#if anything any medium long wavy hair would look better. this man has been through enough

[tiffoii]

Jeff Fowler if you can hear me, please let Agent Stone grow out his hair.

Give Stone wavy hair.

Give Stone wavy hair.

Give Stone wavy hair.

Give Stone wavy hair.

Give Stone wavy hair.

Give Stone wavy hair.

Give Stone wavy hair.

Give Stone wavy hair.

Give Stone wavy hair.

Give Stone wavy hair.

Give Stone wavy hair.

Give Stone wavy hair.

[hrina]

Serotonin

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

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

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

~*~

September 4th, 2019

You always sit in the middle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mateo looks over at you inquisitively. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

Harry nods. “Yes, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s probably six feet.

You cross your thighs over each other.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  September 11th, 2019

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

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

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

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

“Sorry…excuse us,” you murmur.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You guys bet on me?”

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

“Good morning, everyone!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His apprehension makes you nervous. Had you done poorly?

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

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

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

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

You’re an idiot.

“Thank you,” you say dumbly.

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

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

Well done. Keep it up. H. x

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

Had there been a note on Mateo’s quiz?

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

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

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

~*~

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

“Sure. Anything else?”

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

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

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

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

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

You laugh. “You’re such a bitch.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She wiggles her brows. You snort.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  September 18th, 2019

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

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

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

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

In our defense, we thought you were dead.

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

An anchor.

A rose.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry?” You blink.

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

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

~*~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Finally, though, you hear your name ring out.

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

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

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

Don’t trip, don’t trip, don’t trip.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Very insightful. Great job. H. x

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

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

What a fucking dick.

  September 25th, 2019

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Somehow, you don’t believe him.

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

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

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

  October 9th, 2019

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

Harry Styles has posted to the forum.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hi all,

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

See you soon.

Sincerely,

Harry

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

62%.

Sixty-two percent.

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

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

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

He balks. “Come again?”

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

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

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

“Yeah,” you say, nodding weakly.

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

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

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

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

~*~

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

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

~*~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The one coming up?”

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  October 13th, 2019

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She’s not,” you say flatly.

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

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

“Holy shit! Speak of the fucking devil!”

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

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

“He looks good,” Mateo notes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mateo offers him a small smile; Margaret beams widely.

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

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

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

A beat of silence ensues.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No!

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

~*~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Er, I’ll just have a coke, then.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Two classes?”

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

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

“It is.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He smirks. “I guess we are.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Where’s Harry?”

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

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

“Thanks, man.”

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

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

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

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

He chuckles lowly before pulling away.

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

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

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

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

“See you tomorrow.”

~*~

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

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

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

“Margaret!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You pause. Your eyes narrow.

Holy shit.

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

She’s too loud.

Her voice carries through the air.

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

You whip around, nearly snapping your neck.

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

Your friends stare at you, mystified.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  October 14th, 2019

Your head hurts.

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

Where the fuck is he?

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

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

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

Harry is never late.

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

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

He’s a mess.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I like to read.” He shrugs.

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

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

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

Harry’s eyes fall to the packet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Exactly.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No kidding.”

Harry’s lips curl grimly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good idea,” you breathe.

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

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

“Deal.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harry nods assuredly. “Yeah.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You too.”

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

  October 15th, 2019

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You snort.

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

“Margaret!”

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

“Jesus Christ.”

  October 16th, 2019

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

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

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

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

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

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

What the fuck is going on?

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

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

~*~

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

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

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

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

4C.

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

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

“Hey,” Harry says, not unkindly.

You offer up a nervous smile. “Hey.”

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

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

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

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

“Good, thanks,” he replies. “You?”

“I’m good.”

“Good.”

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

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

“Sounds good.”

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

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

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

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

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

Harry nods. “Those are good.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Er…would you mind?”

Your jaw drops.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

“Lift your arm!”

“Alright, shit!” Harry obeys.

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

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

Your breath gets caught in your throat.

Harry hasn’t moved an inch.

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

But then Harry lets out a defeated sigh.

“Fuck it all,” he says.

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

~*~

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

But there’s nothing funny about this situation.

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

Finally.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s gorgeous,” you mumble softly.

“I want you,” he replies.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Pull—”

He kisses your throat.

“—my—”

He kisses your chin.

“—hair.”

He kisses your lips.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can I kiss you again?” he requests.

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

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

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

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

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “Back problems.”

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

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

He tastes like you. The realisation makes you moan.

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

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

You groan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod once. “Agreed.”

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

You’re really about to have sex with Harry.

Harry, who grades your papers.

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

Harry, who ignored you for weeks.

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

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

“You good?”

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

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

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

“Sorry,” he says. “It feels good.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We’re fucked,” he adds weakly.

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

  October 23rd, 2019

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

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

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

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

November 13th, 2019

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

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

“I didn’t see her complaining!”

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

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

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

“Agreed.” Mateo nods.

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

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

“Mhm,” you hum in response.

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

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

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

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

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

“Hi,” you whisper.

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

“Fine.” Your answer is curt. “You?”

“I’ve been alright, yeah.”

“That’s good.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re worried about yourself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Excuse me?” Your brows knit together.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nods. “I promise.”

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

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

You turn and push through the doors without looking back.

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

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

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

~*~

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

Dopamine (a Serotonin extra)

if you enjoyed this piece, please consider donating to my ko-fi! thank you bunches <3

[keiscait]

Hi! I just wanted to say from the match-ups I have seen that you are such a great writer! If it’s not too much I was wondering if I could get a living room and bedroom matchup for a male character. If both are too much, feel free to do one whichever one you feel like you can write better. I wanna do this anon so the emoji you can use for me is: <33

Info:

Pronouns: She/Hers

Personality: I am a very goal orientated person and I can become very hard on myself sometimes if I don’t achieve things as well as I wanted to. I tend to be quiet but not shy per say. I do not have trouble talking to people and making friends and I can become very outgoing but in the friend group itself I usually keep to myself. If I am comfortable with you I will make witty remarks and make fun of you in a playful friend banter kinda way but I would like to say I am a good listener so I can get serious real quick. I am really big on trust and I used to trust too easily and now I am a bit more closed off where it is a bit harder for me to trust others.

Relationships: When it comes to relationships, I believe in communication and I haven’t had a big problem with it in the past. I wouldn’t mind a small pda such as hand holding or a small kiss here and there but nothing over the top because you gotta keep the important stuff private ya know. My love language is quality time because I tend to be really busy once school starts and so making effort to see each other even through our busy schedules is really important to keep the relationship healthy.

Hobbies: I believe that you need a good balance between work and play though so some other hobbies I have are painting (acrylic and watercolor), baking, and skateboarding. I also listen to music everyday and watch like an episode before I go to sleep if I have school but binge watch on break. I also try to game a bit too like league, minecraft, and my switch. I also like hiking and runs in the mornings before class because it really clears my head and I used to be on the swim team but I don’t competitively do it anymore.

Bedroom: I believe I would be a switch that leans more submissive. However, I am really cautious to do anything because I need to trust them to be submissive. I would consider myself very open to different kinks and what not and aftercare is a must. I’m not super into degrading because I’m sensitive af. I just would want someone who is observant with me and my body as well as someone who helps me with my insecurities. Once I’m comfortable though I definitely become a brat. Just want someone who would manhandle but still tell me i’m the prettiest girl they’ve ever met hahaha.

Zodiac: Pisces (sun), Cancer (rising), and Leo (moon)

Hogwarts house: Ravenclaw

Future Plans/ Dreams: I am working to become a biomedical engineer one day to help make medical devices to help people. Right now I am leaning towards possibly doing physical therapy and making prosthetics.

Looks: I’m 5’6/5’7 and have a medium build. I am tan kinda like a honey color with black wavy/slightly curly hair that is about at my breast length. My eyes are hazel but mainly light brown and I have pretty big doe like eyes.

Sorry if it’s too much or too little but thank you so much! and I have such respect for writers so keep being you :) HAPPY HOLIDAYS AND STAY SAFE

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hello and welcome, my darling! So sorry for the long wait, and thank you SO MUCH for your kind words! (⌒‿⌒)❤️ Let’s get right to it then! ٩(◕‿◕｡)۶

I was reading your description, and I think the person I had in mind for you also fits your bedroom matchup!

Our lovely guest keeping us company in both rooms is...

(Runner up: Ushijima Wakatoshi)

Kageyama is a very complex character. He’s one of the few characters ever who we actually see slips back into his old bad habits every now and then, but is immediately remorseful and shows signs of him knowing better. He’s always striving for progress, and he understands more than others what it’s like to dislike your past self.

- Tobio here is somehow both incredibly observant yet so fricking DENSE

- I imagine that however it is that you two meet, he’ll be super formal at first. It’ll take a little while for a romance to build because he’s not used to opening up, and he’ll need to really trust the person for him to let his walls down

- however, as soon as you guys establish a friendship, he’d be drawn to you and how goal-oriented you are, especially since he is, too

- He’d take interest in you, notice all your little quirks, and would even find himself blushing whenever you playfully tease him

- Problem is, he has no fucking clue why HAHAH

- I love him sm but boy doesn’t know what it is to like someone

- Hinata would try to explain it to him and he’d just be like cr- cru--... c-CRUSH?? ...what is that?

- Man is in desperate need of wingman someone help him

- Anyway, once his friends get Operation: Get Tobio A Girlfriend in motion, he just turns into his pouty blushy self whenever he sees you

- The other boys will probably go overboard that he’ll be forced to take matters into his own hands

- The confession would be a damn mess but in an adorable way

- He’d 100% yell his feelings at you while pouting/blushing

- You’d have to shush him TBH 

- shush him with a kiss maybe? that’s a great way to shut him up ( 　･ิω･ิ)

- Kageyama_Tobio.exe stopped responding

- anyway I think he’d just be such a soft, protective boyfriend, especially since you’re kind of quiet

- You two would understand each other so well. He’d protect you and your quiet side, while you would help him be more relatable in order to make friends. It’s also perfect that you two are both goal-oriented, because then you’d be on the same page when it comes to co-dependence/independence. One would understand the other when it comes to pressure, deadlines, and hard work, and you’d just be super supportive of each other all the time

- I think you’re better at communicating than he is, so you may have to inform him a bit on how it should work between the two of you. He’d pick up on this really fast tho so no need to worry! Kags has got you ;)

- Dates would be really productive ones. Study dates, work dates, workout dates; anything that would be beneficial to your improvement

- Early morning hikes with Kags :’( beautiful

- He really appreciates that you’re not big on PDA because that puts a lot less pressure on himself to be someone he’s not. PLUS I imagine he’s the same as you, who really treasures the private moments between the two of you because you’re both so busy

- Once you guys have some private time, he’d take it as an opportunity to release all his pent up energy and emotions. He’d be so needy and clingy when he knows others can’t see

- ( 　･ิω･ิ) ( 　･ิω･ิ) ( 　･ิω･ิ) also u kno whassup when you guys finally get some private time ( 　･ิω･ิ) ( 　･ิω･ิ)( 　･ิω･ิ)

- I don’t think Kags is the very kinky type. He’d be a dom, but I don’t think the freaky stuff would really appeal to him, especially if it’s degradation, since the man worships you?? He’s just like... why tho 

- He may get into some stuff that emphasizes his strength, mostly how he grabs you and handles your body

- Picks up on your sweet spots really quick, and I imagine he can even deduce which parts are sensitive without you having to tell him

- Apologizes if he ever makes you uncomfortable :’( he’d just be SO tender and protective

- I don’t think he knows what aftercare is, or like the specifics of it, but I think despite that, he’d just naturally want to take care of you and check in on you afterwards. He’d ask if you’re okay, if you need anything, if you’re feeling any kind of pain, if there’s anything he can improve on. And he’d definitely scan your body for any bruises.

~

You were walking home from an exhausting day at work. 

There were more than a few setbacks today - an annoying coworker took credit for your hard work, your precisely detailed schedule wasn’t honored by others, and because of this, you weren’t able to have lunch. It was now 6:30PM. The rain poured as you waited at the bus stop. You were famished, soaked, and, quite frankly, so done with this day. 

You sighed for what felt like the hundredth time. You were so out of it today that you haven’t had the chance to check on your unread messages. Your boyfriend, Tobio, had left a few missed calls over the past hour, causing some worry. He didn’t usually call, given how busy he was all the time. You texted him first to check in.

You: Everything okay, bub?

K: Yes. Sorry about all the missed calls. Where are you right now?

Y: At the bus stop near my building. Why?

K: Which one?

K: Never mind. I see you

What? You whipped your head left and right, then saw your boyfriend’s figure standing a few meters away, umbrella in hand. He was truly a sight for sore eyes right now - he wasn’t wearing anything special, juts his usual tracksuit, but he was wrapped in a scarf and held a soft expression on his face. It was just the warmth you needed right now. He jogged over to you, closing the umbrella as he made it under the roof. 

“Hi love,” you started, “what on earth are you doing here?” A huge weight seems to have been lifted off of you.

He didn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around you, rubbing your body to give extra warmth. Pulling back, he took off his scarf so that he could wrap it around your neck. 

“It’s been raining all day but I noticed you left your umbrella at home. I was hoping to catch you before you left work so that you don’t have to walk in the rain.” You couldn’t help the smile that was erupting through the exhaustion. This felt like an all new Tobio. “I guess I was a little too late, I’m sorry.”

You shook your head. “No, don’t worry about it. Thank you for thinking of me, bub.” You allowed yourself to slump onto him, wrapping your arms around his waist. You felt him loosen up, strong arms making their way around your form. You looked up at him without pulling away. Your big doe eyes stared into his blue ones, totally sinking into each other’s gaze. He planted a small kiss onto your nose. It wasn’t normal for you to be so affectionate outdoors, but right now, it seemed apt. You scrunched up your nose in response.

Had it not been for the honking of the bus, the two of you could’ve cuddled in the rain for much longer, ridding each other of the lousiness of the day.

~

I hope that was alright with you, darling! Thank you so much for trusting me with your matchup. Hope you’re having a wonderful new year so far!! Please don’t hesitate to sit and have a chat with me anytime ❤️

Thanks for stopping by! (ﾉ´ヮ`)ﾉ*: ･ﾟ

[cosmiciaria]

Assassin’s Creed Unity Review/honest thoughts/discussion - SPOILERS (long post)

So I decided to finally settle on a proper review – although this one is going to be more of what here in Argentina we call a "sincericidio": basically I will spit my guts out and cry in one corner, while being completely honest about my feelings. I will try to keep most spoilers at bay, like I always do, but there's just one thing I cannot not talk about which is THE spoiler so – I want you to be considered warned.

Before I start, I should state, since this is my review and reviews are quite personal actually, why this game is so important to me and why I wanted to play it so bad. There's a combination of factors, and obviously this game isn't going to strike the same chords with everyone, so bear in mind that this is strictly subjective and, right now, personal.

First factor and I think the most important one: I like writing. Wait, don't leave the review just yet. I like writing and creating characters. I have many. Lately I've been revisiting a character that had a very sad backstory and added quite long happy ending for him. I made him fall in love again. He's black haired, wears a short pony tail… his new love interest is a redhead with wavy hair… ok, you get me now, don't you? And what's worse, is that their story takes place in a fictional world that resembles quite much Europe of 1800's. So clothes and ballrooms and palaces and big, fluffy dresses are a thing in this story of mine. I think that, if you've ever created a character, to find another fictional, similar character in any medium is going to draw your attention to that product right away. It did happen to me with Cal Kestis from SW Jedi: Fallen Order, I have another redhead baby boy that needs to be protected at all costs. It's a way for us to 'see', let's say, or imagine our characters being brought to life.

