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mareastrorum · 1 year ago

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The Fool and the Soldier: Chapter Commentary

Chapter 6: Tavern & Lust

On off weeks, I’ll be posting some commentary on the prior week’s chapter. Since this is a longfic, I expect that it will be helpful for keeping track of stuff, plus I might mention something you missed. Of course, this will include spoilers, so continue with that in mind.

These aren’t meant to be comprehensive! There is so much more going on that I’m not saying. Feel free to ask questions too, either in replies or asks. If it’s too spoilery, I’ll let you know. I’ll add them to the body at the bottom as I receive them.

See the directory for other meta posts.

Tavern & Lust

The literal meaning of the card is not quite the theme of this chapter. In the deck, Tavern refers to respect, a meeting, and negotiation. Lust refers to desire and indulgence. We saw each of those in non-sexual contexts, so sorry to any readers that were expecting some smut. It’s too early for that, and honestly, while I am considering whether to up the rating for potential scenes later in the story, I wouldn’t have chosen this chapter title for those developments anyway. No promises on whether that will actually happen—and even if it does, the category is going to stay “Gen.” Romance is not the primary focus of this fic.

Beach

I wanted this to be a fun contrast with the wind down on The Mist at the end. Shenanigans and relaxation without any lasting consequences.

I chose Fjord’s POV for this because, unlike the others, the sea is what he would consider a homecoming. Everyone else is seeing something new, and even Jester probably hadn’t been to a beach very often. The rest would have probably fixated on their own experiences without paying as much attention to anyone else. I think Molly would have enjoyed the beach and wandered around to different things, but his perspective on the actual environment wouldn’t have been as cohesive in the story. In the stream, Fjord had interacted with several of the Nein, so I got the impression his focus was on his companions—which is perfect for an introductory scene. Plus this is the prelude to his initial arc, and this was a good spot for some introspection.

The actual events didn’t deviate much from canon. The peacock messed with Nott hunting seagulls, and Molly was around for tomfoolery. I also added a bit about the tide pools and Fjord looking for interesting things to share.

However, when I first posted the WIP, I fucked up: I forgot Fjord didn’t have Summer’s Dance to teleport to ambush Caleb. I changed it to Blink for the final version. And that mistake was with notes reminding me about that, so I added even more annoying notes to myself so I don’t miss it later.

Luck

The original draft of this scene basically spilled onto the page as a stream of consciousness thing. I didn’t have an outline or plans to include anything specific. I just wanted a scene between the Tombtakers now that they were all in Zadash. This was initially going to be the same day they left, but as I planned out the order of the scenes for this chapter, I wanted to spread out the Tombtakers scenes, so I moved it earlier. I also moved Tyffial’s introductory scene earlier by 1 day and split them across 2 chapters.

The very first version didn’t have the intro discussing Zoran’s new mace or the dragonborn from the Claret Orders and skipped right to the Tombtakers in their room. Those two parts got added in another revision, also without any plan, and just fell onto the page as I went. The Orders member was going to be an aasimar, but I didn’t have plans for any dragonborn NPCs yet, so I switched it. As I drafted that part, I figured this would be a good way to remind the reader of the developments with the bounty and make sure the Tombtakers were all aware of it. Plus it includes an overt use of Otis’s Detect Thoughts spell in case the readers weren’t quite aware of the fact that they had used it on Beau in chapter 1.

I also wanted to introduce how Zoran’s weapon is surprisingly different. The mace in the stream was somewhat shaped like a grater, and as I thought it over, that wouldn’t be effective against armor as much as spikes would be. Thus, the reason was probably to do superficial wounds on himself to trigger a rite, not to consistently increase damage against opponents. Honestly, there’s other ways to do it, but shaving away a layer of your own skin is pretty damn intimidating.

Taliesin had his own reasons for choosing Molly’s name, but I realized there would probably be an in-universe meaning to it as well. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner is a famous poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge about a captain that kills an albatross (related to mollymawks), thereby inflicting his voyage with all sorts of trials. Cockney (which is close to the accent Matt used in stream for Zoran) rhyming slang also has a meaning for Tealeaf that was too apt to pass up.

Altogether, that combined into a pretty dense scene that gave a lot of insight into the Tombtakers’ relationships to each other (particularly Otis), the Orders, and the Empire. They lived, worked, and traveled together for years after leaving the Orders, so their connections are far more established than the Nein and don’t require nearly as much dialogue to communicate. They’re intimately familiar with each other’s toolkits, strengths, and weaknesses.

Zoran and Otis have a lot of unspoken trust and watch each others’ back unprompted, relying on the other to help sort things out. They went through town together and then had drinks, all without chatting much. Otis used Detect Thoughts to check whether Zoran had anything to worry about from the dragonborn, and Zoran elicited information so Otis could use the spell effectively. Otis also pointed out that Zoran’s weapon could make him a target (Otis is int-based while Zoran is wis-based, hence investigation versus insight specialties). Neither did anything more than give the other a heads up, and they didn’t harp on any decisions made.

Zoran’s also the complainer, which I took from his griping outside the dome when the Tombtakers caught up to the Nein in episodes 120 and 121. Lucien told him to be patient and eat his jerky, which he did. So Zoran makes his disapproval known when he dislikes anything, but he’ll put up with whatever the others decide. So he shoots distrusting looks when Tyffial offers drinks and grumbles when they discuss the curse of undeath, but he still takes the alcohol offered and doesn’t argue with Cree.

Tyffial had very few lines in canon and mostly just followed Lucien’s lead in a fight, so there was little to go off of for personality other than how dismissive she was of the Nein. To round out my version of the Tombtakers, Tyffial takes action and will push back when she disagrees with something. This causes some tension with each of them, so Zoran gets agitated, Otis brushes it off, and Cree doubles down on being stubborn. However, she and Zoran still shared a laugh over Molly’s name when they both had sufficient understanding to catch it—Zoran is from the Menagerie Coast and Tyffial once traveled through there, so they’ve both heard of the story and the slang.

Tyffial and Otis didn’t interact as much. Otis didn’t have any substantive criticism of the way she did things other than it meaning another day in Zadash. Tyffial gets things done and says what she thinks, and Otis likes that. While she finds the halfling unsettling at times, she isn’t dismissive of their “creepy bullshit” either. She still recognizes it’s effective enough to be listed as a way of getting rid of Molly. So the two have their own brand of mutual respect even when they make no sense to the other.

We’ve seen Cree and Otis interact several times by now, so the halfling’s knack for getting on her nerves isn’t surprising. Otis still listens to her when she’s “the boss” even when they disagree and sass her about it.

None of the Tombtakers has a high opinion of the Claret Orders, which I took from canon. Cree had described the Orders as “a bit clouded” to the Nein in episode 14, and since she was the cleric of the Raven Queen, that’s probably the most generous any of them would have said. In episode 121, Lucien said, “Some of us just found like-minded interest in taking the things we learned and eventually sticking out on our own because we’ve all got an inherent dislike of authority.” So there was something common among them about not liking how the Orders was run, which I expect would manifest as varying levels of distrust. So they don’t heed the warning too strongly, but recognize that the bounty could pose a problem.

Similarly, the Tombtakers don’t have a high opinion of the Empire, also taking from the “inherent dislike of authority” that Lucien mentioned in canon. Otis’s initial thoughts were about fucking with the local political scene, but they didn’t know enough to make it work without causing problems for Cree. Tyffial has a connection at the Cobalt Soul, which Otis believes is just as corrupt as the other institutions. Both Zoran and Cree work for the Myriad, but other than keeping their respective bosses off their backs, they don’t have any real loyalty to the organization. Neither shows any hesitation for picking up and leaving beyond avoiding troublesome consequences. They’re there for the perks and nothing else.

In short, the Tombtakers like each other better than everything else they’ve encountered, even if they aren’t particularly affectionate or kind. No hugs and trying to comfort each other’s trauma; they’re comfortable with their own identities and compensate for each other’s shortcomings rather than try to fix something. Or poke at each other just for funsies, knowing that putting up with whatever they dislike is worth it anyway.

Nicodranas

Molly would have adored Nicodranas, but he’s also somewhat classist. In episode 6 of Talks Machina, Taliesin said:

[Molly] hasn’t decided if [Beau] comes from too much money to be a civilized human being. If he decides she comes from too much money, he’s going to be really irritated at her. … Molly’s a little classist too. He thinks people with too much money aren’t doing anything of value just holding onto it.

Because of that, I put a lot of thought into how Molly would react to the lifestyle at the Lavish Chateau. Like, he’d have been fully aware how spoiled rich Jester was before episode 26, but he never treated her as though she was a lesser person or that something was wrong with her for it. So I imagine there must have been some separation going on there. He’d have had some preconceptions about rich neighborhoods generally, as well as businesses in them, like the Chateau. But Jester is “one of the good ones” compared to all the rest. She’s an exception. His judgment on Marion is reserved until they actually meet.

However, before they even get to that point, Molly wouldn’t have had any reason to have met parents of someone he knew before. That would have been more groundbreaking than a few rich people not being terrible. So his initial thoughts on “oh, this place is full of people who are too rich to be good people” gets sidetracked by some heavy existentialism springing to mind. Of course, Molly nopes out and focuses on something he can enjoy because that’s just not his thing.

Parents

Fun fact: I had originally planned to have this scene from Nott’s POV and the docks from Beau’s POV. But I just couldn’t get anything down for either of them. I swapped them as an exercise to see if that’d work, and it did, so I stuck with those drafts. Beau’s POV works a lot better for this scene anyway. She’s got hangups on her parents that we haven’t yet explored, and Nott’s arc is still on the “I’m bad because I’m a goblin” phase, not the “I’m an okay person, but a terrible mom for not going home” phase.

So Beau figures out that the Gentleman is Jester’s dad first, and also realizes he’s a deadbeat first. Sad times. However, I didn’t want to dive too deeply into Beau’s issues because the resolution with her parents is a long way off. It would get old after a while if I frontloaded a lot of it, so it’s a soft introduction.

We also got to see how much Beau empathizes with Jester specifically, which matches up with the fact that Beau had a pretty strong crush on her at this point in the campaign. That said, while Beau recognizes what Jester’s probably going through, she’s not yet cognizant enough to know how to comfort anyone going through that. She’s socially awkward and hasn’t even come to terms with her own trauma.

Leaps

Molly’s gotta do something stupid in every town he visits, and I felt jumping across third story balconies was probably good. I did roll for that, he got a 19. (Every time there’s some flavor where it’d be funny if he failed, I roll for it.)

