#a closet should be the Spanish Inquisition

[hellenhighwater]

There's a lot of design philosophy out there that is super cool and interesting but I think one of the core beliefs that is apparent in my home is just...I think it's fun when a house surprises you. When you don't know what the next door is going to lead to, when the layout is not quite what you expect, when it's silly and fun and comfortably fancy. So yes, I've been doing fun colors and patterns on the insides of every closet, because why not? They're small spaces. They can be ridiculous and functional at the same time and they make me smile when I open up the closet doors, and nobody expects it.

[pridetempt]

shoulders slump almost instantaneously.  that's about as helpful as a  [ cries in spanish ]  subtitle.  where's the dirt ?   the juicy tidbits ?   what are the skeletons in the closet he can use as leverage to pry that damn deer away from his little girl ?   pride demands his persistence.   he cannot ,  will not play second fiddle to that sinner.

the king's cane disappears in a sparkling puff of red smoke ,  posture relaxing with an arm draped over the back of the sofa.  it should be easy enough to charm the information he seeks out of the cleaner.       ❝ as in normal , healthy  ' i work for you , you pay me '  boss ... ❞       inquisitive brow lifts.        ❝ or ' i own your soul for all eternity '   boss ? ❞

  eyes will roam around the lobby as if just noticing the grandeur of the space  ( despite being the driving force behind said scale and splendor ).         ❝ this is a big place to keep clean all by yourself.  --— a proper hotel now ,  not just my old holiday house with a new coat of paint.    i do hope good ol' alastor isn't working you too hard , dear. ❞

        𝐍𝐈𝐅𝐅𝐓𝐘 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐊𝐒 𝐔𝐏 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐃𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐒 𝐇𝐄𝐑. She'd been unabashedly staring at him for the better part of half an hour, keenly aware that she was in the company of what she could only describe ( and had described ) as the ultimate Bad Boy.

        She only deflates a little when he brings up Alastor. Of course he would. Between the two of them, he's the far more interesting subject matter; but it still stings, just a little. Nevertheless, Niffty will hardly let this deter her. She can be interesting, too! Smoothing out her apron, she clasps her hands in her lap and sits up a little straighter, looking far more prim and ladylike than she had a mere five seconds ago. She has someone to impress now.

❝  Oh! I guess you could say that!  ❞ The giggle that leaves her mouth is only a little unsettling; the kind of airy noise that doesn't sound quite so sincere as it should. ❝  He is my boss.  ❞

[gay-otlc]

Stellarlune Recap

You couldn't get your copy of Stellarlune yet? No worries, my summary will give you all of the relevant details and will definitely not be entirely focused on the gay side characters.

Diversity win! The ogre chemical thing is aromantic!

Gisela is still doing evil things but have you considered; she is very sexy while doing them. Gisela is a milf and I will die on this hill.

Amy! Amy is great. Very glad to see her again.

Obligatory scene where Sophie talks about how she's so much more comfortable when she's not wearing a dress. In a very gender confirming cishet way of course.

Fitz's reaction to Keefe running away was BULLSHIT and I do not accept it as canon. He had to care about his boyfriend- uhh, best friend- leaving and fuck Shannon for not giving us the Keefitz angst we deserved.

The Vacker accent sounds haughty :)

Glimmer is called Little Miss Neverseen now, and I think this means we need a Glimmer/Umber Little Miss Perfect songfic.

Shannon doesn't know how to spell bestie.

Linh and Wylie sibling fight??? Man instead of saying shit like that she should have just hit him with a broom like normal siblings.

Rayni is trans, for no reason other than her name reveal sounded exactly like a coming out scene.

Sophie's description of Rayni is incredibly gay, as expected.

Imagine talking about all the flaws with the matchmaking system and not even acknowledging it's messed up gay elves can't get married? Yeah, Shannon just forgot about queerness ig.

Wylie needs to stop being a council stan >:( please Wylie I know this isn't who you really are-

Pyrokinesis continues to be extremely queer coding- the pyrokinesis ban forces people to deny who they are.

Oralie has trichotillomania! Good to see BFRB rep, less good to see it immediately dismissed as a silly quirk.

Unhinged gardener Fintan! He's so weird and I adore him for it.

Pyrokinesis once again is queer coded. "I have the right to be who I am in the privacy of my own home," okay Fintan. that's gay.

Prentice! No actual thoughts. Head empty. Only Prentice.

Why does it actually sound like Kenric is flirting with Prentice though? He outright asked to be Prentice's partner, I cannot.

I will NOT make a joke about how "keeper and probe" sounds like an innuendo and Kenric called Prentice the most talented keeper while flirting with him. I am NOT. I'm better than that.

I'm extremely normal about the Endal family pre-mind break, I'm not crying, you're crying.

FORK MAN SAID THE TITLE???? You know shit gets real when a character says the title.

For many reasons, Ro deserves to be punched. One of those reasons is invalidating Sophie's trich.

Sophie has alexithymia, it's basically canon. The most honest thing she's ever said is admitting she doesn't know what she's feeling, I am blasting her with my alexithymia laser as we speak.

Also I did enjoy Sophie's "do I have a crush" on Keefe crisis. I honestly found it fascinating from an aromantic perspective.

Sophie is probably on the aro spectrum, by the way. I think allo people usually don't struggle so much with identifying whether or not their feelings are romantic.

Tiergan is "adept at misdirection" because he's closeted. Also he's not that good at misdirection, Sophie is just not very observant.

Sophie's description of Biana is so fucking gay I can't.

Marella reminds Fintan of himself?? Canon?? Time to be insane about their dynamic again.

The sweet and sour chicken monologue >>>

Tiergan has to be Sophie and Fitz's marriage counselor. Rip.

Nobody expects the Cognate Inquisition.

Seriously, why did Shannon call it that. She had to know we would all think of the Spanish Inquisition, right? Or did she... not expect that.

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT LET'S GO (tiertice chapter)

Qualden will never get a happy ending. That sucks ig

Tiergan all but admitted to being in love with Prentice, they were almost cognates, and Sophie had a live slug reaction. 10/10 scene

Tiergan would rather die than hear about the Fitzphie drama. Also he still doesn't understand ship names. Iconic.

Alden... why do you know so much about the rules regarding cognates and dating... did you perhaps want to date your cognate?

Edaline wins all the mom points.

Alden and Quinlin are canonically divorced.

Tiergan canonically wants to marry Prentice.

HOW did Shannon not know what she was doing when she said cognates were like marriage??? How???

Additional training with Marella, Linh, and Maruca you say? That's gay.

Sophie has advised Wylie to fix every problem with the power of homosexuality.

Also, Sophie is trying to break the news to Wylie that his dads are gay for each other.

Dex is bad at picking up when someone is joking or exaggerating. He's neurodivergent your honor.

Keefe... why are you just taking your shirt off for Tam... he wasted NO time with that damn

I want more Keefe and Grady interactions on screen. For. Science.

Chapter 42. I enjoyed it more than I thought. The kiss was... whatever, but their dialogue was very nice and I appreciated the healthy communication. Also the touching foreheads.

Sophie is canonically polyamorous!

"Tiergan held them [Wylie and Prentice] both" I AM GOING TO BE THINKING ABOUT THIS FOR THE REST OF ETERNITY I AM SCREAMING SOBBING THROWING UP THEY LOVE EACH OTHER THEY ARE A FAMILY ETC ETC

Tiergan: Well no one in this group ever fucking listens to me so I might as well stay with my husband >:(

Prentice needs a hug. Tiergan is giving him a hug. Love wins.

Sokeefitz can still happen. I refuse to give up hope.

IT/ITs Masteress Elysian. Elysian has the gender of all time.

If my summary somehow wasn't enough for you, you can read Stellarlune for free here. I gave you all the information you need to know though.

[fixyourwritinghabits]

as the kind of person who does a lot of outlining in my head but tends to pants my writing otherwise, something i have found really useful is skipping stuff i don't have the motivation to write BUT putting in some kind of description about what happens in the interim. like "[overwrought description of the setting goes here]" or "[condescending but inane conversation goes here]" or even "[scene where x and y discuss z goes here]" just so i don't forget what i'm doing, sometimes with notes specifically on what i want to mention when i go back to write that bit. (i also do this for some school writing, where i'll basically write the roman numeral-style outline as a bunch of basic descriptions like "Opening line about aspect x of topic. Sourced fact about x #1. Analysis of that sourced fact." etc) it's really just to keep myself in a Flow without having to write the scenes that just aren't coming and give myself some insight into what the hell i was thinking in the first place.

I mean this is the gentlest way possible, but I suspect y'all self-proclaimed pantsers are a bunch of lying liars.

This is not a condemnation - literally anything can be an outline. Five key scenes on notecards? Great. Character journey done in doddles? That's a fine outline as any. "Write this scene where this happens later" is in fact plotting and I will pop out of the closet like the Spanish Inquisition to call it such.

Look, I used to be one of you - I wrote a 30k fanfic novel when I was 18, fueled on three cans of Surge a day and five hours of sleep, and never wrote a single note. I can't do that anymore, and at some point, neither will you.

I do not want to discourage pantsing - pants away to your heart's content! Your story will take you on twists and turns that should happen in the writing process.

But take notes goddamnit. They don't have to be remotely professional and the more they would make your eighth grade teacher scream, the better. You will lose that clever plot twist, that key turning point, that great sentence if you don't.

Even if you can keep it all in your head now, the more practiced you get at putting those ideas to paper, however loose they may be, the more your future self who can't walk through a door without forgetting why and can't find the glasses perched on their head will thank you.

[bad-bitch-beauchamp]

Songs About Me: Chapter Five

Thanks for your continued support for these sweet artsy bairns! Here’s the next installment! I read all of your kind comments and they mean the absolute world to me.

READ ON AO3

Louisburg Square, Beacon Hill, Boston

Claire was just walking up to the picturesque green of Louisburg Square, where her townhouse sat facing the gardens, when her phone began an incessant buzzing. She had her hands full after stopping at the market for dinner staples (otherwise known as a box of Velveeta Shells & Cheese). She was fumbling with her purse and muttering a not-so-quiet “Shit,” when she dropped her keys on the porch. When she stooped lower to get the keys, more toiletries from the market spilled onto the ground and rolled down the steps while her phone continued to buzz. “Oh fuck it all to hell… Oh hello, Mr. Grant!” Claire’s next door neighbor was a kind man, but always appeared perplexed -- whether by her uncontrollable hair, clothes splattered with dirt from the shop, or simply by wondering how she came to be the owner of one of the most coveted real estate properties in New England, Claire would never know.

“Hello dear. Are you alright over there?” His brow was knit as Claire shoved her scattered belongings back into their various bags all while muttering under her breath as to not offend the old man’s sensibilities. She stood, and realized he had most definitely already heard her vocabulary choices.

“Oh, I’m fine, just one of those days!” One of those days where you fall head over heels for the strange guy you met last night and then all your shit falls on the sidewalk because your brain is short-circuiting.

“Well as always, if you need anything, I’m just here and happy to help.”

“Thank you! One day I’ll absolutely take you up on it -- I’m usually less of a mess!” She tried to joke it off, but it sounded a little too much like she was trying to justify herself to neighbor, and herself.

Mr. Grant smiled. “Of course, dear. Ah, you seem to be very popular today!”

Claire’s phone went off for at least the fifth time. She tried to reign in her annoyance, said her goodbyes to the man, and using her foot to kick a back of groceries inside the doorway finally made it inside. She dug around her bag for the phone ready to lash out at whatever telemarketer couldn’t take a hint, but stopped.

Two missed phone calls, four missed texts. The caller left a voicemail for each call. She pressed play on the earlier one.

“Hi Sassenach, uh, Claire, I guess I should call ye Claire since that’s yer name, huh? Shit. Hold on… Okay, let me start over. Hello Claire, this is Jamie. James. James Fraser? From the bookshop and the karaoke, ye ken? Of course she kens, ye damn eedjit… Me! Not you! Oh god this is literally the worst call I’ve ever made in my life. Fuck it, I’m just going to try again.” The voicemail abruptly ended. Claire was in stitches at his earnest attempt to just talk to her. At least he wasn’t lying when she heard him say she wouldn’t have to wait long at all for message from him. She pressed play on the second voicemail.

“Hello Claire, I hope this message finds ye well. It was verra nice to see ye today at my shop. It may be the cool, relaxed thing tae do would be to not call ye right away, but ye make me feel anything but cool and relaxed and under control. Ye make me feel… like there’s something different between us, mo nighean donn. As I told ye in the shop, I dinna think I can wait another week to see ye. If you would do me the honor of saying yes, I would verra much like to take ye out for dinner and drinks. Or anything ye wanted to do, really. Dinner and drinks was just my idea… okay I think I’m getting flustered again so I’m going to quit while I’m ahead. Okay thanks, talk to you soon hopefully, bye. Oh, and this is Jamie Fraser.”

Her laughter had died out the moment he said how she made him feel. Is that really how he felt about her? Did he mean it? Claire had a feeling that Jamie Fraser from the bookshop and the karaoke, ye ken didn’t ever say things he didn’t mean. She fell into the couch facing the big bay window, and breathed. Her breath came in heavy, her heartbeats fast. Her thoughts were swirling and her mind racing and everything felt light around here. A little breathlessly, she opened her text app to a number she didn’t recognize.

[+16178256192]: Hello Claire, this is James Fraser from Fraser Literature and from karaoke last night at The 21st Amendment.

Claire actually laughed out loud now. As if she could forget who he was! He had turned her world upside down at the bar, she sang in his shop, she gave him her phone number less than an hour ago! She added his number to her contacts before reading his following texts.

[Jamie]: Okay that was weirdly formal, sorry

[Jamie]: Could ye do me a favor and just delete the first voicemail?

[Jamie]: I was hoping we could maybe set up a time for the date I mentioned earlier at the shop? I would really like to see ye again before next week.

[Jamie]: And maybe before we have to hang out with the Spanish Inquisition. ;)

Claire laughed through her nose at that last one; apparently, Jamie had been grilled about their relationship? Interaction? by Rupert and Angus like Claire had been by Joe and Geillis. She reread all the messages he’d sent her before responding.

[Claire]: Hello James Fraser, owner of Fraser Literature and karaoke. I do indeed remember and even if I didn’t, you’ve reminded me several times in your many incessant texts/voicemails. ;)

Three dots immediately popped up, disappeared, popped up, and a next text appeared.

[Jamie]: I told ye to delete the first voicemail! You weren’t supposed to hear my rambling!

[Claire]: Uh huh, seems likely. ;) Maybe I have a super power that renders you useless around me?

[Jamie]: Well lass you're not far off.

[Jamie]: How’s about that date? What are you doing tonight?

[Claire]: Lol, you’re not tired of seeing my face yet?

[Jamie]: Not yet, not ever.

[Jamie]: Sooooooooo, dinner? ;)

Eventually, they decided on a little Italian place close to Claire’s place. Claire paced around the upstairs bedroom, trying out an outfit only to rip it off and throw it in a pile on the floor. She’d walk to the bathroom, evaluate her look, give a deep breath out her nose, and was now at the point of yelling about how she had no clothes. But, she remembered. In a garment bag at the back of her closet hung a blood-orange dress. A square neckline gave way to a triangle dip in the middle, the hem came just to the middle of her thigh with a cinched waistline.. She smiled, sadly. The last time she wore the dress, she was still in med school. Frank had asked her out to “a dinner with a few medical friends” and promised she could make a few connections to help her down the road. Claire ended up discarded at the door until Frank needed to show her off to a classmate or professor or colleague. She learned he hadn’t told anyone she was also studying medicine, telling her he “wanted to let you stand on your own, darling.” The last time she had worn that dress, she realized she wouldn’t resign herself to a life of being second-best to her partner, to a group of strangers, or to anyone. Tonight was the perfect time to remind herself she was taking things into her own hands yet again -- with Jamie at her side. Her smile turned genuine, and she pulled it off the hanger.

-- -- --

Jamie knew this was unusual. Claire wasn’t the first girl he’d ever been interested in, but if he had any choice in the matter, she would be the last one. Rationally, he should’ve been talking himself out of planning a future with the girl from the bar, but he couldn’t help himself. When he was in high school in Scotland, he kissed a girl who smelled like hairspray and spun sugar and he didn’t like that at all. He kissed a few lasses before rugby games and they’d tell him it was all for good luck. He enjoyed them (didn’t every red-blooded teenage boy enjoy kisses before sports games?), but enjoyment was the extent of it. In college, he had met Annalise. She was smart and kind and lovely, and so bonny. She’d loved his family, loved him. And he had loved her, too. Their relationship started after their first year at school when they became close friends and confidants. She was truly one of the best friends he’d ever had, outside of the lads. When he said he was leaving Scotland to pursue his dreams in the states, she said she was being “abandoned”. Jamie considered asking her to come with him to build a life, but reconsidered. After many long conversations, many tears, many honest words… they had decided their relationship was based in comfort. They loved each other, there was no doubt about that. They loved each other because of their close friendship, their proximity to each other at school, their families’ friendship that developed because of their own. When Jamie confronted Annalise about his realization that he would forever be grateful for her, but didn’t see a romantic future together, she had cried and told him she was so happy -- she felt the same. They split amicably and continued to call and text when they could. Friendships like theirs didn’t just dissipate.

With Claire, things felt… different. Emotional, raw, honest, profound. It felt like something he couldn’t quite place. Something he didn’t have words for. The mere thought of her made his pulse quicken, made his breath catch in his chest. Their connection last night at the bar, their physical connection at the bookshop (god, how it felt to be touched by her…) , their easy banter over text, and then when she gave him her address… he had to sit down. He knew her address exactly. He’d passed it every time he went home, or went to work, or went anywhere at all. She lived in Louisburg Square, across the garden and just to the right of a place he knew intimately. She lived across the garden and just to the right, of his place. They were neighbors. He never knew. He thought back to telling her how they must have just been missing each other for years, but god, he never knew how close they really were.

Jamie finished tying up his leather boots and took a look in the mirror. Hair brushed back, curls falling at his neck, a light blue button-up, a leather jacket. Not too bad. Still not good enough for her, though. He tugged at the neck of his shirt, and left his townhouse. He made his way up his side of the square, and stopped not ten feet up the sidewalk. He saw her. From the second floor, Claire was illuminated by soft light in the window, gauzy curtains framing her. He could only watch in awe as her head tilted to the side to fit an earring to her ear. She reached for a brush and started to comb out a curl. Jamie sighed contentedly when he noticed her hair was still down, curled around her face, wild as ever. Claire gave up with the brush and settled herself to smoothing down creases in her wee dress with delicate hands. Hands that had touched him, healed him, had literally written her name over his heart. She was... ethereal. Tearing his eyes away from the window, he managed to send her a message:

[Jamie]: On my way there Sassenach

[Claire]: No worries, take your time. See you soon!

Jamie rounded the center garden and up to her steps. The light from the window was still glowing, but he could no longer see her. One more text:

[Jamie]: Just outside

He walked up the steps, raised his knuckles to the brass knocker, and paused. First step to forever… His phone buzzed.

[Claire]: I thought I said to take your time? ;) seriously, how’d you get here so fast? Just a sec and I’ll be down!

He did knock then, answered her text to say there was no rush, he wasn’t going anywhere. Behind the door he heard a literal run down the stairs and he stifled a chuckle. There was a jingle of keys, a fairly loud, “Shit!” as the keys hit the floor, a scuttle of shoes around the entry, and the door opened.

Here we go, lad.

[hrina]

Serotonin

PAIRING: Harry x Reader RATING: M for mature WORD COUNT: 23.7k REQUESTED: nope!

hi everyone 🥺🥺🥺 she’s here 🥺🥺🥺 please be kind to her 🥺🥺🥺 i poured my heart out into this fic. it’s the longest (and probably the best) standalone piece that i’ve ever written. if you want to let me know your thoughts, reblogging and sending feedback to my askbox would mean the absolute world. 

p.s. since this fic is extremely long, it may cause the tumblr mobile app to glitch. if that happens to you, i suggest opening it up in google chrome or safari instead. enjoy 💕

~*~

September 4th, 2019

You always sit in the middle.

The front makes you feel far too exposed. It’s more likely that you’ll be called upon by chance, and your professors are liable to notice your absence if they’ve grown accustomed to seeing you sat squarely before them during every class.

The back is riddled with too many distractions. You know that you’ll end up watching the shows playing on the laptop screens of the students in front of you. You might not even be able to hear the lecture all that well. Despite your aversion to sitting at the front, you still want to pass with a decent grade.

The middle of the lecture hall serves as a happy medium.

Margaret and Mateo agree. That’s why the three of you push through the door and make a beeline for the trio of free seats located directly in the middle of the room. They seem to be calling your names. You nudge past a pair of girls who are absorbed in a hushed conversation, taking the time to apologise for the inconvenience. A moment later, you plop down into your chair; Margaret takes the seat on your left, while Mateo slumps against the one on your right.

“You’d think that with the thousands of dollars we pay each year, they’d be able to afford more comfortable chairs,” Mateo mutters, resting his chin on a closed fist. You snort in response.

Margaret flips her silky hair over her shoulder. “It’s because they’re too busy offering ridiculously-high salaries to profs who can’t even teach.”

You shoot her a look, cocking one eyebrow teasingly. “We all know that you want to namedrop Allende. It’s okay—you can say it.”

“She’s horrible,” Margaret groans, burying her face into her hands. “She speaks the language perfectly, but she can’t fucking relay the knowledge in an effective way. Isn’t that the entire point of teaching?”

“That’s what you get for minoring in Spanish,” Mateo mutters.

You laugh and nudge him with your shoulder. “Oh, like your minor is any better? How do you say ‘dumbass’ in Latin?”

“It’s the root of most European languages!” he protests.

“It’s a dead language!” You and Margaret say at the same time. You turn to face each other with wide eyes; an incredulous giggle slips past your lips. Mateo opens his mouth to form a rebuttal, but then the door to the lecture hall slams shut, and every head in the room snaps in the direction of the sound.

“Glad to see that trick still works.” Dr. Renault claps his hands before rubbing them together excitedly. Subconsciously, you sit up a bit straighter in your seat.

Dr. Renault is a short, balding man, with a face framed by thin gold spectacles and a belly that bulges slightly over the waistband of his suit bottoms. He fiddles with his red tie as he makes his way over to the podium at the front of the room. You’ve heard good things about him; almost everyone who has taken his class has left shining reviews and gushed about his skills. The buildup has set your expectations high. You don’t think that you’ll be disappointed.

Your eyes drift away from your professor, drawn, now, to the person walking a few paces behind him. The man has wavy brown hair that curls just behind his ears. He’s wearing a patterned green sweater and black trousers; a pair of dark brown loafers adorn his feet. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up slightly, and you can’t help but to notice the smattering of dark ink that decorates his left forearm. Big, bulky rings cover nearly all of his fingers. Tortoise-shell glasses keep his dark hair pinned back—you think that the strands would flop over his forehead if left untamed.

“Welcome, everyone,” Dr. Renault starts, and you turn your attention back to him. He’s standing behind the podium now; there’s a small stack of papers in front of him. “First things first: can you all hear me properly? Or will I need to use a microphone for the duration of this course? I don’t mind.”

A low rumble of responses travel across the room. You shake your head; Margaret and Mateo do the same. You can all hear him just fine.

“Alright,” your professor clears his throat. “My name is Gabriel Renault, but you can call me ‘My Lord’.” He smiles, and the class laughs weakly. Dr. Renault holds out his arm, gesturing to the tattooed man that you’d been studying before. “This is my assistant, Harry. He’ll be grading most of your work this semester, so if you’re looking for someone’s ass to kiss, it should be his.”

Everyone laughs a bit louder this time, including you. Harry steps forward and offers a small smile but doesn’t say anything.

Margaret leans into you. “He’s kind of cute,” she mumbles, shrugging. “In an old-man sort of way.”

“Oh my God.” You cover your mouth and shake your head at her words, but you have to admit that she does have a point. Realistically, Harry can’t be more than four or five years older than you, but the clothes he’s wearing don’t exactly fit the dress code for someone his age. In fact, his outfit looks like something that you could probably have pulled from your grandfather’s closet.

Margaret giggles quietly and recoils, sitting up properly again. When you look back up, your eyes lock immediately with Harry’s. Even from thirty feet away, you can see the mossy green of his irises and feel the intensity of his gaze. A lump forms in your throat, but nonetheless, you shoot him a faint, barely-there smile. He looks away.

Your brows knit together in confusion, but you force yourself to shrug it off. “Bit of a prick,” you breathe to no one in particular.

Mateo looks over at you inquisitively. “What?”

“No, nothing,” you whisper, waving his question away. You turn to face the front again, watching conscientiously as Dr. Renault takes hold of the stack of papers in front of him and splits it into two. He gives one half to Harry before addressing the class.

“Harry and I will be handing out the syllabus for this semester,” he announces. “There will be a short quiz at the end of each class. Don’t worry,” he smiles wryly when quiet murmurs begin surfacing amongst the seats, “They’re only composed of five multiple choice questions. They’ll each count for two percent of your grade; I know it doesn’t seem like a lot, but I find that sometimes students will need that two percent to stay afloat in the course.”

“Me,” Mateo mutters quietly. You and Margaret snicker.

“There will be a quiz at the end of today’s lecture,” Dr. Renault continues. “I’ll be going through the syllabus with you for the first half of the class, and then we’ll do a quick review of the content that you should already know.” He and Harry begin distributing copies of the syllabus to each student, coaxing your classmates to pass the papers down their rows.

“So today’s quiz should be relatively straightforward. An easy two percent,” Dr. Renault says, before casting a glance at his assistant. “Wouldn’t you agree, Harry?”

Harry nods. “Yes, sir.”

You balk at the huskiness of his tone. The words are impossibly deep and throaty. Margaret stares at you with wide eyes and leans in closer.

“If I could fuck a voice…,” she hisses.

“Shut the hell up,” you retort, trying not to laugh at her candour.

Something nudges your arm; you turn and find Mateo holding out a few copies of the syllabus for you to take. You slip one out from the pile and pass it on, but not before glancing up and spotting Harry standing a few feet away at the end of your row. He’s chewing on the inside of his cheek. The two of you make eye contact again, but this time, it’s you who turns away first.

“There will be a short paper due next week.” Dr. Renault is speaking again. “Don’t fret—it only has to be seven-hundred-and-fifty words. One thousand is the maximum, though I doubt anyone will want to be writing that much after only the first week of class.” He chuckles to himself. “I’ll go into more detail as we read through the outline of the course. Grades for any tests and assignments will be posted online, but we’ll always give the physical copy back to you so that you can use it to study for the exams.”

A girl in your row raises her hand. When your professor nods at her, she asks, “What exactly did you mean when you talked about a review? Like, what kind of information? Just the basics?”

“Yes,” he replies, his cheeks rounding out as he smiles. “Only the content you learned in the introductory course. I believe they taught a chapter on neuroscience, am I correct?”

Everyone releases a quiet murmur of affirmation. Dr. Renault pushes his glasses higher up on the bridge of his nose. “Excellent,” he says. “So that would be the basics of this course—the three main components of an axon, the chemistry behind an action potential, the parts of the brain and their general functions, etcetera. All of that serves as a foundation for neuropsychology.”

“Okay, thank you,” the girl says. You recognize her—you’ve had a few classes with her, but her name escapes you.

“You’re very welcome.” Dr. Renault beams, and you fight to suppress a smile. He seems so nice—you find yourself predicting that this will quickly become one of your favourite classes.

“Is anyone missing a copy?” Harry pipes up, holding the remaining papers aloft. Your spine stiffens at the guttural rasp of his voice, and you take note of the slow drawl that crawls past his lips.

He has an accent. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Margaret fanning herself in small motions, and you roll your eyes with a soft snort.

When nobody raises their hand, Harry lowers his arm and turns to make his way back to the front of the lecture hall. You train your eyes on him, studying the way his shoulder blades protrude with every slight swing of his arms. His back is broad, tapering off into a narrow waist and long legs.

He’s probably six feet.

You cross your thighs over each other.

“Alright.” Dr. Renault resumes his initial position at the podium. “If you all look at the first page of the syllabus, you’ll find my email, as well as Harry’s. I’ve also taken the liberty of including our office locations and the hours during which we’ll be available. Please don’t hesitate to come in for extra help; it’s what we’re here for.”

“Maybe I’ll head on down to Harry’s office for some extra help,” Margaret murmurs. You don’t miss the suggestiveness lacing her words. You scoff and bump her gently with your elbow. Mateo peers over at the two of you, but you just shake your head.

“She’s being gross again,” is all you say.

He puckers his lips and nods knowingly. “Of course.”

“Are you guys down for a latte at Grounded later?” Margaret pokes her head into the conversation, her voice a bit louder than it should be. You and Mateo shush her; she pouts.

“To answer your question, though,” Mateo says, “Yes.”

“I’ve missed their coffee,” you say wistfully, staring off into nothing. The three of you fall silent, instead deciding to tune in and listen to what Dr. Renault has to say about the layout of the course. Despite your sharp concentration, your ears tingle with the feeling of being watched, and your eyes reflexively fall to the side.

You catch only a glimpse of green, and then it’s over just as quickly as it had begun.

  September 11th, 2019

“How much are you willing to bet that Mateo wrote exactly seven-hundred-and-fifty words?”

Margaret cackles. “He probably didn’t even reach the minimum.”

“You’re so mean!” you laugh, turning the corner and zeroing in on the door of your lecture hall. “Have a little faith in him.”

“Let’s wager an iced coffee from Grounded,” she suggests, lifting an eyebrow. You nod and push open the door. The room is full of students buzzing around and chatting. A quick glance upward reveals that Mateo has already reserved three seats in one of the middle rows. You and Margaret climb the steps of the hall and squeeze past a few students sitting right next to the aisle.

“Sorry…excuse us,” you murmur.

“Hey.” Mateo smiles when the two of you finally reach him. You drop down into your chair, blowing a wayward strand of hair out of your face and yawning loudly.

Margaret doesn’t waste any time. “How many words did you end up writing for the paper?”

Mateo grimaces. “Like…seven-hundred. I’m hoping Renault doesn’t actually count them all.”

“Oh, fuck yes!” Margaret beams and points a finger at you. “You lose. I like my iced coffee with a shot of vanilla bean, bitch.”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it,” you groan, batting her hand away before turning back to Mateo. “And technically it’s Harry who’ll be grading them. Hopefully he’s lenient with that stuff.”

Mateo doesn’t seem to have registered your last two sentences; in fact, he disregards your correction completely. His gaze bounces between you and Margaret, creases weaving into his forehead. Eventually, it dawns on him, and he releases an affronted squawk.

“You guys bet on me?”

“I gave you the benefit of the doubt!” you protest, lifting your hands in the air. “Margaret’s the one who—”

“Good morning, everyone!”

Dr. Renault is at the front of the room, standing behind that same podium from last week. He’s wearing a bright red polo shirt and a pair of blue jeans, which makes you smile for absolutely no reason. The colour of his top brings out the rosiness of his cheeks, and when he offers up a bright grin for the class, his teeth appear to be even whiter than normal.

Behind him, Harry’s standing off to the side with his hands clasped at the small of his back. He’s clad in a black button-up and black trousers. The outfit would have been completely appropriate had it not been for the suspenders striping up his sides; the silver buckles on each strap glint teasingly in the light.

