair’s suitcases inside, and the boys both groaned with relief when they passed the threshold and were met with warm, central heated air.

Helen and Georgina came over to greet their sons, and Helen fussed over Sinclair’s inability to go more than a few feet in the snow without falling flat on his face.

“Hot toddies all around, I think,” Georgina decreed. “Come on, let’s get you two by the fire.”

Within minutes, you were all gathered around the fireplace with soothing hot drinks in your hands, Lionel and Sinclair sitting closest to the fire as they defrosted from their long car journey, and through chattering teeth Sinclair gave a blow-by-blow account of each near-crash they’d experienced, and the two actual crashes they’d seen.

Your hand was in Lionel’s, your chair pulled up close to his so you could rest your head on his shoulder. As Sinclair rambled on, every now and then, Lionel squeezed your hand or kissed the top of your head, and even occasionally managed to get a word in to contribute to the story.

When finally Sinclair finished his story and moved on to talking about his new girlfriend, Lionel decided it was time to unpack his suitcase. You stayed downstairs a little longer to watch the entertaining show of Helen quizzing Sinclair about when she was going to meet his girlfriend, then decided to make your way upstairs to check on Lionel.

You found him in his room, suitcase nearly unpacked, though the thought of finishing it was immediately forgotten when you walked in.

“God, finally, I thought you’d never come up here,” Lionel growled with relief. He dropped the socks in his hands and crossed the room to pick you up by your hips and twirl you around to deposit you on the bed, causing you to squeal with laughter.

“Clothes off, now,” he demanded, his hands already on his belt. “I have waited way too long to fuck you again.”

“Hey, you’re the one who never came home to visit,” you pouted, though of course you obediently pulled your jumper over your head. “You promised you’d come home for weekends, and you never did.”

“I know, chérie, I’m sorry. I could never find the time. But I’m here now, and I am going to remind you who you belong to.”

You shivered a little in the cold when your clothes were off, but Lionel quickly warmed you up when he pushed you onto your hands and knees on the bed and swiftly entered you from behind.

“Fuck, I missed this,” Lionel growled as his cock slid up your walls. “Perfect… fucking perfect…”

He gripped your hips firmly and wasted no time fucking into you hard and fast, as if he had to make up for the last three months.

Your hands clenched into fists as you held on uselessly to the bedsheets. There was no use trying to get any sort of purchase; the only thing keeping you in place was Lionel’s firm grip on your hips, pulling your body back towards him with every passionate thrust.

He was grunting with every thrust, and occasionally between grunts you heard a moan of your name. He must have known when your orgasm began to build, and being the arsehole that he was, he pulled out, leaving you hanging — but not for long. He flipped you onto your back and climbed on top of you, the promptly began fucking you again.

“I want you to look at me when you cum,” Lionel growled between gritted teeth. “I want to watch as you come undone. I want you to know that you’re mine.”

“I am yours, Lionel,” you promised. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, pulling him closer, and he promptly dipped his head to your neck to pull at the skin with his teeth. You whined at the sensation, and he looked up at you, grinning proudly.

“Yes, you are. My fucking lioness. No one could ever — ever compare to you. Fuck. You take me so fucking well. [Y/n]…”

He was like a man crazed. His hips were pounding into you, his fingers gripping your shoulders like you were his lifeline, and his lips and teeth were grabbing at every inch of your skin they could reach.

“I love you, Lionel,” you moaned as you ran your fingers through his hair and he moaned right into your ear.

“I love you too, [Y/n]. I love you. I fucking - nngh! - love you so much.”

Your orgasm was building up again, and this time, he was going to let you have it. He heard your moans increasing in pitch, felt your walls squeezing him, and he just continued mumbling words of affection into your ear as his cock kept pummelling in and out of your desperate, hungry cunt.

“That’s it, good girl - good girl, cum for me. Cum around my cock, chérie. Mhm, that’s it — Christ, you’re so fucking beautiful. So perfect…”

You cried out his name as you came, and when he followed shortly after, your name sounded more like a roar.

He collapsed on top of you, panting, and the cold air stung against your sweaty skin. After a few moments, he shifted and pulled out of you to discard his condom in a nearby bin. He wrapped you up in his arms and took you under the duvet to cuddle, his lips ghosting your skin as you both laid there, content, warm in each other’s arms and in the afterglow of sex.

“Lionel… how would you feel about not using condoms?”

He didn’t respond at first. He just laid there, his arms still around you, though you felt a stillness in him.

“I don’t want kids,” he said firmly.

You shifted to prop yourself up on your elbow and look at him. He was looking at you with a frown, trepidation written all over his face.

“I was thinking I could go on the pill. I really… I really want to feel you properly, Lionel. I want to feel your skin against mine… and I want to feel you fill me up when you cum. Don’t you wanna know what it feels like raw?”

Lionel looked you up and down hungrily. “Yes, I do. Fuck, I do. I want nothing more. But…” He sighed and shook his head. “It’s too risky. I think it’s safer if we keep using condoms.”

“Okay,” you said, a little dejected. You’d really thought Lionel would jump at the idea.

“I’m sorry, chérie,” Lionel said softly. He pulled you back in close to him and kissed your forehead gently. “But I really don’t want you to get pregnant, and I’d be too busy worrying about it to enjoy it. You understand, don’t you?”

“Of course I do, babe,” you said. You kissed his shoulder and looked up at him with a smile. “I just thought you’d like it, but if you’re not comfortable, that’s okay. I just want to make you happy, Li.”

“Oh, you do,” he said earnestly. He stroked a sweaty strand of hair away from your face and smiled. “You have no idea how happy you make me, chérie. I love you.”

You kissed him, and though you intended it to be a gentle peck, he apparently had other ideas and kept his lips firmly pressed against yours.

You lazily threw a leg over his hips, intending to make out for a bit, but you felt something very familiar resting against his stomach.

You broke the kiss and giggled. “Again? Already?”

Lionel grinned with pride. “I’m always ready for you, love.”

“Mmm, clearly. Alright… but it’s my turn.”

Lionel opened his mouth to question what you meant, but all he let out was a groan when you adjusted your hips and sank down onto his cock, ready to ride him until the bed gave out.

- - -

The Christmas holidays went by far too quickly.

Your dad was right: there was no Christmas break at a cafe. But he was your dad first and your boss second, and he’d survived the Christmas period without you, he could do it again. Despite your insistence that it was okay, he point-blank refused to schedule you in for more than a few shifts a week.

You spent almost every day with Lionel, and it was like he’d never left. You spent a lot more time indoors than you had in the summer, not nearly going out as much, but neither of you had any cause to complain — it was just an excuse to spend longer in bed. When you did go out for some fresh air, somehow you gave Lionel cause to throw a snowball at you, and a snowball fight erupted, though a truce was quickly called when Lionel managed to pin you down in the snow and pepper you with kisses instead.

Christmas Day was unlike any Christmas you’d had before. In the past, you alternated Christmases between your parents, and it was always a small affair with just the two of you. This year, you were told in no uncertain terms that you would be spending Christmas with Lionel and his family — and so were your parents.

Your parents, who hadn’t actually seen each other for years, not since you became old enough to travel between them yourself. Your parents, who hadn’t met Lionel yet, and now they were going to meet the whole gang in one fell swoop.

They were civil with each other, but not friendly. They didn’t really talk to each other directly, you noticed, and sat as far from one another as they could. Lionel charmed them, and Sinclair entertained them with his endless stream of interesting facts.

Yours weren’t the only divorced parents in the house that day: Sinclair’s dad was there too.

“This is really weird,” you said to Lionel quietly once you had a moment alone amongst all the conversations, drinks, cigarettes, games and more drinks. “My parents, Sinclair’s parents…”

“We just need my father and we’ll have the whole set,” Lionel said casually as he lit up a cigarette. “Good thing he’s not here, though. I’d probably punch him in the face.”

“Have you heard from him?”

Lionel shook his head and tucked his lighter into his pocket.

“Not a peep. Let it stay that way.”

Christmas Day was one thing; New Year’s Eve was another.

You thought you’d been to some insane rich people parties already, but New Year’s Eve was on a whole other level. Helen and Georgina hosted, as they did every year, and the party was apparently so insane that they’d never let Sinclair and Lionel attend before as they were underage; they’d always gone to a party at a friend’s house.

Even with all the time you’d spent at the mansion, you’d still never managed to explore every single room, and tonight, every single room was in use. Every guest room was made up, every random room that had no apparent purpose filled with rich people drinking, dancing and doing drugs. Marquees in the garden hosted even more revellers, and you were sure at one point you saw Harold Wilson snorting a line of coke.

You loved a party just as much as any other eighteen-year-old, but this was a lot. You hardly saw Helen and Georgina, as they were playing the roles of hostesses, and when you lost Lionel in the crowd, that was when you started to panic.

You looked for him everywhere, but he was nowhere to be seen. Just as you were considering calling a taxi to take you back to Basingstoke, you heard something between a sob, a moan and a retching sound coming from behind a bush.

You followed the sound to investigate and found Sinclair kneeling in the dirt, his head buried between two ferns as he fertilised the soil with the remnants of his dinner.

“Sinclair, hey,” you said softly, kneeling down next to him to rub his back gently. “You okay there, mate?”

“No,” he groaned, his head still between the ferns.

With apparent great effort, Sinclair came out from within the greenery and sat back on his bum.

He looked awful. His face was pale, his eyes half-closed, and his wet face indicated he might have been crying too.

“Did you drink too much?” you asked, rubbing his shoulder comfortingly.

Sinclair shook his head.

“Did you… take something else?”

He nodded.

“As well as drinking?”

Another nod.

“Sinclair, please don’t tell me you took coke.”

“‘Kay, I won’t,” he said miserably.

Who on God’s green earth would possibly think it a good idea to offer Sinclair Bryant cocaine? He was already vibrating with energy most of the time, adding cocaine would probably give him a heart attack. Add alcohol as well, and you were just glad you’d found him conscious in the bushes and not dead.