Molly was again thoroughly distracted from how rich Marion and Jester are by how distraught they were that the Gentleman blew Jester off. Even so, Molly doesn’t have a story about how to cope with shitty parents that let you down, else he would have had something to rely on for coping about Gustav. So he distracts her with cards, because as far as he’s concerned, Jester just needs time and she’ll get over it, like he did. Yep, there’s no lingering wounds nor complexes about losing faith in a role model at all. Totally fine.

Pfft.

Fjord also makes a realization that he was concerned about Molly and Jester spending time alone in her room. At this point in his arc, Fjord had not yet developed any deep romantic feelings for Jester. He’s got too much on his plate to recognize it until Molly does something suggestive.

And there’s some new cards! There’s no foreshadowing there. Don’t worry about it.

Dream: Games

The rhyme at the beginning of the dream is from the poem “Hymn (for Boys’ Voices)” by C.S. Lewis. He was born in Ireland and moved to England, and while he is often referred to as British, he considered himself Irish. He was a fan of W.B. Yeats (an Irish poet who was a nationalist and eventually became a fascist); raised Catholic, became a teenage athiest, then became an Anglican; badly wounded while he served in the British Army in World War I; rejected from service for World War II and evacuated children from London; and a prolific writer in both prose and poetry. His intersectional identity reflected heavily in his works, and he had an ego that I felt suited several of these dreams. His poetry’s going to pop up in a few others.

I almost included the next stanza, but decided to drop it since I didn’t want to modify this poem to make it match (lowercase god or plural gods), and it felt a little too early to start referencing deification in TF&TS:

Every man a God would be Laughing through eternity If as God's his eyes could see.

See what I mean about Lewis having an ego? He had a ton of poetry like that.

It’s hard to find reliable information about cultural traditions for what to do with baby teeth, but what I mostly found for Ireland was burying the baby teeth to avoid getting swapped with changelings. However, as I thought that over for Shadycreek Run, I felt a superstition relating to the river was more likely, and there were other traditions that throwing teeth in nearby rivers was good luck. So I split the IRL myth in two: the Nightback Clan buries teeth so that they grow strong (matching well with tabaxi that worship Melora), and Shadycreek Run denizens throw them in the river to avoid attracting changelings.

The rest of this dream went though numerous iterations. I brainstormed several games the kids could play that would reflect the skills and athleticism necessary to survive on the streets in Shadycreek Run next to the Savalirwood. There are a lot of dangers that require them to be quick, violent, and paranoid.

When I was growing up in unfavorable circumstances, there were a few teenagers and adults that took it upon themselves to teach younger kids how to fight. Most of the time, it was so they could sic the kids on someone in particular, so they only taught enough to cause someone very specific problems. Other times, they expected pay of some kind. Of course, kids then need to get money somehow, or booze, or certain valuable items that may or may not have been “found” in nearby residences and businesses. Alternatively, they did some small jobs like stand lookout, swipe something from somewhere nearby, or leave some particularly flammable or noxious substances somewhere no one is going to look.

Don’t worry about it.

(Relatedly, the plot hook that Auntie Mama—a known retired Mardoon gangster—continued to openly live in the Run and even welcomed one of the street kids to hang out on her porch without demanding any pay or loyalty is probably the second dumbest thing that I read in TNEOL, and I am fully willing to call that out without apology. That was genuinely stupid. As a friend phrased it, “that’s how you get car bombed.” Does anyone actually believe that a city run by four rival crime families and no government would have a culture of letting people retire from that life with dignity and safety? Ridiculous.)

Anyway, I wanted to explore exactly how Lucien would have first learned how to fight properly. He could have joined a gang, but since he’s a tiefling, I doubt that he would have been welcomed openly. Most likely, if he was ever offered an opportunity, he’d have had to prove himself before joining, so he’d likely need to know how to fight before that in order to have a real chance as succeeding, regardless of the type of initiation demanded. Thus, I went the paid lessons route.

The hobgoblin teacher was a Tasker (identifiable by the single blue pauldron), one of the Grudge Gang, which was “neutral” in the sense that they just generally enforced the peace in town without any intention of eliminating the tribes. They got hired on as extra muscle by whomever has the coin. Why train the kids? Because kids that know how to fight are less destructive than those that don’t. A kid that wants to hurt one person is less of a problem with a knife they know how to use than a kid who doesn’t know how to fight and feels like lighting some fires about it.

Again. Don’t worry about it.

The hobgoblin’s lessons are legitimate advice for anyone learning the basics. Obviously, there’s a ton more to being able to fight competently and assessing opponents, but for an introductory lesson, stances and how to move are pretty solid. They’re also much more important than knowing how to throw a good punch or any other sort of attack. Screwing up a punch is how you break a finger. Screwing up a dodge or not knowing when/how to escape is how you get stabbed.

Don’t worry about that either.

Of course, they’re still kids, so there had to be times and places that they would find a way to play. Early in the morning in open spaces with the Greytraders patrolling would be one of them, hence jump rope in Clover Plaza. We also get another instance of rhythms and rhymes having some importance to Lucien, this time in a game that favors dexterity. Given that we (the audience) know that he had to survive Shadycreek Run until he joined the Claret Orders, I figured it would have been at least partially attributable to the stats he’d rely on later as a blood hunter, so speed and agility would have been his strengths.

The first two rhymes are common jump rope rhymes. The second is for double dutch (jumping with two ropes swinging in opposite directions). I used to play with super thin ropes from the chop shop across the street (don’t worry about it), and the third was one of the rhymes I remembered from that time. Each of the later lines is supposed to be accompanied by a special move, such as hopping wide (front or sideways), touching the ground, spinning, turning, jumping out backwards and back in, etc. However, the rhyme originally went “twenty-four robbers” and “Spanish lady” (the second varies regionally), but I modified those lines to match the story here. Some of those lines seem awfully apt for stuff that happened to Lucien later on, don’t they? Hmmm…

Another game was tag, so we see Lucien and a half-elf playing deeper in the forest, away from the streets. However, even if they knew of relatively safe areas in the Savalirwood, there’s many dangers. Slavers were a big thing, and even though they were covered in the prior dream, I felt it was important to bring them up multiple times. That would have been a huge threat to any children living in Shadycreek, and I wanted to demonstrate that they weren’t just present as thugs snatching kids up. Thus, the two boys wander a little too far and stumble onto the road to one of the workshops referenced in episodes 53 and 54 of campaign 3. Depending on the race, gender, and appearance, kids would be pretty valuable in certain slave markets, but as in any venture, some merchandise just won’t sell. No worries, the Jagentoths have sweatshops. They run a business, they wouldn’t like to waste effort.

Hey. Don’t.

Last was hide and seek. We saw Lucien already knew how to hide from slavers in the tag scene (gray cloak and in the bushes), and also from shorter kids by climbing out of reach.

Of course, all these games have a key commonality: they’re good skills to have for escaping from predators. So along come some fey—yet another threat to street kids in Exandria—that chase them all the way back to the Run to show that off. The Explorer’s Guide to Wildemount featured a hook in the Savalirwood that a hag coven (including Nanny Filthtouch) in Molaesmyr kidnapped a Mardoon kid from Shadycreek Run, so I figured the hags were probably collecting other kids from there, too. Thus, teams of child-hunting fey. Redcaps are pretty fucked up, and Quicklings are just as nefarious. (Note: Quicklings are usually 2 feet tall, but I made them a little smaller because that is creepier, IMO.) Neither has an innate charm or stun ability, but I figured the hags probably armed them with some items to handle that; after all, if the hags wanted live kids instead of pieces, they’d need to equip their minions with some way of fetching at least some of them. Thus, items to stun and chains to drag them back.

The song the Quicklings sang is The Fairy Nurse, an Irish lullaby about a baby stolen by faeries. It’s sung by a faerie to comfort a crying baby that they “love thee dearly, And as thy mortal mother nearly”—so, almost as much as their mother did. The lyrics are pretty fucked up, just like in a lot of other lullabies about faeries. I felt that D&D fey would probably sing this song in mockery of the kids they were hunting, because, hey, they work for hags. None of this is nice.

There’s some Irish folklore that fae cannot cross running water, but it’s not very consistent, and I couldn’t find a source that the aos sí/aes sídhe specifically couldn’t do it. The sources I found that mentioned it were in English with anglicized spellings. Thus, I suspect that could be more recent compilations mixing it up with folklore from other cultures. However, it is a common myth about fae in general, and considering the prominence of the river to Shadycreek Run, I thought it would be a nice touch that weaker D&D fey (Quicklings are CR1) wouldn’t cross the water, but the Redcap (CR3) would.

The last bit of the scene is Greytraders running in to defend the town from the Redcap. They’re yet another neutral faction, but they’re reformed criminals/outcasts and want to solve the issue of violence in the Run. That’s about as close to “good guys” as anyone gets in Shadycreek. Unfortunately, they’ve got a lot to fight off, including murderous fey, and it doesn’t necessarily go well.

As @captainsparklefingers guessed, these dreams are in chronological order. Events in earlier dreams come into play in the later dreams. Just something to keep in mind.

And the kids all made it for once! Yay! This one time, everyone lives!

Don’t worry about it.

Flowers

In the stream, Nott and Jester had accompanied Caduceus and Caleb to the lighthouse, but I figured Molly would be persuasive (read: insistent) enough to lure them into going shopping with him. Nott gets the itch, after all, and Jester would love to show off her city.

Then I skipped both the other scenes because there really wasn’t much progress to them. The cast rolled badly for the most part. :(

However, that gave the chance for Yasha to come back with a bit more substance than just appearing in the same bar. Ashley’s absences made it difficult to explore Yasha’s arc early on in the campaign. I wanted to dip into why she collects flowers, and even if the Nein aren’t aware of it, they’re helping her to come to terms with Zuala’s death, step by step.

The flower Yasha had collected near Bladegarden was the Blue Perennem that Matt introduced in episode 66 of campaign 3. It seemed like a prime location for it to grow, and the flower likely has other uses as an antitoxin than one specific assassin poison. It’s got a distinctive look, so it wasn’t unreasonable for a shopkeeper in a busy trade hub who also frequently trades with adventurers to recognize it.

There’s a reason I’m introducing more gold and items to the Nein: they have one more member to outfit and pay for. Normally, a DM would just increase the enemies and loot to account for more PCs, but the enemies and loot drops are preset through canon. Rather than discard canon out of convenience, I included some creative explanations for how the Nein could afford stuff now that Molly’s here. I figured some gold, two flavor items (pouch and staff), and two practical items (sending stones and hat) would be a good balance heading into the next arc.

