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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.

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quinloki · 9 months ago

Text

FuckNoWriMo

Here's my official Writing Challenge Post for anyone who wants to play along.

FuckNoWriMo will be held December 2024 for this year only, and will be held in March from 2025 on. Due to the terminology being used, this is probably an 18+ event, but I swore like a sailor at 12, and it's not like I can stop you from participating.

How to Participate:

Decide you want to write during the month of the event.

Write.

Bonus!

3. Post and share that you're writing, and what you're writing if you want \o/ 4. Tag your posts with #fnowrimo or #fucknowrimo

Want more structure? Certainly, allow me.

Pick one of the categories to run with and set that as your goal for the month:

A Word, if I May?: Write at least 31 words for the month.

Get That Shit Outlined: Write at least 1,000 words for the month. (33 words a day)

Give it the Gusto!: Write at least 5,000 words for the month. (162 words a day)

Hell Yeah, Write!: Write at least 10,000 words for the month. (323 words a day)

Words At Work: Write at least 20,000 words for the month. (646 words a day)

Punctuated: Write at least 35,000 words for the month. (1,130 words a day.)

Fuck It: Write at least 50,000 words for the month. (1,613 words a day)

Crazy 88 (it's a Kill Bill reference): Write at least 100,000 words for the month. (3,225 words a day)

Please note you may write anything:

An outline, several outlines, rough draft(s), poetry, journaling, lyrics, role-play with your friends, a campaign idea for a table top game, the script for a movie, show, visual novel, etc., notes to defend your dissertation, recipes, to-do lists - you get the point.

If you want to breakdown the granular concepts of an old historic text on index cards for shits and giggles, that counts too!

The event is less about the quality of the end result, and more about creating a habit to write daily. If you don't want to spend a lot of time fixing and editing a harried rough draft, then don't worry about the word count at all.

0 is a valid word count for the day. So is 1, or 10, or 100 or all those little numbers we often get discouraged seeing.

But set aside some time during the month, and write some fucking words, hell, write some words fucking. A real alphabet orgy. Be silly, weird, cringe, strange, gross, problematic, thematic - whatever \o/

Just write it yourself. I don't care if you dictate it, use the hunt and peck method, a pen, pencil, quill, or chisel.

But for the love of all that's holy -

No Generative AI

That's the only rule.

#quin muses #writing challenge #fucknowrimo #fnowrimo #december 2024 #march 2025

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allpiesforourown · 10 months ago

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put me in the same room as shen yuan and I am violating him in ways that cannot even be conceived

OP, pls elaborate I need it for science, i need to write my dissertation pls pls pls pls pls pls

Top mistakes Binghe has made that I would not because I am superior

1. In the regrets of chunshan extra he poured wine into shizuns hole, and then just let it LEAK OUT?? Fuck off, that was PRIME real estate, you could have poured shots into shizuns ass and then had him sit on your face to drink but no you just let such a great opportunity go to waste.

2. Too respectful. He goes to the water prison and sees shizun tied up, like that first day with the skinner demon when he had his sexual awakening, shizun is on his knees his clothes are ripped off and you walk AWAY? fuck the hell off. No way. If shizun doesnt want to talk to me, I'll pull on the back of that Immortal Binding Cable and tighten it until he can't breathe and has to force himself to talk to beg me to stop

3. Does not bully shizun enough. Shizun is SO easy to bully. The holy mausoleum was like the first time ever Luo binghe really yelled at him in anger and he IMMEDIATELY started crying. That's no. 4 btw he saw shizun crying and didn't fuck him about it. Just absurd. But back to no. 3, shizun is so thin faced it would be so easy to fluster him and he'd only need to fuck him on his demon throne for 3 minutes before shizun would start crying and how many times did Binghe do that? 0 times. He deprived the world of shizun sobbing as he's pounded in front of a demon audience. Literally vile.

5. You're a DEMON your race and cultivators are at WAR because you guys KILL PEOPLE and you've never once hunted shizun down for sport like an animal and thrn fucked him when you cstch him ??? Never locked him in a cage and told him to wear a collar ???? All those times shen qingqiu would see him and get scared binghe would go "shizun thinks all demons are filthy" :(((" instead of "SHIZUN THINKS ALL DEMONS ARE FILTHY 🔥🔥TIME TO PROVE HIM RIGHT!"

okay I'm done ranting for now SHIZUN PICK ME ID KNOW HOW TO DO EVERYTHING RIGHT

#svsss #shen yuan #luo binghe #bingqiu #i love shizun

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snail-day · 1 month ago

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I should be writing my dissertation but....

Nanami is the kind to just speak of his plans for the future while he is fucking his darling,

to debate his favourite baby names aloud as he spreads her legs. To talk about the countryside house with a garden big enough for a vegetable plot and a little pond as his fingers draw out another orgasam over and over. That this current apartment is just temporary until you two finally have a child who needs all the extra room, planning out what colour lecreuset's will decorate the kitchen drawers and which kitchen aid appliances she will get the most use of as he rails into her.

Kissing her afterwards with a sigh as he fixes the gag muffling her swears and cries, he just needs to train more before she's perfect and domesticated

🪻

Sayyyyy less more anon

Tw: Overstimulation, Kidnapped reader, Mentions of breeding

This fits too well for both Nanami and Geto. Except their both delusional in their own way <3 silly guys.

Geto who whispers threats like he's reading his vows to you. Tells you what’ll happen if you run again, all while stroking your tear stricken cheek, slow and soft. “You think I’d ever let you leave?” he laughs against your lips, pressing into you, as his cock brushes against your cervix one more time. Ensuring you can still feel the sting from the thirty to fifty spankings you received earlier.

Nanami is something else entirely. (Wouldn't be my second or first choice to end up with)

Nanami fucks you like he’s securing your future together. Like every harsh, mean thrust is a nail in the home he's building for you in the country side. Spreads your legs wide, gaze narrowed onto the gag (wishes he could take it off without you biting him so harshly), and talks, so calmly, about the future he’s already decided on.

“You’ll need to stop this attitude once the first one comes,” he says, voice even as his cock presses cruelly into your cervix. “I’ll plant your favorite along the fence line. You'd like that wouldn't you?”

You sob something incoherent, but it doesn’t matter. He presses a hand over your belly, possessive. Not much reassuring. “You’ll love it there. Quiet. Isolated. Perfect for raising children. Perfect for keeping you safe.”

And when he makes you come - again, and again - he keeps going. His tone doesn't falter as he discusses baby names, house layouts, and how many drawers he’ll need for your favorite Le Creuset pieces. You’re crying, overstimulated, wrists bound and gag soaked through. But he just hums softly, kisses your temple. “You're so emotional these days. Must be the hormones.”

(And oh, of course he wants home births. In the master bedroom, sunlight streaming through gauzy curtains. He’ll hold your hand through the contractions, murmur encouragement between contractions, wipe sweat from your brow and tell you how beautiful you look. So brave. So obedient.)

Afterward, he wipes you down carefully. Fixes the gag, brushing a kiss to your forehead as if you weren’t begging for mercy just moments ago. “You’ll learn,” he promises softly. “You’re not quite ready yet. But you’re mine. And I’ll train you until you are.”

Nanami Kento is one patient bastard. He’s waited this long for you. He’ll wait a little longer for the version of you he’s cultivating, his quiet, pregnant housewife, docile and full of love and his children. Even if he has to break you apart to make it happen.