“Come on, let’s get you inside,” you said. You put Sinclair’s arm over your shoulder, put your arm around his waist and tried to lift him. “Crikey, you’re heavy. Come on, you gotta help me out here.”

Sinclair’s response was a garbled moan, but he at least managed to push himself to his feet with your assistance. You readjusted your grip on him and did your best to drag him back towards the house, his feet stumbling along the way as he did his best to walk.

He tried to talk to you, but at some point between his brain and his mouth the words turned into mumbled nonsense. You, meanwhile, tried to get him up the stairs, but he decided that the middle of the staircase was the best place for a nap and tried to curl up to sleep.

You tried to drag him to his feet, but he was a useless lump.

“Sinclair, you can sleep in your bed! Come on, it’s like, thirty seconds from the top of the stairs to your bedroom.”

You tried to pull him along the floor, but he was still too heavy. You weren’t quite drunk, but you’d had enough to drink that your strength was not at its peak.

“Sinclair, c’mon, please,” you begged. “You need to get to bed.”

“‘Sokay, I can sleep here,” Sinclair mumbled.

“Emily’s waiting for you in your bedroom, don’t you wanna see her?”

His eyes shot open then and he looked up at you.

“Emily?”

“Yes, Emily. Come on, let’s go see her, okay?”

Sinclair nodded and, with the help of the bannister on one side and you on the other, pushed himself to his feet.

“Thought she was in Cardiff,” he mumbled, his ability to formulate words apparently now rejuvenated after his short stair nap.

“No, she’s here,” you lied. “She’s in your bedroom, so let’s get you there, okay?”

Sinclair smiled happily and nodded, letting you guide him down the hallway to his bedroom door. He tried to open the door, and when he couldn’t get in, he moaned sadly, like a wounded puppy.

“She locked me out!”

“No, Clair, we locked our bedrooms to keep guests out, remember? Where’s your key?”

He reached into his pocket and grinned victoriously when he pulled the key out. He tried to put it in the lock, but it wasn’t until you placed your hand over his and held it steady that he managed to get the door unlocked.

He swung the door open with more force than necessary, and within a few steps, Sinclair was face-down on the bed.

You took the key out of the keyhole, closed the door behind you, and locked it again.

Finally, a moment of peace.

“You said Emily was here!” Sinclair grumbled.

It was a short moment.

“Yeah, well, I lied. I had to get you off the stairs. What if you threw up all over that carpet? You wanna explain that to your mum?”

Sinclair, who was now sitting up on the edge of the bed, folded his arms like a petulant child.

“I wanna see Emily.”

“Emily’s in Cardiff, Clair. You’ll see her really soon, I promise. Now, let’s get you into bed. Do you think you’re gonna be sick again?”

Sinclair shrugged, still sulking.

You sighed.

“Alright, fine. Let’s just get you into bed. Where do you keep your pyjamas?”

Sinclair pointed at a chair in the corner, which had a pile of worn clothes on it, including a set of pyjamas, which you retrieved for him while he tried his best to take his shoes off.

“Here, let me do that,” you said. You put the pyjamas down on the bed next to him and knelt down to untie his shoes. “You get your shirt off.”

Sinclair was quiet while you untied his shoes and slipped them off, and when you looked back up at him, he was still fully clothed, his arms folded protectively over his chest.

“Sinclair. Shirt. Off,” you said firmly.

He shook his head. “Can’t let other girls see me naked.”

You scoffed and shook your head incredulously. “Sinclair, first of all, this is the least sexy situation I’ve ever been in. There’s a high chance you’ll throw up any second, and if you do, I’m sitting right in the firing line. Second, I’m not other girls. I’m [Y/n]. Lionel’s girlfriend. Remember?”

Sinclair looked at you properly, and seemed to recognise you suddenly.

“[Y/n]! Yeah, you’re [Y/n]. Lionel’s [Y/n]. He loves you loads, you know.”

You smiled. “Yes, he does, and I love him loads too. And if he were here, he’d also be telling you to get into your pyjamas, so how about we give that a go?”

Sinclair nodded and started trying to unbutton his shirt, but his drunk and high fingers had lost all dexterity. He whined in frustration, so you took over, and to your relief he let you kneel in front of him and unbutton his shirt without complaint.

“[Y/n], do you think it’s too early to tell Emily I love her?” Sinclair asked as you continued working on his buttons.

“Do you love her?”

Sinclair nodded enthusiastically. “I do, I really do! I think I wanna marry her one day.”

“Well, it’s never too early to tell someone you love them, if that’s what you really feel. But marriage — it might be a bit early for that.”

“Lionel wants to marry you.”

You froze and looked up at him.

“…What?”

Sinclair nodded, grinning with excitement. “He does! He’s not gonna propose yet but says he wants to marry you one day. Ohmygod, maybe we could have a double wedding! You and Lionel, me and Emily. Wouldn’t that be so fun?”

“That’s… not something to think about yet,” you said firmly. “It’s too early for me and Lionel, and it’s certainly too early for you and Emily. Right, shirt off, pyjama top on. Reckon you can do your trousers yourself?”

“Yeah, I think so…”

“Good. You do that, I’ll find a bucket or something in case you’re sick again.”

You went into the bathroom and spotted the bin. You tied up the liner and took it out, leaving the bin empty and ready to catch any last bits of dinner Sinclair might have left to bring up.

Back in the bedroom, Sinclair had managed to get his pyjama top on and was lying on his back, his eyes closed, apparently having given up halfway through unbuckling his belt.

“Jesus, Sinclair,” you sighed. “You’re like a giant baby.”

You put the bin down by the bed and reached down to unbuckle his belt for him.

“Please don’t let Lionel walk in right now,” you muttered as you loosened his fly, trying carefully to avoid even lightly brushing against his boxers.

Sinclair’s eyes snapped open when you reached for his waistband.

“I can do it!” he insisted.

“Okay,” you said, raising your hands in innocence. “You’re a big boy, I’m sure you can take your own trousers off.”

You stood up straight and looked away as Sinclair tugged his trousers down. They went flying past you in the vague direction of his clothes chair, and you heard some more fumbling as he finished putting his pyjamas on.

“Done it!” he announced proudly.

You turned back to him, and sure enough, Sinclair had managed to get into his pyjamas almost entirely by himself.

“Well done, Clair. Now to get into bed. Can you do that?”

“Oh, I’m an expert at getting into bed!”

He stood, pulled back the duvet, and practically dove under the covers. You laughed as he pulled the duvet up to his neck, leaving only his head resting on the pillows with a contented smile.

“Very good, Sinclair, well done,” you laughed. “Now, the bin’s here in case you need to be sick again. How are you feeling now?”

“Sleepy,” Sinclair replied, his eyes already closed.

“Okay, I’ll leave you to crash. And please don’t ever take cocaine again, okay? You are the last person in the world who needs a stimulant.”

“Sleeping,” Sinclair said insistently.

“Okay, sleeping. Good night, Clair.”

“Night, [Y/n].”

You took his key and locked the door behind you as you left. You managed to find some water in the kitchen and brought it back up for him, leaving it on the bedside table for when he woke up. Not wanting anyone to disturb him, you locked the door again and pocketed the key, making a mental note to let him out in the morning if he didn’t have another key in there.

You were just thinking about going to try to find Lionel again when you were suddenly grabbed by the wrist by a figure moving at twice the speed of a normal human being and dragged down the hallway to Lionel’s room, where your kidnapper practically barrelled into the door to open it before throwing you face first onto the bed.

The door slammed shut, you heard a key turn in the lock, and you barely had time to turn around when Lionel was pouncing on you. His kiss was hardly a kiss, and more a very enthusiastic attempt to get his saliva all over your face.

“Lionel, what —”

“Need to fuck you,” he growled desperately, his hands already fumbling with his belt.

“Where have you been? I was looking for you for ages.”

“Downstairs. Legs, open, now.”

Before you had a chance to obey, Lionel grabbed your knees and pushed your legs apart, forcing your skirt to bunch up around your waist. He growled and pushed your knickers aside with one hand while the other lined his cock up with your entrance. He was about to thrust into you when —

“Lionel, condom!”

He swore in frustration and practically threw himself across the mattress to wrench open the bedside drawer and pull out a condom.

Lionel had been wild and passionate since that day in Paris, but as he tore the condom wrapper open with his teeth, you realised this was something else. He was like a man possessed — or a man on copious amounts of cocaine.

You sat up and took Lionel’s face in both your hands, forcing him to look up at you from where he was trying to roll the condom down his shaft.

You looked in his eyes. The usually amber iris was hardly visible between his dark, wide pupils and the red of the bloodshot whites.

“Lionel, how much cocaine have you taken?”

“None.”

“Don’t lie to me!”

“Okay, fine, two lines. But I’m fine, chérie, I swear —”

“Don’t you chérie me. I’m not fucking you if you’re high.”

Lionel groaned in frustration. “I’m fine, really. Come on, let’s just do it, it won’t take long —”

He wrapped his arms around you and rolled you back onto the bed, kissing you sloppily again as he tried to align his cock with you again, the condom still only half rolled down.

“Lionel, seriously, stop it. I don’t want to fuck you like this.”

He groaned again, but he pulled away.

“I’m so fucking horny, [Y/n], I’m about to burst!”

“Then have a wank, but we are not having sex right now. I’m not aroused, it’ll hurt, and you’re not thinking straight.”

“Gah, fine.”

Lionel yanked the condom off his shaft and tossed it aside. He took his cock in his hand, and you’d hardly had chance to sit up properly before he came, his seed launching into the air by a few centimetres before landing on the bed.

“Would have been better in your cunt,” Lionel grumbled as he wiped his hand on the sheet.

“Yeah, well, too bad. Was it you that gave Sinclair coke?”

Lionel’s head snapped up to look at you with a frown.

“I’d never give Sinclair coke, he’d have a heart attack. Why, has he taken some?”

“Yeah, I found him outside mid-crash, vomiting in the bushes.”