“Why does it look like they swapped closets?” Mateo mumbles. You giggle softly.

“The first thing we’re going to be doing this morning,” Dr. Renault says, “is giving back your quizzes from last week. They’re short, so Harry had no trouble getting around to marking all of them. He’ll be handing them back to you in just a moment.”

You wait with a bated breath as Harry pulls a stack of sheets from his messenger bag. He begins calling out names, and each person quickly scrambles up from their seat in order to retrieve their grade. Mateo’s name is one of the first to echo around the room. He grimaces offhandedly at you and mutters something about wishing him luck. You and Margaret make a show of crossing your fingers and holding them up as a proclamation of your support.

Mateo clambers down the steps, graciously accepts his quiz, and folds it up without looking at it. He makes it all the way back to his seat before thrusting the sheet into your hands and averting his gaze. “Tell me what I got,” he pleads. “I can’t look.”

You chuckle at his theatrics before opening up the paper and letting your eyes rake over the mark circled in red. “Perfect,” you say quietly, a small smile playing on your lips. Your friend’s eyes go wide, and then his cheeks split apart with the force of his grin.

“Oh, thank God,” he sighs, slouching back in his chair and rubbing his palms over his face. “That two percent is going to keep my ass from failing. I’m calling it now.”

“You’ll be fine,” you scoff, swatting at him half-heartedly with the hand clutching his quiz. Mateo thanks you as you hand the sheet back, pleating it once more and tucking it into the sleeve on the inside of his binder.

Margaret’s name is called a moment later, and yours follows immediately after. You both look at each other and shrug, standing from your chairs and stumbling through the row. Margaret ends up in front of you; you stare down at your shoes to make sure that you don’t trip down the stairs. Your face heats up at the mere thought of humiliating yourself in front of the class, in front of Dr. Renault, in front of Harry.

In a matter of seconds, you’re standing before him. Margaret moves out of the way and treks back up to where Mateo is waiting, subtly flapping her page around to indicate her mark. You stare at Harry evenly, your gaze never leaving his face—he’s looking down at your quiz, and he’s hesitating.

His apprehension makes you nervous. Had you done poorly?

Eventually, he pulls the paper out of the pile and looks up. His eyes meet yours.

The green of his irises is even more vivid up close. It knocks the wind straight from your chest. You can see the flecks of hazel dotting the area around his pupils, and the way his eyelashes brush along his browbone when he lifts his head. There’s a small mole beneath the corner of his mouth. His lips are full and pink; they look soft.

“Here you are,” Harry says, and for a moment, you’re confused. Here you are, stationed in front of him. Had he been waiting specifically for you?

Then, you realise that he’s got his hand outstretched, offering you the marked quiz clutched between his long fingers.

You’re an idiot.

“Thank you,” you say dumbly.

Your hand brushes his when you pluck the sheet out of his grasp. There’s a cross tattooed on his hand, right above the divot of his thumb. You turn around, and for a moment, you think you hear him say something from behind you—it sounds suspiciously like “good job”—but you shake your head free of the thought. He doesn’t seem like the type.

On your way back up to your seat, you allow yourself to glance at the grade scrawled across the top of the page. A perfect score. You exhale in relief. Your attention is drawn to where a small, messy smiley face has been drawn in red pen. Beneath the doodle, there’s a few words of encouragement:

Well done. Keep it up. H. x

You gnaw on your bottom lip, so focussed on the note that you nearly pass your row. Margaret hisses at you, and you stop cold in your tracks, silently berating yourself. After a few painful moments of squeezing by the other students sitting closer to the aisle, you drop back down into your chair and fold up your quiz quickly.

Had there been a note on Mateo’s quiz?

You can’t remember. Maybe there was, and you’d merely skimmed over it. You don’t want to ask him about it right now, though, because the room is silent save for Harry calling out names and your peers shuffling forward to received their tests.

You lean forward and pull a brand-new notebook from your bag, sneakily slipping your page inside the knapsack and zipping it back up. Neither Mateo nor Margaret make inquiries regarding your grade. It’s like an unspoken rule: you always do well.

The three of you settle into your seats and wait for the lecture to begin.  

~*~

“Hi.” You lean forward and shoot the barista a friendly smile. “Can I get a medium iced coffee with one sugar and a shot of vanilla bean?”

“Sure. Anything else?”

“Um…” You say, biting your bottom lip. “Actually, can you make it two? That’s it, thanks.”

“That’ll be five dollars and ten cents.”

You fish your wallet out of your bag and produce the correct amount of money. Margaret grins from beside you; you both move down the counter as you wait for your drinks.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you say, rolling your eyes. “I can tell you want to brag.”

“That’s what happens when you come to expect too much from Mateo.”

You laugh. “You’re such a bitch.”

“But you’re the one who’s friends with me,” she shoots back, lifting an eyebrow teasingly. Her straight brown hair is braided today, draped over her shoulder and cinched at the bottom with a sparkly pink hair tie. You reach out and play with a loose thread on her sweater before yanking your fingers and snapping it off cleanly. She yelps, but the sound quickly dissolves into laughter.

“How’s Spanish?” you ask wryly, mostly because you’re in the mood to see her fly off the handle.

She scoffs. “Allende is…a demon. It’s only the second week and she’s already fucking killing me.”

“Just drop the class,” you suggest, shrugging your shoulders. “You can always take it next year—maybe she won’t be teaching it, then.”

“I thought about it,” Margaret says, sighing. “But Valentina would murder me. She wanted me to be able to speak the language fluently so I could learn more about our culture and shit. Even if I tell her that I’ll retake the class next year, she’s still gonna flip.”

“That sucks.” You pout and shoot her a sympathetic look. “Valentina should learn to trust her daughter’s judgment.”

A low, hollow laugh echoes in the back of your friend’s throat. “Not likely.”

You try a different approach. “Well, at least you’ve got me—since you’re stuck taking the course, I promise that I’ll listen to all your rants and complaints.”

“Oh, really?” Margaret grins. “Is there an expiration date on that offer?”

“Nope,” you reply, popping the syllable playfully. “This coupon is valid until the end of time.”

“Two medium iced coffees, one sugar and one shot of vanilla bean!”

You and Margaret accept your drinks, sending out quick spiels of gratitude. The barista smiles and tells you to have a good day. As you walk away, your friend guides her straw into her mouth and takes a lengthy, obnoxious sip of her drink. She throws her head back and moans dramatically at the flavour.

“Mhm,” she says, smacking her lips. “It tastes so much better when it’s free.”

“Fuck off,” you laugh, shaking your head. You fix her with a begrudging smile, but something behind her catches your eye. Stupidly, you freeze right in the middle of the basement corridor, the straw of your coffee resting against your parted lips.

Inside the room, Harry’s sitting behind a desk, his tortoise-shell glasses perched on his nose as he rifles through a sizeable stack of papers. There’s a red pen nestled between his fingers, and the sleeves of his black button-up have been rolled a handful of times, leaving his forearms exposed. His tattoos are much clearer now that there’s less distance separating the two of you. You spy an anchor, a rose—

“What are you—?” Margaret scowls and spins around. “Oh.” She turns back to you. “His office is right here? That’s convenient.”

You reluctantly tear your gaze away from Harry so that you can look at her properly. “How so?”

“Well, if he wants to get coffee, he doesn’t exactly have to go very far.” She smirks before taking another sip of her drink. “Plus,” she swallows, “It’s convenient for me, too. I can grab a latte and then pay him a visit right after for some of that extra help.”

She wiggles her brows. You snort.

“You’re ridiculous,” you tell her earnestly. She just giggles, shouldering the strap of her purse and angling her chin to the left.

“Let’s go,” she says. “I really don’t wanna get stuck in traffic again. Last week, it took me, like, two hours to get home.”

“Yikes.” You grimace at the thought, but Margaret’s already pedalling away.

“Come on,” she calls over her shoulder. You follow her, but not before deciding to spare one last glance into Harry’s office.

Your breath hitches in your throat when you find a pair of grassy green eyes staring back at you intently. Harry’s gaze is unwavering; there’s a certain peculiarity about it. It’s searing, like he’s taking you apart piece by piece, unravelling every layer to study what lies beneath. Your skin crawls with the humiliation of getting caught, but something else, too. Anticipation? Exhilaration?

The exchange doesn’t even last a few seconds, but it feels like an eternity. Your lips curl up into an uneasy smile as you try to quell the nervous frothing in the pit of your stomach. For a moment—a foolish, optimistic moment—you think that he might actually return your friendly expression.

Harry merely blinks, twirls his red pen over in his fingers, and looks back down.

  September 18th, 2019

“Shit,” you mutter to yourself, looking down at your phone. Your class starts in five minutes, and you’ve just made it onto campus. You’d texted Mateo already and kindly asked him to save you a seat, but your eyes are drooping and you’re absolutely exhausted. Before you can even weigh your options, your feet are carrying you down into the basement of the building to retrieve a cup of coffee from Grounded. You can’t even be upset about it—your body clearly knows what it needs, and right now, that need is manifesting itself in the form of a massive dose of caffeine.

You hop in line, pulling up Mateo’s contact and composing a quick message regarding your whereabouts. Before you send it, you ask if he or Margaret would like for you to buy them anything. A short moment later, he replies, assuring you that they both already bought their coffees and are as awake as ever.

You guys didn’t even offer to get one for me? How rude, you type back, a small smirk on your face.

Mateo’s response is instantaneous, like he had already rehearsed what he was going to say.

In our defense, we thought you were dead.

You snort softly and shake your head as the message sinks in. Your phone clicks quietly when you lock it, but as you lift your gaze, you catch sight of an intricate drawing and freeze. Your eyes nearly bulge out from their sockets when you register that the left arm of the person standing in front of you is littered with tattoos.

An anchor.

A rose.

A mermaid, whose chest is on full display in all of its naked glory.

There are countless others, but you don’t have enough time to study each one, because just then, Harry is stepping up to the counter to recite his order.

“Morning, love,” you hear him greet the barista. She blushes profusely and grins at him in return. Your shoulders tense at the gruffness of his voice, and you briefly wonder just how deep it can get.

You don’t catch the rest of the trade, trying to focus instead on anything other than how good Harry’s ass looks in the khakis adorning his legs. He cracks a low joke, and the barista laughs. Smiling slightly, he casts a casual glance over his shoulder, and you stiffen when his eyes land squarely on you. His pleased expression fades.

“Also…,” he says, keeping his gaze on you for a moment longer before turning back to the counter.

You don’t tune in to the remainder of his sentence, mostly because your ears are ringing and your heart is hammering wildly beneath your ribs. Harry pulls a crisp bill from his pocket and hands it over before moving to the side and waiting for his drink. It takes all of your willpower to look at everything except for him. The barista abandons her post at the cash register to prepare his coffee. You stand awkwardly at the beginning of the line, waiting for her to come back.

She finally does after a couple of minutes, greeting you cheerily and subconsciously leaning in so that she can hear your order properly.

“Hi,” you say. “Um, can I get a large vanilla latte with an extra shot of espresso?”

“Sure,” she replies, but as soon as you begin to pull your wallet from your bag, she stops you. “Actually,” she says, “The man who was just here paid for you. He gave me a ten and told me to keep whatever was left over.”

“I’m sorry?” You blink.

“The man in front of you,” she elaborates. “The one with the accent.”

Your lips part in surprise. Instinctively, you whip your head to the side, just in time to watch as Harry disappears around the corner.

~*~

You end up being a few minutes late. The sound of the door being pushed open is painfully loud, and you have to conceal an embarrassed cringe when your entrance is met with dozens of faces staring down at you. Dr. Renault is in the process of speaking, but when you walk in, he injects a quick, “Welcome, good morning, pull up a chair!” into the middle of his sentence. You try for a sheepish smile and hope that it comes across as sincere.

“That was humiliating,” you mutter when you finally collapse into the seat next to Mateo. He’d saved you a spot right beside the aisle; you send out a silent prayer of thanks. “This is why I’m never late.”

Your friends both shoot you knowing looks, their features soft with compassion. You sigh quietly, taking a long sip of your latte and trying to shrug off the mortification looming over your head.

“As I was saying,” your professor continues, unperturbed by your brief interruption. “The midterm is next week. It will cover chapters one through three; I trust that everyone has begun reviewing?”

Low murmurs are all that he receives as a response. Dr. Renault chuckles and pushes his glasses further up his nose. “I’ll be going into further detail regarding the exam during the last twenty minutes of today’s class. As for right now, Harry will be handing back your quizzes from last week, as well as the assignments that you all submitted. There were a few bumps, but overall, I think most of you did well.”

And just like that, all eyes fall on Harry. He steps forward, a stack of sheets balanced in the crook of his left arm. He clears his throat and licks the pad of his thumb to effectively grasp the corner of the first page.

“Morning, everyone,” he says huskily. “I’ve paired your quizzes from last week with your papers, so you’ll be getting both at the same time. If you’ve got any questions regarding your grades, please feel free to consult me at the end of today’s lecture.”

That’s the most that you’ve ever heard him speak, you realise.

Harry peers up at the class, his eyes skimming over the rows of students before landing on you. You’re not sure if it’s real, or if your mind is just playing tricks on you, but he seems to stare at you for a beat longer than anyone else. You swallow heavily, hoping that he can’t see the violent bobbing of your throat from down below. A moment later, he calls out a name. The girl in the chair in front of you jumps to her feet, and the spell is broken.

One by one, each undergraduate stands and ambles down the stairs of the lecture hall to retrieve their marks. Margaret’s name is called; Mateo’s follows a few moments later. You smile encouragingly at them and watch as they descend the steps.

You grow nervous as the stack of papers nestled in Harry’s arms begins to dwindle. It’s silly, but whenever your work happens to be located near the end of the queue, you always feel a niggling sense of paranoia biting at the back of your brain. Realistically, you know that your assignment will most likely be present in that pile, but there’s always that small what if.

Finally, though, you hear your name ring out.

You immediately decide that you love the way it sounds exiting Harry’s lips.

You stand, grateful that you don’t have to squeeze past anyone. Maybe you should aim to sit in a seat next to the aisle more often—it’s awfully convenient.

Your heart is thudding wildly in your chest, and as you make your way down to where Harry waits, you grow afraid that he’ll be able to see it pulsing through your shirt.

Don’t trip, don’t trip, don’t trip.

Fortunately, you reach the bottom stair without a single misstep. Harry’s staring down at your papers, his lips tucked into a thin line. When you clear your throat gently, he looks up at you. Twin pink spots dot his cheeks when he realises that you’ve been standing in front of him for a moment too long. He holds out your assignment and your quiz, the pages held together by a skinny silver clip.

“Thank you,” you say quietly. You hesitate for a second before adding, “And thank you for paying for my—”

“Evan Ross.” Harry cuts you off without blinking, the next name rolling off his tongue seamlessly. You blink in surprise, stiffening. Your mouth pops open as a mixture of shock and hurt washes over you.

Your chest grows tight with emotion, and your eyes burn as you whip around and hurry back up the stairs. You keep your head low as you slide back into your seat; Margaret and Mateo are too absorbed in a hushed conversation to notice the distressed expression on your face, but you don’t mind. In fact, you’re thankful for it.

Your mouth feels like it’s full of cotton. Needing a distraction, you unfold the small pile of papers in your hand and glance down at your grades. You’ve achieved a perfect score on your quiz. At the top of the sheet, scrawled in red pen, there’s a smiley face and a brief note:

Well done. Glad to see that somebody’s been paying attention. H. x

You direct your awareness to the written assignment in your other hand. A bright 95% stares back up at you, along with another few words of encouragement:

Very insightful. Great job. H. x

Your eyes narrow. You sit back in your chair; a quiet, incredulous laugh bubbles up in your throat. Luckily, it’s faint enough to avoid being detected by anyone else. You shake your head in disbelief, skimming over Harry’s comments one last time before angrily shoving the pages into your bag. They crinkle loudly—you know that they’ll be all bent out of shape by the time you’ll need to retrieve them, but you don’t care.

You straighten up and risk a glance down to where Harry is still handing assignments and quizzes back to last of your classmates. He smiles at one boy and gives him a reassuring nod before his green eyes stray upward, as though drawn by an invisible magnet. His gaze locks with yours, and the mild curl of his lips quickly flattens out. You clench your jaw and look away, huffing petulantly through your nose.

What a fucking dick.

  September 25th, 2019

“I’m not ready,” you declare, slapping your binder down onto the small foldable desk attached to Mateo’s seat. Your friend jumps in surprise, his eyes growing ludicrously wide, and Margaret cackles loudly from beside him. Despite the panic coursing through your veins, you crack a small smile.

“Good morning to you, too,” Mateo grumbles, his shoulders still hunched from your sudden intrusion.

You groan and collapse into the chair next to him, massaging your temples in hopes of avoiding an oncoming headache. The sensation tends to creep up on you, and you’re sure that it’s due to the measly amount of sleep you’d acquired only a few hours prior. Margaret leans over, extending her arm and offering you a sip of her coffee. You take it and flash her a grateful (albeit pained) smile. Her latte is still a bit hot, but that doesn’t stop you from swallowing down a large gulp.

“What’s wrong?” Margaret asks as you hand the cup back over to her. “Did you not study enough?”

“Yeah,” you say, scowling deeply. “The proposal for my experimental psych class was due last night, so I spent pretty much all my time working on that.”

“Don’t worry,” Mateo says. “You always do well, even when you think you won’t—you’ve got this.”

“Thanks,” you mumble nervously, blowing him a meek kiss. You shift closer to him so that you can scan the contents of his open textbook, hoping to memorize a few final facts before the exam starts.

Dr. Renault and Harry walk in a few moments later, both carrying intimidatingly-tall stacks of paper. A hush falls over the classroom—the abrupt silence makes your professor laugh.

“Don’t worry!” he says. “It’s not that difficult, I promise.”

Somehow, you don’t believe him.

In a matter of minutes, the tests have been distributed, and all of the students in the room are sitting with one seat separating them from their neighbours. Dr. Renault announces that he and Harry will be perusing up and down the aisles, ready to answer any questions regarding the exam. Subconsciously, your toes curl in your shoes—you definitely won’t be asking Harry for further clarification, no matter how badly you need it.

“You will have one-hundred-and-twenty minutes to complete the midterm,” your professor says. His smile is supportive, but it does nothing to soothe to anxious knot in the pit of your stomach. “Good luck, everyone.”

With that, you flip to the first page of the packet. The next two hours are filled with the sounds of pencils scribbling on paper, the hushed whispers of Harry and Dr. Renault, and the occasional lone, hacking cough.

  October 9th, 2019

You’re sitting in the library with Mateo when your phone buzzes with the notification. You glance down at the screen and gasp loudly when you read the words:

Harry Styles has posted to the forum.

“Mateo!” you hiss. He doesn’t reply. Looking up, you see him bopping his head along to the music playing through his white earphones. He’s twirling a pencil through his fingers absentmindedly and skimming through his neuropsychology textbook. You kick his shin underneath the table.

“Ow!” he yelps. The sound is far too loud, considering that it’s only nine in the morning and you’re both situated in an establishment that demands silence.

“Shh!” you say, frowning slightly. He pulls out one of his earbuds and stares at you with bewildered eyes. You choose to stay tacit, simply holding up your phone and letting him read the notification lighting up the glass screen.

“Okay…,” he whispers, glaring at you. “Why the fuck did that warrant such a hard kick?”

“I’m sorry.” You wince. He’s right. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“It’s fine.” He waves off your apology before fishing his own cell phone out of his pocket and unlocking it swiftly. Together, the two of you pull up a browser tab and type the name of your school’s website into the search bar. You log into your student accounts and click on your neuropsychology class. The link takes you to the collective forum, and your eyes sweep over Harry’s name at the top—the most recent post. You tap it gently and begin to read.

Hi all,

Attached to this post is a spreadsheet containing your scores on the midterm. In the first column, you’ll find your student number. In the second, I’ve provided your mark as a percentage. As always, I will be available after class today if you have any questions regarding your grade.

See you soon.

Sincerely,

Harry

You hold your breath as you scroll down and open up the spreadsheet linked below his message. After a few prolonged, painful seconds of searching, you find your student number and zero in on the percentage located right beside it. You swear that your heart stops.

62%.

Sixty-two percent.

Your lips part in surprise. You take a long, hard look at the spreadsheet, wondering if maybe you’d landed on the wrong row, but no. Your number is there. And a few pixels away, a dark, insidious 62% stands out in black. You inhale deeply, trying to keep yourself from hyperventilating.

“I got a seventy,” Mateo breathes, looking up from his phone and closing his eyes in relief. A moment later, they pop back open. “How about you?”

“A sixty-two,” you whisper, unable to tear your gaze from your screen.

He balks. “Come again?”

“A sixty-two,” you restate, a bit louder this time. “I—”

“Don’t panic,” Mateo says immediately, holding up his hand. You finally manage to focus on him, your eyes growing damp with anxious tears.

“Hey,” he says sternly, reaching over and laying a comforting palm on your forearm. “Don’t panic. It’s only worth twenty-five percent, okay? You’re doing really well on the quizzes so far, and you did great on that first paper, too. That was, like, another five percent or something, right?”

“Yeah,” you say, nodding weakly.

Mateo chews on his lips, but his expression is determined. He mimics your nod, though his appears to be a bit more assured. “Okay,” he tells you. “So, here’s what you’re gonna do: you’re gonna go see Harry after class today and set up an appointment so that he can go over the exam with you. And then you’re gonna take in all that information, and you’re gonna ace the final at the end of the semester, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you repeat, but this time, there’s a bit more conviction behind the word. Mateo knows how bad your anxiety can get—he’s caught you in the middle of an emotional breakdown more times than you’d care to admit. But he also knows how to keep you grounded, and he’s almost always able to bring you back down when your thoughts take you elsewhere.

“Thank you,” you tell him, swallowing heavily. “That’s a good idea, I’ll do that.”

“Yes, you will,” he says, and then he sits back and flips his textbook shut. “Come on, let’s go grab a coffee before class. My treat.”

~*~

When you get your exam back, there’s another haphazard note scribbled at the top in red.

It’s okay. I know you’ll do better on the next one. H. x

~*~

As your fist lands the first perfunctory knock on Harry’s door, you find yourself wanting nothing more than to spin around and speed away as fast as you can. Harry lifts his head from where it’s buried inside a book, fixing his gaze on you and cocking his head to the side.

“Hi,” you say nervously. “Um, sorry to bother you. My name is—”

You’re shocked to hear it escape Harry’s lips before you can say it yourself. You clamp your mouth shut and nod silently, too afraid to utter anything else.

“Hi,” Harry replies. His voice is the epitome of a lazy drawl. “What can I do for you?”

“I was wondering,” you start, pausing to clear your throat. “If—um—if I could talk to you really quickly about my midterm?”

“Sure,” he says, shrugging indifferently. “You can sit.”

As you step forward to position yourself on one of the padded chairs in front of his desk, Harry shuts his book and stands. You can’t stop your eyes from following him. He tucks the hardcover back into a vacant slot on the tall shelf located in the corner of the room.

“You have a lot of books,” you note. Immediately, you want to strangle yourself for letting the observation slip out.

He simply bobs his head. “I like to read.”

“Me too.” God, why the fuck won’t you just shut up?

But when Harry turns back around, you’re shocked to find the smallest hint of a smile playing on his lips. His gaze locks with yours, and it fades just as quickly as it had come. You swallow forcefully; your mouth feels like a desert.

“Do you have your midterm with you?” Harry asks, crossing his arms over his chest. You look away immediately to keep yourself from ogling his biceps. He’s wearing a dark green crewneck and a pair of khaki pants again. His hair is tousled, like he’s been raking his fingers through it incessantly, and his glasses are tucked into the collar of his shirt. There’s a slight shadow of stubble scattered across his jaw. His lips are flushed a perfect shade of pink; they look smooth and soft.

“Yeah.” You snap out of your stupor and answer him quickly. Leaning down to unzip your bag, you say, “Sorry. It’s right—”

“Why’re you apologising?” Harry asks, creases of confusion etching themselves into his forehead. You pause and peer up at him, your hand buried in your knapsack.

“Sorry?” you ask, afraid that you hadn’t heard him properly.

The corners of his lips jump only slightly. He repeats his question with the same amount of ennui. “Why’re you apologising?”

You blink. “Er…I don’t know, sorry. I mean—!” You squeeze your eyes shut and shake your head, feeling your cheeks grow warm. Eventually, you give up on searching for the right words, instead pulling your exam out of your bag and thrusting it forward. “Here you go.”

Harry takes the packet from you, bringing it up to his face. He grabs his glasses from where they hang on his chest and slides them onto the bridge of his nose. You look away when his eyes land on the shameful grade scribbled at the top of the first sheet.

“I didn’t do too well,” you say, training your gaze on the floor. “As you can clearly see.”

Harry hums in response. He flips through your midterm quickly, spending only a few seconds on each page. “That’s odd,” he murmurs, mostly to himself.

You peek up at him through your lashes. “What’s odd?”

He shrugs. “If I’m remembering correctly,” he begins, fixing his green eyes on you, “You’ve been doing well on the weekly quizzes. So…what went wrong this time?”

You swallow heavily, bringing your hands together in your lap and fiddling with your fingers. “I was working on a research proposal that was due the night before the exam,” you explain timidly. “So, I guess…I just wasn’t able to study as much as I should’ve.”

Harry nods. Quiet ensues. Your attention stays glued to the ground.

“Well—,” he clears his throat. “I can go over it all with you now, if you’d like.”

“Oh, no,” you say, shaking your head immediately. “I’ve actually—I’ve got to be somewhere after this.”

It’s a complete lie. You don’t have anything scheduled for later on. But your heart feels like it’s about to give out any second now, and the hairs on your arms are tingling apprehensively. You feel like an idiot, tripping over your words and second-guessing every syllable that leaves your lips. Harry’s unwavering, unforgiving stare is making you want to curl up into a ball and sink into the floor. You can’t imagine any torture greater than spending another minute in this office.

“I see,” Harry says. A long moment passes as you wait for him to say something else; when he doesn’t, you jump in to fill the awkward silence.

“I just came by in hopes of scheduling an appointment,” you rush out. “Is that okay?”

“It’s what I’m here for.” There’s no humour in his tone. You nod, gnawing on your bottom lip.

“What day works best for you?” you prod gently. The air is thick; you don’t think that even the sharpest of knives could slice through the tension. Harry rubs his nose with two fingers and taps his thumb against his lips, lost in thought.

“How does ten in the morning on Monday sound?” he says at last.

“The one coming up?”

“Yes.”

“That’s fine,” you tell him. “Thank you so much—I really appreciate it.”

He doesn’t reply, choosing instead to return your exam to you and retire to his chair. You zip your bag back up and sling one strap over your shoulder, standing from your seat and subtly trying to wipe your clammy palms against your thighs.

“Send me an e-mail on Sunday,” Harry says suddenly, drumming his fingers along the smooth surface of his desk. Your eyes are drawn to the gaudy rings on his hands, the jewellery glinting alluringly in the light of his office.

“Regarding what?” you ask, your brows knitting together.

“The appointment. Just as a reminder,” he states, shrugging his shoulders placidly. “I’ll put it in my calendar too, but you can never be too prepared.”

“Right,” you say, nodding. “Okay, I will. Thank you again.”

“It’s no problem.” Harry pauses for a moment before adding, “Take care.”

A bit of the stiffness in your body trickles away at his words—is it possible that he’s beginning to warm up to you?

“Have a good rest of your week,” you say as you start to back away toward the door. Against your better judgment, you offer up a small, friendly smile.

Your feet carry you a few steps further; you attempt to restrain yourself from shooting him one last glance before you turn to face the other way (though of course, you can’t resist.) You think you see the corners of Harry’s lips twitch, but you don’t stay long enough to reflect on it.

Only once you leave his office do you decide that it was merely your eyes playing tricks on you. If majoring in psychology has taught you anything, it’s that humans are extremely unreliable creatures.

Sometimes, we only see what we want to see, you think. The words tumble through your head in the form of a dynamic mantra, echoing continuously until you stagger outside and into the comforting hold of the cool autumn air.

  October 13th, 2019

No matter how many times she tries, Margaret cannot down a shot without cringing after swallowing. She always declares that this time will finally be it, that she’ll throw the alcohol back without so much as a grimace, but both you and Mateo know by now that it’s all just nonsense. Her countless attempts are the main reason for her eventual, inevitable inebriation whenever you all decide to go out for drinks.

“Fuck!” Margaret yelps, squeezing her eyes shut and wincing radically as the vodka burns its way down her throat. She reaches for the glass of water standing a few inches away and takes a desperate swig. You and Mateo laugh as she pounds her fist against the table in frustration. You’re sitting across the table from your two friends, the three of you nestled comfortably in one of the booths lining the wall of the pub.

“Told you,” Mateo says dryly, shooting Margaret a wry smirk. She shakes her head and smacks her lips together.

“No, let’s do one more,” she says, her voice taking on a pleading quality. “It’ll be this next one, I swear.”

“Slow down,” you tell her, holding your hand up. Even from a few feet away, you can see the dilation of her pupils and the rosy flush on her cheeks. She’s never been good at pacing herself, and you really don’t feel like ending the night with your hands in her hair as she retches over the toilet.

Margaret pouts; Mateo grins knowingly at you, the thin gold chain around his neck glinting against his dark skin. You’re all a bit buzzed, and though your friends want to continue, you don’t intend to get plastered tonight. There’s a nagging voice in the back of your mind, reminding you that you’ve got your appointment with Harry tomorrow morning, and you want to be as alert and attentive as possible.

You’d sent him an e-mail earlier this evening, right before the taxi had pulled up into the parking lot of your apartment complex. The correspondence had been simple, just a quick verification of the day and time, followed by a short closing remark and your name. You’d snapped your laptop shut as soon as the message had gone through, willing yourself to tuck the thought of it away into a dark, incognizable corner of your brain.

“Did—?” Mateo hiccups quietly and swallows. “Did you guys hear that Grounded is closing down?”

“What?” You and Margaret both nearly snap your necks to gape at him.

“Not permanently!” he backtracks, throwing his hands up in the air. “Just for a couple of weeks! They’re doing renovations in the basement, remember?”

“I knew that,” you say, cocking your head to the side. “But I didn’t know they were doing them there—I thought they’d just closed off the area near the biology labs.”

“I guess not.” Mateo purses his lips, and Margaret pouts.

“How am I gonna survive without their coffee?” she moans, her shoulders deflating.

You shrug and trail your finger around the rim of your water. The glass is clouded with condensation, drops trailing down the side and dampening the coaster lying underneath. “There’s always Starbucks,” you say, though the suggestion is lackadaisical, unenthusiastic. “But the closest one is halfway across campus.”

“Exactly.” Margaret sulks, placing her elbow on the table and propping her chin up on her fist. “How the fuck am I supposed to stay awake in Spanish, now?”

“Pop some modafinil,” Mateo mutters under his breath. You look at him with wide eyes and burst into laughter a second later. He grins; Margaret elbows him in the ribs, but even she can’t suppress the small smile that creeps up onto her face.

“I’m serious!” she says, her voice shaking with the ghost of a giggle. “Even for neuro, like…I don’t know how I’m gonna get through it.”

