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hrina · 5 years

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Serotonin

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

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

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

~*~

September 4th, 2019

You always sit in the middle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mateo looks over at you inquisitively. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

Harry nods. “Yes, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s probably six feet.

You cross your thighs over each other.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

September 11th, 2019

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

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

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

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

“Sorry…excuse us,” you murmur.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You guys bet on me?”

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

“Good morning, everyone!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His apprehension makes you nervous. Had you done poorly?

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

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

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

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

You’re an idiot.

“Thank you,” you say dumbly.

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

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

Well done. Keep it up. H. x

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

Had there been a note on Mateo’s quiz?

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

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

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

~*~

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

“Sure. Anything else?”

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

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

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

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

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

You laugh. “You’re such a bitch.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She wiggles her brows. You snort.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

September 18th, 2019

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

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

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

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

In our defense, we thought you were dead.

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

An anchor.

A rose.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry?” You blink.

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

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

~*~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Finally, though, you hear your name ring out.

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

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

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

Don’t trip, don’t trip, don’t trip.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Very insightful. Great job. H. x

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

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

What a fucking dick.

September 25th, 2019

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Somehow, you don’t believe him.

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

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

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

October 9th, 2019

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

Harry Styles has posted to the forum.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hi all,

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

See you soon.

Sincerely,

Harry

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

62%.

Sixty-two percent.

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

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

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

He balks. “Come again?”

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

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

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

“Yeah,” you say, nodding weakly.

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

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

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

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

~*~

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

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

~*~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The one coming up?”

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

October 13th, 2019

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She’s not,” you say flatly.

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

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

“Holy shit! Speak of the fucking devil!”

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

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

“He looks good,” Mateo notes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mateo offers him a small smile; Margaret beams widely.

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

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

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

A beat of silence ensues.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No!

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

~*~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Er, I’ll just have a coke, then.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Two classes?”

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

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

“It is.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He smirks. “I guess we are.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Where’s Harry?”

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

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

“Thanks, man.”

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

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

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

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

He chuckles lowly before pulling away.

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

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

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

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

“See you tomorrow.”

~*~

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

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

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

“Margaret!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You pause. Your eyes narrow.

Holy shit.

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

She’s too loud.

Her voice carries through the air.

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

You whip around, nearly snapping your neck.

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

Your friends stare at you, mystified.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

October 14th, 2019

Your head hurts.

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

Where the fuck is he?

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

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

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

Harry is never late.

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

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

He’s a mess.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I like to read.” He shrugs.

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

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

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

Harry’s eyes fall to the packet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Exactly.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No kidding.”

Harry’s lips curl grimly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good idea,” you breathe.

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

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

“Deal.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harry nods assuredly. “Yeah.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You too.”

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

October 15th, 2019

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You snort.

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

“Margaret!”

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

“Jesus Christ.”

October 16th, 2019

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

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

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

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

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

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

What the fuck is going on?

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

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

~*~

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

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

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

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

4C.

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

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

“Hey,” Harry says, not unkindly.

You offer up a nervous smile. “Hey.”

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

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

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

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

“Good, thanks,” he replies. “You?”

“I’m good.”

“Good.”

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

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

“Sounds good.”

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

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

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

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

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

Harry nods. “Those are good.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Er…would you mind?”

Your jaw drops.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

“Lift your arm!”

“Alright, shit!” Harry obeys.

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

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

Your breath gets caught in your throat.

Harry hasn’t moved an inch.

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

But then Harry lets out a defeated sigh.

“Fuck it all,” he says.

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

~*~

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

But there’s nothing funny about this situation.

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

Finally.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s gorgeous,” you mumble softly.

“I want you,” he replies.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Pull—”

He kisses your throat.

“—my—”

He kisses your chin.

“—hair.”

He kisses your lips.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can I kiss you again?” he requests.

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

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

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

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

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “Back problems.”

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

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

He tastes like you. The realisation makes you moan.

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

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

You groan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod once. “Agreed.”

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

You’re really about to have sex with Harry.

Harry, who grades your papers.

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

Harry, who ignored you for weeks.

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

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

“You good?”

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

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

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

“Sorry,” he says. “It feels good.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We’re fucked,” he adds weakly.

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

October 23rd, 2019

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

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

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

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

November 13th, 2019

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

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

“I didn’t see her complaining!”

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

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

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

“Agreed.” Mateo nods.

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

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

“Mhm,” you hum in response.

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

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

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

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

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

“Hi,” you whisper.

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

“Fine.” Your answer is curt. “You?”

“I’ve been alright, yeah.”

“That’s good.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re worried about yourself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Excuse me?” Your brows knit together.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nods. “I promise.”

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

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

You turn and push through the doors without looking back.

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

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

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

~*~

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

Dopamine (a Serotonin extra)

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

#harry styles smut #harry styles one shot #harry styles imagine #harry styles blurb #harry styles fanfiction #i really hope you guys love this #TArry #harry writing

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divinaes-bookofsecrets · 3 years

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Private. Hello there I would like a spirit guide reading please -Rochelle (RS) ♉️

Hello 👋hi 👋 (🌺Rs)Rochelle are you a 🐂 ♉?

Really ... if I guessed you correctly you are Taurus in your natal birth chart (I am an aspiring astrologist and zlso do in-depth Astrology Reports based off of your natal birth charting so please do nog hesitate to ask for That next !

Your SpiritGuide is Cressida

💎🦋Galactic-Arctic Fox🦋💎

She is a mystical interterrestrial being from a galaxy through another realm not too far away but just out of reach !

Cressida has been with you since 2018 and should remain by your side as a companion, spiritual guardian 🙏 ✨ and your synchronicity lessons for the rest of your life.

Why is Cressida with me and trying to help or heal my situation and past situations or for future situations anyways? Well.. heres an in depth description of what this particular animal spirit totem means ..

Whats Cressida doing? How can I place her in my life and recognize her?

🦋Whether the White Arctic Fox appears in dreams, visions, waking life or synchronicities, it is a sign and message that you are to keep going, amid the test of your nature and character. Some powerful forces are working on your behalf to sort things out in a favorable outcome or way soon. Whatever you may be going through will soon pass. These tests and trials have made you stronger, and giving in is for the weak. You should realize how far you have come. You will be arriving to a place of rest and completeness soon. 🦋The Arctic Fox is a sign to trust yourself, above trusting anything or one outside of you. At least for the purpose of clarity. IN other words, it is time to pause, breathe, and receive insights from your oversoul or higher self. As a seeker of truth, you cannot allow someone or something else to dilute what you sense. Take time out to refuel so that you can come from a place of neutrality.🦋 You will need to be stubborn in a forthcoming opportunity and trust your instincts. Even if you collaborate with others, or cooperate with them, you must keep your eyes open as no one can look out for you the way that you can for yourself. In other words, watch your own back. Don’t give that responsibility entirely to others.🦋 The Arctic Fox teaches us that, we are only beings and we are all doing things to survive. Your trust is only owed to a higher source. You can cooperate with others, but the key is to look out for yourself always. Don’t just expect others to put you first. 🦋Always follow up, and if possible do things yourself when it comes to projects that require your creativity. The White Arctic Fox is a message that you want others to be better than what they are showing you. In other words, you are looking at the aspect of how a person can be and not what or who they truly are. If you are a part of a group of people who are being intentionally deceptive, it is best to clear up your acts now rather than later. 🦋The Arctic White Fox is about seeing beyond what we are shown, and hearing beyond what we are told. Your psychic senses will be heightened at this time.💎 Pay attention to what is being revealed. 🧿

⚠️This message isn't, obviously resonant with all whose paths it crosses, as perhaps you may come into contact with someone of this vernacular, mastery or skill. Therefore, it is a sign from the universe that you're meant to work with such a person. ⚠️

🦋What does She look like? 🥀

Her fur is multidimensional and is actually the softest known material other than silk in this universe and all other universes including hidden realms..

Since she is a Galactic Arctic Fox you'll expect to see that she looks rather like a regular Arctic White Fox from our home planet Earth🌍But has different highlights and dimensions to her skin and her fur body. She has *fur tattoos* which are blue-- they represent the Element Water(do you have a lot of water 💧in your natal birth charting , I suspect you do 😉 )Her fur tattoos are like a war paint that was branded onto her when she became fully mature and with the seasons her other markings show up - each season - has a different shade of white to blue hue or even teal like transference that takes place , its quite magickal to see.

What is Cressida's personality like?

🦋Cressida has a strong, but warm and gentle but also courageous and brave personality and soul as a Galzctic Arctic Fox 💙 ❤ 💖 She conducts herself with a sense if integrity in every situation(no matter what!) 🦋Integrity is a personal trait that has strong moral principles and core values and then conducting your life with those as your guide.🦋 She has a lot of compassion for all of humanity but especially you (Rs) ♉ This character traits example feels deep sympathy and pity for the suffering and misfortune of others, and you have a desire to do something to alleviate their suffering..She sees that you may be suffering maybe and has messages for you just about to come up .. old on we need to finish her character profile (bio)

🦋Cressida is an honest Galactic fox just as much of them are but there are more certainly the few bunches who are so mischievous that they are notdared to be messed with (worse than the worst fae)

🦋She has strong reliability. This SpiritGuidr's character quality can be consistently depended upon to follow through on your/her commitments, actions, and decisions. She does what she says you she will do.🥀🌍(88% of the time)

😷She hopes you wear a mask because she is very worried and concerned about your welfare during this coronairus. Please don't fall asleep 😴 🙏 😫 😪 😩 😭yet 😴you'll miss her message for you... im going to stop talking zbout her personality there id so much lol.

What is my SpiritGuide messages?

Cressida has a numerology message she has been sending you many other synchronicity but she asks that you pay attention next for the number # 536 if you haven't seen it by now already...

WHATS IT MEAN ANYWAYS?

Number 536 is a blend of the energies and attributes of number 5 and number 3, and the vibrations of number 6. Number 5 resonates with major life changes, making important choices and decisions, promotion and advancements, adaptability and versatility, personal freedom and individuality, life lessons learned through experience and resourcefulness. Number 3 offers assistance and encouragement, communication and enthusiasm, growth, expansion and the principles of increase, broad-minded thinking, self-expression, talent and skills. Number 3 also resonates with the energies of the Ascended Masters. Number 6 relates to love of home, family and domesticity, honesty and integrity, responsibility, compassion and empathy, finding solutions, grace and gratitude, the ability to compromise, emotional depth, provision and providing and the material aspects of life.

Angel Number 536 brings a message from your angels to maintain a positive attitude in regards to your monetary and financial circumstances as changes are taking place that will ensure that your material and monetary needs are met. Your positive affirmations, prayers and optimistic outlook have manifested opportunities to attract prosperity and abundance into your life. Trust that your Spirit Guide(s) especially Cressida.. will surround, support and guide you through these important changes.

Number 536 is a message to trust that the changes you may be going through are happening for your highest good. These changes may involve your career choices, your place of residence and/or an important relationship. Your angels support you through these changes and offer guidance and assistance to make transitions easier. Trust that these changes will have positive effects on your life and will ensure a continued supply of abundance to meet your daily wants and needs.

Number 536 encourages you to move forward with positive plans and ideas as they will prove to be most beneficial in all ways for yourself and your loved ones.

Spiritual Messages...

Cressida wants you to be inspired, creative and most of all live out your destiny!!

🙏 Please take this advice seriously! You need to think about:

Surrounding yourself with people who reflect the character traits you want to embrace.

🦋They will inspire and motivate you to build these traits in yourself.

🦋Try to avoid people who have a weak character and make bad decisions.

🦋When you live your life being true to yourself and honest with others you manifest positive energies and desired results and outcomes. Speak your truths with gentleness and love and accept others with grace and understanding.

Monthly Message from your Spirit Guide ✨ 💛 ❤ 💖

A creak you hear in the dark could be the settling of an old house, or it could be a burglar creeping on the stairs. Loud voices you hear coming in through the windows could be your neighbors arguing, or it could be those same neighbors sharing good news. The lamp going out on your nightstand could be a sign that electricity has shut down, or it could mean you need a new bulb. There is often more than one way to interpret something, and usually there's nothing to worry about. Remember that today, Taurus, if you are tempted to follow worrisome thoughts. It's more likely there's nothing to worry about.

🦋🌍🦋

This is a great week(jan 11th to jan 17th) for you to finally finish one or two of those big projects you put on hold a while back. You may have thought you would never be able to get to them, but if you actually put this into your schedule and get started, you should see that it will all fall into place, and you'll get everything else done that needs to be done. This is also an ideal time to complete important conversations that were left dangling, maybe because there was no answer at the time, or because someone was being elusive about responding. You should find it easier now to get answers and receive honest reactions. Crossing all of these things off your long list will give you a great sense of satisfaction. You may even find that because of this efficiency, you will be inspired by a new idea that allows you to tap into a talent you have not used lately, and that would be a great idea. You have been very assertive in trying to attract an investor, team member, or partner for some project you want to take on. However, you are advised now to take a wait-and-see approach and be patient. What you need will materialize if you kick back a bit and let it come to you.

Thank you for meeting your Spirit Guide!! If you have any questions, concerns, or additional specific questions to ask your Spirit Guide you can always Astral travel and speak to her directly but; if you prefer that I take another independent in depth dive into your world I will 🌍🦋 🌎 I will answer up to 2 questions per ask Thanks for allowing this experience to take place, please 🙏

🦋Like && Share this post 📫 ✨

Much Love😍 ❤ Divinae

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kiyasharpe · 3 years

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SAP C_S4FCF_1909 Certification Description

The 'SAP Accredited Software Affiliate - Central Finance in SAP S/4HANA' certification examination validates that the applicant possesses the essential and key understanding required of your Central Finance information. This certification shows that this choice has a total being familiar with and then in? level specialized capabilities to sign up as part of a project team inside a mentored role. This certification examination is recommended as being an entry level certification. It is strongly recommended as affirmation the expert is ready to make contributions substantially to Main Finance execution assignments. It positions the advisor able to be onboarded to an execution venture quickly and to bring about the project's accomplishment without delay. This qualification is the perfect place to start for a job as being a Main Financing specialist. SAP C_S4FCF_1909 Certification Remarks To make certain success, SAP recommends merging education and learning lessons and palms-on experience to prepare for the certification examination as questions will try out your capacity to use the skills you possess received in training. You are unacceptable to work with any reference resources throughout the C_S4FCF_1909 certification test (no entry to online documentation or to any SAP system).