Lionel swore loudly and tried to get up, but his trousers were still halfway down his thighs, so he ended up falling on the floor with a thump.

“He’s fine, he’s asleep,” you said as Lionel tried to stand up again. “I got him into bed, despite his best efforts to sleep on the stairs.”

Lionel paused trying to do up his fly.

“…He’s alright?”

“As he can be. He’s got water and a sick bucket. I even managed to keep him awake long enough to get him into his pyjamas, though I did feel like I was dressing a giant baby.”

Lionel sighed with relief. He finished doing his trousers up and began pacing around the room frantically, running his fingers through his hair.

“If I find out who gave Sinclair cocaine, I am going to fucking throttle them,” he swore. “Some fucking idiot probably thought it’d be funny. Fuck! I shouldn’t have left him alone.”

“You left me alone too.”

Lionel stopped his pacing and looked at you.

“Did I? All I remember is I lost you in the crowd, the next thing I knew I was in the sitting room with a rolled-up tenner. I don’t even remember… my mind’s blurry…”

He pinched his nose and furrowed his brow as he tried to put the pieces together, but it didn’t help that the drugs were still coursing through his system and his brain was moving too fast to stop and think.

“Li, can we stay in here for a bit? The party was getting a bit much for me anyway, and you’re probably gonna crash soon. I don’t want to have to drag you up the stairs like I did with Sinclair.”

Lionel laughed at the thought of you dragging a half-asleep Sinclair up the stairs. He looked up at the clock on the wall, and through his blurry, drunken vision he could just make out that it was 11.40.

“I hope I don’t pass out like Sinclair before 12. I want that New Year’s kiss.”

You smiled.

“Well, I’ll tell you what. I’ll go and get you some water and something to eat. You stay here and… I don’t know, run around in circles until the drugs wear off. We’ll have our New Year’s kiss, and by the time you crash, you’ll already be in bed. Unlike Sinclair, who crashed in a bush.”

Lionel nodded, and you could see by the way he was twitching and shifting his weight from foot to foot that he was still feeling the effects of the cocaine he’d taken, although the insane horniness seemed to have washed away when he came on the bed.

As you stood up from the bed and pulled your skirt down, you glanced at the stain he’d left.

“And if you’re feeling up to it, maybe change the sheets while I’m gone. I don’t fancy sleeping under a jizz-stained duvet.”

1972

A few days into the New Year, it was time for Lionel and Sinclair to go back to Cambridge. You didn’t bother holding in your sobs this time, and Lionel gently wiped a tear from your cheek with his gloved hand as you hugged him goodbye.

“There, there, love. We’ll be back before you know it. I promise I’ll call you as much as I can.”

You nodded, sniffling.

“I love you, my brave lion.”

He grinned. “And I love you, my fierce lioness.”

Lionel pressed a firm kiss to your cold lips and turned away to climb into Sinclair’s car. You turned to Sinclair and gave him a big hug.

“I’ll call you too, [Y/n]!” Sinclair promised. “And I also love you. Platonically. I don’t have a cute pet name for you, though.”

You laughed and pulled back from the hug. Despite the cold, and despite the sorrow at saying goodbye, he still shone with energy.

“Well, then, I’m going to call you a golden retriever,” you decided, “because if a golden retriever were to stand on its hind legs and turn into a human, I’m pretty sure it would just turn into you.”

Sinclair’s eyes lit up and he grinned. “I love that! Okay, we need to go, I want to get there before the sun goes down. Bye, [Y/n]! This has been the best Christmas break ever with you around. Thanks again for looking after me at New Year’s, if it weren’t for you I might have still been in that bush the next morning! Oh, and make sure you tell your parents I said bye, it was so great to meet them at Christmas —”

Sinclair was interrupted by the sudden honking of his own car’s horn. You both looked over and saw that Lionel had leaned over to the driver’s seat to slam his hand down on the horn.

“Sinclair, stop hogging my girlfriend and get your arse in the car!” he shouted, his voice slightly muffled by the car window.

“Go on, Clair, get going. Have fun talking Lionel’s ear off for the next two hours.”

Sinclair laughed and gave you one last hug. Lionel honked the horn again and kept his hand pressed firmly down until Sinclair had opened the car door and sat himself down.

You took a few steps back to give them some space to drive off, and with one last wave, they were gone.

Spring went by excruciatingly slowly, but at least you were busy. In late January, your dad opened a second branch of his cafe in Reading, so he was spending more and more time there, which meant leaving you to open and close the Basingstoke cafe on your own — so much so that he officially promoted you to assistant manager.

Sinclair and Lionel did come home for Easter, but it was over far too fast. You couldn’t get away from work as much now that you were assistant manager, and the boys had to prepare for their exams soon, so you only managed to see Lionel fleetingly. Easter came early that year, so they were due back at university before their birthdays, which meant you didn’t even get to celebrate with them.

Eventually, summer came around, and they came home. You managed to take some leave from work so you could spend time with Lionel, who was even more excited to see you than ever before. Helen and Georgina’s birthday party marked a year since you’d officially called yourselves boyfriend and girlfriend, and Lionel was actually humming to himself as he got dressed for the party.

“What’s got into you?” you asked with a laugh as you emerged from the bathroom, having finished your make-up, and heard his humming as he stood in front of the mirror.

“Nothing. I’m excited for the party, that’s all.”

“You explicitly told me last year you hate your mum’s party, that’s why you invited me, to make it bearable.”

Lionel shrugged, but he was still smiling as he adjusted his bowtie.

“I have a good feeling about tonight, that’s all.”

“Hmm, I don’t know… I think you know something I don’t.”

Lionel turned to you with a cheeky smile and pulled you into his arms.

“All I know is that I love you, chérie, and if you don’t know that, I’m not sure what else I can do to prove it.”

You giggled and batted his chest playfully. “You charmer, you. Well, whatever you’re avoiding telling me, I’m sure I’ll find out in due time. Now, I promised Sinclair I’d help him choose the wine from the cellar. Why he wants my opinion, I have no idea, but I’ve learnt not to question him.”

“Because asking him one question inevitably leads to a long-winded answer?”

“Precisely. I’ll see you in a little while, okay?”

“Alright. I love you, [Y/n].”

“I love you too,” you said with a smile. You leaned up to kiss him, then left to go and meet Sinclair in the wine cellar.

You’d been in the wine cellar only a few times. It was a strange place, completely cut off from the rest of the house, and when you closed the door behind you, it was easy to forget there was an entire house above you.

Sinclair hadn’t got a headstart, apparently. The wine was all still untouched, and he was pacing back and forth, fingers fidgeting with the hem of his shirt.

“Hey, Clair. I’m here as promised. Not sure why you want my help with the wine, though, I know nothing.”

He froze when he saw you, his eyes wide in alarm, as if he hadn’t been expecting you.

“[Y/n], hi. Um, I lied. I don’t need your help with the wine. I need to talk to you… privately.”

You frowned and looked at him curiously. Whatever it was, it was clearly causing him great distress. You approached him and took his hands in yours, stopping his nervous fiddling with his shirt.

“What’s wrong, Sinclair? Is it something to do with Emily?”

He shook his head.

“No. No, not Emily. It’s about… Lionel.”

“Lionel? What about him?”

“Maybe… maybe we should sit down.”

Sinclair led you to a corner of the cellar and you both sat down on the small sofa you hadn’t even noticed before. It faced a low table, which you suspected was for tasting the wines to choose the perfect vintage.

Sinclair’s shirt sleeves were the next victim of his nervous fidgeting. He was leaning forwards slightly, his elbows resting on his knees as he stared at the floor, as if what he had to say was written down there somewhere.

“It’s two things, actually. One he doesn’t know that I know, and the other… he told me, but he made me promise not to tell.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t —”

“No, I have to,” Sinclair insisted. “I have to. I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t. He’d probably say I’m betraying him by telling you, but… I’d be betraying myself more if I didn’t tell you.”

“Sinclair, you’re scaring me,” you said in a quiet voice.

He sat back, took a deep breath, and looked at you. The devastation and fear in his eyes had every worst scenario running through your head.

“Lionel’s been cheating on you.”

Your stomach dropped. You felt like someone had wrapped a fist around your heart and squeezed it tight. You didn’t even know what to say, what to think… your first instinct was to refuse to believe it, to insist Lionel would never do that to you. But another voice in your head told you that it explained a lot of questions you had been asking.

You’d told yourself he was becoming distant and calling less because he was busy with coursework, but if that were the case, why was Sinclair able to find the time to call you more regularly than your own boyfriend, when Sinclair’s timetable was much more hectic?

And you’d never understood Lionel’s reasoning for refusing to stop using condoms. You could go on the pill, you’d offered to several times, but he’d always said that he wanted to use condoms regardless. Because he didn’t want you to get pregnant, he said, but the pill was just as effective.

“How do you know?” you asked after a long moment of silence.

“I was suspicious for a while. He’s been acting weird all year, but I always put it down to adjusting to university, to missing you, to going out too much. The first thing that made me think something was up was when I was taking the bins out and I went into his ensuite to empty his bathroom bin, and I saw used condoms in there. I asked him about it, and he said he — he wanks into condoms to save on mess. I believed him.

But after a while, I started noticing a pattern. I always empty the bins on a Thursday, because the bin men come on Friday morning, and I would see the condoms on the top, like he’d just put them in there. Then there was a bank holiday, so the bin day changed, so I emptied it on a Wednesday instead, before I went to play cricket. And there were none in there. I thought that was weird, like he was wanking weekly, on a Wednesday. Who schedules that?

And then I had an awful thought. What if he was using them every week at the same time… because he was seeing someone every week at the same time? Specifically, while I was at cricket. I thought there was no way that was true. He loves you, he wouldn’t do that to you. But then he said something. We were at the pub with some mates, you know, boys’ banter. And he made a joke, he said, ‘I wank every day and that’s still not enough.’ But I thought that couldn’t be right, because I always found the condoms on the Thursday, and there were only ever one or two. Not that I counted, but the only other things I ever saw in there were empty loo rolls and beard hair. You know, they stood out. I’d have noticed if there were seven.