Second factor: I love Paris. I visited Versailles and Paris back in late 2018, and I went there with zero expectations, only to fall in love with France. I love the Château de Versailles. I love palaces. I love the Seine. I love the Louvre. I love it. All of it. If I could, I'd live there. Sadly, I'm poor and speak little to no French at all.

Third Factor: I'm learning French! I dream with the day I can speak like five languages as well as I speak English (I studied it for ten years so… it kinda makes sense that I feel comfortable with it). I'm still struggling with French, but I will get there someday. I will. Because I love it. I love the language. Oui.

Fourth factor: I also really really, really like the French Revolution, and I've never, much to my surprise, watched or played any series, videogame, movie or anything that takes place in such a context (if you have recommendations, please drop them right away!). And I say "to my surprise" because I really like that part of History! So, to live in almost first person how the French Revolution unfolded – to hear the chansons and to see people gathered in crowds at every corner, listening to a liberty preacher wielding the French flag – that was glorious.

Fifth and yeah we're done: I love Les Misérables. I know it happens way later than the French Revolution, but since this musical (and the 2012 movie) became my 'home', I can't help but feel a stronger connection with everything I said above. I can watch that movie over and over and I will still sing Empty chairs and empty tables with tears in my eyes, despite its flaws.

I had like every reason to play this game. And it paid off.

Before plunging into it, I did read the novelization. Sadly, it was only to satisfy my soon-to-be-fulfilled obsession with the game, since I don't think the quality of the narration was, uhm, that good – it felt like you needed to have played the game before reading it. And I get it, it's a videogame adaptation, that's fine, but when you look at it as standalone book, it doesn't stand alone that good. What disappointed me, though, wasn't the narration, which was what I totally expected it to be, nor the dialogues or the ending – it was Élise. I was bit weary about this because she came across as completely different character than what I had in mind about her, and I didn't like her. At all. In the book, at least. I didn't like her because she had a few comments and took some decisions that made her look like she was stupid and/or selfish. I can understand the selfish part; I do not want to even believe that she's stupid. So that's why the book was a bit of a letdown for me. I recommend it, though, if you're a fan, because there's a book exclusive character that really gets the plot moving and he's endearing: Mr. Weatherall. Oh, what a man.

Now, regarding the game itself – it shouldn't come as a surprise that I thoroughly enjoyed it. As I've stated in another post, this game is barely an Assassin's Creed, since you delve like zero into the AC lore, and it's just an excuse for your character – Arno – to know parkour. Which in fact he knows before becoming an assassin, so it begs the question, why is this game even in this franchise? I digress. It's an AC game at the end of the day and that won't change.

But do not jump into this game expecting it be your average AC story. I firmly believe that the creators wanted to convey a different story here. For starters, Arno is no hero. Arno doesn't want to save the world. Arno doesn't care about any artifact or magic or creed. Arno only wants to discover who's the man behind De La Serre's death. That's his main driving force. And behind that, there's this undeniable and yet quite destructive feeling that pulls him forward: Élise.

Élise and Arno's relationship goes deeper into this story than it's noticeable at first glance. When you look back upon the plot, you discover that without their love 'subplot', there's no plot at all. If I may be so bold, I would even argue that Arno's story is a tragic love story. All the assassin's lore, all the betrayals, the first few assassinations, it all falls back into the background when Élise returns to the stage almost halfway through the game. And even though they only share like one kiss or two during the 40 hours of gameplay, there's still this latent, persistent motivation behind each of Arno's actions, that he wouldn't be doing what he's doing if it wasn't for Élise.

And it all comes down to that one line: What I wanted was you.

I cannot stress enough how much I loved all of the drunkard memory of Versailles. I think it embodies Arno's perfect character development. The constant rain and the bluish filter on every framerate added to the overall depressing atmosphere. I felt miserable while playing those quests, and the moment he steps out into the entrance of the Château de Versailles and reflects on his past decisions – decisions that have been stolen from him, because he could never defend himself nor change the course of actions on his own accord – that exact moment that he sits down and cries, I cried too.

Because all the game, all the memories, all the dialogues go in a crescendo only to crumble into this abyss. And this, in turn, creates a fleshed-out character, with a believable development, believable feelings, believable motivations. I can feel for Arno, I can understand him, I pity him, and I want to hug him. The whole game reaches its peak in its main character's worst moment: when he realizes that he's screwed everything up.

And not always do we get a story where the main character doesn't win. He just doesn't. Underneath its revolutionary streets, this story reeks of inexorability and fatality. You know it, you know it in the back of your head, but you push that thought apart because you want to enjoy jumping over rooftops and finding the best strategy to kill that man. There's this underlying, looming melancholy in every memory that you play in, and that's why the end doesn't surprise us.

It makes us cry, of course, but it didn't come as a surprise at all. If you're shocked about the end, then you haven't been paying enough attention to Élise's dialogues, to the tone of the story, to her letters, to where this plot was going. Because, like I said, the story is about Arno and Élise's relationship, it isn't about defeating the bad guy. And there was only one way that story could end.

*cries in French*

*Je pleure beaucoup*

I know the game has been panned by players for its performance. And being the 2020 year of our lord, I cannot say I reject those allegations, since it's been 6 years since the game was released. I hope enough patches were implemented to salvage the bugs. I only came across one bug in my entire playthrough which bothered me a little: some NPC's would sometimes pop into cutscenes and phase through the characters like nothing. At first it was funny, but then towards the end it happened two more times, in important cutscenes with our lovely couple, which kinda destroyed all immersion, if you know what I mean. The rest was fine: it never crashed on me, I didn't encounter the infamous, horrendous bug that unleashed memes in internet, never a T-pose or something that rendered the game unplayable – nothing, only that funny bug I mentioned. I did see the drop in framerates, specially in very crowded areas – but to be honest I never saw a game with so many NPC's together in the same place, like, hundreds of them, each with unique animations and varied models. I only come from playing Syndicate, and even there the number of NPC's was lower. Here is jarringly unreal, I didn't know the French Revolution was THIS jam-packed with people!

On a graphical department, this 2014 game still holds up. Very well. I think it even looks better in some scenes than some of its successors. The cutscenes were sometimes very cinematographic, with close ups, zoom outs, certain angles, with quite real lighting and shadows. I know it's not Naughty Dog and it doesn't have the whole Sony battalion behind, but damn if some of the character's expressions were really good. It didn't happen often, so when one of them had this very specific face I was like *insert surprised pikachu meme*.

I also enjoyed the music a lot. I don't know why but the one from the main menu stuck with me for a while. All of the songs have this Versailles, aristocratic tone to it which put me in the mood.

I have only one minor complaint and its entirely optional, let's say – I want to platinum this game. But I don't own PS plus, because it's, uhhh, expensive in my country (do not want to indulge in dollar exchange rates right now). And there are like two trophies only obtainable through multiplayer, which renders my trophy hunt useless. But, alas, I knew this before buying the game. I think that games shouldn't come with multiplayer trophies for the platinum. If you have to pay extra for something, it must be completely optional. And so should be the trophies related to it. It's a bit disappointing, though, because after finishing this game I want so bad to return to it, but if I can't platinum, I don't see myself coming back to it soon. Either way, I could still earn the rest of the trophies, but that would only enrage me more when the last 3% is going to be locked forever *cries again*.

All in all, my major question at the end is: why does this game receive so much hate? I guess if I came from a hardcore fan standpoint I could understand it more. If I had played all its predecessors before this one, I would also feel that the gameplay and the objectives are repetitive. That the challenges are bs. But the stealth aspect has been improved, the parkour has been redesigned and adapted, and as of now, bugs aren't a problem anymore. I want to believe that when a remaster for the PS5 comes out or, I don't know, if someone by divine grace has an epiphany in the near future regarding this game, people will change their mind on this one and will appreciate more what it wanted to be, than what they made it to be. After all, this is Arno's story. Arno's tragic love story.

Also this game is beautiful JUST LOOK AT IT LOOK AT IT!!! 

Sorry couldn’t help myself

[thelifeofprettycommitteealpha]

Style Your Hair

Styling your hair can make you look more attractive and create a vibe. It's a great way to bring out your personality. There are many ways you can style your hair, and you should find the best style for you. Although styling your hair depends on the length and texture of it, there are many ways to accomplish a look that suits your personality. 

Treating Your Hair Properly

Go easy on the shampoo or your hair will look dry. Not everyone needs to wash their hair every day. If your hair’s dry, you should wash it every 2 or 3 days. Wash it every day only if it’s greasy.

Nourish your hair to keep it shiny. If your hair is curly or has split ends, it probably needs moisture. Look for products with moisturizing ingredients like natural oils and avoid products with alcohol.

Be careful about applying too much heat to your hair.  There’s almost nothing more damaging to hair than over-styling it with heat products like blow dryers, electric curlers or curling irons. No style will look good on fried hair.

Get a great cut – and the right brush or comb. If your hair is limp or doesn’t have a good cut, it’s not going to hold a style well. So it’s worth it to go to a salon every six weeks to get those split ends trimmed off. While you’re there, ask your hairdresser which brush will be best for your hair type.

Use a shampoo that fits your hair color and texture, and use conditioner, when you do wash your hair. Maybe you need creams or sprays if your hair’s too messy.

In fact, it can actually be easier to style “dirty” hair that hasn’t been washed for a couple days. It will hold curl better. Brush your hair from bottom to top so there are no knots in it before you style it.

Invest in some healing oil or hair masks to keep your hair healthy as you grow, cut, or dye your hair to reach the desired style. Instead of a conditioner, you could put a natural oil in your hair such as coconut oil or argan oil.  Use it mid-lengths and down to your tips for shine and health.

If your hair is thin or lacks volume, look for products with biotin, collagen or keratin in them as these products help build hair’s thickness and keep it strong. You can also put conditioner in your hair, and then put your hair in a shower cap, and sleep with the cap on. When you take the cap off, just rinse your hair like you normally would.

Air dry the hair as much as possible to keep it healthy. If you must blow dry it, use a diffuser. This is a product that attaches to the end of a blow dryer to lessen the damage from the heat.

Use a heat protectant spray to protect your hair. Spray heat protectant on every part of the hair you want to curl. Don’t hold it too close to your head or your hair may become damp from the liquids, and you won’t be able to curl it.

There are many different shapes and bristle types that all have different effects on your hair. When starting to style the hair, be sure not to brush it too much. Brushing can cause frizz or even damage hair. Instead, try to use a wide tooth comb. They tend to be easier on the hair. 

Layered cuts will bring out natural curl. If you’re looking for straight hair, wear your hair longer. Be aware that shorter cuts can be tough with very curly hair. If you’re a man, you can’t expect gel to fix everything. You need a decent haircut. For women, with long hair, this is especially true if you want your hair to look styled and not stringy.

Picking a Style

Consult experts to get a better idea of which style works for you.  There are people who are trained in styling hair. Why try to figure it out yourself? Consult someone who’s an expert. If you can’t afford to – go online. The Internet is a great place to find tutorials for every kind of hairstyle imaginable.

Study a range of styles before you pick one. Think about all of the hairstyles you admire, and gather photos of them. Narrow these down to three styles you would really love to try, while matching them to styles that look good for your face shape and work with your lifestyle (longer hair takes more care).

Know your hair texture and length. Knowing the thickness, length texture, and growth rate of your hair can help you determine which styles are practical.  Above shoulder length hair is usually considered short, and medium hair is generally at your shoulder to a bit down your back. Long is anything below that.

Have a good sense of your own personality. Trying to copy every single new hair style fad out there is not the best idea. You need to pick a style that suits your personality and circumstance. There are many styles you could choose from, including braids, waves, short, permanent, dreadlocks, half shaved, designed or highlights.

Figure out your face shape, so you pick a style that flatters you. Every style isn't going to look good on every face. That's the bottom line. So you need to figure out what looks best with your own shape. 

Experiment with non-permanent options. It’s a good idea to test out styles you like before you go for a more permanent option, so you can take some photos and see how they look.

Get help from a hairdresser or stylist. These are professionals who will style your hair and explain to you how to do it on your own. Ask your local salon whether they have hair stylists who will give you lessons on styling your hair.

If you need your hair styled for a big event such as a prom or a wedding, consider having your hair done professionally. If that’s not an option, practice before the big day so you have a feel for how it’s done.

Check out You Tube tutorials or websites. Just go to You Tube and search for the  hairstyle you want. There are many how-to videos that will walk you through how to get a certain look.

Do you appreciate highlights or unnatural colors? Do you prefer a certain length? What color do you want? Single out celebrities with hair that’s wavy like yours or who have a face as round as yours as this will allow you to preview how the style will look on you.

Get feedback. Ask your friends, hairdresser, and family members about their opinions on your style ideas. It is your hair and your style, but they may offer up ideas you hadn’t thought of or suggestions for keeping your style appropriate. Mix it up. Try not to fall into the rut of always wearing your hair up or always wearing your hair down.

You should be able to tell your hair thickness just by looking and feeling it, but there are basically 2 hair thickness categories – fine or thick. Do you have straight, curly or wavy hair naturally?

If you have short hair, then you can do tight curls, cute crimps, and adorable accessorizing. For medium hair, you can do braids, and curls/waves/crimps/straightening, buns, ponytails. For long hair, you can do pretty much anything.

First of all, know yourself. Look into the mirror and ask what kind of person you want to be. Always select your dress first too. Consider your work circumstances. Does the style match the work environment?

It’s often a good idea to work with what you have naturally to accentuate your beauty. Straightening curly hair or curling straight hair every day can damage your hair, and it’s a lot of work.

To determine your face shape, look in the mirror, and draw an outline of your face on the mirror with lipstick. Then, look at the shape and decide what shape it looks most like. Heart-shaped faces, for example, don’t work as well with short hair but do look good with the hair pulled back. If you have a square face, you want to stick to cuts that highlight your cheekbones, and soften your chin, like layers starting from the bottom of your ears down to your shoulders.

If your face is particularly bell shaped, but the top half is smaller, then you want to avoid bangs and short haircuts. If your ears are particularly big, you might want to consider growing your hair out long. If you have a large forehead, some bangs on your face or a side parting are a good idea. Oval faces can go with pretty much any hairstyle but if you have stronger features, like a rectangle or diamond face shape, you may want softer lines to soften your look.

A tight ponytail or slicked-back style might not be a good idea if you're insecure about your forehead or face shape. Bangs can be ideal to shape a face, whether straight or slanted. A bob line can elongate your neck. A bun can be very sophisticated, along with other up-dos. A ponytail can be carefree, fun and young.  

For example, try a curling iron a few times before getting a permanent. You could even put on a wig to see how you look with a color or a look.

Use temporary hair dye before going to the salon, and try bang clip ins or hair extensions before taking scissors to your hair or growing it out.

You can find many free websites online that will allow you to upload a photo of yourself and try different hairstyles on it, to test out how they look. Consider the type of message you want people to get when they look at you. A good natural look says you’re easy going. If you want to look like a rebel, you can use color for effect or even shave part of your hair.

Achieving the Look

Use products to shape your hair. Some examples of hair shaping products are hair wax or mousse. To make your hair more manageable use products such as curl control or de frizzing serums for curly hair, volumizers for thin hair, or hair spray.

Don’t make your hair too stiff or over-styled. People – guys and girls – both like hair they can run their fingers through. So you want soft touchable hair that is not too crispy or greasy. Use the right products, and use them minimally.

