#hold on i think i need to gif this for maximum effect give me a sec
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universallychaoticpan · 2 years ago
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AAHHH I LOVE YOUR BLOG SM. IF YOU'RE TAKING REQUESTS I WOULD LIKE TO SUGGEST THIS. i am tired of reading about myself dying. i want chuuya or dazai to die. this sound so weird, i love them so much- but here is the scenario i have in mind, chuuya or dazai, gets really injured, chuuya might've used corruption, dazai got shot in a crossfire or sum like that- and reader runs up to them and they try to tell the reader that everything will be alright and stuff. so basically, full angsty angst. if you're comfortable with writing this of course. i wanna suffer a bit more before going back to school HAHAHAHAH
AAHAHAHAHA you have awakened my angst muscles and I am out for blood. I hope you enjoy because I reworked this a million times for maximum effect. ;)) Enjoy?
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"No, no NO, not yet, please, not like this-"
Chuuya heard your voice before he saw you through his blurred vision, heard you scream, agony tearing through your voice, through your body as he ached to comfort you. But try as he might, he couldn't reach you- his body was giving up, his strength was leaving him, ebbing out slowly and he could feel it.
And you saw it. His eyes, usually so bright and clear, were half lidded and groggy, staring up at the sky to something you could not see. When you'd found him, you feared he was already gone. But now, you knew it was almost worse: he hadn't died
But there was nothing you could do to stop it from happening.
Kneeling at his side, you wept openly, sobs running through you, ripping through your body, making your chest heave with the weight of your grief. You cried with his hands pressed to your lips, prayed to whatever cruel god had decided his fate, mourned the life you could've had before he lifted your eyes to his own.
"I didn't think it would feel so cold when- when it was time to go. Y/n, I'm scared. I don't want to go."
You moved closer, pulling his broken body up to lean against you, holding him close with his head against your chest.
"Don't be afraid," you whispered, choking back your own tears. "You don't need to be afraid. It's just you and me. It's just us- just feel me. Nothing else."
He shuddered, darkness creeping into his vision as he tried to focus on your beating heart.
"I'm sorry I couldn't give you more time. You deserved more time."
Softly, you turned his face to you, smiling for his sake even as you felt your heart shatter in your chest.
"Don't be silly," you chuckled, "we have all the time in the world. You and me, alright? I'm here and I- I'm going to be here when you wake up."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Then I'm not afraid anymore."
You kissed him then, your cheeks wet with tears, your chest aching knowing this would be the last time you would feel his lips on yours like this. In that moment, you turned a second into a lifetime. You imagined this was what it would feel like when you woke up beside him in the mornings, and how it would feel when he kissed you slow at night. You pictured him kissing you the same way when you were old and graying, could feel the same familiar press of his touch on your body, the comforting feel of his love that kept you safe. You imagined a life beside him, a life spent loving him, poured your hope and every dream you had for the two of you into that second where the world's rules bent to two lovers on the edge of death.
You kissed him and held him close while the fire in his eyes dimmed, while the drum of his heart grew weaker and finally, ceased it's beating. And still you stayed, because as long as you stayed, he could still wake up.
You had promised to be there when he did.
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It wasn't supposed to happen this way. He was strong, he was so strong- he had survived so much. Too much. He had survived too much to die because of you. He wasn't supposed to die on the ground, surrounded by gunfire and fear, felled by a bullet that was meant for you. It was supposed to be so different.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," you moaned, biting your lip to keep from crying. "It's going to be ok, I promise- it's going to be ok." Frantic, you tried to stop the bleeding- god there was so much blood- as Dazai held tight to your hands.
"It's going to be ok- I promise." god, why was there so much blood.
He winced as you brought him into your arms, smiling up at your beautiful, tear stained face.
"You're here?"
"Of course I am," you laughed, another sob making your voice tight and small. "I'm right here."
He reached for your cheek, then cried out with a sound that pierced your soul and twisted the blade.
"It- it hurts so much- y/n please, can you make it stop hurting?"
"I wish I could," you whispered, leaning your head down to him so he could rest a palm against your cheek. "But it'll stop hurting soon, I promise. Just hold on a little longer for me, ok?
Keep your eyes on me."
"Hey y/n?"
"Yeah?"
"It- wasn't your fault. Even if it meant dying a million times- I would protect you in every life."
"I never deserved you," you whispered.
"Liar," he smiled. "You were always too good for me. Never did I think I would get to love someone as good as you. But I need you to do one more thing for me."
"Anything."
"Promise me you'll keep living. Promise me you'll move on and- and promise me you won't stop your life for me. Just- make yourself as happy as I am right now. Make yourself as happy as I am to be here-
being held by you."
You smiled through your tears, caressed his face as his breathing got shallow, as his heartbeat got weaker. You kissed his face, his cheeks, his eyes as they fluttered shut, tried to press the memory of his peaceful expression onto your heart forever. You wiped the blood and dirt from his skin, tucked his coat around him like he was a child again, as loved and safe as any child could be. You told him stories and sang to him, hummed lullabies like you were trying to sing him to sleep. And with every moment he was still with you, you made him a new promise.
I love you
I'll stay with you
You're safe
You can rest
You made him promises until his grip on your hand went slack, until his breathing stopped, until you could no longer hold on. And then you screamed, cried, raged at his side, and made a promise you knew you could never keep. You told him you would be happy.
You lied, knowing your happiness died with him, knowing you could never love anyone the way you loved him.
The way you would always love him.
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SKZ DRABBLE-OT8
Being in a pack is basically the antonym for jealousy right? You all share each other, with each other, all the time. Wolves are possessive, but they're not prone to jealousy, of all things. Humans, on the other hand. Well. That's a different story altogether.
Tags: SKZ, SKZ!pack, stray kids, ot8, ot8 x you, ot8 x reader, SKZ x you, SKZ x reader, ABO, A/B/O, Alpha Beta Omega dynamics, bang chan, seo changbin, lee minho, hwang hyunjin, lee felix, han jisung, yang jeongin, kim seungmin
Genre: Fluff, Light Smut
Title: Jealousy, Jealousy
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You’re not a jealous person. You’re not. 
But watching the pretty, little omega flirt with Minho across the bar has something heavy and sour settling into the pit of your stomach against the ominous growling emanating from your suddenly engaged wolf. 
Minho isn’t flirting back of course, simply offering half a smile in response to her animated words, and in fact, you know him so well you’d say he almost looks bored, glancing past the omega to your waiting drinks
The knowledge does nothing to quell the sudden pang of jealousy eating you up from the inside out.  
She laughs, you catch the tinkling high sound over the bustle of the other patrons, and then her hand is touching his arm as she leans in, looking up at him as if he’s said something extremely funny. 
You know that move. It’s the oldest one in the book. 
You’re out of your seat before you can think. 
The omega looks caught off guard, kohl lined eyes going wide, lips parting, as you appear at Minho’s side, hand going down on his arm where hers had just been moments before, as if to wipe away the trace of her. 
You see the moment she catches a whiff of your scent-cold and floral-her wolf perking its ears in interest. 
Alpha. 
She suddenly looks smug, pleased with herself, as if you and Minho are going to fight for her attention, two alphas at her disposal. 
You don’t even spare her a second glance. 
“Minho.” You say sharply beneath your breath and the other alpha glances at you curiously, one perfectly manicured brow raised. You tilt your chin toward the door. “Can we go? Please?” 
The omega visibly wilts. 
Minho, on the other hand, looks entirely too satisfied as you shift uncomfortably beside him, fingers still curled around his arm. 
He’s figured it out. 
Thankfully, he doesn’t point it out, instead, patting the back of your hand where it rests on his arm-a little bit sweet, a whole lot sarcastic-and offers you a smile bordering too close to a knowing smirk, eyes sparkling with hidden mirth. 
“Of course, sweetheart. Let me just say goodbye to my friend here-” 
You don’t miss the teasing, taunting lilt to his words, and your wolf growls in response. 
Your fingers flinch into his skin and Minho glances down to where your hand has now turned into a claw, digging into his forearm. 
The smirk has yet to leave his face. 
“Or not.” 
You hate that he’s seen right through you, know the ride home is going to be living hell, that he won’t let you live this down easily-it’s Minho for god’s sake-but he also doesn’t give the omega a goodbye, let alone another glance, and so maybe, just maybe, the inevitable hassling will have been worth it. 
Besides, you learned long ago that when it comes to Lee Minho, you have to take the small victories where you can get them. 
******
“I swear, this should be classified as cruel and unusual punishment.” Jisung groans, sitting next to you at the kitchen table, pausing in his chopping to complain to whoever will listen. 
You note offhandedly that while your pile of chopped vegetables has grown significantly, Jisung’s is still miniscule in comparison. 
“My hand is cramping.” The beta whines, as if none of you heard him the first time, stretching his fingers for maximum effectiveness. 
“Yah. Han Jisung.” Minho turns from the stove and holds his dirty spatula menacingly above the suffering beta’s head, a dark glower on his pretty features. “If those vegetables aren’t minced by the time I need them in five minutes, then it’ll be your head on the chopping block next.” 
“Hyung.” Jisung whines, widening his eyes pleadingly, but Minho gives him no sympathy, expression steely, before he turns back to the bubbling pot on the stove. 