And so I… I decided to investigate. To see what he was doing on Wednesdays while I was at cricket. One of the guys on my course does photography as a hobby, he likes to sit in trees and photograph birds. So I asked him if he could try and see into our flat.”

Sinclair reached into his jacket pocket with a trembling hand, and pulled out a folded piece of paper.

“He gave me a few pictures. Some of them were - um - more explicit. Far more of him than I ever wanted to see. But this one showed enough to prove what was happening without, you know, showing too much. You don’t have to look at it, I just thought if you wanted proof…”

You snatched the photo from Sinclair’s hand before you changed your mind.

The sound you made then would haunt Sinclair for years to come. It was the sound of his friend’s heart breaking, of all your hopes and dreams for a future with Lionel smashing to the ground.

Sinclair’s friend had a good camera. It was Lionel, alright. Your boyfriend. He was sitting naked on the sofa, an expression on his face you’d seen many times — one you thought only you had seen. A naked woman was kneeling in front of him, her head in his lap, and his hand was on the back of her head.

“I’m really sorry, [Y/n],” Sinclair said quietly.

You shook your head, eyes still glued to the photo, as if looking at it longer would make it stop existing.

“Not your fault,” you said, your voice cracking slightly.

“I should have said something… shouldn’t have believed him about the condoms.”

You scoffed. Fucking condoms. No wonder he was so insistent on using them. Well, at least he was keeping you safe from STDs while he fucked other girls.

“Who is she?”

“I don’t know. I asked my mate to go back the next week and see if he could get a picture of her face. And he did, but… it was a different girl.”

Your fist clenched, and the photo became crumpled in your hand.

“...A different girl?”

Sinclair nodded, his eyes wide with trepidation, as if worried what you might do next.

“A different — what, does he fuck a different girl every week?!” you shouted, throwing the screwed-up photo on the floor.

It was one thing if it was another girlfriend. If he’d fallen in love with someone else but didn’t have the guts to break up with you, that was one thing. But if it was different girls, that meant he was just shagging them, and that made it worse, because it meant that putting his dick in something wet was more important to him than you were.

“I don’t know, [Y/n], I’m sorry, we broke up for summer that week so I wasn’t able to ask my mate to go back.”

“Did you confront him about it?”

“No, I’ve not told him that I know. I wanted to speak to you first. I thought you should decide what to do.”

“But you came home weeks ago! Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“I’ve been trying, but it’s so hard, [Y/n]. I kept changing my mind whether to even tell you or not, and whenever I did decide to tell you, I couldn’t get you alone. You’re always together. And you’re so happy together, I didn’t want to upset that. But when he told me about tonight, I knew I had to tell you.”

“Tonight?” you said with a frown. “What about tonight?”

You knew it. There was something Lionel wasn’t telling you. Something that was making him excited for a usually dreaded occasion…

“He’s going to propose.”

The fist that had gripped your heart earlier seemed to squeeze even harder.

Lionel was going to propose. He was going to get down on one knee, in front of everyone, and ask you to swear your fidelity to him, when he’d spent the better part of the last year sticking his cock in a different woman every week.

You stood up and prepared to storm out, but you heard Sinclair calling after you.

“[Y/n], wait —”

You paused at the bottom of the stairs and looked back at him, tears in your eyes.

“Thank you for telling me, Sinclair. You did the right thing.”

You left before he could convince you not to.

- - -

Sinclair usually dreaded his mum and Aunt Georgie’s birthday party, for all the reasons Lionel had told you last year. But this year, he was dreading it more than ever before.

He couldn’t get you alone again. He wanted to ask you what you were going to do, but you were nowhere to be seen, and he knew you hadn’t said anything to Lionel, because he was still buzzing with excitement for his grand proposal.

Everyone was in on it and, not knowing anything about what Sinclair had told you, Helen and Georgina were excited too. They both adored you, and they were sure you’d say yes.

Sinclair adored you too, of course. He wanted you to be his sister so badly. Okay, technically if you married Lionel you’d be his cousin-in-law, but Lionel would always be his big brother in Sinclair’s mind, so as far as he was concerned, if you married Lionel, you’d become his sister-in-law. And in some ways, he already saw you as his sister. You were definitely so much more than just his cousin’s girlfriend.

That was what had made the whole thing so difficult for him. He’d promised Lionel not to tell you about the proposal, but he knew he’d never forgive himself if he let you be proposed to in front of all those people without knowing the truth.

He hoped you could work it out. He certainly hadn’t told you in order to break you up. But you had to have all the facts before you made such a life-changing decision.

When his mum and aunt started herding guests into the main entrance hall, Sinclair knew it was time. He tried to find you, but among the crowd it was impossible. He didn’t catch a glimpse of you until you, he and Lionel were being herded up to the landing that overlooked the room.

Lionel had planned it all meticulously. Sinclair stood with the two of you on one side, his mum and aunt on the other. They quieted the crowd and Aunt Georgie spoke as if she were about to give a speech. On cue, Sinclair moved over to stand by his mum, leaving you and Lionel alone.

Georgina announced that Lionel had something to say, and suddenly all eyes were on the two of you. This was it. Your boyfriend, the person you loved and trusted most in the world, the person who’d betrayed you so utterly that looking at him now just made you want to cry — he was about to propose to you.

In front of everyone. Sinclair, Helen and Georgina, who’d taken you in as their own. Extended family, friends and friends of friends, they were all gathered together, all listening attentively as Lionel addressed them.

“A little over a year ago, just before the end of term, I had my future planned out. I was going to go to university, get a first class degree in Business Studies, and become a great businessman. I’m still doing all those things, of course; watch this space.”

A polite titter came from the crowd, and Lionel flashed a grin.

“But I hadn’t accounted for one thing. I hadn’t considered that one day, I’d sneak out of college for a smoke and find a strange girl I’d never seen before trying to peek into the windows.”

He looked at you with an amused smirk.

“I know what you’re all thinking — no, it wasn’t the boys’ changing room.”

Another polite laugh from the crowd.

“It was the Art classroom. You see, we had some original Monet paintings on display, and she wanted to see them. So I, never one to deny a beautiful woman in need, helped her sneak in to see them.”

Yeah, and you won’t deny any woman in need of dicking down, you thought bitterly.

“She left before I managed to get her number, but with the help of Sinclair here” — he gestured to his cousin, as if anyone was in doubt who he was — “I managed to track her down. She, it transpired, had been looking for me too, and was only too happy to let me take her out for a drink. The rest, as they say, is history.”

Lionel turned his attention fully to you. You were trying to keep your face blank, but you had no idea how you were coming across, only that Lionel was undeterred.

“[Y/n], despite my assertions that it was impossible, you really have tamed this lion. I have every intention of becoming the great man I’m destined to be, but I can only do it with you by my side.”

The crowd gasped as Lionel dropped to one knee. Somewhere, you heard a camera clicking. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a ring box. He opened it to present you with a sapphire-encrusted ring, and in another version of events, you might have marvelled at how beautiful it was.

“[Y/n] [L/n]… will you marry me?”

His speech was still ringing in your head. I had my future all planned out… I’m never one to deny a beautiful woman in need… I managed to track her down… I’m destined to be a great man.

It was all “I” and “me.” It was all him. His life, not yours; his plans, not yours. Most of the people in the crowd didn’t know you, and nothing Lionel had said had told them anything more.

It wasn’t about you — and maybe it never had been.

You took a steadying breath.

You loved him. You hated him. You didn’t want to break his heart. He’d already broken yours.

You only had one thing to say before you turned and left.

“No.”

- - -

1989

“Our… son,” Lionel repeated slowly. “You were… you were pregnant.”

“I didn’t know then. I only realised a few weeks later.”

“Oh, well, that’s alright then!” Lionel exclaimed sarcastically, waving his arms in a wild shrug. “It’s not like you had my phone number or my address. It’s not like I was trying to call you for weeks afterwards. It’s not like you could have fucking told me!”

“Would it have made any difference? I didn’t want you in my life, and you made it perfectly clear you didn’t want kids.”

“Just because I didn’t want to be a father, doesn’t mean I wouldn’t have! You had no right to make that decision for me, [Y/n]! I mean… Christ. How old is he now? Sixteen? Does he even know?”

“No. He knows who you are only because you’re famous. He has no idea I ever even knew you, let alone that you’re his father.”

“Does Sinclair know?”

“Sinclair? No, why would he know?”

“Well, he knew about everything else apparently.”

“No, Sinclair doesn’t know. I cut off contact with him too. It fucking sucked, because he’s one of the best people I’ve ever met, but I couldn’t bear to look at him, not when he looks so much like you.”

Lionel collapsed into a chair and buried his head in his hands.

“Christ. I can’t believe this.”

“If it makes you feel any better, you’re not on the birth certificate, so you don’t have any responsibility for him. If something happened to me, he wouldn’t show up on your doorstep.”

“But we used condoms!” Lionel said with a frown, pulling his hands away from his face to look at you, bemused. “We always used condoms.”

“Condoms break,” you said with a shrug. “Even your fancy ones.”

Lionel swore. He stood up again and began pacing around, running his fingers through his hair. Meanwhile, unbeknownst to either of you, you were being watched from a window, although your argument was muted to your observer.

“They’re really going at it,” Georgina said with concern. “Maybe we should intervene. I know Sinclair wanted to get them talking, but I don’t think this is what he hoped for.”

“He’s your son, George, you might be better equipped,” Helen replied, leaning over her sister’s head to peek outside.

“You know I want to, but I’ll feel ridiculous trying to calm him down when I’m all the way down here now. I know it’s his day, but maybe we should send Sinclair.”

Helen glanced over at her son, who was currently trying to balance chatting away at some friends with stuffing his face full of food from the buffet.

“I think you’re right. We just need to make sure nobody follows him outside. Tell you what, I’ll get the microphone and keep everyone distracted. You get him outside and guard the door.”