#Godddd this was so freaking yummy #Yandere #Yandere jjk #🪻anon forehead smoochies #Go write your dissertation 😮‍💨 college kids these days #Slacking off writing smut /j #Snail yaps #I do have thoughts that he would stalk a mom at the park with her kids but thats for another time #yandere jujutsu kaisen #Yandere nanami kento

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piastriprincess · 2 months ago

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the day that i met you (i started dreaming) ⸻ george russell x reader .

featuring george russell , american!reader , meet cute , fluff . word count 1.6k author’s note requested by anon , i hope i did it justice ! this is my first time writing for george but i actually love the way it turned out ! i know he lives in monaco now but he’s a proper english gent to me forever . i used some details from my own study abroad so don’t tell me it’s not accurate … it is TO ME ! argue with the wall . come tell me what you thought of the fic or send me a req <3 title from kingston by faye webster .

21: library books and pouring rain .

Your first day in London wasn’t supposed to turn out like this, you think bitterly.

It had started off perfect, really. You woke up to the sun streaming into the windows of your brand-new apartment flat, a tiny, cozy little place to call home while you did your PhD year abroad. With the heat of late summer still hanging in the air, you ventured out to the university library. Walking down the cobblestone streets of Covent Garden towards the imposing neo-Gothic building, admiring the charming little brick buildings with their flower box windows, you were feeling more inspired than you’d ever been back home. You could picture yourself in a movie, the charming young American heroine taking on a big city for the first time. The library was beautiful too, an airy circular room with books stacked all the way up to a massive domed skylight. Although your dissertation was still a somewhat blurry concept, the stack of borrowed books you’d collected and printouts you’d carefully annotated felt like progress, and you hugged them to your chest like a shield as you walked out through the stately oak double doors. Yes, things were going well in London.

Everything was going so well, in fact, that you didn’t think to check the weather before you left the library. Rookie mistake.

The first drop fell with a fat, ominous splat on your cheek; it was enough to make you pause in the middle of the sidewalk and look up quizzically at the hazy grey sky. You swear you only stopped for a second, but it was enough. The skies cracked open suddenly, and before you knew it the rain was coming down like sheets and soaking through your shirt.

You didn’t think. You just broke into a run, sneakers splashing through puddles and arms clutching your precious papers to your chest. By the time you managed to duck underneath the eaves of the nearest building — a cozy, golden-lit little café you hadn’t noticed on your earlier walk — you were completely drenched.

And now here you are, hair plastered to your forehead, jeans suctioned to your legs. And your research. Oh, your research. The ink on your printouts is as hopelessly smeared and runny as your mascara, and the spines on some of your books are so warped they look like they’re cringing right along with you. Forget the charming heroine, you think — you’re a bumbling fool, completely undone by basic British weather. The pouring rain doesn’t look like it’s letting up anytime soon, and you don’t even have an umbrella. Carefully placing your books on the ground, you slump against the wall, watching the rain blur the sharp edges of the buildings as hot tears prick at the back of your eyes.

A little bell chimes from somewhere over your head, the café door opens, and then a voice: “Blimey. Are you alright?”

You look up sharply at the man standing above you and nearly gasp. Dashing, that’s the only word to describe him — tall and lean in a way that makes your cheeks heat up, chestnut hair falling effortlessly across his forehead, and big, brilliant blue eyes trained directly on your face. You’re suddenly very aware of how you probably look, makeup smudged under your eyes and your clothes clinging to your body. You wipe quickly at your eyes, straightening up. “Oh. I’m fine, thanks,” you say as you tuck a soggy strand of hair behind your ear, and you hate how hollow it sounds.

“American,” he says, a note of surprise in his voice. You nod in response. “Well, welcome to London,” he says, smiling, and your stomach flips.

You try to smile back, but it’s forced. “Thanks. Bit of a rough first day.”

He frowns. “Well. That won’t do. London’s brilliant, you can’t have a bad impression of it right off. Here, take this.”

He holds out an umbrella to you, handle first. It’s sleek, black, expensive — the type of thing carried by a man who plans ahead, who’s never, ever surprised. There’s a little circular logo carved into the handle, three lines converging in the center. Mercedes, you think distantly, although you’re not sure you’re right; you don’t know a thing about cars. You stare at the umbrella, at everything it represents, for an instant longer, then back up at him. “I can’t,” you say reluctantly. “How would I get it back to you?”

That stops him short, and he stands there considering for a moment. You take the opportunity to drink him in again, eyes trailing up the oxford shirt with the rolled up shirtsleeves exposing tanned, muscular forearms, the strong jawline, the full lips.

“Well, I’m heading home too,” he says finally, with a soft smile. “I don’t mind walking you.”

You hesitate again. You don’t know him, and normally you would be more suspicious of a strange man knowing where you live. But — and it sounds crazy, but you know it — he’s a gentleman. There’s something in the way he’s looking at you, like the romantic lead of a period drama, telling you it would really be his honor to escort you home. Against all odds, you find yourself wanting to say yes.

“Okay. But you have to tell me your name first,” you say, raising your eyebrows. You tell yourself you’re being safe, making sure he’s not a serial killer. But really, you just want to know it.

He laughs a little at that, though you’re not sure why it’s funny, and extends his hand to you. “George. George Russell.”

You shake his hand, and tell him your name in return. He repeats it, and it sounds like honey dripping off his tongue, sweeter than you’ve ever heard it before. You let him step closer to you and open the umbrella above your heads, and he scoops your books under his arm without even asking you. It’s so ridiculously kind, reminds you so much of home, that your heart does a little stutter in your chest.

“Right, shall we?” he says, his shoulder brushing against yours as you maneuver slowly down the sidewalk. The contact feels electric, heat pooling under your skin. “So tell me, how’d you end up in London?”

You’re not normally so open with someone you barely know. Maybe it’s the way that he’s the first person on this continent who feels like he’s actually listening to you, maybe you just want him to know you, but you open your mouth and the words start spilling out. You tell him about your dissertation, your family back home, how scary it is to be in a completely unfamiliar world, but exciting too. He’s quiet as he listens, thoughtful in his responses: he’s close to his family, tells you all about his travels all over the globe for work. The walk is all too short. You find yourself wanting to know everything about him now that you’ve had a little taste.

“Thank you,” you say as you gather your papers in your hands, reluctant to leave now that you’ve reached your destination. “You really didn’t have to do all this.”

“Couldn’t very well leave a damsel in distress, could I?” he smiles at you, those big blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “Wouldn’t have been very gentlemanly of me.”

You smile up at him, and it isn’t forced at all. “Well. Thank you anyway, George.” He’s looking down at you through his lashes, eyes soft. The air between you feels charged, weighty. If this were a movie, he’d kiss you right now, and there’d be nothing gentlemanly about it. You think, for a moment, that you see him leaning in; your eyes flutter shut, and—

George clears his throat, blinking hard. “No problem.”

Your eyes snap open, cheeks burning with embarrassment. You let go of the umbrella, and it feels like you’re letting go of something important, something you should be holding onto with both hands. But there was a moment, you know there was. And he didn’t take it. You turn, walking slowly up your steps, shoulders set just a little lower than they were before.

You’re fumbling for your keys, about to go inside, when he calls your name. You turn around. “Yeah?”

He shuffles his feet slightly, like he can’t decide whether to walk away or come closer. He’s nervous, you realize, and your heart swoops in your chest watching the soft line of his mouth as he worries his lip in between his teeth. “C-could I get your number? You know, in case you need another escort out of the rain.”