Jisung huffs and glances toward the hall, where Chan has appeared, keys in hand. The beta brightens immediately upon seeing another potential victim for his cause. 
“Hyung.” The beta whines, long and low in his throat, and Chan pauses in his route to the door, head alpha raising its head at one of his packmate’s obvious distress. 
However, he takes one look at Minho, standing menacingly behind the whimpering Jisung with a spatula, and grimaces, offering said beta a sympathetic look. 
“Sorry, Jisungie. Gotta go to the studio.” 
Chan disappears a little too eagerly as the sound of a door slams down the hall and Jisung rolls his eyes, resuming his chopping with a grumble and a long sigh of “coward” beneath his breath, which you can only guess is aimed toward a certain head alpha. 
It’s silent for a moment, the sound of chopping rhythmic and lulling, the pot bubbling merrily on the stove, Minho singing something low and indistinct beneath his breath. 
Changbin appears, standing in the doorway to the kitchen, looking as if he’s just come from the gym, and the smell of ash mixed with sweat is suddenly strong as he regards the three of you sagely. 
“What’re you making? And how’d you get Jisung to help?” He asks, eyebrow raised, addressing Minho, as he nods toward the still pouting Jisung sitting at the table, dutifully chopping a carrot. 
“He threatened him.” You reply back, reaching for another potato, as Jisung shoots you a dark glare, taking way too long to matchstick a piece of celery. 
“Ah.” Changbin nods like he gets it, amusement clear on his face. 
“Yah. Seo Changbin.” Minho turns his frown on the newly arrived alpha now, and Jisung looks as if Christmas has come early. “Are you going to eat what I make tonight or what?” 
Changbin has the decency to look slightly regretful, reaching up to rub at the back of his neck as he suddenly avoids the other alpha’s pointed gaze. 
“Sorry, hyung. I gotta stick with shakes. New regiment and shit.” 
You and Jisung both groan simultaneously at that, and Changbin looks caught off guard by your reactions, eyebrows disappearing into his hairline. 
“God, please don’t tell me you’re gonna put chicken in it again, hyung.” Jisung exclaims, sinking back in his chair and eyeing Changbin like he’s just grown another head, lips pulled down in obvious disgust. “Anything but that.” 
“I’m like 96% sure Jackson was joking when he told you that, by the way.” You add, making a face, as you think about Changbin and the slop he and his workout buddies call smoothies. 
“Hey.” Changbin protests, waving between the two of you. “Don’t knock it till you try it.” 
More echoed groans, and Changbin looks suitably offended. 
Jisung gets up from his spot at the table and crosses the kitchen, dumping his vegetables-finally chopped-into the pot that Minho is still carefully stirring. He leans over, putting the sharp jut of his chin on Minho’s shoulder, and instantly pulls a face. 
Minho shoots him a glance, expression blank. 
“God, hyung, you smell weird.” Jisung takes another long sniff and covers his nose dramatically, stepping away from the alpha, miming retching as he returns to the table to plop back down beside you. “Did you get a new cologne or something?” 
“Probably smells like the friend he made at the bar.” You can’t help but grumble beneath your breath, the poor potato you’re chopping into bite size chunks taking the brunt of your sudden aggression. 
Your knife hits a sharp staccato against the cutting board. 
“What was that, sweetheart?” Minho turns from the stove, one brow raised in challenge, clearly having heard what you said, giving you another chance to reconsider what you’d said. 
You offer him a saccharine, innocent smile, so sweet you feel like your teeth are rotting. 
“Nothing.” 
Minho hums under his breath approvingly and nods and with one last, long look, returns to the stove, the air suddenly saturated with the sharp spice of amber.
Beneath your knife, the potato splinters into mush.
*****
“Okay, hyung, truth or dare?” 
You’re sitting in the living room, the movie playing quietly in the background long since forgotten, when Jeongin turns to Minho, eyes wide and expectant. 
Minho rolls his eyes. “Are we in fourth grade? Why do we have to play this?” 
“Just answer the question.” You shoot back, matching Minho’s glare as he finally gives in and waves for the youngest omega to continue. 
You’re still slightly on edge from earlier, but being surrounded by the smell of oranges as Felix cuddles back against you, sitting entwined on the couch, is helping some.
You reach up and idly run your fingers through the omega’s soft, blonde hair, holding back an affectionate smile as he arches into the touch of your hand like a needy cat. 
“Fine. Truth.” “Boooooring.” Jisung calls out from across the room, not looking up from the game he’s playing on his handheld, Hyunjin eagerly watching over his shoulder. 
“Okay. Truth.” Jeongin repeats with a wicked glint in his eye, rubbing his hands together, as if he’s prepared to completely reveal all the truths that make up the enigma that is Minho with just one question. 
Minho takes a long sip of his soda as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. 
“Whose scent, out of all of us, do you like the most?” 
Minho returns the can to the coffee table and sits back, looking completely at ease. 
“Easy. Felix.” 
Felix grins and blushes in your arms. “Ah, thanks, hyung, that’s really sweet.” 
Jisung, however, chokes on his spit from across the room and levels Minho with a shocked look so convincing that you almost believe he’s hurt. 
“Yah, what about me?” 
Minho smirks. “What about you?” 
Jisung mutters something under his breath that sounds an awful lot like cursing Minho’s name and his entire existence, and Hyunjin pats him sympathetically on the head as he sinks back into the end of the couch. 
The game goes on like that for a while, a lazy back and forth between your packmates, the room a combined, comforting cocktail of everyone’s scents, making you sleepy, and your eyes are heavy, and you’re almost ready to call it a night, Felix warm and heavy in your arms and practically asleep himself, when Minho drops the bomb. 
“(Y/N).” 
You glance up at the other alpha, and the mischievous, wicked glint in his dark eyes puts you instantly on edge, hackles rising. 
“Truth or dare?” 
You’re way too tired to entertain even the thought of a dare, so you answer back immediately, “Truth.” 
Minho grins, teeth and expression suddenly sharp, and dammit, you realize too late that you’ve fallen right into his trap. 
“Would you say that you’re the jealous type?” 
You refuse to play his game. 
Keeping your expression blank, you reply simply, “No.” 
Minho arches a brow, and his lips part, and he’s so smug you wanna wipe the smirk right off his pretty face. 
“Really?” He hums beneath his breath, faking a thoughtful expression, eyes never leaving your own. “Would you care to explain to me what happened earlier then? In the bar? When I was making new ‘friends’?” 
The use of your earlier word, confirming your suspicions that he’d heard exactly what you’d said in the kitchen, has you pushing a caught off guard, sleepy Felix into Changbin’s arms and standing up, expression carefully schooled. 
“I’m going to bed.”
 The air is so heavy with the scent of frost now, you’re surprised you can’t see the cloud of your own breath.
Minho catches up to you in the hallway. 
The smell of sharp amber gives him away just before his fingers loop around your wrist, spinning you smoothly to face him, your back slamming up against the closed door of your room as his hands go on either side of your head, effectively caging you in. 
So close to safety, yet so far. 
“What was that, hm?” He questions in a low voice, head cocked, irises swirling, the expression on his face telling you he already clearly knows exactly ‘what that was.’ 
“I don’t like being the butt of your jokes, Minho.” You hiss out, staring him down, fingers digging into your crossed forearms in an attempt to remain in some semblance of control. 
“I’m afraid I don’t know what joke you’re referring to, sweetheart.” 
Your wolf snarls, insistent he’s still making a fool of you, and the frost creeps back in, chilling the air around the two of you. 
“Please.” You scoff out, trying to cover up the hurt with anger now, your voice wavering slightly. “Don’t play stupid. You knew what you were doing when you asked that question back there.” 
Minho’s brow arches, and his lips quirk slightly, his obvious nonchalance only serving to infuriate you more. 
“And what exactly was I doing?” 
You look away from him now, because you can feel the tears burning, threatening, and you don’t want him to see you cry. 
Damn being an angry crier. Damn it all. 
“Making fun of me.” You mutter bitterly, lower lip clenched firmly between your teeth, the scent of amber souring slightly now where it brushes your skin. “Because I got all weird at the bar seeing you with that strange omega and then you-” 
Minho leans into your space suddenly, catching you off guard and effectively shutting you up, and you’re surprised, when you look up, to see the sudden, swirling gold creeping into his gaze. 
“Sweetheart, sweetheart, sweetheart.” He practically tsks, and you feel like you’re a kid who’s gotten caught with their hand in the candy jar. 
Minho sighs, a long suffering sound, and you almost expect him to pinch his nose between his fingers in a show of frustration. 
Instead, he leans closer, so that his lips are practically brushing yours with each word he speaks, and a crooked smirk lifts the corners of his mouth, revealing sharp, pointed canines that have your gut clenching up in sudden need. 
“I wasn’t joking. About you or anything else.” He practically purrs, letting one of his hands slide off the door and down the column of your throat, fingers splayed against your collarbone like a choker, finger tips barely tracing your scent glands.
 He looks entirely too pleased when your breath audibly catches in your throat. 
“Then why did you bring it up?” You question, slightly breathless, and curse your body for betraying how attracted you are to Minho in this moment. 