This scene was also to ensure that the readers understand that Jester is on good terms with Molly and Nott, even if they poke fun that they’re going to eat the new animal companions. It’s just a bit to Molly, and while Nott was actually tempted to eat Sprinkle, she wouldn’t do that to Jester. Jester also isn’t the type to hold a grudge, so no hurt feelings.

The Sluice Gate

I almost skipped this scene for a flashback, but Caduceus did not have a good day in canon, and I felt that was important to include since it was the first turning point in his arc. Until then, everyone else assumed he had his shit together. Thus, seeing him stumble psychologically and start doubting the Nein was too significant to summarize.

That said, doing the whole fight from start to finish, plus the smaller fight leading up to it, was just going to be excessive. It wasn’t relevant otherwise and the dock fight was more entertaining. Thus, we jumped into the middle, right Caduceus was beginning to unravel. Much more exciting and tense.

However, Caduceus’s key flaw is that he is not all that self-aware. He focuses on others to his own detriment, not too unlike Molly. He sees himself as the support. Thus, his mind focuses on Jester and her pets instead of himself. It brings a horrible awareness that he and Jester could both die and no one else can heal them. Not good.

I also thought that the reaction to Fjord’s Accursed Specter would be different now that the Nein have faced Lucien as an undead. Caduceus had already suspected that maybe Lucien wasn’t gone for good, and Molly keeps having dreams that are totally about him and not some other tiefling but maybe he’s haunted andwhoknowsbuthe’snotpanicking, so the two of them are on edge seeing Fjord control an undead spirit.

Combined with the rather unhelpful stop at the Mother’s Lighthouse, that chips away at Caduceus’s confidence that he’s following the right path. He hasn’t found any clues to how to fix the Blooming Grove, there’s been no sign of his family, and the Nein not knowing what they’re doing is actually kind of a problem.

But, hey, maybe tonight will go better. (It doesn’t.)

Night of Ascension

There is a lot in this scene I’m not going to talk about because it will be a big part of the plot and/or themes. So here’s your heads up that this scene is Important.

I first drafted this part without knowing which chapter it would go in. It was before I had ironed out the outline to know exactly where the first confrontation would fit (though I knew it would be in Zadash). However, once I reviewed the calendar to check when the Nein would be doing XYZ, I realized that they missed out on any festivities surrounding the Night of Ascension because of their shenanigans around Nicodranas. Then the idea occurred to me that it would be wonderfully delicious irony to summon Lucien as an undead on the Night of Ascension, which led to this scene.

I chose Cree’s POV specifically because I wanted to include some introspection about her changing faith and comparing that to how the Dwendalian Empire makes use of religious holidays. The contrast between the Empire’s traditions and those in the Run and Nicodranas also matches the theme of the chapter title card regarding transactional business versus merrymaking and indulgence.

I also wanted to explore how she differs from Lucien on issues of faith and fate. A lot of this came from brainstorming about what sort of beliefs they likely held before Lucien found the Somnovem’s book. That’s going to come out more over time, especially in the dreams, so stay tuned for that.

Lastly, we got more interactions between the Tombtakers. They’re rough with each other and are happy to give each other shit when there’s nothing else going on, but they’re still a cohesive unit even after so long. As soon as Zoran was freaked out, Tyffial was ready to fight too, even if Cree seemed unconcerned. (Otis didn’t help by being creepy about it.) That said, Tyffial still stood down once she was sure it was actually Lucien.

There was also some word play in Irish in this scene. When Tyffial asked if the ghost was Lucien, he replied, “Tá mé,” and I included the following explanation:

Literally means ‘it is me’ but is grammatically incorrect. Irish has two verbs that mean ‘to be,’ and in this specific sentence, it would be either ‘tá’ or ‘is’ (pronounced ‘eess’ with soft ‘s’ sound, not ‘ihz’ like English’s ‘is’). ‘Tá’ is the present tense of ‘to be’ meaning ‘he/she/it is,’ but the verb refers to what something is like, descriptors, and temporary states (e.g., ‘I am tired.’). ‘Is’ is a copula, which is a grammatical function that links a subject to another noun or an adjective, so that is used to identify or classify the subject (e.g., ‘I am a tiefling.’). Lucien used ‘tá’ intentionally because he’s emphasizing that this is not what he actually is and that this is temporary. Instead of confirming his identity as Lucien (which is what Tyffial literally asked), he’s saying ‘This is what I am, for now’ (in response to the implication that Tyffial doesn’t quite believe that Lucien is undead and possessing Zoran).

I think I spent about 2-3 hours researching on numerous websites to make sure I was actually getting the different versions of “to be” correct. (The hard part about this stuff is finding reliable sources.) A similar remark could be made in Spanish, which also has two forms of that verb, and that was how it occurred to me in the first place.

Note: He made this comment to Tyffial, who would only understand the meaning if she spoke the language. Curious…

Pets

I wanted to include a check in with Jester after the heavy stuff hit because her father’s identity and developments with Algar all came about without much commentary from her in the stream. Jester doesn’t like to focus on negative emotions, so we see her taking after Marion and Molly by pretending everything is okay.

Thus, there’s definitely no reason that Xundi’s decision to immediately return to his partner was so memorable. And there’s no special significance to the act of leaving Nugget and the peacock behind with Marion while Jester goes off to do something dangerous. No parallels of any sort.

Pfffft.

The Docks

This scene was initially about half the length, but @fruitzbat (author of an amazing Kingsley epic and my beta reader) pointed out that it would have a better impact and lead into the next scene more fluidly if it wasn’t as clipped. Thus, I added most of the beginning of the scene the day before posting.

As I mentioned above, this was initially going to be Beau’s scene, but Nott’s POV was just too funny to pass up. She was separated from the Nein and spent most of the fight hiding, so her perspective was hilariously out of the loop. In canon, the players rolled terribly on every attempt to avoid detection and de-escalate, and I wanted to keep that train wreck.

Beau had originally tried to use Caleb as her partner for the distraction, but since Molly was here, he was the perfect guy to drag into it given that he loves distractions. He was surprised that Beau of all people was the one that leapt into it, but this was also after her Tracy persona that afternoon (which I skipped since it wasn’t that substantive). The first line was canon, and coming up with the rest of their soap opera bullshit was fun.

Aftermath

Caleb was in the background for most of the Nein’s trip through Nicodranas. I got the impression that this was about the time he came to terms with Molly’s death, that he was truly attached to the Nein, and took the “better than you found it” advice to heart. I don’t think Molly’s survival would have kneecapped that development.

Caleb’s perspective was also that the Nein didn’t do anything wrong in canon. Thus, he glosses over the developments and isn’t as troubled as the rest. This helps us skip a lot of the boring stuff and speed toward the next arc.

Finally, Caleb also unveils a hat of disguise for Nott. I wanted to mess with her arc so she wouldn’t be in the background the whole time (Sam was so good at hiding it in plain sight). There are plans in motion.

Don’t worry about it.

#TF&TS #TF&TS meta #chapter commentary

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fragmentsofsorrow · 1 year ago

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2, 4, and 9 for the fanfic asks?

2. What fanfic do you wish you got more response on?

I'm gonna have to go with (Nothing Is) Whole; not that it's been ignored or anything—it's honestly been pretty well received—but I have to pick something. I've put a lot of work into both this fic and the much larger AU it belongs to over the last four years and it's definitely the favorite child, so I'm always going to want to share it with more people

and yeah, when all there is so far is a single introductory chapter posted just shy of a year and a half ago, it's understandably not gaining much new attention, but also consider: I love that AU so much

4. Do you prefer writing multi-chapter or oneshot fanfictions?

in general, I prefer writing multichapters. I like to write scenes and even lines out of order for my multichapters, and I really enjoy the whole planning process for my larger AUs

but it also depends on what works best for any particular story. if I have a fic idea and it works best as a oneshot, trying to write it as a multichapter regardless is not going to go well for me

9. What’s your favorite line(s) or scene(s) that you have written?

okay, look. I'll be honest, the entire 2000 word Memory's Skyscraper scene in the first chapter of Not Your Sacrifice is my favorite thing I've written. there's a lot of different things I love about it and I'm not about to quote the whole scene to talk about all of them

but that's a short and boring answer, so I'll talk about one of them!

there are two parts of that scene that involve Xion summoning a keyblade; one with Oblivion, and then another one later on with Oathkeeper. taken individually each one is some of the best writing I've ever done, and I'm really proud of having written them

but they're also intentionally very structurally similar to each other and are meant to mirror each other in a few ways. I'm really happy with how well it turned out

I'll throw the two excerpts under the cut because they about double the length of this answer and it's long enough already (plus, y'know, the fic link is right there anyway)

the Oblivion part:

There was a flash as Xion summoned their keyblade, and moments later one of the heartless exploded into darkness as the black blade cut an arc through them. Oh. That was new. Xion looked down at their keyblade, taking in its unfamiliar new form. Instead of the silver coloring they were used to, this one was mostly black, though some silver remained in the handle and at the tip of the keyblade. Two bat wings served as the guard, with a purple gem inlaid where they met at the base of the blade. A chain ran the full length of the blade, which ended with ornate teeth more detailed than the ones on their Kingdom Key. Somehow, they knew this keyblade was called Oblivion. A fitting name for a keyblade wielded by someone who wasn’t supposed to still exist.

the Oathkeeper part:

A flash of light accompanied Xion's last few words as they readied Oblivion, and when it faded, Xion held another keyblade in their hand. In their left hand. It wasn’t Xion’s keyblade. That was still in their right hand and once again pointed at Riku. In several ways it was the complement of Xion’s keyblade. While Oblivion had a pair of bat wings, the wings that made up this keyblade’s handguard were feathered. While Oblivion was primarily black, this one was mostly colored a silvery white. And while Oblivion had a single blade, the blade of this new keyblade was split into two. The name Oathkeeper came to their mind, but Xion barely registered it over the realization that this was Roxas’s keyblade. It was all they had left of him; a reflection of who he was, one last echo of his— They let out a pained scream, both keyblades falling to the ground and dematerializing, as the realization from earlier that day finally caught up with them. Roxas had a heart.