You just smile at him, pulling your phone out of your pocket and tossing it to him with rain-slick hands. He catches it — reflexes surprisingly quick — and starts tapping in a new contact. You watch his brows knit together slightly as he types before handing it back to you, his fingers brushing over yours. You don’t even pretend to ignore the sparks that simmer under your skin this time, and at the last moment you press up on your tiptoes to give him a kiss on the cheek before you head back up the stairs. George goes pink up to the ears and stands there for a moment, fingers pressed against the spot your lips touched, smiling at you like he can't believe you're real.

Maybe you were the heroine all along, you think dreamily to yourself, standing on your stoop as you watch his back retreat into the rain. You just got the genre wrong. He's the one who turns around this time, like he can’t help but take one last look at you before he rounds the corner, and you smile so wide your cheeks hurt.

Funny that. You were in a romance the whole time.

#f1 #f1 x reader #george russell x reader #george russell imagine #george russell fluff #f1 imagine #george russell #f1 driver x reader #f1 driver x you #george russell x you #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 imagine #mywork.

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predestinatos · 2 years ago

Text

love me down? — CL16 𓍢ִ໋ ᰔᩚ

chapter 1 chapter 2 chapter 3 chapter 4

pairing: charles leclerc x fem!reader

summary: it's time to confront feelings over mcdonald's and a beach view

word count: 4k

tags: a bit angsty not gonna lie, vulnerable!charles is so interesting to write, finally they get it together (kind of), smut at the end - absolutely filthy btw.

minors dni ──★ ˙🍓 ̟ !! warnings & note underneath

note: so so sorry for the delay in updates! i've been busy on my dissertation, staying home alone for a few days and traveling along with writing some articles for my uni newspaper so things have been crazy here. but i appreciate all the support and patience.

warnings: rough sex, kitchen sex, spit is involved, charles is very... domineering

“Thank you” you smiled softly to the girl handing you the McDonald’s bag and the two big cups of coke, which you promptly asked for Charles to hold as you proceeded to drive away.

Your hands gripped the stirring wheel as you drove – upon Charles’ insistence that he wanted to see you doing it, and also because it would raise less suspicion and attention if you both did so. The night was calm and slightly warm, allowing for the windows to be opened and the breeze ran through your hair wildly.

You felt his gaze on you, noticing how he stared unapologetically at you from the corner of your eye, a warm smile plastered across his face, his eyes half open – details that you didn’t notice but knew, out of the sheer amount of time you were now spending together, his expressions becoming familiar and recognizable, like a painting you hang on your bedroom and see every morning when you wake up.

“Stop staring, it distracts me,” you said jokingly, your shoulders tensing as you smiled shyly and tried to fix your hair with one hand, the other remaining on the wheel. “Now you know how I feel” he replied, popping a French fry in his mouth.

You allowed yourself half a second to look at him with confusion, your eyebrows furrowed as you moved your head questioningly. “What do you mean?” you asked, as you opened your hand towards him and demanded for him to give you a french fry.

“I mean when we all hang out and you sit at the back of my car and all I can see is you from the rearview mirror” he replied, his arms stretching towards your mouth instead of your hand, placing the food in it carefully. You knew the order of these actions was deliberate – first he admitted to something, then he would shush you somehow, as if to let that admission disappear or go unnoticed, or for him to think of something to say that would somehow lessen it.

The cold tone of his eyes remained on you, however, letting silence fill the car, as you noticed you hadn’t put music on, relying on each other’s voices and company instead. With your mouth still half full, you kept questioning his attentive gaze: “we haven’t all hung out in your car in ages, though.” You swallow, hoping he understood what you said between chewing and speaking.

Charles laughed softly, both at your statement and at your attempt to multitask, which he tried to unconsciously replicate by removing the Coca-Cola cup from the bag without taking his eyes off of you. “I know,” he realized that was all he could say, and that it was enough for you to understand its underlying meaning.

You were now arriving at an empty beachside, one which both of you knew because that was where you spent your teenage years amongst the people you loved. “I thought you hated me though,” you said, more seriously than you intended, your hand on the gearstick as you moved it to reverse. He shrugged as he took his seatbelt off, placing one leg under the other one, his sweatpants revealing a comfort he had acquired with you over the past months. “I thought so too,” he replied, chuckling.

You turned the car off but didn’t find his tale all that amusing, how both your and his feelings were now drifting unknowingly and dissolving, getting harder to recognize and pinpoint.

Noticing your discomfort, Charles’ hand once again went through his hair, nervousness hard to disguise, his dark brown locks suddenly in a desperate need to be fixed. You grabbed your order from the bag placed upon his lap, unthinkingly. Months prior, just the idea of being in a car with him seemed ridiculously unrealistic, and now touching him was voluntary and thoughtless, which highlighted the contrast of your words.

“I’ve always found you attractive” his voice interrupted, as he took a bite of his cheeseburger. You reflected his movements, but looking at him, eyebrows raised and interest spiking. The short seconds he took to chew and swallow seemed like an eternity, the urge to hear him continue almost as big as his urge to keep talking. “Even when you annoyed the shit out of me” he laughed shortly, and this time you did too, your head rising towards the ceiling of the car. “It’s true! It just made you even more insufferable” he repeated, his free hand adjusting a lock of your hair behind you ear in caring amusement.

Your eyes met his as you took a sip of your drink, interrupting him before he went on a full monologue. “Thank you for the flattering confession,” you joked back, mimicking him by putting a lock of his hair behind his ear – an almost impossible task. “Come on, I knew you felt attraction towards me as well,” he tilted his head and leaned back, arms crossed smugly, trying to hide the slightly damaged ego. “You were alright,” your answer made him bring his hand to his chest dramatically, a comical expression screaming ‘how dare you’ in sheer playfulness.

“Grumpy men aren’t my type” you continued, placing a French fry in your mouth with feigned innocence. “Bratty girls aren’t mine either yet here we are” Charles replied, a soft gleam in his eyes as he looked at you, the breeze entering the car through the open window and touching his hair softly, daring to caress him when you couldn’t, wouldn’t.

Here we are. That sentence reverberated through your body like an enigma you couldn’t solve. Where exactly were you two? In a limbo of unspoken feelings and mere subtle hints of tenderness, an unbreakable vow of secrecy that can only be expressed through metaphors? In a car, desperate to feel each other’s devoted affection, yet refraining to do so, like a painting in a museum you can’t get too close to?

Charles knew he had said the wrong thing, or at least not the good enough thing for the moment. This back and forth used to be amusing and entertaining when nothing was at stake. But now it seems like both of you had gambled too much, and the few chips you had were holding you together at a table where whatever happened could not be seen as a victory.

He said the only thing that came to his mind at that moment. An earnest and genuine “I’m sorry” left his lips as he looked outside the window. You let out a breath, accepting the apology despite the fact that you didn’t quite know the reason for it. Was he apologizing for the comment that ignited this tension? For letting things spiral to this in the first place? You weren’t sure he knew it either, yet you knew he meant it enough for you to not hold it against him.

But maybe it was your turn to get into his head, as selfish as this sounded. You didn’t hold it against him but that didn’t mean you didn’t have half thoughts and half feelings to let out. “It was hard not being bratty with you,” you heard yourself say, as his head turned towards you. You forced yourself to hold his gaze, despite the fact that you felt heat rushing to your cheeks as you spoke. “You got under my skin like no one else. Still do,” you bit your lip, holding back a smile that threatened to creep up on your face. It was hard to hide your amusement at his own bewildered look, incredulous at what you had said could imply.