Bring out natural wave. If your hair already has a little natural wave to it, a great way to style it is to simply bring out and enhance that already existing curl. For more beachy curls, try working a sea-salt spray into your hair after misting it over. This creates great texture, and a natural soft wave. 

Curl your hair to give it some bounce.  There are different kinds of heat you can use – a flat iron, a curling iron, or Velcro or electric rollers. Sometimes you do need to apply heat to get some curls. 

Try a bun or braids. These are quick options that give you hair a little more style and class. They are also pretty easy to do.

Put your hair up with creative styles. A simple style for thin hair is leaving the hair down, taking the two front pieces, and tying them in the back. Adding a flower crown gives the style a very indie-hippie feel. Curling the hair in this style looks nice if heat protectant is accessible.

Give your hair more volume. Although you should watch the amount of heat you regularly direct toward your hair, there are times you might want to turn to a blow dryer to give your hair more volume. 

Dry shampoo is your best friend. Use it for volume and texture or as a cover up for oily hair or roots if it matches your colored hair.

Buy good products, not the cheapest thing you can find in a grocery store. The difference will be in the finish, the feel, and the smell. Don’t put too much product in because that can lead to the hair appearing oily. Focus on the strands of the hair, rather than the top of the head. Try to distribute the product evenly by dividing the hair into sections.

Try Make Hair Accessories. Hair bands look really good with short hair! Use a chunky headband to hide 2nd-day grease or unruly bangs. You could also use a clip or ribbon to dress up a ponytail or bun.

Use a high-quality wax. The best way to style your hair is to use a good quality wax - take a small amount and heat slightly by rubbing your palms together. Then, make sure you get it in all of your hair before styling into position.

For men, to create a look that is bit spiky or chaotic consider using a wax or gel that won’t harden your hair and make it look more natural. If you’re a man, squirt some on your hands, spread it around, apply it all over your hair, then work it in with an upward motion, as if you are trying to send your hair to the center of your head. The spikes form on their own from you pushing the hair up. Work in the wax like a setter, and fluff it up.

After you get out of the shower with freshly shampooed hair, dry the hair and apply mousse. Be sure not to use too much. Flip your head over and apply the mousse upside down and scrunch, scrunch, scrunch.

Then let hair dry naturally for 30 minutes to an hour. Finish up with a blow dryer on low speed and cool air. If your hair is heavy and doesn't hold curl well, after the blow drying, scrunch and tease the roots while your hair is upside down.

Apply hairspray. Blow dry the hairspray, low speed, cool temperature. Flip your hair over and enjoy!!  

To flat iron, apply heat protectant. If you have thick hair, separate your hair into two layers and do each individually. Don’t grab more than an inch of hair, and be careful not to burn yourself.

To use a round curling iron, use heat protectant. Alternate directions of curl or have all of them go the same way (inwards or outwards). Make sure all your hair is swept back over your shoulders, and resting on your back. As you make each curl, you should move them to the front of your shoulders to keep them separated from the rest of your hair. If you have long hair, you should be taking about one-inch sections and winding them around the curler neatly, without overlapping.

Never curl wet hair with a hot curler, as it’s extremely damaging to the hair. Next, split your hair into sections. Depending on how thick your hair is, you may need anywhere from 2 to 6 sections.  Leave a section of the hair down at a time, and pin the rest of it on top of your head. The shorter your hair, the bigger sections you can take. If you would like springier curls, leave it for 10-12 seconds. For more wavy or loose curls, leave it for 8 to 10 sections. These are just approximations, as everyone’s hair is different.

When braiding, split the hair into three sections, and put the left over the middle, pull tight, put the right over the middle, pull tight, put the left over the middle, pull tight, etc. until you can’t anymore.

To create a quick and easy bun, you will need 2 ponytail holders, a bobby pin, and a brush. Make one ponytail, and then grab your hair and twist it like a twister. Then, take the other ponytail holder and wrap it around the bun, and then clip the bobby pin in the middle. 

A simple style for thick hair is a half up, half down look. It’s achievable by putting half of the hair up in a ponytail, and leaving the rest down. If there are bangs, then leaving them down can give out cute vibes.

A simple style for curly or wavy hair is the up-under ponytail. All it consists of is picking up half of the hair, putting it up, and then making another ponytail under it. This makes the hair appear longer and fuller. Adding a bandanna or headband piece fancies the style up.

When blow drying your hair, add about a palm full of volumizing mousse and work this into the roots of your hair all over, and then bring it to the roots, scrunching it up as you go. Then, blow dry your hair upside down for more volume, continuously scrunching your ends to the roots as you blow dry.

Add a bit of hairspray to the roots while upside down to keep the volume you just created throughout the day. Try a tangle teaser for an easier brush and added shine. Finish with some hair oil to add shine and dimension to your hair.

For girls with straight hair who want wavy hair, shower, shampoo and condition as usual. Towel dry hair so that it is damp, and then put tt in a bun at the top of your head. Go to sleep and you should wake up with nice volume.

For girls with wavy frizzy hair. Keep a dehumidifier in your room, and keep it cold. Shower at least 2 hours prior to when you plan on sleeping so that your hair can be completely dry when you go to sleep.

Tips

Apply hairspray to keep the style in place. Everyone’s hair is different. Those with finer hair will probably need much more hairspray than those with coarser hair. If you have fine hair, you should spray each curl with hairspray right away.

Try to find a haircut that makes styling easy or avoid over-styling your hair.

Don't wash your hair too often. You are stripping your hairs oils so it replaces it again, faster. Instead wash your hair 3 times a week or so to keep your hair from becoming greasy. Many people claim that hair is easier to style when it hasn't been washed for a day.

Change your pillowcase often to prevent greasy hair.

Buy a silk pillow case to sleep on. This helps prevent frizz if you have curly hair.

If your hair is a bit greasy, you can try dry shampoo.

[beatricethecat2]

if/then (2.0) - 24

My brain's been floundering lately as this lockdown has dragged on and on. I've been finding it hard to focus, as I'm sure many of us have. One way of pushing through has been shaping this chapter into something readable. The last few days, I finally fell into a groove (while ignoring other work, but whatever, do it while you can, right?). So thank you B&W for that! This chapter sees them finally hitting the downslope, where pieces start fitting together for realz. I'm fairly certain I've been able to do that while still making sense (let me know if that's not the case.) Stay safe and healthy out there! And as always, typos are all mine. (edited 8/16/20)

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"Mom, wake up! Someone's in the driveway!"

The bed wobbles. Myka's eyes strain to open. It's too early for this. They just drifted off.

"Alright," Helena mumbles, turning away from Myka. "Hand me my robe. It's just over there."

As Helena's warmth recedes, so do the covers. Myka grabs a handful and yanks them up, shielding Christina from an eyeful of her unclothed form.

Helena parts the curtains and light spills across the room. She peers out into the yard as Christina hugs her waist and peeks from behind.

"I'll go down. You stay with Myka," Helena says to Christina.

"But Mom…"

"No buts." Helena crouches down and pulls Christina into a hug.

"You're going like that?" Myka scoots back, propping herself up with the headboard, holding fast to the covers.

"It will buy us some time. I very much doubt they'll want me as is." Helena gestures at her robed, disheveled appearance.

"No, but I do," Myka says, extending a hand.

“Oh, how I wish I could stay," Helena says, walking over. She tugs Myka towards her, causing Myka to fall slightly forward. She plants a kiss on Myka's sleepy lips, her fingers combing through Myka's increasingly wavy hair.

"Hurry back," Myka says as Helena slips out the door. She then shimmies under the covers toward Helena's side of the bed. Reaching down, she scoops up her pants from where she wiggled out them, sliding them on while scanning the room for her shirt. It landed somewhere, but where is a mystery, having been otherwise occupied when it was flung off.

She'd joined Helena after tucking Christina in, a ritual Christina said she'd grown out of, but asked Myka to perform anyway. She'd found Helena in her bedroom, busying herself folding laundry, dressed in only a robe after showering. As the door clicked closed, the robe fell to the floor as if the sound prompted its fluid removal. Myka's heart leaped as Helena rushed toward her, their lips crashing, limbs tangling together. Her shirt was liberated first, the rest in fits and starts until they hit the bed without a shred of clothing on between them.

"Mom!" Christina cries.

"What's happening?” Myka asks, cloaking herself in the blanket and rushing over.

"They opened the door, a-and I thought they were taking her!"

Out the window, Myka sees a man handing Helena a brown bag while a woman watches from the side. Helena peers into the bag and nods then makes her way back into the house.

Christina runs toward the door.

"Wait!" Myka yelps.

Christina freezes.

"Your mom said to stay here." Myka swipes a shirt off the laundry pile and turns away, slipping it over her head. Once it’s on, she lifts her arms, it's a little tight but better than the blanket.

"Sit with me," she says, walking toward the bed and patting the space next to her as she sits.

Christina moves toward her but then steps to the door as feet ascend the stairs.

"What's in the bag?" Myka asks the minute Helena walks in.

"My 'uniform,'" Helena snips, tossing it onto the bed. She plops down next to Myka and breathes out an exasperated sigh.

Christina rushes over and digs thought the bag.

"Hmmm," Helena hums, fingering a neck string attached to Myka's sweatshirt. "This is quite fetching." Her eyes trace the hoodie's neckline, down to the fabric straining to contain Myka's chest.

"I couldn't find my shirt," Myka says, grabbing Helena's hand to stop her fiddling. "How are you so calm?"

"Would you rather I not be?" Helena says, quietly, her eyes motioning towards Christina.

"Mom, look!"

All attention swings towards Christina.

Though the situation is grim, Myka can't help but chuckle. Oversize, black-rimmed glasses sit slightly askew, covering Christina's eyes, while a long, dark wig perches precariously on her child-sized head.

"That's what's in the bag?" Myka says.

"As I said, my' uniform.' Plus 'professional' clothes. You know the sort," Helena answers. She swipes her phone from the nightstand and snaps a picture of Christina, her serious "adult" pose clashing adorably with her cat-print pajamas.

"Can you stay for breakfast?" Christina asks.

"Doubtful," Helena answers. "Might you make me something to take away while I change? Something simple, marmite on toast, perhaps?"

"Blech." Myka sticks her tongue out.

"You two can make a feast together once I'm gone."

"But I wanted to have breakfast together like we used to," Christina whines.

"And we shall, my love, when I return." Helena plucks the wig and glasses from Christina’s head and drops them in the bag.

"When will that be?"

"Tomorrow at best. Let's aim for that."

A car horn blares. Everyone flinches.

"Let's be off," Helena says, shepherding Christina out the door while extending a hand toward Myka.

*

In her absence, Helena suggested Myka and Christina follow her and Christina's usual routine. This meant a large breakfast first, one which Christina insisted on cooking, excited to show off her skills. On the menu was Crempogs, "Welsh pancakes, like American ones, not English," plus eggs over-medium with locally-sourced bacon and thickly buttered toast. It was an excellent meal, and Myka was impressed with Christina's culinary skills, but she could feel her veins clogging.

Next was their Sunday shop, which meant traveling out of the village. Myka climbed into the Rover and palmed the gearshift, pressing pedals, refreshing her memory of manual transmissions. Christina chimed in, because, of course, Helena was already teaching her the motions. She even offered to drive to the end of the driveway, but Myka politely declined.

The car started up on the first try, though it was touch and go at first, clutch grinding, chassis shaking every time she changed gears. But traffic was light, and they weren't in a hurry, so she eased into learning the machine's quirks.

"Can we have a picnic?" Christina asks, a few hours later, as they unload their groceries into the kitchen. "We usually go when the sun's out."

"Go where?"

"Different places. We could go to Mom's favorite."

"How far is it?" Myka's hard won equilibrium with the Rover was tenuous at best.

"Not that far," Christina answers, but what Myka hears is it's much farther.

Myka looks out the window. It’s an absolutely gorgeous day, full of fluffy white clouds set in a sky of technicolor blue, transforming the landscape into an undulating sea of verdant green. But there's one caveat that could thwart their plan. If it's deep in the mountains, that could be a problem.

"We shouldn't go if it's out of cell range."

"Mom can find me anywhere. I have a special phone."

"Of course you do," Myka says with a sigh. She should have known Helena's prepared Christina for anything.

*

Christina chats non-stop the entire drive as she did on their shopping trip, though the conversation then centered around cooking and food festivals. This time, it's Helena's fortifications; their "getaway" car in the shed (some sort of sportscar that "goes really fast!"), their panic room in the basement ("the door's hidden..."), and plans they've made to run if they ever felt threatened ("Mom said we'd go to a safe house. Kinda cool, like in a movie). All details an average ten-year-old would have no reason to memorize. She's both proud of Christina and concerned for her safety.

Myka pulls over as they pass the sign for Carreg Cennen and parks on the road's shoulder. They unload their picnic gear then carry it up a steep hill. It's a hike to the grounds, but one well worth it, for the scene is unlike any Myka's experienced before.

"That's quite a view," Myka says, peering cautiously over the limestone cliff, a sheer drop down to the valley, butted up against a weathered, stone wall. The castle itself is a beauteous ruin, straight out of Arthurian legend. The drama of it speaks to Helena's tastes, the extremes of height and history fitting the bill.

"It's from the fourteen-hundreds," Christina says, matter-of-factly. "Owain Glyndŵr fought for Welsh independence here. Do you know who he is?"

"I don't."

“Mom’s really good at telling the story."

"I'll ask her when she's back," Myka says, smiling at the thought, thrilled to be able to say those words and mean them. She lays a blanket down on a patch of grass, far enough away from the grazing sheep so as not to disturb them.

"Sounds like someone's proud of being Welsh," Myka says.

"I wish I was more Welsh, like Mom." Christina sets the picnic basket on the blanket and sits cross-legged next to it.

"Your grandfather was English, right? That's close."

"English, yuck," Christina says, sticking out her tongue. "I'm probably only a quarter Welsh anyway because Mom doesn't know who my dad is."

A heaviness fills Myka's chest; she opened that door, albeit accidentally, and Christina walked right through. Helena really did tell her everything and the poor girl’s had no one to confide in.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Myka asks, scooting closer and lifting the basket lid.

"I got really mad at Mom when she told me. Really mad. Like, I didn't talk to her for weeks."

"You seem pretty close now," Myka says, emphasizing the positive. She hands Christina a paper plate and a sandwich.

"I'm still mad at her sometimes." Christina looks down, plucking at the sandwich's plastic wrapping half-heartedly.

"I'm sure she understands," Myka says, setting her sandwich aside and laying a hand on Christina's shoulder. "It seems like you worked through it."

"I guess. She got really depressed, and it scared me. Then she fell off the roof, fixing the chimney and broke her ankle. I had to take care of her."

"Oh, honey." Myka circles an arm around Christina pulls her close.

"S-She was on crutches and couldn't drive. She kept working on the house even though she wasn't supposed to. And she slept on the couch because she couldn't get up the stairs. She didn't eat much. Or sleep. It was really bad." Christina sinks into Myka's embrace, burying her nose into Myka's shoulder.

Myka holds Christina tight, imagining a miserable Helena would be with her wings clipped. "She's pretty healthy now, your mom," she says, shifting the focus. "Your cooking helped. I can tell."

"How?"

"She's less skinny than she used to be."

Myka was impressed by how not emaciated Helena was as they explored each other's bodies the other night. So much so that she even commented, to which Helena replied...

"You're saying I'm fat?"