God, he’s pretty. 
Minho chuckles, a low rumble in his chest accompanied by a fresh wave of spice, and the sound sends warmth flooding through your traitorous body to all the right places. 
He tilts his head, studying you heatedly with a molten copper gaze. 
“Because, sweetheart,” His full lips quirk into the hint of a self deprecating smile.“As much as I hate to admit it, I guess I find it practically intoxicating when I’m the reason you struggle with your composure.” 
Your mouth drops open, and Minho closes it again with one slender finger under your chin. 
You have to remind yourself to breathe. 
“So you get off on seeing me a mess.” 
Minho chuckles again at your blunt words and raises a brow, wetting his lips as his tongue darts out to slowly trace over the outline of his plump mouth, watching the way you follow the motion, teasing you. 
“Basically, yeah.” 
“God, I hate you.” You breathe out, not meaning it in the slightest, as you tug him to you and slot your mouth with his. 
“I really don’t think you do.” Minho murmurs back in between frantic kisses, his fingers tangling into your hair and tugging your head back, angling your lips for better access.
“Shut up.” 
You waste no time in slipping your tongue into his mouth and your fingers curl into the material of the hoodie he wears, the air practically heavy now with the mixed smell of your scents. 
It’s easy to blindly reach behind you and turn the door knob, letting you both into the dark, quiet of your room, easy to stumble backward toward the waiting bed, fingers still tangled in the front of Minho’s sweatshirt, easy to strip him in the pitch black, fumbling with layers of clothes, hands tracing the lithe, toned lines of his body, skin warm beneath your fingertips. 
Minho takes his time, it’s something you’ve always admired about him, the attention to detail he uses when slowly but surely taking you apart, piece by piece, inch by inch. 
“What do you want, hm?” He whispers against the column of your throat, nips with his teeth, traces deliberate fingers over your aching scent gland, revels in the way you arch up into him. “Tell me, sweetheart.”
It’s an easy enough question, with an obvious enough answer. 
“Make me a mess.” 
Minho grins, all sharp angles and white teeth and golden irises, and rolls his hips against your own, and you know he’s got you right where he wants you, knows in the way your fingers tremble as they tangle into his hair, in the way the scent of wisteria spikes, tangling with the sharp notes of amber. 
Minho leans in, taking in the way you’re panting, squirming beneath him, practically begging him silently, and raises a brow, before nipping lightly along your mating mark as if it’s a promise of things to come. 
“Good girl.”
*****
💗 Taglist: @meivida @lolalee24 @sai-kida134 @aroseharder
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stilinskitpose · 5 years ago
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Pining over him // Peter Hale
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Pairing: Peter Hale x female reader
Warnings: nsfw , smut , slight daddy kink, hair pulling, choking, unprotected sex, tonnnn of dirty talk and just a lot of sexy sin (plotless kind of)
Characters: Peter, Derek, Stiles, Scott, implies pack, y/n
Summery: The young reader has been fantasising about the feeling of being with a real man for a while now, a real man being no other than the notorious Peter Hale. However, it’s hard to be taken seriously when Peter thinks you are no more than an annoying little teenage girl.
Word Count: lost count it’s a ton
Authors Note: This is my first time posting on tumblr, let alone posting a smut imagine soooo I don’t know how this will turn out. I’m just going with the flow of my hormonal teenage instincts ;)
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“Y/n, did you even listen to a word that I just said?”
The deepness of the voice made you snap out of you staring at the entertaining spider that was crawling up the corner wall of Dereks loft, which caused you to jump suddenly on your squished position on the coach, trapped between two clowns, Scott and Stiles.
The quiet yelp you let out made Stiles stiffle a snort causing you to elbow him in the shoulder. The fucker deserved that. You let out a content sigh and an evil smile when you heard a sound of pain from your annoying brother from another mother. What can I say, the pain he feels makes me wither in complete pleasure. I snort at my chain of thoughts and look up to see a confused Derek Hale.
"Yeah sorry, I was just-", Trailing off mid sentence thinking of a viable reason for not listening to the former Alpha. Thinking it would be funny to tell them about the entertaining spider that just crawled under the crack of the wall on the other side of the spacious loft.
“There was a spider” You answer timidly, grimacing at yourself for sounding so stupid in the room full of your pack. Derek looks at you quizzingly, you giving him the most innocent look you could muster, he sighs before letting a small smile come across his features from your utter randomness.
“I was just telling you how we need to keep you somewhere safe incase the Darach decides to pay you a visit” Derek says quickly, you sigh in annoyance hating being treated like a defenceless little girl. You understood that you weren’t anything supernatural or anything but you would think Derek would have a little faith in you since you were so handy with a frying pan from being in a near death experience with the twin Alphas not so long ago. You chuckle subconsciously at the memory.
A mutter of agreements are heard from around the loft from your oh so fellow pack members. Betrayed and defeated, you try voice your opinion on the matter.
“What? No” You probably looked like a kicked puppy. You definatly felt like one. You continued “I’m not some helpless human Derek. Stiles is more helpless than me!” You whine flicking Stiles in the head which he repeated the action harder on me causing me to poke him in the ribs.
“Why has this suddenly turned into bash Stiles day? You know I have feelings too” Stiles offendingly says, his arms spazzing at his sides to try and prove his point.
“When am I ever nice to you” you scoff jokingly earning a chuckle in agreement from him before he went back to listening to the arguement infront of him wishing he had a bowl of popcorn to go along with it.
Derek ignores Stiles and resumes telling me that it’s for my own good. Blah blah.
“Where will I even go anyway? It’s not like I have a line of people waiting to protect me from the looming and pending doom of death itself” You replied, words laced with exaggeration.
“I’ll look after her, it’s not like I have anything better to do”
The husky voice came from the corner of the room shadows dancing across the body of the person that is wanting to ‘look after her’. What am I, a dog? Y/n replied in her head afraid to reply that response out loud since the deep voice belonged to a man she have been shamefully harbouring a crush on for some time now. Peter fucking Hale.
It’s not like she was afraid to converse with him, it’s just that she was terrified of making a fool of her self by stuttering out a few syllables before halting and staring at his piercing blue eyed that made her legs buckle submissively from the dominance they give off. She doesn’t know how he does it, makes her feel like her skin is on fire whilst her heart pounds faster than humanly normal. Without even meaning to aswell. It’s like he was a complete natural at turning her into jelly without even noticing. It riles her up to no extent.
Your eyes widen in shock and your heart beat began to rise much to your dismay, knowing that he probably knew the effects he had on you, since he had spectacular werewolf senses, made you want to crawl into a ball and wither away in embarrassment. But he never made any indication that he knew either from being completely oblivious or because he wanted to salvage that slither of pride you had left for yourself. You prayed the first. But you doubted it since Peter isn’t exactly known for being the nicest human in the planet.
You knew you were probably over exaggerating and stressing about this whole situation way to much but you just couldn’t comprehend what you would do if Peter found out the way you feel since he is abit older than you, being still only a junior in highschool yourself and him being a fully grown mature man that you wanted to pounce on all the damn time. Jesus I need to get laid, preferably by the man invading my dreams at night but desperate times cause desperate measures.
“Look after me? I’m not a child, I don’t need watching over, I have things to do like watching the last season of The Vampire Diaires even though I’m shitting scared to because Stephen dies” You ramble a butt load of word vomit wanting to shut up but your nerves were your worst enemy in situations like these.
“Hey don’t aim your anger on me I’m just volenteering to keep the weak and innocent out of harms way, that’s character development if you ask me” Peter replies smugly as his gaze burns into the your own. You muster up a harsh glare at Mr Hottie before pivoting to face Derek who was evidently waying the little options he had.
“Your not seriously considering this right? You hate him, everyone hates him” I bitterly state, relunctanly turning around to meet Mr Hotties patronising gaze. The evident smirk plastered on his handsome face tells me that he’s enjoying being the cause of this conflict. Mockingly sending a small wave as if proud of the past he has with the pack before him.
Everyone once again agrees with my statement causing Peter to let out an annoyed sigh before saying “I thought we all got over this anger that has been directed towards yours truely, It will give you wrinkles if you frown at me like that sweetheart”, he humours the situation by sending a wink in my direction. Ugh.
“It’s not like we have a lot of options right now y/n, as much as I don’t like it we need as many people focused on defeating the Darach. It will only be for a few days at the maximum. I promise. Please?” Derek had is puppy dog eyes displayed making it very hard for me to deny him, so I bit my tongue and agreed.
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Derek had dropped me off at Mr Hotties apartment with my bag laying heavy on my shoulders ready to stay for a few nights. This whole situation is bitter sweet if you ask me. Bitter because you didn’t know if these few days will hold a wave of awkwardness between the two of you and a lack of communication since the both of you have never had a proper convosation other than yesterday when he offered to keep you hostage in his apartment. And sweet because you’d have eye candy for a while. I was not complaining. It’s a win win situation.
You stroll around the apartment amused “I’m not going to lie I have always wondered if you lived in a secret lab or in an underground network of tunnels or something like that but this will do I guess ” you snickered and joked. Peter lifted an eyebrow and smirked saying “I’m not a complete animal darling”. My stomache filled with butterflies at his statement and I cleared my throat looking around the apartment once again.