“You don’t know how many times I wanted to be alone with you” his voice, almost a whisper, traveled through the car along with the nightly air and the soft waves crashing far away. You swallowed dryly, despite the cold cup resting between your legs and the comfort it could’ve provided you in a time like this.

“Why didn’t you?” you asked, curiosity, or maybe sheer tension, filling your body as you felt him getting closer to you, closing the gap between both of your seats. “I did, eventually,” his breath hit your neck, his knowledge of this particular weakness of yours making you even weaker, realizing you gave him the power to get to you like this. His chuckle filled your ears and sent goosebumps throughout your body like an orchestra of sensations. “And it’s not like you made it particularly easy for me,” he continued, kissing your neck lightly enough to make your body shiver, his hand now resting on your leg and caressing it with sensuous ease.

“Really?” you played along, irony lacing your lips the way you both liked to play. “How come?” your voice broke upon the sentence as his murmur of affirmation to your question mixed with his kisses down your neck and his now tightened grip on your leg blurred your senses.

Before he could properly reply, your phone vibrated in your pocket, disrupting the tension building up between you two. You cursed under your breath as you pulled it out, reading the name on the screen and locking it again, deciding to reply later. “It’s my sister,” you say, even though you knew you needn’t justify yourself. Nevertheless, you did. You hoped he’d do the same in his own case.

“Oh, is everything alright? She’s in Austria, right?” he asked, genuine curiosity lacing his words. You nodded in response. “Yeah, she’s alright. It’s a drunk selfie, I’ll text her later,” you laughed as you continued, your drink finishing just like his. He laughed, more to himself than to you, as he shook his head negatively. “That’s brave for a Linguistics student” he joked.

His words made you realize something, which you couldn’t help but point out to him, question him about. “How do you know those things? About my sister, I mean” you clarified, your eyes interlocked with his. “You’ve mentioned it sometimes when we all hung out,” he shrugged, the answer seeming so simple and uncomplicated, almost making you feel ridiculous for asking. Yet you stood, motionless. “I may seem annoyed, but I am listening, you know.”

You felt your body freeze at his words, a realization of something you had never considered before. Because it’s not only that he was listening; he remembered. Things you didn’t particularly say to him – in fact, you ignored him most times, only using the basic politeness when strictly necessary – were engraved in his mind when they did not have to be. They could’ve been mere writings on sand for him, ones which the sea would wash away carelessly, yet they weren’t.

And suddenly, you were tired. Of the breeze, of the jokes, of the hiding, of the unknown. Of crying, of laughing, of shrugging it off and trying not to think about it. Of the lack of answers, of the increasingly infinite number of questions. You’ve felt sadness, but now it was time for anger – unfortunately, you did not know whom to aim it at. To him? For not being able to admit the very same thing you couldn’t admit either? To yourself? For protecting your emotions from the person who has shown in the past his inconsistencies, his lack of commitment and emotional availability?

He felt it then. He did not know how or why – whether your breath give it away, how you blinked more rapidly than usual and your eyelashes seemed to bat away the painful realization – but he felt that if he did not do something, say something, before you did, all this would end. And in those brief seconds everything flashed before him: the endless amount of decisions and routes that he could take here, how it would be easy in the short term to accept what you had to say and let you drive him home, drink it away, fuck it away, text someone else, kiss someone else. But the long term painful knowledge of feeling your skin on his when he wakes up at 4am in your room, to witness your eyerolls when he jokes around, to witness your existence quietly – that suddenly felt unbearable.

Your fists were clenched in repressed anger, so were his, though the reasons differed – but the source of them didn’t. It had now become a race against time, daring each other to speak, to do something before the other did, scared of the words that might come out each other’s mouths.

You beat him to it – maybe the only game where you actually won, yet a victory that tasted as a loss, where the podium took more from you than it gave, no morning glory or praise in your eyes or his. “I don’t think I can keep doing this” was all you said as you forced yourself to look into Charles’ eyes, notice how you could tell something in him shifted despite his lack of movement. Despite the fact that he had seen in it coming, he couldn’t help but feel a sharpness in his chest that threatened to break his whole body apart from the inside out. He had nothing to lose anymore, and knowing this, he knew he had to at least put up a fight with himself.

“It’s a shame because I think I’m starting to get feelings for you,” he tried to act natural, almost slightly careless but it did not work, not when your eyes stared deeply into his, confusion written all over them. “I mean I can’t get you off my mind. These hang outs we have are all that I look forward to. I mean that I wish I could just tell you how much I crave your presence at every moment. That part of me feels such anger towards you precisely because you make me feel weak. I hate myself for feeling these things almost as much as I do for not expressing them to you earlier. And I care. I care so much I wish I could be brave enough to ask you to text me when you get home, when you wake up, when you go out. I want to talk to you or stay in silence or eat or do anything, I don’t fucking know what I’m saying but I want this to keep going and I am so fucking selfish for it, I know I am.”

Charles bit his lip, out of nervousness, anger, or sadness – neither of you quite knew. All you knew was that the words that came out of his mouth could never be unsaid, that whatever happened after this could never repair whatever dynamic you two had, and even though you both knew that the first time he stayed after your party, it was now a reality you had to confront.

“Don’t do this to me, Charles” you begged, your voice breaking slightly as it whispered his name, the taste of it so different from before, so foreign it seemed like you were calling someone else. “It’s really fucking mean of you to do this,” you continued, as your hand flew to the car key and started it, your intention to leave the conversation in the sand, let it be consumed by the sea, erased, cleaned.

You drove and drove, although you felt like the car was operating itself, your mind not as much on the way to Charles’ place but more on retracing the steps that brough you two here. He didn’t highlight his presence either. Both of you felt so insanely alone in that car it was almost maddening, a solitary confinement worse than any other punishment: being alone together.

And so when your car came to a halt in the parking lot and you inhaled deeply, accepting the fact that this was probably the last time you would ever have him like this, considering what you’d do differently had you known that when you woke up, he tried one last time.

His hand was so close to opening the door but refused to do so before both his body and his mind had the answer to the question that would solve it all. Every single one of his next movements would depend on how you replied, and he was, not for the first time, immediately aware of your control over him. “Knowing all this, knowing it would come to this in the end- would you have kicked me out of your apartment that night?”

For some inexplicable reason, you did not hesitate then. Your head moved, so slightly it could go unnoticed, in a nod. Then, as if you were watching your own self from afar, you nodded once more, clearly, affirmatively, and confidently, despite your runny nose and teary eyes. You adjusted your hair once again, the mess a reflection of your own thoughts and his – tangled and complicated.

Yet, your reply triggered all of Charles’ courage, made his words come out strong and reassuring at the same time, as he tried, not desperately but incessantly, to make you see what he couldn’t show. “Then why can’t we keep going? You want me to show you I need you, here I am. I need you. I need this, and this might be the most vulnerable I can be with you right now but I am trying. I’ll say it as many times as you want and I’ll leave if you want me to because that’s how much I need you. I need you so much I’m willing to let you go if that’s what you want.”