"No! Still too thin, but at least there's a little meat on your bones. I like it. It's sexy."

Helena huffed an indignant breath as Myka continued trailing kisses towards her navel. Helena's abs weren't quite pillowy, but they were less taut than when she was working construction. This meant she was eating regularly and not running herself ragged, which boded well for the future.

"You helped, too," Christina says, knocking Myka into the present.

"Me? How?"

"We missed you so much; I said we should write you letters, even if we couldn't send them. Mom wrote pages and pages and pages. And I made drawings! We both did. But she hid them, so I don't know where they are."

How many times can Myka tear up on this trip? She hugs Christina closer and sways back and forth, blinking back moisture pooling at the corner of her lids. As soon as Helena gets back, she’s getting her hands on those letters. But for now, she'll settle for spending time with this incredible little girl, hearing her stories in real time.

*

"I don't want to go," Christina says.

"I don't want to take you," Myka admits.

"Can you call in and say I'm sick?"

"I'll try. What's the number?"

It's the next morning, and Helena's not back yet, so Myka and Christina go through the motions of preparing for school. The next step involves driving the Rover or asking someone else to pick Christina up, both of which Myka would rather avoid.

"It's here," Christina says, walking over to the fridge and pointing to a list.

Myka sees police, fire, school, Sondra, Owen, plus a few other names she doesn't recognize. She dials the school, and it rings a few times, then she immediately gets put on hold.

"Bore da," a woman greets a few moments later.

"Hi, um, hello?" Myka answers.

"Good morning. How can I help you?"

"I'm, um, calling in sick for Charlotte, Charlotte..." Myka looks at Christina and mouths "help me." For the life of her, can't remember Christina's fake last name.

"Llewell—"

"Llewellyn." Myka nods in thanks.

"Harry's child?"

"Yes."

"And you are?"

"Myka Bering. Harry's out of town on work. I'm taking care of her."

"Hm. You're not listed as a guardian, so that's an unexcused absence for Charlotte. And Charlotte's running the risk of…oh, hang on..."

Muffled conversation flows in the background, but Myka can't make out what's being said.

"Not to worry. Sondra'll stop by the house and confirm. She's on her way."

“Um, thanks."

"Da boch!" the woman says and ends the call.

Myka sighs. It's way too early for Sondra. But maybe Christina can handle her. "I couldn't do it, but Sondra can apparently? She's stopping by. What should we tell her?"

Christina smiles. "It'll be ok. I'll say I want to spend time with you because you're leaving."

"She'll be ok with that?"

"Yeah."

"If you say so."

As they wait, Myka makes herself a second cup of coffee and helps Christina clean up from breakfast. She combs her fingers through her hair, contemplating putting it in a bun as it's not behaving well in its semi-curly state. But it's better today than yesterday as her night with Helena left it sticking up every which way. Last night was all about sleep, with Christina in tow, snuggling up for comfort just like the old days.

Christina runs to the window as a car approaches. When her shoulders slump, Myka's sure it's Sondra, not Helena.

Myka slips on her borrowed parka and boots then steps out the door. Christina trails behind.

"Alright?" Sondra greets, eyes darting between them.

"We're ok," Myka says, placing a hand on Christina's back as she huddles near.

"Harry's off then?"

"Yeah, something in Cardiff? She said you'd know."

"Damn collector, always fiddling with things last minute. Says the money's good, but why'd she go now, while you're here? You're off soon, aren't you?"

"I'm staying until she gets back."

"Well, alright then," Sonda mumbles, but her eyes say she's not quite buying their alibi.

"Oh, but, um…that thing you asked me to do?" Myka's lips lift into crooked half-smile. "Yeah, we, um, well…we did it." At least that's a factual detail she can give freely.

"Oh, thank heavens!" Sondra gushes. "It's about bloody time—"

All eyes swing towards the sound of tires crunching over gravel. Christina runs towards a massive black SUV as it pulls to a stop. She jumps up and down, hoping to catch a glimpse of who's inside, zooming past a lithe blonde who steps out, nearly hopping into the driver's seat fully.

"Where's Mom?" Christina asks, climbing down from the running board.

"She's not here," Morgana answers, looking directly at Myka. "There's been a complication."

" Where's Mom?" Christina presses, circling around to face Morgana.

Morgana holds Christina's steady, pleading gaze but doesn't offer an answer.

"Charlotte, come here," Sondra says, eyes darting between Morgana and Christina.

Christina doesn't move.

"Charlotte!"

Christina looks over her shoulder but stays put. Sondra waves her closer, face pinching, forming a stern mom-look. Christina's shoulders sag, and she drags her heels as she ever so slowly joins her.

"She's a friend of Harry's," Myka says to Sondra.

"A 'friend,' like you?"

"No. Yes. Sort of? But that's not..." Don't go there, stay vague. "Harry trusts her."

"Oh, does she now?"

"Yes."

"Do you?"

"I do." Myka looks at Morgana and twists her lips into a weak smile to show evidence of her truthfulness.

Morgana raises a sharp brow, conveying a "we don't have time for this" urgency.

"I'll get my things—"

"I'm coming too!" Christina angles towards Myka, but Sondra grabs her shoulder and holds her back.

"You're staying here, where you're safe," Sondra says, gathering Christina closer.

"She'll be safer with us," Morgana says.

"Says the Mistress of Doom," Sondra snips.

"No, she's right," Myka agrees.

"Why should I trust her? Trust you?" Sondra glares at Myka.

"You've seen us together, Harry and I. You know Harry trusts me," Myka says.

"I want to go with Myka. Can you take care of Mr. Bubbles?" Christina asks Sondra.

"We'll bring him with us, love," Sondra says, softening her tone. "You're staying here, with us, where you can play music with Bethan whenever you like."

"I want to go with Myka."

"Please, Sondra. She'll be safe with me, I promise. I'd never let anything happen to her." Myka puts on her most convincing smile, praying to whatever god might be listening that she can keep that promise. "And if she says Charlotte should come with us," Myka says, gesturing towards Morgana, "then she should. For everyone's safety."

"I advise you take this Mr. Bubbles creature with you," Morgana says to Sondra.

"You can't take the child out of school for days," Sondra says.

"She will be safer with us," Morgana repeats, but less deadpan.

"Now you're scaring me."

"We'll call to say we're ok. We are going call and say we're ok." Myka directs the last sentence to Morgana.

"Charlotte can call," Morgana says.

"Is that good enough?" Myka asks Sondra.

Sondra looks between Myka and Morgana, then down at Christina, who is giving her the biggest puppy-dog "please" eyes, ever. "Bugger me," she says, and releases her hold.

Christina shuffles next to Myka.

"If anything happens to her…"

"She won't leave my side. I promise." Myka lays a hand on Christina's back. "Let's go pack."

"I'm already packed," Christina says. "We should take Mom's bag, too."

"Good idea. I'll pack while you grab those," Myka says.

Sondra sighs. "Rabbit duty it is, then."

Sondra, Myka, and Christina walk towards the house together.

"Maybe take the perishables in the fridge," Myka adds.

Sonda stiffens.

"Trust me. The less you know, the better," Myka says, the irony of her saying the phase not lost on her. She's on the inside now, where cryptic sentences flow like mantras. She wishes it felt better than it does.

*

"Is Mom ok?" Christina asks, leaning forward over the console, inserting herself between Myka and Morgana.

"She's safe," Morgana answers, as bluntly as ever, turning onto the main road from the driveway.

"Safe where?" Myka asks.

"With the police."

"The police?" That's not an option Myka had considered. "Why take her and not you too?"

"She was already on her way back. Someone must have tipped them off."

"Who?"

"To be determined. But very few people could have known her whereabouts. It's for the previous charge, the one she ran from, not what we just did. They're taking her back to London."

"To jail?" Christina blurts.

"No, custody. At the police station. Like last time."

"Oh." Christina's face pales. She withdraws into her seat.

"She'll be ok. We'll visit her," Myka says, shifting to face Christina.

"She can. You can't," Morgana says.

"Why?"

"Everything's been reset. We have to stick to our previous roles."

"Surely those have shifted. I was just at their house!"

"They don't know that. Nor do they need to know." Morgana glances briefly at Christina. Christina frowns and sinks further into her seat.

"It's going to be ok," Myka says, adding a small smile, one that downturns into a grimace as she turns to face front. Why does Morgana have to be such a…a...what did Sondra call her, a doomsayer? Something like that. That pretty much sums her up.

The car quiets as they drive out of the mountains and into the valleys. Myka checks on Christina from time to time, hoping to find her sprawled out asleep, but instead, her nose stays pressed to the window. Morgana's tone may be as irritating as ever, but she's thankful she's here, handling whatever this may become. But every time she glances at her, she groans internally, knowing her involvement has multiplied tenfold since she and Helena's night together.

They laid motionless, save for their chests rising and falling, breaths deep and calm, muscles so limp it was as if they'd melted together. Helena's arm draped over Myka's midriff as her head nestled into Myka's shoulder. Myka's chin rested on the crown of Helena's head, her fingers brushing lazy circles over Helena's back. After hours spent satisfying their starved libidos, their bodies were drained, but their minds remained restless due the uncertainties of what was to come.

"Tell me about Morgana," Myka asked, and at the question, Helena tensed. She was unsure why, out of everything, that question came out of her mouth. But Helena had said to ask her anything, so they might as well start there.

Helena lifted her head and placed a soft kiss on the side of Myka's breast. She then pushed away and rolled over, laying flat on her back. Myka turned and laid her head on Helena's shoulder, nuzzling her ear into the hollow beneath Helena's collarbone, getting comfortable as she awaited an answer.

“We did meet at Stanford. And we dated. Off and on. It ended badly."

"I guessed that," Myka said, the confimation sending a giddy jolt through her chest. "How did Claudia not know?"

"'Dating' may be overstating the situation. It was more a…torrid affair. Circumstances dictated it remain clandestine."

"Circumstances?"

"At the time, as an aspiring Naval officer, being romantically involved with anyone of the same gender was detrimental to her career."

"You got caught."

"Yes. And it ended immediately. Zero contact. I was devastated, though I knew it was inevitable. "

"You were in love." Myka rolled away, onto her back, her smugness fading, shifting to dismay.

"When you're young, you've no idea what love truly is." Helena turned to face Myka and laced their fingers together.

Myka's hand tightened, but not enough to elicit a reassuring press. Her jealously over a years-old affair was ridiculous, but at the moment, hard to shake. "Then you met her again, as Emily, when you started working for MacPherson?"

"No." Helena squeezes Myka's hand, then releases it, and lies flat on her back again. "She resurfaced a few years after university, requiring my computer skills and deductive reasoning. She wanted to 'wow' her new bosses at Interpol with her ability to source information. I worked for her for years, under the radar, retaining a facade as struggling single mother."

"But she broke your heart. Why would you help her?"

"Time heals some wounds. And at first, it wasn't much bother. Her choosing me flattered my ego more than anything. And raising my child remained my priority. The supplemental income was quite welcome."

"So you dug up dirt on Macpherson."

"Amongst other things—"

"Wait..." Myka turned to face Helena, propping her head up on her hand, elbow bent, excitement rushing through her veins. "You were my anonymous source for the sale!" Yet another puzzle piece fell into place.

"Yes," Helena said, shifting and mirroring Myka's pose. "You're not cross with me?"

"I'm not thrilled, but I like it was you helping me."

"Thank you," Helena said, skimming a hand up, over Myka's shoulder, threading her fingers into her hair. She brushed a thumb over Myka's ear, prompting Myka to turn and kiss her palm.

"Emily Lake, did Morgana set that up?" Myka continued, resisting Helena's attempt to sidetrack her.

"No. That was Mrs. Frederic." Helena withdrew her hand. "And I rue the day I met that woman."

"So do I," Myka said, scooting closer and gently pressing on Helena's bruised shoulder, guiding her to lie flat again. She then laid her head on Helena's upper arm and slid her hand across Helena's stomach. "How did you meet her?"

Helena circled her arm, the one Myka's head was resting on, around Myka's shoulders, and hugged her close. "Upon our move to New York, I wanted out, a fresh slate. Morgana understood and set the wheels in motion. So it was quite a shock when Mrs. Federic showed up at my doorstep, unannounced. I knew of the woman but had never met her in person."

"I've heard she does that."

"She'd been watching me, assessing my worth as it related to her needs. She made me an offer I couldn't refuse. That's when I assumed Emily's identity."

Though it was too dark to see clearly, Myka lifted her head to look Helena directly in the eye. "What could she possibly have offered that was worth what you went through?"

"She'd free my trust fund."

"You said that was impossible!"

"She was remarkably convincing. All I could think of was Christina's future."

"I bet that pissed Morgana off."

"Indeed. She warned me against it, strongly. But Mrs. Frederic, as you're well aware, does not take 'no' for an answer lightly. Once I was in, there was no turning back. The longer I worked for her, the more demanding she became. I tried leave while I was with Giselle, but then MacPherson began his appeal. Mrs. Frederic threatened to blackmail me if I didn't do her bidding to keep him locked away."

"And then you got deported," Myka said, pushing away until she was no longer touching Helena. Why did the puzzle pieces need to be so hurtful? "Everything I did, everything Claudia did, Giselle did to help you…all of it for show. You wanted to get deported."

"It was the only way out."

"Morgana should have helped you."

"She couldn't risk blowing her cover. And she's risking everything by helping us now."

"Why is she helping us?" Helena's sharp tone kicked Myka's frustration up a notch. If the stakes were that high, why would Morgana risk all now? Blowing her cover meant a disastrous end to her career, all those years of hard work voided in an instant.

"To kill two birds with one stone. Contain Mrs. Frederic, while keeping MacPherson in jail. It was irresistible."

"Are you sure it wasn't you that was irresistible?"

"Myka..."

"Were you ever together again at some point?"

Helena breathed a heavy sigh, one laden with years untold baggage. "When she first approached me, yes, I admit, there were moments. That's all. Just like previously, there could never be more. Nor would I wish there to be. Could you imagine her with Christina?"

"No." Myka laughed once, more out of nerves than absurdity. "But your show in the police station was really convincing."

"Drawing upon ancient history, my love." Helena cupped Myka's cheek and leaned forward, pressing their lips together. "You are my present, my future, my everything." Her next kiss lingered, then deepened, a wordless apology for the hard truths Myka just endured.

"Stop giving me that look," Morgana groans.

"What look?"

"Like I ran over your puppy or something. Whatever it is, just ask."

Myka grimaces then looks over her shoulder at Christina. "You ok back there?"

"Fine," Christina replies.

"Why don't you try to sleep."

"I'm not tired."

"Let us know if you need to make a pit stop. Because we will," Myka grumbles at Morgana.

"If we must," Morgana mumbles back.

"Let us know," Myka repeats to Christina.

"Ok." Christina returns to staring out the window.

"What's so special about this painting?" Myka asks, settling on that rather than dredging up Morgana and Helena's past. "Tell me everything. From the beginning."

Morgana glances at Christina. "I don't think—"

"She already knows. Way more than me."

"I do," Christina chimes in, her voice sounding much older than all of her ten years.

Morgana frowns, though the downturn of her lips is only slightly deeper than her usual resting face. "Do you know what it is?" Morgana asks Myka.

"I don't. Just that damn reference number. And I know the version Helena got caught with was a fake."

"If the police ask, you don't know that. Neither of you do." Morgana glances in the rearview mirror at Christina.

"I know," Christina says, her annoyance ringing clear. It's probably been drummed into her repeatedly.