“Neuro is at ten in the morning,” you stress, lifting your eyebrows in disbelief. “Just be grateful that it’s not an eight o’clock class—if that were the case, you’d really be fucked.”

Margaret raises one shoulder lazily and rolls her eyes. You lean forward and take a sip of your water, humming appreciatively when the cool liquid runs down your throat and fans out across your chest.

“Speaking of neuro,” Mateo starts, running a hand through his dark, kinky hair, “How did you guys do on the quiz from last week? The one on cognitive processing and perception.”

“I only got one right,” Margaret snorts, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I was kind of zoning out during the lecture, to be honest.”

“Shocker,” you tease. She scoffs in mock-offense, and you flash her a smile to tell her that you’re only joking. You turn to Mateo. “I think I got, like, three out of five,” you say, squinting your eyes and puckering your lips. “Not my best work.”

“It’s still a pass,” he replies, winking playfully.

You chuckle and nod. “True. Plus—,” you tap your nails against your glass and make a vague gesture with your other hand, “—Harry’s nice little notes are always a bit of a confidence boost, you know what I mean?”

When your question is met with silence, you look up from the table with cinched brows and puzzled eyes. Both Margaret and Mateo are gawking at you, their lips parted and their expressions ripe with confusion. Subconsciously, your mouth twists down into a frown; you sit back against the padded material of the booth.

“What?”

“Harry…,” Margaret shakes her head, tucking a silky strand of hair behind her ear. “Harry doesn’t write nice little notes for us.”

“What?” you say, creases digging into your forehead. “No, I mean—the comments he leaves on the quizzes and stuff! You know, like, right at the top of the page?”

“He’s never left a comment on any of my quizzes,” Mateo tells you. He turns to Margaret. “Has he done that for you?”

“No,” she says, pursing her lips. “Not at all.”

Something inaudible passes between them, and when they both look back at you, they’re trying to hide their amused expressions. The scowl on your lips deepens, pulling at the muscles in your cheeks and making your face grow sore.

“Why the fuck are you guys looking at me like that?” you ask, fed up with their cryptic behaviour.

Margaret scoffs loudly and barks out your name. It’s enough to grab your attention, and when you glare at her, she beams wickedly and hisses, “He’s trying to fuck you!”

You can’t help it—you laugh. Margaret’s grin fades, and Mateo cocks an eyebrow at you, waiting for your glee to subside. After a long moment, your giggles dwindle, and you smile across the table at your friends. They remain frozen, still as bewildered as ever. Their silence aggravates you; in a matter of seconds, you’re glowering at them.

“You can’t be serious,” you deadpan, looking at them with blank eyes. “The only time Harry’s ever really spoken to me was when I went to schedule that stupid appointment! I swear to God, he avoids me like I’ve got the plague.”

“Maybe’s he’s avoiding you because he likes you,” Margaret suggests. Her brown irises twinkle with mischief.

A disdainful sound bubbles up in your throat and flops out of your mouth. “Not likely.”

“Why else would he write you little notes, then?” she demands, and you hate to admit it, but she has a point. You’ve got no idea why Harry’s trademark scribbles are always at the top of your tests and assignments, especially since he seems to intent on evading you whenever the two of you happen to cross paths. You chew furiously on the inside of your cheek, only able to offer up a half-hearted shrug.

“We don’t even know if I’m the only one,” you say. “He could be doing it for some other people, too—let’s not jump to conclusions.”

Margaret and Mateo snicker. You glare daggers at them. Mateo is the first to fix you with a semi-apologetic smile.

“Sorry,” he tells you, his teeth gleaming in the low lighting of the bar. “It’s just—Margaret might be onto something.”

“She’s not,” you say flatly.

Margaret releases an offended squawk, pinning you beneath her stern gaze. “Hey!” she squeaks, pouting indignantly and pointing her index finger at you. “Just because you’re in denial doesn’t mean—”

She breaks off right in the middle of her sentence, her eyes growing outrageously wide when they land on something behind you. You tilt your head to the side and scratch your cheek, afraid that maybe she’s noticed a spot or a new blemish blossoming on your face. But then she squeals, her hand shooting to the side so that she can deliver several excited slaps to Mateo’s arm.

“Holy shit! Speak of the fucking devil!”

Everything clicks into place, then, and your jaw drops. You spin around in your seat so quickly you’re surprised that your vision doesn’t go blurry. After a quick sweep of the room, you find the thing—or rather, the person—that has Margaret losing her mind.

Harry’s dressed in a simple black t-shirt and a pair of black, high-waisted, extremely baggy trousers. The pant legs are comically wide, but somehow, he makes it work. His hair is fluffy, and his sneakers are pristine, not a speck of dirt in sight. Something shiny glints near his waist and catches your attention; you find the patterned frame of his glasses peeking out of one of his pockets. Briefly, you wonder if he’s cold—it’s a bit of a chilly evening, and he doesn’t appear to be sporting a jacket.

“He looks good,” Mateo notes.

You and Margaret swivel your heads around and stare at him. He shrugs. “What? It’s just an observation!”

And despite the panic simmering in the pit of your stomach, you laugh softly. You’re about to settle back into the booth and hope for the best, but then Margaret lifts her arm in a frantic wave and shouts, “Harry!”

Your lips part in shock. She must be drunker than you thought.

“Margaret!” you whisper furiously, ducking down and gaping at her. You’re no longer facing Harry, but you get the feeling that he heard his name, because Margaret giggles, twiddles her fingers, and curls her hand in a beckoning gesture. You place your elbows on the table and bury your face into your palms, too embarrassed to look up.

“Oh my God,” Mateo mutters. “He’s coming over here.”

And sure enough, after a few long, painful moments, Harry is standing in front of the table.

“Er, hi,” he says, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly.

Mateo offers him a small smile; Margaret beams widely.

“Hi!” she says cheerily. “Sorry, this might be weird because you don’t know us. I’m Margaret, this is Mateo, and this is—”

Just as he had done in his office, Harry breathes your name before it’s uttered. Margaret stops speaking immediately and mashes her lips together to suppress a giant grin. Mateo catches your gaze from across the table; his eyes are the size of tennis balls. You want to groan—subtlety is most definitely not their forte.

“Um, yeah,” you reply. You glance up at Harry momentarily before looking away. “Hi.”

A beat of silence ensues.

“So, Harry,” Margaret jumps in. Her tone is a bit too loud, but it’s not noticeable over the mindless chatter echoing in the pub. “What brings you here?”

Harry shrugs, clasping his hands behind his back. “Just out for drinks with a few of my mates.”

“‘Mates’,” Margaret parrots, lowering her voice and putting on a horrible accent. You gawk at her as she giggles. “That sounds like fun—we’re doing the same thing! What’s your favourite type of alcohol? I like vodka.”

“Jesus Christ,” you mumble, shaking your head imperceptibly. When you look back up, you find Harry’s eyes sweeping across your face. A coy smirk dances on his lips.

You take note of the dimple that carves itself into his cheek and groan inwardly. Just when you thought that he couldn’t get any more attractive…

“I’m more of a whiskey guy, myself,” he says. His shoulders relax a bit; the tension in his body visibly melts away. Though Margaret is the one who had gotten you into this mess in the first place, you suddenly find yourself thankful for her presence. It’s easier to socialize when you’re around someone who makes it their mission to inject comedy into a conversation.

“I’m going to go grab us another round,” you announce gently, making a move to slide out of the booth. Before you stand, you look over at your friends. “What do you guys want?”

“I thought you said we had to slow down,” Margaret says, shooting you a confused frown.

“I changed my mind. What do you want?”

“Just a root beer for me,” Mateo says, trying to hold in a laugh.

“Another shot of vodka!” Margaret cheers, throwing her arms up. She sighs and leans her head on Mateo’s shoulder; he pets her hair, humouring her. She hums and speaks the words that she promises before every drink. “I’ll do it this time. I won’t even wrinkle my nose.”

“Okay,” you say with a curt nod. You stand and face Harry, hesitating only for a second before murmuring, “Well, it was nice to see—”

“Harry!” Margaret suddenly cuts in, drowning out the rest of your sentence. “Would you be a doll and go with her? I don’t think she’ll be able to carry all of our drinks back by herself.”

“I—,” Harry glances at you out of the corner of his eye. “Yeah, sure.” His throat bobs when he turns and asks you, “That alright with you?”

No!

You want to scream your refusal at him, and then leap across the table and pummel Margaret with hard, closed fists. But instead, you merely purse your lips and bob your head once. “Yup. Let’s go.”

~*~

“Hi.” You smile at the bartender and lean your forearms against the counter. “Can I get a root beer, a shot of vodka, and a vodka cranberry, please?”

She nods, flipping her blonde hair over her shoulder and giving you a thumbs-up. You exhale deeply as she bustles away to prepare the drinks. Your skin is prickling with nerves, hyperaware of the fact that Harry is standing right next to you. Casting a furtive glance around the pub, you gnaw on your bottom lip. Harry’s friends are sitting on the other side of the room; they’ve claimed a booth as well. A few of them are piled atop each other as they all struggle to squeeze in. The sight makes you chuckle.

“So,” you hear from beside you. Harry’s gaze is steady as he rubs his fingers against his chin. “What did your friend mean when she said that she wouldn’t wrinkle her nose?”

The question is so arbitrary and out of the blue that it pulls an involuntary laugh from your mouth.

“Oh, Margaret?” you ask. When Harry nods, you continue. “She just sucks at taking shots. She pulls a face every time, so whenever we drink, she always tries to stop herself from doing it. It never works, though.”

Harry smirks. You look away. A few long seconds draw out before he speaks again.

“They seem nice,” he tells you. When you cock an eyebrow at him questioningly, he elaborates. “Your friends, I mean.”

“Oh.” You dip your chin. “Yeah, they’re great.”

He opens his mouth to say more, but just then, the blonde bartender returns with the drinks you’d ordered, setting them down onto the counter in front of you. “Anything else?” she asks, drumming her fingers on the surface of the bar. Your eyes are drawn to the low cut of her top.

“That’s all, thanks,” you declare, but then you pause. “Actually…,” you decide, and you turn to Harry. “Do you want anything?”

He balks, slightly stunned. His eyebrows shoot up into his hairline, and you suppress a small smile—that’s probably the most expressive you’ve ever seen him.

“No, no,” Harry assures you. “I’m alright.”

“I insist,” you say, and there must be something powerful in your gaze, because he just purses his lips and forfeits his repudiation.

“Er, I’ll just have a coke, then.”

You and the bartender both nod simultaneously. In less than thirty seconds, she’s got his drink standing alongside the others on the counter. “That’ll be eighteen dollars,” she tells you. You unzip your wallet and hand her the exact change before taking a quick sip of your vodka cranberry.

“I’m surprised you didn’t order whiskey,” you joke lightly, peeking over at Harry. He lifts the rim of his glass and takes a hearty gulp of his soda, licking his lips once he swallows.

“I—,” he begins, shaking his head. “Actually, I don’t drink.”

“Oh, really?” You cock your head to the side. “Why not?” A moment later, you backpedal hastily. “I mean, if you don’t mind me asking.”

“It’s fine,” he says. “I used to drink a lot while I was doing my undergrad. Like, a lot. Shit happened, and I ended up needing to get my stomach pumped. After that, I just kind of…made the decision to lay off.”

“I see.” You falter. “Was it difficult?”

Harry nods, but only barely. He suddenly seems much more interested in the shiny floorboards of the bar. “Yeah, it was. But it was for the best. I’m here now, and I’m a teaching assistant for two classes, so I’d say things worked out pretty well.”

“Two classes?”

“Yeah. Neuropsychology, and then Doctor Chen’s psychopathology class,” he tells you.

“I was actually thinking of taking that,” you confess. “It looks really interesting.”

“It is.”

Though your mouth is dry, you hold up your vodka cranberry. “Well, then…cheers to you. That’s definitely something to be proud of.”

Harry gazes at you through his lashes and lifts his own drink, clinking your glasses together. The two of you take a sip at the same time; his eyes hold onto yours over the rim of his cup. You’re the first one to look away, your heart hammering as you reach out to grab Margaret’s shot. Harry mimics you and wraps his fingers around Mateo’s root beer.

“What’s your favourite drink?” he inquires, his grassy eyes alert. You pause.

“Probably tequila,” you say eventually. “It goes down smoother than anything else, I’ve found. Plus, it doesn’t take much for it to fuck me up.”

A low chuckle slips from Harry’s lips. Your thighs clench together at the sound.

“Guess I’ll have to buy you a shot of tequila later,” Harry tells you, leaning against the bar. “To repay you.”

You can hear the blood thundering in your ears. There’s an odd, fluttery sensation in your chest. You aren’t sure of whether it’s excitement, or anxiety, or perhaps both. All you know is that this is uncharted territory for you. You think that maybe it’s because of the pub and the atmosphere it provides: something laid-back and nonchalant. Harry has never spoken to you like this—like you’re a friend. You have no clue how to feel about it, so you settle for simply hoping that you won’t accidentally say the wrong thing and dash all of the progress you’ve made.

“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” you answer, shaking your head. “I think that this was me repaying you for that coffee you bought me a while back. Do you remember?”

Bringing up his previous act of generosity makes you nervous; he’d swiftly cut you off the last time you’d tried to thank him for the latte. But—much to your surprise—his features don’t harden when your words sink in. You watch as his brows knit together for only a moment before a spark of recognition flickers in his eyes.

Harry’s expression opens up as the memory dawns on him, like petals from a rosebud. “I do.”

You shoot him a tight smile. “See? So now we’re even.”

He smirks. “I guess we are.”

You swallow down the lump in your throat and lift your chin in the direction of where your friends are still waiting. “Shall we?”

He nods, holding out his arm and inviting you to take the lead.

Your feet have only carried you a few steps when you hear someone call out, “Wait!”

Instinctively, both you and Harry spin around. The blonde bartender is back, raking her fingers through her hair and sliding a napkin across the counter. She’s looking at Harry, a roguish smile twisting her mouth upward. When he leans forward to accept her offering, you catch a glimpse of a series of numbers written across the serviette in black ink. Something in your stomach drops grossly; you turn to avoid witnessing Harry’s reaction and hastily speed away.

Margaret claps her hands excitedly when you return with her drink. Mateo looks at you inquisitively.

“Where’s Harry?”

“He’s coming,” you mumble, refusing to meet your friend’s eyes. You remain standing as you take a long sip of your vodka cranberry. Mateo’s lips curve down into the smallest of frowns, like he can sense that something is off with you. Thankfully, he doesn’t pry.

A moment later, Harry appears beside you, holding out the glass of root beer in his left hand. “Sorry, mate,” he apologises to Mateo. “Here you go.”

“Thanks, man.”

“Okay!” Margaret exclaims, rubbing her hands together and staring intently at the shot of vodka resting on the table in front of her. “I’m gonna do it!”

Mateo grins at her, giving her the type of smile that you’d offer to a child who’s just done something endearing. You snicker silently.

The hairs on the back of your neck stand straight up when Harry turns to you and lays a large hand on your forearm. You stop breathing as he leans in close and whispers against your ear, “Is this the part where she…?”

The words are warm against your skin. A violent shudder races down your spine. In response, you can only muster a nod and a high-pitched, “Mhm.”

He chuckles lowly before pulling away.

Margaret downs the shot, and you, Harry, and Mateo all laugh when her face collapses into a vicious grimace. She’s still grumbling about her failed attempt when Harry states that he should be getting back to his friends on the other side of the bar.

“Have a nice night, you lot.” He shakes Mateo’s hand and shoots Margaret a small smile. He then turns to you, his gaze locking with yours. Your cheeks tingle hotly.

“And, you…,” Harry murmurs, the corners of his lips twitching. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

You nod, swallowing with some difficulty. When the words finally make it out of your mouth, they’re wobbly and forced.

“See you tomorrow.”

~*~

Around one in the morning, you and your friends have decided that it’s time to put an end to the night. Even Margaret is ready to go home.

“I’ve got to be up early tomorrow, anyway,” you explain to her. “My meeting with Harry is at ten.”

“Right.” Margaret nods knowingly and wiggles her brows. “Your meeting. Are you guys gonna fuck in his office?”

“Margaret!”

“What?” she laughs, gathering her hair into a low ponytail. “That would be so hot!”

You shake your head. Mateo pinches the bridge of his nose. The three of you head toward the exit of the pub, passing by the large group made up of Harry’s friends. They all seem to be having a great time, absorbed in a flurry of conversation and laughter. You scan each face quickly, frowning when you note that Harry isn’t among them. He must’ve gone to grab another soda, you decide, or perhaps he had to use the washroom. Either way, you don’t dwell on his absence.

You wrap your windbreaker around your body as you step out into the chilly October air. Beside you, Mateo sighs—his breath emerges as a small, foggy cloud.

“Do you guys want me to call an Uber?” he asks. He shoots Margaret a pointed glare. “Or are you gonna do it this time, you cheapskate?”

“Excuse you,” Margaret protests, still sloshed. “I’m not a cheapskate!”

“You’re literally the stingiest person I know,” Mateo deadpans. She squawks.

While the two of them bicker, you glance around and take in your surroundings. The road in front of you is dark and quiet, disturbed only by the occasional car. There are squished wads of gum, burnt cigarette butts, and haphazard attempts at graffiti littering the sidewalk. The streetlights bathe you in a warm, orange glow. About twenty feet away, a man and a woman are engrossed in a series of heavy kisses.

You pause. Your eyes narrow.

Holy shit.

“Fine!” Margaret yells, fishing her phone out of her pocket. “I’ll call the Uber!”

She’s too loud.

Her voice carries through the air.

Lips parting, you watch in horror as Harry detaches his mouth from the bartender’s neck and turns his head toward the noise. His eyes land on your face, and your chest seizes up in panic. In the millisecond that passes before you look away, his features morph from an expression of surprise to that of shame.

You whip around, nearly snapping your neck.

“Actually,” you say shrilly, interrupting Margaret and Mateo’s squabble. “Let’s hit up one more place. I’m not ready to head home just yet.”

Your friends stare at you, mystified.

“Okay…,” Margaret says slowly. “Why don’t we just stay here, then?”

“No!” you blurt before you can stop yourself. The divot between Margaret’s eyebrows deepens. Her pupils bounce from side to side in drunken confusion, but then her gaze lands on the person behind you that you know is Harry, and she gasps.

“Fuck,” she whispers. You glue your eyes to the floor.

Mateo is gawking, too, now. You shake your head and reach for the pair of them, wrapping your fingers around their arms and guiding them further away from the scene. “Let’s just go,” you murmur quietly. The words taste sour on your tongue.

“What—?” Margaret turns back to you, her nostrils flaring angrily. You find solace in knowing that she’s equally as upset as you are.  “What do you wanna do?”

You shrug, too overrun with humiliation to meet her eyes. Mateo wraps a protective arm around your shoulder, and you busy yourself with ogling the buttons on his coat. Your throat is tight with emotion, ears ringing relentlessly.

“Can we go somewhere else?” you ask weakly—your friends are nodding before you’ve even finished the question. “I want to get fucked up.”

  October 14th, 2019

Your head hurts.

Standing in front of Harry’s office, you wish that you’d forgone that final shot of tequila. Your stomach churns uneasily even now—hours later—and you find yourself struggling to recall certain points from last night. You don’t remember much, but what you do know is that Margaret hadn’t ended up being the one hunched over the toilet at three in the morning.

Where the fuck is he?

The door is locked, leaving you no choice but to stand outside in the hall and lean against the wall for support. Your eyes are puffy and red from lack of sleep. You’re fairly certain that your cheeks are swollen, too. You’d cried yourself into a fitful slumber just as the sun began to rise.

You touch your face; your skin feels grainy thanks to the tears that had escaped your eyes and soaked through the cotton of your pillowcase.

You check your phone and bite your lip. It’s a quarter past ten.

Harry is never late.

You’ll wait another ten minutes, you conclude, and if he doesn’t show up, you’ll just go home.

Only a minute after you settle on the decision, the squeaky sound of shoes slipping against polished tiles reaches your ears. You turn toward the sound just in time to watch Harry skid around the corner. Before you can stop yourself, your brows shoot up in dry disbelief.

He’s a mess.

“Hi,” Harry says, slightly out of breath. “Sorry to have kept you waiting.”

He’s wearing a pair of brown corduroy trousers that sit lopsided on his hips and a white button up tucked beneath a tan-coloured sweater vest. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up unevenly, and the vest itself is wrinkled near the hem. His tortoise-shell glasses are crooked on his face; his hair is disheveled. That same messenger bag is slung over his body, but there’s also a disorganized, rumpled pile of papers in his arms. A loose sheet slips from his grasp and flutters to the floor.

“Shit,” Harry mutters. Silently, you bend down, pick up the page, and hold it out to him. He grunts, wrestling one hand free to accept it. “Thank you.”

“No problem.” Your words are monotone; you refuse make eye contact with him.

Harry digs his fingers into his pocket and produces a set of keys. They jingle cheerfully as he jams one into the lock on the door and twists it to the side—you wince at the loud noise. A telling click echoes through the air. With a gentle push, the door swings open.

“Ladies first,” Harry mumbles. Forcing your chin up, you walk into his office.

The room is very different compared to how it had been a few days ago. It’s emptier. A couple of boxes are strewn across the floor, packed up with supplies. All that’s left on Harry’s bureau now is a red pen and a desktop computer. Even the tall bookshelf in the corner of the room is bare, void of all the novels that it had previously housed. You cock your head to the side, nibbling apprehensively on your bottom lip.

“Sorry about the mess,” Harry says, shutting the door and staggering over to his desk. He plops the pile of papers onto the corner of the table and collapses into his rolling chair. “Renovations start the day after tomorrow, so I’ve been clearing out my essentials.”

“All of your books are essential?” you mutter, gingerly taking a seat in one of the cushioned chairs across from him. You don’t intend for him to hear the question—it’s actually more of a taunt, if you’re being honest—but he does.

“I like to read.” He shrugs.

You unzip your bag and rustle around for your midterm. “Me too.”

When you finally retrieve the exam, you pull it out and look up at him for the first time that day. His lips twitch almost indiscernibly, and it’s a soft, mocking lilt when he says, “I know.”

It dawns on you, then, that you’ve already had the same conversation in this exact spot. Your face grows hot, but you compel yourself to shake off the embarrassment. Clearing your throat, you slide your midterm onto his desk in hopes of changing the subject. “Here you go.”

Harry’s eyes fall to the packet.

“Right,” he says, tucking himself in closer. He licks his lips, turning it to the side and opening it up to the first page of questions. “You can see it like this, yeah?”

You nod, placing your elbows on his desk and slyly trying to massage your temples with two fingers—your headache seems to have only gotten worse.

“Okay.” Harry shifts in his seat and points to the third question on the sheet. “This answer here was B. The common name for fluoxetine is Prozac.”

“Got it,” you say, nodding solemnly. You feel silly for having forgotten something as simple as a type of medication.

Harry’s eyes skim the paper before he shifts his finger to the bottom of the page. “And this one here—,” he starts, “The motor cortex is located in the frontal lobe, just before the central sulcus.”

“Oh, shit.” You cringe, pinching the bridge of your nose. “The one in the parietal lobe is the somatosensory cortex, right?”

“Exactly.”

You shake your head, and then immediately regret doing so—it feels like someone is drilling screws into your skull. “What a stupid mistake.”

“It’s not, really,” Harry says, scratching the underside of his jaw. “The parietal lobe tends to be responsible for processing sensory information—some of it is visual, but most of it is tactile. And because of that, it’s really easy to get it mixed up, because we tend to associate touch with movement.”

“That’s exactly what I did,” you admit, pursing your lips.

He shrugs. “It’s okay. You’re learning—that’s the point.”

You glance up at him and find his eyes trained on you. It’s like he’s trying to convey something unspoken, but you don’t quite know what it is. Your throat bobs with a heavy swallow, and you force yourself to look away.

“Next page,” you urge softly. Harry obliges.

He places his finger beside the first question at the top. “This answer was D—all of the above. Because yeah, cerebrospinal fluid is produced by the ependymal cells, but those are located in the choroid plexuses, which, in turn, are found in the ventricles.” He puckers his lips. “It was a bit of a trick question.”

“No kidding.”

Harry’s lips curl grimly.

He’s in the middle of explaining the next error on your exam when your stomach flips and the top of your throat pulses dangerously. You sit back in your seat, one hand flying to your belly while the other shoots up to cover your mouth. Harry looks up at you quizzically; his expression softens when he absorbs your wide, terrified eyes and your hunched shoulders.

“Are you gonna be sick?” he asks quickly, straightening up.

At that exact moment, the nausea passes. The tension melts from your body, and your chest visibly deflates. You exhale quietly; your hand drops from where it had been shielding the lower half of your face.

Nervously, you peer up at Harry, only to find him regarding you with a blank expression. His lips are tucked into a thin line, and his stare is shallow and emotionless. You open your mouth to say something, but he beats you to it.

“You’re hungover,” he states flatly. There’s no humour lacing the words.

“I—,” you grit your teeth. “Yeah, I am.”

Harry sighs regretfully, sinking back in his chair. He hooks his finger into the collar of his shirt and twists it around to loosen the material. Your lips part in shock, eyes nearly bulging out of your head.

“And you’re marked up,” you exclaim before you can stop yourself.

Harry’s brows knit together in confusion. As soon as the realisation strikes, though, he sits up straight, his nostrils flaring with a sharp inhale. His hand flies to cover his throat, but it’s too late—you’ve already seen them.

A number of dark, splotchy purple marks stand out against the smooth, tan skin of his neck. You’re not sure how many there are in total, and you don’t think that you want to know. Harry’s staring at you, his expression severe. You can’t tear your gaze away from his face—it feels like an eternity passes before either of you says anything.

“I think…,” Harry speaks slowly, his eyes flitting from side to side as he studies your features. “We should reschedule.”

“Good idea,” you breathe.

“And I think,” he adds, still using the same tone, “That we should both agree to keep this entire ordeal…confidential.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

“Deal.”

You can’t help it, then—you snort once before dissolving into laughter. Though bewildered creases dig into Harry’s forehead, the corners of his lips slowly curve up into a smile. Before long, he’s joining you in your amusement, his chest vibrating with deep, rumbling chuckles. His blocky front teeth latch onto his bottom lip, and he covers his mouth with his fingers in an attempt to subdue the sounds.

Deep in your abdomen, you can feel a tight little ball of jealousy festering. It had been conceived yesterday upon seeing the bartender slip Harry that napkin, and it had grown once you’d witnessed him kissing her outside of the pub. The hickies on his neck should be sending you into a downward spiral, but the hilarity of your current situation is enough to overshadow the ugliness—at least for the time being.

Later, you know that you’ll probably feel sick to your stomach, but you’ll just choose to blame it on the surplus of alcohol from last night.

“Wait, wait,” you say, rubbing your palm over your cheek. There’s a small smile on your lips, and your shoulders tremble with silent giggles. “What—when do you want to meet, then? Didn’t you say that renovations are starting soon?”

“Oh, shit.” Harry’s face falls immediately. He frowns in thought. “Does tomorrow work? I’ll be here in the afternoon.”

“I’ve got class until noon, and then I’ve got to leave for a dentist appointment at one,” you say mournfully.

Harry curses under his breath. You rub your hands together anxiously, watching him come to the realisation that you’re both out of options. He pinches his bottom lip between his thumb and forefinger, gazing down emptily at the exam still splayed out on the desk.

“Okay,” he murmurs. He looks up at you, speaking with a bit more conviction. “Come over to my place on Wednesday, then.”

The look of unapologetic shock on your face must be priceless, but Harry holds his ground. The gears in your mind immediately kick into overdrive; you try to quell the noise—it’s only going to make your headache worse. You look at Harry, hoping that he can’t see the way you’ve just swallowed down the hard lump in your throat.

“Your place,” you echo dumbly. “On Wednesday.”

Harry nods assuredly. “Yeah.”

It’s taking everything in you to steer clear of an overreaction. Harry’s suggesting it because he wants to help you improve in time for the final exam—he’s just trying to do his job. You don’t want to be the one to make it weird. There’s a certain kind of maturity to his idea, you think, and you want to show him the ease with which you can meet him on that level.

“Are you sure?” you ask. “I don’t want to, like, impose.”

“I’m sure.” His reply is firm. “You’re not imposing. I told you that I’d go over the midterm with you, and that’s what I’m going to do.”

You nod, rubbing your clammy hands against your thighs. “Okay.”

“Perfect,” Harry says. He reaches forward and folds your exam closed before sliding it back to you. “Can you make it for, let’s say, six in the evening?”

“Um, alright.” You hesitate. “Where exactly do you—?”

“I’ll e-mail you my address,” Harry promises before you can finish your question. You clamp your mouth shut, nodding again. You don’t miss the delicate curl of his lips, or the shallow, nearly invisible crinkles that appear at the corners of his eyes. You stand up, slipping your midterm back into your bag and tugging on the zipper to ensure that it stays secure.

“Okay, well…,” you look at him through your eyelashes, too afraid to fix him with a proper stare. “Have a good day, then.”

He shoots you a tight, pained smile. You wonder if he’s already regretting his offer.

“You too.”

And for the second time in less than a week, you find yourself exiting Harry’s office with a muddy mind, sweaty palms, and a racing heart.

  October 15th, 2019

“You’re going to his house?” Margaret shrieks.

You wince and bury your face into your palms. The half-eaten plate of gnocchi that you’d ordered is pushed off to your right, abandoned. Margaret stabs her lasagna with her silver fork, shovelling a piece past her lips and chewing frantically. “What were you thinking?” she demands through a mouthful of pasta.

In the dim lighting of the restaurant, her gaze is piercingly judgmental.

“I was thinking about my grade!” you retort defensively. You groan, squeezing your eyes shut. “And I didn’t want to be the one to make it awkward. Like, if he’s suggesting it, that obviously means that he doesn’t see anything wrong with it. So, if I get all freaked out, then I just end up looking like a child.”

Your friend turns your words over in her head, tilting her chin from side to side in acknowledgement. “I get that,” she says, swallowing her food. “But I’m still fucking upset about the other night.”

“You and me both,” you mumble, averting your gaze.

“Hey,” Margaret says sternly, fixing you with a strict glare. “You’re not allowed to feel embarrassed about that. You did nothing wrong—he’s just a dick.”

“He’s not a dick,” you tell her, a hint of admonishment creeping into your words. “And it’s not like he asked me out before hooking up with her. There’s no valid reason for me to be mad about this.”

“Say that again,” Margaret warns, pointing her fork in your direction, “And I’ll punch you straight in the tit.”

You snort.

“I still want you to sleep with him,” she says casually, popping another bite of lasagna into her mouth. “But if he wants my forgiveness, it better be a phenomenal fuck.”

“Margaret!”

“What? I’m just telling it like it is!”

“Jesus Christ.”

  October 16th, 2019

You had been looking forward to today’s lecture. It’s all about memory processes and mnemonic devices, retention and phenomena regarding recollection. You’d been hoping to integrate some of the information into your study habits—though you already know all about the spacing and testing effects, you’re always open to learning new tricks.

Yet you don’t find yourself as immersed in the class as you thought you’d be. Margaret and Mateo are beside you, giving themselves to Dr. Renault with rapt attention, but you can’t seem to devote to him that same level of focus. A small, naïve part of you wonders why, but deep down, you know the exact reason for your lack of concentration.