“Deal.”

Within minutes, Sinclair had abandoned his conversation and his plate of food, his aunt was parked in her wheelchair in front of the door, and his ears were being subjected to one of the worst arguments he’d ever heard.

“YOU JUST SAID I MADE THE RIGHT CHOICE, SO WHAT DOES IT MATTER?”

“IT WASN’T YOUR CHOICE TO MAKE, [Y/N]!”

“What the fuck is going on out here?!” Sinclair demanded. “This is my wedding! It’s supposed to be the happiest day of my life! Why are you having a bloody screaming match?!”

“Tell him, [Y/n]!” Lionel said to you with a sneer. “Tell Sinclair the truth. You won’t tell anyone, will you, Sinclair? Considering you didn’t tell me for seventeen fucking years why the only woman I’ve ever loved rejected my proposal in front of our entire family!”

Sinclair held his hands up innocently. “It wasn’t for me to tell! Wait – tell me what? Is there something else?”

Lionel stared daggers at you. You sighed and crossed your arms.

“I have a son,” you admitted. “We – we have a son.”

Sinclair’s jaw dropped. He looked between you and Lionel like you were playing tennis.

“Wait – you mean you and Lionel have a son? Li, you never told me –”

“That’s because I didn’t fucking know, you nitwit!” Lionel snapped. “You wanted to know why we’re having a bloody screaming match – that’s why. Because [Y/n] just told me that we have a bloody son.”

Sinclair stared at you as if you’d just grown an extra head. “Well… what’s his name?”

You laughed and shook your head.

“Lionel hasn’t even asked that yet, and it’s the first question out of your mouth.”

“You didn’t ask his name?” Sinclair said to Lionel with a frown.

“I don’t want to know! I don’t want to know anything. This isn’t changing anything. Clearly, [Y/n] thinks they’re getting on just fine without me, so they can continue that way. I don’t want to know his name, his school, his birthday, nothing. What I would like to know, however, is why my wheelchair-bound mother is sitting in front of the door like a fucking bouncer.”

Lionel pointed towards the door; through the window, the back of Georgina’s chair was visible.

“She’s making sure nobody follows me out here. So we could have a private conversation.”

You sniffed and stood up straight.

“I’m sorry, Sinclair. You’re right, this is your day. I ruined your mums’ birthday party in ‘72, now I’m ruining your wedding day. I should leave.”

You went to walk past him, but Sinclair placed a hand on your shoulder.

“I’m sorry, [Y/n]. I thought if you and Lionel talked, you could work things out. At least put the past behind you.”

You shook your head.

“Sinclair, you’re sweet. But this is too messy to just talk it out. Um, but before I go…”

You took both his hands in yours and looked at him seriously.

“I know my opinion doesn’t matter, and you can make your own choices, and I might be totally wrong about this. But for what it’s worth… you can do so much better than Natalie.”

You gave him a kiss on the cheek.

“Bye, Clair. I really hope you prove me wrong.”

You didn’t give him a chance to respond, and you didn’t give Lionel a second glance. You opened the door back into the reception, and Georgina moved her chair out of the way. You locked eyes for a second, and you hesitated.

“Georgina… I’m really sorry I ruined your birthday. Would you tell Helen for me? I’m – I’m gonna go, before I ruin this wedding too.”

Georgina didn’t say anything, so you left.

You were at the reception desk, waiting for a staff member to call you a taxi, when Sinclair came jogging up to you.

“[Y/n], wait!”

“Sinclair…”

“Just… one thing. Would you tell me your son’s name? I know Lionel doesn’t want to know, but I’d really like to, if that’s okay with with you. And maybe one day, if he does want to know… I could tell him. So he won’t have to bother you.”

You smiled. How was he always so sweet? It was his wedding day, you’d just blown up at his cousin and told him you didn’t like his new wife, and he was still concerned about you.

“His name is Cole.”

“Cole. Cool! Cool Cole, ha ha. Um, I don’t suppose we can still be friends, can we?”

You shook your head, tears welling in your eyes. “No, Sinclair, I’m sorry. I want to be… and maybe one day we can. But you’re too close to Lionel.”

Sinclair nodded his head sadly. “I understand. Well… it was nice seeing you again, [Y/n]. Despite the argument, I am really glad you came. If you ever need anything - and if Cole ever needs anything - just come find me, ‘kay?”

You nodded. Sinclair kissed you on the cheek, and with a sad smile, he turned back to the party.

#alan rickman #sinclair bryant #lionel shabandar #gambit 2012 #close my eyes 1991 #champagne problems #lionel x reader #John Gissing looks like a 30s/40s Lionel to me so I figure I'll just use him #since Lionel in the film is much too old lol

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menop033 · 5 months ago

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Some random and unimportant thoughts on the name of Cassandra Cain, mostly pertinent to Post-Crisis:

Her first name, Cassandra, is a direct reference to the Oracle of Troy. The pretty known fact about her is that she spoke true prophecies but was never to be believed. It was already discussed that this, indeed, ties into Cain's difficulty with speech and communication and being understood by literally anyone that's not the world's most dangerous assassin who presumably hardly cares about her. No new revelations here, I am afraid.

In a novelization of the event No Man's Land by Greg Rucka (a really good book, by the way, I can only recommend it), the name 'Cassandra' was given to her by Barbara Gordon, who called herself Oracle, so she kind of named her after herself in more than one way (Cassandra and Batgirl). She may have had some issues projecting herself into her later on in Batgirl (2000), it is not that important but it should be noted. Later on, it was revised to be a name given to her by her biological mother, Lady Shiva, naming her after both herself and her deceased sister (Sandra and Carolyn). I am not sure whether I agree with that choice.

Cassandra, the prophetess, was admired and given a gift by Apollo, and when his love wasn't reciprocated, he decided to curse her as well. Cass Cain was given a 'gift' by her father, David, the harsh martial arts training, being able to see intent and predict movements by seeing the tiniest changes in a body language, and she was, too, 'cursed' by him in the communication department, her not being even spoken to, not being taught how to speak. Also, David had an unhealthy admiration towards her, as he saw her as his greatest triumph, weapon. But he didn't even give her the space to betray him, unlike Apollo in the Greek myth, dooming her from the start.

Although etymologically it is unexplained, there are a few theories that I think are rather interesting and could be relevant. It has been connected to a word kekasmai which means "to surpass, to excel", which is precisely what Cass feels the need to be, what she thinks she should be, as per her upbringing with David Cain. The other proposed roots would fit much more with Barbara Gordon's Oracle, though.

As for her surname, Cain, it comes from the Bible. Cain was the firstborn of two first people on the earth, Adam and Eve, and was basically the first killer, after the fact forever marked with a mark of Cain, forced to wander. This pretty closely resembles how once Cass killed, she ran away, wandering for a (long) while and definitely believing, that she is forever 'marked' by what she had that, irredeemable.

And… as for sources, it's basically all wikipedia or fandom wiki. It's a Tumblr post, not a dissertation.

So yeah, her name is fitting, cool and kind of edgy. But the whole character is cool and kind of edgy. With the all-black suit and clothing. And black lipstick, obviously.

#cassandra cain #cass cain #barbara gordon #david cain #batman #batgirl #batgirl 2000 #dc comics #dc

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nicngyu · 2 months ago

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smau ; right place, wrong person.

thirty-eight. HE POISONED TWO WHAT

pairing ; idol!beomgyu x gn!reader

summary ; in which a failed proposal at a txt send-off leads y/n to beomgyu, who can't help but meddle a little bit.

author's note ; sorry guys im drowning in my dissertation it’s really rough here (next update tomorrow tho)

⤺previous ; masterlist ; next⤻

taglist ; @serenityism00 @choppedballoondetective @starchasing-cryptid @lun4kazumii @xoxobela @calx-bdo @junhuicosmo @noraimp @isa942572 @huethusiasm @miyawwn @kumabeom @darlingz99 @redsockssuck @woncheecks @flowzel @sugawara-levi @20-cms @paradiseoflosers @222brainrot @blossommi @stwq2439 @taysfairies @nshmurarki @thisrandombitch @missychief1404 @petralovesbonedo @channieismylove @bee-the-loser @nineooooo @luvvhaerin @t-102 @ranjupotato @betda @beomgyusluver @bamgeutori @steddie-steddie @jellyyjn @cherryangel-coke @flaminghotyourmom @tkooooop

#🎲 - right place wrong person #beomgyu smau #choi beomgyu x reader #txt x reader #choi beomgyu smau #txt smau #kpop smau #beomgyu x reader #beomgyu #choi beomgyu fluff #beomgyu fanfic #beomgyu imagines #beomgyu txt #choi beomgyu x gn reader #txt x gn reader #txt crack #txt scenarios

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haggishlyhagging · 2 years ago

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I was standing before the desk of my doctoral dissertation adviser who was angrily telling me that I was not going about my dissertation in a way that suited him. He shouted at me, from his intimidating height, that my master's thesis adviser had told him I had pressured him unmercifully too and hadn't asked his advice either all along as I should have. I asked my fuming educator, as calmly as I could, why my master's adviser had never indicated this to me. I suggested that if he hadn't approved of the way I was proceeding, he should have said something to me at the time. And that since he always signed everything I took to him to sign, and since he had not stood in the way of my receiving my master's degree, I had simply assumed he approved.

Even as I asked the question, however, I knew the answer. I hadn't behaved femininely. I hadn't asked their advice. I hadn't acted as if I weren't capable of doing all this without their help. Hadn't, in short, acted incompetent, helpless, childish, and infinitely grateful for every little scrap of attention or advice they, as superior beings, had given me. I was twenty-eight years old when I began my master's research. I knew exactly what I wanted to do and how to go about doing it. I proposed it to my adviser. He agreed. I did it. That was that—I thought.

Oh, but not so. I didn't lean on him. To me he was just part of the red tape. I cut through him as quickly as possible. And I had no time to linger. Already we had one child and were ready to conceive another. I had to move faster almost than humanly possible, and I did.