Peter leaned on the doorframe and cocked his hip against it whilst his arms were crossed. Damn. He gave me a once over eyes lingering on the exposed area where my mid thigh length skirt lay. “Aren’t you a little young to be wearing that?” I frowned and looked up at his defined features past his broard strong shoulders.
“I’m nearly 18 I can wear whatever the hell I want” I scoffed. Peter held his hands up in mock surrender before strolling into the kitchen with his back facing me. I could see the defining back muscles from the outline of his green v neck and the way his bisceps flexed when reaching into one of the cupboards for two mugs. His hands. Oh holy Jesus his hands. The muscular and veiny hands gripped onto the coffee mugs send a wave of arousal downstairs. My mouth turned into an o shape as I imagined all the things those hands could do to me. All the filthy things. A girl can only take so much! As my eyes began to travel down the werewolf in front of me I started to bite my lip at the way his jeans hugged his cheeks as they clung amazingly against his thick legs that held rippling muscle. I have got to ask him what his leg day routine is.
A hand started to wave across of my face as if trying to get my attention, I averted my eyes away from the goodies to see Peter staring at me with a wide smirk along his smug face.
“Are you okay there y/n? You look a little flustered. Something on your mind?” He walked towards me untill I could feel his lips skimming the top of my ear. I gulped in suprised as my eyes widened and started stuttering out an excuse.
“Oh u-um I was just— nothing” I hung my head to look at my feet awkwardly as they began shifting from nerves.
“Hmm okay let me show you where you’ll be sleeping” he his voice rasped against my ear which sent shivers around my body.
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He knew exactly what he was doing. I mean how couldn’t he? It was like we were playing a game of cat and mouse. More like werewolf and human. I snorted out a chuckle at my pathetic joke as I lay down on the bed in the spare bedroom that Peter allowed me to use. Glancing down at my lack of clothing, an oversized t shirt that said ‘bugs life forever’ and a pair of white lace panties I let out a heavy sigh clocking my head untill it reached the my phone saying it was 2:45am. My throat was dry from overthinking earlier with Peter, how he got so close to me, pressing his body against mine. Why would he even do that? He thinks I’m an annoying teenager. A child.
Wanting to wet my parched throat I hopped towards the kitchen quietly, attempting not to wake Peter from his room and not bothering with putting on sweatpants as I didn’t suspect anyone to see me in this state. I reached my arms out to the highest cupboard in the kitchen, straining my arm at the height of it and huffed when I couldn’t reach it. A deep voice made me freeze in my position and slowly turn around.
“Did I say you could use my kitchen without my permission?” I gasped as I saw his shirtless form, rippling muscle clouded his chest with light scattered chest hair in the centre that led towards the waistband of his sweatpants. Atleast someone thought about wearing sweatpants.
Holy Jesus for I have sinned. “I didn’t think you would have a problem with it since you offered to imprison me inside the walls of your apartment” I muttered angrily starting to once again reach for the glass that I am determined to get. Little did you know that Peters eyes wandered past the hemline of the oversized sweatshirt you were wearing that was hiked up from you stretching to reach the glass, this eyes lingered on the exposed skin of your thighs and the white lace panties that hugged the underline of your firm ass. Having these sudden dirty thoughts that clouded his mind from his previous dream feels wrong since you are much younger than him. But Jesus did it feel so right to him.
The feeling of someone pressed against you from behind startles you. You move to spin around when a deep voice interrupts you. “I’ll get it for you, don’t strain yourself darling” Peters voice seemed strained as if he was trying to keep himself together as you let out a choked sigh at how close proximity you both were to eachother. As he reached up to grab you a glass and handed it to you, your response make you regret the day you were born. Started from your hands brushing you blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.
“Thankyou daddy” Both his and your eyes widen at your statement.
Oh my god. Did I really just say that out loud? Judging by his expression, I’m pretty sure I did. Shit. What the fuck is wrong with you? Someone please just kill me right now. A werewolf could come up to me right now and kill me and I would say thankyou.
This is why I shouldn’t be allowed to mingle with others
As he was about to say something but you step back abruptly and close your eyes from shear embarrassment.
A husky voice made you jump on the spot, “ say it again” His eyes glazed over in pure hunger as he watched me like I was his prey and he was the predator.
“I-I don’t know w-what your talking about” my voice sqeaked in pure humiliation
“Say it again” he repeats himself before stalking his way towards you and wrapping his hand round your throat as he squeezed lightly sending an electric feeling of pleasure towards your core. You whimpered at the contact and threw your head back at the sight of this heated haze that bore into yours and so he could reach more of your exposed throat.
“Yes, you do. Say it again. I won’t ask a third time.” He growls and you can feel yourself begin to dampen at his forceful tone.
“Thankyou daddy” You coo.
Fuck.” He curses before lunging forward and taking your lips with his. You immediately open your mouth to his probing tongue and moan when it brushes over yours. Peter pulls away from your wet lips and traces his tongue down your throat as his lips begin to suck along the side of your neck surely leaving marks as he does it making you whine and shudder in pleasure. His impossibly enormous hands glide their way to my chest before capturing my breasts through my sweatshirt starting to kneed and pinch my nipples as he held intense eye contact with me.
“These-” he stopped to grasp them harshly before tearing the fabric of my sweatshirt off making direct contact with them this time with his warm and inviting hands that made me choke a whimper as I was being dominated by the man that I have pined over for as long as I have known him. “Are mine” he finished with a growl flashing his blue luminous eyes. His lips began to assault the hardened nipples, swirling his warm tongue round the bud then biting them teasingly.
“Say it, say that you are mine little girl” he demanded as his hand reached down to cup my pussy through my white lace panties.
“Oh god- oh god yes! I’m yours” I managed to stutter as I became a moaning mess as his magic fingers circled around my clothed clit before he moved them aside and plunged two fingers inside my tight walls.
Barely forming a grammatically correct sentence from the immense feeling of pleasure that I was going through, I reached down bravely to palm his prominent bulge that twitched under my palm.
He growled as his hands ran down your back, grabbing your ass between his hands touching outline of your pussy through your thin lace panties. He pushes you back into the kitchen until you feel your back hit the kitchen table. Peter pulls back away from your lips and flips you around, bending you over the table.
Shocked from the turn of events you let out a yelp, “What are you doing?” you moan and cry out as his hands pull down your panties, kicking your legs open with his feet.
“Giving you what you want baby” He husks as his hands pull down your shorts, kicking your legs open with his feet. You hear him unbuckle his belt before shoving his hand between your legs. “Your soaked” he groans before shoving his cock deep inside your pink and wet pussy.
“ Did you not think I’d notice how you feel about me baby? Your arousal always in the air for me to smell all the damn time I’m around you baby girl, you don’t even realise how hard it was to resist the urge to fuck you everytime I saw you” You purr in content at his sinful string of words.
“Peter please” you beg. He slaps your ass hard causing you to let out a loud moan. “That’s not my name” he glares. Realising what you meant it took you no time before pleasing him again.
“Daddy! O-oh fuck yes!”
“That’s a good girl, I’m going to fucking ruin you” he growls in your ear making you whimper. His dirty words only spurring how turned on you are.
“Please don’t stop what your doing” your desperate gasps are all that he needed to fuck you untill your screaming his name.
He begins to ram his cock in and out of your pussy as you let out a stream of loud and sinful moans, pounding you into the table, making the table legs squeak against the hard floor. He reached round to grip your hair as the other slings around your throat holding you in place as he begins to whisper dirty words into your ear that makes you eager to feel your pussy pulsate around his hard and thick length.
“Who knew you were such a naughty girl y/n? Desperate to feel my cock inside you, I bet you like it when I fuck you don’t you? Huh? Rough and hard?” You managed to humm before it turned into a stuttered moan as you felt yourself beginning to quiver and your legs to shake he continued to pound you with his cock.
Suddenly the feeling of a knot forming below your stomache makes you stutter out a moan “ holy shit, yes, yes!” You scream as you come undone around him as he continues to pound you through your orgasm. A stream of grunts follow after yours as he came inside you, milking your walls with his hot cum.
“Wow, that was unexpected” you grunt as you try and catch your breath, leaning against the kitchen table.
“You started it, calling me daddy and all” he teased whilst he send you a smirk.
“Well I’ll call you daddy as much as you want next time” you reach out to pull at his short hair leaning to give him a subtle kiss on his lips that lingered.
“Darling, next time I plan to fuck that warm little mouth with my cock” he growls.
That can definitely be arranged
712 notes · View notes
sirowsky · 4 years ago
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The Flowers Always Know
Description: When a mad scientist uses you as an experiment while you’re on holiday, the Heroics only just manage to save you. And in your recovery you become very close to the leader of the group. (Slow burn)
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Language.
Link to Masterlist
Comment: The aftermath of the confrontation leads to some unexpected fun. But also some annoyances.
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Chapter 25
  When you got home, Missy and Anita were waiting for you in the living room, and you could tell that they’d been worried.   Missy had quite clearly been crying and she shot up and came to hug you the moment you stepped through the door.   When you’d left the house that morning, you’d done it absolutely terrified for her safety, and while you hoped that that threat was gone now, you didn’t know it for sure. And that made it such a relief to see her safe and sound, and untouched by the darkness from your past.