And that reason is currently standing off to the side of the room, his tattooed arms crossed over his chest and his olive eyes fixated shamelessly on you. You have to suppress a smile—he’s not even trying to hide it.

Around thirty minutes ago, Harry had returned the quizzes that you had all written last week. You’d looked down at your paper to find a perfect score, along with a messy red scribble in the corner.

Well done, love. See you tonight. H. x

You don’t think that your heart has ever swelled so rapidly. Even now, sitting in the middle of the room, you can hear the blood rushing through your ears. Sometimes, when you glance down at Harry, he’ll look away—other times, he just stares at you evenly, refusing to be the first to give in. You’ve witnessed his lips twitching with a forbidden smirk on multiple occasions. It takes everything in you to keep from grinning like a maniac.

What the fuck is going on?

He must be in a good mood, you decide. You peek down at him one last time—to your surprise, his attention is elsewhere, eyes trained on his watch to check the time. When he lifts his head back up, you deflect your gaze immediately and try to ignore the giddy warmth that erupts across your chest.

You refuse to look at him again, but in your peripheral vision, you swear that you see his shoulders rumble with a silent laugh.

~*~

Harry’s building is really nice. The floors in the lobby are shiny and polished, and glass chandeliers hang from the ceiling. Actual chandeliers! The windows are large and clear, letting in just enough natural light from outside to make you feel like you’re starring in an episode of Gossip Girl. You shoot a timid smile to the woman sitting behind the front desk—since when do apartment complexes have receptionists?

Even the elevators look like they’ve been recently renovated. The buttons light up when you press them, a thin ring of red surrounding each number. You find yourself humming along to the music playing softly from the speakers.

The elevator dings when you reach your level. “Fourth floor,” an automated voice announces. You chuckle incredulously as you step out into the hallway. How the hell is he living here?

Your eyes narrow as you scan the plaque on each door that you pass. 4A, 4B…

4C.

You stop short, running your fingers through your hair and tugging on the sleeves of your denim jacket. You pull your phone out from your pocket and glance at the time—it’s exactly six o’clock.

Before you can lose your nerve, you lift your fist and rap gently on the wood. The sound is drowned out by the ringing in your ears. You swallow heavily and shove your hands behind your back, waiting with a held breath and a racing pulse. The passing seconds feel like eons; you’re about to knock again, but then there’s a faint click, and the door is swinging open before you can blink.

“Hey,” Harry says, not unkindly.

You offer up a nervous smile. “Hey.”

The first thing you notice is that his outfit looks nothing like the usual ensemble he wears to your lectures. You were beginning to think that all he owned in his closet were slacks and button-ups and any other articles of clothing that make him look about twenty years older than he really is. But here he stands before you, sporting a light grey hoodie and a pair of black sweatpants. Cute little ankle socks cover his feet, and—as he had on the first day of class—he’s pinned his hair back using his glasses. His eyes seem brighter than usual, and his lips look slightly swollen, like he’s been chewing on them continuously. The prospect of him being antsy to see you makes your stomach flip with anticipation.

You force the thought out of your mind and silently berate yourself. He’s not eager to see you, and there’s nothing here for you to dissect—you’re reading too much into this.

“Come in,” Harry says, stepping away from the door and making room for you to pass through. You thank him softly, gliding past the threshold and taking a short moment to toe off your shoes.

“How are you?” you ask him, though you don’t meet his gaze.

“Good, thanks,” he replies. “You?”

“I’m good.”

“Good.”

You snicker hollowly—the playfulness he’d channeled today in class has clearly faded away. Harry turns on his heel and pads down the hall; unsure of what to do, you simply follow. You take advantage of the fact that he can’t see you, allowing your eyes to rake over his broad, muscular back. Your mouth waters when you cast only a momentary glance at his ass.

“I figured we could set up in the kitchen,” Harry tells you matter-of-factly.

“Sounds good.”

He nods and stops in front of another doorway. Just as he had done before, he steps aside and motions for you to enter first. “After you.”

You hate the weak articulation of your response. “Thank you.”

Everything in the kitchen is white, save for the black marble countertops and the sleek grey refrigerator standing proudly in the corner. On the table sits a bowl of bananas and a small stack of letters and bills. When you glance at Harry with a puzzled look on your face, he just shrugs.

“I really like bananas,” he says, somewhat sheepishly. His sudden awkwardness makes you smile.

“I prefer pomegranates,” you reply, a hint of teasing evident in your tone.

Harry nods. “Those are good.”

“Right?” you say, setting your bag down onto one of the kitchen chairs. “They’re a real bitch to peel, though.”

“I know,” he hums, rolling his eyes. “It takes forever.”

You chuckle and look up at him properly for the first time since he’d opened his front door. His irises twinkle with mischief, and the sight makes your heart flutter in your chest. You’re not used to seeing him like this—with just a few short sentences, it feels like he’s let down his guard and is allowing you to see a new side of him. You like it. You don’t want to screw it up.

“Have you got your exam?” Harry asks, snapping you out of your thoughts. You blink and nod quickly, unzipping your bag and pulling your midterm out of a random binder.

“Here we go,” you murmur, handing it over to him.

He hums gently before motioning for you to take a seat. You lower yourself into the chair at the head of the table, and he chooses to occupy the one adjacent to you. The skin on your arms prickles when he shifts a bit closer. He unfolds your exam, opening it up to the second page.

“Right, then,” he says, clearing his throat. He points to the top of the sheet. “We ended off with this question the other day, yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” Harry mumbles. He slides his index finger to the very bottom of the paper, where your next error is circled in red. Your attention is glued to the small cross tattooed on his hand.

“For this one,” he starts, tapping the page softly, “Sleep spindles become apparent on a monitor during the second stage of light sleep, not the third.”

“The third stage consists of delta waves, correct?” you ask. Harry nods—you think that there’s a trace of pride in his expression, but you can’t be sure.

“See?” he tells you, pinning you with a serious look. “You know this stuff. You just had a bad morning that day, that’s all.”

His words make you want to lean over the corner of the table and tackle him in a hug.

“I—thank you,” you stammer instead. You focus your attention on your exam, praying that he doesn’t catch the stupid smile that spreads across your face. Your cheeks are aflame, and your heart feels like it’s only seconds away from giving out. You adjust your position in the chair, crossing your legs and shoving your hands beneath your thighs to hide the way that they tremble.

The two of you work through most of the remaining questions together—you’re shocked at how many of the correct answers you actually know. You feel like an idiot for having gotten them wrong; when you mutter as much under your breath, Harry shoots you a stern glare.

“You’re not an idiot,” he tells you, a hard edge to his voice. You shrink beneath his piercing gaze. “This is why we encourage going to bed early the night before an exam. You know so many of these, but a lack of sleep can really just screw you over.”

“Yeah,” you say, sighing softly. A second later, you add, “Thanks for bearing with me.”

“It’s my pleasure,” Harry responds. He flips to the last page of the packet. “We’re nearly done,” he reveals, and you have to fight to hide your surprise when he smiles teasingly at you. “Then you’ll be able to get me out of your hair.”

You scoff and emit a nervous laugh. “If anything, I’m the one in your hair.”

“Not true,” Harry says. His shoulders shake with a cool shrug. “I wouldn’t have been doing anything tonight, anyway. Your presence is a welcome distraction.”

You snort, though the sound rapidly dissolves into a violent cough. Harry’s eyes widen, and he rubs his palm over his forehead when the realisation hits him.

“Fuck,” he murmurs before speaking up. “I didn’t even offer you something to drink, Christ. What can I get for you?”

“Um,” you choke out, placing your hand on your chest. “Water—water’s fine.”

“Brilliant.” He shoots up from his chair and darts around the counter. You curl your fingers into a fist and deliver a few gentle pounds to your sternum. When the hacking fit passes, you swallow heavily and squeeze your eyes shut, embarrassed beyond belief. You busy yourself with staring at the last page of your midterm, skimming mindlessly over the words on the sheet.

Lost in your humiliation, you don’t look up when the loud clinking of glass reaches your ears. It’s only when you hear the deep baritone of Harry’s voice that you lift your gaze.

“Er…would you mind?”

Your jaw drops.

“How the hell did you manage to do that?”

“It wasn’t my fault!” Harry protests as you stand. His features contort with concentration. “They all just fell down at once!”

You laugh and scurry around the counter quickly. Harry’s standing in front of an open cabinet, his forearms acting as the only barrier between several cups and the floor. He wrinkles his nose as he shifts, only to freeze immediately when one of the glasses slips further down. You pause beside him, looking for a way to provide help without causing anything to fall and shatter.

“Why’re you just standing there?” he demands, but the question is laced with laughter.

“I’m trying to find a way to get in here!” you say, giggling. You gnaw on your bottom lip to suppress a smile, stepping closer to him and placing your fingertips delicately onto his elbow.

“Okay, maybe—lift your arm a bit for me.”

“What?”

“Lift your arm!”

“Alright, shit!” Harry obeys.

You hunch your shoulders and slip in between him and the counter, ending up with your back pressed against his chest. His breath washes out onto the shell of your left ear—a shiver races down your spine. You bite down harshly on your tongue as you lift your own arms, carefully plucking each glass from its teetering position and placing them all safely back onto the shelf.  

“There we go,” you murmur, holding out your hands in front of the cabinet—one last act of caution. His arms fall from where they were outstretched next to yours. You give yourself a mental pat on the back, smirking proudly and turning around.

Your breath gets caught in your throat.

Harry hasn’t moved an inch.

His expression is unreadable, features stony. His eyes stare at you with such intensity you feel as though he’s pulling you apart layer by layer and scrutinizing everything that lies beneath. You watch anxiously as his tongue dips out to wet his lips—the action is over just as quickly as it begins. His strong chest moves against yours, rising and falling with shallow, sporadic gasps. You swallow roughly, refusing to make the first move.

But then Harry lets out a defeated sigh.

“Fuck it all,” he says.

A pair of large hands fly up to grip the sides of your face, and he covers your lips with his.

~*~

If someone had told you a week ago that you’d end up like this, you’re pretty sure that you would have cackled right in their face. Hell, if someone had told you ten minutes ago that you’d end up like this, you would have considered it to be the grandest comedy special of the century.

But there’s nothing funny about this situation.

You fail to see any bit of humour in the way that Harry presses his lips to yours with a bruising force. You don’t laugh when he steps closer to you, trapping you against the counter and sliding his fingers into your hair to keep you near. And you’re not fucking around one bit when you melt against him, your hands slipping past his waist and your fingers interlocking at the small of his back. A soft, pleased sigh escapes your lips.

Finally.

“I’ve thought—,” Harry breathes against your mouth, cutting himself off so that he can pepper hard kisses to the corner of your lips. “—thought about this so much, you’ve got no idea.”

“Shut up,” you murmur, digging your nails into his back through the thick material of his sweater. He presses a forceful kiss to the curve of your jaw; you can feel the way his cheeks lift with a smirk.

It’s frenzied, it’s feverish, and it’s been a long time coming. Harry doesn’t waste a second, hiking you up onto the counter and tugging your denim jacket from your shoulders. You whimper delightedly at the action. His fingers find the hem of your white t-shirt, slipping beneath the soft cotton and rucking it up your sides. His nails scrape gently across your skin, leaving a searing path behind. Your top falls to the floor, leaving you in a plain, nude bra.

Your face heats up in embarrassment—of course, you’re wearing the foulest undergarments you own. You hadn’t exactly expected to wind up here.

“You too,” you protest breathlessly, trying to turn his attention away from the sheer ugliness of your intimates. You ball the fabric of Harry’s hoodie up in your fists; his body rumbles with a faint chuckle. He steps back, fixing you with an intense stare as his grip curls into the collar of his sweater. You watch with hot cheeks and dilated pupils, clenching your thighs together when he finally rids himself of the material.

He’s got a few dozen more tattoos hidden beneath the sweatshirt, designs littered across his shoulders and his chest. You’re not even surprised. Your gaze falls to the intricate butterfly inked across his abdomen. Harry moves back into your space, and you reach out to trail your fingers along the insect’s ebony wings.

“It’s gorgeous,” you mumble softly.

“I want you,” he replies.

You look up at him with wide eyes. “Have me, then,” you say, lunging for the knot on the waistband of his sweatpants.

“Wait.” He stops you, his long fingers circling around your wrists. “Not yet. First, I’ve got to—”

“What is it?” you ask, somewhat impatiently. You duck your face down, intending to sponge kisses up and down his neck. Your urges are dashed, however, when you catch a glimpse of the marks already scattered across his throat. The hickies aren’t as dark as they had been a couple of days ago (they’ve faded into a light brown, now), but the mere sight of them still leaves you paralyzed with resentment.

You sit back on the counter, your features hardening. Harry watches you in confusion before it dawns on him. One of his hands shoots up to cover his neck.

“She—it didn’t mean anything,” he tells you quickly.

You choke on a dry laugh. “And this does?”

His eyes grow dark. He cups your face in his palms, leaning forward so that his lips brush against yours when he speaks.

“You have no idea,” he says lowly, “how much this means to me.”

You gulp. Your voice shakes when you say, “Prove it.”

Harry kisses you urgently, wrestling his way in between your legs. Your thighs fall open easily, welcoming him closer. He growls gruffly when you hook one of your calves around his hips, drawing him in. His fingers dance up your spine, playing hesitantly with the clasp of your bra. You arch your back, silently encouraging him to take it off.

He makes quick work of the ordeal, undoing the three little hooks in a matter of seconds. Your lips detach from his with a loud smacking sound when the cups loosen around your chest and the straps slide from your shoulders.

“Lemme see, love,” Harry rasps. “Please.”

You swear that those four words are enough to have you soaking through your jeans.

You pull your bra from your body, tossing it away mindlessly. Harry diverts all of his attention to your breasts, reaching up to caress them in his hands. His thumbs stroke over your skin. Your nipples grow tight with arousal, and you’re about to beg him to just do something, but then he bends down and engulfs one of them into his mouth.

“Shit,” you breathe, tilting your head back. “That feels good.”

Harry continues to fondle your other breast with his left hand, while the right slips down so that he can plant a firm grasp on your waist. He rubs his fingers soothingly along the space just above the waistband of your bottoms. You’re torn between pushing your hips back against his touch and curving your torso forward into his mouth.

He pops off of your chest, licking his lips and scattering a haphazard trail of kisses along your cleavage until he reaches the other side. He’s quick to pamper your other nipple with the same amount of attention, sucking avidly and swirling his tongue around it. You whimper, his actions unearthing something wild buried deep in the pit of your belly.

“Harry,” you moan, gripping the edge of the counter tightly. “Please.”

“My hair…,” he mumbles quietly, moving away from your chest and leaving a path of wet kisses up your neck. You sigh when he bites down gently on your collarbone.

“What?” you murmur, your eyes fluttering shut. Harry snickers.

“Pull—”

He kisses your throat.

“—my—”

He kisses your chin.

“—hair.”

He kisses your lips.

Your fingers twine immediately through the wavy brown tendrils at the back of his neck. You stroke his hair zealously, your nails bumping against the glasses that are still perched on top of his head.

“Take these off,” you mumble, giggling against his lips. Harry smiles, removing the frames. Instead of folding them up, though, he slides them onto the bridge of your nose, his cheeks dimpling with a smug smirk.

“You look hot,” he says matter-of-factly. “I’d love to fuck you while you’re wearing my glasses, but I think you’d just end up with a headache afterwards.”

“My God,” you mutter, shaking your head softly and pulling them off. His words are intended to mock, but they’ve only succeeded in turning you on beyond belief. You leg tightens around Harry’s waist, and you place your hand on his right shoulder to guide him down for a kiss.

“Are we—do you wanna—?” you inquire between soft smacks of your lips against his. Harry seems to catch on to what you’re trying to ask. He nods vehemently, winding his arms around your waist and squeezing you tightly. Your breasts squish against his bare chest—the contact sends a shiver down your spine.

“C’mere,” Harry says, helping you stand from the counter. You reach out for the knot on his sweatpants again, but just like before, he interrupts the act.

“Stop that,” he instructs, his lips twitching in amusement when he registers the pout on your face. “I wanna do something else, first.”

“What is it?” you whine. Harry flips your hands over and traces small circles into your palms. He plants a few chaste pecks on your lips before guiding your fingers into his hair once more.

“Keep them there,” he murmurs as he kisses down your neck. “You’re gonna need something to hold onto.”

You open your mouth to question him, but then he’s dropping to his knees and fiddling with the button on your jeans, and your voice betrays you. Harry tugs your zipper down slowly, peering up at you through his eyelashes and fighting to mask a conceited grin. You wiggle your hips as he jerks your pants down your legs, eventually stepping out of the material once it pools at your feet.

“I can smell you, love,” Harry whispers, groaning wantonly and pressing his forehead against the top of your left thigh. You swallow violently at the pure lust coating each syllable of his sentence, arranging your feet so that they’re planted a bit further apart.

“Can I have it?” Harry asks, looking up at you for permission. His fingers hook into the fabric of your panties.

You nod feebly, choking on the word. “Yes.”

With that, he yanks your underwear smoothly down your legs, throws one of your thighs over his shoulder, and goes to town.

You tilt your head backward as he licks a wide stripe up the length of your folds. His plush, swollen lips pepper kisses against the innermost parts of your core. Your clit throbs when he pulls it into his mouth and sucks gently. He grunts appreciatively when you tug on his hair.

“Don’t stop,” you breathe, your eyes fluttering shut. The cold edge of the marble counter presses into the small of your back, but you pay it no attention. Harry places one hand on your waist, while the other snakes around to cup your ass. He pinches your bum lightly, chuckling when you squeak and twitch in response.

“How’s it feel?” he asks, sticking his tongue out and flicking it rapidly against your clit. Your lips part with a lewd moan, and your fingers tighten in his curls. You feel him smirk against your cunt, evidently satisfied with your answer.

“Harry,” you breathe, your chest heaving. “You’re gonna make me cum.”

“Good.”

He doubles his efforts after that. You can’t even be embarrassed about the sounds that leave your mouth. It feels like he’s everywhere at once, pressing kisses to the inside of your thighs and lapping fervently at your folds. You jump when he circles your entrance with the tip of his index finger, and whimper as he slowly sinks the digit inside of you. He probes around, cursing at the sensation of your walls bearing down on him.

You can’t believe that this is happening. Never in a million years would you have predicted that you’d be standing in Harry’s ridiculously expensive kitchen, stark naked, with his lips and his tongue guiding you to the brink of an orgasm.

Things have a funny way of working out, you suppose.

Harry hooks his finger inside of you, petting a rough, sensitive spot. You cry out and fall over the edge. The muscles in your legs shake so violently that you have to lean against the counter to keep yourself upright. The heel of your foot digs into Harry’s back, and your grasp on his hair grows unbelievably strong. He continues to pump his finger in and out of your cunt, his thumb rubbing against your clit as he pulls back to watch your features contort in pleasure.

“Beautiful,” he mumbles, kissing the skin just beneath your navel. “So fuckin’ beautiful.”

“Damn,” you whisper, inhaling deeply. You pause when you realise that you’ve still got an ironlike grip on the wavy tendrils atop his head. Releasing his curls, you flex your fingers and wipe your sweaty palms against the sides of your bare thighs. Harry’s eyes glitter.

“You’re good at that,” you say breathlessly. He grins, and you swoon upon spotting the deep crevice of his dimple.

“Can I kiss you again?” he requests.

A winded laugh falls from your mouth. “You didn’t ask me if you could before.”

“I should’ve.” He grimaces. “I’m sorry.”

“Are you seriously saying that right now?” Your eyebrows climb up your forehead.

A low grunt escapes Harry’s lips when he stands. You watch, amused, as he places a hand on his lower back and stretches. His nose wrinkles in contempt.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “Back problems.”

“Why’re you apologising?” The corner of your mouth quirks up. Harry pauses, looking down at you before an incredulous chuckle rumbles from deep in his chest.

“You’re something else,” he says, shaking his head. You smile, winding your arms around his neck and steering him in for a long, lazy kiss.

He tastes like you. The realisation makes you moan.

Sneakily, you run your hands down his back, taking only a moment to marvel at the way his muscles shift beneath his skin. You stop right above his bum, gliding your fingers over the elastic of his bottoms and circling back to the front. Harry scoffs when you begin tinkering with the tie on his sweatpants, and you giggle. Despite his slight jeer, though, he allows you to continue.

You pull at the string, and it promptly comes loose. “Wait,” Harry says.

You groan.

“I swear to God,” you exclaim. “If you don’t let me get you naked—”

He grabs your face in his palms and cuts you off with a bruising kiss. Your empty threat dies on the tip of your tongue.

“I just meant—,” Harry mumbles, the words hot and sticky, “—maybe we should take this to my room.”

You pull back and blink. “That’s awfully forward of you.”

His face is vacant until your sentence sinks in, and then he laughs. The sound comes from deep in his diaphragm, capping off at the end with a high-pitched squeak. It makes you want to grab him and cover his lips with yours until you’re both struggling to breathe.

“C’mon,” Harry commands, tangling his fingers with yours.

He leads you out of the kitchen and down the hall, stopping at the last door on the left. As soon as you step into his room, you note that his bed is preposterously big. That’s the only observation you’re able to make, though, because then he’s picking you up in all of your naked glory and flinging you onto the mattress.

You yelp in surprise, scrambling up to where a mountain of pillows is propped against the headboard. Harry watches you as he saunters over, his eyes hungry and voracious. His tongue swipes over his teeth as he joins you on the bed. You giggle eagerly.

Once your lips convene again, the atmosphere shifts. The playfulness is gone, replaced by something deeper, something greedier. Harry licks into your mouth, ravenous. You whimper, wrapping your legs around his waist and subconsciously bucking your hips up off the duvet. You can feel his cock inside his bottoms, hard and heavy and waiting to be freed. Fed up with the numerous delays, you grab onto material covering his thighs and yank it down. He notices your struggle, and he sits back on his knees to help you in your quest to get him undressed.

“I’m not—,” Harry begins, but he’s too slow.

Your eyes grow wide when they land on what lies beneath his sweatpants.

I’m not small, he might have started to say, or perhaps, I’m not wearing any underwear.

You’re not sure which statement it would have been, because both are true. He’s now equally as naked as you, his cock swollen and curved against his stomach. The tip is flushed a light pink, dotted with clear drops of arousal. A prominent vein runs along the underside—you’re suddenly overcome by the urge to feel it against your tongue. A few inches lower, there’s a tattoo of a tiger’s face inked on his thigh. You feel your stomach tighten as an entirely new wave of desire washes over you.

You look up at Harry with unreadable eyes. He stares back at you, and—for what may be the first time ever—you think you see a hint of insecurity brewing in his gaze. He swallows; you get the feeling that he’s going to say something, but you beat him to it.

“You’re so sexy,” you tell him earnestly, and then you kiss him again.

He ruts against you, his cock sliding along the inner crease of your thigh as the two of you move together. His hands slither up your body to squeeze your breasts, and you arch into his touch. After a few minutes of him devoting his attention to your chest, he reaches over and pulls open the top drawer of his nightstand.

“I’m clean,” he says, panting. “But…just in case.”

You nod once. “Agreed.”

He fishes out a condom, the foil packet crinkling loudly in his grasp. The sound snaps you out of whatever trance you’d fallen into.

You’re really about to have sex with Harry.

Harry, who grades your papers.

Harry, who is employed by the university that you’re currently attending.

Harry, who ignored you for weeks.

All of those things should send off warning bells in your brain. They should remind you that what you’re doing is wrong, and the two of you could get into an unbelievable amount of trouble. Your academic career might very well never recover. Harry could lose his job.

But you don’t care. Because though he’s the same Harry who grades your papers and who works for your university and who ignored you for weeks, he’s also Harry, who writes little notes on all of your tests and assignments. Harry, who bought you a coffee just because he felt like it. Harry, who was willing to devote a hefty portion of his free time to reviewing your midterm with you and showing you where you went wrong.

“You good?”

His innocent inquiry pulls you out of your haze. The condom has been rolled on.

You nod firmly, your legs falling open with a surprising amount of ease. “Yeah,” you whisper. “Let’s do it.”

When his cock first enters you, it takes a minute to get used to the intrusion. Harry watches your features for any sign of discomfort; you find it sweet. You pulse around him, and his hips falter as he swears softly.

“Sorry,” he says. “It feels good.”

“Glad to hear it,” you say wryly. He smirks.

You take deep breaths as you try to grow accustomed to the way he’s spreading you apart. He leans down, balancing on his forearms and sprinkling dozens of kisses across your face. His lips land on your forehead, your nose, your cheeks, your chin. The small displays of affection help you loosen up.

“I think it’s okay, now,” you whisper, pushing his hair out of his face. Harry seals his lips against yours, gradually pulling out and thrusting back in. His pace is still slow, cautious, wary; you cup his jaw and skirt your thumb over the small mole by the corner of his mouth.

Steadily, he begins to pick up speed. Within minutes, you’ve got your lips parted and your back curved, your little mewls of pleasure filling the air. Harry curses, sitting back on his heels and searching for a secure grip on your waist. He pistons his hips, pulling you onto his cock with each drive forward. Your fingers dig into the duvet.

“Fuck,” you whine, covering your face with your hands. “It’s so good.”

Harry reaches forward to pull your hands away. “Don’t,” he gasps, his forehead gleaming with a thin sheen of sweat. “Lemme hear you, I wanna—,” he groans, “I wanna hear you.”

You moan in response. The headboard creaks incessantly, but neither of you pay the noise any attention. Harry’s chest is flushed a dark shade of pink, matching the blush on his cheeks. His hair has flopped over onto his forehead; he doesn’t even attempt to move it out of the way. You can feel his thighs flexing against your bum as he fills you to the brim with every thrust.

“Bloody fuck.” He grits his teeth, a vein in his neck popping. “So fuckin’ tight, love. You’re squeezing me.”

At that, you deliberately clench around his cock. One of Harry’s hands splays out over your navel abruptly. The next drive of his dick inside of you is hard and sudden—a form of admonishment. It makes you gasp.

“Don’t,” he warns softly, sliding his palm upward and pinching your left nipple. “Be—be good for me.”

His hand continues further north, and your eyes widen when you feel him wrap his fingers around your throat. He doesn’t apply much pressure, but you moan loudly anyway. His thumb strokes over the gentle curve of your jaw, and his middle finger prods gently at your mouth. Without hesitating, you take the digit past your lips, laving your tongue over his knuckle.

“You’re incredible,” he whispers. He stares at you—completely awestruck—like he can’t fathom that you’re real. You whine and buck your hips against his, urging him to resume his previous pace.

“Filthy,” Harry mutters, shaking his head in disbelief. He releases your neck, trailing his finger down your sternum and leaving behind a damp path of your own saliva.

“I’m almost there,” you tell him, biting on the inside of your cheek to keep your sounds from increasing in volume.

“Yeah?” he asks breathlessly. “Gonna cum for me? Please, darling—I wanna see it.”

“Fuck me,” you gasp, twitching at the lewdness of his demand.

Harry grunts, and with the finger that was just inside of your mouth, he rubs frantic, messy shapes against your clit. The sudden onslaught of stimulation catches you by surprise, and you shriek when your orgasm crashes into you unexpectedly.

“Holy shit!” you cry out, squeezing your eyes shut. Your climax is powerful, splintering through your entire body. Your toes curl into the mattress and your thighs quiver pugnaciously. Harry continues to fuck you, alternating between deep, languid strokes, and short staccato pumps. He digs his fingers into your skin as his rhythm wavers.

“Fuck, I’m cumming,” he groans, his face screwing up in pleasure. You grasp at his wrist with shaky hands, stroking over the anchor on his arm when he releases a string of cusses. Harry snaps into your cunt one, two, three more times before stilling and collapsing on top of you, utterly depleted.

The two of you lie there for eons, it seems. Your bodies are hot, spent, and slick with sweat. He sighs, nuzzling into you and delivering a gentle kiss to your temple. Your chest rises and falls unevenly as you struggle to regain your bearings. The room is silent, except for the shifting of limbs and the sound of Harry’s breathing in your ear.

“Was good,” he croaks, lifting a hand and tucking your hair away from your face with feeble fingers.

You hum and turn to the side, the tip of your nose brushing his chin. “Yeah. It was.”

“We’re fucked,” he adds weakly.

You purse your lips. “Yeah,” you repeat. “We are.”

  October 23rd, 2019

The next week, Harry isn’t in class. Instead, settled in the corner of the room, there’s a short Korean girl with dark silky hair and a bright shade of red daubed on her lips. She’s wearing a brown knitted-sweater that looks awfully cozy, and her feet are covered by a clunky pair of combat boots.

Who would transfer into a class this late in the semester? You wonder. Is that even allowed?

At that exact moment, Dr. Renault clears his throat. His announcement makes all of the blood in your body run cold.

“Good morning, everyone. Unfortunately, Harry will no longer be accompanying us on our exciting quest to learn about the brain.” He gestures to the Korean girl standing off to the side. “This is Hana. She will be my new assistant for the remainder of the course.”

November 13th, 2019

“Oh my God, here it comes!” Margaret squeals, her nails digging into your bicep. You laugh at her excitement. Mateo leans over to pull her painted claws out of your skin.

“Jesus, woman, you’re gonna draw blood,” he berates her. Margaret rolls her eyes and faces him with her hands on her hips.

“I didn’t see her complaining!”

“I was about to,” you pipe up, shooting her a dry smile. Your friend turns on you, her features warping with an expression of betrayal, but before she can say anything, the barista sets three tall cups of coffee onto the counter and calls out your orders.

“That’s us, bitch!” Margaret exclaims. “Thank you,” she adds in a softer tone. The barista just smiles, giggling quietly and wishing you a good day.

You reach out for your latte, taking a small sip and humming appreciatively at the taste. “I fucking missed this place,” you say. “Nobody does coffee like Grounded.”

“Agreed.” Mateo nods.

The three of you make your way down the hall, the sounds of whirring espresso machines and jingling coins growing fainter in the distance. The corridor is teeming with students, people engrossed in animated conversations as they head to their next class. Margaret is rambling about how she can’t wait to resume her routine of drinking three cups of caffeine a day, and Mateo is marvelling at the spotlessness of the basement floors.

“They really cleaned this place up,” he says. “I guess renovations aren’t useless, after all.”

“Mhm,” you hum in response.

You balance your coffee in one hand as you rifle through your bag for the little pot of lip balm that you know is hidden somewhere in the smallest pocket. You’re so absorbed in your search that you don’t notice a tall figure walk right out of the door in front of you and into your path.

“Oh, shit!” you hiss, bumping into a solid body. A few drops of coffee spill from your cup and run down your fingers. The liquid is still hot; you whimper.

“I’m so sorry,” you ramble, lifting your gaze as you apologise to the stranger. “I wasn’t looking where I was—”

You stop in your tracks, and the rest of your sentence fizzles out. Harry’s peering down at you with piercing green eyes, seeming to stare through your soul. He’s wearing a maroon crewneck and a pair of dark brown trousers, and his glasses are tucked securely into the collar of his shirt. His hair has grown since you’d last seen him all those weeks ago, wispy tendrils curling just beneath his ears. Your skin tingles with the memory of running your fingers through the soft strands, and you have to hold back a sigh.