SAP C_S4FCF_1909 Certification Subject matter Areas Please see below the set of subject areas which may be taken care of in this particular certification and the programs which cover them. Its accuracy and reliability will not make up a legitimate assert; SAP reserves the legal right to up-date the test articles items and topics, weighting) whenever you want. - Initial Load in Central Finance> 12% - Real time Replication in Central Finance> 12% - System Landscape Transformation Server (SLT)8% - 12% - SAP Master Data Governance8% - 12% - Central Finance Setup and Configuration8% - 12% - Corporate Finance Processes supported by Central Finance8% - 12% - Enhancements in the Controlling Area (CO-PA, WBS)8% - 12% - Run Phase in Central Finance< 8% - Central Finance Landscape Architecture< 8% - Integration Technology ALE< 8% - System Integration Concepts< 8% SAP C_S4FCF_1909 Certification Standard Information SAP C_S4FCF_1909 Certification Examination Prep All SAP consultant qualifications are offered as Cloud Certifications in the Certification Centre and will be scheduled with item code CER006. With CER006 - SAP Certification from the Cloud, you are able to occupy to six tests endeavors of your liking in just one calendar year - from everywhere and anytime it fits you! Check dates could be booked and chosen one by one. Every single particular certification comes along with its very own group of planning strategies. We outline them as "Matter Areas" and they may be seen on each and every assessment outline. You will discover the quantity of questions, the time period of the test, what locations you will be examined on, and recommended program content and work you are able to guide. SAP C_S4FCF_1909 Certification exams may have unscored products which are now being evaluated for approaching produces in the assessment. These unscored products are randomly distributed all over the C_S4FCF_1909 certification subjects and so are not measured towards the final report. The total variety of items of an exam as presented in the Education Go shopping is rarely surpassed when unscored products are used. SAP C_S4FCF_1909 Certification Details : - Exam Code:- C_S4FCF_1909 - Exam Name:- SAP Certified Application Associate - Central Finance in SAP S/4HANA - Delivery Methods:- Certification - Level:- Associate - Exam:- 80 questions - Sample Questions:- View more - Cut Score:- 66% - Duration:- 180 mins - Languages:- German, English Get More Details on SAP C_S4FCF_1909 Certification Exam:- - https://sap-cert-guide.blogspot.com/2021/03/cs4fcf1909-study-guide-and-how-to-crack.html - https://www.slideserve.com/seemaiyerr/c-s4fcf-1909-study-guide-and-how-to-crack-exam-on-s-4hana-central-finance-powerpoint-ppt-presentation-10393412 - https://www.academia.edu/45498475/C_S4FCF_1909_Success_Story_and_How_to_Crack_Exam_on_S_4HANA_Central_Finance - https://blog.storymirror.com/read/ttkb6wnf/how-i-scored-91-in-c-s4fcf-1909-exam-for-sap-s-4hana-central-finance-certification Safeguarding the price of SAP C_S4FCF_1909 Certification SAP Education and learning worked tough alongside the Certification & Enablement Impact Council to boost the value of C_S4FCF_1909 certification and increase the exams. A lot more partners and customers are now looking to certification as a reputable standard to safeguard their investments. Unfortunately, the improved demand for certification has taken with it an increasing number of individuals who to try to accomplish SAP C_S4FCF_1909 certification by means of unfair signifies. This on-going issue has encouraged SAP Schooling to place a fresh give attention to test stability. You should look into our submit to learn what you can do to help you to shield the reliability of your own C_S4FCF_1909 certification reputation. More info about C_S4FCF_1909 practice test go to our web site.

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planestrainsnpages · 4 years

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This Is IT by Alan Watts (and Other Essays on Zen and Spiritual Experiences)

I give it: 7/10

Length: 153 pages

My Spiritual Awakening took place in Los Angeles, summer of 2014. At the same time, I read this text—and now, nearly six years later, want to synthesize the take-aways as I practice minimalism in reducing my extensive books collection to just 125 books.

In this text, Alan Watts defines this as, “Spiritual awakening is the difficult process whereby the increasing realization that everything is as wrong as it can be flips suddenly into the realization that everything is as right as it can be. Or better, everything is as It can be” (13).

Essays include:

This Is IT

Instinct, Intelligence, and Anxiety

Zen and the Problem of Control

Beat Zen, Square Zen, and Zen

Spirituality and Sensuality

The New Alchemy

The title essay, This Is IT focuses on current consciousness—the continually moving moment of NOW and on the necessity to let go of control in order to be open to all emotions and the “cosmic experience.”

“I believe that if this state of consciousness could become more universal, the pretentious nonsense which passes for the serious business of the world would dissolve in laughter” (12).

This essay slightly contradicts Abraham Hicks’ (Law of Attraction) assertion that your emotions matter most of all, as the indicator of your vibrational alignment (or disharmony) with all that is. Many Hicks’ listeners confuse this to me POSITIVE VIBES ONLY, when instead, Hicks affirms that negative emotions are not “wrong” or in need or control but instead act to move you towards what you do want and what feels good.

Watts echos Hicks by affirming that negative emotions are not wrong, but co-exist on the spectrum of emotions, and we should not try to control these feelings away/separate from us. In fact, Watts points out, enlightenment often arises in moments of despair. Contrasting emotions guide us towards what we want. However, Watts contradicts the idea that joy matters most, as he distinctly states that feelings of ecstasy are often confused for enlightenment.

“...[T]he immediate now is complete even when it is not ecstatic. For ecstasy is a necessarily impermanent contrast in the constant fluctuation of our feelings. But insight, when clear enough, persists; having once understood a particular skill, the facility tends to remain” (18-19).

Instead, Nirvana includes any/all emotions present and changing. Watts and Hicks alike encourage selfishness, while Hicks considers this a path to joy and Watts sees this humanness as a path to transcend the self to the “cosmic” whole or oneness, which he claims is purposeless and instead playful.

He points out that people mistakenly look for spiritual leaders to exhibit perfection over humanity:

“...[W]hether he shows anxiety or not, whether he depends upon ‘material crutches’ such as wine or tobacco, whether he loses his temper, or gets depressed, or falls in love when he shouldn’t, or sometimes looks a bit tired or frayed at the edges. All these criteria might be valid if the philosopher were preaching freedom from being human, or if he were trying to make himself or others radically better.... But the limits within which such improvements may be made are small in comparison with the vast aspects of our nature and our circumstances which remain the same.... I am saying...that while there is a place for bettering oneself and others, solving problems...this is by no means the only or even the chief principal of life....” (31-32).

Instead of prioritizing joy as an end-goal, Watts encourages purposelessness (as opposed to goal-setting and focus on improvement) and letting go of control as key to enlightenment:

“Nature is much more playful than purposeful, and the probability that it has no specific goals for the future need not strike one as a defect.... much more like art than business, politics, or religion. They are especially like the arts of music and dancing.... No one imagines that a symphony is supposed to improve in quality as it goes along, or that the whole object of playing is to reach the finale. The point of music is discovered in every moment of playing and listening to it” (32-33).

“...[I]f we are unduly absorbed in improving...we may forget altogether to live....” (33).

He goes onto say that if we believe that everything in the world is right just as it is, then we may perceive “our normal anxieties” as “ludicrous,” or a wrong response. Really, though, each emotion exists along a spectrum of all emotions, connected and contrasting one another in relation.

“...[T]he superior truth of the ‘cosmic’ experience... [C]ontrol must always be subordinate to motion if there is to be motion at all. In human terms, total restraint of movement is the equivalent of total doubt, of refusal to trust one’s senses or feelings.... On the other hand, movement and the release of restraint are the equivalent of faith, of committing oneself to the uncontrolled and the unknown..... An essential part of the ‘cosmic’ experience is, however that the normal restriction of consciousness to the ego-feeling is also right, but only and always because it is subordinate to absence of restriction, to movement and faith.... [T]here must be total affirmation and acceptance.... [F]or man to make himself mad by trying to bring everything under his control. We become insane, unsound, and without foundation when we lose consciousness of and faith in the uncontrolled and ungraspable...world which is ultimately what we ourselves are. And there is a very slight distinction, if any, between complete, conscious faith and love” (38-39).

One critique that I have with this essay is Watt’s meager attempt to assure that such acceptance of all as-is need not perpetuate injustice:

With little supporting evidence, he state that, “[E]ven though it may be exploited for this purpose, the experience itself is in no sense a philosophy designed to justify or desensitize oneself to the inequalities of life,” (26). He goes onto say, “...the holocaust of the biological world, where every living creatures lives by feeding off others.... is reversed so that every victim is seen as offering itself in sacrifice” (37), going onto argue that all is relative.

For me, this stretch contradicts experiences of the oppressed who fight against such an “offering” of themselves to a system that goes against their free will.

Overall, I think the message —to let go of control and constant striving for perfection, to accept all of our emotions as part of all that is— ironically offers an anecdote for an unbalanced culture to improve, through acceptance over action.

The other essays in this collection:

Instinct, Intelligence, and Anxiety looks at how humans differ from animals in our ability to analyze, predict, and decide—and at what cost.

Zen and the Problem of Control asks if, “man is a self-conscious and therefore self-controlling organism, how is he to control the aspect of himself which does the controlling?” Watts using judo as an example, of working with the blows delivered versus resisting. As it turns out—cooperation is key.

Beat Zen, Square Zen, and Zen opens pandora’s box of true Zen, traditional Zen, and cultural interpretations—including Jack Kerouac’s. Watts argues that in order to don a true Zen lifestyle, one must overcome any fear or rebellion of their own culture. “Lacking this, his Zen will either be ‘beat’ or ‘square,’ either a revolt...or a form of stuffiness.... Zen is above all the liberation of the mind from conventional though...utterly different from rebellion against convention, on one hand, or adapting foreign conventions on the other” (90).

Spirituality and Sensuality begins with how, “It has often been said that the human being is a combination of animal and angel....” and further explores the illusion of duality as a true unity that cannot exist without an opposite.

The New Alchemy is an acid test that starts off with talking about immortality. Watts discusses the high points and recurrent themes of his experiences on LSD, including facing the ultimate illusion: fear of death.

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myaekingheart · 4 years

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90. Kurama’s Remnant, Part Two

So she had been captured. Really, it was just her luck. Rei bit down on the gag in her mouth and tried to calm herself down. This was not the worst that could’ve happened. At least they hadn’t killed her. Not yet, anyway. Once they either violated her ten different ways or found her completely useless, then they would dispose her. Likely slit her throat and call it a day. She shuddered and tried not to think about it.

The earliest days of her ANBU training flickered in the back of her mind: the day Kakashi stood at the front of an unforgiving, dimly lit room so many years ago speaking words that made her sick. And if for any reason you happen to be captured, you kill yourself and destroy your body. Leave no trace of yourself behind. A corpse can tell as much about a person as the living can. There was no way this was how it was all meant to end. She refused to believe that she was meant to die here, right now, for the sake of Konoha. Not after everything she had already been through. Not after her and Kakashi were finally back together.

Kakashi. She wondered where he was now, if he was still waiting with bated breath for the moment Lady Tsunade would tell him to go after her. She wasn’t sure if she even wanted him to. He worried about her, of course. He only ever wanted to keep her safe. There was no doubt in her mind that he would beat her captors to a pulp should he find her like this. And yet she still needed to be independent. She could not rely on him forever. As hard as that was for him to accept, she needed to do this on her own. To claw her way out of the grave with her bare hands, by herself.

The man from earlier, the one she assumed had been using Nise’s name, threw his hand of cards down on the table and surrendered. His two opponents rolled their eyes, likely deeming him a sore loser. He forced himself to his feet as if his body weighed more than he could handle, then turned on his heels with contrasting fluidity and approached Rei. Her heart pounded as he strolled nearer, kneeling down and tilting her chin up forcefully. “Enough playing around” he siad, more likely to his friends than to her. “I think it’s about time we squeeze some information out of this bitch.” The other two men nodded, one cracking his knuckles with a predatory grin. A strange tattoo branded his hand.

Fake Nise ripped the gag off of Rei’s mouth, the pressure having left a red mark across her lower cheeks like a phantom grin. Rei glared up at him, pressing her nails into her palms. “If you think I’ll crack easily, you’re solely mistaken, you worthless piece of shit” she growled.

Fake Nise and the other men laughed at one another, having not expected such an aggressive introduction. “She’s a feisty one” commented one of the other men, scrawny and sickly-looking. “She’ll be a fun one to rip apart!”

The other men nodded, taking apparent delight in the thought of her destruction. Fake Nise squeezed her cheeks so that her lips pouted, then growled, “I’m going to give you one more chance to decide whether you want to do this the easy way or the hard way.”

Rei grimaced, pressing her palm to the ground. She focused hard on siphoning her chakra through the dirt, hoping to find any sign of water that she could use to her advantage. If not in the form of a water style jutsu, she could at last tether her chakra to the water as a warning sign, carrying a silent message down the nearest stream. Ro and Mikazuki surely would’ve stopped somewhere along its route. Try as she might, however, for some reason her chakra would not budge. Her energy stores were not depleted—she could feel her chakra network full and functioning—and yet her ability was shot. A tiny groan involuntarily escaped her lips. Something was very, very wrong.

“Hey, I think she’s trying to trick us” one of the other men mused. He knelt down beside the fake Nise and chuckled. “You think ninjutsu is going to save you?” he asked. “Think again, bitch. Kesu here can nullify any and all chakra nature. You’re shit out of luck.” He motioned to another man still seated at the table; he looked rather bored as he reorganized the playing cards in his hand.

None of this made any sense, though. How was it even possible to nullify chakra nature? She had to be under some sort of genjutsu. And yet her hands were tied—literally. There was no way she could release herself. If she was even under genjutsu at all. Thanks to training with Naru, her genjutsu detection skills were fairly strong and yet in this moment, nothing felt out of the ordinary. Either he was a particularly strong opponent, or they were telling the truth.

The fake NIse smiled darkly, jerking her chin out of his grip. “You think you can pull a dirty trick like that on us, huh? What do you think we are? Stupid?” he asked. He glanced to his comraddes as if to joke about her own idiocy. Then, with a single affirmative nod, he muttered, “The hard way it is, then.” With one swift draw of his fist, he punched her squarely in the jaw, blood splattering from her mouth on impact. A satisfying grin touched his lips as she coughed and wiped her mouth against her shoulder. “I can do this all day if I have to.”

Tsunade glanced up from her paperwork, stamping file after file for approval. She couldn’t handle much more of this. Kakashi sat in her office, fingers tented and eyes locked on nothing in particular. She could tell he was internally combusting. Finally, she sighed and rubbed her forehead before addressing the elephant in the room. “Are you going to sit here all day like this?” she asked.

Kakashi blinked, snapping out of his daze, and looked back at her quizzically. “Hmm? What?” he asked.

Groaning, Tsunade crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair. “You’re driving me insane, Kakashi!” she shouted. “I can’t sit here and get anything done with you panicking like this. Go outside, get some fresh air, and clear your damn head!”

As much as he wished he could, there was no way. His thoughts were suffocating but even worse was his anxiety. If he left now, there was no guarantee that new advancements on the current situation would not make their way back in his absence. Whatever was happening out there, he needed to know. Immediately.

Shaking his head, Kakashi sighed and replied, “I’ll be fine.”

“If you’re not going to leave” Tsunade started, “Then at least step out into the hallway and get yourself some water or something. Take a bathroom break. You don’t have to leave the building but at least stretch your legs.”

By this point, Kakashi had no choice but to compromise. It wasn’t until he stood tha the realized how stiff he felt—how much time had passed since they left? He glanced ou the window, the sun setting low in the west, and estimated about four hours. He ruffled his hair and sighed, praying Rei would return soon.

Just as his hand rested on the doorknob, static pooled from the radio on Tsunade’s desk. “L-Lady Tsunade?!” a voice called. Kakashi whipped around, eyes wide. “Lady Tsunade, do you read me?!”

“Mikazuki!” Tsunade shouted into the receiver. “What’s going on? Have you captured the thief?”

“U-um…not exactly…” Mikazuki stammered. “We have a bit of a problem.”

Problem. The word reverberated through Kakashi’s body, bouncing off of every nerve. He rushed forward, grabbed the receiver. “What kind of problem? Is everyone alright?” he asked frantically.

Mikazuki whimpered, clearly terrified of what response she was about to receive. “W-well, you see…the thing is…” she started. There was a gruff sigh as Ro chimed in.