His reply made you feel your own heart speeding, its pace matching his, though you were both unaware of it. Your hands were shaking at the same rhythm as his hands, the ones that were now opening the door in defeat, but that were stopped by you gripping his arm, feeling him finally, pleading him to stay. He barely had the time to close the door again, leaving it ajar as he turned to you and felt your lips on his, soft and needy and begging for him to stay. He deepened the kiss hungrily, his teeth biting your bottom lip in confirmation of his presence before you.

Remembering where you two were, you pulled away, looking at his unusual post kiss expression. Although the red lips and blissed eyes remained, he was serious, rather than smug, questioning if this was a last goodbye or a beginning. You smiled to yourself at that, his innocent look when he lost control of a situation giving away his honesty.

The atmosphere was still tense despite the fact that the air had been cleared out by his words and the tears washed away by the foggy windows, yet you couldn’t help but bite your lip, holding back a laugh as you said, “so does this mean I have to cancel things with Oscar?”

Charles’ soft giggle and playful “fuck off” made you feel at home more than ever, as you knew now that he was comfortable with you holding that door. And as he stepped out of your car, he leaned down and popped his head in once again, teasingly asking you “want to come inside so I can answer that for you?” – to which you merely smirked as you removed your seatbelt.

As soon as the elevator doors closed and until you made all the way to the 16th floor Charles’ hands were on your waist, your legs, your chest, and everywhere possible, as he tried feeling all of you at once, greedily caressing your skin. You needed him just as much, your own arms around his neck as your hands pulled his soft hair, sometimes with enough strength his groan was audible, but so addictive you couldn’t get enough of it.

The elevator doors opened and somehow you made it into his apartment, not registering any inch of it – you had grown to know it all too well to have to look around for the last few months. With your legs wrapped around his waist and his hands holding you by your thighs, he took you to the closest spot he could find and placed you there, your ass suddenly feeling the cold surface underneath. Sitting on his marble kitchen counter, you watch as his attitude shifted back to the cocky and possessive one you knew so well. Charles didn’t hesitate to take his shirt off, followed by his sweatpants, which revealed everything already. However, the sight of his naked body between your legs drove you insane, your head spinning with the heat of desire. Completely naked, yet standing above you, his voice, so distinct from the soft and vulnerable from before, demanded: “take your clothes off”

You complied, never breaking eye contact as he fisted his own cock, its length making your mouth water and your entrance embarrassingly wet, yet that embarrassment quickly faded as his gaze lowered towards it, dark lust spreading across his eyes. Unapologetically, he eyes you up and down, eyes resting on your breasts, your nipples hard, your whole body giving away how delirious with desire you felt.

“God your body is insane” he started, his hand still on his erection, moving frantically and out of pace, trying to replicate the feeling of being inside you, yet unsuccessfully. You dropped your shy attitude, replacing it instead with a newly found confidence highlighted by the confirmation of his primal desires.

“Quit jerking yourself off and fuck me, Charles” your voice sounded aggressive and soft at the same time, and caught him so off guard you saw his eyes rolling to the back of his head as he let out a ravenous growl.

Without warning, he pushed himself into you, burying his length deep inside your cunt, your wetness allowing him to move perfectly. “Fuck it’s like you were made for me” his voice, now much deeper, erupted against your neck, his face buried in it as one hand held on to your thigh tightly, and your pain was nothing when compared to how full he made you feel, how your whole body responded to him with absolute pleasure. “You were made for me, weren’t you?” he asked, pulling away from you to grip your face in his hand, a gesture so possessive and animalistic it made your eyes water in a haze. You tried nodding, although it was hard given how strong his grip was, how out of control and light-headed you felt, making it impossible for you to speak either.

His thrusts continued, aggressive and ravenous, as he unleashed all of his cravings on you. “Open your mouth” he ordered between breathy growls that pushed you over the edge. You obeyed, mouth open and tongue out as you looked at him in the eyes, some of his hair stuck to his forehead from sweat, his muscles tense and his body a complete masterpiece as it moved inside you. You knew what he was going to do, yet it still took you by sheer surprise, a cry leaving your lips as he spat directly towards your mouth, pulling your hair back to be able to look at you clearly.

You couldn’t even imagine the wreck you now looked like before him – completely blissed out and lustful, desperate for release. “All mine, f-fuck” you heard him say, despite the fact that you could barely think or even see, the sensations all mingled as one as you carved your nails in his toned arms.

“You’re mine, Charles” you tried finding your assertive voice, remind him he wasn’t the only one in charge, that you too had an upper hand in this. “All fucking m-mine, just like you want” you cried out as you felt him exploding inside you whilst your name left his lips.

The feeling of him coming and filling you was enough for you to come as well, your body shaking around his as he remained inside you, letting you keep every part of him.

As you stilled your breaths, his lips dropped a soft kiss on your forehead and his hand caressed your cheek. The change caused you to giggle, your brain still foggy from the intensity of the session you just had. “Let’s take a shower. Together” you finally said, allowing him to know that everything he had said was as reciprocate as he desired.

You two didn’t have a name or definition yet, but for now, the mutual need for each other’s presence was enough.

@buendiabebeta @janeholt3 @ruleroftheuniverse @trentsgirl @teenagedreams-cl @cmleitora @marialovesf1 @champagneholland

#f1 #formula one #formula 1 #f1blr #charles leclerc #charles leclerc fanfic #charles leclerc x female reader #charles leclerc x you #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc smut #formula 1 x you #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 smut #f1 smut #f1 fic #f1 fanfic

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crescencestudio · 1 year ago

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๋࣭⭑ Devlog #41 | 5.28.24 ๋࣭⭑

It's hot girl (/gender neutral) summer season

HAPPY MAY!!

Hope you're all doing well <3 We're already getting into summer, which is a little crazy to me. The year is flying by! Before I get into what we actually did this month, it wouldn't be a May devlog without our annual Mermay celebration!

Look at those locks. His Ariel/Rapunzel era fr

Since I already had updated Mermay pieces for the Alaris LIs, I decided to do one for our beloved Van this year ^^ Hope you all like it!

For writing this month, I spent a lot of it catching up on Etza edits. Being totally transparent, I wasn't Completely Happy with their route when their draft was finished. But now that I've started the editing process with Wudgey, I'm really excited to see how their route is shaping up!!! We've been fleshing a lot of little interactions out with their route, and I can already see Etza's character really starting to shine with these edits ^^

I've also been chipping away at Kuna'a's route! While it's nowhere near finished, I'm hopeful that this upcoming month will be the month of Kuna'a now that I don't have a bunch of releases I'm trying to balance. His route is also one of the ones whose outline is more fleshed out (Druk and Etza I would say were the least fleshed out, which might be why they also took a bit longer). So I'd love to see Kuna'a's first draft complete/almost complete by the next devlog!

This month, I had to dust off my art skills tbh LMFAOIJSDF. It's been.... a WHILE since I've made CGs since I've been in the writing and coding dungeon for so long. So most of this month's art updates are me getting tilted from redrawing an ugly sketch over and over.

I DID manage to get the Van Mermay piece out. And I also was able to sketch out Kayn's Tragic End CG; that leaves only one CG that has to be sketched out! Currently, six of their CGs are finished, two need to be rendered, and one needs to be drawn still.

And since Kayn's CGs are mostly done, I've started drawing Fenir's. I was actually able to finish one because I basically Locked In when I made it, so here is a sneak peek!

Kisses his little pink nose

You might notice there's not toooo many updates on this month's devlog. The reason for that is because this month, I spent a lot of it recovering both mentally and physically. April shenanigans and those back-to-back releases took a lot out of me, and after going full speed basically since this year started, I learned I REALLY needed a break. That coupled with the concussion I got made it so that most of this month was focused on recovering and then getting back into the groove of things.