“Hi,” Harry says, the greeting deep and guttural. You swallow heavily, gripping your coffee with both hands.

“Hi,” you whisper.

He buries his knuckles into his pockets, his brown loafers squeaking against the floor. “How’ve you been?”

“Fine.” Your answer is curt. “You?”

“I’ve been alright, yeah.”

“That’s good.”

A beat of silence passes before someone beside you clears their throat. You jump; you’d forgotten all about your friends.

“Okay, well, we’re gonna go…,” Margaret says slowly, drawing out the last vowel of her sentence. She’s only referring to Mateo and herself, but you put your hand on her forearm to keep her still for a second longer.

“I’ll come with you,” you tell her quickly, refusing to look at the man standing in front of you.

“Actually,” Harry pipes up. “I was wondering if I could talk to you about something.”

You force yourself to meet his eyes. Margaret and Mateo step away leisurely. “What is it?”

“It’s about your midterm,” Harry says, even though both of you know that it’s not. Everything on his face reveals to you that his words are a lie, from the pursing of his lips to the furrowing of his brows. Despite your irritation, though, you find yourself nodding apprehensively.

Harry steps back, holding out his arm and motioning for you to walk into his office. You don’t bother shooting your friends one last glance before you oblige.

They’ll be fine; you’re not worried about them.

You’re worried about yourself.

You don’t miss the sound of the lock on the door clicking into place. You busy yourself with studying the office—Harry has begun moving his supplies back into place. The bookshelf in the corner is half-full; a few boxes—each of them are filled to the brim with novels—sit on the floor as they wait to be emptied. There’s a tall pile of papers on Harry’s desk. Your brows furrow in confusion for only a moment before you remember that he’s also serving as a teaching assistant for Dr. Chen’s psychopathology course.

“Er…,” Harry says from behind you. You keep your back to him, choosing instead to run your fingers over the smooth surface of his desk.

“What’s up?” you ask, trying to keep your voice level.

He sighs. “I quit my position in Dr. Renault’s class.”

“Really?” you say. Your tone is light, but the sarcasm in your words carries a harsh bite. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Your name leaves Harry’s lips in a quiet plea. It shocks you so much that you instinctively turn around to face him.

“Don’t be like that,” he implores. “Please.”

“Like what?” you snap, scowling at him. “What exactly am I doing?”

“You’re upset with me,” Harry states weakly. A dry, hollow laugh falls from your mouth.

“Maybe I am.” You shrug, the corners of your mouth curling disdainfully. “Wouldn’t you be upset if the person you’d fucked just decided to ghost you for a month?”

“I didn’t—,” he starts, but you cut him off without hesitating.

“Yes, you did,” you say, a hard edge creeping into your voice. “You kissed me, we fucked, and then you fell off the face of the planet.”

Harry remains silent, because he knows that you’re right. You grip your coffee tightly in one hand, the other coming up to rub tiredly at your forehead. Your heart is about to beat out of your chest, but there’s an odd, gratifying sensation spreading through your body. It feels good to tell him off, you realise. The anger and resentment brewing within you for the past month has made you astonishingly bitter.

“Why did you bring me in here, Harry?” you ask, sighing. “To tell me you quit Doctor Renault’s class? Because I already knew that.”

The words hurt as they exit your mouth. Hana seems like an absolute sweetheart, but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t miss the little notes scrawled in messy, boyish handwriting at the top of your weekly quizzes. You blink rapidly and will the reflection out of your mind, drumming your fingers against the side of your latte.

“Bloody hell,” Harry mutters, shaking his head. “Why the fuck do you think I quit?”

“Excuse me?” Your brows knit together.

“Why do you think I quit?” Harry demands, his lips twisting into a frown. You balk, hating that the question has caught you by surprise.

“I—,” you start, growing frustrated. “How the hell am I supposed to know?”

“God, you really are quite dense, aren’t you?” Harry asks, chuckling sardonically.

You narrow your eyes. “I didn’t come here to be belittled.”

“What did you come here for, then?” he shoots back. “Why’d you agree to speak with me?”

“Because I wanted an explanation,” you say, feeling your chest grow tight. The words are thick when they leave your lips. “But if you’re not going to give me one, then…”

“Fuck, wait,” Harry rushes out. He blocks the path to the door as you try to sidestep his broad frame. “Please, just…lemme figure out a way to say what I’m thinking.”

You cross your arms over your chest and glare at him.  “You’ve got two minutes.”

He scratches the back of his neck, pulling gently on the collar of his dark sweater. You watch him turn phrases over in his head and hate that even now, in the middle of an argument, you still want to kiss him. Your lips prickle as you recall what it felt like to lick into his mouth, and how he swallowed up every single one of your moans.

“We had sex,” Harry finally says carefully. “That’s against the university’s policy.”

“I’m aware,” you say. You’ve realised this—why is he reiterating what you already know?

“I’m not allowed to be involved with a student in the classes where I’m…,” he continues and shakes his head, “Basically, if I’m a teaching assistant for a certain course, the people enrolled in it are off-limits.”

“I know.” You’re growing impatient, now. Harry’s mouth twitches.

“But I’m no longer the teaching assistant for Doctor Renault’s class,” he says softly. His stare is earnest, like he’s trying to tell you something without actually saying it.

You pause, allowing his words to sink in. Your lips part when the situation dawns on you, and you suddenly understand what he chose to do—what he’s done. You look up at him with wide, disbelieving eyes, your fingers constricting so tightly around your coffee that the cup nearly dents under the pressure.

“You—,” you initiate, but Harry interrupts you before you can continue.

“Have dinner with me,” he requests with prudence, approaching you slowly. “I’ll take you wherever you want to go. We can even see a movie after, if you’d like.”

Despite your dispute from only a few minutes ago, a small smile creeps onto your face. Harry takes another step toward you, and your stomach flips in anticipation. You gaze into his eyes, taking note of the way his green irises glimmer with hope. He lifts his hand and runs his thumb over your jaw. You find yourself leaning into his touch.

“You want to take me out on a date?” you ask, fighting to keep your eyelids from drifting shut. Harry smirks, his dimple popping on his cheek.

“I do,” he confirms, pinching your chin gently. “Will you let me?”

“I guess,” you say dreamily, and then your lips are on his. He exhales in relief, wrapping his arms around your waist as yours loop behind his neck.

Sparks are whizzing around in your brain. You’re sure that, realistically, they can be attributed to some sort of neurotransmitter, but you choose to believe that it’s just The Harry Effect.

You eventually pull apart for air, gasping hotly and scattering kisses anywhere you can reach. “As much as I’d love to continue this,” you say, sighing delicately as Harry delivers several hard pecks to your lips, “I need to head home and finish up a research report for my experimental psych class. It’s due on Friday.”

“Fine.” Harry drags himself away from you but keeps your face nestled in his hands. He runs his index finger along the seam of your mouth. “Go on, then. Congratulations on being a responsible student, I suppose.”

You smile and hold out your hand. “Give me your phone,” you order. His lifts an eyebrow teasingly; you mirror his coy expression and elaborate. “Let me put my number in. That way, we don’t have to e-mail back and forth like we’re in our fucking fifties.”

“I like to think that e-mailing is a very efficient way of sending messages,” Harry says.

You laugh. “Are you saying that you don’t want my number, then?”

“No, no,” he backtracks quickly, fishing his phone out of his pocket and unlocking it before handing it over to you. “Here, by all means.”

“That’s what I thought,” you simper. You key your information into the device, grinning as you pass it back to him. “There we go.”

Harry leans down, stealing a chaste kiss before you can even register what’s happening. He pulls back, humming impishly at the stunned expression on your face. “There we go,” he repeats, flashing you a crooked smirk.

He escorts you out of his office, down the hall, and up onto the main floor. Every so often, your hands brush as you walk. When you reach one of the many exits in the building, you turn to him.

“You’ll text me, right?” you check, succumbing to the small sliver of doubt that nags at your brain.

He nods. “I promise.”

“Okay.” You chew on your bottom lip. Your mouth subconsciously lifts into a doting smile. “Have a good day, Harry.”

His eyes are full of tenderness. “You too, love. Take care.”

You turn and push through the doors without looking back.

When you finally find your car in the winding maze of the parking lot, you feel your phone vibrate in your back pocket. You dig it out and open it absentmindedly. A soft laugh slips past your lips when you discover a text sent from an unknown number.

“He’s cute,” you murmur to yourself, your eyes scanning over the message.

It was really nice seeing you. I look forward to having dinner with you soon. H. x

~*~

thank you for reading 💖 and thank you to @all-things-fic, @emotionally-imbruised, and @imethiminthemorning for being my betas! i love you guys [masterlist] [askbox]

Dopamine (a Serotonin extra)

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If There’s a Place I Could Be - Chapter Fifty Six

If There’s a Place I Could Be Tag

August 23rd, 2000

Emile blinked uncomprehendingly at Rebecca. “What do you mean, I’m cute?” he asked.

“I mean you’re cute, honey,” Rebecca said, kissing his cheek. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you that before?”

“No?” Emile asked. “No one outside my family, no one who I wasn’t dating at that exact moment in time. No one who has never been obligated to say it.”

Rebecca shook her head. “Well, you are, Emile. You are cute. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise, you hear me? I don’t care what they say at college, you’re definitely cute. And any girl...or guy...would be lucky to have you.”

“And you’re not just saying that as a girlfriend?” Emile asked.

“Emile, we just agreed to break up because we’d be moving five hours away from each other for college! I’m just telling you, point blank, that you’re a catch. I’ll be sad to see you go, but it has to happen. And don’t let anyone tell you that you’re not cute, okay?”

“Okay...?” Emile said. “Self-confidence is not my strong suit, though.”

“Is it anyone’s?” Rebecca asked. “Love you, honey. Call me sometime, yeah?”

Emile swallowed. “Yeah.”

  February 14th, 2002

There were few things Emile appreciated in life more than a relaxing day in, doing nothing in particular with Remy. But one of the few things he appreciated more was going out with Remy and having some fun just the two of them, for any occasion. And that was how the two of them found themselves at the local bowling alley on Valentine’s Day.

“You mean to tell me that you had a bowling shirt in your closet all this time that you never told me about?!” Remy laughed as he came back from his turn bowling.

“You never asked,” Emile said simply. “And I wouldn’t call it a ‘bowling shirt’ specifically. It’s just more...retro.”

“Emile, you look like you walked straight out of the fifties. It’s a bowling shirt,” Remy said as Emile picked up a bowling ball.

Emile shook his head with a laugh and began his turn on the lane. The ball glided down the lane and all the pins but one fell down. Emile grinned as Remy exclaimed, “What?!” behind him.

As soon as he turned, Remy was on him. “Do you go to a bowling team when I’m not around? Is that why you have the shirt and these mad skills?!”

“No, Remy, I’m not a part of some super-secret bowling team,” Emile laughed. “It’s just regular secret-level, and we call ourselves The Spanish Inquisition, because no one ever expects us to win.”

Remy rolled his eyes and Emile laughed more. “Come on, Emile, be serious!”

“Never,” Emile vowed, grabbing a bowling ball and taking his second shot, landing him a spare.

Remy whooped and a few people in the other lanes either clapped or glared, depending on how much they approved of Remy’s volume. Emile laughed as Remy jumped on Emile’s back and said, “This is my boyfriend, everybody! The bowling pro!”

“Remy!” Emile squawked, laughing. “Come on, cut it out! It’s your turn!”

Remy huffed but got off Emile and went to grab a bowling ball while Emile sat down. Remy walked up to the lane and gave his turn a shot, and the ball slid down the lane quickly, knocking down every last pin for a strike. “Ha!” Remy exclaimed, jumping up and down! “Strike! Yes!”

“Way to go, Rem!” Emile said, standing up as Remy walked over and giving him a hug.

“It’s been a while since I’ve been bowling,” Remy said with a happy sigh. “I had to be...twelve or thirteen when I last went, it was someone's birthday party.”

“Yeah, I haven’t bowled in a while, either,” Emile said, grabbing a ball for his turn. “It was probably only a year and a half for me, though.”

“Your parents let you bowl at that age?” Remy asked, vaguely surprised.

Emile shrugged. “Well, I was mostly paying with my own money. What I didn’t pay, the church did. Because I was helping with the youth group when they would have events.”

“Huh. You helped out with your church?” Remy asked.

“I helped with the middle schoolers when I was a junior and a senior, and I had plans to help more when I went back home for the last summer, before we moved in together,” Emile said.

Remy grew quiet and drew into himself, and Emile immediately shook his head. “Not a bad thing, Remy, not in the slightest. And I don’t blame you. Honestly, you probably saved me a lot of stress, and I can help out at the shelter around here to feel like I’m making a difference.”

“You sure?” Remy asked, grimacing.

“Oh, yeah, Rem,” Emile said, offering Remy a crooked grin. “If I hadn’t moved in with you, we probably wouldn’t even be together right now, and I, for one, do not want to be in a world where that is the case.”

Remy offered Emile a shy grin as he scratched the back of his neck. “That is a pretty good thing,” he agreed softly.

Emile nodded definitively. “Definitely,” he said, going to bowl his next turn, knocking down four pins. He winced. “Ouch. Not my finest shot.”

Remy laughed. “Definitely not. But that’s okay, I still love you.”

“Good,” Emile said, kissing Remy’s cheek. “I wasn’t worried that you wouldn’t, but it’s still nice to hear you say.”

Remy grinned and playfully shoved Emile away from the kiss. “Of course it is. It’s always nice to hear a pretty boy say they love you,” he laughed.

“So you agree you’re pretty?” Emile asked.

Remy shrugged. “It’s a joke, Emile.”

“Yeah, but do you think you’re pretty?” Emile pressed.

“You certainly seem to think so,” Remy dodged.

“That’s not an answer to my question.”

Remy blew out a breath. “Okay...I will say that I’m not as ugly as I was during the raging hormones of puberty.”

“That’s also not an answer to my question,” Emile said, crossing his arms.

“Look, Emile, I just...don’t have that sort of confidence to say that I’m pretty with any amount of seriousness,” Remy said with a shrug. “Sorry.”

Emile sighed. “You really are pretty, though, and I wish you could see that,” he lamented.

Remy crossed his arms and thought. “You know, there might be a way for me to feel better enough about myself to say I’m pretty, or at the very least somewhat attractive.”

“Yeah?” Emile asked.

“That whole...self-expression thing you and Theo were talking about last week,” Remy said.

“What about it?” Emile asked.

“Well, I have a lot of T-shirts and jeans and casual clothes that can make me look good, but...all of them were approved by my parents, save for the ones I’ve found thrift-shopping since I moved here. I never got the final say in what I wanted to wear when it came to buying clothes. The leather jackets I have are the closest thing I have to rebelling against my parents’ clothing choices right now. Maybe if I redid some of my wardrobe, getting rid of the shirts I never wear, and buying some more stuff that I like and feels like me, that could help?” Remy seemed to be asking the last part, like he was looking for Emile’s permission.

Emile bowled his next turn and grinned as he knocked down five of the other six pins before he said, “Rem, you don’t have to ask my permission to do something like that. You have your own bank account, and so long as you can make rent, and tell me when you need the car to go shopping, I won’t stop you.”

“Yeah, but...I do want your opinion,” Remy said.

Emile ran a hand through his hair. “It could work, yeah,” he said. “But you’d have to do it right, and you’d have to have thick skin. If someone mocks your self-expression and you don’t have the confidence to laugh it off, it could backfire.”

“Eh, not many people’s opinions matter to me,” Remy said. “Their opinions can hurt, yeah, but few of them matter to the point where I would stop.”

“I doubt any of our friends would mock you about your choice of self-expression, even jokingly,” Emile noted.

“Yeah. So, I guess I should do it?” Remy asked.

“If you think it will help, definitely,” Emile said. But he knew he had to mention the obvious, and he knew Remy wouldn’t like it. “I will warn you, Rem, that you sometimes have a tendency to pick...more feminine cuts and styles, even if it’s from the men’s section. And that can gather...unwanted attention. Some people can and will accuse you of being gay, and when I say accuse, I do mean accuse. They won’t be kind.”

Remy bit his lip and looked away. “I know,” he said, almost under his breath. “I just like looking pretty, you know? There are days where being handsome is fine, but I prefer being pretty some days too. And I have plenty of clothes that can make me look handsome, but not many that make me feel pretty. And on the days where I want to feel pretty...well...I could definitely use the ego boost, you know? Because...well, you’ve seen my self-esteem issues for yourself.”

“Yeah,” Emile sighed. “But if you want to use self-expression in your clothing, by all means, do so. I’d love to see you look more confident on the days you prefer pretty over handsome.”

Remy offered Emile a shy smile. “You know, you might be the only person to have ever said that to me,” he said softly. “I never told Toby about that, granted, but I doubt he would have understood quite as much as you do.”

Emile just nodded and kept quiet about his suspicions that Remy could actually be transgender, or at the very least gender non-conforming. Then there was...nonbinary, which Emile was still trying to wrap his head around. But he knew Remy wouldn’t appreciate that sort of speculation. It wasn’t that he was against trans people, but he was pretty vehemently against the idea that he was trans. He was firmly of the opinion that he was just a man who hated gender roles, and so long as that opinion wasn’t hurting him, Emile wouldn’t try and press. No matter how much he thought that Remy might just be so deep in the closet he himself didn’t know that was where he was.

Besides, this was supposed to be a date night, light-hearted and fun and teasing each other about their respective bowling skills. No need to be so serious all the time.

Remy went to pick up a ball and Emile grinned wickedly, lightly smacking Remy’s butt, causing him to yelp. “Hey! No! Uh-uh!” Remy said, rounding on Emile. His cheeks were bright red but he was laughing. “Hands off the merchandise until we’re home!”

“And when we’re home?” Emile asked, arching an eyebrow.

“Well, we established boundaries for a reason,” Remy said.

Emile shrugged. “We have yet to have...the big discussion,” he said.

Remy flushed. “Well, I need to figure out...what I might like, still,” he admitted. “In terms of you, specifically. And of course, some of that is going to come from experience, but I need to figure out what’s definitely off-limits. And we have boundaries for where neither of us are willing to go yet, at least not without very good reason. I just...need time.”

“Hey, I’m willing to give you time,” Emile said, holding his hands up in surrender. “I’ll give you all the time you need. But I will ask from time to time, because we both know that you forget to tell me your when your comfort level changes sometimes.”

“Yeah, I can respect that,” Remy said. “But if you want to touch my butt, do it at home.”

“All right, all right,” Emile said, holding his hands up in surrender.

“‘Sides,” Remy said with a mischievous grin, whispering into Emile’s ear. “If we do it at home that means I can make all the innuendos I want without worrying about kids running up and asking us what the stuff they overheard was about.”

Emile cackled, clapping a hand over his mouth as he shook. “You’re terrible!” Emile exclaimed.

Remy just winked and went to pick up his bowling ball again. “Ah, but that’s what you love about me, mio amore!” he exclaimed as he went to bowl again.

Emile shook his head as Remy knocked down most of his next set of pins in one shot. This was the man he was in love with. A ridiculous, disastrous mess of a man who loved making jokes about any and everything but was very shy when actual feelings became involved. And he had a heart of gold that just needed to be protected fiercely, because it wasn’t fragile, but it could be damaged if you just stampeded recklessly around. Emile thought about it, and thought back to Remy’s talk about how he viewed soulmates, and he was inclined to agree. If there was such a thing as soulmates, then he could believe that Remy was his soulmate.

[azanavarette]

『ARIENNE MANDI ❙ CIS FEMALE』 ⟿ looks like AZADEH NAVARETTE is here for HER FIRST year as a INTERNATIONAL RELATIONS MASTERS student. SHE is 25 years old & known to be INQUISITIVE, THOUGHTFUL, ARGUMENTATIVE & CRITICAL. They’re living OFF CAMPUS, so if you’re there, watch out for them. ⬳ NIX. 23. EST. SHE/HER.

hi everyone! my name is nix and i’ll be playing azadeh navarette, or aza as she’s known by her family and (hopefully soon to be) friends. super excited to get back into writing, as i’ve been away from rp-ing for a little while, so forgive me for being a little rusty!! anyways, here’s a little (lol) info about azadeh:

personality/facts:

aza is incredibly focused, to the point of fixation. when she settles on something, she goes for it - whether it be the top grade, the person she’s interested in, or the family member who needs help. 

it can be to the detriment of her health because she can become so tunnel-visioned.

she’s incredible with languages, having grown up surrounded by so many different cultures. she spoke farsi with her mother’s family, spanish with her father’s family, swedish with the general public and learned english and german in school. 

this makes her accent incredibly... difficult to parse out where exactly she’s from. she sometimes has difficulty remembering certain words in other languages and will hop her way through languages (silently or otherwise) in order to reach the right meaning she’s looking for.

she will argue to the point of headache when she feels like it - if you’re not up for a debate, don’t get caught in her crosshairs with a strong opinion. argument, for aza, is enlightening; if anything argument endears her more to a person because (to aza) it means the other person is willing to engage with her deeper than a simple ‘hello, the weather’s lovely today.’ 

is quite musically inclined, but doesn’t speak publicly about it - mostly because she believes if she invests too much time into it she’ll lose the forward movement she’s got with her career path. in the two years she was taking care of her aunt she would write songs and play them to her. she’s never played live for anyone other than her family - someone would have to get very close to her to hear her play her one of her songs. 

she writes in farsi and spanish, and more recently has been translating/writing her songs into english.

did not have friends growing up - she never felt a sense of community anywhere. with the swedish, she always felt too much of a foreigner; with her chilean cousins, always too persian, and with her persian family always too chilean. 

even in london at university it was hard to find a community; at most times ava feels placeless - and to distract from that buries herself in her work.

identifies as a lesbian, but is very much still in the closet to most people, especially her family. when she moved away to london for university she had the freedom to date as she wanted, but moving back to stockholm pushed her back into hiding. 

she hasn’t dated in two years and feels very self-conscious of that, especially at her age.  

history:

azadeh was born and raised in stockholm, sweden. 

she is the daughter of refugees from worlds apart who happened to land in scandanavia, of all places.

her father’s family is from santiago, chile - her father, his brothers and his mother fled from persecution in 1974 following the coup d’etat.

her mother’s family is from mashad, iran - her mother and mother’s sisters were sent abroad for school to protect them from the 1979 iranian revolution.

her parents met in upper secondary school - they were in the same international swedish classes and helped each other learn the language. 

they went on to university together (majoring in material sciences and engineering) and were married after completing their doctorate programs.

having a child was not a part of their plan - they were both incredibly career focused and uninterested in settling down - but when an accident became a reality they accepted the challenge and became parents.

their no-nonsense parenting made for a very strict upbringing for azadeh. she felt pressure to mature quickly at a very young age - her mother and father didn’t have time for a child who acted like a child. 

aza’s extended family (the ones living in sweden with her) provided some of the tenderness and understanding her parents weren’t always willing to give to her. 

her oldest aunt, faribah, on her mother’s side, would let her stay over for dinner and sleepovers at her house when her parents would be too late to cook or tuck aza into bed.

her grandmother (father’s mother) moved into azadeh’s and her parent’s home when aza was around 10 to more fully take care of her granddaughter while her parents were away.

aza excelled in school, particularly in classes for languages, social sciences, and debate. she enjoyed being outspoken and opinionated, having her voice be heard and listened to rather than silenced and ignored. 

she applied for a bachelor’s in the u.k. and studied cultural anthropology at the london school of economics.

graduating from university with honors, aza was preparing to move to the united states for a master’s degree when she received a call from her mother that her aunt had fallen down a flight of stairs and had seriously injured her back and neck. 

without hesitation aza moved back to stockholm to help take care of her aunt through her rehabilitation, to the upset of her parents who wanted her to continue her education unfettered.

she got a paid internship working for a department of analytical sociology at a nearby university to appease her parents while taking care of her aunt in the hospital.

after two years spent at home, her aunt (recovered from the fall but never to return to full health) sat aza down and told her she needed to continue on with her own life. aza refused at first, but with some prodding agreed to reapply to master’s programs and was accepted into radcliffe in its international relations masters program.

wanted connections:

new first friends - someone(s) that see through the weird accent, the compulsive need to argue, and the near manic level of focus to the thoughtful and caring woman azadeh is. she is incredibly loyal and contrary to popular belief is not a robot and can have a drink and a laugh just like everyone else! please give this sad woman a friend... she needs to talk to someone other than her family, they’ll drive her crazy.

gay friends - highlighting that this would be super cool and also super important!! aza would love a proverbial ‘gay guru’ to talk to and help her through all the stuff she should have had the space to explore when she was younger... 

crushes - just because aza doesn’t have that much experience/hasn’t dated in a long time doesn’t mean she doesn’t have eyes... honestly, if you are a woman/woman leaning and you smile at her she’s most likely to have some sort of a crush on you. 

unrequited crushes - as is the burden of a lesbian, when you’re young and inexperienced enough to learn that it is not chill to fall for your straight friend because that only ends awfully. 

roommates - azadeh lives off campus but definitely doesn’t have enough money to pay for a nice place all on her own, so she’s bound to have a flat share. maybe one or two people who also go to radcliffe (undergraduate or graduate, it doesn’t matter) so they can take the bus together :3

[kagetsukai]

Drops of Satina: Day 28 - Love Language

Raphael Trevelyan belongs to @out-of-the-embers. Also, huge thanks to her for making sure my Spanish didn’t sound like shit.

Words: 1,206 || Read on AO3

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State dinners should be outlawed, Hannah decided as she covertly glanced around the long table. Most of the people present were visiting dignitaries from Antiva and Rivain, and they all spoke their beautiful, lilting languages that she didn't know a word of. The fact that she sat next to Raphael made things marginally better, but one quick look at his stormy expression only confirmed her suspicion that he would be a terrible conversation partner for the night. At the head of the table, Lily and Lady Josephine were in deep conversation with the most important of the Antivans and to Hannah’s greatest surprise, it looked like Lily did not need a translator.

“I am forever amazed by how talented and poised Lily is,” Hannah commented quietly. “I didn’t realize she knew Antivan.”

Raphael grunted next to her.

“She can also speak Orlesian,” he said flatly. “Yet another thing necessary to know for someone born into nobility.”

His clipped tone made Hannah roll her eyes, so she opted instead to look around and investigate people closest to her. Most of them seemed to be merchants of some sort, their clothing opulent but not completely impractical. There was a romantic flair to the colors and fabrics and jewels that made Hannah intrigued more than revolted - not the way Orlesians always made her skin crawl.

The middle-aged man sitting on her other side seemed to have noticed her inquisitive glances, because by the time she peeked at him, he was already looking back at her, his dark eyes clearly amused.

“Hola bella,” he said with an indulgent nod in her direction. “¿Estás disfrutando la fiesta?”

Hannah felt her whole face flush red as she vigorously shook her head.

“I’m so sorry,” she rushed to say. “I don’t speak Antivan.”

The man - who was actually rather attractive, now that she looked at him properly - frowned for a moment. Hannah fully expected him to switch to Common, but he only shrugged and smiled again - this time even wider and more inviting.

“No importa,” he said smoothly then placed a hand on his chest. “Me llamo Santiago.” He then pointed to her. “¿Y como te llamas tú, hermosura?

He was clearly asking for a name so Hannah placed a hand on her chest.

“I’m Hannah,” she said and smiled back.

“Hannah,” he repeated her name and on his tongue it sounded like a proposition. “Qué nombre tan hermoso para una mujer tan hermosa.”

He offered his hand and Hannah took it, thrilled to be making a new friend. That’s when instead of giving her a handshake, Santiago lifted her hand to his lips and placed a kiss that tickled and made her skin crawl. His eyes were still playful, but the mood had shifted and she no longer enjoyed the man’s attention. She jerked back her hand, and was about to say something biting, when Raphael’s hand snuck around her waist and his voice rumbled next to her ear.

“Parece que nadie te enseñó modales cuando eras chico,” he said angrily. “Permítame a enseñarte aunque sea uno - no coquetees con mujeres sin saber si tienen pareja.” He paused and Hannah felt him glare. “Mantén esa boca y esas manos quietas. Ella está aquí conmigo.” **

Hannah watched as Santiago’s face reddened just a little while his whole body straightened up to full height. The man was glaring too, but since she didn’t understand what Raphael had said, she could only guess what had upset him so much.

“Me disculpo, yo no lo sabía y no repetiré ese error***,” Santiago said and turned to face his neighbor on the other side.

By the looks of shock on several of the surrounding Antivans’ faces, whatever Raphael had said must have been pretty scathing; it felt like everybody was looking in their direction and she felt terribly self-conscious. She turned in her seat, her face now mere inches from his.

“What did you say to him?” she hissed quietly.

He shrugged and a familiar twinkle of mischief colored his brown eyes.

“I merely asked him to keep his hands to himself,” Raphael said nonchalantly. “Considering how forward he was getting with his flirting, I think I was quite restrained.”

“Why is everybody so scandalized, then?” she asked, trying to subtly glance around the table. “Did you say something rude?”

A slow grin spread over Raphael’s face, making him look positively naughty.

“I didn’t use any bad words, if that’s what you’re asking,” he said. “It’s not my fault that nobility has fragile sensibilities that are oh-so-easy to fracture.”

Which meant that whatever Raphael had said was bad enough to insult a visiting dignitary. Hannah was certain Lady Josephine would hear about it, and there would be consequences later, but for now she only had one more question to ask.

“So, when were you going to tell me that you speak Antivan?”

He shrugged again. “It never really came up?” he said. “Our branch of Trevelyans is tightly connected to one of the noble houses of Antiva and learning the language was something I had to do early on to appease my relatives. I haven’t used it in almost a decade - once I left Ostwick, I had no reason to speak it.”

Nodding along, Hannah watched as Raphael’s smile dimmed and turned into a frown with the memories of his family. That was always a sore subject for him and she tried her best to steer away from it.

“It sounded really nice when you were growling it in my ear, though,” she said and cocked her head. “And it gave me all sorts of interesting ideas.”

His eyebrows shot up and that damnable grin returned.

“Oh? Dare I ask?”

Hannah placed a steadying hand on his shoulder and leaned in really close to his ear, making sure only Raphael could hear her next words.

“What if you growl some dirty things in Antivan as you bend me over your bed and take me from behind?” she whispered.

She felt him tense up at once so, with great amusement, she leaned back and sat herself into a more proper position in the chair, pleased with his reaction to her suggestion.

“Hannah,” he said, her name becoming a low rumble on his tongue. “Don’t tease me like that.”

A slow grin spread across her face as she shot him a sideways glance.

“I’m not teasing,” she said. “I’m merely requesting.”

She was playing with fire and she knew it. Raphael wasn’t exactly known for his patience around nobility and being forced to attend an official dinner had only pushed him further to the edge. Hannah half-expected him to pull her away from the table at once so they could have an obvious tryst in some closet along the way, but he apparently had more self-restraint than that. Instead, he curled his warm fingers around her palm and gently tugged it to his lips. Once his eyes connected with hers, the naked hunger visible in them knocked the breath out of her lungs.

“Your desire is my command, mi amor,” he murmured and let her hand go.

Suddenly Hannah could not wait for the dinner to be over.

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** It seems that nobody taught you manners when you were a kid. Allow me to teach you even if you are one - do not flirt with women without knowing if they have a partner. Keep that mouth and those hands still. She is here with me.