#q&a #stresslitzia

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lonewolflink · 8 months ago

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How do you decide when to end a chapter? Do you aim for an approx word count or is the division of chapters solely based on content? Really enjoying hockey AU!

hi anon! glad you're enjoying hockey au :)

i'd say it's sort of both approx word count and content? sort of a vibes based approach that incorporates both? it's mostly content/serving the story properly, but the content so far has tracked a pretty consistent pattern.

like most of my chapters have been around 5k words plus or minus 1k. i haven't been AIMING for 5k, but the content of the story has tended to divide pretty nicely into 5k chunks like that. i anticipate most chapters will be around that length, just because that seems to be where i like to end a chapter instinctively.

however!!! i already know that there will be some bigger chapters (i have them labeled "monster chapter" in my organization document). those are gonna be significantly longer, and i want them together in one chapter because it i don't want to disrupt the flow of the action by breaking it up into two chunks. i think it would do a disservice to the story. so in those cases, content very clearly trumps any consideration of length, and i even know that in advance.

i can say more about my thought process specifically for this last chapter, but i'll put that under the cut.

in the case of ch. 4 (just posted) and ch. 5 (upcoming chapter), i basically realized i wanted to add a bunch of scenes before training camp to flesh out the world, keep characterization consistent, and do a better job setting up some of the dynamics in training camp itself.

like it didn't make sense to me that jihyo, who i'm characterizing as a great leader, wouldn't reach out to ryujin even once before training camp even though she put in all this effort to give the freshmen mentors, welcome packets, etc. obviously she's not gonna baby ryujin in that same way, since she's a junior, but there's no way she doesn't put in some effort. so that's why i wrote the first part of ch. 4.

the middle/last part of ch. 4, lia's social guide to jypu hockey, was something i realized i needed to make for a couple of reasons. first, it makes sense for the characters; ryujin has gotten a lay of the land hockey-wise, at least on paper, but she's still kind of a social outsider.

at this point in the story, ryujin is very much in like...a data gathering phase, so that she can figure out what she needs to do to find success at jypu (both on and off the ice). we've seen that she's not too prideful to ask for help/info from chaer, so i think there's no way she wouldn't ask one of her two new friends about the personalities of her teammates at some point before training camp. and she had just started becoming friendly with lia, so i kind of tried to kill two birds with one stone there; get ryujin the information she wanted/needed (esp. re: lily, sana, and dahyun), but also solidify her friendship with lia like i did her friendship with chaer in ch. 3.

plus, the set up of the party scene allowed me to put in some easter eggs, a little bit of foreshadowing (some of which people have caught, some of which people absolutely missed), and even give a taste of lia's dynamic with chaeryeong (feeding my own need for this to be an OT5 fic lol). in general, i want the ensemble cast to be at least somewhat fleshed out before the season starts in earnest with yeji in ch. 6, so ch. 4 and 5 are both doing that in different ways.

initially, the content of ch. 4 was just gonna be kind of the introductory section of ch. 5, but then those scenes hit 5k and i was like "oh this is actually kind of an independent set up chapter, and the fact that i just hit the 5k mark is a clear indicator of that. i want the training camp chapter to really be its own thing, but if i leave these together as a monster chapter it's kinda too long and the flow is weird".

so, i ended up deciding to split them up, which i still think was the right call because ch. 5 as it currently stands is already past 7k and i still have another long-ish (...ryeji!) scene left to write.

anyway that's my long ramble, hope my thought process isn't too hard to follow lol

it makes sense in my head i swear!!

#anon #asks #wsc #wheel snipe celly #hockey au

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kujakumai · 2 years ago

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Just thinking after you mentioned a Yugioh is about Identity meta. Even after it's pretty clear Atem/Yami is NOT actually a split personality of Yugi's, he still calls him 'other me'. Do you think that means YUGi himself has identity issues, perhaps pertaining to lacking confidence compared to Atem?

Okay so the original ygo-identity meta is here and the most straightforward basis of it is that ygo says that stealing or erasing someone else's identity for your own use is bad. This is most obviously displayed by Yami Bakura, the big bad, and his sinister parasitism; but it's also laid out by Yami Marik, whose intent to inhabit Marik's life in his place is a more direct act of violence, and more subtly by Gozaburo's partially-successful attempt to reshape Kaiba in his own image, and a few other smaller places. It is wrong, says ygo, to put yourself in someone else's place, to replace what is "them" with what is "you," to blur those lines.

This is, of course, what Atem spends the entire series doing, and I've written a thousand posts about how he knows what he's doing and feels horrifically guilty about it; this is why the climax of YGO is Atem getting his own name and learning his own history, because it is when the identity theft stops. When Atem says no, I am a different person, I was never you, and from now on I am going to be only myself. This is when he finally triumphs over evil, and the evil he's triumphing over is very specifically his contrast with Yami Bakura, who has not only spent the entire series identity-thefting Bakura but has had his own original identity as Thief King already erased, used, and discarded by Zork.

The question of "How does Yugi fit into all this?" is like. A chewy one.

Yugi's presence marks the biggest difference between Atem and every other parasite in this story. Yugi consents. Yugi says "You want to use my identity? You can have it, then. I will share. I will let you have everything."

I think there's a reading of ygo that goes "Ah! That's the difference, then. Yugi consents, which is what makes everything fine!" which isn't implausible, really, but it's not one I buy. The ultimate message is still that Atem can't triumph over evil until he knows that he is himself, and that Yugi can't become the king of games until he separates Atem from himself. Atem's "borrowing" of Yugi's identity, even if consensual and pleasant, is condemned by the narrative as unsustainable. Per the last two arcs, while their bond is everything and they may save each other, Atem cannot be Yugi because Atem is Atem, and this saves the world; Atem cannot be Yugi because there cannot be two Yugis, because Yugi has to be strong enough to fight for himself.

Then we get to, okay, but why does Yugi consent? And why does the narrative still insist they be separated, if it looks like a positive relationship for both parties?

On a higher narrative level, I think Yugi's cheerful willingness to have someone else stand in his shoes is just another example of the forms possession takes in this universe. The Mariks want to kill each other, YB takes more of a simmering slow-roll that victimizes Bakura more over time, and Atem and Yugi are apparently happy codependent symbiotes. It helps cover our bases and presents an example where identity theft can be done willingly but still be ultimately unhealthy.

On a character level, it brings us back to the themes and character notes introduced in the very earliest chapters of the manga: Yugi Muto has poor self-esteem and poor self-preservation; he is so lonely he thinks his bullies are his friends; he is bottomlessly kind to others and has a deep-set sense of justice; he feels powerless to fight back against those who harm him or his friends; he has trouble handling his negative emotions--rage, grief, loneliness--almost certainly in part exactly because of how powerless he feels to act on them.

Yugi’s defining introductory character moment is, remember, throwing himself in front of Jou and Honda, two people who have been nothing but cruel to him, in order to protect them from someone even crueler and meaner, and getting the shit kicked out of him. It does not shock me that Yugi would offer Atem everything he has. Yugi is kind, even at his own expense. If he thinks that to share his very personhood is what Atem needs, then he will give it.

Letting Atem temporarily Be Him appears to solve a lot of his problems. ��Other Yugi” can act on his rage; he is cool and powerful and liked; he can dole out justice and protect the people he loves. At the end of the day he can go home content that “Yugi” has accomplished everything he wanted to. Letting someone else do all the hard parts of your life, is, obviously, detrimental, but it’s a very passive, comfortable detrimental. It hits hard against your self-actualization and sense of accomplishment in the long-run, but it feels pretty great at the time. It is burying your issues with yourself the same way he buried all the feelings he didn’t want to deal with for so long that Atem ended up setting a bunch of people on fire with them.

So Yugi’s bottomless kindness combines with Atem’s desperate need to cling to a sense of identity. Yugi throws a band-aid on all his issues and eagerly says okay, you need it, you can have mine.

I wouldn’t say Yugi has “identity” issues, not in the same way Atem does. Yugi has, and always has had, ignore-his-problems-and-sweep-everything-under-the-rug issues. Yugi knows who he is. I think on some level he understands that Atem is not and never was him. But acknowledging that Atem is not him is admitting everything that got us here in the first place--that Yugi Muto, the one and only, isn’t cool and isn’t powerful. That none of those accomplishments are his. That Yugi Muto is small and weak, that he can’t hurt back all the people who hurt him, that he can’t make friends or get a date on his own. This is terrifying and difficult to think about, so he won’t. Atem is lost and confused and won’t assert himself as separate, so Yugi never has to.

It suits Yugi’s self-esteem to let everyone think Atem is him, and it suits Atem’s sense of purpose to pretend he is Yugi, and neither of them has to deal with the mortifying ordeal of being themselves. They will continue in this ouroboros of projection, enablement, and self-abjuration until the last two arcs force them to stop. And it will--because YGO is about identity; because Yugi and Atem’s cohabitation prevents either of them from fully asserting an individual identity. Because the narrative of YGO insists, demands, that the only way forward is to be yourself and nobody else.

#sorry i answered your ask a whole year later with a thousand word essay #meta

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spark1edog · 2 years ago

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can i talk about the broken plate metaphor for a moment? im not against it, i just had some thoughts.

i really like it as an introductory tool to the concept of osddid, but some people take it a little far i’d say? not to a harmful degree or anything, i just think it doesn’t say everything and that there is nuance to it.

ive seen many times where people are confused about how splitting works, and someone comes in and talks about a broken plate. it’s a good place to start, but some people take it as gospel and i think it doesn’t really cover all that can go into parts being parts.

ive seen it used to explain that “alters split off of alters because you can’t introduce a new piece to a plate because the plate is your brain” and while i understand that, there’s other ways people experience splits. i feel like it’s slightly diminutive to stop there. again, not harmful, but not complete.

ive seen it used to try and “debunk” endos, citing that one can’t split their own consciousness/plate, and that if one tries to create or invite another consciousness into their head it would be a split, and those endos rebutting with “it’s not splitting, it’s adding!” and then people saying, “well you can’t have two brains/plates!!” i don’t think it’s productive for those purposes either. it’s a good starting place at which to begin understanding osddid, but it’s certainly not a scientific theory, and i don’t think it should be used that way.

maybe im just autistic and taking it literally, and i understand why people latch onto it so hard but i feel like it should be a chapter in understanding, not the entire textbook.

#syscourse #syscourse unaligned #endo neutral

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tobesobri · 5 years ago

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𝓦elcome to a brand new story from me that I never thought I would be posting but here we are! This chapter is very much introductory, which is like obvious being the first chapter but tbh I don’t really do a lot of introducing characters right off the bat in a descriptive way often so this was new for me! Also, I have an old taglist from a while ago when I was originally going to post this, but I don’t want to randomly tag people who may no longer be interested SO if you’d like to be included on a taglist for upcoming chapters please let me know! Thank you!

huge massive thank you to the incredible @youresogolden-h for editing ❤️

Chapter One: Where Happiness Begins (5.4k)

Harry and Y/N are friends…. with benefits, but not the kinds you’re thinking of.