Another thing I tried to focus on this month was finding a balance in my workflow. Going into this month, I felt like I was on the verge of a mental breakdown almost every day, in large part because I have a lot of big things I'm trying to accomplish this year. Between finishing my dissertation, Alaris, and a personal big event that I have to plan, I have a lot on my plate this year, and it's made it easy to get overwhelmed as the months pass by. So I wanted to find a balance between all three that didn't make me feel like I was also falling into insanity. After talking to beloved Wudgey of @herotome fame, I've started adopting a schedule that gives me enough structure and flexibility to feel like I'm making progress without going crazy and getting lost in the sauce.

While it's still early in the process, I'm really happy with the balance I've hit, and I'm feeling much more like myself now compared to a month ago!

I caught up on quite a few things in my backlog this month, which made me happy ^^ I always like to learn from and support other devs, so finally being able to return to that helped with the recovery process <3

I don't have any actual fanart pieces, but there are a couple of games I'd like to highlight!

First of all, of course I must talk about our hot girl (/gender neutral) summer cross-promo. If you haven't checked out these games, I can't recommend them enough!!

Links to each game can be found on the Alaris Game page under the magic and mystery otome section!

Specifically, Save the Villainess, The Good People, and Thorn for the Villain are amazing games if you're into thriller/political games layered with mystery

The Silent Kingdom (which I played recently and is AMAZING) and Dual Chroma (Otojam 2023 ALLY) have added mechanics of RPG for exciting action-adventure fantasy stories

Lost in Limbo, Obscura, and Snow White Ashes are BEAUTIFUL dark fantasy games. I've played all three of these and they have some of the most beautiful writing and visuals... BIG FAN OF ALL OF THEM.

Mask Beyond Lies and Sigh of the Abyss have that epic fantasy adventure appeal to them, in a way that I think is similar to Alaris! And Pearlglow Cafe (another Otojam 2023 ALLY) is a very lighthearted and charming game for those of you who like the comfy vibe that most of my stories have!!

Some other games that I played are Favor (@favorvn) by beloved @concreteparasite which is SOOOOO stylish. If you've played Binary Star Hero by Connie, you can expect that same stylish, dark, sultry vibe from Favor. If you haven't checked out either of those games by Connie, I can't recommend them enough, especially if you like yanderes. There is so much aesthetic and atmosphere to them!

I also played Where Winter Crows Go by @prikarin who is a VERY talented developer (and one I'm sure many are familiar with). I had a lot of fun romancing Crowe and both the MC and him have such strong personalities, it was so fun seeing their dynamic!!!! The CGs were also made by anta, who is the dev behind Thorn for the Villain, and they're BEAUTIFULLLLL. Each one has so much style and rly has a professional look to them. Can't recommend enough if you haven't played already ((heads up that it is another yandere game for those who can't do yandere!))

Okay I've yapped enough. If you've made it this far, you are god's strongest soldier LFMASLDIFJ. See you all next month with hopefully some exciting progress!

#devlog #alaris

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almostempty · 3 months ago

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Hey, been thinking about your doc alot since I read it in terms of how I want to continue with my own writing and reading habits.

I hope this isn't a stupid question or too taxing for you to answer considering you just essentially wrote a dissertation, but what are your processes for finding, reading and interacting with truly inclusive 'x Reader' fics these days?

i think i suggested to start with bipoc authors and i included some questions to consider when reading/reblogging that should be in the doc, but i'll add some of my more personal opinions here today and tag some author recs while i'm yapping:

i don't think there's really a 100%-inclusive-to-everyone reader-insert but for all the reasons in that doc this is where i'd start

i'd start with bipoc authors 100% there's a rec list @javierpena-inatacvest collected recently here and @salingers made a bipoc authored rec list and tbr here and the @inclusivepedro-oscarlibrary (i'm sure there's more i'm missing)

extra shoutouts to some of my bipoc friends specifically bc they're so talented i'll dickride for them all day idgaf go read @gothcsz @yxtkiwiyxt @clubsoft @thundermartini @cxrsed-angel @lotusbxtch @letsgobarbs alsoooo read works that bipoc authors rec and share (though i imagine they're used to reading things that aren't inclusive but still support their peers so it's not like they'll have only have inclusive/diverse recs)

i'd also prioritize reading works by 2slgbtqia+ authors or authors who write queer fics or poly fics bc i'd guess they're likely writing stories outside of the colonizer script that revolves around whiteness, monogamy, and reproduction already

shoutouts to @miss-oranje-disco-dancer @for-a-longlongtime @sin-djarin @nonbinairyboi @itwasntimethatdidit40 for writing some of my fav queer fics and/or being my fav humans, i'm sure there's more of you i should be adding but i have goldfish brain soz <3

@pedrostories has some tag filters for their collection that might help too (i'm soooo glad there are organized folks among us)

(i think someone was collecting recs for stories with trans characters on monday for trans day of visibility but i don't remember who it was or if i'm remembering that right at all (?) / likely there are more directories and collections i'm just not aware of) additionally i like to read authors that are intentional about writing complex readers like @slimybeth69's girl dinner (heheh), and world building with diverse OCs like @auteurdelabre's SMTL, and by authors who are outspoken in the community about diversity and are intentional about their writing and moodboards like my girls @syd-djarin and @probablyreadinsmut (hi <3 and i know there's more of y'all too) AND make friends with other readers in the comments and share recs ! i won't put my non-writer mutuals on blast but they're full of the best recs or down to talk about fics for days <3

finally,

personally! i’d love to see more OC fics and character x character (crossover or canon) fics getting love too anecdotally, i used to only read longfics on ao3 about din or javi and felt like i saw fics with more canon/au plot beyond just the romance or smut that at the very least, felt further away from the colonial values/heteropatriarchy fantasy

finally (for real),

if the tropes you’re most drawn to are ones rooted in those colonial/patriarchal ideals, i’d guess you’re inevitably going to be swimming in fics written by white people for white people—not because they’re trying to be exclusionary, but because those are the dominant societal narratives, and they’re gonna be popular for that reason so it'll take more intentional critical reading and filtering to find what you want to read or share...i hope that makes sense

as always, i'm not perfect! i'm sure i've shared and written things that i'd reconsider now and there might be obvious suggestions i'm missing but anyway hope this helps!

sorry if anyone didn't want to be tagged

and if anyone else read all of this feel free to add your recs or self rec

#anwers #author recs

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petermorwood · 8 months ago

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Happy birthday! If you could have any one authentic antique (weapon, armor, art, vehicle, anything, any era) for your birthday present, what would it be?

First thought would be the A.489 Swiss sabre from the Wallace Collection.

And then sense steps in, because - like all my other swords - this one is a bit limited. I'd get to own it, and polish it, and dust it, but since I don't do HEMA (Historical European Martial Arts) that's about the lot.

I might be able to take it to various places such as conventions, and bask in second-hand admiration - or I might end up having it seized by the police for (insert reason here).

So a much more practical birthday present would be a vintage Conway Stewart fountain pen, the one my Dad used to use. He wrote with that pen every workday for knocking on 40 years, and its (gold, flexible) nib became so attuned to his own handwriting quirks that he wouldn't let anyone else use it.

If you sometimes wonder why fountain-pen users are rather possessive about their oldest or most favourite pens, this is why.