"As you're well aware, one of MacPherson's specialties is in trading art looted by the Nazis," Morgana starts. "You witnessed this firsthand with the sale of the Amber Room. And as more families come forward, listing pieces missing from their ancestral collections, MacPherson grabs what he can and sells it for maximum profit, profit from anyone. But the highest bidders are often those that revel in keeping other's collections incomplete for entirely unethical reasons."

"So legally the painting should go back to its rightful owner. Mrs. Frederic knew that, but sold it to MacPherson instead?"

"Apparently, she's been dangling it in front of him for years. If he's caught with it, it could easily bring his operation to a halt permanently. And potentially expose a larger ring of others involved. Mrs. Frederic was waiting for the opportune time once she had a plan in place to bring him down."

"And we messed that up. So she's following through now because..."

"She's still under investigation. She'd be ruined if it's proved she was involved with the painting. She's close friends with the rightful owner's heirs and has been 'searching' for the painting for years."

“But she is involved. I was working for her!"

"She claims she barely knew you. That you were freelance, Vanessa's hire. She was doing Vanessa a favor by using her name to get you into the sale."

"She dragged Vanessa into this?" Myka frowns, deeply.

"Vanessa didn't mention it?"

"I haven't heard from her in months."

"Not surprising."

"Why haven't the police questioned me more?"

"They think you're being duped. None of your correspondence can be traced back to Mrs. Frederic or anyone else at the moment."

"But the calls, the emails, my commission!"

"None of it leads to Mrs. Frederic directly. Like your anonymous source of information."

"Even Claudia couldn't trace that. They can't know it was Helena."

"Mrs. Frederic may have leaked that already."

Myka's stomach rolls. She swallows back a bout of nausea. How can Helena dig herself out of this hole? "Do the police know the painting's fake?"

"As far as I know, no."

"If they find out, will that help her?"

"Not necessarily. They're aiming to root out Helena's source. They know she couldn't orchestrate this on her own."

"Great," Myka mumbles. This could go on forever. "Why the fake at all?"

“That was McPherson's stipulation. You getting caught would occupy the authorities while I passed off the real one. Remember, Helena wasn't meant be involved at all."

Myka mulls this over as Morgana pulls onto an entrance ramp, then merges onto a larger motorway.

"Why arrest Helena now? Why not just grab you and her, pass off the real painting and move on? And why drag me into it again?"

Morgana weaves effortlessly between tiny cars, navigating a three-lane roundabout. Driving in a circle on what on feels like the wrong side of the road causes Myka's nausea to rise again.

"Our working theory is Mrs. Frederic engineered this to implicate you as a coconspirator. That they must have found enough evidence to weigh her down. She needs a hard reset to exonerate herself."

"That's…" Myka's chest tightens, her breath huffing out in shallow waves. This is meant to be winding down, not spinning up again. She's not ready to be put back in the ring. "No one would believe Vanessa was behind a deal that big. Plus, she barely works with antiquities in Europe."

"Not Vanessa."

"Then who?"

"Who might you have had dealings with that had status and interests on par with Mrs. Frederic?"

"I don't know," Myka answers, flippantly. That was a lifetime ago, one that she worked hard to put behind her because she was told to.

"Does Milan ring a bell?"

Myka's eyes go wide. Theodora Stanton. "Oh. Oh, no.”

-TBC-

[homeforchristmas-au]

Character bios pt 2!!

Decided to continue the bios for the rest of the fam squad, the full extended family!! Might change things around a bit, we’ll see!!! Here’s part one in case you missed it :3

Emile Sanders (formerly Picani):

Age: 46

Pronouns: he/him/they/them

Height: 6’1”

Curly medium golden mahogany brown hair and sky blue eyes, subtly tanned skin covered in freckles, red framed rounded glasses, likes dressing like a cartoon character or just wearing cartoon merch (his prized possession is his Mabel pines jumper) but wears a brown cardigan over a white button down shirt with a pink necktie when he goes to work

A big goofball that has a lot of love to give, but he still knows when to be more subdued and calm and when to activate “serious picani”. He’s always loved helping people work through their issues which is why he’s a therapist

Like patton, he’s excellent at reading emotions, though he’s a bit better at it since he’s a professional

Has ADHD, but has developed the necessary coping skills to help keep his symptoms under control

Has two siblings; Catarina (Patton’s mother) and Leonard (Patton’s other uncle). Emile is the baby of the family while Leonard is the oldest

Emile met Thomas when they were both in college. They shared an ASL class and quickly began getting along, and frequently practiced sign language together and feelings developed from there

It was quite some time before they got married, but it was well worth the wait

Thomas Sanders:

Age: 43

Pronouns: he/him

Height: 5’10”

The standard character Thomas look; floppy medium brown hair, chestnut eyes, fair skinned, wears the same three shirts periodically for five years until he buys three new shirts, the usual stuff

He’s a sweet, down to earth guy. Loves cartoons almost as much as Emile does, has a passion for pizza, theatre, and the cats of the world he’ll never be able to pet without dying. He can be impulsive at times, but his heightened anxiety oftentimes outweighs that

Has three brothers named Christian, Patrick, and Shea, but I won’t describe them in depth cos I don’t wanna get any facts wrong since this is based on Thomas himself oop-

I’m literally just describing the canon character Thomas except slightly older im-

There’s like nothing else to add to make this fun and unique it’s just character Thomas welp

Thomas and Emile’s kids:

Anton Sanders:

Age: 16

Pronouns: any/all

Height: idk uh ??? 5’7” ???

Medium length wavy black hair, electric blue eyes, fair skinned with a beauty mark on his right cheek beneath his eye, usually wears fashionable clothes and declares himself an eleven, often wears scarves and turtlenecks (almost exclusively black) as well as his round mirrored sunglasses

Can and will kill you with a single look. Especially if you mess with his family. He’ll never admit it but he loves them with everything he’s got, even if he never acts like it for even a moment

Especially adores Remy and respects that they’re discovering themself and exploring new possibilities. He knows from experience how tough that is and how much of a challenge it can be

Was adopted at age three after his parents were busted for child abuse and heavy drug addiction. It took quite some time for him to come out of his shell but Emile and Thomas were nothing but patient and loving and kind. He still has a lot of trust issues but he knows he can trust his family

Will never admit it now but became insanely jealous when remy was adopted into the family. He did not want a brother because he knew that meant he was being replaced and he wasn’t loved anymore

Eventually Thomas and Emile sat him down and they all talked through it and assured Anton that he was still loved and he was not being replaced

It still took a very long time for Anton to trust Remy, even if he was only a baby

His heart was won over when Remy said his first word to him

All he said was “no” but Anton admired his defiant spirit

also yes this is the Critic how did u know

Remy Sanders:

Age: 12 (birthday January 16)

Pronouns: he/him/they/them/it/its

Height: damnit how tall are 12 year olds

Shoulder length hair dyed dark purple at the roots that fades into magenta at the ends (hair colour changes periodically depending on what it feels like having), chocolate brown eyes, fairly dark skinned but not heavily so, gender expression changes at the drop of a hat but it often wears leather, skirts, beanies, and a heck ton of earrings (when it turns eighteen it starts getting a lot of different piercings like angel bites, nostril, and industrial piercings, etc) (that’s worth noting)

Almost always sarcastic but that’s its way of showing love really. It’s a helluva punk that can and will fight anyone to the death if they deserve it (or if they hurt someone Remy likes). It’s actually a huge nerd but doesnt usually show that side of itself. It loves reading, watching shows like doctor who, and doing puzzles with Logan

Was diagnosed with adhd after Emile noticed it experienced similar symptoms for quite a while

Was adopted by Thomas and Emile when it was a baby (and Anton was four), having been found by Emile when it was left in a box in an alleyway, which was a long and complicated process but one hundred percent worth it

It has a trio of male rats named Holmes, Watson, and Splinter. Thomas was a bit reluctant to let it adopt rats but they all went to a rat breeder and when Thomas saw them all and even held one he realised it wasn’t so bad and they were actually kinda cute

When it was nine years old, it nearly died in a nasty hit and run. A truck had swerved into it when it was by the side of the road. It was fine after a lengthy recovery except it had to use a wheelchair after some spinal cord damage left it immobilised from the waist down. The driver was never identified

It probably wasn’t a coincidence that this event occurred not long after remy started talking about how much it loved boys just as much as it loved girls, but that teas a bit too hot for this post

Logan’s sisters:

Ellen Adams-Waterson:

Age: 26

Pronouns: she/her

Height: 5’6”

Light auburn hair going just barely past the shoulders, honey eyes, fair skinned though mildly tanned, covered from head to toe with freckles, red framed rectangular glasses, usually wears clothes for comfort and especially likes turtlenecks

She’s a determined, steadfast kinda gal who fights for whats right and gives everything she has for her loved ones, especially her immediate family. Although she can be pretty blunt with her words she’s also kindhearted and wants whats best for everyone

She’s an avid writer, and has actually published a novel. She also dabbles in fanfiction and is unashamed about it

She’s married to a wonderful wife named Elizabeth and they have a daughter named Kaylee (15)

She’s also been trying to quit smoking but so far that has yielded no results

Ashley Fletcher (formerly Adams):

Age: 24

Pronouns: she/her

Height: 5’10”

Long light ash brown hair that reaches her tailbone that she keeps parted to the right, electric blue eyes, fair skinned and a face full of freckles, black rectangular glasses, tries to be fashion forward but mostly just wears T-shirts and denim jackets

She’s a trans woman and has been transitioning for a few years now with lots of support from her family. She’s a nice person but let’s people walk all over her a bit. She doesn’t like confrontation much because of her anxiety disorder, but she’s trying to get better with that

Loves acting and wants to pursue it as a career, but her anxiety makes it difficult to put herself out there

Married to a trans man named warren and they have a son named jack (11) and a daughter named Emma (6)

She met warren at a pride event with Logan and Patton, and it was actually Patton who met him first (although at the time he went by a different name and didnt know he was trans yet) and then introduced him to the others

They actually talked about adopting a child long before even considering marriage. Although they realised it would look better to adoption agencies if they were married, and that was the main reason they even went through all of that

Renae Adams:

Age: 21

Pronouns: she/her/he/him

Height: 6’8”

Short wavy hair dyed bright pink, amber eyes, fair skinned, a black *dabs* styling pair of Warby Parker’s, often wears high neck shirts and suit jackets, basically always business casual because she can, and loves wearing hoop earrings

There are two sides to Renae; either stone cold businessperson or happy go lucky memelord with a heart of gold. She’s a lot like Logan in that regard, although it’s harder to predict what side of her you’ll see at any given moment. She can either be a super soft bean or the scariest person on the planet

Has been dealing with OCD her whole life, and sometimes it gets particularly bad (especially the intrusive thoughts) but she has a therapist and psychiatrist she sees somewhat regularly

She runs her own coffee shop called Real Bean Café and it does fairly well. She’s always thinking about how she can improve her business

She’s aroace so she isn’t in a romantic relationship but she is in a queerplatonic relationship with a beautiful enby named Pigeon

They actually met in her coffeeshop. Renae saw Pigeon’s Attack on Titan T-shirt and was immediately compelled to talk to them

And that is it for part two of the character bios!!! Might make another post talking about Logan’s sisters’ kids and partners but idk we’ll see 👀

I just really like character designs man lmao

Lemme know if I need to tag anything else my brain box isn’t generating the required tags rn lmao

[a-damn-good-medic]

Really Long Character Survey

RULES.  repost ,   don’t  reblog  ! tag  10 ! good  luck  !

TAGGED.  Stolen from: @cromwellharvests​

BASICS.

FULL  NAME :   Charlotte Beatrice Samaritan NICKNAME :   Lottie, Trixie (older brother only), Samaritan, Samari AGE :  21 (1915 – She turns 22 after the Promised Day) BIRTHDAY :   17th August 1893 NATIONALITY :   Amestrian-Aerugian – though born and raised in Amestris LANGUAGE / S : Amestrian, conversational Aerugian SEXUAL  ORIENTATION :  Heterosexual ROMANTIC  ORIENTATION :  Panromantic RELATIONSHIP  STATUS :   Single HOME  TOWN / AREA :  Limoux (based off of this map), South Region, small town roughly 25-30 miles east-north-east of Fotset CURRENT  HOME :   lives in military barracks near to where she’s stationed, she’ll often say she’s “going home” when visiting her family PROFESSION :  a medic to her core

PHYSICAL.

HAIR: Black, 2a/2b wavy/curly hair, down to mid-back/the bottom of shoulder blades; pulled into a pony tail or bun for work reasons EYES :  Honey brown – her father’s FACE :  heart-shaped, light freckles across bridge of nose and cheek bones; somewhat baby-faced; fresh-faced LIPS :  slightly thinner than average, upwards tilt on either side COMPLEXION :  warm skin tone, freckles as mentioned above, skin tends to go through patches of dryness every few months BLEMISHES/SCARS :  medium sized one on her left temple acquired from injury during active duty, but it’s mostly covered by her hair; a few smaller ones on other parts of her body acquired in a similar manner including one in the middle of her left pinkie finger TATTOOS :  I have been toying with the idea of having a red cross (like the medical symbol) on the side of her left shoulder HEIGHT :   5′2″ WEIGHT :   112lbs. BUILD :   neat hourglass shape, toned arms and legs, well built FEATURES :   none particularly stand out ALLERGIES :   None USUAL  HAIR  STYLE :  Whilst at work, pulled back into a ponytail or a bun; outside of work tends to leave it down unless doing something where it needs to be/it’s better to keep it out of the way USUAL  FACE  LOOK :  looks either busy in thought or bored, there is no in-between; she’s also an occasional victim of resting b!tch face; however will brighten up when approached by someone USUAL  CLOTHING :   military uniform is worn regularly; she loves her boots and will often wear them with other pairs of trousers; relatively simple clothing, rarely goes shopping for clothes, if she’s wearing something new most likely her mother sent it to her; dislikes long-sleeved shirts and prefers no sleeves altogether, tends to stick to three or four outfits which she cycles through; favours trousers, saves skirts and dresses for special occasions or good weather

PSYCHOLOGY.

FEARS :   despite her profession death is a big one; emetophobia (fear of vomiting, especially in a public place/away from home); despite loving the appearance of lightning, thunder during storms triggers varying levels of anxiety ASPIRATIONS :   to help as many people as she can, to improve awareness and treatment of mental illness which are often overlooked (especially the effects military service has on individuals) even if it’s just on an individual basis, to settle down with someone and raise a family POSITIVE  TRAITS :   sweet, charming, protective, compassionate, level-headed, genuine, dedicated, perceptive, ballsy, cheeky, forward NEGATIVE  TRAITS :   overemotional; gets attached too easily; unforgiving or (depending on circumstance) holds a long-standing grudge; unsure of her position when in a new place so feels she has to justify herself and her abilities/work, leading to her being very short with some people; can be rash and impulsive when it comes to her patients, would rather throw herself into danger with them than leave them on their own MBTI :  ISFJ-A – the Defender ZODIAC :   Leo TEMPERAMENT :   phlegmatic SOUL  TYPES :    server, priest ANIMALS :   turtle, dog, snake VICE / HABITS :    losing track of time and taking very long showers; staying up too late; shakes her head side to side when she yawns, as if waking herself up; chewing on the end of a pen; repeatably pops on/off snap poppers on clothing, especially if they’re on the end of her sleeves FAITH :  agnostic though will often fall back on religion when she can’t do anything to help a situation (e.g. she’ll resort to praying if a situation is dire) GHOSTS ? :   nope  AFTERLIFE ? :   wants to believe in the afterlife but can’t quite bring herself to REINCARNATION ? :  wants to believe in reincarnation more than the afterlife but again, can’t quite bring herself to ALIENS ? :   probably, but accepts that that question won’t be answered in her lifetime  POLITICAL  ALIGNMENT :  wish-washy; goes through periods of being furious with the political climate (often when issues arise) whilst remaining up to date, and times of just ignoring it/not being too involved; however, stands (and somewhat fights) for equality across the board as well as protesting to protect the freedom of choice EDUCATION  LEVEL :   due to growing up in the middle of nowhere, she only attended a small school which obviously limited her education to the point where I argue that she probably left school at 14 (due to context of schooling in the early 1900s) like everyone else who lived in the area; received specific training when she enlisted to become a medic; spends time reading up on other medical techniques/treatments that she wasn’t taught at the academy; some basic knowledge on how the family business is run, but she never expected to inherit it and therefore didn’t spend much time considering it

FAMILY.