🥥MASTERLIST 🌃INSPO TAG 🌻ASK TAG 💃PLAYLIST 🛌

There was something very different when she woke that Saturday morning. Maybe her breath smelled a little worse than normal. Maybe the sun shined a little brighter through her curtains than it was supposed to...

Maybe there was someone in her bed who didn’t belong there.

“Oh my god.”

Friday night was not unlike every other night that week. There was an endless bag of chips she dug her Hot Cheeto dust covered fingers into and an over-watched series on Netflix open on her laptop in front of her. And when she wasn’t distracted by Sam and Dean Winchester, she was bawling her eyes out under the comfort of her thrifted quilt, staining her poor mismatched pillowcases.

Just like any given night.

And this Friday was no different. At least not until there was a knock on her door.

By the time she dried her face, it was almost completely unnoticeable she’d just been buried in hysterics only seconds ago.

“Harry’s coming over. You want anything from the store?” Will asked, the same Will who stuck them all together in the very beginning of splitting rent on an apartment four different ways.

He was the roommate who paid the most in rent and got the biggest room with his own private bathroom. One of the two roommates who constantly had his significant other over every night to make Y/N’s miserable time even worse. Between Will and Violet’s incessant need to take over the entire living room every weekend, Y/N was bound to end up in her own room alone crying her eyes out for no apparent reason.

Then there was her third roommate, James, who never bothered her because she was lucky to catch a fleeting glimpse of him every other week.

Y/N glanced at the phone he had pressed to his cheek, assuming Harry was on the other end of the line, on hold. Just the mention of his name sucked every sad little tear back into her skull. She didn’t know why, but having Harry around always seemed to do the trick.

Even though she barely spoke a word to him over the course of the last eighteen months she’d known him.

She buried her excitement about Harry coming over and frowned, answering as if she was she couldn’t care less even though... she cared way more than she should. “No.”

And before Will could protest, she shut the door in his face and retreated back to her bed.

Not every night was spent in agonizing spirals of self-pity and dread, but it came and went. Some days were fine. She was happy by the time she went to bed at night and didn’t have nightmares or anxiety that kept her up past her self-proclaimed bedtime. Most days, she ate regularly and went about her nightly routine with a genuine smile on her face. But recently, it had all gone to shit.

And there was no explanation. There never was. She didn’t just break up with a long-term boyfriend. No one called her an ugly bitch on the train home. Her boss didn’t yell at her for the umpteenth time about her inadequacies at work.

She was just... alone. Painfully and tragically alone.

She hated how black and white it was. That she was either happy to be alive or praying for a very large rock to fall on her and end it all. There was never an in-between and it made her feel like all her emotions were made up, like she wasn’t ever truly happy or she was sad over really stupid things.

It was a fucking nightmare.

Another agonizing thirty minutes went by before she heard from Will again. Before she heard more than just her roommate's voice through the thin walls. Before she could literally feel her

brain swell with more serotonin than she’d had in a long time when it was Harry’s voice she heard.

He was like an unusual ray of sunshine. Every time he was over at their apartment, it was like he was some kind of ancient sun god warding off all the evil spirits sitting on her shoulders. Which...she knew was quite strange, but she really couldn’t--nor did she want to--fight off how he made her feel.

Even if he wasn’t an internationally famous pop-sensation, she still couldn’t put her finger on why he made her feel like sunshine and butterflies whenever he was around. Which had been quite often recently on account of his upcoming album needing desperate help from Will.

Okay. She hadn’t heard a damn thing from the album, but the conversations they had about it weren’t always good. It was delayed, apparently, and Harry was in the middle of a massive writing block that led him to an impromptu trip to Barcelona the previous week.

And so now he was back. To work on the album, and, upon Y/N’s quiet arrival into the kitchen of her shared apartment, to pig out on junk food. Will hovered over the kitchen island while they figured out which movie, among a small stack of romantic comedies, to watch first.

Once Harry noticed her, he instantly stood up straight, shoving the last bit of a Kit-Kat bar into his mouth quickly to hide it from her; as if she cared about the Harry Styles munching on chocolate and sweets.

“What’re you doing?” Y/N asked Will, even though Harry was the only one paying her any attention. She didn’t often make eye contact with him, or even speak to him at all for that matter. But Harry was used to it. He was used to her mumbling and her short phrases. The way whenever he looked at her, she always looked away.

“Pretty Woman or Notting Hill?” Will turned to her finally, holding up both DVD boxes in his hands for Y/N to choose from, completely ignoring her previous question.

“Um... I’ve never seen them.”

Will rolled his eyes and placed the Blu-Ray boxes back down on the granite countertop, “Should’ve known that. You only watch scary shit.”

It was quiet after that for a moment. A long moment of Harry awkwardly glancing between Will and Y/N. Though his glances towards her did not come easily. Just the thought of looking at her was like his body went into fight or flight mode. Fight through the nerves and the butterflies in his stomach or fly the hell out of there.

She was like an unfriendly cat who didn’t seem to like him one bit, and it drove him insane. All his attempts to have a normal conversation with her had been fruitless. She never said more than one word to him at a time. Maybe two, if she was feeling generous. He didn’t get it at all, but he got used to it. Maybe she just didn’t have any room in her life for another person and certainly not for a person like him.

“Well, I vote for Pretty Woman,” Will said, making up everyone’s minds for them, and when he glanced at the other two, they didn’t seem to care. “Pretty Woman it is then. Y/N,” Will glanced at her exclusively while he began gathering snacks and the movie, “are you watching it too?”

“Uh.. no.” She continued into the kitchen, walking behind Harry toward the fridge and making every single nerve in his body light up. He had no idea why she, of all people on the planet he’d come into contact with, made him as nervous as she did. But, here he was. Stepping out of her way and swallowing the pit in his throat when he got a whiff of her all-too-familiar coconut scented shampoo.

And that scent just about made his head spin. It took him right back to the night he’d gotten drunk off his ass after a long day of work. She’d offered her bed to him since he was too tall for their couches, and she had been up late working herself anyways. Most of the night had been forgotten, but he very distinctly remembered stuffing his face into her pillowcases and letting the scent of her shampoo completely engulf his nostrils as he fell asleep. And it took him back to the following morning where he wobbled his hungover ass to the shower and accidentally (on purpose) used her coconut scented shampoo.

And then the entire rest of the day he smelled exactly like her and hadn’t gone a single minute without thinking of her. Thinking of her soft voice and what it would feel like to hear her saying his name just once. Thinking about the way she sometimes smiled at him like maybe she didn’t hate him as much as he thought. Thinking about her hair spread over her pillowcase and tucking loose strands behind her ear while she slept peacefully beside him...

Harry was also, very, very alone.

So alone that he spent more nights at other people’s homes, particularly Will’s, than his own. Even though he had an insanely expensive house all to himself up in the gated hills of Los Angeles, it was nothing compared to being surrounded by people he cared about instead of lifeless appliances.

He blamed it on the city. It always had a way of making him feel alienated. Even if it was the city that recognized him most often, it almost made him feel even more alone than he already was. Because none of the people he met along the way really knew him. They weren’t with him at the end of the day when he broke down on the floor in his bathroom. They didn’t see the dark parts of his life where he often wished he could take it all back just to be normal again. To have normal conversations and normal relationships with people he wasn’t constantly paranoid were trying to get something out of him.

So, in a way, he understood Y/N’s unwillingness to let him in, because he did it all the time. The thing he didn’t understand was why she had any reason to worry about the people in her life. No one was out to get her money or make themselves famous off of her. But there was a reason for it anyways, and it just about killed the curious cat in his mind every time he was at her apartment and she continued to not peep a single unnecessary word to him.

By the time he and Will had settled onto their respective spots in the living room, Harry tucked back into the cushions of their armchair and Will spread out on the loveseat opposite him, Y/N had already retreated back into her bedroom with her glass of ice water.

“Think that’s the most I’ve ever heard her talk.” Harry said, while Will skipped through the outdated commercials on the DVD.

Will’s lips turned up into a very knowing grin and he nodded, “She’s always been quiet, man. I told you not to take it personally.”

“How did you get her to talk?”

That was a question Harry had never asked before out of the countless stupid ones he had in the past. The stupidest was probably when he’d first met her and then proceeded to ask Will shortly after if Y/N was mute.

Will shrugged, “I’ve known her for a long time. It’s not like she goes on and on around me either though. That’s just how she is. And she probably just doesn’t like you that much.”

Harry huffed and sat back into his chair, giving up on it. He couldn’t force her to be his friend, as much as he wanted her to be.

The movie went on without Harry because he was completely lost in his own mind, however, Will seemed to be completely enthralled with Julia Roberts. Harry just couldn’t bring himself to focus on the television screen for more than a minute at a time.

It wasn’t until he heard a door down the hall click open that he brought himself back to reality and let his eyes wander to the sound behind him as Y/N stepped quietly out from her bedroom again. He knew she was the only other roommate home tonight and, yet, he still made the mistake of looking in her direction and, fucking finally, locking eyes with her. It was brief, but it was enough to stir up the enormous pot of butterflies in his stomach again.

Without a single word, she sat on the last unoccupied piece of furniture between the both of them, Harry still in a bit of shock and Will grinning with his eyes glued to the screen.

“Changed your mind, did you?” Will asked cheekily.

“Shut up,” she mumbled back at him before reaching toward the opened bag of untouched Hershey kisses. “Can I have one of these?”

Will finally peered over at her from his spot and then glanced at Harry across the coffee table, “You’ll have to ask Harry. He brought them.”

Her hand froze and she reluctantly turned her attention toward Harry, which had been the first time since he arrived that she voluntarily looked at him. She had no fucking clue how she was going to sit there and ask Harry for one of his Hershey kisses. Or if she even wanted them desperately enough.

The question went unasked, but the look on her face said more than enough. She was already waiting for his answer. And upon seeing the look on her face, Harry couldn’t possibly find it in himself to force her to say a damn thing. So he just cleared his throat instead, “Uh, it’s alright. You can have as many as you want.”

He watched as she grabbed a couple foil sealed chocolates and settled back into the corner of her own loveseat again, never willing to admit that he’d bought them especially for her. Because it had somehow managed to become common knowledge that they were her favorite candy and while wandering the local corner market, he spotted them and thought of her. His brain at the time thought there might be some minuscule possibility that if he brought one of her favorite foods over she might eventually start to like him.