“Aisuru has been captured.” Kakashi’s heart sank. The fact that he was using her ANBU code name just made this that much worse. Ro cleared his throat and continued. “It was about an hour and a half ago. We apprehended the enemy, but he had backup. They moved fast and took her with them. We don’t know where.”

Kakashi met Tsunade’s gaze, his eyes brimming with a terrifying energy. “I’m going after her” he said. Before he could leave, Tsunade reached out and gripped his wrist.

“It’s not worth it” she said. “It’s almost nightfall, and you can’t go alone.” Kakashi narrowed his eyes, not appreciating the restraint, but before he could protest further, Tsunade grabbed the receiver again. “Make your way back to the village” she instructed Mikazuki and Ro. “We need to restrategize.”

By nightfall, Rei was left battered and bruised yet she still refused to say a word. The fake Nise was clearly growing frustrated with her. How strong could her will possibly be? He whipped out a kunai and pressed the blade tight against her throat. “You’re testing my patience” he growled.

“I thought you said you could do this all day” Rei spat. The man gritted his teeth and tugged her head back by her hair to get an even clearer view of her neck.

“You should know better than to play games with me” fake Nise replied. “Tell me: what makes you so defiant? Hmm? Is it that god-awful will of fire the Leaf Village goes on about? Or something different? Go on, spit it out.”

Without even thinking, Rei’s mind conjured up the perfect excuse. By the time the words spilled from her mouth, she regretted ever saying it. Perhaps she was overdoing it. She could only stretch the truth so far. And yet this was the most surefire way for her to avoid certain death. If this man had even the slightest fraction of a heart inside his body, he would know better than to destroy her. She watched his expression change from sinister delight to concerned confusion as she licked her lips, stared him dead in the eyes, and replied, “I’m pregnant.”

The fake Nise released his grip on her and recoiled, disbelief overwhelming his face. The others with him blinked and Rei caught their eyes shift down to her stomach. She was going to have to play this well if she was to ensure her own survival. The man at the table looked up.

“That’s ridiculous” the fake Nise finally said, attempting to shrug off the jarring announcement. “You don’t even look pregnant.”

“I don’t know” one of the other men said. “She is kind of chubby.” A second man slapped him hard on the arm. Rei tried not to fume at the insinuation.

Swallowing hard, Rei explained, “I’m only a couple months along. I’ve got a sweetheart back home. Haven’t had the chance to tell him yet. I only just found out myself not long ago.”

One of the other men placed his hands on his hips and looked her up and down. “What kind of kage would let a pregnant ninja out in the field, huh?”

“The hokage doesn’t know yet” Rei replied curtly. “No one does. Except you all, now.” Then, an incredulous laugh. “To think, the first people to hear the goods news are the same ones who want me dead!”

There was something about her decorum that just didn’t sit right with the fake Nise. She was far too calm for his liking. If she was really that desperate, she ought to be pleading for her life. “You’re full of shit” he muttered, then grabbed her forcefully with the utmost intent to kill. Before he could do anything, however, the man at the table stood and interrupted.

“Don’t touch her” he said, his voice level but strong. “Leave her be. She’s in no condition to be tossed around.”

Rei blinked at him, shocked, as the fake Nise grumbled and dropped her to the ground. She locked eyes with this generous man as he slowly approached, as cautious as if she was an injured deer, then knelt down and sliced through her bonds. In the wake of her lie, she had expected at least a little leeway but this? This was too much. What did he see in her that caused him to be so forgiving? She couldn’t wrap her head around it. And yet when she looked in his eyes, there was a sense of mutual understanding, a certain tenderness she had never expected from an enemy. She rubbed her newly liberated forearms and bushed the hair out of her face. As he walked away, she pressed a hand to her stomach and sucked in a deep breath. She was really going to have to play this perfectly now. She could not afford to fuck this up. There was far too much at stake.

Tsunade could barely keep her eyes open. Paperwork cluttered her desk, covered in crude drawings of potential tactics. By this point, all the lines were starting to blur together to create one monster image of sleep deprivation. Sighing, she rose to her feet and locked eyes with her company. “We’ve made some good progress, but I think it’s time we all went home and got some rest.”

Mikazuki yawned and nodded in agreement. Her eyes were growing so heavy, and she kept nearly falling asleep against Ro’s strong shoulder. He refused to show any signs of weakness but it was clear by the pallor of his face and sunken look of his eyes that he, too, was exhausted. Kakashi, however, panicked at the thought.

“But what about Rei?” he asked. “We can’t waste any time, she could be in danger.”

Tsunade gritted her teeth and rested a hand on the copy ninja’s shoulder. “I know you’re desperate to protect her, Kakashi, but really, no matter what, there’s not much that can be done until morning so just go home and try to get some rest, alright?”

Unfortunately, there were really no other options. It was nearly three in the morning. Most anyone with the capacity to do anything was either asleep or already on the verge of it. When he returned home, Toshio greeted him anxiously, stamping his feet against the floor and sniffing everywhere. Kakashi took him outside to pee, staring at the stars all the while and wondering where Rei was. Once finished, Toshio nudged the Copy Ninja’s hand and whimpered. Kakashi could see in his eyes the same concerned desperation that he felt himself. He scratched behind the dog’s ear and motioned for him to follow him back inside.

Kakashi climbed into bed that night restless and unresolved. The vacant space beside him felt and everpresent—he extended his arm out across it, felt the cold sheets beneath his skin. His hand wandered north to find an old t-shirt of hers crumpled beneath the pillow, one of the ones she frequently wore to bed. He hugged it close to his chest and squeezed his eyes shut tight. For a brief moment, laying there desperate for her company, he almost considered going after her himself. He could get away with it if he really wanted to. The logistics of it, however, were nonsensical. He would be branded a rogue shinobi, his face would be plastered in every bingo book. What a crime to be wanted for, though: defected on account of rescuing love. It all sounded so ridiculous. Deep down, he knew he could never bring himself to do it. Not really. He had to practice some sense of restraint. After all, he had a future to consider.

Kakashi thought back to his offer frm earlier that day, asking Rei to move in with him. Now more than ever, he wished there was a place that they could share, somewhere that was both his and hers. He hated knowing that even if she was safe and she did return, there was still something keeping them separated. If he could just finally have her in his arms again, he was posiive he would never be able to let her go. Not after all of this.

Rei wasn’t sure how comfortable she felt with the current level of freedom she had been afforded. The thought of moving around the cave as she pleased seemed unconventional. She was a captive and therefore she should be treated like one, shouldn’t she? But then again, she was a captive with a history. A handicap, even. A false pregnancy.

She did her best to play this as realistically as possible. She skirted around behind a rock to take frequent bathroom breaks, she yawned often, and she feigned nausea at every unpleasant whiff. All the while, that generous man, whose name she had learned was Omoitsuku, watched her with a keen eye. Strangely enough, this gaze of his was in no way predatory. Rather, he seemd almost intrigued or softhearted. It admittedly left Rei feeling mildly uncertain of herself.

She had no idea what time it was when her stomach began to ache with hunger. By now, many of her captors had gone to sleep (or at least were trying to) but Omoitsuku still sat at the table organizing his playing cards. Upon closer inspection, it looked as if he was preparing to play solitaire. Rei inched nearer, surveying the small array of leftovers still sprawled on one end of the table. If they were not opposed, she would take the least pretentious thing: the bread. She assumed this would appear appropriate for her “current state” anyway, something bland that sat easy on sensitive stomachs.

When Omoitsuku caught her uncertain approach, a small smile touched his lips. “You hungry?” he asked. Rei nodded. He motioned for her to come closer, pushing a chair out for her with his foot from under the table, and she obliged.

The fake Nise tossed and turned from the other end of the cave, looking over at the scene just as Rei shyly grabbed a small loaf of bread. He fumed. “What?! We’re feeding hostages now?!” he shouted.

Omoitsuku shot him a dark glare. “She is the exception” he snapped back, and the fake Nise was left with no other option but to grumble and roll back onto his other side for an uneasy night’s sleep.

They sat there in silence for a long while, Rei nibbling on her bread, before the silence became unbearable. “Can I ask you a question?” she proposed quietly, refusing to meet his gaze. He nodded once. Rei sucked in a deep breath, then asked, “What compelled you to be so nice to me?”

The man chuckled and shook his head, still tending to his cards. “Am I really being that nice if I’m still holding you captive?” he asked.

“Fair point” Rei replied. “But you’re treating me better than you would any regular hostage, and that has to mean something.”

Finally, the situation wasn’t so funny anymore. Omoitsuku sighed and licked his lips. “I could never bring myself to beat a pregnant woman, or stand idly by while someone else did” he explained.

Rei pursed her lips and pressed a hand to her vacant stomach, dropping her eyes to the floor. “You have no obligation to do that, though” she said. “What benefit would you get from salvaging me and my unborn child?”

“You act like I have no morality” Omoitsuku replied, and there was a slight edge to his tone that made Rei reconsider how far she was pushing the envelope here. She needed to tread lightly—one offense and he could revoke all the kindness he had previously shown her. He set down the last of his cards, revealing a precise arrangement organized by suit, before continuing. “The truth of the matter is that my wife and I have been trying to conceive for the past year. We haven’t had much luck, but I’m ready for when it finally happens. I’ve read all the books, done my fair share of research. I probably know more about pregnancy than any other man in this tiny, downtrodden village of ours. I could never bring myself to hurt a woman who would put her body through that kind of strain. She’s working hard enough growing a human, she doesn’t need the added stress.”

The explanation brought an unexpected level of humanity to this man, and for a moment she almost forgot he was her enemy. The one point of contention was his level of knowledge on the subject. One slip-up and he could see right through her façade. His expertise was ummatched. The longer she thought about it, the more vulnerable she felt until it became a burning question at the back of her throat. She knew this was risky, but she had to ask it anyway. “How do you know I’m not lying?”

Omoitsuku met her gaze, blinked once, narrowed his eyes ever so slightly. “What do you mean?”

“About the pregnancy” Rei clarified. She dropped her eyes to the loaf of bread, picked apart a corner. “If you have so much knowledge about this, how can you tell I’m telling the truth? We’ve already established I don’t look pregnant, and I am still your enemy. I could just as easily be deceiving you, so…how do you know I’m telling the truth?”

“Well, for one thing” Omoitsuku began, “I don’t like liars. I never saw the need. But I don’t peg you as a liar. I don’t think anyone in their right mind would lie about something like this, anyway.” The guilt began to drip down Rei’s spine like molasses, paralyzing. She rolled a scrap of bread between her fingers until it formed a mushy little ball of dough. “And even if you were all talk” he continued, “I can tell you’re not lying just looking at you.”

Rei swallowed hard, chewed her bottom lip. “How do you mean?”

Omoitsuku leaned forward and cupped her cheek in his hand. When she glanced at him, his eyes were glossy and tender. He wasn’t going to hurt her. “You’ve got that glow about you” he said. “You know that glow that all pregnant women get? You’re beaming, like the sun.”

Rei’s cheeks burned as she laughed, half nervous and half reserved. “That’s probably just all the sweat from puking constantly” she said. She eased her way out of Omoitsuku’s grasp, dropping her eyes to the ground once more.

“There’s something else, too” he said. Rei’s heart rate increased. If he was to turn the whole conversation over, to call her out on her bullshit after building up her trust, now would be the time to do it. She braced herself for the impact, a slap to the face or a kunai to the throat, perhaps, but it never came. He settled back into his chair as he said, “It’s your chakra. I can tell by your chakra. It’s different from everyone else’s. All the books say that your chakra reroutes when you’re pregnant. It strengthens in your stomach to better protect the baby. Now, I’m no byakugan user but I can tell that your chakra? It’s strong. Your chakra has control. The only girls with chakra like that are the ones who are expecting.”

Now Rei’s anxiety was really mounting, not because she was scared of what he could do to her but because she feared he may know something that she didn’t. He sounded so sure of himself, so vindicated. She swallowed hard and rubbed her stomach, now churning with anxiety. God help her if she played this lie well enough to manifest it into reality. The last thing she needed was to find out she really was, in fact, pregnant. She sucked in a sharp breath, but it was suddenly very clear to her that she was beyond help. Her hands were shaking and her forehead felt clammy and there was a rising feeling in the pit of her chest. She rose to her feet slowly and that’s when she knew it for sure: she was going to be sick. She raced to the rock behind which she had gone to the bathroom earlier and fell to her knees, expelling everything she had eaten in the past twenty four hours. The wretching woke up the fake Nise, who groaned and boxed his ears in but not before muttering something about “these fucking pregnant chicks, they can’t keep anything down.”

By the time she was finished, her head was spinning and she was drenched in sweat. She leaned back against the cave wall and tried to catch her breath, tried to recoup after such an abrupt expulsion. She closed her eyes and dug her nails into her palms, then felt a presence loom over her. She prepared for the worst, expecting someone to be pissed at her for puking, but instead, she found Omoitsuku kneeling beside her with a jar of pickled plums.

“Helps with the nausea” he said, extending the jar to her. She smiled politely, reached inside to carefully take one, then wiped her mouth with the back of her opposite hand.

“Thank you” she whispered, hesitantly popping the plum in her mouth. The potent, salty flavor almost triggered the second coming of her gag reflex, but she restrained herself as best as she could. Omoitsuku placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, muttering something about just breathe though Rei wasn’t really paying attention.

After she calmed down, he rubbed her forearm and then stood up to return to his table. “You should get some rest” he said. “I promise we’re not going to hurt you while you sleep.”

Rei wished she could take that to heart, but deep down she didn’t trust it. They were still her enemies—even if Omoitsuku didn’t hurt her, none of the others were guaranteed to be as gracious. She watched him trudge back to his table and as he went, something shifted inside of her chest. Rather than sit back down with his cards, he walked further back to a trunk stashed in a dark corner, then approached again with a pillow and blanket for her. He spread them out against the ground, then patted the soft setting as an invitation for her to lay down.

“You really don’t have to be this nice to me” she whispered, crawling nearer. She laid down slowly, curling up on her side. It wasn’t the most comfortable, but it was better than nothing.

Omoitsuku shook his head. “I can’t bring myself to let you sleep on the hard ground” he said. “That can’t be good for the baby.”

Rei watched as he turned away yet again, and a hard lump rose in her throat. She swore for a second that she was going to cry but fought back the urge. “Hey, before you go” she called after him, her voice cracking. Omoitsuku stopped, glanced at her over his shoulder. Rei cleared her throat a moment before saying, “I think you’d make a great father.”

A small, almost childlike smile touched his lips as he nodded once and whispered, “Thank you.” Rei curled up even tighter as he readied himself for bed at the other end of the cave. Pursing her lips, she slid her hand down to rest atop her stomach. He really had no reason to be this nice to her. She almost wished he hadn’t been. Now it was just going to be that much harder to kill him.