  “I’m so sorry I scared you, angel.”
  “You just took off! I didn’t know where you were, and then dad got really scared cause he knew where you’d gone, but he wouldn’t tell me and I didn’t understand what was happening!”
  She broke into tears again while she spoke, rambling everything out in a hurry as though she thought that she might not get it all out otherwise.
  “I’m sorry, sweetie. I was really scared too.”
  “Why?”
  You took a breath and looked at Marcus to see if he was okay with you telling her the truth. He nodded and took your hand.
  “The man from earlier… that was my brother. And he is not a good person.”
  She pulled back and stared at you.
  “The one you were so angry at you made the house shake? He’s your brother?!”
  “Yeah. When we were kids, he hurt me really badly, and today… he threatened to hurt you too.”
  She looked horrified, and it made your whole chest ache. Marcus’ hand tightened on yours, but he seemed to want you to do the talking. Missy was still holding you around the waist, and her grip tightened too.
  “But, why?”
  “Because you’re my daughter. Because he knew that by threatening you, I’d do what he wanted. And I did, but I did it knowing that I could, and would defeat him.”
  “Thank you, Alma.”
  “Hey, you don’t need to thank me for protecting you, that’s what families are supposed to do.”
  “I know, I was thanking you for adopting me. That’s the first time you’ve called me your daughter.”
  You smiled a little teary-eyed.
  “Actually, it’s the second time.”
  “When was the first?”
  “Telling my ass-backwards no-good piece-of-shit-family not to lay a hand you.”
   Missy smiled glowingly, but Anita scoffed.
  “Are you ever gonna stop using that kind of foul language in front of her?”
  “Sometimes, there’s just no substitute for a good expletive. Besides, have you ever heard her use one?”
  Anita just cocked an eyebrow at you.
  “Exactly. That’s because she’s smart enough to know that just because I’m beyond salvation, doesn’t mean she has to be.”
  “It’s still bad manners, mujer.”
  “And you’re still not fooling anyone. You were just as worried about me as Missy was. You can admit it, I won’t laugh at you. I might even hug you.”
  “Hah, that’ll never happen.”
  “Which part? Cause if it’s the hug you’re talking about – consider that a challenge accepted.”
  “Don’t even think about it, loco.”
  “Don’t worry. Obviously, I plan on getting you when you least expect it.”
  “You really think you can sneak up on me? Oh, that’ll be the day.”
  Your stomach suddenly growled, and Missy, being right in front of it, actually flinched and pulled away from you in shock.
  “Holy cow! You weren’t kidding, dad, that really does sound like a bear.”
  Marcus tried not to laugh, but his shoulders were shaking and his face contorted into a strained grimace.
  “You guys discussed my intestinal vocalisations? Really?”
  Marcus gave up and doubled over, laughing in earnest, while Missy tried to elaborate through her own giggling-fit.
  “Good thing, too… or I might’ve… called a… wildlife animal rescue…”
  “Alright, that’s it. I’ll give you something to laugh about!”
  You attacked them both with tickling, knowing exactly where to hit them for maximum effect, and using your ghost hands to reach them both. Which was particularly annoying to them since those hands couldn’t be waved off. You chased them into the kitchen and continued your attack while telling them to yield, and never laugh at your stomach again, to which they both shouted – never!   But after just a few minutes, your energy started to drain again, and you had to sit down on one of the kitchen chairs.
  “Hermosa? You okay?”
  “I think my body just remembered how much energy I wasted this morning.”
  Anita came into the kitchen and clapped her hands together.
  “Well, then, lunch it is. Who wants enchiladas?”
  As was becoming your routine, you ate as much as the rest of them combined, all by yourself, and then all but passed out once you were full.   You didn’t remember getting into bed, but you woke up there anyway, and the clock on the wall said 14:23. You’d slept for about two hours.   You groaned a little and rolled over, accidentally elbowing Marcus.
  “Oh, shit! I didn’t realise you were here, sorry!”
  He just hummed a laugh, and slung his arm around your waist.
  “You’ve done worse.”
  “Ugh, don’t remind me…”
  “How many times do I have to tell you, preciosa: you can attack me anytime.”
  “Well, I’d rather attack you like this.”
  You rolled on top of him and kissed him, and he made an affectionate sound in the back of his throat, but his hands came up to push your face away from his, after a few moments.   You frowned. He’d never pushed you away before.
  “Are you okay?”
  “Yes, of course. I just wanna talk to you.”
  Damn. That was always a mood-killer. You rolled off of him again and sat up and folded your legs together so that you could rest your elbows against your knees. He just pushed himself up on his elbow and laid there looking like some Greek god.
  “Okay. Let’s talk then. What’s on your mind?”
  “Marriage.”
  Gulp! Fuck… Give a girl some warning, for Christ’s sake.
  “Oh…”
  It was literally all you could choke out. But he just smiled.
  “You do remember saying yes to me, right?”
  You just nodded. Was that yesterday? Shit. What day was yesterday?
  “Well, first off, there was something missing from that moment, but it really wasn’t planned, so I didn’t have time to get it. That said, I do have a ring picked out for you, and I am going to go and get it as soon as I can.”
  You just swallowed hard, certain your voice was still non-existent.
  “Second, I’d like to know what kind of wedding you’d prefer? I’m not saying we have to start planning right away, I realise that it’s a big deal, especially for you. I’d just like to start talking about it, get comfortable with it.”
  Right. Comfortable.
  “……I hv…”
  Your voice really wasn’t cooperating. You tried clearing your throat, but it just sort of hissed. Thankfully, Marcus wasn’t fazed. He knew you well enough to know that your nervousness came from insecurity, not cold feet, and he also knew just how to help you with that.   He sat up and scooted closer to you so he could kiss you in that tender way that made you feel safe and wanted, while his current washed over your whole body.   It still came out hoarse, but at least your voice started working.
  “I’ve never… I’ve never once thought about it. I have no idea what I might like.”
  “Okay. Well, I’d like it to be small, just us and our closest friends. And I’m pretty traditional. I like the whole not seeing the dress before the ceremony, not sleeping together the night before. I don’t need a church, or an altar, just as long as there’s a priest to help me get through the vows, because I know I’ll forget how to even formulate sentences.”
  “Wow. You’re pretty clear on all this. But then, I suppose I would be too, if it wasn’t my first time.”
  “Missy’s mother and I, we did the whole celebrity wedding, and it was nice, don’t get me wrong. But it was more of a publicity stunt than our wedding-day. I always regretted that. I don’t wanna have any regrets with you.”
  “Good. But I’m gonna ask for some time to think about this.”
  He smiled.
  “You mean ‘do research’.”
  “Well, yeah, how else am I gonna figure out what I like?”
  “Take as much time as you need, mi amor.”
  You smiled and kissed him again, and this time he didn’t push you back, so you let your hand sneak under his t-shirt and lightly tickle him. He caught it and pulled you forwards until you were straddling him again, and right then, the door to the bedroom flung open and Anita scowled at you.
  “Your timing, woman…”
  “Oh, this time it’s not my timing, I’m afraid. You two had better make yourselves presentable. You’ve got company.”
  Marcus groaned under his breath.
  “Let me guess – Management?”
  “Yep. And they’re less than happy.”
  “Fuck. How much trouble am I in?”
  “That depends.”
  “On?”
  She huffed a little, but her expression was dead serious.
  “On your willingness to play by their rules.”
  Thanks to that comment, you were angry before you even entered the kitchen, where the representative from management, and his assistant, sat at the table, along with a person from the PR section, sitting by the island, a woman you’d never liked to begin with.   You might not have felt quite so confrontational towards them, if they hadn’t looked like they owned the fucking kitchen, just because they happened to be sitting in it.
  “Good afternoon, miss. You’ve had a busy morning.”
  “You have no god damned idea.”
  Marcus had moved to the corner of the kitchen, behind the island, and you knew that Anita and Missy where in the living room. But this was about you. They were here to question you.   You moved up to the table, but didn’t sit down, your energy was building with the tension in your body and you needed to be able to move around.
  “Then why don’t you tell us.”
  “Because this was a family affair, it doesn’t concern you.”
  “It does when an entire acre of lawn is destroyed by an unregistered super.”
  “Unregistered? Don’t fuck with me, Allen. I am in every record imaginable, from my time as a victim, right up until my self-appointed discharge – what? Two days ago? What you meant to say was: Unofficial. You’re only here because I’ve refused to become part of your little band of heroes (no offense, honey) which makes it that much harder for you to explain what happened, because you can’t cite it on official Heroics business.”
  They squirmed a little in their seats. They’d been trying to get you to join the Heroics ever since your assessment was completed, but you weren’t ready for the spandex just yet. You might never be. You still saw yourself as a normal person, and you’d just started getting the hang of the whole Manager-thing when all this happened. You wanted a chance to actually get good at it, before you let it go. It didn’t mean that you wouldn’t still help, if you could.
  “Your actions were witnessed by some of the staff-members at the clinic, and they’re all too happy to make statements to the press. You’re all over the news, honey. And we need to get out in front of that.”