Even if that didn’t happen though, he was still reeling from that one brief moment of interaction for the entire rest of the night. Splurging on an overpriced package of cavities had been well worth it.

It wasn’t until the movie ended that both Harry and Y/N realized Will was dead asleep. That he was no longer conscious enough to use the remote resting on his chest and turn the movie off. So, after a little while of staring at the credits, Y/N stood and grabbed it, flipping the controls until she brought up regular TV channels and then eventually settled for a horror movie Harry had never seen and had no intentions to. But, if it meant he got more time with Y/N, he’d sit through just about anything she wanted to watch.

And then finally, the sugar he’d consumed got to his head.

“Do you always watch scary movies before bed?” He asked, completely lost in his daydreams and not fully realizing he’d asked her a full-blown question until it was out of his mouth. Once he came to his senses, he wanted to shove every last word back into his mouth and pretend he never said anything.

That was, until a couple silent moments went by and she finally said something. “Makes the nightmares more interesting.”

He didn’t expect her to say anything at all, and so for her to say that, he had no idea how to respond to her. Was she being... sarcastic? He didn’t even know she was capable of being funny.

So he laughed, not too loudly in case she wasn’t joking. But all his worries were relieved when she glanced at him and giggled too.

He didn’t dare bring up any of the questions floating around in his mind in fear that she’d never speak another word to him ever again once he’d finally managed to break through the walls somehow. Now that he’d made groundbreaking progress with her, there was no way he was asking her why she never talked to him or why she was so quiet. So he kept a fine-tuned filter over what words came out of his mouth.

“Does that mean you have uninteresting nightmares then?” Harry really did try his damndest to think of anything to say that would get her to keep talking, because he wasn’t done listening to her voice or hearing bits of her brain spill out. He wanted to know everything about her, from her mouth only, but he also didn’t want to get too ahead of himself.

“Only on Sundays.”

“Why Sundays?” He asked through a muffled laugh, curious as to what she was on about.

“Because then the nightmares are about showing up at work naked on Monday morning... and that’s not very interesting.”

He couldn’t help the widespread grin on his face, or the way his eyebrows furrowed at how fucking weird she actually was. And she wasn’t even that weird. She was kind of normal, but this entire time he thought she wasn’t like him at all, so seeing her say things like a normal person was... weird.

“So what kind of nightmares does watching Annabelle at...” Harry checked his watch, and went into momentary shock at the time, but also couldn’t care less because he wasn’t leaving now, “two in the morning get you?”

She smiled, and refusing to look at him, settled for planting her eyes on the television instead. “Walking into work naked on Monday morning but,” she held up a finger in anticipation and Harry smiled wider, “all my coworkers are creepy dolls.”

“Guess at that point it doesn't matter if you’re naked then.”

She thought about for a moment before giggling at what he said, “No, I guess it doesn’t.”

There was silence between them again, but it was different this time. It was peaceful. It wasn’t full of awkward tension and things Harry wished she would say. It felt like two friends hanging out and enjoying each other’s company.

“Are you sleeping here or...” She finally asked him and he wasn’t sure if that was her way of asking him to leave or not. But something about it made him feel like she was building her walls back up again.

“Oh, uh... if that’s okay. Think I’m too tired to drive.”

“Yeah, it’s fine. I just wanted to know because I can sleep in Violet’s room and you can have my bed like before. If you want.”

“Oh, um, are you sure?” Under any other circumstances, he would have said no, that the short, uncomfortable couch would be fine. That he would get over the pain in his legs and back in the morning because he didn’t want to invade her space, again. Unfortunately for him, he already had the knowledge of what her pillows smelled like and how soft her sheets were and he desperately wanted to invade her space again.

She nodded. “It’s no problem. I’ll go clean up a little. Just let yourself in.”

She was gone before he could get another word out. And while he listened to her footsteps as she walked away from him, he stared blankly up at the ceiling, resting his neck back on the chair. It felt like he’d just been through a fever dream, like none of it was real. Not only did he have a normal conversation with her, but now she was offering her bed to him again as well.

He needed a moment to process things.

When she got done tidying up her room and replacing her blanket with a clean one for Harry, he appeared cautiously in the doorway, yawning as he watched her gather some of her things to take to Violet’s room directly across the hall.

“I turned the TV off and the lights. Will’s still quite dead out there.”

She smiled to herself and gave him a very fleeting glance before picking the last item she needed up off her side table and then finally facing him. “It’s all yours.”

Ushering him in, he stepped into her room like he wasn’t actually allowed to. Like he had never been there before. Like he hadn’t nearly puked all over her poor white bed sheets that one night.

She replaced his spot in the doorway as he sat down on the edge of her bed. He stared at her back as she walked away, not getting his hopes up about her saying anything else to him. So, when she did turn to face him again, it just about knocked the air out of him.

“Oh and Harry?”

“Yeah?”

“Could you try to not drool on my pillows this time?”

He glanced at the top of her bed where all her pillows were neatly stacked and cringed at the horrible memories he had and at the fact that he’d actually drooled on her pillows. Like a fucking animal. Like a dog who couldn’t control himself.

“Sorry ‘bout that...” He looked at her again, genuinely apologetic and completely embarrassed by his past, drunken self.

“It’s okay.” She smiled reassuringly, “Night.”

“G’night.” Harry mumbled just before she left and closed the door behind her.

And in all the talk about drool, it wasn’t until he was cuddled under her blanket and up against her mound of pillows that he realized something. She’d said his name, out loud, to his face, where he could hear it and obsess over it and never get sick of it. He repeated it over and over in his head and kept himself awake just thinking about the way it had sounded and if he’d ever get to hear her say his name again.

The faint hum of voices right outside the door woke him slightly. His entire body was still asleep except for about half of his brain and one eye that peeked open to investigate the noise. He could tell it was early, though, his eyes stung and his body ached to go fully back to sleep.

He could make out Violet’s voice, which confused his foggy brain because he swore Will had mentioned she’d be gone all weekend, and yet here she was yelling in the hallway and interrupting his sleep.

“Please just sleep on the couch then, I need to be alone right now.” Harry furrowed his eyebrows at how distressed she sounded and flinched when the door across the hall just about slammed shut.

He heard an exasperated sigh and then squeezed his eyes shut when he saw movement under the door to Y/N’s bedroom just moments before it opened. He pretended to be asleep for as long as he could, listening to the footsteps as they carefully wandered into the room.

And then a hushed, but very exclamatory, “Ow!” got him to roll onto his back and knuckle his eyes open.

She looked at him apologetically while grasping the big toe of her right foot. “Sorry.”

“S’okay.” His voice was a lot groggier and a lot more raspy than she expected it to be. And she kind of hated herself for enjoying the view, a little too much, of Harry waking up in her bed. While she got her thoughts under control, he continued. “Did Violet just kick you out?”

She simply nodded and went back to digging into her cabinets for spare pillows.

“What time is it?” He asked.

“Four-thirty.”

Then he slowly pulled her blanket off, still dressed in his shirt and joggers from last night but without his socks and rings he’d removed before bed.

She immediately turned to him, however. “You don’t have to get up. I’m fine on the couch.” “No, I would feel bad.”

“It’s okay, really. Don’t worry about it.” She got him to stop what he was doing and lay back into the bed again while she opened up more cabinet doors to find her extra bed sets.

He cleared his throat after a little while of watching her, and gathered up the largest bundle of courage he ever had, to say what he was about to say next. With nervous, shaking fingers and a cold sweat on the back of his neck, he voiced the stupidest idea he’d ever had in his life.

“We can just both sleep here... if that’s fine.”

She froze and he knew he’d made a mistake. Why in the actual fuck did he just suggest that? Maybe he was sleep deprived. Maybe he was still reeling from last night. Maybe he had some false sense of security with her and completely forgot about the fact that last night had been the first time she’d said that many words to him. Of course she wasn’t about to climb in bed with him.

“Oh, um...” She finally found a couple pillows and pulled them from the cabinet while turning her attention back to Harry. She could not deny how desperately she wanted to crawl back into her own bed. And have a warm body next to her, which she had literally never had. No one had ever slept in her bed besides Harry, and definitely not with her. Sure, she’d slept in friends’ beds before on occasion, but this was different. It was her own bed and this was Harry, not her college friends.

So maybe it was the sleep-deprivation talking.

“Okay.”

In all forms but physical, his jaw had just hit the floor. Never in a million years or in any other infinite alternate realities would he have thought they’d end up here, with Harry sliding over to one side of the bed to make room for her while she crawled in beside him. Her queen size gave lots of room in between them, so it wasn’t as weird as it sounded. It was just two, very tired loose-knit friends sharing a bed for a few hours.

“Goodnight, again.” Harry mumbled, realizing too late that it was technically morning now.

“Mhm,” was the only response he got out of her when she curled up under the blanket they shared and went straight back to sleep with her back to him.

And once his nerves settled, he did the same.

It was a lot easier than either of them thought possible. And for a long while, they stayed on their respective sides of the bed. But once she was lost in dreamland and he was already letting out soft snores, there was no control over what happened next. She turned and cuddled right up to his side as if her unconscious mind thought he was some kind of pillow to cradle. She wasn’t all to blame, though, as his arm wrapped around her shoulders and pulled her even closer. Closer than either of them had been to another living being in a long time. As close as her forearm spread across his chest and her head nestled into his neck. Close enough to smell his cologne but not realize why or stop any of it from happening. Not that she would have wanted to if she had any clue what she was doing. Not that he would have wanted to either.

With his hand digging into her waist, they both were mildly aware of what was going on, but both were also still too lost in their exhaustion. So, it just happened. And they held each other tighter as the minutes passed and the dreams took over once again. Because they both needed it. To hold and to be held. To feel the pressure of another person and the heartbeat on their skin. And all the loneliness in their bones melting away with each other’s touch as if they’d never been alone in the first place.

The only thing that could ever separate them was the knock on her door at nine a.m. Everything was a little fuzzy at first before she blinked a few times and realized that what she’d been using as a pillow wasn’t exactly stuffed with cotton and lined in silk. With a gasp, she pulled away from him abruptly. Ceasing all contact. Not because she wanted to necessarily, but because she would rather Harry not find out she was all over him like she had just been.

“Oh my god,” she whispered quietly in disbelief, mentally punching herself in the face for what she’d just woken up to.

But her embarrassment only skyrocketed when she dragged her eyes up his neck to his chin, then his nose and finally saw him staring right back at her with furrowed brows like he was just as confused as she was. When he glanced at the door is when she moved to do something about it.