FATHER :    Lucian Samaritan MOTHER :    Silvia Violetta Fontana SIBLINGS :  she’s the second eldest of seven with six brothers, Andrew, Samuel, Seth, Kent, Isaac, and Wyatt EXTENDED  FAMILY :   Henrik and Eleanor (paternal grandparents) NAME  MEANING / S :    Charlotte – female version of Charles – meaning “man, army, warrior”; Samaritan – following Arakawa’s lead, she’s named after the FV104 Samaritan, which is an armoured ambulance.

FAVORITES.

BOOK :  fiction, often books from her childhood which are mainly coming-of-age stories; she does also have a soft spot for biographies or journals of people who have similarities to her (whether that be type of job, favourite hobbies, Southern region background/childhood, etc.); keen to read any medical journals that she can get her hands on 5  SONGS :  her favourites tend to be country or folk-songs, songs with a story or meaning; she also holds a soft spot for swing DEITY :   although she relies on religion in dire situations, she doesn’t believe in the afterlife because she doesn’t believe in a supreme being/creator HOLIDAY :   tries to get time off to go home to visit family on holidays, but will conspire with her older brother to make sure that they are either both home or both away; because of this, holidays get ‘postponed’ in the Samaritan household until the two can find time to get away; tends to be a busy household due to numbers, with Lottie being liable to drag a couple of friends with her if they have nowhere to go MONTH :   September SEASON :   Autumn PLACE :    the large barn at Willowbranch Acres, the family home; the narrow top floor was claimed by the kids soon after it was built, with it being full of cushions, blankets, rugs, as well as a couple of hobby items; it’s always there when you need time to think and space away from the likeable chaos WEATHER :    sunny, clear skies but with a mild cooling breeze, not too hot, not too cold; lightning on a dark, cloudy night, despite dislike of thunder that is too close SOUND :   humming from down the hall; light playing of a piano; muffled voices and music of a tavern/pub as you walk by; crunching of leaves and heavy footsteps as you run through the woods SCENTS :    warm bread, lilies, apple blossom, TASTES :    chocolate, orange juice, apple cider, well-done buttered toast FEELINGS :   long hot shower, the first gust of wind after a stifling train journey, a dog curled up beside you, forehead kisses and touches ANIMALS :    love dogs with a passion, wanted one desperately as a kid before she received Sven on her 16th birthday, has a soft spot for donkeys, cows, and horses as well due to their present back in her hometown NUMBER :  8 COLORS :   white, beige, black, all kinds of blue and fall colours (specifically the oranges)

EXTRA.

TALENTS :  deescalating or delaying conflicts; decent with a pistol; scarily good with a bow and arrow; telling when someone is lying or telling a half-truth; coincidentally getting away with only telling half-truths instead of outright lying whilst having the same effect BAD  AT :  keeping herself healthy (well-fed, good sleep schedule, enough liquids); going to bed at a decent time when she doesn’t have to get up at a particular time the next morning; taking out someone in order to ensure her safety; shutting up when someone is threatening her; remaining impartial; cooking or baking more than the three dishes she has down; keeping a straight face after saying something that she thinks is ~hilarious~ TURN  ONS :  really enthusiastic about a hobby; susceptible to gingers/redheads for some reason ¯\_(ツ)_/¯; also susceptible to short beards, van dykes and goatees; confidence; good sense of humour; ideally intelligent (not necessarily academically though, can be on a very niche topic) TURN  OFFS :   when they won’t take a hint that she’s not interested; people who insult the person they were just hitting on because they got rejected; shallow but if they’re shorter than her; honest to god, bad mustaches (the roystache I’m looking at you (≖ ‿ ≖ )  ); HOBBIES :    Soapbox/Baby cart races; swing dancing; violin; piano; running; sparring; singing; walking in the countryside; archery TROPES :   Girl Next Door, Loyalist, Farmer’s Daughter, The Reliable One, Big Brother Instinct, Good is Not Soft, The Heart, Technical Pacifist

[nowplayingblog-main]

Chapter 2 is finally here!

read under the cut

...”C’mon kid, just a few more steps”...

...”I know, I know it’s too hot”...

...”Shhh... I know it hurts, I know”...

...”You’re gonna be alright, Peter, It’ll be okay”...

Peter’s eyes snapped open to the blinding lights of a white room. He felt his face scrunch underneath a plastic mask placed over his nose and mouth, blowing soothingly cold air across his face. His eyes had squeezed shut in an effort to shield him from the harmful light above his eyes.

“Can we have the lights dimmed, please?” a feminine voice called out.

The orange glow behind his eyelids dimmed, and Peter braved blinking a little, to let his eyes adjust to the room. It was blurry at first, and while the darkness soothed his eyes, it made it hard to see the room. Then, slowly, everything came into focus, and Peter eyes settled on the woman who was sitting at his bedside.

She was clearly a doctor of some form. She wore a long white lab coat over a pale pink scrubs, and a stethoscope around her neck. Her skin was a few shades darker than his, and she had long, medium brown, wavy hair. Peter remembered all those medical dramas his mom watched before their trip to Afghanistan; this lady would have fit right into the cast.

“Hello, Peter,” The woman said. “My name is Dr. Sullivan.”

“Hi,” He responded meekly, his voice weak from lack of use and muffled by the oxygen mask over his mouth.

Dr. Sullivan gave him a small smile. “It’s okay to take that off, if you want. Just don’t leave it off for too long. You should be fine, but I’m not quite willing to risk anything yet.”

The coordination in Peter’s arms was lacking extremely, but eventually his left arm found the mask on his face and pulled it away as gently as possible.

“Where am I?” His voice was just barely above a whisper.

“You’re at Thousand Oaks Surgical Hospital, in Malibu California,” Dr. Sullivan explained. “You and Mr. Stark were found two day ago in the middle of a desert in Afghanistan. You suffered a heat stroke shortly before you were found by the United States Air Force. Not to mention an infection due to your various wounds, including the bullet that was still lodged in your stomach. The surrounding skin healed remarkably fast, most likely due to your altered DNA.”

Peter’s heart rate picked up in fear. His monitor beeped loudly, and blood pulsed in his ears. She knew? She knew.

Dr. Sullivan raised her hands in surrender. “It’s okay, I won’t tell anyone. I can’t really. Patient privacy, as well as the fact that Tony Stark himself had me and my entire team sign a non-disclosure agreement. We only know because we need to know, Peter.”

“Why do you need to know?” Peter insisted, his voice cracking. He wasn't exactly sure why he was so defensive about this. He just felt embarrassed, ashamed,  almost dirty. Like everything about him now, after what those... those... monsters did to him. He had always felt that way but his emotions were muted under the influence of the drugs they kept him on. Besides, in the cave no one was there to judge him, until Mr. Stark was brought in.

“We need to know so that we know how to take care of you, Peter. You’re enhanced, we need to know that so that we don’t try to treat you like a normal person, because it wouldn’t work the same way with you -”

“I am a normal person!” Peter was almost at the brink of screaming, and, god, his voice sounded awful.

“I know that, Peter,” Dr. Sullivan tried to calm him. “But biologically, you are different, and I don’t want to accidentally hurt you because of that, that’s why we need to know -”

“You don’t! There’s nothing wrong with me! I’m normal! So what if my DNA is different now! I’m still normal! I’m still normal!”

Peter didn’t acknowledge much beyond the screaming. He didn’t notice the doctors filtering into the room as his heart monitors went crazy. He didn’t notice them shouting orders, didn’t even notice the needle filled with an enhanced sedative. All he knew was lab coats. Lab coats meant pain, and god he never wanted pain again. Haven't they done enough? They already changed him forever. Why were the lab coats back to hurt him? Peter was supposed to be safe! He was supposed to be safe! He was supposed to be -

...white lab coats...

...a man with graying hair leans over him...

...he’s being restrained, he can’t move, the drugs altering his sense of reality...

...“- the world is not ready for him-”...

...“Sleep tight, my little pest”...

Peter woke up later that day. The sky was dark outside his window, and his eyes took less time to adjust to his surroundings, the voices of his nightmare echoed in his head.

The oxygen mask was over his nose again, and Peter reached up to pull it down, not realizing he had now caught the attention of Mr. Stark, who was sitting where Dr. Sullivan was earlier that day.

“Hey kid,” He said as a means of greeting.

“Hey,” Peter said plainly.

“Heard you had a little freak out earlier.”

Peter blinked. “I did?”

“Dr. Sullivan said it was a panic attack. You were breathing too fast, and you kept yelling at the staff until you got so worked up they had to sedate you.”

“I’m sorry,” Peter apologized. He remembered now, and he was recalled the look on every panicked doctors face while Peter did nothing but yell and scream. Deep guilt stirred inside his chest.

“Don’t apologize,” Tony said. “She said it was expected, considering everything you’ve gone through in the recent past. I still don’t understand what triggered it though-”

Peter opened his mouth, whether it was to tell Tony what had triggered him, or to refute that he had been triggered at all, Peter himself would never know, because Tony cut him off. “Nevermind. I’m not willing to put you through that again if you got so worked up about it the last time.”

They sat in awkward silence for a moment.

“I held a press conference today,” Tony announced.

“What’s a press conference?” Peter asked innocently.

“It’s a big, boring meeting where I can tell reporters what I want them to hear. Helps me control what information gets out to the public,” Tony gave him a strange look. “How is it that you can help me create a miniaturized ARC reactor, and a mechanized suit of armor in a cave with nothing but scraps, when you’re - how old are you?”

“Thirteen”

“Really? God, I feel old. Anyway, how is it that you can do all that, but you don’t know what a press conference is?”

Peter shrugged. “I don’t think press conferences have a whole lot to do with mechanics, Mr. Stark.”

“True,” Tony shrugged. “I guess you and I were just raised in extremely different circumstances. What did you say you’re parents were? Geneticists?”

Peter’s smile, which has been slowly pushing his cheeks upward suddenly fell. He nodded mutely.

Mr. Stark winced. “Sorry, kid. Probably wasn’t a good idea to bring that up.”

They were silent for a while after that. Peter focused on the way the individual threads on his blanket were woven together.

“You’ll be living with me from now on,” Tony said softly. “I promise not to bring it up again if you don’t want me too, but we looked into your family, Pete, and you were right. You don’t have any surviving relatives. But I’m not going to let you slide into that broken government system of tossing poor kids around. Not after everything you and I have gone through, especially after...” Tony trailed off. “After your DNA has been altered so much...” he said carefully, eyeing Peter for a reaction before carrying on. “I just don’t think it’s the best idea, and neither does anybody hear at the hospital, so I signed for temporary guardianship, and you’ll be living with me from now on. So there’s that.”

Peter nodded, not looking up from where he stared at the blanket, playing with the material between his fingers.

“Well, I won’t bore you any longer, is there some kind of movie that you really like? It might help you to take your mind off of everything.” Tony stood up and walked over to a pile of DVD cases, still wrapped in plastic as though they had just been purchased. “I didn’t know what you would like, so I got a little bit of everything.

Tony handed Peter a stack to shift through, until Peter felt his heart lift upon seeing his favorite movie of all time - Star Wars: A New Hope.

“I knew you had to be a bit of nerd,” Tony mused, standing up to insert the DVD.

They didn’t talk for the entire run of the movie, but Tony didn’t leave Peter’s side either, which Peter felt was enough.

Peter was signed out of the hospital the next day.

“Shouldn’t he be here a couple more days?” Tony questioned. When we brought him in a few days ago you insisted that he was in critical condition, and now he’s right as rain?”

Dr. Sullivan shrugged. “His tests came back clear of any infection, and his stats have been within a healthy range for over 24 hours now. He is completely fine to leave. Welcome to taking care of an enhanced.”

Tony tilted his head. “And how do you know so much about enhanced people?”

“I have my sources. Have a good day Mr. Stark.”

And with that, Dr. Sullivan whisked out of the room with a flourish of her lab coat, and disappeared from Peter’s line of vision. Which was fine in Peter’s opinion,. Since his anxiety levels had been through the roof ever since she had stepped in the room.

Peter had begun to notice that when the medical professionals were around, he couldn’t seem to keep himself calm. His palms felt sweaty, and the rate of his breathing began to pick up. If they came too close to him without warning, or if they touched him, Peter would flinch, as though he was expecting to be hurt.

Peter himself found this ridiculous. He knew the doctors weren't there to hurt him, they were there to help him. He had never been afraid of doctors in his life, not before the cave.

He always felt better when Mr. Stark was around, however, though he couldn’t quite explain why. He made him feel safe, even though Peter knew that him even being around Tony made the man feel uncomfortable, at least at first. He guessed it had to do with the fact that Mr. Stark hadn’t ever had to deal with someone Peter’s age. Besides, now that they were free, there wasn’t much that they could talk about. They didn’t have a lot of common ground, at least not any that they knew about, and they didn’t have a common goal or a common enemy anymore. Their relationship had grown while they were in the cave, but to what extent?

To his credit, Tony always did seem to ease up after talking to Peter for a while, and eventually the two did find some common interests.

“Just you wait until we get to the house, kid.” Tony had told them on their ride to his Malibu home. Tony was driving, which Peter found somewhat surprising. “You’ll love the lab. It has so many fun toys. My bots are there, though they’re somewhat antiques at this point - those stupid pieces of scrap metal.”

“Why don’t you just get rid of them?” Peter asked.

Mr. Stark turned to him, with a frown on his face, which quickly melted into a smile. “I couldn’t do that! I love them too much. Just don’t tell them I said that.”

When they arrived at Tony's mansion, Peter was shocked at the sheet size of it. Growing up in New York City, Peter had seen some pretty big buildings. Correction. Some pretty tall buildings. Peter didn't think that Mr. Stark's house was more than three stories, but it stretched across the shore of the Pacific almost endlessly. Peter could wrap his head around why anyone would need a house that was this big.

The inside of the house felt like a maze. After the walked in, Peter found it hard to keep his bearings. Once they moved away from the door, he couldn't tell which way was which, and he had the feeling that if Peter lost Mr. Stark in one of the winding corridors, he could be lost in the house forever.

When they finally reached a room that Peter recognized to be some sort of living room or sitting room, there was a woman with strawberry blonde hair wearing a white blouse and a gray pencil skirt, sitting on the couch, watching something on the television.

“...allow me to introduce you to the new Stark Industries business plan!” The voice on the TV said, followed by the sound of something shattering. “Look, that's a weapons company that doesn't make weapons!”

The woman looked up, noticing them, and shut off the TV with a static click. “Welcome home, Mr. Stark.”