Kakashi sighed into his pillow, the hot dampness of his drool clinging to his cheek. Despite having gotten some semblance of rest, it was an achy, unresolved sleep that left him feeling groggy and heavy upon waking. So much so that for a moment, the previous day’s catastrophe all felt like a harrowing dream. The warm body beside him confirmed that this must be the case. He rolled over and buried his face in her hair, wrapping his arms around her…equally hairy body. No, this wasn’t right. Steady breaths beat against his face as he creaked his tired eyes open, squinting back at his companion. It took him all of two seconds to recognize the dog staring back at him, his stinky breath and wet nose. And then he barked squarely in Kakashi’s face, confirming the notion that this was not right at all. Kakashi groaned and swung his arm over his eyes, trying to adjust to the harsh reality in front of him. Toshio smacked his lips as she scooted nearer, then licked at his exposed face until Kakashi’s cheeks were sticky with slobber. “Alright, Toshio” Kakashi asighed, reaching out to rub the back of the dog’s neck. “No more wasting time. We’re going to go save Rei.” Toshio’s ears perked up and he voiced another explosive bark. Kakashi chuckled sleepily, forcing himself upright. You and me both.

Shizune stood by as the hoakge tiredly poured herself a cup of tea, dark cicles under her eyes and a ghostly pallor to her face. She hugged Tonton a little tighter to her chest and pursed her lips. “Lady Tsunadde, do you really think it’s a good idea to push yourself like this?” she asked. “I mean, maybe you should take it easy. I know—”

“No” Tsunade interrupted. “We have an emergency on our hands, and I know Kakashi is not going to let me forget that. God forbid something happens to Rei, I am never going to hear the end of it”

She had a point, and yet Shizune couldn’t help but feel like perhaps this was all a little too much. Shinobi were captured all the time, and in a way the ANBU seemed kind of disposable, even. Putting their lives on the line was part of the job description. She certainly wasn’t cold or apathetic, but rather feared there was a growing imbalance of attention. Just as she opened her mouth to reply, the door burst open and Toshio bounded inside. He leapt up onto his hind legs against Tsunade’s desk, barking in her face and effectively knocking her tea over. Shizune shrieked, the commotion causing Tonton to leap from her arms oinking to take cover. Kakashi peered inside, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly.

“Sorry about that!” he called, making his way inside.

Tsunade smoothed her hair back and frowned. “What on earth is going on, Kakashi?” she asked.

“Well, I couldn’t just leave him alone in the apartment again” Kakashi explained. “Besides, when I woke up, he didn’t seem to want me to leave so I really had no choice.”

Tsunade grabbed at the tissues on her desk and blotted the tea out of her lap in frustration. “I’d really appreciate some sort of warning next time” she huffed.

“Sorry, Lady Tsunade” Kakashi bowed his head. He glanced over to Shizune as she shook her head and approached her usual seat, evidently frazzled. He wanted to be sorry, but deep down he found no reason to be. Toshio sniffed at the ground and whimpered, reminding Kakashi of the task at hand. He turned back to the hokage his face turning dark. “Now about Rei.”

“Yes, yes, I know” Tsunade replied. She shuffled through some paperwork, skimming page after page. “It’s all I’ve been able to think about since last night. I’ve been trying to think of the best course of action and—”

“I think you should let me go” Kakashi interrupted.

Tsunade looked at him. “We’ve talked about this, Kakashi.”

“I’m the only person who can do this job. I can assemble a team of ANBU to accompany me and we can leave immediately” he further explained. Though he seemed rather composed on the outside, there was an obvious undercurrent of anxiety in his tone. Truly, he was coming undone. No matter how much Tsunade tried to restrain him, he only grew more and more frantic until they were nearly arguing. “I need you to let me go after her” he insisted. “I can’t wait any longer!”

“You’re being reckless, Kakashi!” Tsunade fired back. “Love has made you rather stupid. Have you forgotten the dangers of a mission like this?”

“I don’t care” Kakashi said back. “I refuse to let a comrade die. If she needs me, then—”

Before he could say more, the radio on Tsunade’s desk squealed. Silence fell across the room, Kakashi’s eyes widening in desperation. Static, and then—

“Hok—I’m—got it—way—hang on—please”

Toshio pounced and began barking incessantly. Kakashi blinked. He knew that voice anywhere. Rei. He grabbed a pen and a pad and began jotting down what he heard, trying to fill in the blanks.

“It sounds like she’s on her way back” Tsunade replied, though she was just as taken aback as Kakashi.

“I should still go out there and find her” Kakashi said, scribbling away. “She might need backup.”

Tsunade nodded slowly, contemplating, before answering, “No. I’m ordering you to stay here.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Kakashi looked up from his paper.

“You heard me” Tsunade replied. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“But what if she needs me?”

“I’m well aware that you have a duty to protect her” Tsunade said, “but just this once, I want to see how she operates on her own. Without you as a safety net.” Kakashi sighed, ruffling his hair despondently. Toshio lumbered forward, nudging Kakashi’s free hand and whimpering. They had no choice. Yet again, they were trapped in a waiting game. Kakashi could only hope that that fragmented radio call was not the last he would ever hear of her.

Three hours passed in silence. With every tick of the clock hand, Tsunade began to question whether she had made the right decision. She kept giving herself ultimatums: if she’s not back in forty-five minutes, I’ll send Kakashi out. If she’s not back in another hour…another thirty minutes…another fifteen…

The slam of the door snapped her from her daze, paralyzing her. It was nearly one in the afternoon. Kakashi blinked, his heart pounding. Deep down, he feared he had simply fallen asleep and all of this was just a dream. But it couldn’t be, could it? Rei staggered in the doorway for a moment, bloody and bruised, before stumbling forward. She reached into her pouch and dropped the pendant on Tsunade’s desk. “You better keep that someplace safe” she slurred. Kakashi leapt forward to catch her just as her legs gave out.

Tsunade’s eyes darted to the pendant, then back to Rei. So she had done it after all. She had no idea how, but she fucking did it.

Kakashi held her close as he escorted her to the nearest chair, sitting her down slowly. “What the hell happened?” he asked, brushing the hair out of her face. “Are you hurt? Are you alright?”

“Yeah, don’t worry, I’m fine” Rei waved him off dismissively, but he refused to leave her side. He needed to keep at least one hand on her at all times, as if she would vanish the minute he let go. Sucking in a deep breath, Rei steadied her vision before explaining. “I got captured by some assholes in a cave. Had an insignia tattooed on their hands like some wannabe Akatsuki. All rogues. They were onto us the minute we stepped foot outside of the village limits. Luckily they only got me, but they knocked me out cold and I woke up in their hideout. Long story short I charmed information out of them, earned their trust, then finished my job.” She prayed they wouldn’t ask for details. She didn’t want to think about it. Omoitsuku’s sullen, ghostly face flickered in the back of her mind. Rei could only imagine the shrieks of despair from his wife when someone relayed the news. He would never become a father.

“I have to say” Tsunade replied, “I am very impressed.”

Rei shook her head, chewing her bottom lip. There was nothing impressive about manslaughter. “It’s really not a big deal” she muttered. “Can I go home and nap now?”

Tsunade pursed her lips. “You really need to go to the hospital and get checked out” she insisted. “I don’t know what kind of fight these men put up but considering the shape you’re in, for all we know you could have a concussion.”

Rolling her eyes, Rei stood on wobbly feet and replied, “Nothing a little antiseptic can’t fix.” Before Tsunade could protest further, Rei was already trudging out the door. She eyed Kakashi, who in a split second was on his feet again and by her side. He glanced back at the hokage over his shoulder before they departed, the look on her face silently commanding him to keep an eye on her and bring her to the hospital should her condition worsen. He already knew. He didn’t need anyone to tell him how to care for her. He had been spending his whole life looking after her, and he would spend the rest of his days doing just that, too.

The streets of Konoha contorted and swayed as Rei made her way back home. Faces blurred, unrecognizable and inconsequential, except for one in particular—the last face she wanted to see. Nise—the real Nise—ducked out of Ichiraku with a smile on his face, waving goodbye to Teuchi and Ayame. In that moment, everything crawled into slow motion and the longer she looked at him, the more she caught flickers of the fake Nise’s face overlaid onto the real one. The rapid switching, the way every movement around her seemed to lag and shift, it was all so dizzying. Rei stumbled over her own feet, clapped a hand over her mouth as her stomach flipped. Kakashi reached out to steady her; she could feel his concern permeating through his grip.

“You know, I really think you should’ve gone to the hospital” he said. He leaned down so they were level with one another and looped her arm over his shoulder. Even if she wanted to, she was in no position to protest. She needed his support—she was far too weak.

“I told you already” she replied, gulping back her gag reflex, “I’m fine.” Kakashi chuckled, almost as if he was mocking her, and shook his head. “What?” she asked. “You don’t believe me?”

“You can barely stand. I’m pretty sure your eyes are pointing in two different directions” he replied. “I don’t even want to begin to count how many bruises are on your body or think about whose blood is all over your vest.”

Rei squeezed her eyes shut tight and sucked in a sharp breath. “Please don’t talk about it” she said. They walked along in silence for a long moment before Rei spoke once more. “I’m just tired. I promise. Cave floors aren’t exactly the nicest sleeping arrangements, and I haven’t really eaten much.”

As Kakashi opened the door to her apartment complex, he nodded once and said, “Just know that if you get worse, you’re going to the hospital. You won’t have any choice in the matter.” He helped her inside and then, knowing she’d never make it herself, scooped her up bridal style and carried her up the stairs.

Once inside, he sat her on the bed and then disappeared into the bathroom. She could hear the faucet screech on, then the rushing cascade of water. When he returned, he tossed his vest, gloves, and headband onto the desk and began removing her uniform piece by piece. She could hardly look at her vest strewn on the floor, the smell of the blood stuck in the back of her throat. She turned her attention back to Kakashi as he lifted her hand, gently tugged her long, black gloves off. There was something so strange about all of this. She was hyperaware of what was happening and the world around her, everything high definition and somehow simultaneously dream-like and more real than ever before. Her body buzzed with a strange, paralyzing electricity and she felt helpless as she watched Kakahshi do his work, as if she was a ragdoll—totally unresponsive. She gazed at him dreamily, drunkenly, as he unclasped her bra and then carefully slid her panties off. Despite having known him her entire life, having felt him inside of her, having exposed him to the darkest parts of herself, in that moment she felt self-conscious and vulnerable in front of him. Almost even childlike—how dare she be so incapable of taking care of herself. How dare she require him to do this for her. She was so helpless, and yet when he brushed the hair out of her face and kissed the tip of her nose, it was truly so clear to her that he really did not mind. After she was fully naked, he stood up again and an unsoliticed panic rose in her chest. Where was he going? Why was he leaving her?

“I’ll be right back” he assured her, stepping towards the bathroom. “I just have to check the water.” She knew she would not be able to relax until he returned. Her object permanence felt like that of a toddler—once he was gone, it felt as if he had disappeared off the face of the earth. A few minutes passed before he returned to her and when he did, she was so relieved she nearly cried. He scooped her up gently in his arms and carried her into the bathroom, lowering her carefully into the warm water. The minute it made contact with her skin, it was as if all of the ache and sludge and slime of the past twenty four hours began to melt away and she was finally becoming herself again.

They sat there in silence for a long while as Kakashi rolled up his sleeves and gently scrubbed away the dirt and blood. The rhythmic motions, the warmth of the water, were so relaxing—she hadn’t realized how tense she was until now. She sunk a little lower, rested her head against the back of the tub, closed her eyes with a sigh. Kakashi smiled at her and brushed the hair out of her face. “I’m so glad you made it back safely” he whispered. She nodded slowly, her eyelids feeling far too heavy to look at him. “I was this close to going after you myself.”

“I’m glad you didn’t” Rei replied. “I’m a big girl. I can handle things on my own.”

“That’s exactly what Lady Tsunade said” Kakashi replied.

“She was right” said Rei.

“Still” Kakashi pursed his lips, furrowed his brow. “I was so worried about you. I hated waiting. I just wanted to go and find you immediately. I was afraid I’d be too late.”

“What? Like I was dead?” Rei asked, a slight chuckle in her voice though she knew nothing about this was funny. She creaked her eyes open to find a somber expression on Kakashi’s face. Sighing, she reached out to place her soaking hand atop his in comfort. “Don’t think about right now. I made it back. I’m fine. I’m still breathing.”

“I know” Kakashi replied. He smiled at her, though she could tell he was still unresolved, then cupped her cheek in his hand. The warmth of his touch, the absolute love in his eyes, was enough to make her sob. She nuzzled his hand but then her eyes trailed down to her naked body and for the first time she saw just how bad the damage was. Yellow bruises, tender to the touch, dotted every few inches of her skin with cuts and scrapes in between. Her stomach churned.

“I guess they beat me up pretty badly, huh?” she asked, trying to make light of the situation. Kakashi saw through her bullshit but didn’t say a word on the matter. He knew she needed something to cut the tension.

“You fought hard” he replied. “I don’t know how you managed on your own, but I’m proud of you for it.”

If only he knew. If only he knew that it wasn’t physical strength that saved her. It wasn’t even illusionary prowess or perfect command of her chakra. It was merely her ability to lie, and gain someone’s trust with those lies. She shifted in the tub, averted her eyes, chuckled softly as she rested a hand atop her stomach. “You want to know how I did it?” she asked.

“Sure” Kakashi replied.

A small smile crept onto her lips, though she wasn’t sure if it was from anxiety or pride, as she replied, “I lied and told them I was pregnant.” The thought of it was still so ridiculous to her—she had yet to comprehend how it actually worked. Technically, she knew how it worked but she still couldn’t believe she had pulled it off. She glanced to Kakashi for a moment, the strange expression on his face urging her to elaborate. “It’s just because, like…I don’t know, I thought maybe that if they thought I was pregnant, they wouldn’t touch me or something? I don’t know, it was at least worth a shot.”

“And they believed you” Kakashi asked, though it came out more like a statement. She couldn’t tell if he thought she was a genius or a psychopath. Perhaps a little of both.

Rei licked her lips and nodded, waving her hand back and forth under the water to feel the current between her fingers. “I mean, some were skeptical but it won the leader’s trust. He had very, uh…interesting reasons behind believing me.” She didn’t think she could manage to explain the whole circumstance, of him and his wife’s attempts to have a child of their own. It still made her sick to her stomach to think about.

Kakashi watched her for a moment, searching her face for some sort of ulterior motive or hidden secret. His heart pounded at the mere thought of those words in the same sentence: Rei and pregnant. Even if it was all just a ruse, there was a panicked feeling of what if? He admittedly was not an expert in the technical aspects of pregnancy and childbirth but he knew enough from chaperoning Kushina that pregnancy caused a significant upset in a woman’s chakra network. There were obvious signs that any regular shinobi would likely be able to pick up on. His mind was filed through all of these chaotic thoughts as he watched her unplug the drain, the water slurping down rapidly. He helped her up and wrapped her in a fresh towel, and she recognized a slight tremor in his hands that, paired with his sudden distracted gaze, terrified her.

“Is something wrong?” she asked quietly. She clenched her jaw and dug her nails into her palms, trying to remain calm. She really didn’t need the extra anxiety right now.

Snapping back to reality, Kakashi nodded slowly and replied, “Oh, yes, everything’s fine.” But everything was clearly not fine and he couldn’t get away with lying to her. A sigh broke past his lips as he rested a hand against her stomach and asked, “You’re not actually…you know, pregnant…are you?”

Rei nearly choked on her own spit at the inquiry, both because of the abruptness of it and because of how aligned it was with the very fears that had been floating around in her own head. An incredulous laugh broke past her lips, her cheeks reddening, as she replied, “No! No, absolutely not. It was just a stupid little lie I told to save my skin, that’s all.” She pushed past him toward the bed to get dressed, though she was still incredibly weak and her legs gave out before she could even make it to her dresser. Kakashi surged forward and wrapped her in his arms before she could fall. When she turned her gaze toward him, there was a serious, intense look in his eyes.