Quickly, she pulled the covers off of herself and opened her door only the smallest amount possible. Just enough to peak her head out, but not enough for Will to see Harry in her bed. Where she’d just been sleeping right next to him. Or... right on top of him, as it seemed.

“Did Harry go home last night?”

With absolutely no plan to go along with her lie, she still figured it was the better option than to admit to Will she’d been in the same bed as Harry. That she’d been all fucking over him for who knows how long.

“Um, yeah. After you fell asleep.”

From behind her, Harry quietly smacked his hands over his face and fell back dramatically into her fluffy pillows.

“Oh, ok. Vi won’t come out of her room, but I’m going to go get breakfast from Jade’s. You want anything?”

“No, I’m alright, thanks.” Her words fused together in a flash, just trying to get the least amount of information out as quickly as possible so she didn't accidentally say something suspicious.

She shut the door on him with a smile before Will could even offer her a pastry from their most loved local cafe. Once that was dealt with, and she had a moment to gather her thoughts as she stared at her door, she slowly turned around to face Harry.

Her cheeks were probably bright red and full of embarrassment seeing him there amongst her sheets; as if once she had turned around he wouldn’t actually be there, like maybe she’d dreamt the whole thing.

But no.

He was there. And he was very real. And very much looking at her like they were both insane.

“I’m sorry,” they said it at the exact same time, cutting each other off from saying anything else.

“No, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have, um...” Harry started once he found an opportunity to speak again, but he didn’t exactly know what he was apologizing for. He wasn’t sorry for how they’d ended up. He had the best four and a half hours of sleep he’d ever had.

“I shouldn’t have been like... all on you like that.” She averted her eyes when she spoke, not able to look him straight on and admit it. And she knew she was only apologizing because she felt embarrassed and like she had to. She felt like she’d invaded Harry’s space and took advantage of him.

“You don’t have to apologize.”

She just shrugged. Nothing he said at this point could make her feel any less horrible about it. And even so, some part deep down inside of her, when she finally looked at him again, wanted to get right back into that spot with him for another few hours.

It just felt... right. And even though she couldn’t remember what she dreamed about, she knew it wasn’t her usual nightmare. She had felt safe and secure, and not so alone anymore, sleeping beside him like that and she felt stupid knowing it would never happen again.

“I should get going then. Before Will comes back and realizes I didn’t actually leave.” Harry let out an exasperated laugh as he began getting up, sitting himself on the edge of her bed with his back facing her as he stretched. The fabric of his shirt tugged along his muscles as he flexed them awake, and she grew far too overwhelmed thinking about the fact that those fucking arms of his had been around her for the better half of the morning. She could still feel him holding onto her and his grip at her side.

She needed a very cold shower and some fresh air.

#harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fanfic #harry styles writing #harry styles fic #onlyhuman

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peppersonironi · 4 years ago

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Batfam Avengers Crossover Chapter Two: Meeting

Chapter Two, folks! Finally some batfam appearances.

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Category: Gen

Fandoms: Batman - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types

Relationships: Selina Kyle/Bruce Wayne, Natasha Romanov & Damian Wayne, Clint Barton & Cassandra Cain, Tim Drake & Peter Parker, Peter Parker & Tim Drake & Duke Thomas, Pamela Isley/Harleen Quinzel, Tim Drake/Kon-El | Conner Kent, Dick Grayson/Wally West, Roy Harper/Koriand'r/Jason Todd,

Characters: Bruce Wayne, Selina Kyle, Jason Todd, Dick Grayson, Tim Drake, Damian Wayne, Cassandra Cain, Stephanie Brown, Barbara Gordon, Justice League (DCU), Alfred Pennyworth, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanov (Marvel), Clint Barton, Thor (Marvel), Bruce Banner, Peter Parker, Alfred the Cat (DCU), Bat-Cow (DCU), Goliath (DCU), Selina Kyle’s Cat Isis, Kate Kane (DCU), Duke Thomas,

Additional Tags: Batbrothers (DCU), Avengers Meet The Batfam, MCU/Batfam crossover, Crossover, no beta we die like robins, rated T for Jason’s language, I bleeped it out though. Just to be safe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, canon? What’s canon?, Deaf Clint Barton,Deaf Character, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Happy Batfamily (DCU), Birdflash and joyfire are implied/referenced,

Summary: Avengers enter the cave, and meet the batfam!

Notes: In sorry if this chapter is a bit boring, I tried to keep it light. (I know the techie stuff that I glossed over bored even me) But now that I’m done with the first introductory chapters, I can move to some - hopefully - more fun scenarios!

“Woah.” Peter looked around at the giant cavern that the Green Lantern guy had flown them into. His ring had formed some kind of platform to carry them, and Peter was still theorizing how it worked.

They had flown toward the city - named Gotham apparently - following the mysterious “Batman”. Then reached a waterfall, which had a huge mechanical door system that parted the water. They had gone through a long pathway lit up on the edges before emerging in the cave.

It was huge, with multiple platforms built into the rock. Peter first found himself on one that was clearly meant for vehicles, as there were multiple motorcycles parked beside where Batman’s car stopped. There were other levels that held gym equipment, a sparring ring, weapons stations, and some sort of lab. There was weird memorabilia too. Peter spotted a giant penny, dinosaur, and a Joker playing card. A few more levels had cases for suits, not unlike that which Mr. Stark had. Though some of the suits were strange. One was clearly bloody and ripped. One of the most prominent platforms held a huge computer with a dominating black chair.

However, Peter could have sworn it was playing … The Dinosaur Game? That was weird.

Batman got out of his car the way he had before and made his way over toward the Avengers, where they had been set down by Green Lantern. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, a very loud voice called out in the cave, startling everyone except the Batman.

“Bruce! Where the F*** is my AK-47?!”

The Hulk, who had since transformed back into Bruce Banner, frowned in confusion.

No one got the chance to question it, however, because a young man in a skin tight black bodysuit swung from another level, and was now hanging upside down from a support beam near Batman. He had a blue bird on his chest, Peter thought it looked a bit like an eagle. He also had on a black domino mask.

“Hey B!” He said cheerily. “ I should probably warn you that Hood is on a rampage ‘cause he can’t find his gun. And also Robin is threatening everyone as per usual. ” The Dark Knight sighed. “What about Red Robin, Spoiler, and Oracle? ”

The new comer grinned. “Dinosaur Game Championship. Oracle is in the lead.”

There was a sudden shout of disapproval from where the apparent game seemed to be held.

“And Signal?”

“Taking weapons stock while muttering about how insane we all are.” He shook his head. “He seems to forget he’s one of us, and therefore crazy by association.”

The Dark Knight sighed once more, this time with his fingers on the bridge of his nose. “Thank you Nightwing. Would you tell Red Hood that his AK-47 is in the Med Bay where he left it when he was doing his stitches? And tell everyone to meet in the conference room in uniform. Code 27G.”

Nightwings eyes - well, lenses - widened. He glanced at the Avengers. “Huh. Sure can do B.”

He swung up from his perch, flipped onto the platform above him - Peter was pretty impressed at how casually he did so - and ran off, seemingly melting into the shadows.

An awkward silence followed, with the Avengers all huddling protectively together. Peter really wanted to explore - that T-Rex looked awesome - but he saw the worried look on Mr. Stark’s face. This was an unfamiliar situation. They must be cautious.

A moment later Peter had had enough of caution. “Excuse me sir, is that a dinosaur?”

The Dark Knight turned toward Peter and glared. Out of the corner of his eye, Peter saw Mr. Stark tense up. But a split second later the glare softened. “Yes. Animatronic. From one of my early … endeavors.”

Peter grinned under his mask. “Cool!”

Batman lifted his head, and began walking on a path up. “Come, I’ll show you where we can talk.”

*****

They entered a meeting room that was off to the side of the cave. There was already a group present. They were clumped loosely in a corner, boredom and intrigue apparent on their faces. They all stood to attention when Batman walked into the room, all except for Nightwing from earlier. He was currently in a handstand in the center of the conference table, shifting from one hand to the other. He collapsed onto the table at the sight of the arrivals, before quickly jumping to his feet and saluting with an embarrassed grin on his face. Batman rolled his eyes and they all went back to what they were doing, except Nightwing who slumped into a chair.

The group of teeneagers were dressed in more skin-tight suits. Peter was slightly taken aback by how young they were. The smallest seemed to be around ten - perhaps he was this “Robin” mentioned earlier - and the oldest in his early twenties. Most seemed to be about his own age though, in their mid teens. It felt weird to not be the only kid.

The closest was a young man sitting in one of the chairs with his feet on the table. He seemed to be taller than Nightwing, with a broader chest. He wore gray cargo pants, some sort of utility belt, an armored shirt with a red bat on it, a leather jacket, and a red helmet that looked a lot like Tony’s. Peter could already imagine the copyright complaints from their resident billionaire. The man also had gun holsters on each leg, and was stroking a - newly returned - AK-47 in his arms.

The first teenager had black bottoms and red top with a black and gold “X” over his chest, joined by some symbol that looked vaguely like an “R”. He also had a black cape and smooth cowl. He was standing in the corner, leaning against a wall with a tablet and mug of coffee in hand.

A teenage girl stood beside the teen, dressed in a mostly purple with hints-of-black bodysuit and a purple hooded cape. She wore a full black mask over her face, with only white lenses. It was a bit freaky, but she was mostly non-threatening, due to her easygoing posture and laugh, which was directed at the teen with the cowl.

The kid was dressed in black leggings, green boots and gloves, a red and yellow tunic with an “R” on it, black and yellow hooded cape, and green domino mask. Though the strangest thing about him was the huge Katana he was sharpening while sitting at the table. He also had an unimpressed glare on his face. Peter decided that he and Helmet-Guy were the scariest in the room. Aside from Batman.

Another teenaged boy had a tired look on what Peter could see of his face, as he looked slightly disapprovingly at his companions. He stood in more heavily plated bright yellow and black armor with a bat symbol on it. He had a utility belt, and a helmet which looked to be shaped like a bat.

What was with these people and bats?

Peter didn’t get to ask, as at that moment a new person joined the group. Flying down a ramp was a red headed young woman in a wheelchair. She expertly slowed to a stop in front of Batman, who had not yet entered the room. Peter noticed that she had hastily applied a black domino mask, leaving a pair of glasses in her lap, along with a laptop.

“Sorry I’m late B, I forgot where I had put my extra mask. These things keep disappearing!” She said the last part while glaring at the kids.

“It’s fine, Oracle. Now that we’re all here-” He paused, then looked around at the group. “Where’s Black Bat?”