“Hello, Ms. Potts,” Tony said, stepping in front of Peter. “I'll be in my lab for the rest of the day, if you need me.”

“Alright, I'll be sure to come get you. Will that be all, Mr. Stark?”

“That'll be all Ms. Potts.”

Then Tony turned and motioned for Peter to follow him. They went downstairs, down a winding, circular staircase, until they reached the bottom floor, which left to a room behind a big, glass wall, with a glowing pin pad by the door.

“I'll take you to see your room in a second, kid, I just thought I would show you the lab first.”

The door opened, and Tony held it open to let Peter in. He walked in and was greeted by an echoing voice.

“Unidentified personnel.” Said a voice seemingly coming from everywhere. Peter jumped at the unexpected noise, looking around for where it may have been coming from.

“Oh, calm down JARVIS,” Tony said, “He’s with me, and he’s going to be around here quite a bit. Log him as Peter...” Mr. Stark turned to look at him. “Parker right? I thought I saw that name of the guardianship forms.”

Peter nodded silently. Tony spent the next half hour showing Peter around the lab, introducing him to his robots, and showing him how to operate certain types of equipment. Mr. Stark rambled on and on, talking about everything under the sun, while Peter remained uncharacteristically quiet, thinking back to what he had heard in the living room.

“You’re a quiet thing today, aren’t you?” Tony remarked. “Haven’t spoken a word since we got to the house. Usually you’re talking a mile a minute.”

Peter turned to look at the man. He stayed silent.

“You got something on your mind?”

Peter took a deep breath. “What... What was Ms. Potts watching? When we came in?”

“One of those broadcasts or TV shows that advises people on where to invest their money.”

“It said you were a weapons company that doesn’t make weapons.”

Tony sighed. “That’s because as of a couple of days ago, Stark Industries announced - or rather, I announced, quite unexpectedly - that we were shutting down our weapons department.”

Peter blinked. “What made you decide to do that?”

“You did,” The mechanic sat down and began fiddling with some sort of circuit board. “You told me in the cave that weapons won’t just stop working when someone I don’t want to have them gets ahold of them. I realized then that I had become part of a broken system,” Tony looked up at him. “I don’t want to make weapons anymore. Stark Industries whole mission is to make the world a better, safer, and more peaceful place. Making weapons isn’t working. We can do better. I just need to figure out what I want to do.”

Peter smiled softly. “Do you have any ideas?”

“Well, I initially wanted to look more into ARC reactor technology,” He tapped on the glowing blue light under his shirt for emphasis. “But Obie shot that down, he’s still married to the idea that we’re only good for making weapons. Then I thought... maybe...” Tony eyed Peter carefully. “Maybe if I couldn’t control who had the guns... I could make sure they were in the rights hands...my own...”

The teen tilted his head in confusion. “What do you mean?”

Tony pulled up a couple of displays, maneuvering things through the air on his holographic projections, before pulling up an image of a suit of armor. Peter looked at it for a few moments, before he began to recognize certain elements of it. His eyes widened in shock. Yes, Peter definitely recognized this. How could he not? He had helped build this.

“I’m changing up the design a little, trying to change the form to increase the aerodynamics to help it to sustain prolonged flight - kinda similar to the way we’re shaping cars to be able to move faster. The original model was never meant to fly for very long, that’s why it ended up crashing so badly in the desert, I’m trying to figure out how to use less energy to achieve flight, because with our last model it was a bit overkill -”

“Hold on,” Peter cut him off. “You’re building another suit?”

“Well, I was hoping you could help me. You did so well the last time.”

“No, I mean,” Peter sighed, “You’re going to stop making weapons for your company, but you’re going to make an even bigger weapon for yourself.”

“It’s not like that, kid.” Tony got up from where he was sitting a moved to stand beside Peter. “It’s not a weapon. It’s a method of keeping the peace.”

“By having a bigger stick than the other guy?”

Tony paused. “Where did you hear that?”

“I read it in a magazine.”

“In the hospital?”

“I got bored.”

Mr. Stark turned to face him. “Listen, kid. This thing isn’t meant to be a weapon. Or, maybe it is, but I’m going to be the one in the suit. I’m going to make sure no one else gets their hands on this, and I’m only going to go after the people who hurt others. This suit isn’t going to have big guns or cause massive explosions like the first one did.”

Peter was struggling to understand. “So, you want to become a superhero?”

Tony blinked. “What? No.”

“You just said that you wanted to go after the bad guys and protect people.”

“What? Kid, that’s not - Well... I guess maybe it is. Sure, let’s go with that. I’m going to become a superhero.”

Peter smiled. “Well, in that case, I’m in.”

The billionaire chuckled and looked back at his designs for the new suit. “I should have known all I had to say to get you on board was something extremely dorky like ‘I’m going to become a superhero’”

“I just think that you made something that could really help people, or could really hurt people,” Peter explained. “My dad used to tell me about his brother, Ben. He died when my dad was in college, but he used to say ‘With great power comes great responsibility.’ It’s super cheesy, but I think it’s the truth. You have a lot of power, Mr. Stark, and you want to use it to help people. That’s something I can get behind.”

Tony smiled at the kid. “You know kid, you’re pretty wise for a thirteen-year-old.”

“Well, I’ve been through a lot.”

“Yeah kid. Too much.”

Later that day, Tony showed Peter his room. It was a bit of a blank slate. A guest room which hadn’t really been converted to become Peter’s room, but Mr. Stark said that he could decorate it however he wanted to.

Now, Peter was laying in his bed, staring up at the ceiling. The bed felt too soft, like he was laying on marshmallows. He supposed that was because He had gotten used to a beat down mattress on a wire frame, and even after that he had been stuck in a hospital bed, which was a huge improvement, but nowhere near the comfort levels Peter found in this bed.

Ever since waking up after their escape, Peter found it hard to sleep. Before, Peter had been on drugs virtually all the time. Sleeping wasn’t something he had done on his own for quite some time, he always just dozed off after receiving another dose.

His lack of sleep wasn’t the only thing that the drugs did to him. Walking around, and viewing the world was completely different now. Everything was so much more vibrant and vivid than Peter had ever remembered it being. The world was louder, and brighter, and more three-dimensional.

It wasn’t as though Peter wanted the drugs, in fact it kind of surprised him that he didn’t find himself addicted to the substance because of how much he was forced to use it. He suspected the doctors had weaned him off of it while he was still unconscious. It was just that everything felt so different now. Like he was living in a dream. A happy dream that couldn’t possibly be his reality.

There was no way Peter could truly be free. No way he could have been taken in by the infamous Tony Stark. It just wasn't possible.

And yet, here he was. Free at last.

And at some point that night while he stared up at the ceiling, Peter had the most peaceful night of sleep in his life.

[onemuseleft]

Steve/Tony, number 19 for the AU meme!

When Steve gets there the classroom is mostly empty. “You’re the second wave,” a cheerful young woman in a rainbow plaid shirt tells him. She has a clipboard. “Parents A-M have left already and we’re starting on the back end of the alphabet now. Grab a seat, have some coffee. There’s crackers and stuff if you get hungry. And feel free to look around the classroom if you like. We had the kids decorate so you could see some of what they’ve been working on.”

He’d left Jamie in the gym where a handful of harassed looking teachers were trying to get a hundred kids under the age of six to play dodgeball by the rules. The odds hadn’t looked to be in their favor when Steve left. 

The classroom is bright and cheery with artwork on the walls and shelves full of storybooks and art supplies. There’s a corner in the back of the room with a throw rug and a bunch of pillows, and lots and lots of toys. Steve’s been in the room before but it had been over the summer when Dr. Foster was still getting her classroom set up. This was the first time he was getting the full impact of it and it hit him, hard, like a punch to the sternum that Jamie was going to school here, that his kid was getting the chance Steve hadn’t.

He’d gotten lucky. Natasha had found out about the Maria Stark Foundation from a friend of hers who worked at Stark Tower as an admin, and the friend had managed to get the application directly to the head of the program. Steve had had to pay application fees and for Jamie’s school uniforms, but Jamie’s tuition was guaranteed through fourth grade.

And now his kid went to school in a warm, dry, clean building full of toys and staffed with men and women who were at the top of their field.

It wouldn’t solve all their problems, but Steve knew how the world worked. Hard work counted for a lot but connections counted for a lot more. It was cheating, and for himself Steve railed against it, but all bets were off for his kid’s education. 

He walked through the classroom slowly, running his fingers over the shiny covers of the picture books on the shelves, and feeling vaguely like a giant next to the tiny chairs and low tables. 

The back wall was a huge corkboard covered in artwork. Crayon, pencil, markers, watercolors. Steve’s eye was drawn to it instantly and he gave up resisting the urge to investigate. There were literally dozens of drawings, arranged in bundles of five or six, all by the same kid. Steve saw a bunch of flower pictures by a girl named Suzie and lots of pictures of houses and families and things that were either horses or dogs (or very large mice, Steve couldn’t tell). 

There was a surprisingly good drawing of a bright red robot fighting a dinosaur and Steve traced his fingers over the bright red and orange fire the dinosaur was shooting out of its mouth (dragon?) with a strange sense of wistfulness. As a kid, having access to art supplies like that would have been… heaven. 

Oh, he didn’t regret joining the Army or anything that came after, but part of him had always wished he hadn’t had to give up on art, that he’d had the supplies and the training and the talent to pursue it further than as a hobby.

There are a few other drawings, all in colored pencil. The same robot versus unicorn, robot versus a tank, robot versus a clown and robot versus something Steve couldn’t for the life of him identify that looked like… one of those adjustable desk lamps maybe? He looked at it a little closer and that was when he noticed the child’s name.

Jamie.

Steve almost felt like his heart was skipping a beat. He’d never known Jamie liked to draw? Or that he could draw so well - it’s obviously the work of a kindergartner but there’s a real sense of perspective and dimension, a bit of natural talent mixed in with the robot enthusiasm.

He was excited, honestly. This was something he knew about, he could really share this with Jamie. He was already planning a trip to Michael’s on the way home, to stock up on supplies: paper, sketchpads, maybe some charcoals and pastels. Did they make child-sized easels? They must somewhere, he could look on Amazon when they got home. And Crayola of course, one of everything so Jamie could experiment and get a feel for his favorite medium.

“Thank god for trust funds, huh?”

Steve started, so absorbed in his planning that he hadn’t even noticed the other man come up beside him. “Sorry?”

The man smiled. He was handsome, in a way Steve couldn’t help but appreciate. Steve’s height, give or take an inch, with very dark, wavy hair that turned to curls at the very end and was stylishly disheveled. His eyes were a vivid shade of blue and his features were just a little too sharp to be really classic. His mouth was pulled into a sideways smirk - more amused than sarcastic, Steve thought, though the goatee gave him a bit of a devilish look to him. He was wearing a black t-shirt under a worn blue flannel and a pair of jeans that looked like they’d been designer before someone spilled motor oil on them. They were worn at the cuffs and thin around the thighs and knees, worn in. 

The guy crossed his arms and the material pulled tight across his shoulders and biceps. Also this guy had a gym membership somewhere. Steve blinked and dragged his eyes back up to the guy’s face.

“I hear the whole starving artist thing isn’t as sexy as they make it look on TV,” the guy said. He studied Jamie’s drawings. “I mean, okay, it’s early years yet, the kid might have a knack for something more marketable down the line. But this screams “future comic book artist” to me, so probably better to just start saving now, right?”

“What’s wrong with being a comic book artist?” Steve snapped. He took a step forward, partially blocking the guy’s view of the pictures. His heart was beating fast, and he could feel anger surging through his spine. Who the hell did this guy think he was? Who thought it was okay to talk shit about someone else’s kid’s (any kid’s) artwork? “If Jamie wants to draw comic books when he grows up that’s fine. The world needs more art in it and I’d rather have my kid grow up and actually create something in this world than be marketable off the backs of other people’s work.”

The guy gave him a sideways look. “She.”

Steve stopped short of his next sentence - he’s not sure, actually, what it was going to be but he’s probably perilously close to saying something that’s going to start a real fight. “What?”

“Jamie,” the guy says. He doesn’t look mad. A little bemused maybe. “Jamie’s a girl. And you’re right, if she wants to draw comic books when she grows up, that’s fine. I was trying to joke and obviously failed. Sorry. I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess you’re an artist?”

“I’m a cop,” Steve said. “Jamie’s a boy.”

The guy lifted one perfectly shaped brow. “Um.”

“Jamie’s dad!”

The cheerful teacher’s assistant was standing in the doorway of the classroom with her clipboard. She beamed in their general direction. “We’re ready for you!”

Steve nodded and stepped forward.

And so did the handsome guy.

“What-” Steve started to ask, but the teacher’s assistant cut him off. 

“Sorry! Sorry! We’re going alphabetically today, Mr. Stark. Jamie Rogers’ dad is up first.”

The guy - Stark, gestured for Steve to proceed. “No problem, Darcy. I didn’t realize there were two Jamies this year.”

Steve felt his stomach drop and almost closed his eyes in embarrassment. Oh no.

She grinned and rolled her eyes at him, obviously long-acquainted. “Oh, the terror twins. We can’t let them sit next to each other anymore, you know. They just team up against all the other kids and rule the classroom like tiny despots. It’s super cute, though, I have video. I’ll show you after.”

“It’s been less than a month!” Stark said. “How much terror could they really have wreaked?”

Darcy stuck her tongue out at him. “I was there for pre-K, Tony. Your kid convinced the entire class that we were all going to die in a black hole when they turned on the Large Hadron Collider last year. We had to send home notes. And half the parents didn’t even know what the Large Hadron Collider was and thought we’d let their kids see porn. Dr. Banner turned so red I thought his head was going to explode.”

Tony was grinning, clearly proud. “Embarrassed or angry at their shameless lack of basic knowledge of scientific and current events?”

“You know which one,” Darcy said. “Go away and stop distracting me. Mr. Rogers, come this way, Dr. Foster is ready for you.”

Tony was already turning away, attention back on the wall of art and studying Jamie’s - the wrong Jamie, Steve realized with a little pang of disappointment and more than a little embarrassment - artwork again. Steve wasn’t quite sure how to apologize for the misunderstanding and Darcy is waiting, so he went off to meet Dr. Foster. 

She was wonderful - bright and pleasant, but very serious as they discussed Jamie’s progress. He was already spelling words - Steve had been reading to him and working on the alphabet at home, so he was pleased to see that he was ahead of the class there - and he was good with numbers and other basic skills. “He doesn’t like nap time though,” Dr Foster said with a smile. “He likes to get up while the other children are asleep and play with the ball.” 

She gave him some materials to read and a progress report more complicated than some of the arrest reports Steve had to fill out at work, then presented him a folder full of Jamie’s schoolwork - and there were a few drawings in there, Steve saw, but nothing like the ones on the wall. Steve studied them; a firetruck, a football, a picture of Steve, Bucky, Natasha and Jamie standing next to Natasha’s F1 car from last season.

Steve decided he rather liked these even better than the robot drawings.

Afterwards, he lingered in the classroom for a while longer, waiting until Dr. Foster was done with “Jamie S’s dad!” 

“Sorry about earlier,” he blurted out as soon as Tony came back into the room. “I thought the drawings were by my Jamie and I got defensive.” 

“Hey, no worries.” Tony looked pretty laid back, but Steve thought he saw some tension seep out of his posture. “I totally get the mix-up. It’s my fault anyway - next time I’ll introduce myself before I go straight to roasting the five-year-old.”