@dduane is getting a bit that way about her Mont Blanc 146, which I bought her on a day when (1) she saw it, (2) she liked it and (3) I could afford it without hesitation all happened on the same afternoon.

I'm definitely that way about my Parker 51. I was given it on my first day of Big School in 1968, and since then it's written or signed essays, dissertations, examinations, the Official Secrets Act (twice - don't ask, it's a Secret), novel drafts, love letters and a marriage certificate.

I don't loan it to anyone.

The pen IS mightier than the sword. For one thing, it can go places a sword can't and for another, while a sword can kill a body only once, a pen can kill a reputation every time the disparaging comment it writes goes into print.

See Richard III of England for how well that works.

#arms and armour #Swiss sabre #fountain pen #writing instruments

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france-the-third · 4 months ago

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Guys if I disappear in like... May, this fucking thing will be why

That monstrosity is a list of all the tests I have to pass to get the baccalaureate, and I need that to ... basically to get pretty much any job I'd like to do

I had to create that thing myself, using multiple government website pages about the bac(calaureat, we're lazy) because comprehensible information is apparently not a thing

close-ups/explanations under the cut

blue= explanation of an abbreviation

green= explanation of an abbreviation but it's a list that you don't need to read to understand this

italics= word(s) in french

note: i haven't reread this super carefully, so if I say oral on its own, i do mean oral exam, in french we just say un oral so my brain may forget the word exam lol

BFI: Baccalauréat Français International, basically I have 8 hours of English a week instead of the normal 3 (although with LLCE and/or AMC you get 9 or 15 hours but i'll get to that in a minute) and I have a bilingual level of English [technically I already had that but most of my friends didn't]

Coef(ficient) [x]: ...ok so i have no idea how this works really but it's basically how much is this grade worth. If you get 19/20 coefficient 1 then you got 19/20. If you get it coef 2, I think that means you got 38/40 etc. So coef 20 is huge.

DBQ: Document Based Question

Durée: length of time, how long does this test take

ACL: Anglais C? Litérature, literature basically (shakespeare and gothic make sense, O'Brien is the name of my teacher and hopefully it's a common enough name that it doesn't matter that I just realized his name's still on here oops; he's my poetry and drama?? teacher but since we don't really know what to call his class, we just call it by his name. He teaches about poetry yes but also we're also studying Beckett's Happy Days which is a play, not poetry)

CDM: Connaissances du "Monde", lit. Knowledge of the (British) World, we have to do some research projects which we will present in an oral at the end of the year

There's about 50 kids in my school who will have to do all that this year, about 50 who will have to do that next year, etc.

There's about 1500 students in my school, there's 3 years so only about 500 students passing the bac at my school this year, and only 10% of us have to do this many exams.

The international section doesn't really exist in other schools however, so there's a really small percentage of french kids total who have to do all this.

All that stuff is admittedly my "fault" for choosing to do the international section.

Everything else is mandatory(-ish)

Tronc commun: Everyone has to do this

(notice how the coefficients are at like 8, not frickin 20)

Philosophy: we have to either write for 4 hours about a single sentence they'll give us as a subject (and it can be about practically anything) (that's a "dissertation", or 'dissert' because we have really long names for stuff but then we don't bother saying the full name) OR write a "explanation of the text" which i have no idea how that works bc my teacher's a bit incompetent

N/A: Not applicable, that's for the time the exam takes, we get tested in class so there's not really a set time for stuff

(I know that's ridiculously small sorry)

Ok so now we're getting to the fun little french thing that no one who's not french ever seems to know

In 11th grade (1ère) we have to choose 3 areas to specialize in out of the following (can vary slightly based on schools):

HGGSP: Histoire-géographie, géopolitique et sciences politiques, aka political science and social studies

HLP: Humanités, littérature et philosophie, aka humanities, literature and philosophy (oo it's almost the same words in both languages)

LLCE: Langues, littératures et cultures étrangères, aka English (lit. languages, literatures and foreign cultures but it's really just English class)

AMC: Anglais monde contemporain, aka English again (lit. English contemporary world and again it's just English class)

Mathématiques - transparent

Physique-chimie: Physics and chemistry. No those aren't the same, but yes I only figured that out bc someone explained that to me, bc those two are always taught in the same classroom and with the same teacher for some reason

SVT: Sciences de la vie et de la Terre, aka "Sciences of life and the earth" (you know, bc that's specific), aka Biology + Geology

SES: Sciences économiques et sociales, aka economics and social sciences

NSI: Numériques et sciences informatiques, aka computer science

Arts (arts plastiques, cinéma-audiovisuel, histoire des arts): The list I found with all the names of these spécialités (bc they're only ever referred to by their acronyms) has art be split up like that [technically there were more but i cut them lol] which is weird bc I've never seen art history be separated from actually-making-art (arts plastiques-- Why are they plastic I have no idea) and I didn't think cinema had art history

In 11th as I said you choose 3, and you have 4 hours of each per week.

In 12th grade (terminale), you drop one of the 3 subjects you chose so that you can concentrate more on the other two, with 6 hours of each per week.

The most common combination is math, physics, biology and then one of them gets dropped.

This is just a zoom on the two I kept, I had computer science as my third spé last year.

This combination is extremely uncommon, I only know 1 other person who did those 3 subjects lol.

SVT (biology/geology): Ecrit: I have to write stuff; I wrote either or but it turns out it's both, anyways I have to do a DBQ (see above) and answer a question based on knowledge. TP aka Travaux pratiques: uhhh idk how to explain this other than actually doing science instead of just talking about it.

Art: Ecrit: Analyse du corpus d'oeuvres: we have to analyze a collection of works of art based on a question we're given, and then we can do either a note d'intention pour un projet d'exposition, lit. a note of intentions for an exhibition project; basically we have to take one (or two) of the works of art we saw in the first part and say how we'd put it in a museum. or we do the analyse de corpus + a commentaire critique, where you have to answer a question, for example on a mock we had a question about whether or not AI counts as art; and we had a text and a new work of art An oral is the same word in both; a lot of subjects don't have orals (svt for example) and basically we have to talk about the project we worked on for the whole year. I think. Pratique: actually getting to work on creating something. I'm doing an animation, my friends are doing a frieze that's themed on marine life, something to do with leaves, a crochet project that's also marine life themed, something space themed?, and a mini forest in a suitcase. Some of our classmates are doing sculptures (there's a sculpture of a female bust with holes in it and handprints all over it), someone is - i think - making a musical instrument from scratch, someone else does a lot of paintings that are humongous with lots of bold colors... This is the best part about art as a subject because you get to choose what you do.

Next up, another thing that all french people know and no one outside of france knows; contrôle continu

That is basically classes where we don't have a big test at the end of the year, which is nice, but we still have tests and at the end of the year the average of all of the tests done in these subjects counts as a percentage of the grade you get for the bac.

Maths comp(lémentaires -- we love shortening words lol) aka complementary math?: you can choose to abandon math as a spécialité but still keep some math classes in 12th. There's also something called maths expertes, lit. expert math, which is the same thing but with harder classes; but given that i only know one person who does that, i completely forgot to include it here lol

Both math classes here are optional, everything else till LV3 is mandatory.