  The PR-woman. The thing you’d always disliked about her, was her falseness. She had this plastered on softness that she probably thought was endearing, but it really wasn’t. You’d seen her real self, and she was a viper, through and through. There was no softness anywhere inside of that woman.
  “First of all – Don’t ever call me ‘honey’.”
  The kitchen started rumbling a little as your energy began to fill the available space.
  “Second – It is your job to stay ahead of the media. If you want me to make a statement, I will, but you won’t like it. Because I’m not gonna just read out whatever company-line-word-vomit I know you already have prepared in that folder of yours. I’ll tell the truth, short and simple, in my own words. Take it or leave it.”
  She just glanced at Allen and his assistant.
  “Third – I just had one of the worst mornings of my life. If you’re gonna come into my home, on a day like this… Do yourselves a favour and don’t antagonise me.”
  You could almost feel Marcus smile over in his corner. He’d always loved it when you took charge.
  “Okay, listen. You’re right. From our standpoint, this is a mess. Since you work for us, already, we can’t publicly address anything to do with your abilities without your expressed permission, and since you refuse to join the team, we can’t say that your actions were approved or valid either. So, right now, we can’t do anything to help the situation at all.”
  “So, let me make a statement.”
  They all looked extremely worried. But Allen continued.
  “What would you say?”
  “That I have a shitty fucking family that tried to exploit me, and since my powers are new, I had a little trouble controlling myself. But hey, nobody died, so yay! How about that?”
  The PR-woman actually groaned. What the hell was her name? You were usually so good with names.
  “Obviously, we’re not going to let you say that.”
  “Let me?”
  The kitchen started shaking, and you felt Marcus move towards you, but you kept him away with your power. You were angry, yes, but in complete control for once.
  “That was a poor choice of words, from Miss. Chopper.”
  Ah, right. You’d always thought of her as Hell-a-copter, that was why you couldn’t remember her name.
  “Since you’re an employee of the Heroics, you have certain obligations too.”
  “Yeah, I know. I can’t talk to the press about anything that relates to HQ without approval from Management or the PR division, don’t worry, I don’t plan to. But, let me be clear: I have no intention of being your fucking puppet either.”
  “Charming.”
  “Fuck you, Erica. I’ve seen you handle media circus’ before, remember. I know exactly how you keep people in line, and if you think I’m gonna let you control anything that comes out of my mouth – you’ve got another thing coming.”
  She glowered at you, but her usually so well-oiled mouth stayed closed. Allen just sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
  “Okay. How about this; we make an official statement saying that the events at the clinic were an isolated incident pertaining to a personal conflict involving a powered person. And that said incident is being investigated but since no one was harmed and the damage to the property is manageable, no legal action is being considered at this time. We don’t mention anyone by name, we don’t agree to take any comments, and you don’t use your powers in public again, without our approval.”
  “Your approval? And if a kid falls off of a balcony and I use my powers to save it, you’ll - what? Fire me?”
  “Of course not. But let’s just hope no kids fall off any balconies around you.”
  “That’s it?”
  “That’s the best I can do with what you’re offering us. Keep your powers off the radar, until the blowback from this incident has mellowed out, and then we can talk about where to go next.”
  You just shrugged. It wasn’t a great solution, but it would have to do.
  “Good. Then we’ll expect you back at work first thing Monday morning.”
  “Fine.”
  With that, they left, and you let your powers fade. You hadn’t used enough to drain yourself this time, and it made you feel a little proud of yourself.   Marcus’ arms snaked around your waist from behind, and his chin came to rest on your shoulder.
  “That was entertaining.”
  “It was annoying.”
  “You did good. If you don’t wanna be a Heroic then you’re not going to be, no matter how much they try to persuade you.”
  “Thank you, honey. Ugh… I can’t believe that bitch called me that, in my own kitchen.”
  Anita appeared from the living room, scowling at you again.
  “Don’t even go there, she is a bitch, and you know it just as well as I do.”
  “I didn’t say anything.”
  “You didn’t have to; your eyes are plenty judgemental all on their own.”
  She just walked past you, and started making a fresh pot of coffee. Marcus kissed your cheek and then let go of you to go check on Missy.
  “Hey, Anita, what day is it?”
  “It’s Saturday. Dear lord, you are terrible at keeping track.”
  “Yep. It’s a flaw in my design. Curiously, it didn’t reveal itself until after you hired me, though. What do you actually do at HQ, anyway? I never see you there, never see your name on any paperwork, never hear anyone mention your work, and yet, according to my contract - you are my closest superior.”
  “Because I am.”
  “Then why didn’t Management have a go at your scalp, too?”
  “You don’t really think anyone of those clowns has the guts to take me on, do you? Even you had them trembling in their boots.”
  She had her back to you, so you moved closer to her and was just about to slip your arms underneath hers to tug her into a surprise hug.
  “Touch me, and I’ll pour coffee over your hands.”
  “Damned it. How’d you know?”
  Even from behind, you could see her smile.
  “The flowers always know, loco.”
  You actually looked at the flowers in the kitchen window, suspiciously, wondering if they could somehow speak to her.   Shit. Now, that thought was gonna haunt you forever. There were flowers in every fucking room of the house…
Authors’ Note: I love criticism, don’t be shy to let me know if there’s anything you like/don’t like/have questions about.
@blueeyesatnight​​ @farfromjustordinary​ @allmyspideys​ @hrk-fic-recs​ @strawberryperegrine @lucrezia-thoughts​ @computeringturtle @sarahjkl82-blog
34 notes · View notes
hrina · 5 years ago
Text
Serotonin
PAIRING: Harry x Reader RATING: M for mature WORD COUNT: 23.7k REQUESTED: nope!
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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)
if you enjoyed this piece, please consider donating to my ko-fi! thank you bunches <3
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blackuigryphonvr · 5 years ago
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#PokemonGo Well, that’s my #GiratinaCollection #Giratina #Collection #haul #MyPokemonGoLife #Goals
I have total 16, with 15 being Origin Form. My goal was 10 & 1 Shiny! Well.... I eclipsed THAT goal!
A year ago I couldn’t even beat him, let alone catch him.... I had no community to play with either...
But it’s grown since then. Since I finally stumbled into the few folks that played in March I helped it to grow.
1 of my goals was to eventually beat and catch a Giratina including both forms.
I also vowed not to give up, and to reach Level 40!
Well.... I’m Level 39 now!
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I’ve been playing since July 2016, but at the end of 2017 n early 2018 I just sort of lost momentum playing..... but, once I made the decision to leave Facebook in May of 2018, a coworker of mine suggested I come back to play.... so, by the end of August 2018, I was back playing again.
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It was early September 2018 that really got my hooked back in.
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I have VERY FEW GOALS LEFT NOW!
I still need to beat & Catch the Altered Form Giratina because I got this one on a Trade!
Palkia & Dialga! I’m looking at YOU!
I’m gonna finally beat n catch them! I know what it takes now!
I got Rayquaza!
Then, I want to get the Legendary Birds 🦅!
I also need more Sinnoh Stones.
I’m still not Leveling up as fast as I would like in Ingress but, I WILL GET THERE!
I vow I will reach it!
Last October I vowed to scout out all the spots that need to become a PokéStop, and IT WILL HAPPEN! BELIEVE IT!
Sure.... I just turned 40, but I’m 1 of the youngest players in my community group that raids! I’m NOT STOPPING! There’s people in there 60s playing n kicking my butt!
But, I can kick butt now too!
If u love and enjoy Pokémon Go, u should JUST DO IT! Who cares what people think!?
I also play Harry Potter Wizards Unite!
Pokémon Go is the 1 game I actually feel proud to play. It also makes me experience a variety of good feelings, emotions, and sensations. I’m glad that I play, and it’s meaningful to me!
I also try and evolve ALL OF MY POKÉMON in hopes of each and EVERY POKÉMON I made a conscious effort to keep LIVES UP TO ITS FULL POTENTIAL! If I CHOOSE to keep a Pokémon for whatever reason, I fully 200% intend to evolve EACH AND EVERY ONE!
I’m NOT treating mine like trophies 🏆, I cherish many for sentimental reasons, and I never force any of my Pokémon to be etiolated, or stunted, or stymied. I evolve EVERY SHINY to its final evolutions on principle. I never hold them back to keep them pretty. To me, it means I’m a bad trainer, and an abuser.
I feel the same way about pets IRL. I don’t like the idea of chopping up a dog’s natural ears and tails for fashion. The natural dog is beautiful. How would u feel if ur care taker stopped u from becoming an adult?
I know that Pokémon are fictional, and they are not real, but it’s the thought that counts. The ideas behind the actions.
Each Pokémon is still in effect a result of my own efforts and actions as well as lots of work. So, if I abuse and disrespect my Pokémon, it’s likewise a reflection of myself.
People whom abuse their things do so because they don’t have self respect, and people who disrespect others also don’t respect themselves. A person with self respect is respectful to others, and treats their things with respect as well, including their car, clothes, dental 🦷 health, sanitation, the environment, and even regards things like the trash 🗑 and how to dispose of waste in a respectful manner.
Sure, respect is not owed but earned, but I treat even strangers and bad persons with respect and dignity because I have self respect, even if they are ungrateful and can’t appreciate it.