“That’s… probably a good idea.”

Tony grinned. “I’m completely cool with the art thing, on the record. She wants to be President when she grows up, so honestly, starving comic book artist is a step up. I was just trying to break the ice because you’re the only other parent here who didn’t look like the came straight from the country club in Stepford, if you catch me.”

“Well, that’s probably because they wouldn’t let me in the country club, most likely.” Steve offered Tony his hand. “Steve Rogers, former US Army, currently Detective 3rd Grade with the NYPD. Jamie and I are here thanks to the Maria Stark Foundation.”

Tony grabbed his hand and gave it a quick squeeze. “Oh hey, I remember you! You’re Natasha’s friend.”

“You know Natasha?” Steve blinked. “Wait, you’re that Tony Stark. I can’t believe I didn’t realize.” He gave Tony a second once-over, taking in the grease under his nails and the old, worn clothes, then comparing them to the wildly expensive watch and leather motorcycle boots. So that was what a billionaire looked like when he was dressed casual, who knew?

Tony shrugged. “I’m told the camera adds ten pounds, fifteen years and at least six tons of sleazebag. And yeah, Natasha’s one of my favorite test drivers. She’s been driving prototypes into the ground for me since she wrecked her ankle and had to quit the ballet. How do you know her? She never said.”

“She married my best friend.”

Tony gave him a look that could best be described as delighted. “You’re Bucky’s roommate? Man, why weren’t you at the wedding?”

Steve sighed. “Getting drunk married on some random guy’s back porch at four in the morning five days after you meet is not a wedding. Oh my god, you were the guy in the bathrobe in the cell phone video weren’t you? You performed the ceremony!”

“I love weddings,” Tony said with relish. “But yeah, we were all super wasted. I still don’t remember how we got back here from Monte Carlo.”

“Daddy!”

Steve turned to face the door, aware of Tony doing the same beside him. The voice had been a girl’s, and there was a tiny little slip of a girl standing in the doorway. She had long dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, light brown skin and the same bright blue eyes as her father.  She was wearing a purple t-shirt with a unicorn on it, a bright blue tutu, and leggings with a universe pattern on on them. She also had a pair of costume bat wings strapped to her back and was wearing several plastic bead necklaces. “Daddy, you can do weddings?”

Steve’s own Jamie was standing right behind her. He was wearing the same jeans and red t-shirt he’d been wearing earlier, but had at some point acquired a top hat and a cape. “I thought you two were supposed to stay in the gym?”

“Dodgeball is stupid,” not-his-Jamie declared. Jamie nodded in agreement, though Steve knew for a fact that Jamie loved playing Dodgeball. “We’re gonna get married instead but Modi and Magni said we had to get a priest if we wanted to get married for real.”

“Why are you getting married?” Tony asked. 

“Cause you’re supposed to marry your best friend,” his daughter replied in a tone that indicated she felt her father should have known that without having to ask. “Uncle Rhodey said so when he and Aunt Carol got married. And Jamie’s my best friend now plus our names match so we hafta.”

“Sound logic,” Tony said. “But I refuse to pay for your wedding until you have at least one college degree.”

“How long does college take?” she asked, eyes narrowed.

“For you? Two years. But you have to graduate from kindergarten first.”

She sighed heavily. “Fine. But someone’s gotta get married, we already decorated the book nook to make it the church and promised Thrud she could be the flower girl.”

“Why don’t you just marry Thrud?” Tony asked. 

“I don’t want to be related to Magni and Modi,” his daughter said.

“That’s fair,” Tony said. He leaned in close to Steve. “Imagine a six-year-old frat boy who’s basically a nice guy but has no volume control and  unlimited energy. Then give him an identical twin.”

“Smart girl,” Steve said. 

“You guys can get married instead,” Jamie said. He had his hands jammed in his pockets. “I want to see a wedding, I didn’t get invited to Uncle Bucky’s.”

“You were two,” Steve said, “you wouldn’t remember it even if you had gone.”

“Pleeeeease?” Jamie said. Not-his-Jamie turned on her father with a wide-eyed look that would have gotten an entire pound full of puppies adopted. 

Tony turned to Steve with a raised eyebrow. “Well, what do you say? Wanna go get hitched by a bunch of ankle-biters?”

Steve studied him for a moment. He looked relaxed and happy. His Jamie was standing on his feet and tugging on his shirt as she bounced up and down and he wasn’t trying to get her off his expensive shoes. He’d taken the whole misunderstanding thing earlier with a sense of humor and he hadn’t cared at all that Steve was there on charity, unlike the few other parents Steve had met that year.

Plus, he was still damned handsome.

“Sure, what the hell, I always wanted to get married.” Steve leaned down to pick Jamie up and sit him on his hip. “But you have to let me buy you guys ice cream afterwards.”

Tony gave him a slow smile. “First date after the wedding, huh? I knew I was going to like you.”

[qualitytacolover]

The line-up haircut: 16 great examples

New Post has been published on https://www.easypromhairstyles.com/the-line-up-haircut-16-great-examples.html

The line-up haircut: 16 great examples

Wondering what a line up haircut is? It is a type of haircut in which the hairline is cut in a straight line. An electric razor or clipper creates straight lines and sharp angles around the forehead, temples, sideburns and neckline. This makes all the edges around your hair "line up" and creates a clean look compared to keeping your natural hairline.

Sometimes known as the shape up or edge up, this type of cut gains fame for its super clean surface and its warped edges especially when combined with a skin fade and sharp angles at the temples.

Including the line up to your favorite hairstyle can result in the whole look coming out. In addition, the additional contrast and the definition of the natural shape of the face can be added and shows these masculine features.

The line-up is one of those versatile styles that work on every haircut, especially with shorter lengths. "[Kürzere] Hair would be better or ideal to line up, ”says elite hairdresser and Visionz Barbershop owner Jose Tapia,“ but line-ups don't discriminate hair length. ”Whether it's a man bun or a buzz cut, it's guaranteed that You get a clean edge and a defined look at the end.

"Short hair line-ups are very low to no maintenance," he adds. Keep it fresh by giving your hairdresser a monthly visit, but make sure your hairdresser "doesn't go too far in the line and keep it as natural as possible". You don't want a hairline that's too high.

Here are some of the most popular line up haircuts for your inspiration:

Line up with long hair

How would you describe this look?

The line-up style I've done is based on the type of face and the size of the head. The style is a pompadour and I chose it for the volume of the hair.

Any advice for someone considering it?

Since he is a customer with a lot of hair volume with a thin face and a short forehead, I decided to do a high breakdown with a very clean shade. First I cut the hair at 90 degrees with angles of 45 degrees, then I made texture cuts near the neck and already cut half of the hair to remove weight. Then I have the fade with a line on my forehead.

After finishing the cut, I washed the hair, then dried and polished until the hair was shiny. Finally, use a Pacinos brand matte wax and a strong, quick-drying spray. I chose the style because the customer knows how to handle his own hair.

With a beard fading

How would you describe this look?

In this line-up haircut, Chris asked for a sleek traditional side part with a modern mid-drop fade blended into his beard and medium to long length at the top. What I enjoy most about this style is the contrast from a dark top to a bare finish, which is emphasized by the bow around its temporal.

Any advice for someone considering it?

This haircut is perfect for someone who has a business meeting in the morning and a warm midday date. Ideally, straight to wavy hair and a strong facial structure will highlight this hairstyle. With a glossy pomade or a strong holding gel, this easy-care haircut can take you through a long day, whether at work in the office or on a fun Sunday cooking day.

Line up with designs

How would you describe this look?

This look is extremely short, neat and urban – a number 4 guard on top and a skin fades on the side. My favorite thing about this line-up cut is that it allows me to show my ability to create clean lines and smooth transitions. It just pops and it is something that catches your attention immediately.

Any advice for someone considering it?

This cut is definitely for someone who wants a bold look and likes to visit the hairdresser. This look can take minimal effort because it's short, but it has to be re-cut and fed within a maximum of two weeks. I would suggest this cut to anyone with a round head, strong jawline, or someone who doesn't have too many dips or depressions. Typically, people who work hard and long hours look like this because it takes almost no time to style. Definitely, a get-up and go cut!

Line up with fade

How would you describe this look?

This look is a classic, stylish and modern hairstyle. Fades have been going around for years and they are stylish because they bring out your style and you can never go wrong with a fade. Fades, up to that date, are still very popular and I don't see them go away.

Any advice for someone considering it?

Think about whether you have the right hair and the right length at the top to style it. Use the right products to style your hair. I think you can never go wrong with a fade depending on what face shape you have, and it's overwhelming how a beautiful haircut will change your personality and the way you look and feel about yourself.

Sharp line up

How would you describe this look?

The look is a very popular cut called Gentleman's Cut, which consists of angry skin-tight sides with a beautifully made hairline. Never push back!

Any advice for someone considering it?

I would definitely recommend leaving some length on top as you want it long enough to style. I also recommend pomades and buying a nice brush and hair dryer for a nice look.

Afro line up for black boys

The classic hairstyle for a young man with an Afro line-up. The simplest styles are really timeless.

Comb over cut

A modernized version of your comb-over. A classic piece made catchy by the blunt line at the shaved end.

Flat top with skin veneer

Too cool for school with a fresh look of perfectly shaped lined up hedge and a cute skin fade.

For naturally curly hair

Seriously, we don't ask for much. A flawless fade, clean edges, plus the curls, and we're good.

With a fantastic hard part

Aside from the face design, line up hairstyles can be mixed with different styles to create balance. The hard part in this takes the limelight to the pomp above, which softens the whole look.

The buzz cut with medium veneer

Place the foundation with kinked hair on top and then shave it until the sides are clean. Add some designs for your line up hairstyle for this ultimate drip.

Ultra clean up

When you got that striped cut, nobody has … and I say nobody … anything against you.

Lined up undercut

The sides of this line-up undercut would provide great growth.

Line-up taper fade

Keep the angle looking sharp while you have the smooth drip on the sides. Can't get any better than this line up hairstyle!

A fresh line-up

Almost like a Caesar cut with a line up, this fine man is blessed to rock blunt edges. Not everyone can do that, but those who really stand out!

Double line-up

The fade goes with everything here. Are you watching the double haircut that goes through the eyebrows?

[easynaturalhairstyle]

The line-up haircut: 16 great examples

Wondering what a line up haircut is? It is a type of haircut in which the hairline is cut in a straight line. An electric razor or clipper creates straight lines and sharp angles around the forehead, temples, sideburns and neckline. This makes all the edges around your hair "line up" and creates a clean look compared to keeping your natural hairline.

Sometimes known as the shape up or edge up, this type of cut gains fame for its super clean surface and its warped edges especially when combined with a skin fade and sharp angles at the temples.

Including the line up to your favorite hairstyle can result in the whole look coming out. In addition, the additional contrast and the definition of the natural shape of the face can be added and shows these masculine features.

The line-up is one of those versatile styles that work on every haircut, especially with shorter lengths. "[Kürzere] Hair would be better or ideal to line up, ”says elite hairdresser and Visionz Barbershop owner Jose Tapia,“ but line-ups don't discriminate hair length. ”Whether it's a man bun or a buzz cut, it's guaranteed that You get a clean edge and a defined look at the end.

"Short hair line-ups are very low to no maintenance," he adds. Keep it fresh by giving your hairdresser a monthly visit, but make sure your hairdresser "doesn't go too far in the line and keep it as natural as possible". You don't want a hairline that's too high.

Here are some of the most popular line up haircuts for your inspiration:

Line up with long hair

How would you describe this look?

The line-up style I've done is based on the type of face and the size of the head. The style is a pompadour and I chose it for the volume of the hair.

Any advice for someone considering it?

Since he is a customer with a lot of hair volume with a thin face and a short forehead, I decided to do a high breakdown with a very clean shade. First I cut the hair at 90 degrees with angles of 45 degrees, then I made texture cuts near the neck and already cut half of the hair to remove weight. Then I have the fade with a line on my forehead.

After finishing the cut, I washed the hair, then dried and polished until the hair was shiny. Finally, use a Pacinos brand matte wax and a strong, quick-drying spray. I chose the style because the customer knows how to handle his own hair.

With a beard fading

How would you describe this look?

In this line-up haircut, Chris asked for a sleek traditional side part with a modern mid-drop fade blended into his beard and medium to long length at the top. What I enjoy most about this style is the contrast from a dark top to a bare finish, which is emphasized by the bow around its temporal.

Any advice for someone considering it?

This haircut is perfect for someone who has a business meeting in the morning and a warm midday date. Ideally, straight to wavy hair and a strong facial structure will highlight this hairstyle. With a glossy pomade or a strong holding gel, this easy-care haircut can take you through a long day, whether at work in the office or on a fun Sunday cooking day.

Line up with designs

How would you describe this look?

This look is extremely short, neat and urban – a number 4 guard on top and a skin fades on the side. My favorite thing about this line-up cut is that it allows me to show my ability to create clean lines and smooth transitions. It just pops and it is something that catches your attention immediately.

Any advice for someone considering it?

This cut is definitely for someone who wants a bold look and likes to visit the hairdresser. This look can take minimal effort because it's short, but it has to be re-cut and fed within a maximum of two weeks. I would suggest this cut to anyone with a round head, strong jawline, or someone who doesn't have too many dips or depressions. Typically, people who work hard and long hours look like this because it takes almost no time to style. Definitely, a get-up and go cut!

Line up with fade

How would you describe this look?

This look is a classic, stylish and modern hairstyle. Fades have been going around for years and they are stylish because they bring out your style and you can never go wrong with a fade. Fades, up to that date, are still very popular and I don't see them go away.

Any advice for someone considering it?

Think about whether you have the right hair and the right length at the top to style it. Use the right products to style your hair. I think you can never go wrong with a fade depending on what face shape you have, and it's overwhelming how a beautiful haircut will change your personality and the way you look and feel about yourself.

Sharp line up

How would you describe this look?

The look is a very popular cut called Gentleman's Cut, which consists of angry skin-tight sides with a beautifully made hairline. Never push back!

Any advice for someone considering it?

I would definitely recommend leaving some length on top as you want it long enough to style. I also recommend pomades and buying a nice brush and hair dryer for a nice look.

Afro line up for black boys

The classic hairstyle for a young man with an Afro line-up. The simplest styles are really timeless.

Comb over cut

A modernized version of your comb-over. A classic piece made catchy by the blunt line at the shaved end.

Flat top with skin veneer

Too cool for school with a fresh look of perfectly shaped lined up hedge and a cute skin fade.

For naturally curly hair

Seriously, we don't ask for much. A flawless fade, clean edges, plus the curls, and we're good.

With a fantastic hard part

Aside from the face design, line up hairstyles can be mixed with different styles to create balance. The hard part in this takes the limelight to the pomp above, which softens the whole look.

The buzz cut with medium veneer

Place the foundation with kinked hair on top and then shave it until the sides are clean. Add some designs for your line up hairstyle for this ultimate drip.

Ultra clean up

When you got that striped cut, nobody has … and I say nobody … anything against you.

Lined up undercut

The sides of this line-up undercut would provide great growth.

Line-up taper fade

Keep the angle looking sharp while you have the smooth drip on the sides. Can't get any better than this line up hairstyle!

A fresh line-up

Almost like a Caesar cut with a line up, this fine man is blessed to rock blunt edges. Not everyone can do that, but those who really stand out!

Double line-up

The fade goes with everything here. Are you watching the double haircut that goes through the eyebrows?

The line-up haircut: 16 great examples