“You would tell me if you were, right?” he asked.

Swallowing hard, Rei nodded slowly. “Yes…yes! Of course I would!” she insisted.

Kakashi gave a single nod, guiding her toward the bed and sitting her down. “Because you didn’t sound very confident” he replied.

Shaking her head, Rei buried her face in her hands and groaned. “I’m sorry. I never meant to wory you” she said. “Really, I’m fine. I’m just really fucking tired. I killed eight people today. My brain is fried.”

“Okay” he sighed in resignation. There was still a flurry of panic and uncertainty in the pit of his chest but now was not the time for an interrogation—as if he even really wanted to in the first place. As much as he wanted to start a family with her, the reality of it was perhaps more daunting than he had originally expected. There was so much to consider, and truly so much uncertainty in terms of the future. His anxiety spiked with every passing day that he thought about the Akatsuki. But now was not the time to overthink things. He opened her drawers and picked out a sleep shirt and her favorite pair of panties—the ones with pugs on them—then helped her get dressed.

Eyes growing heavy, she slowly laid down on the bed and hugged her pillow to her chest, watching him as he picked her towel up off the floor and approached the bathroom. “Hey, Kakashi?” she called before he could walk away. He turned back to look at her expectantly. “You know that thing we were talking about yesterday?”

Kakashi blinked. “Which one?” he asked. He had a feeling he knew what she meant, but he didn’t want to make the mistake of assuming.

“About, uh…about moving in together?” she explained. Her cheeks reddened and she licked her lips nervously, averting her eyes.

“Yeah…?” he replied. He braced himself for the worst. Maybe they were moving too fast. Maybe he was being too hasty. Why was he so impatient, anyways? He already knew that this was it—he wasn’t going to lose her again. They had their entire lives to hit those milestones together. There was no need to rush. They had all the time in the world.

“I think I’ve made my decision” she said quietly. He cocked a brow, setting her towel down on her desk chair as he walked nearer. “You see, the thing is…” she started, hugging the pillow even closer to her chest, “I had a lot of time to think in that cave earlier and, uh…it also made me consider a lot of things. You know, with the future and everything. So, uh…I’ve decided…”

Kakashi leaned forward ever so slightly. He hoped it wasn’t obvious how desperate he was for her answer. The suspense was killing him.

And then she said it, and his entire body imploded. “I want to live with you.” A grin spread across his lips as he leaned down, hugged her close, kissed her cheek and her shoulder and her collarbone. She hadn’t expected him to be so outrageously happy, but now he was laughing and grinning and tears welled up in her eyes. She raked her fingers through his hair as she pressed her forehead against his and whispered, “A place that we can share, somewhere that’s both mine and yours.” He nodded, cupping her cheek in his hand, and kissed her hard. This was the beginning of a new chapter now, and he couldn’t wait to wake up beside her every single morning for the rest of his life.

#kakashi hatake #rei natsuki #the scarecrow and the bell #naruto #naruto oc #fanfiction

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canyouhearthelight · 5 years

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The Miys, Ch. 20

Happy Tuesday, everyone! Here is the latest chapter. Although there is nothing graphic contained within, I want to be very clear about the following items it does contain. If I have forgotten something, please send me a message an let me know. All in all, I really like this chapter. We revisit a very early mention of gender affirmation surgery

Warnings for:

- discussion of a religious upbringing

- polyamory

- birth control

- nonbinary identity

- deadnaming (does not happen, but is discussed)

- transgender identity

- anti trans violence (only mention of the after-effects, nothing graphic)

The week after the swimming area opened in BioLab2, the Council meeting opened unexpectedly with comments from Councillor Huynh. Grey had apparently approached him in the meantime with insurmountable logic and exhaustive data to show that they had thrown their support behind the platforms that had been previously postponed. To be fair, Giang Huynh was very gracious in his complete surrender, admitting that building the platforms would be a valuable challenge for his team. Looking directly to me as the one overseeing Occupational allotment, he asked how many workers could be dedicated to the task.

“I have fifty-three engineers and twenty-three apprentices that are currently not assigned,” I advised. I had the data so that I could argue in the event that he pushed back; I never expected Grey to approach him in private. Though I was unfamiliar with their background, Councillor Hodenson had always seemed very by-the-book. I was impressed.

“I want priority given to the engineers with apprentices,” Huynh responded firmly, breaking me out of my musings. “The apprentices need their training hours. Estimates show that we would only need twenty-seven workers on the project, due to need for materials to cure.”

Xiomara scowled. “You want to fill the work allotment with mainly apprentices?”

“Negative. I want all twenty-three apprentices, plus their mentors, and ten more engineers just in case to help out. Apprentices are not cleared to work without direct supervision from an approved mentor. If any of the apprentices’ mentors are not certified in underwater welding or fabrication, I’ll find them temporary mentors who are. In fact, Councillor Reid? If I can find enough engineers to mentor any of the rest who do not have underwater experience, do we have the resources to at least rotate them out in the remaining slots?”

I was speechless for a moment. Huynh was notorious for being thrifty with labor, begrudging every head assigned to any given project. But here he was, asking for more personnel to be assigned to this than necessary? “Um, I mean…” I cleared my throat. “Yes. I believe we do, but you are talking about having nearly sixty people assigned to a project you just told me should only need twenty-seven.”

“Underwater welding and fabrication are valuable skills,” he announced. “And it is very unlikely we will have another opportunity on the ship for these people to learn it. Kepler 442b is a very wet planet, so I foresee it being a skill they need. If I can find the necessary skillsets to train them, I would be grateful if you can juggle the logistics of rotating the personnel out. It will cause the project to take longer overall, but I think it will maximize the benefit to those onboard.”

“I will do my best,” I promised, still slightly stunned.

“Does anyone have anything else to add before we move to the first topic on the agenda?” Grey asked lightly with a glance around the room. As everyone was silent, they took that as an indication to proceed. “The first official item on the agenda this week is an update on the gender affirmation surgeries.”

Murmurs broke out around the table. The genetic surgeries had started not long after I came on board, and had been deemed necessary procedures for anyone who chose to undergo the testing and surgery. However, they were not required, so overall it was a hot-button topic. Only three genetic surgeries could be done at a time, while over six hundred had qualified. The solution was argued over for nearly a month before we found a method everyone could agree on: names on slips of paper, drawn from a receptacle by one of Noah’s avatars. The oldest style of lottery in history, for the most advanced reason we had ever found. Only the Miys were allowed to handle the slips of paper, which had been printed in raised script to make it possible for them to read the names. Once a name was drawn, the recipient had the option to undergo the surgery or gift their slot to someone else.

In a turn of humanity that should not have surprised anyone on board, but nonetheless made the Miys utterly baffled, every single person who identified as transgender or nonbinary had signed up for the lottery, whether they wanted it or not. When a name was drawn of someone who qualified but did not want the genetic surgery, they immediately were gifting it to anyone they knew who had been tormented for their identity on Earth. Grey had even participated, gifting their slot to a man who had been mutilated with acid Before the End for the artificial atrocity of being born with a female body.

Clearing their throat to break up the low noise around the table, Grey continued their report. “As of this morning, one hundred and seventeen individuals have completed genetic surgery. All reports indicate they are thriving and happy, including the reversal of both new and old injuries sustained prior to the surgery. The largest complaint we have received is regarding the incidental removal of tattoos, but the overwhelming sentiment is that it is a small price to pay.” A watery grin crossed their face, remembering the man who they had given their slot to. While he was by no means handsome, Grey insisted his was the most beautiful face they had ever seen after surgery. “Of the six hundred and seventy-four who qualified for the surgery, four hundred and six have opted to undergo it. All completely androgen insensitive individuals preferred the bodies they already had, requesting only that internal testes be removed, while most incomplete AIS patients have decided to undergo the genetic surgery for whichever gender they are most comfortable with. The Miys have accommodated this fully. Several individuals who identify as non-binary but qualified for the procedure have declined entirely, while others, such as myself, requested only for cosmetic surgery to align with our identities of being neither male nor female.”

“If I may ask,” Xiomara interjected. “For those who do not want the surgeries, why are they enrolled in the lottery?”

Grey nodded firmly. “The lottery is, by all means, the agreed upon way to decide on the limited slots available, especially knowing that all will get their opportunity by the end. However, there is no truly fair way for any one person to evenly weigh the emotional strain on every person in the lottery. For myself, my logic was thus: if I can change, even in a small way, the very possible random chance that all those who were tortured, mutilated, or abused in the Before for something beyond their control, it is my responsibility to change it. By putting my name in and giving my slot to Hendrick, I changed the chance that he would be last. He now has his own face, both hands, all his hair, because I took that chance. His fully functional body drastically outweighed my need to be androgynous.” A thrust of their chin showed the defiance they threw in the face of anyone who would question.

Xiomara only smiled. “Thank you, Grey. I never doubted the concept, I just want it on the record in the event there is an objection at a later date.”

“My pleasure, Councillor Kalloe. Moving on, regarding the population implications, I have been assured by our host that genetic samples were taken both before and after all genetic surgeries, and are being compared for which is most viable before allowing the donor to ultimately make the choice on which or both will be included in Colonial stores.”

Several members winced at that. Huynh was the one to speak up. “Can we not come up with a better term than ‘Colonial’? I know we will be establishing a colony on another world, but for several of the cultures on board, the term just has a bad feeling attached to it.”

I raised my hand for attention. “I can take a poll of personnel on the ship. We have not decided on a name for the new planet, anyway, and this gives us a perfect opportunity to decide.” The idea met with unanimous approval, allowing the meeting to move on.

After we adjourned, I found myself trotting briskly down the corridor. “Councillor Hodenson. Councilor Hodenson! Wait up!” They stopped and politely waited for me to catch up. “I have some questions, and I feel like you are the best person to ask, if that’s okay?” They nodded. “You mentioned population implications of the gender affirmations, and genetic material being taken. Please forgive me, but I’m newer to the Council, and I don’t completely understand. Can you explain what that was about?”

“Of course, Sophia,” Grey nodded, pushing their glasses up. “You are likely already aware that the entirety of the ship has temporarily had any reproductive abilities suspended for the duration of the voyage?” It was my turn to nod; while I wasn’t absolutely sure that was the case, I had definitely appreciated not have a menstrual cycle in the entire time I had been on board. “One of the issues that led to the collapse of Earth’s biosphere was overpopulation. Add to that the fact that the ship can only carry a finite number of passengers and is loaded to absolute capacity in all residential spaces, children are not a good idea while we are in transit. So, as we were all brought on board, the Miys provided everyone with an implant that will prevent reproduction until removed.”

“Okay, I’m following, but I have a question: there hasn’t been a religious uproar?”

“Very minimal. Mostly handled from within their particular sect, though largely all handled the same: Any deity who commanded they be fruitful would want them to establish a fruitful colony before a fruitful family. The decline of Earth has been used frequently as an example of how a fruitful family before a fruitful environment was erroneous.”

“That’s fair. Okay, continue please.”

“Gladly. While implanting the reproductive blockers, the Miys also took genetic samples of each person brought on board. This will be used, once we are on Kepler 442b, to start producing children for the new world. We have to establish the settlement first, of course, and the Miys are going to monitor our colonial growth as they allow children, simply to ensure that we can support the new additions. Also, no two children will have the same two parents; the goal is to ensure genetic diversity. At that point, we will still have our reproductive blockers, but once all the genetic material currently on board has been used – and there is enough for each person to provide for two offspring – then reproductive blockers will be removed for anyone wishing to naturally produce additional offspring.”

I gave a low whistle. They were ensuring the best possibility for every single genetic trait on board to be passed down to future generations. It was pretty ingenious. “What about people who don’t want children, or may not be able to care for them?”

“We have just over ten thousand people on board, Sophia,” Grey gave me a skeptical look. “Surely you realize that enough of those come from large families that they would rather have additional children sooner than wait for the ability to produce their own? There is already a triad who requested to go on record as being willing to take in up to twenty children if necessary, even if none are any of their own genetic offspring.”

“It’s like the Duggars,” I muttered, remembering an older family on Earth that had been held up as an example of ‘irresponsible reproduction’ before the End. In only two generations, they had gone from two people to well over a hundred.

“Not quite,” was the chuckled response that let me know I had been heard. “It is very common for plural marriages to produce and/or raise a significant number of offspring, from what my research details. Also, bear in mind that several cultures on Earth practiced plural marriage, even historically. Despite the Christian bloc being the most vocal in the past three centuries regarding monogamy, they also had the oldest historical records of men marrying multiple ‘wives’ and having consorts besides.”

I quirked an eyebrow in curiosity. “Did you grow up Christian? I thought you were Jewish.”

“How you came to that conclusion, I would greatly like to know. No, I did not grow up as part of any Abrahamic religion, actually, although I did grow in in Israel. My parents – all four by the way – were part of a very strict religious sect that emphasized accepting the life we were provided and working hard at what we had. They did not believe in any deity, actually, but also discouraged emotion as “there is no use appealing to an uncaring universe for anything you cannot change”. That apparently included the gender you were born to, as they were very – unaccepting of my nonbinary identity. All of my parents insisted that I was a girl, and should behave as one, marry, and produce a family. None of them accepted that I am not a girl, nor am I a boy. I am just… Grey.”

“Neither fish nor fowl, nor good red meat,” I said with a smile.

“And what does that leave me?” they asked indignantly.

“The vegetables, clearly, which I am heartily fond of! Who has a roast without potatoes and carrots? And a bit of onion, usually. It just isn’t muchy enough if you don’t have vegetables on the side, usually two. I love food, and food need vegetables, all the time. I blame your parents, honestly. All four.” I winked at them as they looked somewhat confused. “Come on, they named you Grey. Neither black, nor white. Both and neither. Grey. I think it suits you.”

“I chose that name, honestly. My birth name – “

“Don’t know, don’t care,” I cut off. “YOU are Grey, you are my friend. Grey is the only name I have ever known for you, and I like it even more knowing you chose it. You did a spectacular job there – it’s very pleasant, in every regard. If you insist on telling me your dead birth-name, I will gladly listen and never call you that name. But know this: that name wasn’t you.”

For the first time, they smiled fully at me. It was gummy and eye-crinkling, and delightful. A very good smile. “I think I would rather you just call me Grey.”

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#the miys #humans are weird #humans are space orcs #original fiction #science fiction #earth is space australia #scifi #aliens #apocalypse

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x0401x · 6 years

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Blindfold Day: Jin’s Play-and-Talk Livestream (Summary)

This was... so good, omg. Also, I have the feeling Jin talked a lot more in it than the last broadcast. The summary of this one turned out much lengthier, so I left part of it under the cut.

As usual, the stream began with greetings. Jin read the comments of the people watching while he was at it, and one of them said, “arrived, arrived, arrived”. He was pretty confused until he realized it referred to him. He then tested out whether the spectators could hear him properly, and people continued screaming, “he’s heeere”. Once he made sure he was being heard without issues, the livestream officially started.

Jin thanked everyone for gathering to listen to him, even though he had only warned us about the broadcast in the last minute. Some people asked him to raise the volume, which was done twice. He thanked everyone again and added, “I’m alive~! I’m doing my best at living”. He also clarified that, as always, he had “no livestream skills”, so the usual “kindhearted Onii-sans” were helping him out by dealing with the equipment and making adjustments, and told everyone to leave a comment if they had any requests to improve the broadcast’s quality.