Now my doctoral adviser had heard from my previous master that I had not been sufficiently humble and impressed (did not respect the priesthood enough, meaning the men). But this one wasn't going to make the same mistake. He'd show me who was boss. I understood this as women understand it, not intellectually, just in the flesh of my face as he scowled at it, just in the resignation of my weary-with-watching-male-ego-signs flesh. And I knew exactly what to do about it, without thinking, without strategizing—cry. So he would know I wasn't trying to show I was as smart as he was and didn't need him to tell me what to do next. Cry—so he would realize I was just another weak little woman and he had no cause for alarm. Cry—so he would feel bigger and more rational, and still, above all else, still blessedly in control.

So I cried on purpose that day, and because I did I became Dr. Johnson a year later, moving with great speed through a system designed to slow doctoral candidates down. Because I cried.

If men hate to be thus manipulated, then they must allow us to be real, they must not force us to manipulate their egos in order to live a full human life. I hate such machinations. I despise them with all my heart. But women are forced to resort to them because men won't otherwise allow us to exist. And we have a right to life.

-Sonia Johnson, From Housewife to Heretic

#Sonia Johnson #male ego #higher education #female tears #male manipulator

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official-linguistics-post · 1 year ago

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Oh my god i want a phd too but idk what the fuck am i suppossed to do a phd in like do they give you topics to choose from once you enroll in the course or it becomes evident to you as you complete your studies and reach that level.

it depends on the program. some will have you closely associated with a faculty mentor's research, like a traditional hard sciences "lab," but even in that structure you typically have to develop your own project rather than having it assigned wholesale. many of the milestones along the way, like course papers and qualifying or comprehensive exams, are often intended to help you explore potential topics before you reach the formal proposal.

i will not lie, my dissertation was originally inspired by a joke my advisor made in my first year, and i gradually fleshed it out into a real area of research as i got more knowledgeable in the field. it turned out pretty damn good for something that lodged in my brain over a post-excavation beer.

#i actually don't know if my advisor knows that's where it came from... i should write him

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alexistudies · 9 months ago

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october 9th, 2024

despite this semester going by extremely fast, i don't feel like i'm drowning, which i fully expected to be at this point. my multiple linear regression class ended over the weekend with a very cumulative final. it was a bit difficult but i think i got the grade i needed to pass the class with a B. only time will tell LOL.

lately, i've been working on my F31 application (which is also just setting the stage for my dissertation and acting as a diss proposal) and that's been very mentally challenging but in the best way. digging into the literature, refining what studies i want to do, and bouncing ideas off of my mentor has been fulfilling. i finally was able to put pen to paper coherently late last week and i finally feel like im getting somewhere.

lab is lab, and im still somewhat troubleshooting equipment but my supplemental study should be able to start later this month!

how are you all doing? what's the semester been like for you?

#alexistudies #alexi's phd year 2 #studyblr #studyspo #smartspo #genspen #heygen #morningkou #stemblr #scienceblr #collegeblr #uniblr #college #gradblr #grad school #study motivation

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askviktor · 5 months ago

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What's your PhD in? How about Jayce's? How many years did it take? Did you have to write and defend a thesis? I'm curious about how higher ed works in Piltover and what the process was like for you and your partner.

Our degrees are earned much like yours. Jayce has a doctorate in Mechanical Engineering, the final semester of which he completed while we developed Hextech. I have a Master's degree in Applied Mathematics and a doctorate in Theoretical Physics. For me, these took a combined six years to complete. I completed my undergraduate degree in three years, which I began when I was sixteen. I was a very... single-minded student. I suppose I still am.

My Master’s thesis in Applied Mathematics explored nonlinear dynamical systems in self-regulating mechanisms - how complex, seemingly chaotic systems could stabilize themselves through feedback loops.

My Theoretical Physics PhD dissertation was titled "Harmonic Resonance and the Theory of Energy Optimization in Adaptive Constructs." I proposed that energy could be manipulated more efficiently through resonance patterns, allowing mechanical systems to function with minimal external input. In essence, I sought to create machines that could power themselves.

Of course, it was not until I encountered Hextech that my theories found their true application.

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somedaylazysomeday · 1 year ago

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Noisy - Part Four

Despite your agreements, Viktor is being very loud... Again. You go to confront him about it.

Viktor x fem!reader

Rating: Explicit. Minors DNI.

Word Count: 5,500

Warnings: Frustration, concern, hints of growing intimacy, unprotected sex, creampie, feelings

Previous | Masterlist

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You couldn’t sleep.

You turned to your side, away from the window. Maybe the faint glow from behind the curtains was what had kept you awake. Or maybe all the thoughts crowding your mind were on that side of the pillow, sneaking in through your ear until they could snarl and snap inside of your brain.

Another sleepless night was not what you needed.

A moment later, you amended the thought. If there was going to be one night you couldn’t really rest, this wasn’t the worst night for it to happen. You didn’t have anywhere to be the next day and no real plans. You could sleep as late as you needed to recover what you were losing to your racing thoughts.

With that realization, you gave in and let your mind whir rapidly as it performed a variety of calculations it apparently thought were necessary.

The first - and accordingly most concerning - thought was about your impending departure from the Piltover Academy of Science, Technology, and Innovation.

You had been a student at the Academy for almost a decade. Your undergraduate work had been completed on time. Graduate work had slowed you down slightly as you started taking more advanced courses that required more field work. And your doctoral program seemed to have stretched on for an eternity. That was mostly because the Academy’s work-study program had left you attending courses only half of your time.

Even then, your main focus for the last semester had been on writing your dissertation.

From everything you had learned about other schools, Piltover’s Academy was unique in the way dissertations were presented, especially in practical fields. Instead of a simple essay, Academy dissertations were written as a proposal. You were to identify a problem, hypothesize about causes and solutions, and create a plan to help alleviate the problem or treat those suffering from it.

When you were finished with your dissertation, you would submit it to your mentor, Professor Ukkud. Once she went through it with you and you completed any final changes, she would present it to the Council of Piltover. They would read it, discuss your proposed solutions, then give you a chance to answer their questions and defend your intended methodology.

If you successfully defended your dissertation, you would gain a doctorate. You would also be approved a specified amount of Piltover’s money to put your proposal into action, backed by the Council. Doctors whose experiments and solutions helped people were often offered jobs in the government itself, working to improve the lives of Piltover citizens.

Your identified problem - the pollution in the Undercity, particularly the fumes found in the Sump sector - was easily proven. The causes were of concern to Piltover. The solutions were simple and relatively cheap. It was, by all accounts, tailor-made for a successful dissertation defense.

Except that you had been advised to start over.

Your meeting with Professor Ukkud that afternoon had been profoundly disappointing. It had been your first meeting with her since you had discussed concepts. The professor had left the Academy for several months as she delivered a beautiful boy. She and her wife had spent much of the following time bonding with their newborn son and, by the time she returned, your dissertation was almost complete.

Which was why it was particularly heartbreaking that you had presented your lovingly-crafted work to Professor Ukkud only for her to sit in uncomfortable silence. She listened to your explanation, but pushed the dissertation back to you unread. When she finally spoke, it was with an expression of sympathy and a delicate sort of tone.

“I understand your passion for this project and I think it would have a positive impact on the Undercity. However, I feel that there is a strong chance the Council will deny you the funds you’ve requested.”

You had been aghast. The Council rarely refused funds, and when they did, it was often because the attached proposal had been subpar. In a few cases, they had denied funds and awarded the defender their degree anyway, but it had happened only twice that you could remember.

It was considered slightly shameful to receive your degree with no accompanying funds. It was a sign that the Council thought there was no situation in which your special knowledge could play an role in improving Piltover.

“But… But this is important research…” you had protested, knowing it wouldn’t matter. “My solution is simple and cost-effective, and no one can argue the impact it would have on the lives of those living in the Undercity. Especially the ones who live in the Sump sector, but it could make a difference for people who live much further away.”

Professor Ukkud shook her head sadly. “I agree, and I believe there is a strong possibility that your proposal would improve lives across the Undercity and even along the border of Upper Piltover where the river is narrow.”

“Then I don’t understand the problem,” you’d said, openly frustrated.

“Simply put: the Council will not divert funds toward a project that will mostly impact the Undercity.”

You had suspected as much as soon as Professor Ukkud suggested you change the topic of your dissertation, but it was startling to hear her say it so directly. Worse, you knew she was right.

You wanted to rail against the unfairness of it all, but the prejudices of Upper Piltover ran deep. There was no other explanation for the poor conditions half the city lived in - and perhaps more, since censuses tended not to go well in the Undercity.

And, even worse, you partially understood. The Undercity rebelled against Upper Piltover on a regular basis, and most of those rebellions were violent. Yes, they were rebelling against a lack of representation and the fact that the Council didn’t put any effort toward improving the Undercity, but you could imagine that the proud Piltover people would see helping them as rewarding the very violence they were hoping to stop.

None of those thoughts had left you. Instead, you slumped and stared down at the stack of pages resting on the table. They represented literal months of your life. When you weren’t helping Ukkud in her classroom, you were researching or writing or editing or experimenting, all in the process of crafting the perfect dissertation.

“What am I supposed to do, then?” The question had sounded more defeated than challenging. “I can’t rewrite it. The semester is ending soon.”

“I think your best option is to stay an extra semester,” Professor Ukkud opinioned, looking visibly relieved that you weren’t planning to argue with her about it. “You could try to create a different dissertation, but in the limited time… You would either end up with an inferior proposal or be too exhausted to defend it.”

You hadn’t had anything else to say, by then. What was the point? Instead, you thanked the professor for her guidance and left the classroom. You’d spent the rest of the afternoon sulking and mulling over your options.

The way you saw it, you had two: spend an extra semester at the Academy to create another dissertation and proposal about an issue you weren’t as passionate about, or…

Or present the dissertation you had already prepared.