Self respect also means to speak up, speak ur truth, and sometimes that can means making waves, or rocking the boat. It also means standing up for the dignity n respect of others.
Yes.... Pokémon are fictional... it’s all in the imagination. But we still venture out into the world for real to play. But, so many things u do each day exist also in your mind.
And if my Pokémon are therefore a reflection of myself, my mentality, my efforts, and so on, then why hold back? Why not get the most out of life, or even your mind, if u can?
I want THE MAXIMUM out of whatever life I still have left to live, and my life is already half over. So, I would like my Pokémon Go also be the highest maximal everything they can!
I have a fondness for many of my Pokémon. They never do anything bad to me, and work to do what I bid them do. Yes it’s programming. But, it’s also an extension of me.
I don’t know 🤷‍♀️ what next year will totally be like but, maybe I really will be a Pokémon Master. So, here’s hoping!
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disuv · 4 years ago
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ॐ - OM 🌷🕊️🌱💐
Delhi/11-05-2021
Yes -OM(ॐ) , this single word is pious for me . No I don't say it is for you . It is for me . What I think , I do you can't and vice versa . It's all an individual understanding and findings which can't be told but can be shared share d a glimpse certainly . That's why languages .
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The fact is untold . It can't be uttered . It's sound is silent . The chain of thoughts is unbreakable . Once I receive a signal I again delve into it and suddenly the I hear from outside the chain gets stopped and I reply to the sayer - yea, what happened ? And further knowing the needs I do act . That action is merely an outer reaction over action . The connection of the two body , Two mind with words . Totally external acts . Once Done , again inside the paused thoughts starts playing and I journy throughout . Outside always I get a destination but inside not yet able to find the end . I enter from one layer to another but again bounce back and find self onto the mark with a little bit confusion . The parallel line blinking and so sometimes I feel here I caught but very next nothing . It disappears . Again it appears and I focus to catch . This is continued .
When I go deep down I forget external world and it's matters . I don't want to experience again but the ray of son, fresh air from , water from , foods from make me think I can't ignore external power which is called - The nature . No , here I don't talk about human . I can live alone whole life , I won't ever ask for anything , any support but I can't live without natural resources . The air, the water , the sun , the moon, the light etc are keeping me alive and moving .
Always I find peace when I think of me . Always I feel like the god when I touch my subconscious mind . It has countless door . I am knocking since long but not yet got enter . Each moment I doubts - of the god is outside or inside . And finally I find ॐ inside.
No . If I am.saying it it lost it purity . What I feel I can't define that object . The silence is truth . I can't even try to give it voice. It is voiceless and if I do try the outcome will loose it's originality . Not possible to share the findings at least for me to the world .
I really don't know how Buddha was able to share the ultimate truth with the world by words but I know I can't . I am not Buddha , I am what I am . The purpose of my life is starts with me and end with me. The stories , the epics and many books are there but I don't ever feel to find the reality from . NO , I never try . I read, I enjoy , and move on .
Why I need to find others when I have very short time in the earth . I have everything what others have . All resources exactly the same as my contemporaries have . I am very much interested to find myself rather than others . I stay aloof , love to live in solitude , brooding and smiling alone . I talk to myself the most . I am there and I am nowhere . I love to watch people , I read maximum without any judgement . Active on social media , Write what I feel seeing external world . I always live within so there is no desire , I just want to write so do write.
In my whole life I have never asked to anyone do any favour . And I know I will not . When I be with others I fight if I find anything wrong in external world . I feel I must react and fix the things . Yes .. I live in the two world - Internal and external . External world I can leave without any fear because for me it is very easy to settle down anywhere externally . The outside effects are merely a reflection of the crowd. I don't care about . Since I know my internal world so it's tough for me to indulge with the others and crash or vandalise my built up temple inside . The Temple which is invisible to the world . No bricks , no stone , no image - Just a light without any form , The emptiness , ready to fill me up . I am trying since long to see - ॐ inside . But it appears and disappears constantly . It has many doors without boundaries . Very tough to draw the line and hold it. No- I can't express it's activities and speed inside . It is faster than light and lighter than air . Even I feel breathing sounds more than it's weight . It's soul.
Yes ..It's my soul which is sleeping with me , working with me and leave this world with me . The sound I hear - ॐ ! When I meet with others it disappears . I don't like me when I live externally . I find myself alone when I do go out . I want to stay inside , within me with ॐ । the outer wold has drama so I do live dramatically with my body . They can look my body. They can judge seeing my acts , my laughter , my tears, my sorrow , my dance . This is very natural and spontaneous rules being followed by the world since long . I can't say - don't do it . Nobody can say. If someone trying to change it , they are standing far away from self realisation . Body to be watched my external body with external mind . The soul to be watched by the internal eyes by the subconscious mind . Buddha can't say any one ugly . 🙏
~disuv
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dctuk · 4 years ago
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How many TacTiles do I need?
TacTiles are one of those great inventions that are so simple but just work. Produced by carpet tile giants Interface, we've been selling TacTiles at DCTUK for over a decade now.
Simply stick them to the underside of the corner of each carpet tile, securing 4 carpet tiles for each TacTile. Contrary to popular belief, only one side of the TacTile is sticky, the other side (subfloor side) has a grippy (not sticky) texture that hold the carpet tiles in place.
They are a genius method of installing carpet tiles that is fast and efficient.
The question we get asked the most, however, is not *what* they are, but "how many do I need to order?"
And that answer, well, requires some explaining. If you can't be bothered with the faff of explanations, scroll down to "What is the solution?" to get the answer and my Excel calculator tool.
The main problem is that we can't just create a calculator on our website that gives an exact answer based on the square metreage of the room, unless the room is an exact square.
This is because the number of tactile required depends on the shape of the room.
For example, if I said 8 carpet tiles need 15 TacTiles this would be true. If your room is a 2 x 4 grid of carpet tiles.
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But if we create a line of 8 carpet tiles (1 x 8 grid) then the number needed would be 18 TacTiles.
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Both rooms are 8m2 but the number of TacTiles required is different. And the larger the space, the greater the difference becomes. So when a customer comes to us and says "I need to buy 200 carpet tiles, how many TacTiles do I need?" we have mostly mumbled our way through these conversations with lots of mmms, errrs, and... "how about buying this lovely spray can adhesive instead?"
After thinking about this problem A LOT and trying to work out a formula that would allow me to create a calculator for our sales team to enter a square metreage that provides the number of tiles required I recently admitted failure and instead turned to be my genius, brain-box of a brother who I thought my know the answer. And he did.
What is the solution to the TacTile problem?
The small piece of good news is that there is a simple formula for square layouts that are the same length on both sides. For example, if we use the below 3 x 3 square grid of carpet tiles:
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If we say the number of carpet tiles on each side of the grid is a (so in the above image a=3) then formula would be 4a+(a-1)².
To make this easier for customers I have created a simple TacTile calculator in Excel where the customer can enter the linear metres of the width (which would also be the height) of the room and the calculator will work out exactly how many TacTiles are required.
As mentioned above - this only works if the room is square. And so if the project space is not square then the room needs to be divided up into squares and then the linear metreage of those squares entered into the calculator for precise quantities.
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To make it slightly more confusing, but more helpful for customers, on DCTUK.com we sell TacTiles in sheets of 6 because most customers will not need to buy a whole roll of 500 TacTiles. The calculator works out the number of TacTiles required and then lets our customer know how many packs they should order on our website.
Another solution (For those who were in set 1 for maths at school)
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The other formula that my brother worked out that might be useful is for the maximum number of TacTiles that would be required for any possible layout, provided all the tiles are connected on at least one side to another carpet tile in that batch. (So this excludes a situation where, for example, the customer bought carpet tiles for two different rooms in the same batch).
If the number of carpet tiles is t, then the formula is 2t+2. So if our customer was supplied with 2t+2 TacTiles, then they would always have enough for the corner of every carpet tile, but they might have some left over, effectively "wasted".
At larger numbers, those wasted TacTiles become a mega problem that can't really be ignored (unless you're the *burying your head* in the sand type).
For example, if a customer orders 625 tiles, then if they are laid out in a square grid they will need 676 TacTiles. But the maximum number of TacTiles for all possible layouts is 1,252. So nearly half the TacTiles will be wasted and in fact as the number of tiles increases, the number of wasted TacTiles gets closer and closer to 50%.
What other flooring adhesives can I use to fit carpet tiles?
Well, we still highly recommend TacTiles, and if you need help working out how many you need, just get in touch with our friendly UK sales team. But there are some alternatives:
For small areas
Double sided tape is an easy and secure way of fixing carpet tiles to the floor for small projects.
Sticky Stuff Tackifier spray adhesive is also great for small areas, or even large areas that are being loose-laid but need a bit of stickiness at the edges of the room. It's our own brand of adhesive and always kept in stock. Plus, it's a tackifier so is not permanent and won't leave a horrible mess when the tiles are lifted up at a later date.
Bostik Spray adhesive is a spray solution for semi-permanently sticking carpet tiles to the floor - we also keep this in stock in our distribution hub.
For larger areas
Bostik Fix A320 Tackifier is available in a 5kg or 25kg tub and is perfect for larger installations. Spread the tackifier across the floor and allow to dry. Then simply lay the carpet tiles on top.