After tuning his accoustic guitar while laughing like the actual uncle he is, he announced that the livestream would be a play-and-talk one just like last time. Since there might be difference in volume from when he played to when he stopped to talk, Jin guaranteed that the “cool Onii-sans” would take care of fixing it. He remarked that the guitar’s handler was making a rattling sound and that he felt things would progress with a really good feeling. With that, he finally started playing.

And stopped after, like, ten seconds, lol.

Jin went on to explain that he had actually brought a script with him containing the lyrics of the songs he would play, but couldn’t see it properly. He adjusted the lyrics card and resumed playing Shissou Word.

Once he was done with it, Jin thanked everyone for listening, which he does at the end of every single song, and took a break to drink some water. He admitted he was nervous in a throwback at making a mistake when speaking (“I’m waiting on with the feeling of – no, ‘waiting’ isn’t right – I’m living on with the feeling of ‘I would be happy if everyone listened to this~’.”) and also confessed that he had made a mistake with the lyrics (he sang “it seems I’ll be able to find the reason in the future” when was actually “it seems I’ll be able to find the word in the future”). He apologized and said he wanted to continue the livestream in an enjoyable fashion.

The teaser trailer of Additional Memory rolled as, according to Jin, there might still have been people who hadn’t yet seen it. Jin then announced again the release of the third album and everyone at the back clapped. There were obviously a lot of people clapping, and Jin joked, “This is how many people are present. To tell the truth, we’re all crammed in the room, everyone just silently observing me. It’s a pretty damn leisurely one hour for their throats”.

Jin made clear that Shissou Word will be part of the new album and discussed his impressions regarding the video, “WAAH! A COUNTER?! WHAT’S THAT COUNTER FOR?? IT’S SUCH A COOL COUNTER” (meaning that the counter was 100% Sidu’s idea and probably doesn’t mean anything too important, lmao). He said it was cool as always but cool in a way that wasn’t normal, and that it had given him chills. He also talked about how the new song, Additional Memory, was a cool song itself, and that he wanted to deliver it to everyone soon, so he’d do his best.

Jin started tuning the guitar again and laughed that just talking wasn’t all that fun (dude what the hell do you even mean you’re so fucking funny) and said that this particular broadcast was being amazing, in a way. He assured that the next song to be uploaded will be Additional Memory, and as a “linking of memories”, he wanted to play a certain song. You guessed it: Lost Time Memory.

After that, Jin basically declared he hadn’t really wanted to play Lost Time Memory because it was difficult and used up a lot of energy, since the rhythm varied between quick and slow, but as Additional Memory features “Shintarou-kun” and “Ayano-chan”, he figured he couldn’t escape from playing songs that centered on them.

Someone pointed out to him that the sound had faltered a bit just then, and Jin burst into laughter, “Everyone is telling me, ‘well, be careful~’ with a ‘you can use a voice like that, huh’ kind of face. Sorry! I’ll be careful. Excuse me”. This was followed by the ugliest cough before Jin said that, since he had played Lost Time Memory, he had to play another certain song. You guessed it again: Ayano no Koufuku Riron. The comments section exploded with things like, “is that so”, and Jin chuckled, “It’s almost like you don’t want it!”

Jin tested out the guitar a bit in order to play it in B, and after playing it, he mentioned again that he’d wanted to play something “Shintarou-kun and Ayano-chan”-related because they appear in the trailer. He then said he hadn’t been able to play Ayano no Koufuku Riron in the last livestream (no particular reason for it, though), so he was happy for being able to play it in this one, and that he thought he had to sing it no matter what because he really likes it and it had already been sung by Okui Aki (and MARiA). He expressed happiness for the chance and asked how well he had performed it, to which the spectators responded positively.

Jin once again said he was very happy after reading the comments and that the “ikemen Onii-chans” had been making grandma-like faces at him after the song finished, so they were looking like “ikemen Ojii-sans”. He revealed that he wanted to play the song in another opportunity as well and that there were many feelings comprised into the livestream. He gave the fact that he was counting with us for the release of the third album as an example of that.

Jin listed as part of the album the songs Shissou Word, a story that peeks into one’s eyes, and Additional Memory, a story that eyes don’t reach. He seemed just about to explain why he gives those subtitles to the songs, but stopped himself with a, “I wanna say it but I can’t say it” and then asked everyone to look forward to the album because there would be lots of good songs in it.

This little bastard.

Jin took this cue to add that *cough*SamOurTimeRecord*cough* Summertime Record would be included in Mekakucity Reload too. He explained that he hadn’t worked in KagePro songs after Summertime Record had been uploaded because of the other mediums of the story (manga, anime, novels) and their developments, but informed to those who didn’t know about it that Shissou Word was directly related to the novel and Additional Memory to the manga.

Bringing up volume 7 and Tsubomi, Jin stated that, after the second release of the Project, many things had been going on inside him, such as, “ooh, will I finally be able to write this character’s song?”. That means Mekakushi Chord is, in fact, a song about the whole Dan from Tsubomi’s point of view rather than about Tsubomi herself, and that Shissou Word was the first song made exclusively for her. Then, bringing up volume 6, Jin reminisced to what he spoke on Twitter about Haruka, as well as to the fact there were no songs centered on him (which is true, since Summertime Record is also about everyone, just in Haruka’s viewpoint). This basically confirms that we’ll be getting Lost Days at some point. Not that we didn’t already expect it, though.

Jin commented that he would do his best with the new songs and that the staff was fired-up about making “hot material”. He asked people to stay tuned and said he was going to introduce a new song in the livestream. He admitted that doing so might be odd, but reminded everyone that Yuukei Yesterday had a similar release, as it was presented to the public for the first time in a live show before the video was uploaded. He then tuned the guitar and said he was looking forward to what people would think of the new song, which would also be in Mekakucity Reload.

Finally, he announced the story that permeates eyes, Remind Blue.

After finishing it, Jin affirmed once more that he would do his best to make more KagePro songs and rambled about how summer was to him a season that birthed all sorts of feelings. He said it might be a bit emo of him, but he’d had this thinking ever since childhood and looked up to it. He had lot of emotions gathered up and believed that Remind Blue had probably turned out as this kind of song. He also said that the song’s actual sound was band-produced and cool, with a baseball-like feeling to it (I know exactly what he means by that nonsense for some reason, omg).

About the guy from the past livestream, Gushimiyagi (who Jin referred to as “Gushimiyagi Hideyuki-sensei”, “Gushimiyagi Hideyuki-onii-san” and “Gusshi” all at once), Jin told everyone to not worry or think he was dead because he was in the room. It just so happened that Jin was doing the broadcast alone this time, and Gusshi was part of Remind Blue’s original composition as well. Jin then asked him, “It turned out as a really cool song, right?” and Gusshi chirped from the back of the room, “It did~”.

Jin had also prepared other corners for the livestream, which included announcements of the Mekakucity Talkers adaptation and new, apparently not main-story-related song(s) starring Momo. Since there is a chapter of Mekakucity Talkers in which Momo drops a CD, it was decided somehow or other that Jin would make song(s) out of it. Jin also praised Asahimachi’s artstyle while he was at it, and said he was looking forward to the adaptation, even though the announcement of it had been abrupt. He guaranteed that no one unknown is writing it, though, and that he’s still supervising it. He adds that it would be published by Kadokawa and laughs, “Kadokawa-san, is anyone from there listening? I owe you guys a lot~. This is Jin~. Kadokawa-san~. Kadokawa-san~? I owe you guys a lot for allowing this to happen.”

The biggest surprise of that corner was that, according to Jin, Pixiv will hold a contest for Mekakucity Talkers. In celebration of the adaptation’s publishing, the readers are being encouraged to write a chatstory scenario for Mekakucity Talkers and the winners will receive rewards. The avatars of the characters will be made available and users are supposed to write a daily-affair-themed chatstory about the Dan with them. Jin talked about how it might be easy even for people who have never written novels before, since the writing style of chatstories only require the characters’ lines.

Having asked everyone to take all of the above into consideration and check it out, Jin commented that he’d like to do play-and-talk accoustic guitar live shows in many places, but he couldn’t disclose details as there were no set dates. He stated he’d like to do these lives in libraries all over Japan, and honestly? Genius idea. He conceded that he’d have to do them by himself, since moving around so much as a band would be difficult, but added that he’d like to do a proper live with the band as well. He explained that he was considering going around the entire country and that this was practically decided already, so if anyone wanted him to come to their town, they could give him the heads-up.

Jin apologized for not being able to present any more than that since things had been done last-minute and expressed resentment towards not being able to progress swift and smoothly with KagePro, but was nevertheless doing his best to make it as sensitive a story as possible. He then stated that the 24th chapter of Mekakucity Talkers had been uploaded on 8/15 instead of Friday like usual and that it mentioned the Dan 20 years in the future. He went on to say that he was still indeed going to write more KagePro novels, and that the future and the things he hadn’t yet written about were probably going to be part of them, in a way. He wasn’t sure, so he couldn’t talk about it, but he also thought there would be new characters making appearances in it (LET IT BE THE OTHER SNAKES, PLEASE). He said he’d give out info about it occasionally and asked everyone to get hyped, revealing that there was a chance of another really big collaboration happening this winter, and that it might be a more serious setting but would still be interesting. As everyone would expect, he also confirmed that the new anime is in the works.

He finished the talk with an apology, as the latter half of the broadcast had turned into talk only, and used people’s song requests to end the stream. Some asked for Shounen Brave, which Jin refused because it was too hard to play, lol. Others asked for Summertime Record, Ayano no Koufuku Riron again, Remind Blue again, and Yobanashi Deceive. Jin asked Gusshi about Yobanashi Deceive, which he replied with, “that’s fine~”, so Jin played it by half. Then he decided it was worth playing one more song, chose Summertime Record and played it by half too (he totally didn’t want an excuse to play something Haruka-related. Totally not). And, as the song ended, he stated that he’d take care of his health and do his best at work, saying he’d be in everyone’s care.

Thought we’d get Kagerou Days on KagePro day? You fool. We’re all fools.

#kagerou project #kagepro #mekakucity actors #kagerou daze #jin #shizen no teki p #kagerou days #mekakucity talkers #blindfold day #livestream

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sennen-goroshi-blog1 · 5 years

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THE FOUR METHODS FOR CONDUCTING A TRAINING NEEDS ANALYSIS

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timberline-falls · 6 years

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Two Asura and the Crown Pavilion

"Can you hear it, Kez? The din of battle! The clash of steel! This is going to be so much fun."

((Just a little text-based RP, with a lore assumption at the beginning))

After a few rounds of pacing in deliberation, Kezza comes to a stop at her console. The stress of boredom and loneliness led her here, to this point of consideration; She would go to Divinity's Reach, and attend the human festival.

But she wouldn't be going alone. Accessing the Magistracy's communications interface, she scans the available roster for the right name and designation. Finding it, Kezza prompts the interface for message creation, and proceeds to stare at the display. It proves unexpectedly difficult to type something so simple, but she manages it soon enough:

"Excel, Ger. Would you like to accompany me to the Crown Pavilion in Divinity's Reach? I'll be ready in the morning once Pwitt is in class. Let me know before then."

Thus far, there hadn't been much to Gerik's day to encourage a positive outlook. Between a minor breach in the containment lab, another handful of falsified recreational leave requests, and Sippi's usual lack of involvement with her duties, he'd had his hands full.

It seemed like providence, then, that he'd just been walking out of his office to distribute another round of tongue lashing to his subordinates, when a light 'ping!' from his terminal caught his ear. He stopped in the doorway, quietly debating whether to go back or not, but finally decided that it might be important and marched back over to his desk.

Rather swiftly, his expression shifted from one of mild disinterest, to shock, and finally a giddy sort of uncertainty. He rattled out a response without really perceiving it, then breezed out through the door to take his lunch,

"Kez, I'd be delighted. Bringing my combat apparatuses. Look forward to reconvening."

+ ————— As promised, Kezza readies herself in the morning after seeing Pwitt to his class. With her hair done up in long spirals, she dons her stonework armor, and resets the default chromatics from red to a less antagonistic purple. All the while, she wonders at her choice to attend a festival of bookah, but Gerik's enthusiastic reply was encouraging. It would do her well to work out her anxieties and frustration on a horde of Destroyers-- Watchwork or not.

Expecting to find Gerik at the asura gate, Kezza departs her domicle with a budding sense of excitement.

Prompt and punctual as always, Gerik arrives at the asura gate no sooner than Kezza had sauntered into view. His usual attire is modified, his coat dispensed with in favor of a trailing split-tailed scarf and his armor unusually spartan; all trimmed in striking gold and violet.

As his friend draws nearer, Gerik rocks a bit on his heels, arms folded behind his back. He greets her with a warm, toothy smile, "Excelsior, Kez. I hope you're not feeling pusillanimous."

"Scarcely!" She answers, coming down the stairs with heavy footfalls. A slim-fitting gauntlet rests on the hilt of a sword, which sparks to vibrant life when she draws it. Lightning tracks in its wake, and so with a smile, she adds, "I'm positively electrified."

Gerik goes wide-eyed a moment at Kezza's newly brandished blade, unfurling his hands from behind him. "Where did you happen upon that?"

At first it seems she's offended, but she flourishes the blade in a downward swipe, to then be held at her side. "I created it, of course. It's been a pet project of mine for years," she replies, still chiper with self-satisfaction despite it. "I call it Volt."

The Disaggregator's eyes sweep up and down the sword, his expression equally envious and impressed. He cups his chin in hand, as though to conceal his obvious overawe.

"Well, it's certainly delightful to look at," he agrees, with building enthusiasm, "But how does it perform in combat?"

With a self-assured hum not unlike his, she lifts the blade again for inspection. It sparks and buzzes as though eager. "I've yet to properly challenge it."

Forgoing any pretense of dignity at the blade's presentation, he moves over in a single, smooth stride and lowers himself to eye level. "Marvelous," he breathes, a grin curling the edge of his mouth. He looks up to her after a moment, giddy and beaming, "Let's go conduct some field trials."

((that's not suggestive at all))

Kezza's smile as she watches him becomes a grin at his suggestion. She nods firmly, despite the light touch of pink on her cheeks set there by his marveling. "Affirmative."

He clears his throat and puts his eyes elsewhere, off towards the asura gate, "Hem. Well, let's to it then."

With a gentler grin, he stands and offers for her to take the lead with a flourish.

With marked pride, Kezza takes the lead, returning the sword to a more dormant state at her hip. It still emits a low buzz—likely inaudible to any but asura—but sparks cease to dance across its winding structure. At reaching the gate, she pauses to check over shoulder for him, and pays him an almost giddy look before passing through.

It's all Gerik can do to keep from grinning like a fool as he follows through after Kezza, a light bounce in his step.

On the other side, some of her elation is taken by arriving in what was always hostile territory. Double-checking that they wore no Inquest identifiers, Kezza descends the steps along with Gerik.

Descending the steps after his friend, Gerik finds himself glancing off from side to side on instinct, despite his good humor. Shaking his suspicions off for the moment, he gives Kezza an almost boyish grin as they walk.

"So, what compelled you to extend an invitation to this outing?"

The question seems to catch her off-guard. "Oh. Well, I didn't want to go by myself. I thought it might be more fun if you accompanied me." She holds back from mentioning a third reason.