Professor Ukkud was right, you probably wouldn’t be funded. But you could leave here and go somewhere where you could make a difference. You had taken several grant-writing courses during your time at the Academy. It would be far more difficult to do things on your own. But wouldn’t it be worth it?

You turned onto your back once more, eyeing the ceiling with disgust. Now that you had rehashed everything about the disappointing meeting and rethought about the difficult choice that faced you, you had hoped sleep would come. But you were just as awake as you had been before and you clearly weren’t going to make any important decisions that night.

Sliiiiiide. Scrape. Scrape! BOOM.

Your initial jolt turned into you sitting bolt upright in bed as a tremendous noise came from the apartment above yours. You looked up at the ceiling, like you could see through it if you stared hard enough.

When that didn't work, you started to lay back down, but paused. Viktor knew you didn't need to be awake early the next day and had no specific reason to stay quiet, but this was excessive even for him.

Immediately, your mind started jumping to negative conclusions. What if Viktor had tripped? What if his cane had caught on something, leaving him tumbling to the floor? If had fallen badly enough to hurt himself, how would he call for help? Would anyone notice until the weekend ended?

The last thing you wanted was to imply that he couldn't take care of himself, but it would be good to check on Viktor, right? He couldn't be offended if you were making sure he wasn't hurt. And if he was, you could always pretend you were upset with him for making so much noise. He didn't know you had already been awake…

You pulled on a sweatshirt over your pajamas and started the trek upstairs. You had been casually sleeping with Viktor for months by that point, but you didn't go up to his apartment as often as you had expected.

And who could blame you? Not only did Viktor prefer to keep people away from the experiments that filled his apartment, but he also didn't have a bed. You liked to think you were fairly low-maintenance, but you did prefer not to have sex on the floor. Unless it you were in a particular mood. Or a hurry. Or-

You pulled your thoughts back to your current mission. Viktor could be hurt, and you needed to make sure he wasn’t in pain and waiting to be found.

The first obstacle was that you didn’t have a key to his apartment. It had never been necessary before and you were struck by the strangeness of that for the first time. Your relationship was strictly casual, but it would have made sense for you proximity to lead to more opportunities for hooking up. Including swapping apartment keys.

And so you knocked, your taps on his door were firm with an edge of urgency. Even as you waited for a response, you planned: if you knocked again and there was no answer, you would break down the door. How you would accomplish that, you weren’t really sure. As you eyed the solid wood of the door, you wondered if you might be overestimating your own abilities.

Fortunately, you and your poor shoulder were spared from seeing how you fared against the door when it opened and Viktor’s brown eyes peered out. “Yes?”

“Are you okay?” you asked, a little nonplussed.

“Of course,” he told you.

“What are you doing up here?”

Viktor looked overly innocent, which was a good as a red flag in the current situation. “Nothing in particular. Why?”

You squinted at him. “Well, I heard a really loud noise a few minutes ago. I thought you might have fallen and knocked yourself out.”

“Do you really think so little of my balance?”

The dry question was met with a hard stare of your own. You had seen him trip over nothing, and if something impacted how his cane landed, he was virtually guaranteed to end up on the ground.

Graciously, you decided not to bring up any of that. Instead, you said, “You’re out of breath. A little odd for someone claiming not to be doing anything in particular. And it’s really dark in there…”

You tried to see around him and into the apartment, but Viktor leaned into your line of sight. “Seriously, did you knock over a lamp or something? It totally dark in there. Wait, not totally… Are those candles? I don’t think you’re allowed to have candles in the dorms.”

Viktor sighed heavily, letting the door swing out from his grip. You took a moment to process his bare feet and rumpled hair before accepting his silent invitation and stepping past him into the apartment. As always, you almost struggled to believe that his apartment shared a layout with yours, since his was decorated so dramatically differently.

His furniture was almost entirely missing, with the exception of a very old and well-worn recliner that he slept in. The rest of the space was taken up with various experiments. They had changed since the last time you had been there, but precise layouts of chemical, biological, and mysterious experiments still spread across every available surface. Each one was accompanied by a notebook containing neatly written notes.

It took a moment for you to check, but you couldn’t see anything around the room that would have caused the amount of noise that had brought you upstairs in the first place. That was good, since it meant that Viktor probably wasn’t hurt and trying to hide it from you.

There was a bare circle on one of Viktor’s countertops, all the experiments carefully swept clear. In the middle of the circle was a cluster of candles, throwing warm light dancing around the room.

“Well, at least you made sure nothing would catch on fire from your illegal candles,” you conceded.

Viktor came to stand beside you. “Well, nothing that I don’t want to be caught.”

Your eyebrows raised without your permission as you gave him a sidelong look. “Are you lighting things on fire in your apartment? Need I remind you that I live downstairs and that the building is ancient? And flammable?”

“Besides,” he continued, ignoring you. “I think they set a mood quite nicely. Don’t you agree?”

“What mood are you trying to set? Angsty serial killer, or are you going for-”

Viktor leaned close, the motion so sudden that you pulled backward. You would have thought it was just a rushed attempt at a kiss, but the way he was looking at you was anything but romantic. His amber eyes were studying your face like you were one of his experiments. You didn’t care for the feeling.

“Is something wrong?” he asked abruptly.

The bluntness of the question threw you off, made you less able to create a believable story. “Not- Not really? Bad day. Then my upstairs neighbor keeps being noisy.”

“Today was your meeting with Professor Ukkud, was it not?” he asked. It was a rhetorical question; Viktor had proven to have a near-eidetic memory when it came to the things you told him. “Did she have many critiques for your dissertation?”

“Something like that,” you admitted.

“Strange,” Viktor mused. “I thought it was rather brilliant.”

Your eyes snapped to his. Viktor was smiling slightly, but he seemed sincere. He had read your dissertation.

When you had asked him to the first time - claiming that you needed another set of eyes on it - he had refused. His explanation was that his ties to the Undercity were too strong, that he wouldn’t be able to look at your proposal with any objectivity. That had seemed like a lie to you, but you hadn’t pushed. A boundary was a boundary, even if he wasn’t giving you the real reason behind it.

“You… you read my dissertation?” you stammered.

“Of course,” he told you. “It’s you. How could I no-? Unh!”

You felt a little guilty about the way that his throat had collided with the top of your shoulder as you pulled him into a hug, but you couldn’t stop yourself from gripping him with your full strength.

It was only when he stroked a hand down your back, hushing you gently, that you realized you were crying. The entire story spilled from you then. Every detail about Professor Ukkud’s recommendation for rewriting, your crushing disappointment, and the nagging fear that she was right and that to present before the Council would be to set yourself up for failure.

Viktor held you close, making appropriate noises as the stream of words pouring from you finally slowed, then stopped. “Do you want to talk it over? Consider your options?”

“No,” you refused, smiling tearfully at him. “I feel better just telling you about it. But I could really use a distraction. That is, if you don’t mind? I know I’m all gross…”

Viktor’s soft lips halted your apologies and explanations. You still felt as gross as you had claimed to be, but you sank eagerly into the kiss. It wasn’t often that you let Viktor lead - normally, you were too excited for that - but you gladly followed the soothing motions of his mouth against yours.

“We do not have to-” he started when you pulled back to breathe.

“No, but I really, really want to,” you admitted openly.

“In that case…” Viktor stepped away. You immediately felt the loss of his warm body against his, but he was holding a hand out to you. When you took it, he started leading the way to his bedroom.

It took until you were at the doorway to remember why this was a bad idea. You tugged slightly against his grip. “I know I said I want a distraction, but I’d rather not get eaten by one of your plants, Viktor. That’s not exactly what I’m looking for right now.”

“Do not worry,” he assured you, pushing the door open. “I removed them last week.”

“...Why?”

He laughed openly at you. “You’re too young to be so skeptical.”

And then he stepped through the door, pulling you in behind him before you could continue protesting.

To your surprise, Viktor had been telling the truth. The plants that had dominated most of the bedroom the last time you’d been inside were gone, as were the colorful lights that had illuminated them. He had even removed the protective tape from the light switch.

Even without turning on the notoriously harsh overhead lights, you could see Viktor’s bedroom clearly enough for your mouth to fall open. “Is that..?”

“Yes, it is,” Viktor confirmed, smiling more broadly than you had ever seen.

You started forward, but paused. “I’m almost afraid to touch it. Is this a trick? A mirage? An optical illusion?”

Viktor only chuckled at you, gently shaking his head. You moved closer despite yourself, extending a hand until your fingers rested against the soft, sheet-covered surface of a real, tangible bed.

“It’s real,” you reported, awe heavy in your tone.

Viktor rolled his eyes, but he was still smiling. “I know, I moved it in here today.”

You rounded on him. “Is that what was making all of the noise? You shouldn’t have put it together yourself, Viktor. I would have been happy to help you.”

“I didn’t build the frame myself,” he said dryly. “I know my limits. I had some members of the housing administration bring the pieces and assemble everything for me this afternoon.”

“Then what were you doing that made so much noise?” you asked. “And how did the housing administration not freak out when they saw your collection of experiments? You have to be doing irreparable damage to the interior of this place.”

Viktor looked offended. “I know how to perform an experiment with minimal risk to the environment, myself, and others. And did it not occur to you that I could be trying to surprise you?”

“Honestly, the idea of you moving the plants was surprising enough,” you admitted. “But where are they? Are they okay?”

“They are fine.” You relaxed at the answer. Viktor’s plants may have tried to eat you, but that didn’t mean you wanted to think about them rotting somewhere. “The experiments were a success, so I had the plants moved into the lab for further testing and eventual propagation.”

You nodded, impressed despite yourself. Viktor’s efforts to grow plants using various colors of light had seemed ridiculous and frivolous when you’d first learned about them, but he had eventually told you that there were implications for growing them in the Undercity.

“Now,” Viktor said lowly, taking a step closer to you, “Are discussions about my botanical experiments distraction enough for you?”

You thought about it for a moment, but decided that, no, it wasn’t. “I think I need a distraction that’s a little more… hands-on.”