*** I apologize, I did not know and I will not repeat that mistake.

[egoiistas]

may i feel, said he (14)

first | tag | ao3 | ffn

[co-written with @tsaritsa]

a/n 10k views on ao3 and nearing 20k on FFN. we're absolutely gobsmacked.as always, ty for all ur comments!!! we hope this update will satify u - ana has been waiting a very long time to write one particular scene and we've had to push it back so many times...I finally let her have it.

Warnings: Sexual Content ™, cursing Words: ~7.5k || Rated: M - Royai 

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

salt-laced and arched / dorianne laux, this close

The days, then weeks go on without Olivier.

Easier than it should be, Riza adjusts to another walking out the door. Every once in a while, a sad wave of nostalgia washes over her when she sees the significantly vacant living room or looking at the bare wall that once held frames and chic paintings. Even if some called her icy and dull, she had impeccable taste and Riza misses the colors on the wall. These small moments creep up on Riza when she least expects them, during the most inane moments of the day, and it's hard not to feel the loss and how it still stings like an accidental pinch to sensitive skin.

Perhaps she judged Olivier incorrectly, a voice in her head tells her snidely. Perhaps you chose wrongly, a darker, but smaller voice said. Riza can’t fault her former flatmate’s inability to understand her affair, no matter how much or how little it stings. It burns in the hollow parts where their friendship used to be, knowing that this man has a better and more intimate understanding of her as a person than Olivier would ever be capable of or want to be capable of. The sentiment is selfish and she knows this. In other situations, she respected Olivier’s ability to remain steadfast in her convictions.

All this comes to mind on a Friday evening, a quiet one when they are rarely so for Riza. Earlier she relished at the fact that she could take advantage of the quietude to get lost in her annotated-to-death anthology of Pablo Neruda’s works; to be comfortably situated in her own bed and just take in the evoking prose, and catch up on her laundry she was woefully behind on. The space would do her some good, she reasoned. A lot had happened in the last few weeks and a bit of alone time with her favourite poets and a Greed pizza from Hell’s would do her some good. It’s been a while since she’s had a moment with just her and a book and four walls.

Riza looks at the time, the walls, the fading pages, and realizes … why did she ever come to miss this. When did she grow to enjoy company?

Rebecca had come and gone after her classes, commenting on how rare it was to see her there on a Friday. Riza tried to explain but her friend looked like she was short for time, making a racket with her closet and in the bathroom. Riza could hardly catch where she was going, she’d hardly made mention of it as she was hurrying out of the apartment and then those words were cut off by the slamming on the door. Not that she expected it, but the lack of invitation probably meant that it was a date or something of the sort. That was hours ago and Riza finds herself a little disappointed, but mostly strange, that her phone isn’t blowing up with a play-by-play of the date’s shortcomings or successes. The commentary is a specialty of Rebecca’s humor.

Her friend was right: ordinarily, she wouldn’t be here. Over the course of a few months, Riza has slipped into a routine that she is loathe to have issue with. A bus would take her on a route that went past his neighbourhood, following her afternoon biochem class. Sometimes, she’d make a detour to the supermarket nearby to pick up a few things if a mood struck for something in particular, but more often than not she was content with takeout. It was a nicer environment than the library - she could spread out all the work she needed to do on the coffee table in his lounge and sprawl herself along his couch. The hot chocolate powder that had mysteriously arrived in the pantry one day wasn’t amiss either.

This time, however, her excuse was moot and she couldn’t expect a phone call or exchange of texts to change that either, because tonight he was travelling to Central for a conference where chemistry nerds were converging to relay to each other the latest findings. Roy was not as excited as she expected. In fact, he looked particularly disgruntled by the way he told her about it two weeks ago. He whined how not even professors were spared from homework, or ‘paperwork’ as he referred to it.

Eventually, she pushes away the distractions and enthralled for the millionth by The Heights of Macchu Picchu when her phone lights up and pings on her desk. Mindful of the book in her hands that is practically falling apart, she sets it down carefully, before stretching out to pull on the charging cable. The phone falls into her hand with practiced ease, and Riza can’t help the smile that grows on her face as she sees the name - nickname - emblazoned on her lockscreen.

Spanish Inquisition, 7:02pm I had a very interesting visitor today Spanish Inquisition, 7:02pm  You didn’t think to warn me?

A chill runs down her spine. She’s trying her best not to jump to conclusions but a familiar sanctimonious smirk appears in her mind’s eye. She wouldn’t...would she? Calmly, she responds:

Avecilla, 7:02pm I would if I knew who to warn you about.

Spanish Inquisition, 7:03pm So you didn’t know. Hmm. Spanish Inquisition, 7:03pm Your other flatmate. Not blonde. Bushy black hair. Very opinionated. Spanish Inquisition, 7:03pm And loud

Spanish Inquisition, 7:04pm Came into my office hours in middle of a meeting with another student.

Her relief is short-lived as the reality settles in. Palm meets skin and she smacks her forehead. She loves Rebecca - honestly, truly - but the girl lived in the moment and rarely considered the consequences of her actions in the aftermath. She can’t discern his reaction though, not through text alone. Her thumb hovers over the icon at the top of the app. Surely he would’ve called her if he felt the conversation warranted it.

Avecilla, 7:04pm becca? Avecilla, 7:04pm oh fuck

Spanish Inquisition, 7:07pm ah so, becca’s her name! I wish she would have told me that

Spanish Inquisition, 7:07pm She said a lot about a lot of things, but not her name Spanish Inquisition, 7:08pm tbh I wasn’t really given a chance to say anything Spanish Inquisition, 7:08pm Do you know how weird it is to be lectured in my own office

Riza mutters a string of curses under her breath.

She switches messaging windows to Rebecca’s and stares at the blank chat box wondering which side to approach this from. Her fingers rest on the bridge of her nose imagining the scene of a riled up Rebecca busting in through that office door, telling the unsuspecting student to scram and then potentially ripping Roy a new one about who-knows-what with the signature hands-on-hips stance. It’s frustrating, it should be incredibly frustrating. What she had said, the manner in which she barged in, how it’s interpreted - all of it could be her demise but a chuckle bubbles up because... Classic Rebecca.

Unaware that the screen had dimmed, she sees it light up again with a call this time. “Hello?”

“You left me on read?” The other voice on the line greets her with hints of playful tones under that indignant choice of words. He continues smoothly, “Are you starting to think you’re the exception in all of this, avecilla?”

She snorts, smiling as she sat up. As far as she can tell he’s not irritated. “No exception to the embarrassment knowing Rebecca did that. If I had known that was even remotely crossing her mind - well, I would have stopped her.”

“Something tells me even if you did know, there’s no much that you could have done from stopping a force of nature like that.” Despite the noise of what she assumes is Central all around him, she can hear the tired smile on him.  “I think you’re very lucky to have such a loyal friend who has terrifyingly specific medical knowledge on how to best remove a penis.”

“She didn’t...” Riza groans and leans back against her pillows, sliding the dog-eared anthology back from the edge of the bed before she covers her face.

“She did. I was perplexed for most of it, blinking at her as she paced in front of my desk.” Riza let the words sink down with her mortification and then she’s frozen when he says, “Does she do this with all your boyfriends?”

She isn’t sure why it tenses her; maybe its because it's finally given a name, even if it’s only a label, and an unsure, timid smile crosses her face. “Consider yourself special for getting the Rebecca treatment.”

“I consider myself lucky for other reasons, Riza.”

Her demeanor changes with the teasing lilt in his words. A half-smile begins to spring up over her lips, thankful he’s understanding - in whatever capacity - of this. “Care to share with the class?” She says coyly.

“Yes, that no one else heard. Or made any comment about it.” He says sternly and she sinks back into her pillows.

“I don’t know why she thought storming into your office would be a good idea.”

“Well it certainly worked out well enough for you, didn’t it?” Even though he’s making fun of her, she bites her lip at the memory, and the way his voice has dipped now, sultry and inflected with the accent that he was well aware that made her weak in the knees. He’s blatantly flirting with her.

Riza scoffs. “I believe our aims were a little different if we are going to be making comparisons.”

“Ah, so you did come with a goal in mind then.”

“Yes, sir. I-”

There are stifled chuckles on the other end. He is one of the few people clever enough to really get under her skin, get her riled up.

“If I recall correct, you admitted that I was baited into your office because of your stunt.”

“Mmm, did I now?” he asks, low and throaty.

At least the whiplash from the back and forth keeps her on her toes; she looks at them wiggling even now as she talks to him. “Mhm, I was there.”

He chuckles lightly and she hears someone greet him faintly in the background. “Let me call you back so I can get into this hotel room.”

“Oh, of course.”

They don’t share many phone calls but even from the first day, she’s known his voice was pleasant. Especially when he wants it to be.  His laugh was warm down the line, and inexplicably she finds herself missing him, despite talking to him this morning however briefly.

The phone rings and she greets him with a standard “hello.” When no sound comes from the other end, she checks the screen to make sure the line is connected.

“So…” he starts and it sounds like he plops on a bed. “What are you wearing?”

She blinks. “What?”

He enunciates each word. “What - are - you - wearing?”

She sinks down the length of her headboard. “You’re not serious.”

He tuts. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Clothing.”

“You’re no fun, Miss Hawkeye.”

“Maybe it’s because I’d rather have you here to show me what you want.”

“So would I.” There’s a wistful edge to his voice. “Do you have other plans? I was under the impression that you had a date with some laundry and pizza.”

“I had a date,” she emphasises. “Besides... I don’t think I’d be too good at it.”

“Trial and error, right? There’s no pressure to do anything you’re not comfortable with and we can always stop whenever you’d like.”

Likewise, she gets up and locks the door to her bedroom even though she knows Rebecca won’t be home for a while yet - certainly not after that stunt. “What a gentleman.”

“I like to think so.” She can hear his smile. “So...what are you wearing?”

Riza smiles in turn, feeling foolish. It’s such a ridiculous question on top of a ridiculous act. Tightening her grip on her phone, she figures telling him the truth of her rather vanilla pyjamas would probably detract from the mood of… whatever this was. She knows enough about “phone sex” - even in her mind it leaves a weird, tingly feeling - to at least humor him. She sighs into the phone, “It’s warm tonight, so I decided to wear something comfy to bed. Something so I can wiggle under the covers without feeling ...constricted.”

“Shorts?” The voice at the other end sounds surprised and she clearly sees him, in her mind’s eye, leaning in closer with interest and probably a smirk.

Riza bites her lower lip. “Less.”

“Oh.” He sounds delighted. “Well, if you’re going to have me guess what Riza Hawkeye wears on her days off… the top to her pajamas and her small clothes.” 

He knows her too well. With little movement, she slides her underwear down her legs, letting them fall to the floor. She laughs, a little nervously. “Less.”

“Aren’t you naughty tonight?”

“I’ve been asked to,” Riza teases and shifts against her pillows. “Now, tell me something.”

“Yes?”

She’s unfamiliar with this certain kind of ...adventure. Nonetheless, she’s still willing to try. “How... excited are you?”

“Mhm. Let’s see.” She faintly hears fabric shifting, zippers unzipping, and if she wasn’t listening so intently, she would have missed the light groan. “Very.”

She licks her lips, imagining him sitting on the edge of her bed. Her legs cross; as a pleasant surprise, her arousal settles hotly in between them. “Tell me why.”

“You. Your legs. Spread and losing myself between them. Your body on mine.”

“You’re worse than me, sir.” There is a throbbing pulse right at her core in rhythm with the hard thrumming in her chest. It feels warm and slick without having to touch herself, though the temptation to is becoming harder to ignore. “What would you do?” she asks, cradling the phone between her shoulder and her ear. “If you had me there.”

His laugh is delicious - she closes her eyes as a shiver runs over her bare skin. “Enough about me, avecilla. How eager would you be if you were here?”

“I’m hardly-”

“Try.”

Leaning back, Riza tries to imagine her own fantasies. “If I was there-” she hears a throaty chuckle, “- I’d get on my knees, relieve you of those pesky trousers...” A daring hand slips in between her legs and her fingers are glistening when she lifts them back up to the light.

“And?” His voice has become husky, rumbling through his throat.

“I’d take you into my mouth.” She answers automatically, distracted from her slow stroke, playing with herself. It’s true - previously, with other fumblings, she had done her part to make her partner feel good - but with him she is surprised to find herself enjoying the act so thoroughly. Maybe it’s a power thing. The image of him watching her take him into her mouth with hooded eyes and a slack jaw is something she holds close to her heart. She does that to him.

Nobody else.

It takes him a moment to respond and when he does, his words are marked with a smidgen of strain. “Fast or slow?”

She doesn’t realize until this moment that her eyes have fallen shut, her head thrown back. “Slow at first, tasting you, feeling how hard you are in my mouth and growing harder with my tongue.”

“At first?” Roy asks curiously. “You’d want me to make you go faster, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, I do-” she admits, gasping with the building pleasure of using two fingers to stimulate her clit.

“Grabbing you by your hair to so you can feel me go deeper.”

“Yes…” His fingers coiled in her hair, his cock around her lips getting wetter each time she retook him in her mouth, the aching between her thighs increasing with every second -

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, sir.” Riza thought a laugh would leave her, instead she moans into the phone, feeling a warmth flush her skin pink. She’s wet enough to hear it, rubbing herself. She settles on the bed properly now, lying flat with the phone tucked between her shoulder and her ear. Gasping lightly, Riza slides a finger, then two inside herself as her other hand grabs her own breast, ghosting over the tip of her sensitive nipple.

“And where would you like me to fuck you?”

“Take me however you’d like me.” The truth is she can’t really think. She’s lost in her own fantasies. Against the wall with her legs over his hip; from behind where he could dig his nails into her as they picked up the pace; on top of him where she could feel him reaching depths that had her voice filling the room - it didn’t matter. There is an aching in her that her fingers cannot fulfill. He was too far away. She wants him here, with her and her shitty second-hand bed and the evidence is soaking her digits to her knuckles.

His groan reverberates through the phone lines and into her ear and she can almost feel the hot breath in her ear and his familiar scent.

She breathes in as hoping his phantom scent would materialize just for her.  She begins, “I’m y-”

Her bedroom door opens.

“Rebecca!” she screeches. Mortified, she drops her phone, urging her roommate to get out. She can only imagine his confused expression as she swears black and blue and Rebecca is cackling madly in the background. She covers herself with her blanket, chasing her out and slams the door behind her. There’s a chuckle wedged in between the “I’m sorry!” Rebecca shouts from the other side of the door.

Her phone is still lit up, the call remaining in progress as she approaches her bed. “Roy..?” she breathes after the entire debacle. Paper crinkles beneath her feet. She quickly pulls them back and hisses under her breath.

“I’m here,” he responds after a moment and he sounds a little spent. “Did we have unfortunate timing again?”

She sighs as she kneels down, her blanket pooling around her feet. “What’s the matter?” he presses.

Riza groans as she sees the scattered pages across her room. The hardcover of her anthology lies face down, open. The spine of it must’ve hit the floor first. She crouches though her legs shake and picks up the annotated papers. “It’s nothing.”

Other than the shifting of someone on a bed, there’s silence on the other end until he speaks again. “It doesn’t sound like nothing, avecilla.”

She nestles the phone in between her ear and shoulder as she collects the remnants of the book in earnest. “A book I was reading before you called fell off the bed and the pages came apart.”

“You certainly haven’t shown me that kind of vigor to make a book fall apart.”

She huffs into the phone, hoping her flattened brow expression would be received telepathically. “It was old.”

“I’m not that old.”

“The book.”

She can hear him stifle a chuckle, but he fails by snickering anyway. It makes her smile too. “Now I see. In any case, I’m sorry to hear that. Which book was it?”

Riza flips the cover as if she didn’t already know. “An old poetry book I bought when I was younger. Neruda.”

“Ah, that’s unfortunate.”

“What’s unfortunate is that I was… almost getting into it,” she admits, slipping on a different pair of underwear.

She can just imagine the disappointed expression on his face. “That’s even more unfortunate. But there’ll be other times if the moment is ruined.”

Again, she smiles because of his understanding, despite her embarrassment and she’ll admit to herself that she’s little forlorn over missing the opportunity to hear him reach an orgasm right in her ear. “I think for right now it is. I need to clean up this mess and then there’s my other date that needs tending to.”  

“Laundry isn’t that necessary, is it? By all means, walk around naked if you’d like. I certainly won’t protest.”

Riza grins, holding back the laughter. She manages to sternly volley back, “One of us has to remain civilized.”

He scoffs. “I’m hurt.”

“Somehow I doubt that.”

“Call me back once you’re done?”

Genuinely and warmly this time, she smiles. “If you behave.”

“So no dick pics?”

It takes a lot of willpower not to snort audibly. “Surprise me, sir.”

With his return, she realizes only a few weeks remain before classes end officially. Riza’s always taken initiative for her assignments with diligence, but there’s always the influx of assignments at the end of the term, projects to wrap up, or reports to finalize. Still aiding him when she can in the evenings, her free time becomes increasingly limited.

There’s a new, long list of journals and books that Roy requires for his research that they read and eventually determine the value of this information. On top of this already tedious work, she offers to help grade the essays from the two 100-level courses he teaches in addition to her Chemical Literature class.

It’s boring, menial and uninspiring work: the amount of grammatical, spelling and formatting errors has Riza throwing her pencil away from her in frustration on more than one occasion. The content of said work is of an even lesser quality. It aggravates Riza when it’s obvious to her that some these students don’t give a flying fuck about their education. Or they do, but they have a shit way of showing it.

Some dark part of her forms from this trial and she takes joy tearing into the worst of the essays via text messages to him. In turn, he responds with the excuses and the pleas for extensions or redacted frantic emails that come in once students factor in the weight of the participation grade.

Spanish Inquisition, 11:53 pm 3 years Spanish Inquisition, 11:53 pm 3 years and they still ignore the bolded text Spanish Inquisition, 11:53 pm It’s in caps you know. Spanish Inquisition, 11:53 pm PARTICIPATION GRADE: 35% Spanish Inquisition, 11:54 pm It’s almost like they forget that in order to participate they have to attend class.

Avecilla, 11:57 pm Strike them down Spanish Inquisition, 11:58 pm HA Avecilla, 11:58 pm I mean Avecilla, 11:58 pm How cruel are you going to be?

Spanish Inquisition, 11:59 pm Most will get a B or similar Spanish Inquisition, 11:59 pm Not enough for them to storm to the dean and complain i’m unfair, but maybe enough to encourage them to maybe try next time

 The weeks fly by because of this and she can only think of one time in the last few weeks where they’ve actually managed to do more than just kiss. Riza isn’t one to keep tallies, but it was after a late night of simultaneously grading, reading and working on her final assignments. She was tired. She knew he was too, and while she could only blame herself for suggesting it, it didn’t make her any less frustrated when he drifts to sleep with his dick in her mouth. Rebecca harbored no sympathy for her either. She merely texts ‘HAHAHAHAHAHAHHA’ and then sends far too many tongue-in-cheek gifs implying Riza was “thirsty.”

 Even if she was, Riza muted her best friend and finished herself off, but not before almost succumbing to sleep once or twice.

 Every time after that, when they managed to have more coffee or sleep in, they were rudely interrupted in some other way. As if it were sacrilege he had taken that one time for granted, he jested once, and it soon became laughable what the universe kept throwing at them.

 The workload was understandable, forgivable, and inevitably out of their control. Then, it was constant miscalculations of how little time they had: either she had a class or he had one to teach or office hours, or I’m about to crash and we both know how the last time worked out. It was driving her up the walls - and not in the ways she’d preferred.

 They reach a point of recklessness. They take advantage of his empty office with a locked door on the final days after class. He cancels his office hours that morning after her assurances that her assignments were up to par and she could afford the distraction. Riza finds herself pleasantly nestled between euphoria and giddiness from the frantic way they paw at each other’s clothes. Or it’s the way she sat on the edge of his desk and the cool air tickled in the moist heat in between her legs. Or the little tinge of pride from cancelling his office hours just for her. Or perhaps a combination of it all. Irresponsible, to be sure, but she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t flattered how much he desired her, as if it were anything to question. She thinks, in foolish desperation, that the odds are in their favour this time.

 She’s wet and ready from his fingers playing with her as they kiss, bringing him closer with her legs as her soft moans are muffled by his lips. Her hands reach for the buckle of his belt and she chuckles lightly when she detours further south to palm the erection under the cloth of his pants. Let’s free it, she thought then and refocused on the buckle, because she is fed up with all this teasing and none of the fingering. He’s given her a light orgasm already - the kind that leaves her wanting, that she only needed to bite down on her lip for - but it’s made her insatiable now. There’s just something so good about having him in her, and as much as she loves his fingers and dexterity, they cannot mimic the stretch and feeling of fullness he alone provides.  “I want you,” she murmurs under his lips, drunk from her lust, as she unbuckled the belt with practiced fingers.

 Loud and obnoxious, an alarm suddenly blares. Sound fills the room and it’s like a bucket of cold water over her; it takes them both a moment to recenter themselves back to earth. Her fingers uncurl from his pants and inwardly she mourns the loss of contact. The urge to keep going is strong; after all, when are fire alarms set off for a legitimate reasons anyway? It’s an irrational thought and Riza can hardly hear anything else. They fix themselves up hastily and exit the building; everybody they pass seemingly none the wiser. She lets herself drift away from him - a few metres and several people between them when they reach the evacuation point, reminding herself that there are other people here and this close to the end of classes is no excuse to relax her standards. She’s just...frustrated. A voice that sounds a lot like Rebecca’s teases that she’s actually just horny.

 If she’s honest, she hates the shame that trickles down her spine at this unadulterated want. In a different time, with a less conservative upbringing to influence her choices, she wouldn’t find this shame and guilt currently she’s currently wrestling with. She would be more like Rebecca or even Olivier where it’s not on her radar, coming and going as she pleases. But if her circumstances were different, she probably wouldn’t even be here, studying for a Bachelor of Science as a means to connect with her absentee father.

 Riza miraculously catches his eyes as the crowd slowly shuffles further back on the field as more people spill out of the Joseph Hunter Science Building. He mouths something to her, but her lipreading is terrible and she shrugs her shoulders, lifting up her phone to their field of vision.

 Spanish Inquisition, 10:23am 10 minutes leaves enough time to return the favor of the other night.

 The fire alarm had killed most of their time before her next class, but she forgoes punctuality in favor of four minutes of feeling his hair in between her fingers while his lips kiss in between her legs. In the end, her tardiness was excused.

 Finally - finally, she thinks they’ve managed a miracle. Her final assignments are as ready as they’ll ever be, waiting for one final read-over before submission, and his last block of essays have been graded and handed back to their respective classes. Draped over him in the same chair in his apartment study where they first fucked, she’s allowing herself to celebrate as she cups his jaw with her hands, her tongue sliding against his pleasantly.

He hardens underneath her and she’s none too shy about unbuttoning his shirt as he has done for her. Pushed down to her elbows, the shirt is rid of her and it’s a painful few seconds when she pulls away to be free of it properly. He looks sinfully decadent beneath her, a lazy smirk growing on his face as one hand deliberately hooks a finger under her bra strap, tugging it down. Her lingerie choices have been adventurous in recent weeks - the pastel blue lacy number she’s currently wearing is definitely not designed for any exercise more taxing than walking, and judging by the way his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat, Riza knows with certainty that she’s found a keeper.

His fingers brush over her nipples, and she briefly shuts her eyes as he pinches before pulling the fabric down and draws her close, tongue soothing the puckered skin. Her hands curl into his hair, scratching at his scalp and Riza’s uncaring of the breathy moans leaving her - this is divine, and the wait has certainly been worth it.

Roy’s hands drift down and slide under her skirt, fingers gliding over the sensitive skin on the inside of her thighs, leaving tingling sensations in its wake. He is only mere inches from her arousal and a great deal of willpower goes into preventing herself from pushing his hand forward.

He takes off his glasses and she sets them behind her on the large desk. Her hands go through his hair as he cups her breast and brings her other nipple into his mouth, using his tongue to tease the tip and even nip at it gently with his teeth. His other hand clutches at her ass to bring her closer as if the distance they have was remotely unbearable. Riza gasps into his hair, grinding her hips over his lap, and his scent is mixed with sweat. It’s a dangerous, addicting blend, and she shudders in his lap as his fingers stroke across her bare skin. He releases her nipple slowly from between his teeth before shifting back to her other one and she remembers a joke he said about her breasts deserving equal treatment.

And then, in the middle of this achingly wonderful treatment - his ringtone goes off.

Roy groans for all the wrong reasons, throwing his head back. He keeps them steady as he awkwardly reaches his back pocket for his phone. “Pfft, it’s just Hughes,” he mutters after a concerted effort and sets the cell down on the chair of the arm. Softer and locked on her other unattended breast, he mumbles with a mouth full of her, “He can leave a message.”

Riza doesn’t remember which one is Hughes and she’s not given much time to think about it when his mouth returns to her breast and his hand squeezes, massages, tweaks at the other. She’s at the point of moaning out if you say so when the vibrations and standard tune rings out again.

He stops altogether and after a few seconds, it dies to a stop only to start up again. His attention is needed again, and she’s never felt quite as pissed off at an inanimate object as she does right now. Roy growls and sits back, picking up the phone. “Let me just see what he wants.”

She nods wordlessly and he starts the conversation, going beyond standard small talk after a few moments. She can hear the other man talking; an excitable person who gets even more excited when he talks about certain topics. She can’t discern what they’re talking about exactly, but Roy gives the occasional mhm and yeah when it’s warranted.  

Riza figures she can go wait for him in the bedroom. Perhaps sprawled out with a bright, blinking sign that says ‘insert here’ in between her legs should he fail to see how much she wanted him that afternoon; she blames Rebecca’s influence for that kind of ridiculous humor. Riza starts to climb off him and stops when she’s kept in place from his hand gripping the fabric of her skirt. He wants her to stay there? She frowns and points at the phone. His brows furrow and he shakes his head, putting a finger over his mouth, telling her to be quiet.

Well, she can go be quiet in the other room. She can respect his privacy. It’s not a big deal; they had the entire evening to themselves. Well, nearly - but she’d be damned if she’d let any other distractions interrupt them after this call. She deserves to be fucked thoroughly.

Roy is apparently impatient, however. The hand holding the finger over his mouth flattens over her thigh and coasts up to the edge of her skirt. He thumbs the skin there, teasing the idea that he could touch her in the middle of this conversation. She looks at him knowingly when he crosses underneath the folds of her skirt, yet he continues on talking as though nothing has happened. He caresses the skin inside her thighs as he talks about something or the other: Riza isn’t concentrating on that, instead absorbed with the sensation of his fingers drifting higher and higher. She waits patiently, but his touch somehow makes her hotter, wetter. A devious finger lightly ghosts over the linen of her damp underwear and he says a perfectly timed “Oh?” towards the caller and to her. Riza blushes and grabs at his wrist.

She can sit up, she can leave the room, she knows that he’d respect that, but she doesn’t want to. She realizes there’s a morbid curiosity as to how and why he does things and she always wants to know. This is moment is one of them. It’s why she doesn’t stop him when he tugs aside the cloth of her underwear and wets his fingers with what’s in between her lips. Her frown dissipates and she gasps as if she’s been starved from his touch, like it’s an electrifying drug she’s been having withdrawals from. The sensations of his fingers rubbing against her clit is familiar and unknown, and she lets her head fall back, relishing in the feeling and clawing lightly at the armchair.

His fingers leave her and he cleans them off with his mouth before gesturing her to be quiet with a finger over his mouth again. She thinks she can hear his friend say “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he responds, looking directly at her with a devious glint in his eyes. “Just eating. Go on.”

A warm tingle shoots down her spine and spreads across her abdomen down to her groin. She’s been enraptured by a lunatic and she’s allowed it to happen, even now when he aims to touch her again.  With a bite to her knuckle, she grasps at his loosened shirt when his fingers return to remind her how obnoxiously needy she has become. Giving into this notion, she moves to hover over his lap for shameless access. He bites a bottom lip at this, staring her from the wrinkled mess of her skirt to her flushed, knuckle-biting face. She’s wet enough that an easy orgasm is on the horizon from the slow, rubbing stimulation on her clit. Riza makes the mistake of thinking he’ll stop there, because then one finger enters her and then another. Her reaction is unexpected, even to her. She falls back to his lap and bites the fleshy side of her palm to quell the noises. Her spread legs allow him to finger her, so he does. Slowly. In and out, and the noises would make her die of mortification if she weren’t enjoying every satisfyingly building moment of this pleasure. His palm is hitting her stimulated clit with each stroke and she’s grasping at his shirt once more, trying to salvage what solid ground she can keep as the pleasure rises within her..

He slows down when she’s at the precipice of a delicious orgasm that she even licks her lips, and decides to become an active participant in his phone call. But it’s not in English. He shifts to Spanish while his hand moves against her more patiently. She tries to catch her breath from holding it but it’s impossible not to listen to the way he’s talking. It’s fascinating how melodic a different language sounds and how much of a turn on it is for her. He speaks this language faster. His R’s roll off his tongue and somehow there’s more sensuality in his voice. It’s mesmerizing.

His attention turns back to her when moments ago he was staring at some place off to the side. He looks to her hips and she doesn’t even realize - until he does - how subtly she was moving them. Roy pauses, eyebrows furrowed before a downright hungry grin forms on his face, and his fingers begin to move once more.

“Estoy eschuchando,” he answers the person on the other line, his diction shifting into a huskier tone, each syllable pronounced lower and slower. She thought it was bad enough when he spoke it casually, but when he did it deliberately? She can only handle so much stimuli, and by this point she’s uncaring of how shameless she’s acting, how she’s become putty in his hands. She’s drunk on this orgasm she can feel barrelling towards her, on the lust and desire she feels for him. She’s never felt it quite like this before - this want that feels more like a need with every passing second. She wants to take the phone and hang it up for him, but she opts for pulling at the collar of his partially unbuttoned shirt and biting the taut muscle at the meeting of his neck and shoulder. He maintains that paced fingering in and out of her. She knows she’s tightening around his fingers because of the paced movement.

With his deliberate words at her ear, his fingers inside her, and the smell of his bare skin, she climaxes against him, taking deep breaths and every measure to stifle the moans and groans. Her head rests over his shoulder, hot breath hitting his neck. She can see him swallowing and doesn’t know why she didn’t think to give him the same torturing she just endured.

He’s hard. She can feel it and see it in this light. She palms it, clutches it, strokes it, and he swallows thickly again. He sounds strained when he cuts off the caller and abruptly says, “I’ll have to call you back.” Roy ends the call and the phone is tossed to the wayside as his fingers slide out of her.

She grabs his cock harder and he surprises her by standing up, supporting her by her underside until she’s laid on his desk directly behind her, over the papers she had spent last week meticulously highlighting. She lifts her hips to help with the removal of her own underwear. As he works with his own pants she tries to salvage what’s underneath her to little success. Distracted by her menial task, she gasps, surprised, when her wrists are manacled and set at either side of her head. Her breathing is heavy, his too. The tip of him nudges at her entrance and she moves against it, towards it just for the stretch a little bit more of him inside her.

“A little bird tells me you have a secret.”