Coef 3 en 1ère, 3 en terminale: the averages of both 12th grade and 11th grade are counted

Histoire-géo(graphy): social studies (lit. history and geography)

Enseignement scientifique: so. this thing. Despite the fact that you can take biology and physics as spé, everyone has to do this "scientific education" where the kids who took biology are bored in biology classes, the kids who took physics are bored in physics classes, the kids who took both waste two hours per week listening to stuff they already know, and the people who took neither physics nor biology are also usually pretty bored because even if there's one or two students who are interested by science but were more tempted by other things, most of them didn't take science as spés because they don't like science.

It's a great system /s.

In fairness, we are doing more or less useful things; in biology we're talking about evolution and we mentioned how - especially in France - antibiotics are being used too much and so are becoming less effective. For the people who don't do science, I suppose that's important to know, for me at least the effect was ruined by the fact that I had done that in spés like a week earlier.

In physics, we've been working on energy consumption and kind of how it works, but there's too much math in physics for me to be super interested lol.

LV2 aka Langue vivante 2, aka "living language 2": As I'm writing this I just realized that I forgot to include the LV1 in this pdf lol.

In 7th grade (or 6th if you're an overambitious nerd like me), you have to choose a "second" language, that you'll keep till at least 12th grade, and then afterwards idk how it works. The first language is English by default, you *can* make english your 2nd language but that's complex and Idk enough about how that works. French is taught from 1rst to 11th but doesn't count as a living language for some reason.

Most schools offer Spanish and another language, my middle school had Spanish + German, a friend of mine does Chinese as a 2nd language and there's probably other options depending on the school. Oddly enough, despite the fact that Belgium is at the closest about 20 minutes away from my house by car and the Netherlands are at the closest 1h30 away, Dutch is not a commonly taught language I think. Spain is at the closest about 10 hours away by car, and yet it's far more taught.

(The reason I forgot the LV1 is that in the international section, we automatically get the highest grade possible, 20/20, bc they're grading us based on British standards so they're basically saying that we speak English)

EMC, Education Morale et Civique: I'm going to be honest and say that I have no idea what this class is for or how to translate it lol, desoite having had this since 6th grade. Literally the words mean civic and moral education and if that sounds like propaganda, well, it sort of is. We've had many classes on how to be a good citizen, and how democracy works I think, but we've also had classes on other completely unrelated stuff.

Most of the grades in EMC are group presentations, and so I could not tell you about a single thing I got graded on lol

Spé abandonnée en 1ère: lit. spé abandoned in 11th. Yes we use the word abandoned for this lol, other than that I think I covered it earlier

LV3: So following the logic from LV1/LV2, I think you can guess what this is. This is a third, optional language you can take, most people don't bother because we already have too many classes.

I however am not most people lol, but I'll be adding my friend as an example here because the language I chose could be confusing given what I said earlier about LV2s. Antony [not their real name] is in the international section so has English as the default LV1, they took German as an LV2 and they took Japanese as their LV3. Based off of this logic, I have the same thing except I have Spanish as my LV3 and not Japanese. (I'm not sure how clear this would be on it's own because as I said most schools offer Spanish as an LV2 and most people choose that as their LV2. Since I did German as my LV2, I only started taking Spanish classes in 10th grade)

My school, being an international school, offers an extremely large range of third language possibilities: As I've mentioned, there's Japanese and Spanish, but also Italian, Chinese, Portugese, Polish, maybe German, possibly Dutch and possibly/probably others but I don't know for sure. (I just checked and they don't actually offer German as a 3rd language, but they do offer Dutch, and that's it. "Only" 7 languages, I kinda thought there were more [i think most schools have like one or two. A quick google search for the other school I could have gone to tells me that that school offers Spanish and Arabic as 3rd languages and that's it])

Oh and there's often Latin or Ancient Greek offered at the same time as the LV3 I think, but as they're dead languages they don't count as langues vivantes lol

And we reach the end, with these two.

Français (1ère): As 12th graders, we've already done this part of the bac, last year. The French exam used to be the same year as all the rest but if you've read this far, I think you see the problem with that lol

The grade counts as a percentage of the total bac

And last and certainly worst; the Grand Oral: Lit. the big oral, we have absolutely no preparations for this at school and need to research stuff on our own, in our "free time", whatever that is /j. (... well actually /hj)

I've had 1 teacher talk to me about this, it was my biology teacher, and so depending on the teachers you have for spés, I wouldn't be surprised if some of my classmates hadn't been told the specifics of this sucker at all.

What we have to do is prepare not 1 but 2 possible questions, either 1 per spécialité or a mix between the two subjects (there may be other possibilities but as I said almost no one has told anything about this so this is based off of my recollections of what my biology teacher said and what i found on two government websites.). The reason you prepare two subjects is so that the examinators can choose which one they want you to talk about. Twice the work, twice the stress, for a 20 minute thing.

You have to present your topic for about 10-15 minutes iirc, and then answer some questions.

In biology, my teacher gave us a few vague topics we could use as starting points for our grand oraux (yes the plural of 'oral' is 'oraux', the french language is weird), and basically it's a whole ass reasearch project that we don't get any dedicated hours to in our schedule, that no one has told us about/reminded us of and we have to do that on top of everything else here.

In case my tone isn't clear, I find this ridiculously stupid. I don't like oral exams in the first place, but usually when we have to do some in subjects such as EMC, they don't give us any other work to do while we research our oral, at least in that subject. Another reason I really dislike this is because of CDM (see the first pic, about the international section exams).

CdM is 2 hours a week where we do some research for our research projects. Again, we have 2 hours every single week, with a teacher present, to do nothing but research (and send emails to potential research partners technically), for an exam at the end of the year. This is an international section thing, so the research is in English.

There was the option of adding 2 hours a week for a very small percentage of people to learn how to research in English, and despite the fact that most people would complain if they had more hours of school, the 2 hours a week of research are genuinely useful. I've gotten a lot done since September, and I'm pretty confident about the oral.

For the grand oral, I need to come up with 2 subjects by the end of vacation (we have a 2 week break starting today because it's France and also my class at least already has terrible mental health, if we had to keep this schedule up every single week till May we'd be reduced to like 5 students per class because everyone would be having breakdowns or burnout [Antony is technically not slowing their schedule down over this break (or really any of the other breaks we had), but they're insane /aff /hj. more on that in the tags lol]) not because the school finally realized they should probably remind us of this, but because my biology teacher's a very competant and organized woman who wants to know our subjects so she can help us. (I've had teachers I've liked more or where I've been more interested in their class, but man do I love her for this, other than 2 of my international teachers, she feels like the only competant adult in this school)

#no tags leave me alone #in better news my aunt got me one of paul castle's pengrooms and it is ADORABLE I LOVE IT #french education system #international baccalaureate #baccalauréat #right so as I promised: Antony #Antony is doing and has been doing a “prépa médecine” which means that they're taking extra classes outside of school - I think only during #vacation but I wouldn't put it past them to work on that during the school period- to prepare them to med school. I already dunno how med #school works here so I can't compare to other systems but it sounds hard as fuck to even just GET IN to med school and- knowing them they'l #do amazingly-but the amount of extra work they have to put in just to be able to try to do the first year of med school is absolutely insan #Anyways they're doing that the first week of vacation and then the second week + the first week after they're in Japan on a school trip #That sounds fun but they'll come back having to deal with jetlag + catching up on an entire week's worth of classes #if you read all this for some reason then say good luck to antony lol #i am NOT rereading all that so if anything's incomprehensible feel free to ask for a clarification but i'll answer later bc it is 2am oops #i am going to bed now lol

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