“Handling a Robbery downtown. She’s finishing up. ETA 20 minutes.”

Batman nodded. “Very well, we’ll continue without her, she won’t mind.”

He entered the room, ushering everyone else to do so as well. With a quick glare, all the kids sat down. The Avengers joined them, as there were plenty of seats. The only one who did not sit was Batman.

He spoke once everyone was ready, mainly directing his words to the kids. Peter briefly wondered what it would be like to actually be respected like that, but shook off the thought. Batman quickly and efficiently summarizes the events, including several readings of the energy sources, which only the red and black teen seemed to understand as he nodded along, looking fascinated. Once he was done, Batman turned to the Avengers. “Names. No need to share personal identities if you are uncomfortable. Though since we are from different earths, I doubt it would matter.”

“Everyone already knows our identities on our earth,” Mr. Stark said, receiving several weird looks from the teens. “So it’s not a problem for us.” He removed his face plate. “Tony Stark, I’m Iron man in the suit, which I built myself.” He gestures to Steve Rogers next.

“Captain America, Steve Rogers. Our resident super soldier and senior citizen.” Steve frowned at the last comment.

“Bruce Banner,” Mr. Stark said next, “Alter ego is the Hulk. Anger Issues and Gamma radiation galore.”

Red Robin perked up. “Cool! How did-” He was cut off by a glare from Batman.

“This is Thor Odinson, named… well, Thor. God of lightning, has a hammer. You can call him Sparky Sparky Boom Man.” A pause. “Yeah, maybe just stick with Thor.”

“Clint Barton, codename Hawkeye. Our long distance weapons specialist.” Mr. Stark gestured to Clint’s bow for good measure. The kids giggled and whispered something to each other that sounded like ‘Green Arrow knockoff ’, though Peter didn’t get it.

“Black Widow, Natasha Romanov. Intelligence expert, and ex-assassin.” This got a bunch of whispers from the kids.

Peter was the last to be introduced. He pulled off his mask while Mr. Stark said “The kid’s Peter Parker, our rookie, also known as Siderman ”

“You sure it’s Spiderman,” Helmet-Guy said.

Peter glared. “Yes.”

“Red Hood,” Batman said, frowning. “No antagonizing the interdimensional visitors.”

Red Hood just shrugged and went back to stroking his gun.

The Avengers just sat around awkwardly. The Woman jabbed her elbow into Superman’s ribs, which got him talking.

“Oh… It’s only fair we introduce ourselves, since it isn’t really official earlier.” This time it was Superman who spoke. “I’m Superman, known as Kal-El, a kryptonian. Human name is Clark Kent.”

Huh, he didn’t look like an alien.

“Here we have Wonder Woman, an amazon, demigoddess, and princess. Secret Identity is Diana Prince.” He gestured to the woman, who, despite just being called a princess, looked very threatening indeed.

“Martian Manhunter, a martian known as J’onn J'onzz. Civilian name is John Jones. Yes, quite original.” The Martian nodded in greeting, and Peter was seriously freaking out. A real martian!? Cool!

“Flash, a speedster also known as Barry Allen.” The man pulled back his cowl as Superman spoke.

“S’up?” He asked with a smile.

“And Hal Jordan, one of the Green Lanterns.”

“The best Green Lantern.”

Batman grumbled something that sounded suspiciously like “keep telling yourself that.”

Superman turned to Batman, but before he could, the Dark Knight spoke. “I can do it myself Clark.” He lifted his hand and removed his cowl to reveal a handsome man in his early to mid thirties with black hair and blue eyes. “Batman, also known as Bruce Wayne.”

He turned toward the kids. “These are my kids, as well as partners.”

He started with Nightwing. “Nightwing, aka Richard Grayson. My eldest.” Richard grinned and removed his domino mask. He too had blue eyes.

“Call me Dick,” he said.

“Red Hood, aka Jason Todd, my second eldest.” Jason pressed some button or something on his helmet and took it off to reveal… a domino mask. After a quick glare from Bruce, he sighed and took it off. Revealing black hair and blue eyes.

“Red Robin,” there was a soft ‘yum’ that came from the corner, though Peter couldn’t tell who said it. “Aka Tim Drake.” Tim pulled his cowl back and grinned. He had black hair and blue eyes.

“Over there is Signal, aka Duke Thomas, my ward.” The teen took off his helmet, revealing yet another black-haired kid. Though Duke was clearly african american, and had brown eyes.

“Next is Robin aka Damian Wayne, my youngest.” Damian sneered as if he were above everyone around him.

“Spoiler, aka Stephanie Brown, is a family friend.” Stephanie waved.

“I’m also his ex,” Stephanie said, jutting her thumb at Tim.

Tim groaned. “When will you stop introducing yourself like that?”

“When it stops getting under your skin.”

Tim sank back in his chair and flung an arm over his eyes.

Batman sighed once more. “Oracle, aka Barbara Gordan. Also a family friend, and our tech specialist.” Baraba nodded in recognition. “Now that introductions are out of the way, we must discuss how you got here, and how you’ll get back.”

Everyone nodded and began the discussion. Mr. Stark started off the explanation, going over Anagnorisis, the compound, the gun that they got hit with, and how they ended up in the crater.

The other adults - mainly Batman - popped in, talking about the calculations for such an interdimensional jump. Peter listened intently, as he found it utterly fascinating, but didn’t add anything. Then Tim spoke, listing off a series of numbers and variables, that were received with nods. Peter was a bit jealous that he spoke so easily. So Peter decided to add something later on, a small comment about energy sources. When he did, the conversation stopped. Peter thought he was dead meat for interrupting, but then Bruce - Wayne, not Banner - spoke.

“The kid’s smart.”

Mr. Stark smiled proudly.

A moment later the conversation continued. They went on for almost a half hour, and even Peter was getting a bit bored. He could tell the other kids were too. The girls seemed to have gotten back to their Dinosaur Game championship, and there were small cheers and groans coming from their corner every so often. Jason and Damian had yet to set aside their weapons, though they had begun a small conversation too quiet for Peter to hear. The only people who seemed to be paying attention were Dick and Tim, though Dick clearly didn’t understand half the words that were being tossed around.

The adults seemed to be disinterested as well, namely Barry and Hal, who were in the middle of a thumb war. When they inevitably got too loud, Batman sent a glare their way. The other members of the Justice League seemed to only be listening out of courtesy. As were Thor and Clint. Natasha seemed to be focussed more on the kids. She had a small frown on her face, as if something about them bothered her.

Everyone paid attention when Batman spoke next, however. “It should take at least a week to charge up the energy sources and prepare a device to send you home.”

Peter perked up. “That’s not that long. Have you dealt with interdimensional travel in the past?”

Several of the kids groaned. “Don’t remind me,” Stephanie said.

“Worst twenty-six hours of my life!” Dick agreed.

Then Jason spoke, and Peter was speechless.

“It was almost as bad as that time I died. Now that wasn’t a fun evening.”

“You died?” Natasha said, clearly confused and worried.

“I’m better now,” he said as if referring to a common cold. Jason had a small smirk on his face as he shrugged.

“Back to the discussion at hand,” Batman said, glaring at Jason. “Yes, Peter, we have dealt with the multiverse before. It should be fairly simple to locate your dimension and send you back. The only problem is powering the device. It requires Superman flying out to the sun and placing the energy core inside to fuel it. It needs to remain there for over a week.”

“You can fly to the sun?” Mr. Stark asked. “How do you survive?”

Clark shrugged. “I have impenetrable skin, and a very high melting point.”

No one questioned this, though Peter was quite intrigued.

“Where will they stay?” Dick asked, which caused a sudden silence.

“Does the Watchtower have enough rooms available?” Barry asked.

“What’s the Watchtower?” Peter asked.

“Our space station,” Diana answered, much to Peter’s delight, “and no, we have those visiting Green Lanterns, remember? Hal has been grousing about it all this week.”

“I was not!” Hal said, then sighed. “Okay, maybe I was, but that’s beside the point. What about your farmhouse, Clark?”

Clark shook his head. “Under renovation. Speaking of which I need to head over there after this. Lois will have a cow if I’m late.”

There was silence after that, as everyone was thinking. Then Stephanie got a - slightly evil, Peter thought - smile on her face. “What about the Manor? God knows we have enough space.”

“You don’t even live here!” Tim said.

Bruce glared at Stephanie for a bit then sighed. “The Manor would work. Though why anyone would want to stay with you rabble rousers is beyond my understanding.”

Jason snorted. “Says the guy who adopted us all willingingly.”

Batman grumbled, but was saved from replying as a sudden noise came from the door.

The meeting room had a wide glass window next to the exit - which was open - so Peter had a good view of the sleek black motorcycle that entered the cave, upon which rode a figure dressed all in black. The motorcycle was parked and yet another costumed teen - this time a girl - strolled toward the conference room.

She was dressed in head to toe black, in the form of a skin tight suit. She also had a yellow utility belt, and outline of a bat on her chest. She wore a black cape and cowl which had pointed ears and covered her whole face. There seemed to be some form of stitching across her mouth, which was quite creepy.

She walked forward and entered the room quickly. Bruce smiled upon seeing her.

“Ah, Black Bat. How was the robbery?”

She motioned with her hands in a way that Peter didn’t understand. It seemed vaguely like that sign language which he’d seen Clint use.

Whatever it was, Batman seemed to understand. “Very good. These are our visitors. Code 27G. They’ll be staying at the manor till we can send them back.”

Black Bat reached up and took off her cowl revealing an asian girl around eighteen year old with a black bob. “Good,” she said. “Names?”

“We’re allowing them. Over there we have Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Thor Odinson, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanov, Peter Parker, and Bruce Banner.”

“Bruce?” She asked with a smirk.

Batman sighed. “Yes.” He turned to the group. “This is my Daughter Cassandra Cain. Alias is Black Bat.”

Everyone muttered small hellos, except Jason who said something with the word “favorite” in it. Cassandra didn’t seem bothered by the lack of enthusiasm. She just smiled and walked over to Damian.

“Seat. Mine.” She spoke simply.

Peter thought the kid would just sneer, but instead he quickly moved over. He could have sworn the kid looked scared. Perhaps the kid was all bark and no bite.

“Well, if that’s all, I really should be going,” Clark Kent said as he rose from the table. “Good luck with staying at the manor. See ya kids.”

“Bye Uncle Supes,” The kids chorused

“I should be going as well,” Barry said. I’m needed at the station.”

Soon the rest of the league left, and the Avengers were left alone with the bats and birds.

116 notes · View notes

hrina · 5 years ago

Text

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

~*~

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