Riza smiles coyly after a futile attempt to use her legs to bring him forward. “Hardly a secret if you know about it,” she manages, half-heartedly trying to move her arms. He doesn’t budge an inch, his smile dark and promising. She supposes at this point nothing should really surprise her when it comes to her newfound appreciation for less-than-vanilla sex, but there’s just something so inherently sexy about being pinned down by him, even as simply as she is right now. The temporary loss of control is so easy to lose herself in.

Roy observes her hungrily. “A kink then.”

The initial thrust makes her gasp sharply and he groans pleasantly. Her limbs dangle off the side as he fucks her over his desk. Where he was well-paced before, he is erratic now, but he won’t find complaint from her in that regard. She has no means of quieting herself with her hands where they are, and biting down at her teeth proves inefficient when each of his thrusts touch places she’s been yearning for weeks, when the stretch she’s been hungry for is finally given to her. Her eyes are shut, mouth open, body subject to this carnal movement. She doesn’t think to see beyond her eyes for the time being, what expressions his face is making or anything that will  take her away from the here and now of the feelings of the sex. She feels selfish for relishing in this, but fuck, it’s been a long time coming and this sex proves it.

He lets go of her wrists and brings her toward him to hang just a little more over the desk by way of her legs.  She reaches over her head at the other end of the desk, moaning into the inside of her arm, clutching the edge as if it were her salvation from plunging into the deep.

Her eyes open suddenly when he thumbs her clit. She looks at him and there’s a wolfish grin on his face, enjoying her reactions in the ways she squirms, moans, mewls, and tightens. Her fingernails scratch at the desk for purchase, for breath, but he continues with sweat beading his brow until he grunts a little louder and his final thrusts hit deeper as he cums inside her.

Her own orgasm follows shortly after, and she’s left quivering on the desk, well aware of the sight she is before him. She can feel his seed leaking out of her as her pulls out, and automatically her fingers move to catch it - like hell was she going to completely debase the paperwork that was crumpled underneath her. He utters a strange, strained grunt, running a hand through his hair roughly.

“I’ve told you, you can’t just do that with no warning.”

“Oh?” Her hand rises back up to her mouth and she wets her lower lip in anticipation. “Do this?” Her tongue darts out to lap at the milky, viscous fluid and while the taste is not delightful, the reaction that he has most certainly is. She barely has time to repeat her actions before his hand closes firmly over her own, and pulling her up to a sitting position at the edge of his desk.

“No,” he tells her firmly, though the matching smile on his lips belies any real annoyance. “If you’re going to be the death of me I’d at least like to get my money’s worth.” The kiss he drops on her forehead is soft. “I’ll get you a washcloth,” he says, fixing up his trousers loosely. The faint trail of hair sticks out against his lower abdomen like a beacon and Riza swallows the urge to coax him back for another round.

She adjusts the straps of her bra back up on her shoulders and nicks his discarded shirt from the ground. Her skirt is a crumpled, lost cause, and Riza makes a mental note to pick up an iron at some point this weekend - she hadn’t noticed it immediately, but of the many appliances Olivier had taken with her, the iron was the one she had relied on the most. Rebecca had bitched endlessly about the mini espresso machine that had also disappeared, though it had quickly been replaced.

She rolls up the sleeves of his shirt as she walks down the hallway towards the kitchen, humming under her breath. Roy would probably appreciate a cup of coffee, she thinks, focusing on doing the buttons up correctly as she passes by the island countertop and the man sitting there.

She stills, before turning to make sure she’s seeing right. The man looks up from the plate in front of him and raises his mug in greeting, the lowlights from the kitchen reflecting strangely on his glasses.

“You kids had fun?” he asks, before taking a sip. His tone is light, breezy, and he gestures to the plate in front of him when she doesn’t respond. “You’re probably hungry after that, uh-” he breaks off laughing, ducking his head “-after that workout. My wife made a quiche - you should have some, it is the best in the world, and I’m not biased.”

next

[dezembergirl]

Mr. Darcy

Umm, I guess I’m sorry for not posting it what feels like half a year *hides behind the list of excuses I prepared*

But in all seriousness, I’m sorry. I’ve been super busy and uni just doesn’t go well with writing regularly. So I’m actually proud I finished this. Although its a little rushed I hope you enjoy it!

If you have any inspiration for the next part, leave me a comment. I can’t promise regular updates, but I I will try. <3

Part of a series (part one, part two, part three, part four and five) (as always inspired by @nonibanoni)

Fandom: Skam

Pairing: Noorhelm

originally published to ao3

Noora had already crossed half of the school yard before Nissen when a routine grip into her backpack made her freeze mid step. The usual mess of books, pencils and separate strips of gum that were her backpack was disrupted by a soft piece of knitted wool. Noora frowned and the creases on her forehead deepened when the memories of last night came back to her.

They had been watching a movie at his apartment with Noora curled against William’s side. He had made her another cup of cocoa and given her his biggest smile yet when Noora had taken a sip and concluded it was better than the store made one from earlier in the day. The chocolate trickling down her throat had warmed her but the cold from their stroll had still remained in her limbs.

«Never would have guessed you being so cold sensitive.» William had mumbled against her ear while tugging a plain grey blanket around her torso.

Noora had bitten her lip at that but hadn’t found a fitting response - silence was always preferable to a flimsy comeback. The blanket cocoon and Williams arm wrapped around her shoulder had brought her body back to a tolerable temperature. Well that and the not so infrequent kisses they had sneaked back and forth throughout the movie. A few times his lips had even trailed from hers to wander across her neck. Noora only prayed he hadn’t left any visible marks that might cause awkward questions which she couldn’t very well answer. With every peck her lips had softened to his and by the time the end credits rolled across William’s fittingly oversized tv screen, Noora had been completely drawn under his spell. So much so in fact that she hadn’t even tried to refuse him wrapping his scarf - the one she had already borrowed for there not-a-date date earlier -around her bare neck before driving her home.

Stealing one’s boyfriend’s clothing was an incredibly cliché thing to do and Noora had never really seen the appeal in it. Not that she had never considered the idea. She had seen Eva’s impressive collection of snatched sweaters first hand countless times. It somehow felt wrong to take something that didn’t belong to her. Noora knew she shouldn’t feel as guilty as she did. It wasn’t like she stole his scarf on purpose in the first place. It had been an honest mistake and he had not demanded it back either. Still she hated being in his debt, even for a silly thing like this.

Noora’s fingers curled around the softly knitted material - she would have to return it. The idea was so silly she almost had to laugh out loud. Noora Sætre, the girl that valued nothing more than her own independence, was threatened by a feeble scarf. It wasn’t the item itself that unnerved her, but the very likely possibility of William using it to force her into seeing him again. Yesterday been wonderful and she was well aware that she probably liked him more than she should and it was exactly because of that undeniable attraction that she had to lay low for a couple of days. The scarf needed to be returned, as soon as possible. She huffed and was about to take it out of her backpack for better inspection.

«Noora, so good to see you.» Vilde hurried up the steps to catch up with her. The scarf in one hand and her brows furrowed Noora turned around.

«I was so worried about you. Eva told me you took off early Friday. But you really can’t just leave like that, without telling anyone, Noora.» Shit, she had completely forgotten about the aftermath of the Penetrator party. Her mouth opened but Vilde’s forward statement had caught her off guard. She closed her mouth again and with a haste that didn’t fit her normal calm composure she forced the scarf back into the depths of her backpack. Vilde followed her hands and pushed her head to the side with a questioning look dancing across her face.

«Noora, what is going on?» Vilde squinted her eyes to try and see what Noora was doing a very bad job of hiding from her.

«Nothing» she swung the backpack over her shoulder and gave Vilde a reassuring smile. «I … I just forgot my Englisch paper at the apartment. Eskild loves going through my stuff, so yeah.» a nervous giggle escaped her lips and Vilde’s eyes grew even wider. The awkward pause that followed resulted in Noora biting her lip and forcing herself to look anywhere but her friends inquisitive eyes.

When Vilde finally spoke again, the discomfort of the situation became glaringly obvious. «Okay, you can borrow mine if you want.» Noora deflated in relief and was about to resume their walk across the yard when Vilde crossed her arms before her oversized down jacket. «What’s going on, Noora? You’re hiding something and I know it!» the possibility of new exciting gossip suddenly litt up her eyes. Noora huffed and was about to tell Vilde off, explaining how some people disliked the idea of having their private lives echoed across the school yard and in consequence the whole damn school.

But before she could even attempt to open her mouth in protest. Eva scooted around the corner and a little out of breath added to Noora’s demise. «Who’s hiding what?»

She looked excitedly between Noora and Vilde, who almost squealed in delight at having a witness to her commencing interrogation. «Noora isn’t telling us something. She’s been acting weird all week.» Noora rolled her eyes. «I have not.»

«You did and I’m not stupid you know.» Vilde swung into full gear. «First you disappear from the party on Friday without a word.»

«I was tired and went home.» Now it was Noora’s turn to cross her arms in annoyance.

«Then you don’t write back for like a whole day?» Vilde was ticking each incriminatory observation off on her fingers. «You disappear again after school yesterday and whatever you have in your backpack, I’m sure its something your new girlfriend gave you.» she finished with a satisfactory smirk.

Noora never blushed but she did now. The almost painful accuracy of what Vilde had just deducted fired her cheeks bright crimson. She pursed her lips and did her best to send Eva beside her - who apparently found no shame in straight out laughing at the whole situation - her most menacing glare.

«I do not have a girlfriend» at least that part wasn’t a lie «and I really don’t appreciate you following my every move.» Noora retorted but Vilde only seemed to take her defense as further confirmation of an underlying plot that she had yet to discover.

Noora had never been this thankful to hear the bell shrill inside Nissen’s walls. Without another word - but nevertheless two sharp looks directed at Vide and Eva - she pulled on Eva’s arm forcing her into the B building. «We’ve been late to Spanish twice already this semester and we don’t wanna risk detention, right?» she growled at her beanie clad friend.

«I surrender.» Eva held her hands up in mock defense «but you are in deep trouble. Vilde won’t let this one go so easily.»

Noora gritted her teeth. Eva was right, this one was far from over.

-

The morning lessons dragged on and recess carried over into their afternoon classes without any notable occurrences but Noora was almost glad for the slow day. She had no shared classed with Vilde but Eva’s knowing glances were agonizing enough. Plus the scarf was still in her backpack, which she made sure to keep an eye on at all times. The last thing Noora needed right now was someone tracing it back to William - she was almost certain she had witnessed him wear it at school at multiple instances.

She could try and find out about William’s class schedule but they had no mutual friends and the only conceivable person she could think of to ask, was not a possibility. Vilde, who had never seen the need in hiding her unending obsession with William, had no doubt memorized his entire timetable. Noora could try and look for him in the yard or the cafeteria but what where the chances of actually meeting him and she had no idea how she would justify her recurring disappearance to her friends.

Noora twisted her pen while Eva struggled with a Spanish crossword puzzle beside her. The whole situation was all due to her recklessness last night - something she swore to herself couldn’t happen again. It would be useless to look for William between her lessons. Even if she managed to find him she couldn’t very well approach him out of the blue. He was never alone and Noora was not about to embarrass  herself in front of the Penetrators. The thought alone made her grit her teeth and slump against the back of her chair. Her pen tapped against the finished paper and she let her gaze wander around the pale class room walls. Most of her class mates were hunched over their desks and it was impossible to tell if they actually focused on the exercise or rather their phones - the latter was more likely.

She could text William of course. Not that she hadn’t thought of that before. Her inner need for control had lead to her scrolling through their exchanged messages since Friday during the last quarter of her Norwegian lesson. Whatever this was between them, it was progressing faster than she had anticipated and that fact alone made her nerves recoil in mute panic. Noora wasn’t shy to admit to her inner control freak. Eskild had remarked on that very fact countless times; how her closet was never messy, her part of the fridge always in perfect order or how she hadn’t skipped a single day of classes since coming back to Oslo. But now that her naturally anxious mind mixed with a secret romance she had to hide from - well - everyone, something was bound to go wrong. Noora couldn’t text him. He had always been the one to initiate their conversations and her writing him in the middle of class would only encourage him even more in his pursuits. It was the last thing she needed.

When her attention driftet back to the finished crossword in front of her, Noora noticed that Eva had managed to find the better part of the words and was now watching her expectantly.

«What?» Noora stopped tapping her pen.

«Nothing» Eva pursed her lips to hide a smirk «It’s just, I think Vilde hit the nail square on the head. You’re hiding something, or better someone.»

«Well, I am not and I really don’t care anymore if you believe me or not.» she retraced the already written letters on her paper.

«Noora Amalie Sætre» - wasn’t it enough that William apparently loved saying her full name every chance he got; now Eva had to adopted the habit as well? - «for all the intelligent things you say, you’re a fucking terrible liar.» Noora only rolled her eyes in response. Eva looked almost as pleased with herself as Vilde had earlier.

«What’s really in your backpack?» Eva pocked at her sweater. «He isn’t writing you secret love letters, is he?» her eyes grew big.

«Oh my god, why the hell would you even think that?» Noora forced out, careful not to raise her voice too much.

«I don’t know if you’ve encountered a mirror today, but…» Eva gave her a shameless grin.

«What?» Noora almost squeaked, already dreading the answer.

«Well, I mean the turtle neck helps but you kind of have a …» Eva coughed to suppress a laugh and motioned at her own neck «… a spot on your … your neck.» Noora almost gasp out loud.

«What?» she tried to surprise the rising panic while she scrambled for her phone and opened the front camera. Her fingers scoured the pale skin on her neck and sure enough there was a light purple mark visible just above her collar bone «Oh god.»

«Don’t worry, it’s not very noticeable. Just keep your sweater up and you’ll be fine.» Eva couldn’t resist a smile «It’s actually kind of cute.»

«I really can’t get any worse.» Noora buried her head in her hands and evaded Eva’s sharp eyes.

«So, are you gonna tell me what was so embarrassing you’ve practically been sitting on you backpack all day?»

«No, not really.»

«Oh, come on» ,Eva scoffed. «You’re no fun today.»

«Please, just let it go.» she almost begged, being painful aware of hoe red her face must have gotten in the past ten minutes.

«Okay … but you’ll have to tell me at some point.» Eva waved her pencil at her in a scolding motion. «If it’s really a love letter, I need to know. William might be a secret Mr. Darcy.» Eva widened her eyes at her own imagination.

«Oh my god, no. It’s not a freaking love letter.»

She really needed to get rid of the damn scarf, and soon.

-

When they finished Spanish and before Eva could drag her off to meet up with the others, Noora excused herself to the bathroom - ignoring Eva’s knowing looks. She rested her backpack next to the sinks and pulled out her phone.

Noora: Can I meet you after school? I’m off at 16:10

She sent the message and gnawed at her lip as she waiting for a reply. Not a full minute later the three dots appeared and her nails started to tap again her phone in a matching rhythm.

William: Sure, already miss me that much?

Noora: Not really, but I need to return something

William: Ok

Then nothing, and Noora started to wonder if texting him had been the best idea. She couldn’t estimate his response to her wanting to return the scarf. Would he find it silly or even be hurt by it? Her nerves went into overdrive once again.

William: 14:20 at my car

Noora exhaled. Now it would only be a matter of shaking off Eva with whom she had the last class together.

-

Apparently she had endured enough embarrassment for today, because when the last bell rang Eva announced that she had dance practice and took off without another cheeky comment about Noora’s situation. Maybe she had just wanted to spare Noora any further embarrassments. Either way, she was glad not to have to find an excuse to sneak off to William’s car.

William was already leaning against said car and the light coming from the street lamps hit him just right in that moment. Noora bit her lip, compelling herself to keep the fluttering tingles in her stomach at bay. The past days had awoken a part of her that had a taken a liking to defying all reason. Realizing how weird she must look, standing there eying William from afar, she paced towards the car.

His head was shielded from her view by the usual gray hoody and his eyes were distracted by his phone - most likely texting Chris. The neatly tucked away pieces of dark hair sneak out from the hoodie. Noora pursed her lips but the smile still spread across her face.

«Hey» she leaned against the car just inches away from him, breathing the words as close to his ear as possible. And just like she had when he had whispered into her ear in the school corridor his body jumped and Williams eyes widened in a moment of shock.

Satisfied with his reaction, Noora tilted her head and smirked at him.

«Missing something?» she dragged the zipper on her backpack open.

«Besides you, you mean.» William pushes his hair back into the hoodie.

Noora had to restrain herself from rolling her eyes for what felt the hundredth time this day. «I’m being serious.»

«Me too.» William curls his lips upwards and pushed off the side of the car. They are barely a twenty meters away from the B building but to her own surprise Noora didn’t retreat back when he reached for her hand. He is careful when he touched her and his hand gently pulled hers closer until she found herself enveloped in his arms. «I mean it, Noora. Knowing you’re just a few classrooms away and being unable to see you is torturous.»

Noora smiled and relaxed into the hug. Her inner rational self scolded her for enjoying this, but hearing him say it out loud - how he missed her even though it hasn’t even been 24 hours - felt good. «You’re exaggerating.» she whispered and lets out a squeal when he suddenly retreated and let her fall back against the car.

«Don’t mock my honest feelings, Sætre.» William playfully shook his finger at her.

«Well, you do deserve it.» she crossed her arms and leaned against the hood of his car.

«What for?» he flipped his hair back for the millionth time.

«For leaving me to explain this to Eva!» Noora forgot all about the backpack lying on the ground and reached up to her neck, pulling the cream coloured fabric of her turtle neck sweater down to the line of er collarbones.

Williams eyes widened in surprise for a moment but he quickly recovered and Noora gasped in outrage when he proceeded to lick his lips. His eyes narrowed and he didn’t look the least bit ashamed when they roamed across the bare skin of her neck, examining the purple mark.

«Stop looking so god damn smug.» she gave his chest a playful push and his eyes flickered back up to meet hers.

«Sorry, I apologize.» he smirked at her.

«You don’t really mean that.» Noora tightened her grip on his chest, effectively latching onto his hoodie.

«No.» his smile grew when she hit him with another light punch. «I mean, I am sorry for the situation it got you in, but I certainly won’t apologize for kissing you.»

She opened her mouth to retort something clever and for the second time in two hours her mind was empty for a fitting response.

«You don’t regret it either, do you?» he moved closer to her ear, pushing her tighter against his car in the progress.

No, she didn’t but in that moment Noora would have given anything not to having to admit that out loud. The memory of last night, the movie - its plot she could hardly remember - and William kissing her with increased frequency made her cheeks flame with heat. She sensed her resolve weakening when his hand found her neck and sneaked higher into her hair. His second hand slipped under her coat to rest against her waist and she felt heat pool in her body.

«William» she murmured.

«Mhm» his breath was hot in contrast to the chilly spring temperatures and the contact drew goose bumps across her skin. Her protest evaporated into nothing more than a content sigh when his lips finally found her bottom one. Her nerve endings buzzed with excitement and his torturously slow movements left her aching for more. This was so much better than the crappy love letters Eva had been fantasizing about. But before either of them had a chance to deepen the kiss the car parked two spots to their left kicked into action and Noora jumped backwards at the sound of the roaring motor.

Her already racing heart threatened to explode in her chest and William - who looked surprised but nowhere near as shocked as she felt - burst into laughter.

«Not funny.» Noora sent him a threatening look but he only liked over his lips and shrugged his shoulders. «You should have seen your face, priceless.»

«Unbelievable» she huffed and picked her discarded backpack up from the floor. She tugged the scarf free from her books and all but smashed the thing into his face. That only made him laugh louder.

«Sorry. Okay, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.» he scrambled to catch the scarf and without another look disregarded it to the hood of his car. Noora followed his hands and wasn’t sure if she should be astonished or frustrated with him. Either way she envied the carefree attitude he handled all of this - whatever this was between them - with.

«A cup of cocoa to make it up to you?» he pulled her closer again. But this time Noora was quicker and dipped under his arm and away from his car.

«Not today. I do have other things to do in my life than sipping cocoa and watching movies at your apartment you know.» with that she gave him one last peck and hurried out of the parking lot.

Noora certainly did look forward to the next time she could spent all day with him and his hot cocoa. She would have her revenge for the hicky.

[quakerjoe]

Alabama, Roy Moore, and what about innocent until proven guilty? A Cuppa Joe...

This is a case of the painfully obvious now becoming obvious, and how it's going to explode from here. We've decided, as a people, that women should be considered as equals, and afforded the same rights and courtesy as men. We've also, as a people in general, decided that it's all for show and that men in #Murica (again, in general) will treat women like shit, pay them less, harass them on all levels, and pretty much view them as lesser beings that men want to fuck or make fun of. This bullshit "glass ceiling" doesn't exist. It's a false barrier that isn't there. There's nothing to break but old, bad habits and patterns of treating women like it' their fault they're treated like shit (and to a degree it is) compiled with the fact that most parents of boys don't exactly teach them to be kind, empathetic, and gentlemanly. But what is a gentleman in the 21st century? To some, it's a man who is polite and treats a woman well while to others, he's a misogynist or a harasser. There's no winning in this period of time and transition. More to the point, this sort of thing is having serious repercussions akin to the days of the Spanish Inquisition where now a woman's "he did it" is taken as fact, without legal recourse. Should Moore drop out because of all the accusations? Anyone with dignity or class would. Should Al Franken? Should Trump? The case against Moore is ongoing and damning. Franken's initial accuser got an apology and she "forgave him", so that should be it. Nobody's got a right to be more offended or hurt than the victim here. Still, Franken himself has called upon Congress to do an ethics investigation upon himself. Will that get him fucked-over? Yes. Why? Because he's not a Republican. Bill Mahar pointed this out a couple of weeks ago- Sexual Misconduct/Harassment is a bi-partisan issue, but the difference between Democrats and GOPers is that Democrats prosecute and jail theirs; Republicans elect them. In the case of Moore, this isn't some new revelation here; his behavior has been known and well documented for decades. It's hitting news because national news media is covering the election and all the skeletons in all closets get dragged out in this sort of thing. Alabama's clearly fine with electing pedos and all manner of disgusting people because that's who they are. It's not some gulf coast paradise down there. While it has some merits, for the most part, the people are dumber than a bucket of stale fuck on a hot day and they have ZERO interest in upping their game in education, but threaten to take funding from football or enact gun laws and these caveman throwbacks lose their shit. Alabama's long-term "open secret" has been Roy Moore. They all knew, still know, and still keep him in the running, and he's going to win that election. A court case against him will never happen unless by some miracle it becomes a federal case, and even then, so what? Nobody's openly going after Trump for his sexual assaults. Nobody's openly going after all the others making the news and pressing for jail time. Nobody. Women have the power, in more "civilized" parts of the US to destroy a man's life and/or career (rightfully or not) by making claims of sexual misconduct. Some, like Roger Ailes, Bill O'Reilly, got quiet out of court settlements for tons of cash, but jail time? Nada. The story ended, but the reputations of those two assholes went up in flames. It works on either side of the aisle. It demonstrates the obvious; that women in the workplace get harassed. They'll take a payoff from a rich employer, as most people would. I've known guys in places I've worked who got written up for sexual harassment, simply for telling an "unsavory" joke within earshot of a woman who got offended. I know a guy who got written up when his "BIG CRIME" was telling a co-worker that she looked nice today. That was it. A mar on his record for trying to be nice. So while this is becoming a "War of the Sexes", rather than uniting us under some common flag like "Humanist" or the often misunderstood "Feminist" label, it's further dividing us all, and legal proceedings won't matter worth a damn. Once you're accused of sexual misconduct, no matter how bad the case is, you're doomed as a man. Roy Moore trods on, even though he's stalked and statutory raped young girls, yet no charges or repercussions for him. Al Franken does something stupid as a joke (no matter how tasteless it may seem to anyone, it was STILL done in humor, and his 'accuser' ended up being a Trump die-hard) and GOPers want him burned at the stake. Innocent until proven guilty? Bollocks. Word of mouth is all it takes now, so men beware. If you've EVER in your life done or said something stupid that might have offended a woman, keep a look out over your shoulder. It may come back to end your career. Next to Moore, Franken's "crime" seems trivial at best,especially since it was debunked (like that matters to anyone as that bit's made little news at all). We love to pride ourselves on "Innocent until proven guilty", but we all know that's bullshit, don't we? We put kids in prison en masse (especially non-white) for petty crimes, hold them for long periods of time without bail or a bail amount so high they'll never afford it, and make them wait (speedy trial? Bollocks!) for months or even years before a judge sees them. Even if found innocent, they've spent all that time in jail without recompense. We're a shady nation, on so many levels, and this is either going to be an age of reformation and enlightenment, or the age where the US falls apart finally because its ego outweighed the inferior infrastructure struggling to hold it's bloated ego up.

[radio-active-imagination]

Ghosts, Kimchi, and Clogged Toilets (Fanfic)

Summary:  A few days before Halloween, ghosts begin terrorizing BTS. Set around Halloween 2014.

Night 1 a few days before halloween, jimin was practicing his lip biting and sexy faces in a bathroom mirror. wow, I am hot, he thought to himself. suddenly a ghost appeared behind him. it had a rotting face, was wrapped in a white sheet, and smelled like unwashed armpits.

jimin thought it was himself at first, and screamed in horror. then the ghost grabbed him by the shoulder and cackled in a low, demonic voice. "hi," it said quietly. "what is it?" said jungkook from the other room. "do you have a zit?" "j-j-jungkook," stammered jimin. "help." jungkook came into the bathroom. "hyung, jinjja--gaaah!" he jumped back against the doorframe. the ghost dumped rotten egg and kimchi on them and then ran out, its shoes squeaking on the floor.

the next day in the practice room, jungkook and jimin told everyone about it. v's eyes were very big as jungkook described the ghost. "it went past me into the bathroom. it smelled like unwashed armpits, but I ignored it because I thought it was suga," said jungkook. j-hope giggled and suga gave jungkook a look that could have boiled tungsten.

Night 2 jin had to go get rapmon's ipod from his room because his died. with the hallway light, jin looked at the horrific state of the dark room. "rapmon..." he sighed. carefully, he picked his way over to the room's light switch. suddenly, a sheet clad figure arose from a pile of suga's ripped jeans, right next to jin. jin squeaked in fear, stumbled, and fell on his butt. jin wasn't very scared though, because this ghost had just a floral-patterned sheet draped over its body. it gave jin a wet willy and ran out.

Night 3 v opened a closet and a mannequin dressed as suga fell out. it was smelly and had ugly eyes. but the real suga was sleeping in the practice room.

Night 4 v was taking a shower. when he came out, someone had written "HELO" in the steam on the mirror. he blinked his big eyes in soft, cowlike surprise. rapmon came in to get his toothbrush, and snorted when he saw the mirror. "v u spelled that wrong." "i didn't write it," said v, his eyes big and innocent. rapmon dropped his toothbrush in the toilet.

several hours later, bts depressedly sat down outside the bathroom. They had tried to get rapmon's toothbrush out of the toilet with some wire hangars, their hands, the toilet brush, and the plunger, but had only succeeded in overflowing the toilet and half flooding the bathroom. It was 3 AM, so they couldn't call a plumber. j-hope's hair looked like a rat had been chewing on it, and v smelled like a toilet. jungkook was trying to hold his breath. "i think those ghosts are out to get us," said jimin. "why, though?" jin wondered. "we haven't done anything bad or anything that would make ghosts want to haunt us...have we?" everyone slowly shook their heads.

Night 5 v was going to get in j-hope's bed. but when he touched the blankets, they shocked him with static electricity. j-hope moved. The blanket crackled and lit up with static electricity, and j-hope's eyes glowed in the dark!! after v's sudden shock of fear melted away like butter on a hot skillet, he saw that the eyes were glow in the dark googly eyes stuck on j-hope's face. v giggled his deep giggle and pulled the eyes off. j-hope woke up, saw the eyes, and screamed like a little girl. he jerked backwards and banged his head on the wall.

after that, j-hope decided to stay up and catch the ghosts. he didn't have to wait long. a ghost started sneaking up to jin's room. j-hope tiptoed up and tapped the ghost on the shoulder. "boo," he said. the ghost turned around to see j-hope grinning manaically. the ghost screamed at the sight of j-hope's face. it sounded like a chipmunk. j-hope screamed at the sight of the ghost's face. it was wearing a scream mask. they both ran away in opposite directions.

Night 6 rapmon was in the kitchen looking for the last ramen packet that suga had hidden. suddenly he smelled a wave of grandma perfume and mothballs and saw a flutter of floral-patterned sheet out of the corner of his eye. the ghost jumped him. rapmon flailed his arms like one of those floppy gas station tube thingies caught in a hurricane, but managed to grab a plate and smash it over the ghost's head on the way down. Unfortunately, he also grabbed the ghost's sheet too, pulling it on top of him like they were in a romantic K-drama. hearing the crash, jin rushed to the door and peeked his head around the frame. He blinked his gorgeous giant camel eyes slowly. "rapmon?" he called, only seeing a sheet amongst a pile of broken objects. the ghost rubbed ground-up ramen in rapmon's face and sashayed out.

Night 7 bts was in the practice room late, finishing up some choreography. jimin and jungkook had started screwing around, pinching v, rapmon, and jin and pretending to be the ghosts. suddenly the real ghosts came in, all three of them. bts was so surprised, it was like the spanish inquisition had just come in. j-hope screamed like a little girl and jumped into rapmon's arms. he staggered under j-hope's 68,038 grams. suga walked up to the nearest ghost and bitch slapped it across its cheeks. it let out a sharp howl of pain, like when you step on a lego. suga pulled off the scream mask and sheet, and it was................... .....................baekhyun!

"baekhyun??" said rapmon in disbelief. "you were the ghost??" "me and kai and taemin," baekhyun squeaked. he pulled off the voice changer. "sm sent us to distract and upset you." "you were getting too popular," said taemin from under the floral pattern sheet. "why couldnt someone from girls' generation do it?" jimin muttered. "it wasn't a very good idea," kai admitted, taking off the rotting face mask. "tao took one look at me and started crying and chanyeol insisted on taking a selfie with me." he took off the growl voice changer. "tao couldn't speak korean for three days after." "it also wasn't helpful when lay purposely started mistranslating everything tao said into something sexual," taemin sighed.

The Spanish Inquisition.

also on my ao3

Notes:

1. Yes, my first language is English. The bad grammar, spelling, and punctuation is intentional. 2. Most of this is made up, but I did see somewhere that V likes crawling into other peoples' beds to sleep/cuddle with them. :) I doubt there's much of a rivalry (if any) between EXO, SHINee, and BTS. 3. I have no idea how much J-Hope actually weighs. 4. This is a stupid crackfic. 5. This is a work of fanfiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a greatly exaggerated manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is partially coincidental, mostly fabricated, and should not be construed as a genuine portrayal of such.

[allofbeercom]

Here’s Why Your Girlfriend Is A Totally Crazy Bitch, According To Her Zodiac Sign

Jesse Herzog

Aries (March 21st April 19th)

Shes loudmouthed, bossy, impatient and impulsive. This girl wont think twice about slashing your tires or lighting your entire closet on fire. Shes undisciplined, action-oriented and fearless. While thats fun in the beginning-all that lack of self-control and devil-may-care attitude-I shed a tear for the person who crosses her. Shell run her mouth about what you did (or maybe something she perceived you did- shes not big on fact checking) to your friends and family, blow up your Facebook with public posts and will flood her Instagram feed with photos of her just hanging out with other people to make you jealous. Shes like a toddler with access to a smartphone and your house keys.