As you said the last, you grabbed Viktor’s spare hand, placing it on the curve of your hip. The warm weight of it made you tense with anticipation even as Viktor rolled his eyes. “You are impossible.”

“Flatterer,” you accused, leaning in for another kiss. Viktor dropped his feigned grumpiness immediately to seize the offer of your lips. Eagerly, you lost yourself in his embrace.

By the time you remembered that you were a physical being in a physical environment, you had changed positions entirely. You were sitting now, making good use of Viktor’s new bed. He was in front of you, cupping your cheek with a careful reverence that made you feel distinctly melty.

His graceful fingers traced up and down the stretched-out collar of your sweatshirt. “Tell me you are not wearing anything complicated under this.”

You shook your head, grinning. “No, you’re still the king of complicated clothing.”

Viktor gave you surprisingly wicked smile. “I planned ahead.”

And then you watched, fascinated, as he unbuttoned the few buttons on his vest. With it gone, you found that his shirt was held together only by the buttons that would show above and below the vest itself. With three more buttons undone, Viktor was bare from the waist up, and looking very proud of himself for it.

The laugh that burst from you was loud and joyful. That moment of silliness from Viktor had done more to lift your mood than hours of ruminating had. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Flatterer,” he returned. “You are also falling behind in this particular race.”

Your eyebrows shot upward. That was a challenge you had no intention of letting stand. You stripped off your sweatshirt in a single motion and - luckily enough - static friction pulled your sleep shirt off at the same time.

You gave Viktor a triumphant look, then both of you were fumbling to remove your own pants. Viktor had buttons to deal with while you did not, but you were stymied by the shoes you had put on to climb the stairs. He beat you, but only by a margin of seconds. You cut off any intended boasting with a deep kiss. And since you were already there, you straddled his thighs at the same time.

Viktor’s hands wrapped around your waist, pulling you back slightly. “No, I’m going to be on top this time.”

For the first time in a while, you felt a little uncertain. “Is that a good idea? Your leg-”

“-Will be fine,” he told you firmly. “It has improved with all the exercise it has gotten lately. Nothing long-term, but I can do this. Let me do this?”

The soft entreaty, more than anything else he could have said, convinced you. You gave a shallow nod and Viktor set to work. He guided you down to the mattress - and you were privately disappointed that the sheets didn’t have time to smell like him yet - and settled on top of you.

The weight of him was solid between your thighs, even with him bracing a hand against the bed’s surface. You were always mildly surprised at Viktor’s size - his height and narrow build often made him appear far more slender than he truly was.

You did have admit that you liked the position for how close everything was. When you were on top, you often felt further away from him than you wanted to be. But with Viktor taking the lead, his free hand roamed your body as both of your hands did the same to him. He alternated between kissing you and nosing along your skin while you did your best to suck tiny bruises into every stretch of his neck and jaw that you could reach.

After a span that seemed both endless and impossibly short, Viktor pulled away with a groan. “I am uncertain how much longer I can wait to be inside of you.”

Everything between your legs gave an eager pulse, your muscles helpfully lifting the cradle of your hips to press yourself more firmly against him. The length of him slipped easily between your folds, pressing against you.

You gave a stuttered breath at the contact - he wasn’t entering you, but the angle of him left his head brushing firmly against your clit and the sensations were dazzling. Viktor must have been in a similar frame of mind, because he gave another groan. This one was hoarse, verging on desperate, and you throbbed.

“Please,” you asked, lifting your hips once more.

It took a fumbling moment for Viktor to reposition the head of himself against your entrance, but he made up for lost time by sliding home the instant he was in place.

The noise you made was inarticulate and loud, and you were grateful that the only apartment connected to Viktor’s was your own empty one. Viktor was silent, but when you remembered to open your eyes, you found that his had fluttered shut. There was a wrinkle of concentration between his dark brows, but something about their upward tilt gave him a hint of beatific supplication. He looked like he was praying.

He drew in a breath - a long, shaking inhale - and opened those gorgeous eyes.

“You are never anything less than incredible.” His fervent, matter-of-fact delivery was sincere enough that you believed him. It wasn’t enough to remove the soreness of the day from your heart, but it certainly didn’t hurt.

But you were neighbors with benefits, not a couple. This level of emotion seemed taboo, somehow forbidden for two people in a casual relationship. You pushed your response aside, teasing, “Are you talking about me or my pussy?”

“You.”

The only way to hide your response to the affirmation would be to close your eyes, and that was a sacrifice you weren’t willing to make. So instead, you leaned up to give him a kiss, hoping to convey some sense of what he meant to you. You couldn’t be sure what came through, but at least he began moving inside of you.

Viktor felt exquisite inside of you and it was hard to concentration on anything other than the pressure he put on your g-spot every time he moved into or out of you. But in the quiet spaces in his rhythm, you gathered yourself enough to watch him. Not only was watching Viktor one of your great joys in life, you were also searching for any signs that this position was hurting or straining him.

True to his claims, it didn’t seem to be. Viktor’s pace was eager, nothing but intense focus on his face. The noises he made didn’t sound pained, either, and you let yourself relax into enjoying the entire experience.

Your finger traced along the lean muscle of Viktor’s chest, danced across his ticklish ribs, and met briefly behind his back. The feeling of his muscles tightening and releasing as he drove into you and pulled back out was intoxicating. It also made you aware of the way your hips were surging up to meet his thrusts, turning every stroke into a earth-shattering collision.

When your timing matched up with Viktor’s, it felt like he was pushing his way up into your stomach. The depth of it was a little strange, but it didn’t hurt. Far from it, actually. You jerked so hard that Viktor paused.

“Am I hurting you?”

“No,” you told him, adding, “If you stop, I’m going to hurt you.”

He laughed, and the desperate need pulled away long enough for you to see the humor in it. “It feels wonderful, Viktor. Please keep going.”

Viktor took you at your word and started thrusting into you even harder than before, but much faster. The pleasure came roaring back with a vengeance.

In moments, you were clutching at Viktor��s shoulders both to keep yourself from being pushed up the bed and in an effort to keep yourself grounded. This was overwhelming, but in a way that left you ready for more even while you were still experiencing it. This was something addictive, you realized, but you couldn’t even begin to worry about that.

Especially when your body started to tighten around Viktor’s.

“Close.”

Your panted warning made Viktor nod. He dropped his pelvis a fraction of an inch, making his occasional brushes against your clit far more often and intense. Seemingly instantly, that contact pushed you unceremoniously over the edge.

Viktor managed to keep his pace even with your body locking down around him. You shook and panted and gasped - and made some sounds that were far more dramatic - as he worked his way closer to his own orgasm.

When you drifted back down to earth, you were content to watch Viktor work above you. He was close, you could see it in the way his arms trembled, the drop of sweat from his temple tracing down over jutting cheekbones.

“Close,” he hissed, pushing into you so hard that it sent a shockwave through your body.

You smiled at that. You had asked him once why he warned you when you had already come. He had simply shrugged and told you, “It seems the polite thing to do.” It was so perfectly Viktor that you had laughed then. It still made you smile.

Viktor plunged deep inside of you, giving a low and hastily-stifled groan as he came. He was particularly beautiful in the throes of pleasure, you noted. His pale skin was slightly flushed with exertion, lips swollen and red from kissing you. When his head tipped back, you could admire the marks you had scattered across his neck. His eyes were closed, but you could picture the stunning shade of amber they would be when they glowed with pleasure.

When he was finished, Viktor’s arms were shaking badly enough that you were worried, but he managed to lower himself beside you rather than collapsing. You wouldn’t have minded that so much, but Viktor’s limbs were so long and angular that collisions tended to leave you with large, unfun bruises the next day.

“Are you okay?” Viktor asked.

You pulled your attention back to the moment. “Yes, of course. Why?”

“You are usually talking by now,” he told you. His eyes were still closed, but a tiny smile played around the fullness of his lips.

With a hum, you said, “Good point. Maybe we should talk about all of this.”

Viktor’s eyes opened at that. He looked wary. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” You sat up slightly, wincing at the way his cum started trickling out of you. But you pressed your legs together, ignoring the sensation in favor of counting on your fingers. “The candles, the bed, the mysterious noise with no apparent cause…”

“That is what would make a noise mysterious,” Viktor agreed, an edge of sarcasm in his accented voice.

“Shush. Anyway, I’m working on a theory…” You paused to recheck your work, but arrived at exactly the same conclusion you had come to the first time. “Were you trying to lure me up here for some reason?”

“‘Lure’ is an ugly word.”

“That’s not a real answer,” you informed him. “Were you planning something? Something I derailed by bursting into tears before you could get to it?”

“It wasn’t important,” he told you. “Not by comparison.”

His closer hand was resting against the mattress, between his face and yours. You laced your fingers with his, and he returned your smile. How could you be sad when there was magic like this in the world?

“Will you tell me what it was?” you requested softly. “Please?”

Viktor’s smile turned a little sickly and he swallowed, but nodded. “I wanted to- Well, I still want to… Ask- If you might want something more serious.”

“With you?” you checked.

Now looking distinctly queasy, Viktor nodded again. “With me.”

You beamed, feeling inexplicably close to tears once more. “I would like that a lot, Viktor.”

“You-?” Viktor’s eyes were wide, even as he feigned a casual attitude. “You would. Very well. Then I believe we should enter into a romantic relationship together.”

“I believe the same,” you said, giving him your best grave expression. It wasn’t particularly solemn, not with the way you had been grinning a moment before, but it was enough to make Viktor roll his eyes as he tried not to smile. “When should we begin?”

“In my opinion,” Viktor said carefully, “we already have.”

“Fair point,” you conceded, squeezing his hand as you leaned in for another kiss.

---

Author's Note - As I've said on a few different fics I've posted this year, this is my last Fanfic February! The tolls of writing over 100,000 words to post all in one month is pretty high, especially when I have so many other ongoing projects.

I have some additional ideas for this story and I might continue it when I've caught up on the other works I've been ignoring. For now, I think this is a good pause point.

Thank you for reading!

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