He scratches at his chin, leaning his head out of the way of a passing cart's cargo with a measure of irritation, "Well, I suppose I wouldn't have wanted to go alone either. I'm glad you invited me, regardless." His expression relaxes into a familiar comfort, smile easing, "I was one lost asset retention report from a complete neural collapse."

Concern crosses her features, "What happened? Was it the interns from accounting again? I told Teokkin to triple-check their work," the former Magistrix frowns.

An exasperated sigh tumbles out of his mouth, his claws dragging down his face to hook at his lower lip. "It's everyone. If it isn't Sippi slacking off, it's a researcher losing their passrunes." He grumbles. "I've needed a break."

A hand reaches out to join his, allowing Kezza to walk closer beside her friend and superior. "Aw, Ger. You should have told me sooner. I could have arranged something." She pauses at her Magistrix phrasing, shaking her head. "I mean, arranged something outside of work, for us."

Gerik's fingers readily slip between Kezz's, accepting her grasp with an easy comfort. He flicks an ear at her phrasing, keeping pace beside. "I'm just thankful for the time we've allotted today. Teokkin certainly keeps us both busy."

Kezza hums, a vaguely melancholy sound. The mundane workload she was burdened with was beneath her, nothing as challenging or demanding as she'd had before. It left her unsatisfied and afforded more free time, which she wasn't always able to fill. "I am as well."

The lowness in Kezza's tone see Gerik's ears fold back with concern, though he refrains from vocalizing it. This was meant to be a convival outing, after all, wasn't it? Fretting about their occupational troubles could only work against that.

Leaning nearer as they pass through the archway leading out of the plaza into the city proper, he gives her hand a gentle squeeze. "Those protectives suit you."

Kezza's smile returns, "Thank you," she answers. "I agree. Though I wonder if I have overdressed."

Gerik scoffs at the notion, "Certainly not. I've been informed that the Queen's Gauntlet is one of the most rigorous tests of combative skill on the continent." He glances her way, nose stuck up, "I'd say your accoutrements are impeccably picked."

Kezza frowns, "It's only a bookah celebration. I don't anticipate a rigorous test, though I hope for Volt's sake you're correct." She pats the pommel of her weapon.

His eyes drift down to visit a longing look on the blade. He hums. "We'll just have to be certain our field testing is thorough. Did you have any inclinations towards a particular biome to start with?"

"I read there is one dedicated to Destroyers," she gives him a knowing look, "I'd like to start there."

He smirks in a familiar sort of way, "I was hoping that might be your proposal. Let's see if these bookah know how to run a proper simulation, then."

Kezza makes an affirming sound tied to a smirk, and as they continue down towards the pavilion, she considers how her hand still holds his. With her other hand set easily on Volt's pommel, she walks comfortably alongside her friend amidst the festival's many guests and patrons.

Feeling more at ease than he had in months, Gerik takes in the sights as they descend through the city. Though bookah still earn a dirty look now and then, he finds letting minor annoyances go unattended comes more easily to him.

"Ah, there's that abominable avian."He gestured with his free hand at the rooftops around them. Just visible over the row of houses, the brass eagle looms above the upper Pavilion.

"It's a strange celebration even by human standards. Why does their Queen hold a gauntlet beneath that sculpture?" She wonders aloud, narrowly avoiding a collision with a passing norn.

He shrugs his shoulders, uncertain himself. "Who can say? As my old professor used to say, there's no sense making sense of simian behavior." The Disaggregator hums, moving his gaze from the horrible sculpture back to Kezza. "At least the arenas are underground."

Kezza's ears fold, taking exception to his old professor. She puffs her chest a bit, "I intend to find out, while we're present. Participation in the festivities should prove elucidating."

"Oh, you believe so?" The smirk he wore was plainly audible I'm his voice. "Maybe, if your goal is to gather data on watchknight structural integrity-- which I intend to do thoroughly."

"As do I," she affirms, returning the smirk. "Though I have no intention of neglecting my research."

"I wouldn't dream of interfering with data collection." He grins her way as they descend the stairs into the upper Pavilion. Festival-goers flock in loose throngs across the massive grounds area beneath the brass eagle's shadow. Gerik pauses just long enough to sneer up at it. "So gaudy."

"There must be some symbolic meaning in it," Kezza frowns up at the eagle, stopping only a moment to get a look. The confetti and balloons floating through the air prove a minor obstruction, but their presence isn't entirely unwelcome.

Gerik sniffs at the strange, and sometimes unpleasant smells carrying on the wind; sweaty humans and oily carnival food. Still, he had to admit that it was difficult to remain cheerless; especially given the company he kept. "I suppose. I just hope these humans subscribe to the idea of building codes."

+ ------

The transition from blinding sunlight and roaring crowds to the cool, moist underground is a welcome one; at least for Gerik. Stepping off the elevator, the Disaggregator grips his friend's hand a little tighter as the motley group around them files off and heads for the fighting pits. He glances Kezza with mounting excitement, "Can you hear it, Kez? The din of battle! The clash of steel! This is going to be so much fun."

Kezza flicks her ears, feeling nervous butterflies in her stomach for the first time. Still she nods, "After we've decimated the Destroyers, did you have a preference for the next biome?"

He squeezes her hand, perhaps unknowingly swept away by his enthusiasm, "I've always wondered how these human bandits come apart.."

As they reach their final descent, the pavilion's depth opens up in full to them. To sensitive asuran ears, the noise is almost overwhelming, but excitement allows Kezza to carry on. She gives his hand a squeeze in turn, privately embarassed by having held it this long.

The crowd at the center of the six pits gathers around long tables adorned with a wide assortment of food, offering something for every race's palate. The smell is only somewhat tainted by the sulfurous emissions of the lava pit.

Kezza grips the pommel of her sword, partially eager to wield it, and partially to soothe herself amidst a population where many would like to see her dead.

((tbc))

#aka Gerik Checks Out Kezza's Sword #kezza #gerik #kezrik #long post under cut

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ladyxdarcy-pleasefollownewblog · 6 years

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Web of Lies ficlet

Summary: Jim Moriarty had planned on seducing Molly Hooper to get close to Sherlock, but then someone better came along. One John H. Watson. Set Pre-TGG

John, working on accepting his bisexuality, begins dating nice, safe, sweet Jim from IT. What could go wrong?

Word Count: < 3k

I had this idea for a little while, a what-if of Moriarty dating John instead of Molly during The Great Game, so I had to write this little ficlet thing. There's probably already plenty of fics like it already, but this is my version.

Perhaps, one day probably not soon, I'll continue this and turn it into a full, actual story. Until then, Enjoy my little thing and forgive any awkwardness because I am typing this up as quickly as I can because I'm supposed to be writing a 10 page essay but I wanted to get this out first because I'm terrible at adulting. Yolo.

Jim Moriarty isn’t stupid. He’s been watching Sherlock Holmes for a while, bidding his time, and then the idiotic John Watson had to come along and ruin everything. He’d seen the secret smiles, the lingering looks, the tender touches. No, there was every chance that this former army doctor would steal Sherlock right from under Jim’s nose. This could not, would not be tolerated. Sherlock was his.

He had plans already, of course, of wooing the Hooper girl who was also mooning over a certain consulting detective, knowing it’d be so easy, the girl was so desperate for positive affirmation that she’d be swayed despite the overwhelming evidence that Jim from IT was gay. He was prepared to withstand how boring the charade would be, if he could just get a brief moment with Sherlock, slip him his number, see if the so-called genius could be just as easily swayed. A test. A promise.

But then John Watson had to bungle it all up. It was quite rude, actually. Intolerable.

Plans had to change.

Jim knew that he had a jealous streak. He really didn’t like others playing with his toys, unless it led him to a better toy. And god, the googly eyes Watson sent to Sherlock, and even worse were returned by Sherlock, were nauseating. However, it was obvious that Watson was only just coming to terms with his sexuality, probably hadn’t even acknowledged his inevitable attraction to the detective for what it was, which made him easy prey.

He watched him, watched him and Sherlock solve case after case, watch them flick at his web and tear at his careful designs, which really was getting a bit annoying now. Matters had to be seen to. And soon.

It really had been quite easy, orchestrating their little meet-cute. Watson was, as ever, oblivious to his surroundings. Jim was also rather skilled at playing pretend. It really spiced things up in the bedroom sometimes.

He calculated it perfectly. Watson—John—was just leaving the lamentable hospital cafeteria, two steaming cups of coffee in hand, but obviously not paying too much attention as he was muttering under his breath about incorrigible geniuses and foot fungus. Not one of Jim’s plans, so he paid it no mind. Instead, he waited, counted the seconds, and then turned the corner.

**********

John was, to put it quite simply, annoyed.

He really had no idea why he was even still here, when it had been made clear that he wasn’t even needed, and yet John knew that it would be an empty flat and leftover chow mien if he left for home now, which he really wasn’t interested in at present. Sherlock also had the tendency to just leave without acknowledging John at all, or telling him where he was going, and he had no interest in trying to find a missing detective who was chasing after a serial bigamist apparently turned murderer in the dead of night all alone. Sherlock had a way of finding trouble, and he had no intention in letting the idiotic genius get hurt if he could help it.

Though he wished Sherlock wouldn’t treat him like Molly sometimes, ordering him about without a care, treating him like he less interesting than the fungal infection under the victim’s toe nails, no how “important” the fungus was to the case, or whatever the idiot genius was going on about.

He had, after being ignored for most of the day even though Sherlock was the one dragging him out of bed at the crack of dawn for no reason to run around London for clues before ending up at Bart’s, decided that they both could use a cup of coffee. Molly had made herself scarce after Sherlock had snapped at her, and John felt sorry for her, despite her habit of “forgetting” his name, but he also wished that she had stuck around to be the one to fetch coffee instead.

Grumbling to himself, John admittedly wasn’t paying much attention to where he was going and turned the corner apparently far too quickly, as the next thing he knew he was crashing into another person and the steaming coffee in his hands splashed all over the both of them.

“Shit! Christ!” John exclaimed in a hiss as he shook out his burning hands. He blinked his eyes at the other voice who voiced a similar trail of thought and looked up at the man standing in front of him drenched in most of the hot spilled coffee. “Oh, Christ, I’m sorry,” he hurried to say, wincing as the man gingerly plucked at his white t-shirt that was now stained and clinging to his body.

The man glanced up at him, a hesitant but wry smile curling at his lips, but it was the eyes that rooted John to the spot. They were black, an endless void, and John felt as though he were on the edge of a precipice teetering into the abyss. The man blinked then, and John shook his head.

“Sorry,” the man sheepishly said, letting his shirt go with a shiver, and John thought he might have caught an Irish lilt to his words. “I really should have been watching where I was going.”

“N-no, it’s my fault, I was the one with the coffee,” John denied.

The man bit his lip, his perfect white teeth dragging over the pink flesh slowly, before his brows furrowed in a frown as he took in John’s own coffee stained button-up shirt. “Oh god, I really am sorry.” He reached out for John’s arm before apparently thinking better of it and dropping his hand. “Um, there’s a bathroom nearby. If you wanted to freshen up a little. And let me get you two more coffees, to make up for causing you to spill it all,” he added, bending down to pick up the dropped cups.

“You really don’t have to do that,” John said, mildly regretful that he’d made a mess for the staff to clean up later.

“Oh, it’s no problem, really!” the man said hurriedly. “I was just on my way to get myself a cup, so I can easily get two more.” He flashed John a bright smile. “Please, it’s my fault.”

“What about you then?” John asked indicating the man’s soiled shirt. It was sticking to the man’s body again and had to be cold by now.

“I have an extra shirt in my locker,” the man shrugged.

“Do you work here? I’ve never seen you before,” John said with a small frown, taking in the man’s jeans and top.

“I work in the IT department. New hire. I was just getting off my shift, but I have some spare clothes just in case. Don’t worry about me, go get cleaned up and I’ll get the coffee.” The man grinned again, reaching out to clasp John’s shoulder, giving it a small squeeze before ducking around him, hurrying to the cafeteria.

John watched him go for a moment before sighing and shaking his head. Guess he didn’t really have a choice. He made his way to the bathroom, unbuttoning his shirt once he got inside to try to rinse off some of the mess from hiss shirt and vest before wiping down his pinkened skin. It wasn’t a serious burn or anything, and the other man definitely got the worst of it, but John did feel better once he was marginally cleaned up. He did feel bad about the other man, though, getting him new coffee while covered in John’s old ones. And he had been wearing fewer layers as well.

Speaking of the man, he was waiting outside of the bathroom by the time John got out, looking sheepishly enough that it didn’t come off as creepy, holding a drink carrier with three coffee cups in it. “Hi,” the man said when John stepped out towards him. “I didn’t know how you like your coffee, so I got sugar and cream for you as well.”

“Thanks, but you really didn’t have to do this,” John said with another shake of his head, but he couldn’t help but smile slightly. It’d been a long time since he felt like anyone considered him, really. It was…refreshing. Nice. “I’m John, by the way.”

“John,” the man repeated, almost softly, and nodded his head. “I’m Jim.”

John took the man’s proffered hand, the free one, noticing at the same time (and he didn’t know how he’d missed it before, though the Sherlock voice in his head had something to say about that) that the other man—Jim—was also lefthanded. “Nice to meet you, Jim.”

“You too, John.” The smile Jim gave him was almost shy, and a curious feeling came over John. He’d seen that look directed at him before, but from women.

John cleared his throat, taking the drink carrier as Jim took his one coffee out of it, and felt suddenly a little awkward. He knew how he would have acted if it had been a woman looking at him like that, but he wasn’t even certain that he was reading things properly. And Jim was a man.

Though, John had to admit, that last particular argument was sounding weaker in his head.

“You really should let me pay you for the coffee,” he said instead, like a coward.

Jim’s smile, though still shy, grew a little wider. “You could always pay me back another time. I know a better place to get coffee. Or…” Jim bit his lip again before giving a small shrug. “It doesn’t have to be coffee,” he added quietly.

Not coffee.

Right.

Jim was, without a doubt, definitely flirting with him.

John opened his mouth, ready to say his habitual I’m not gay, but something stopped him. His eyes scanned over Jim, taking in the way the drying shirt still hugged his body close, the way the jeans fit snug but low on his waist, revealing just the hint of the line of his pants, and then back up to take in the man’s guileless but hopeful expression. He wasn’t unattractive. Not at all. In fact, Jim probably could get the number of any bloke he wanted. Which begged to question why he was bothering with a has-been like John. The only person who might have rivalled Jim’s attractiveness was a certain detective waiting for his coffee, and John halted that thought in its tracks right there.

“Okay,” John’s mouth said without much discussion with his brain.

The smile Jim gave John at that word was almost blinding. He stepped forward, setting his cup carefully back in the holder before reaching into his back pocket for a pen. He then reached for one of John’s hands with a playful little wink and quickly scribbled on his palm. “Call me,” he said a little bashfully, before plucking his cup back up and stepping away. “Anytime.”

John watched, a little bemused, as Jim threw him another small smile before hurrying away as though embarrassed. He didn’t quite know what to do with what just happened. He blinked, looking down at his palm, finding a phone number and a little smiley face written there in blue ink. Right. So…so he’d just got a bloke’s number.

A rather fit bloke’s number.

Right.

John hesitated only a moment longer before shaking his head and heading back towards the labs. His hand flexed, wanting to instinctively curl, but he kept his fingers out of his palm lest they smudge the ink. Just in case.