The good news is, because shes so impulsive and doesnt always think things through, chances are shell just destroy the first thing she comes in contact with, be it your brand-new NorthFace jacket, your beat up, virus ridden six-year old laptop, or your ego. As long as you keep the truck locked in the garage and your lucky Von Miller jersey tucked safely away, theyll be safe. She lacks the follow-through to go looking for the stuff you actually care about.

Taurus (April 20th May 20th)

The bull is prone to laziness, possessiveness, jealousy, materialism and penny-pinching. Shes a whole lot of fun in the beginning. Shell treat you like royalty-the lady bull will shower you with gift and home-cooked meals, long, sensuous massages, a powerful sex drive and an unflappable demeanor. That said, once the bloom is off the rose and the Bull settles into her routine is when things can turn ugly.

If she thinks your work-wife is a little too much wife and not enough work, prepare to come home to the Spanish inquisition. If you really cross her, that sweet little Ferdinand lass of yours will turn into Toro the Bull. I hope youve put away your valuables, because theyre about to get smashed to smithereens. When shes really done (and mind you, it takes a while for her to get there, but once shes through, theres no turning back), after the screaming, the stomping, the pouting, the accusations and the destructions of your things (not hers, shes spent way too much money on her things), you better keep an eye on that bank account- especially if its shared. Shell drain you for every penny you have, and not think twice. The bull is soothed by food, wine and material goods, and if she feels youve crossed her, shell think nothing of emptying your pockets for her own satisfaction.

Gemini (May 21st June 20th)

If youve hooked up with a Gemini, youve probably been temporarily blinded by her chatter and charm. Being with a Gemini is like being inside a butterfly pavilion. Everything is so light and easy, so pretty and stimulating, you dont know where to look first. Shell enchant you with her tinkerbell laugh and her childlike interest in everyone and everything. Youll think youve fallen into a land of fairies and pixie dust. Believe me, you havent.

Shes superficial, ADHD, unable to commit, wracked with anxiety and has zero direction.

Everything is new and fun and interesting to her whirling dervish of a mind, that she retains minimal information and is constantly flying off to the next flower. Shes a tease, because she cant settle down with one person but sex is also oftentimes too much for her, so she flits about driving everyone, including her partner, absolutely crazy. Shes also incredibly moody, given her dual nature, and a ball of nerves due to her tendency to bite off more than she can chew.

Cancer (June 21st July 22nd)

If youre with a Cancer, be prepared for the tears. Nonstop. Over everything and nothing. The woman has zero self-esteem and is constantly looking for outside reassurance. At first she may seem interesting and mysterious, due to her hard outer shell, but once youve broken through and committed yourself to her, she turns into a stage 9 clinger.

You better have lots of tissues, endless patience and unlimited minutes and texting on your phone, because she will be on you, 24-7. A night out with the guys is enough to send her into a tailspin for a week. Shes not one to speak her wants and desires, expecting you to read her mind, and becoming livid when you dont. This woman acts like shes PMSing a full 24/7, 365. Cancer is also the sign on the mother, so shell be on your for kids within the first few weeks of dating. Dont trust her when she says shes on the pill- make sure youre double-bagging that thing and always check for pinholes in the condom wrapper.

But hey, its not all bad. Cancer woman tend to have great racks, so if youre a tit-man, youre in for a treat.

Leo (July 23rd August 22nd)

Off with their head! is the Leo womans motto. She doesnt just admire Beyonc- she actually thinks she IS Beyonc, and you, peasant, will treat her as such. She has a jealous streak to rival the Taurus or Scorpio woman, only hers is compounded by a flair for the dramatic as well. Prepare for public fights, drinks to be thrown in your face, screams about how you were lucky she ever spoke to you, how she cant believe she wasted her time with someone only made/did/went to (insert income/job/school here) and will stomp off, after stomping your foot with one of her stilettos.

You might think shed stomped off home, but chances are, once she cooled down a bit, she stomped off to your apartment. You may very well come home to the kitten side of your Leo lady, now that the panther has licked her wounds a bit. Youll find her curled up in your bed, smelling like a whole perfume store, skin glistening, makeup perfectly applied, hair cascading all over her leopard print silk nightie, and practically purring to you how very, very sorry she is. Just remembereven kittens have claws.

Virgo (August 23rd September 22nd)

The Virgo woman is the original nagger, complainer, and hypochondriac. At first it seems sweet- she shows her affection through acts of service. Shes so is highly organized so youll never have ask twice where your socks are, if a bill has been paid or whats for dinner. It will all be pre-planned and taken care of, complete with an excel spreadsheet and a marked-off Google calendar outlining the next six months.

Slowly thoughthe nagging starts. The criticisms. The phantom sicknesses. Your house will smell like protein powder and B-12 tablets from all the supplements she takes (and will make you take too). What started out as gentle urging to maybe go to the gym more or take that night class will turn into a full-blown criticism of your beer gut and lack of professional ambition. While initially the sex will be earthy and sensual (although there WILL be a towel laid down and dont you DARE get a drop on the sheets), eventually it will dry up completely. If thats not enough to turn you away, the placement of the humidifier, nasal strips, compression socks, white cotton granny panties and neck pillow, to ensure a restful, healthful sheep should make you run for the hills. Unless youre another Virgo, in which case you can live happily in a little hypoallergenic bubble with her till the end of your days.

Libra (September 23rd October 22nd)

Think back to when you met your pretty Libra lady. Remember how she smiled, tossed her hair and gazed at you as if you were the only person on the planet, and the most interesting one to boot? Remember how you left feeling like royalty? Well youre not. She does that with everyone. Its how she gets her way.

It doesnt take long for the psycho to come out in Libra, but shes so skilled at making people see what she wants them to see, you may very well never notice. Shes so socially graceful, so charming, and such a skilled conversationalist that manipulation comes as easy to her as breathing. She has such a wide variety of friends and lovers, and is so adept at keeping these people from meeting, that she doesnt just live a double life, she lives a tripe, quadruple life. But damn if she isnt so sweet and feminine and look to you like the big strong man (or woman) you are that youll ever believe a word Im saying! (Believe me- Im a Libra myself). In the end though, its not the lying, half-truths and manipulating that will do you in- its the indecisiveness. This woman can debate and deliberate till the cows come home. Lucky for you, Libra tends to be rather self-involved, so she probably wont notice that youve packed your bags and left the city till youre long gone. She was too busy debating the merits of ketchup versus catsup.

Scorpio (October 23rd November 21st)

Im not going to even bother explaining how the Scorpio woman reeled you in. Chances are, it was a mixture of sexual titillation, fierce intelligence and The Rules. This woman knows the game, and she plays it perfectly.

Should you cross her thoughwelldont say you havent been warned. Scorpios natural ruler is Pluto, the planet of death, destruction and regeneration. Their secondary ruler is Mars, the planet named after the God of War. Its a potent combination. She can play a long game, and oftentimes will. Here is the woman that will live with the knowledge of your affair for months on end, smiling sweetly at you the whole time, while putting arsenic in your coffee. Here is the woman who will track down the person youre sleeping with and begin torturing them with anonymous notes and threats, hang-up phone calls, drive-bys and all other sorts of mental manipulation. Miss Scorpio will do it so craftily everyone will think that your lover is the crazy one. Here is the woman that will, in the end, find your prized possessions and light them on fire, while she makes you watch, and then walk out the door with your childhood best friend, who shed locked under her spell from the first moment she found out youd wronged her. Revenge isnt just a dish best served cold- its her favorite dish in the world.

Sagittarius (November 22nd December 21st )

Sags, the archers of the zodiac, are known for their athleticism, sense of humor and chummy attitudes. Never ones to take themselves seriously, they are the proverbial lampshade-on-the-head party girls, and their live-and-let-live attitude and bawdy jokes will have you clutching your sides. Much like their male counterparts, the archer lady doesnt see the point in dilly-dallying around before jumping into bed with you. The reason youll stay? Even though shes easy, she has almost no-hang ups about antiquated notations of female sexuality, and she wont blow up your phone with questions about Where is this going? or I never do that, I hope you dont think Im a slut!

The real reason shes not blowing up your phone? Shes too busy doing it with everyone. The woman has no concept of fidelity, and when you catch her cheating for the seventh or eighth time (and she wont try and hide it, Sags are all about honesty), shell be baffled as to why youre mad. Shell then becoming incensed that you are trying to own her, and the dishes will fly. Along with the television. And the radio. And your weight set. And anything else she can get her hands on. All the while shes destroying your house, shell be telling you exactly how SHE feels, with zero regard to your feelings in the coarsest language possible. My best advice for the person dating the Sagittarius lady? Go into it viewing the relationship as fun, not fidelity, dont ever except to tie her down and make sure youve got the number for a good clinic on speed dial in case you need an emergency shot of penicillin for when she comes back from her road trip from Vegas. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas- except for that pesky case of the clap she brought home with her.

Capricorn: (December 22nd January 19th)

Chances are you met your Capricorn lady somewhere defined as classy, like a high-end auction, law-firm meetup group or interning at the White House. Thats because the girl has goals. Shes ambitious in the truest sense of the word, and nothing stops her from achieving her goals. Not even you. Especially you.

Shes the kind of girl you can take home to mom, with her twinsets, pearls and perfectly highlighted hair. Shes extremely intelligent, and will be able to talk recipes with your mother and politics with your father. Shes a firecracker in the bedroom, and most kinks wont make her bat an eye. But before you sit there thinking whats the problem? lets take a look at YOU, dear reader. Chances are, youve got a family with money, connections or some sort of family name. Shes not with you because she likes you. Shes with you because of what she can get from you. Youre nothing but a peg on her way to the top, and once shes reached the top of whatever it is shes chosen (and believe me, she will), youll have served your purpose and be tossed aside. If the sex was good she may keep you around for a couple more years to release her frustrations, or even convince you to marry her, but proceed with caution. The Capricorn lady only has #1 in mind, and that sure as hell aint you.

Aquarius: (January 20th February 18th)

The water-bearers are charming and quirky. You probably met her when she was volunteering at the animal shelter you adopted your dog at. Shell always be unconventional and intellectual, and probably seems fairly easy going and upbeat. Shes the truest humanitarian, and knows her mind- when she makes a decision, she sticks with it.

Things will start to sour when all that unconventional, quirky energy becomes just plain annoying. Youll struggle to follow her logic since shell speak in obscure quotes and non-sequiturs. Aquarius being the most detached sign of the zodiac, youll find she doesnt really have any friends, just tons of different acquaintances from different backgrounds she collects. She has no idea how to relate to another person, be it physically or emotionally, so when your grandmother dies and youre weeping and distraught, shell probably just stare at you and wonder why youre crying- the woman was 87 years old, after all.

She wont waste much time worrying about it beyond that, and just shrug her shoulders and stick her nose back in her book about underwater basket weaving or whatever asinine subject shes interested in at that moment. Sexually shes incredibly selfish- again, because, its because shes got a loner complex and is completely disconnected from her partner or friends. Shell let you do all the work, never once thinking to reciprocate. Eventually you probably wont even be the one to leave- youll just wake up one day and find that shes up and left the country to work with underprivileged llamas in Nepal, leaving behind nothing but her astronomy diorama and a few science fiction books she couldnt fit in her suitcase.

Pisces (February 19th March 20th)

No doubt you met this girl at a bar, because she loves to get her drink on. And her coke on. And her molly on. Anything to get blotto. Pisces are the addicts of the zodiac. While at first all that drinking and recreational drug use seems fun and free-spirited, it quickly turns into a string of crushing hangovers, accompanied by an empty bank account from all those trips to the bar.

The Pisces woman has even less ambition than the Gemini. Oh shell work if she has to, but she prefers to spend her days and nights at the bottom of a bottle, writing poetry that makes no sense, smearing paint on a canvas or simply staring at the sky. Shes got a martyr complex, and youre fights will start because you have no idea what its like to be her. Shell become morose and dark, speaking in short phrases and thinly veiled suicide attempts. Occasionally youll see her temper come out, with its drunk, lashing tongue and uncontrollable crying fits. Eventually youll recover from this one in a rehab facility of your own, once you finally realize that all the tears, booze and drugs were never really going to end in suicide and finally get up the strength to come up for air and dry off and dry out from your Pisces lady.

if(typeof(jQuery)==”function”){(function($){$.fn.fitVids=function(){}})(jQuery)}; jwplayer(‘jwplayer_7nNXwmvY_ydB0cBQo_div’).setup( {“playlist”:”https://content.jwplatform.com/jw6/7nNXwmvY.xml”} );

from All Of Beer http://allofbeer.com/heres-why-your-girlfriend-is-a-totally-crazy-bitch-according-to-her-zodiac-sign/

[christopherscorner-blog1]

Catholicism = NOT Christianity

(And hasn’t been for a LONG-TIME)  (Trigger Alert)

Catholicism Exposed

Dear Catholics and World,

Please stop referring to Catholicism as ‘Christian.’ Just because some Catholics might want to be Christian, wanting doesn’t change an orange into an apple. I hate to explain basic terms to grown adults, especially about their own religion, but apparently it’s necessary. The fact of the matter is that to be a Christian is to be a follower of Christ; Jesus Christ that is, not the pope or priests. And whether most brainwashed or uneducated Catholics realize it or not, not only did Catholicism depart from the teachings of Jesus centuries ago, but all the real Christians left during the Protestant Reformation. And maybe because of misinformation, brainwashing, or simply a lack of education -a seemingly widespread disease, I’m sure most Catholics have completely forgotten WHY all the real Christians left. You would think such a dark and evil time responsible not only for one of the greatest bloodsheds in history, but also the 2nd greatest revolution in history (Protestant Reformation) –after the birth of Christianity, would not be so forgotten by so many. Or maybe this history has been buried deliberately. Considering the Catholic Church is one of the most powerful, wealthiest, and influential organizations on the planet, with around one billion followers, we should not be surprised if they have went to extensive efforts to hide the fact that they were responsible for mass murdering and torturing real Christians for centuries –from the 1200’s to the 19th century! I know my real Christian brothers have not forgotten the Inquisitions. This pure evil religious persecution was one of the reasons we Protestants fled to America! It’s very disturbing to me how so many people can subscribe to a system they seem to know nothing about, especially a system which has set itself up both as a moral authority and as a mediator between man and God. If the fact that Catholicism, formerly known as the Holy Roman Empire, is estimated to have killed tens of millions, maybe even 100+ million, of real Christians, cruelly torturing and imprisoning many more throughout their various Inquisitions (Episcopal Inquisition, Papal Inquisition, Medieval Inquisitions, Roman Inquisition, Spanish Inquisition, Portuguese Inquisition, Peruvian Inquisition, Mexican Inquisition) across every continent, isn’t enough to convince you to stop referring to Catholicism as Christian, then let me break down the fundamental corrupted Christian-Catholic doctrines for you in order to explain in more detail why Catholicism is absolutely NOT Christian.

1.)    First of all, Jesus clearly taught us to love our enemies (Mtt 5:44). Also, the 6th Commandment (Ex. 20:13) clearly states, “Thou shalt not kill.’ Catholicism not only clearly violated this commandment, en masse, but even today currently disregards this Judeo-Christian teaching. If you think Catholicism today is any different or better than a century ago, I strongly advise you on an education concerning Jesuit history. In short, Jesuits have been responsible for nearly every political assassination, revolution, and war, since Napoleon, in attempt to restore their Holy Roman Empire and destroy Protestantism, as is their stated mission. Jesuits are militant zealots and have been the strong arm of the Catholic Church since the Inquisitions and Protestant Reformation. We should be very worried now that a Jesuit is pope, with numerous other world leaders either openly Jesuit or closet Jesuits known at least to have attended Jesuit school (Donald Trump). This unity movement championed full-time by this current Jesuit pope is nothing more than a step towards restoring their global Church-State. Make no mistake, they are literally wolves in sheep’s clothing. Once the pope assumes control over the coming New World Empire, aka (soon to be) Holy Roman Empire, his true colors will come out. Interestingly, the Bible prophesied 2000 years ago about this coming end-times New World Order/Church-State in which those who did not conform and bow down before would be killed (Rev. 13:15). If you think this prophecy is ridiculous, it already happened before during the Catholic Inquisitions! Since the leaders of the Catholic Church are literally mass murdering maniacs hell bent on global domination, they are literally the exact opposite of Christian.

2.)    The first 2 ‘Commandments’ given to us from God clearly states: A.) Thou shalt have no other gods before me, and B.) NOT to ‘make any graven image, or any likeness of anything that is in heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth: Thou shalt not bow down thyself to them…” Exodus 20:4-5. Catholicism clearly violates these first 2 commandments both with their creations of images and statues everywhere of the Pope, Mary, and dead saints, but also with their bowing down and praying to these images, statues, and the Pope. What part of ‘no gods before me’ do Catholics not understand?! This means there should be NOTHING between you and God, not Mary, not priests, and not the Pope. Prayer is a form of worship and thereby idolatry! If you idolize, bow down before, or pray towards the Pope, or Mary, or dead saints, THAT’S IDOLATRY AND NOT CHRISTIANITY! Technically, Jesus did away with the need for priests: “For there is one God, and one mediator between God and men, the man Christ Jesus.” (I Timothy 2:5) And according to Peter (I Peter 2:9) –ironically Catholicism’s first pope/priest- WE are “a royal priesthood.” Jesus also made it very clear that “(He) I am the way, the Truth, and the Life, no man cometh unto the Father, but by ME (Jesus)” (John 14:6) – NOT the pope, NOT Mary, and NOT priests. According to John (I John I:9), God is the one whom we should turn towards for forgiveness of sins! And finally in John 14:14, Jesus teaches that, “If ye shall ask anything in my name, I will do it.” This means we should be praying to Jesus, no one else! It doesn’t even make sense why anyone would pray to a mortal man, let alone a dead person. Since Catholicism teaches prayer and confession towards men (idolatry) instead of God, Catholicism has literally been leading souls to hell and therefore is absolutely NOT Christian.

3.)    Baptism is a fundamental doctrine both Jesus, Peter, and Paul preached about, and therefore very important. According to Jesus, baptism is a pillar of our salvation. Jesus said in John 3:5, “…Except a man be born of water…he cannot enter into the kingdom of God…” And again in Mark 16:16 Jesus declared, “He that believeth and is baptized shall be saved…” Jesus even set the example getting baptized Himself (Mtt 3:13). Peter preaches in Acts 2:38, ‘Repent, and be baptized…” Paul teaches in Galatians 3:27 that, “For as many of you as have been baptized into Christ have put on Christ.” Peter also teaches (I Peter 3:21) that baptism is …”the answer of a good conscience toward God…” which means baptism is a choice the individual must make, and is not a decision one can make for another. Now, the Greek word of ‘baptism’ literally means ‘to be fully-submerged,’ and in every Biblical baptism the act involves submersion in a large body of water. Since being a Christian is to be a follower of Christ, baptism is an important step in one’s faith and relationship with God. Unfortunately, Catholicism has led its members from a real baptism to a fake one. Nowhere in the Bible is there an ‘infant baptism’ even recorded, and technically, a sprinkling is not baptism. Infant baptism was originally a ‘baby dedication’ as parents sought to earn God’s favor and blessing for their newborn. Since a baby’s brain is not yet developed enough to make a commitment to God, let alone a public declaration, any attempt at baptism would be a pointless ritual. We cannot save anyone, only God. And salvation comes by faith first (John 6:47). So a real baptism can only take place when a child is mature enough to make that decision. Because the Catholic Church has corrupted and twisted this doctrine, most Catholics have never made a public confession or dedication and therefore have never been truly baptized or saved. Some might argue that God is not so petty as to deny someone from Heaven over such a seemingly trivial technicality, and might point to the thief on the cross. However, I challenge that thought for several reasons. Firstly, the thief literally could not get baptized. We have no such excuse. Secondly, all true Christians split from the corrupt and evil Catholic Church a long time ago and have been/are getting baptized. Thirdly, God gave us His Word for a reason. We will have no one to blame but ourselves if we fail to read and follow His instructions. If you’re reading this right now, it’s for a reason. You still have time. This is your wake up call. If you have only been sprinkled with water as a baby, you have NOT been baptized, and therefore you cannot call yourself a Christian! And since Catholicism does not follow this teaching of Jesus, they are not, nor can they refer to themselves as Christian.

4.)    Then there’s the fictional Catholic invention of ‘Purgatory’ somehow mystically controlled by the pope through ‘Indulgences,’ which you can, of course, purchase with a simple donation. A quick word-search using ‘Bible Gateway’ will reveal that this word ‘purgatory’ never appears in the Bible, in any translation. However, we should be deeply concerned about the intelligence of the masses who are gullible enough to believe that a mere man could control anything beyond the grave. At the very least, you’re seriously a few fries short of a happy meal. Catholics should take note that the sale of these indulgences occurred before and again recently during times of Catholic need or decline. Indulgences were first sold in order to raise money for the construction of St. Peter’s Basilica. And the recent revival of this practice coincides with the decline of Catholicism. One of the reasons Catholic leaders NEED to unite the world religions is because their power is failing as Catholics have been fleeing the church in mass after all the alter-boy raping by priests was discovered and still seems ongoing.

5.)    Catholicism’s doctrine of ‘Abstinence’ for priests is not only contradictory to Scripture, and of, ironically, their first pope, but a Devil’s Doctrine which gave rise to the recent plague of pedophilia rampant among Catholic priests, something they very much try to hide and want you to forget about. The fact of the matter is that nowhere in the Bible is sexual abstinence even mentioned, let alone encouraged or demanded. In fact, not only does Paul the Apostle teach in I Timothy 3:2 & 12 that both bishops and deacons must be the husband of (only) one wife, but the Bible clearly indicates that (Simon) Peter had a wife (Mtt. 8:14/Mark 1:29/Luke 4:38)! When the disciples asked Jesus if it was good marry (Mtt. 19:10-11), Jesus simply responded by implying that marriage wasn’t for everyone. Jesus never required of his disciples complete sexual abstinence in order to serve Him. Again in I Corinthinans 7:8, Paul teaches that it is ‘better to marry than to burn.’ And tellingly, one of the 2 times abstinence IS mentioned in the Bible (the first referencing ‘things polluted by idols, and from sexual immorality, and from what has been strangled, and from blood.’) is right after Paul warns us of devil’s doctrine’s, which include ‘forbidding to marry.’

6.)    In Matthew 23:9, Jesus clearly teaches that we should “…call no man your (our) father upon the earth: for one is your Father, which is in heaven,’ a teaching which clearly contradicts the Catholic practice of calling priests and the pope ‘father.’

7.)    In Matthew 23:12, Jesus teaches, “…whosoever shall exalt himself shall be abased,” a clear contradiction to the Catholic practice of exalting the pope and priests and other Catholic Church leaders.

8.)    Jesus (Mtt. 19:17) and Paul (Romans 3:12) both taught that ‘there is none…good,’ yet Catholicism teaches that the pope is ‘holy,’ a clear contradiction to the teachings of the Bible and Jesus.

9.)    Finally, in closing, I want to briefly highlight Revelation 13, 17 & 18 which not only clearly describes the Roman Catholic Church as the evil Beast/Anti-Christ system, but prophesied its destruction. So Revelation 17 is a prophetic Biblical passage which describes a future Church-State New World Order where a political-religious leader controls all buying and selling through some kind of mark (RFID/Chip/Digital Currency), and kills all those who refuse to worship his image. For those paying attention, it’s clear we are quickly headed in this direction, especially now with a Jesuit pope fully engaged in religious unity, the emergence of crypto-currencies, and with numerous global leaders pushing for a ‘New World Order.’ A quick study of Revelation 17 reveals numerous descriptions of this Beast/Anti-Christ system, clarifying (Rev. 17:18) that this system is represented by a city. There’s only one city which fits every description, and that’s the Vatican City, which became its own kingdom, a sovereign city-state, in 1929. Let me quickly break it down for you. Verse 1 of Revelation 17 refers to this city as a whore. Since a woman in the Bible commonly and metaphorically refers to God’s Church as a bride/woman, a whore would metaphorically represent a corrupt church, especially if that corrupt church gave birth to or controls numerous other corrupt denominations, as the Catholicism has done/is doing through this recent ‘unity movement.’ Verse 4 describes this woman arrayed in purple and scarlet, decked with gold and precious stones and pearls, and having a golden cup. All these symbols and colors are obvious tokens of Catholicism and in fact could be related to no other. Verse 6 describes this woman as being ‘drunk with the blood of saints, and with the blood of the martyrs of Jesus…” Who else is responsible for killing millions of Jesus followers other than the Roman Catholic Church during more than five centuries of bloody Inquisitions? Verse 9 describes this corrupt church as sitting on seven mountains, which not only does Rome (Vatican-City) sit on 7 hills, but you could say the Catholic Church sits on the seven mountains of land/continents. Verse 1 also describes this corrupt church as sitting ‘upon many waters,’ which in verse 15 is explained as being ‘peoples, and multitudes, and nations, and tongues’ a perfect description of the Catholic Church. Finally, verse 2 describes an improper relationship between the kings of the world and this corrupt church, with verse 15 declaring that this city ‘reigneth over the kings of the earth.’ Since the Catholic Church is working hand-in-hand with global leaders towards a New World Order, currently under the guise of a this unity movement –can’t have a New World Order without first uniting religions), which will eventually enforce a one world religion (it happened before during the Inquisitions), while this specific part of the prophecy may not be abundantly clear to all just yet, it’s about to be.

If you want to be a Christian, you should not be supporting the Catholic Church, an evil and bloody system literally destroying lives, raping boys, stealing and wasting your money, and literally leading souls to hell. Get out now! And for now, stop associating Catholicism with Christianity, and stop blaming Christianity for the evils perpetuated by the fake Christian-Catholic Church!

[ask-a-badass]

Stuck Between Love and Family, answered by Gracia Mendes Nasi

Dear Badass,

I’m in love. Like, shout it from the rooftops, honey in my veins, finally found my home in love. So what’s the catch? We’re both high school girls and my family is going to flip out. I’ve always been close with my family. I thought they’d be glad to see me so happy. It’s not even like my parents are that religious. But they’ve been weird and hostile ever since I started spending time with my girlfriend. I hadn’t even tried to tell them yet when out of nowhere, my dad pointed to a news segment on Lena Waithe and said she’s breaking her family’s heart and if she was his daughter, she’d be out on the street. He just went on and on about how they weren’t going to pay a cent to support a “lesbian lifestyle” and they’d rather I was dead than gay. Mom just nodded along and chimed in once with an amen. It was probably her first time saying amen since their wedding.

I just don’t know what to do now. I have another year of school. I can’t imagine staying in the closet all that time. But I’m desperate to go to college. Not just to get out of here, though that’s part of it. I want to be a journalist. I’m the editor of our school newspaper and I’ve been writing since practically before I could read. I don’t know how to do that if I’m suddenly supporting myself as a high school senior. Hell, I don’t even know if I can graduate high school without a place to live. What should I do?

Stuck Between Love and Family

Dear Stuck,

You are in a dilemma with no easy answer. I can offer you only my sympathy and the knowledge that you are not alone. I faced not only a frightful punishment if I attempted to live openly as myself, but was offered the ability to save many lives if I stayed in hiding. I can tell you what it was to like, both to live in shadow and to finally embrace my community.

When the Portuguese king ruled that all Jews must either convert to Christianity or leave Portugal without their children, my parents chose to feign conversion. They amassed wealth in the hopes it would keep them safe. When I married my mother’s rich kinsman, I received the ketubah in secret before only the necessary witnesses and proclaimed my vows before a priest in Lisbon’s great cathedral.

If Portugal’s edicts made our faith perilous, its ships made our business prosperous. My husband and his brother were so successful in creating the market for the news spices that were coming from Asia that they were able to open a second center in Antwerp. But we were dancing upon quicksand. The same year my husband suddenly died, the Inquisition brought fire and horror to Portugal. I fled to Antwerp with my daughter and sister, where I discovered I had a choice to make.

There was a tiny Jewish community in Antwerp, mostly people like us who’d fled burning in Spain or Portugal. The community lived on a knife’s point. The Holy Roman Emperor continued to hold sway in the Netherlands and could easily reach out to crush them for faith or profit. They stayed quiet and safe. My family could join them. We could openly practice the faith our fathers suffered for, the faith that sustained our mothers in exile. But we would need to attract attention in neither deed nor possessions.

My brother-in-law and I continued to show a Christian face to the outside world and amass extraordinary wealth. Some of it was for the safety of our family, of course, but it was also for the safety of our people. We used our money and our business networks to get Jews out of Portugal and the Spanish Kingdoms. We smuggled them over the Alps, up European rivers, and through the harbors of the Mediterranean. We got them to the cities of Italy and the Netherlands and to the villages of the Ottoman Empire.

It was disorienting, to present myself every day as something I did not believe and to know that my family suffered with me. I don’t think my sister ever understood. When my brother-in-law died, she was enraged that he left the business to me, even though only I could keep our hidden network running. My sister didn’t even realize the danger we were in and almost ruined our escape from the Holy Roman Empire into the Venetian Republic. Her envy turned so bitter that she denounced me as a Jew, hoping the Venetian court would give her control of my fortune.

I escaped to Ferrara, where I finally got to live with my people. I should have been furious, but I felt like my sister set me free. Finally, I could observe Seder and Sabbath. I could wrap myself in the rituals and words that had been denied to me for so long. I even commissioned a translation of the Tanakh and a history of our people’s exile. It was as if I’d spent my life breathing through lace and now I took in pure and unencumbered air. Had I known this feeling, I don’t know if I could’ve lived so long as I had. I knew I could never go back. The Ottoman Empire offered protection and I moved one final time, to join the people I’d smuggled from Spain.

So what does my story tell you? It is a terrible thing to live in hiding, but it can lead to a greater good. You should begin by dismissing the thought of what you owe your parents. They have made it clear that they will use their support as a weapon against who you are. There is a reckoning in the future for all of you, but you need not have it while you are still dependent on them.

You live in a time where the need for journalists is great and the need for voices like yours is even greater. Can this need sustain you through a year of dissembling? Will the cost to your spirit of hiding who you are for a year be greater than the cost of skipping or delaying college? Can you find a way to protect yourself from your parents’ scorn, or is your relationship with them worth whatever they may inflict? Only you can answer these questions, but I urge you to be cautious and thorough in answering them. Look at the situation that presents itself to you, not the world as you wish it to be.

Whatever you chose, protect your own truth and sustain yourself in the knowledge that you will eventually find a place of safety.

Gracia Mendes Nasi

Born in 1510 in Lisbon to parents descended from wealthy Jewish families who’d been expelled by Spain’s Catholic Monarchs. Died in 1569 in or near Constantinople, amongst the Jewish community she had helped foster. Gracia Mendes Nasi spent most of her adult life protecting her family, running their business, and organizing a network that funnelled targeted Jews out of the Iberian Peninsula to the Netherlands (modern-day Belgium), Italy and the Ottoman Empire. She avoided the Holy Roman Emperor’s attempt to forcibly marry off her daughter and her sister’s attempt to seize the fortune by denouncing her to Venetian authorities. After she moved to Constantinople, she was an active patron and advocate for the growing Jewish community in the Ottoman Empire.

Find out more about her at Sheroes of History.