Uzin U2100 Carpet Tile adhesive is sold at DCTUK.com and is a great option. It’s got a super-fast drying between 30-60 minutes, so enough time to watch an episode of Line of Duty before its on to the next DIY task.
The F.Ball Styccobond F44 is often the fitter's favourite and well known for it's yellow branding. We stock this and can delivery next working day.
If you need any help with TacTiles or the above adhesives, just give our team a shout by calling 0345 222 1541 or jumping on our website Livechat.
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hereticalteapot · 4 years ago
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So here’s the thing this makes me think of: I have heard it claimed many times that the number of ways to shuffle a deck of cards is so large that any sufficiently good shuffle will almost certainly produce a result that has never been produced before. This is true of any individual shuffle of a single deck, but does it hold true for all shuffles of all decks, ever?
There are far more ways to shuffle a deck of cards (52! ~ 8*10^67) than there are possible minecraft seeds, but the number of times a deck of cards has been shuffled should vastly exceed the number of number of minecraft worlds generated.
Using the same approximation for the generalised birthday problem we find that, for the chance of at least one pair of decks to have been identically shuffled in all of history to be 50%, we need to have shuffled.... ~10^34 decks of playing cards.
Wikipedia says that standard 52 card decks have existed since around 1500, so ~500 years. To shuffle 10^34 decks of cards in this time, you’d need to shuffle ~6.7*10^23 decks per second, on average. Even if every living human spent their entire life shuffling cards at an incredible rate, you wouldn’t approach an appreciable fraction of that.
So, it’s more likely than not that no two (fairly shuffled) decks have ever been shuffled in the same order.
Now let’s put a upper bound on this.
It’s reasonable to assume the overwhelming majority of card game activity has occurred in the last 100 years, given population increase and the emergence of casinos and mass production. Let’s very generously approximate that this entire time the world has been using cards at the present day rate, and that the world population is a constant 10 billion.
There are a few thousand casinos in the world today. Let’s say there’s 10,000. The largest casino (for our purposes) is The Venetian Macao which has 800 tables. Let’s round that up to 1000 tables and say they’re all for card games, and let’s assume every casino is the same size. That means there’s 10 million card tables in casinos worldwide. Let’s assume they each shuffle 1 deck of cards every second, for 100 years - that’s 3.2*10^16 shuffles total. Nowhere near our 10^34 from before.
Now let’s say that every person in the world plays a card game outside of a casino once per day, and that each person shuffles the deck 10 times per game. That’s 100 billion shuffles per day, or 3.7*10^15 shuffles total.
So, between casino and personal usage, we have a very generous upper limit on the total number of card decks ever shuffled of ~3.6x10^16.
Plugging this into the solution from before gives a maximum probability that any two decks ever shuffled in all of human history ended up in the exact same order of... 8x10^-36, or:
0.0000000000000000000000000000000008%
So yeah, that claim is almost certainly true in general, even acounting for the effects of the birthday problem.
Do you think, in the whole history of Minecraft, any two players have ever generated the same random seed and therefore started on the exact same world, just by chance?
I thought about this while watching random seed minecraft speedrun attempts, where runners will constantly generate new worlds and try to beat the game in a random new world each time. I'm going to investigate the probability, but it would involve a guess about just how many new worlds are randomly generated every day. Any ideas?
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buildercar · 7 years ago
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New Post has been published on http://www.buildercar.com/2017-ford-gt-pro-racers-perspective/
2017 Ford GT: Pro Racer’s Perspective
By now you’ve probably read our official first-drive story about the 2017 Ford GT. I was along for the ride, so to speak, with executive editor Mac Morrison, who’s a bit — that’s putting it mildly — of a racing nerd. We wound up talking about the GT once again during a recent telephone conversation, and I began to scribble some new notes and review some others I had taken in Utah during the test drive of the car. When he quickly realized I was doing so, Morrison, of course, demanded I hand them over. So here they are, my thoughts on the 2017 Ford GT, from a professional race-car driver’s perspective:
The driver’s office: Opening and closing the GT doors is a breeze. They are either substantially lighter or have more efficient operation than other scissor door exotics. I’m sure the liberal use of carbon fiber helps. When opening any scissor door, make sure you stand in the right position so you don’t clock yourself in the face.
Opening the driver door exposes quite a sizeable entrance hole. I think I just stood there and stared for a few seconds the first time I opened it. My first instinct was to put my right foot in there and feel for a grab handle on the inside, exactly as I would when jumping into a race car. The correct way to do it is to sit on the side of the car at a 90 degree angle to forward and swing each leg into the car separately. I’m quite glad I wasn’t wearing a skirt.
The GT seats do not move up and down or forward or backward. The seat pads are set on top of the car’s carbon-fiber structure, though the seatback does recline a little. I have received comments from people surprised and even critical of the GT fixed-seat setup with moveable pedals and moveable steering wheel. There are other street-car manufacturer’s using moveable pedals and, on a racing note, the 2017 Mercedes GT3 race car I’ve tested this year also uses a fixed seat and moveable pedal/steering-wheel setup. This makes driver changes much easier and quicker. The GT seats are supportive when driving on the limit on the track, and the pedal setup makes it easy to left foot brake.
I am 5 feet 10 inches tall with average length torso and legs. I found a good driving position with no usability issues. One picky point: I couldn’t get the steering wheel at a perfect angle for me, but it was close. To be clear, I have a hard time getting any road car’s steering wheel and seat to a perfect driving position for me. I very much like the shape of the GT steering wheel but do not like all the buttons and switches on it. At one point, l think I found a garbage disposal button; OK, maybe I didn’t, but there is a lot of stuff on there.
Rear visibility is good, and the side mirrors give an excellent view out back and to the sides. Visibility out the front windshield gives the same excellent panoramic view I often find in other exotic mid-engine supercars.
The GT’s engine has a ripping angry V-6 sound which is addictive. Hitting the gas adds a bass-heavy intake roar that reminded me of a commercial jet backing away from a jet bridge. If you watch and listen to my GT track-lap video, you can hear the initial induction roar and then a serious increase in urgency and overall engine volume once the revs hit about 4,900 rpm. There is no appreciable turbo lag, just a build in power all the way up the power band. This engine produces a bulging mid-range pull that seriously works the traction control in the first three gears.
You may have read in our GT first drive article about some ABS brake behavior I reported, not only to Morrison but also to the Ford engineers, who were very receptive. I found the same exact issue on both the GTs I drove. I have been lucky to work with production-car and race-car development teams for different manufactures over several years. I have also worked with tire and brake manufactures and on ABS brake development. I believe the GT braking behavior is linked to the ABS algorithm. My guess is, the algorithm is not capable of keeping up with the GT when encountering certain track nuances such as ripples in brake zones under maximum braking. Transfer or reset back to full braking power was way too slow after the tire senses an “in air” or “no friction” moment. This issue only occurred in two brake zones and would result in extending my braking distance and forcing me to go wide of the ideal line.
The GT’s steering is direct and transfers exactly what the chassis is doing in a linear and immediate way. This gave me the confidence to steer aggressively when entering turns. The Utah track starts with three medium-speed corners. If you look at my onboard video you can see a snap oversteer entering turn three at about the 34-second mark. As I correct the oversteer, you’ll see my momentum does not change. That is because the steering correction to chassis reaction is so immediate. This is not the same reaction time you would feel with most high-performance production sports cars. It would be more normal to have a longer recovery event. NOTE: The GT I drove in the video had just been used for a drift video shoot by Ford’s pro race driver, Billy Johnson (nice work Billy), so the rear tires were not at their best.
Another very impressive performance characteristic is the way the GT pulls once speed exceeds 100 mph. I have ridden very high-powered motorcycles for years. If you take bikes with the same power and weight and compare one with ram air to one without, you can actually feel the ram air bike pulling harder at high speeds. The air intakes on the GT are way out in the air stream and it would not surprise me for a second if the GT’s body shape doesn’t cause a significant ram air effect at high speeds. It really pulls hard above 100 mph, very impressive. You can also clearly see from the track lap video how quickly the GT accelerates from 50 to 100 mph in several places.
I kept the traction control (TC) on minimal interference and not turned off completely, as I always believe most drivers want the insurance. The Track-mode TC algorithm on the GT is very good, I give it an eight out of 10. I did feel TC intervention on corner exit in the sense it was holding me back a little too much for my tastes, but I did like the fact it left me alone when I needed to twist the car into faster corners under power and rotate the tail.
The GT chassis and suspension setup in Track mode is probably one of the best I have ever felt on a street-legal car. You might imagine the 2.7-inch ride-height setup would be stiff, as on a Porsche 911 GT3 RS for instance, but it is very compliant. This suspension compliance combined with grip and aero make the GT so quick and fun to drive on the track. It is not scary twitchy at all and inspires confidence.
The new Ford GT is certainly a driver’s car, whether on the street or track. I thoroughly enjoyed my time with it. I am looking forward to seeing what comes next from Ford’s performance boffins. I have a suspicion there will be more than a few manufacturers looking at how the GT came into existence, how track function led to a street weapon the likes of which we’ve never seen. Let the good times keep rolling.
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