He was still a little dazed by the whole thing when he pushed into the lab, spotting Sherlock bent over the microscope still, jotting down notes without even looking at the paper. His lips were pursed, however, and it seemed as though he very pointedly wasn’t looking at John, until he did, his gaze accusatory.

“Where have you been?” he asked, before his gaze darted over John, taking in the spilt coffee and John’s posture with a blank expression settling over his features before he lightly sneered and returned his attention to his work. “Ah.”

John huffed, annoyed at his colleague’s reaction, and set the man’s coffee cup nearby, tossing two sugar packets next to it in mild rebellion. He wasn’t Sherlock’s bloody servant. “‘Ah’ what, Sherlock?” he asked with a small amount of bite. Of course the man would deduce it all.

“Tell me, does she work or study here?” Sherlock drawled, sounding absolutely bored. “Judging by the way you’re careful not to let anything tough your palm, I’d say she has to be much younger if she uses the infantile gesture of writing her number on your hand.”

John paused, the knowledge that Sherlock couldn’t tell that it was a man’s number causing him to smirk slightly. “I’d say early- to mid-thirties, actually,” he said with a touch of smugness. He glanced at the number on his hand, wondering if he should rub it in Sherlock’s face that it wasn’t a woman at all, but something held him back. Perhaps it was the whole talk about John accepting a man’s number. More than that, it was John with a man’s number and a tentative date.

Jesus.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, not even bothering to hide it. He reached for his coffee, took a sip, and grimaced. “There’s no sugar in this,” he complained.

“Packets are by the cup,” John said in mild sing-song, his own cup already how he liked it, and moved to sit at one of the stools until he was needed again. He tried to ignore Sherlock then, gaze looking down at the numbers on his palm. John was still in a sort of limbo about this whole thing, honestly. He’d never shown interest in a man before. Well…

John’s gaze lifted then, settling on the curly hair of the consulting genius, hesitating for a moment before swallowing and looking down at his palm. Right. Well. It wouldn’t hurt to save the number in his phone. Just in case. Then he wouldn’t have to worry about smudging the ink. It just made sense, really.

Pulling out his phone, John quickly typed the digits in before saving it under the name ‘Jim.’ After a moment’s hesitation, and a quick glance at the smiley on his palm, John added a happy emoji face next to the name.

Right. Just because he saved the number, that didn’t mean he was actually going to call the man. Right?

For the second time that day, John (almost) spilled coffee on himself as Sherlock suddenly jumped up with an exclamation and proclaimed that they needed to leave. John rolled his eyes at his manic flatmate before tossing his mostly undrunk coffee away and grabbing his jacket to follow the impossible man out for another few hours of pointlessly running around London’s streets.

**********

When John finally managed to collapse in bed that night, exhausted and a little sore from a scuffle when the pointless running around actually turned into chasing after their suspect and catching the murderer (which turned out to be one of the serial bigamist’s illegal husbands and not the bigamist herself, who also almost became the next victim), he was about ready to just fall asleep and not think until the next day.

Sherlock better not wake him up again.

However, when John raised his hand to rub at his face, he saw the smudged ink there and recalled the earlier events of the day. Jim. He chewed on his lip, deliberating with himself, before drawing a deep breath. Well. He couldn’t deny that he was curious. And besides, one coffee date didn’t mean anything. One coffee date with a man. A fit man.

John groaned, not certain he was prepared for a crisis about his sexuality this late in his life, but he was a soldier. He wasn’t going to run scared. So, with this thought in mind, he found the new contact and typed out a quick message before hitting send. There. Done. No harm done.

No harm done at all.

…

Somewhere deep in London, a phone’s screen lit up with a new text message, and a spider smiled.

***

Also on my AO3.

#my ficlet #johnlock #johniarty #bbc sherlock #ao3 #jim from IT #may continue later at some point

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bibleteachingbyolga · 3 years

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What Christian father lacks the deep desire to see his sons become men who are wise, godly, strong, selfless, mature, and responsible?

I have prayed that my son would become a man consumed by a passion for the supremacy of Christ so that he pours himself out in sacrificial love for others. Ultimately the Lord does this, not us. “Unless the Lord builds the house, those who build it labor in vain” (Psalm 127:1). “I planted, Apollos watered, but God gave the growth” (1 Corinthians 3:6). God builds. Fathers labor, plant, and water, but God alone gives growth. Even still, God calls Spirit-filled fathers to faithfully bring up their children in the training and instruction of the Lord (Ephesians 6:4). Loving fathers want to do everything in their power to help their sons become mature men.

But our world is confused on adulthood generally, and manhood in particular. The fog of confusion inevitably seeps into churches. The fog clouds our parenting. I tremble at the possibility of failing to give my son the opportunity to realize his potential as a mature and godly man. But the Lord is our Shepherd. By grace, I’m witnessing him build my boy into a man, in part through an approach I have learned from the Scriptures, the church, and other Bible teachers.

Acknowledging that my son (now 15) and I are still very much in the process of launching him well into manhood, and that we cannot be sure now whether his current trajectories will hold over decades, and that the specifics will undoubtedly be different for different families, here are a few principles guiding me in raising a man, under the three broad steps: aim, ready, fire.

Aim: Clarify the Goal

First, we take aim. We clarify the goal. What are we praying and working toward for our boys? For us, that has been mature Christian manhood. Even if God doesn’t save our son under our roof, we can pray that our efforts set him up for responsible manhood in common grace, with seeds planted to bear fruit if the Lord eventually converts him (Matthew 11:25–27).

Define what manhood is and when manhood happens. We have tried to clarify what manhood is so that our son can aim at it. What is manhood? In a two-part series, Albert Mohler gives a clue reflecting on the question, “When does a boy become a man?” Mohler answers that a boy becomes a man when he reaches a level of maturity spiritually, personally, economically, physically, sexually, morally, ethically, relationally, socially, verbally, and in worldview, character, and biblical knowledge.

Much of what Mohler points to, however, is adulthood in general rather than manhood in particular. So, taking Mohler’s reflections with John Piper’s definition of manhood (What’s the Difference? 23–47), we might summarize when a boy becomes a man this way:

A boy becomes a man when he becomes mature enough to embrace and enjoy the sense of responsibility to lead, provide for, and protect women and children in ways appropriate to a man’s differing relationships in order to fulfill humanity’s God-given commission.

As an (important) aside, the definition of womanhood completes this concept of manhood. To build again on Piper’s definition, I would describe mature womanhood this way:

The essence of mature femininity is the freeing disposition to support and strengthen worthy leadership from men (and reject or redirect unworthy leadership) in ways appropriate to a woman’s differing relationships in order to fulfill humanity’s God-given commission.

The definition of manhood above has been my goal as a dad: help my son reach a level of maturity to embrace and enjoy this sense of masculine responsibility. How do I help him get there? Through preparation and commencement.

Ready: Prepare for Parting

To help prepare our boys for manhood, we can communicate the calling, instruct him for it, and lean on the help of others.

First, communicate the goal and a time frame. Communicating the goal has first meant making sure our son understands the definition of mature masculinity. In other words, have we clarified a goal for him?

As time progresses, we have reminded our son that God is growing him up to be a man and that he should aim to be a man when he comes of age. The Bible doesn’t provide a set age for this, and American culture is unclear on when a boy becomes a man. Is it at 21, when he can drink alcohol? At 18, when he can vote? At 16, when he can drive? Earlier does allow for some overlap in the home, in which we have affirmed his manhood but still have immediate influence on his development and decision-making.

Once my wife and I decided on a target age (for us, 13), we reminded him regularly, and especially each birthday, that he only had so much time before he would become a man (and that he had a lot of work to do to get there). If we determined that he wasn’t prepared at 13, we would have slowed the process and delayed entrusting him with more freedom and responsibility. Age 13 may or may not be a wise target for your son. It does seem wise, however, to have some intentional and communicated time frame. Targeting a specific age gives both you and your son a sense of clarity and urgency for cultivating the right maturities.

Teach and train him in knowledge and practice. Having established a target time frame, we instructed and trained our son for this calling. Leaning heavily on counsel from Vern Poythress, we pursued and encouraged specific growth and development in a handful of key areas. For example, we sought to train our son in knowledge of the Bible and the gospel, memorization of Bible verses (Psalm 119:11), and a grasp of our church catechism for basic theology.

We also repeatedly encouraged him to seek God through the disciplines of Bible reading, sermon listening, and repentance and gospel restoration. We exposed and called him to serve others by serving some of our homeless neighbors, helping other kids in the church, and leading in prayers in the home and in smaller group gatherings. We called him to develop physically with running, push-ups, and chin-ups. We studied financial stewardship. We reflected on basic objections to Christianity. We also taught him the goodness of God’s design in human sexuality.

Lean on the community. Another essential piece has been the local church. Our sons need the social skills of interacting with others from all walks of life, so we must lean on our churches to help in raising them.

Furthermore, our sons will learn how to lean on the community as they see their fathers getting help. Our church encourages and prays for adult members to build meaningful friendships with the children of the church for present and future discipleship. There is a wealth of wisdom and grace poured into the lives of our church families. To benefit from the church family, my son came up with several questions to interview some men he admired. He asked them questions like, When did you become a Christian? When did you feel like a man? What prepared you to lead a family? What helped you grow spiritually?

As sons hear the call, receive training in the knowledge and practice of maturity, and spend meaningful time with other men in the church, they will continue (by the grace of God) to mature in masculinity. Once ready for manhood, we now have an opportunity to clearly communicate their arrival.

Fire! His Turn to Step Up

To launch a son into manhood with clarity, we can now affirm his manhood, cut the cord of childhood, and partner with him in ministry.

Verify and affirm his manhood. For a father to clearly affirm his son’s manhood, we must first discern it. In a sense, the testing is going on for a year or so (or even longer) before the formal declaration of manhood.

I watched my son read his Bible and interact with family and friends. We conversed about many topics. I asked him questions about the Bible, basic theology, and personal purity. I observed his disciplines. We tested him physically in running and basic upper-body strength. I asked the other men who met with him how their conversations went and what they observed of my son. Once satisfied, we scheduled a time to declare and celebrate his manhood (again, inspired by Poythress) with our family, the men who invested in him, church family, friends, and neighbors.

Cut the cord of childhood. Once we declared our son to be a man, it has been up to us to live consistent with that reality and calling. Though he is a man, he has still been dependent on us. While he lives in our house, we have let him make as many decisions as possible. We switched our approach definitively from parental control to parental influence and guidance.

Partner in life and ministry. At this point of responsibility, we gave our son the opportunity to publicly profess faith in Christ and join the church. As he joined the church, we reminded him of his responsibilities as a member and of his accountability to church discipline (Matthew 18:15–17). We have encouraged our son to continue to engage the men and members of the church as he did in childhood. The difference now is that he does so as a man in discipling, accountability, and service. Like other members in the church, we share life and Jesus with one another and partner together to love our neighbors.

Sons of Clarity and Confidence

Even though the specific applications will look different for other families, I advise fellow parents to consider intentionally cultivating mature manhood in their boys through a clear aim, persevering and patient preparation, and a definitive declaration and commencement.

If we continue without clear direction, our boys may grow up confused and unprepared for manhood, leaving us disappointed with missed opportunities and untapped potential. But if we move forward deliberately, then our boys can grow up with clarity and confidence. If the Lord graciously saves them, then they will be set up for a life of joy serving our King and his kingdom.

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wineanddinosaur · 3 years

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Next Round: Master Sommelier Jill Zimorski on the Future of Sommeliers in America

Airing between regular episodes of the VinePair Podcast, “Next Round” explores the ideas and innovations that are helping drinks businesses adapt in a time of unprecedented change. As the coronavirus crisis continues and new challenges arise, VP Pro is in your corner, supporting the drinks community for all the rounds to come. If you have a story or perspective to share, email us at [email protected].

In this “Next Round” episode, host Zach Geballe sits down with Master Sommelier Jill Zimorski to discuss the future of the sommelier in America. Of course, the two weigh in on the recent string of scandals in the Court of Master Sommeliers and Zimorski discusses what she learned by testing through the Master examinations. Both touch on what Geballe deems an “unnecessary” level of secrecy, which has come into question since the release of the “SOMM” movies, as well as the cheating scandal of 2018. Zimorski affirms this level of “supreme secrecy” creates a testing landscape that is unreasonably broad, and suggests aspects of testing that the CMS-A could adopt from other institutions including WSET and Wine Scholar Guild exams.

With a Covid-19 vaccine approved in the U.S., Geballe and Zimorski also share their hopes for sommeliers returning to work. While wine professionals have often had a range of responsibilities when working in restaurants, the two hope that 2021 could be the year somms are allowed to focus on sharing their wine expertise instead of being tasked with an additional title like floor or general manager.

Zimorski emphasizes that so many underemployed or unemployed sommeliers have gotten creative this year, and has herself been podcasting. This series, called “Reading and Drinking,” is produced by SOMM TV. There, Zimmorski reviews important wine texts and educates viewers on the best wine books to look out for. She hopes that somms and other wine professionals will continue to find creative outlets or specialized ways to share their wine knowledge.

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Or Check Out the Conversation Here

Zach: From Seattle, Washington, I’m Zach Geballe. And this is “Next Round,” a VinePair Podcast Conversation. We’re bringing you these conversations in between our regular podcast episodes in order to focus on the stories and issues in the drinks world. Today, I’m speaking with Chicago-based wine educator and Master Sommelier, Jill Zimorski. Jill, thanks so much for your time today.

Jill: Thank you so much for having me. I’m delighted to be here.

Z: Wonderful to have you. I will say that off the jump, I am an avid listener of your podcast, which we’ll talk about in a little bit. And as I was mentioning before, it is interesting to do a podcast with someone who you listen to do a podcast. I don’t know if it’s like “Inception” or what but it’s messing with me a little bit. So if I get thrown off during this conversation, that’s the only reason why. So let’s start on a slightly more — pardon the pun — sober topic, but 2020 has been a year for all of us. And it’s been a year for everyone who is involved in the restaurant industry, I think, in one form or another. We’ve discussed that in many forms on both the regular VinePair Podcast and through these “Next Round” conversations, but we haven’t talked a whole lot about the sommeliers in particular and wine professionals in restaurants, and both you and I pre-Covid have worked in that capacity. And I’m just wondering, what do you see going forward? Now that we are in this period of time when people are getting vaccinated, “the end” isn’t exactly clear when it will come, but seems like it is closer than the beginning. And what do you see for sommeliers and wine professionals going forward?

J: Well, I’m very hopeful. It’s been obviously a horrible year in a horrible situation. And in some ways specifically, wine professionals in the hospitality industry have a unique situation where it’s a specialized niche position. I’ve always likened sommeliers to pastry chefs.

You can have a successful restaurant without either one of those positions, but having people in those positions will really enhance your ability to be profitable and your guest experience. But it’s been said many times that they’re the last ones to be hired back and the first ones to be let go, because you can get by without them. That said, this has been such an interesting time because around the country laws have thankfully been changed very quickly to allow on-premise restaurants and hotels to allow for takeout and delivery, not just of wine, but also of cocktails and cocktail kits. And so it’s been very interesting watching the adaptation process and I hope that when things return to a little bit more of a state of normalcy in terms of safe dining and restaurants and working the floor again and that whole environment, I hope that the positions will come back. Because I know far too many sommeliers who are unemployed or underemployed. So I hope that one, people will be re-employed in those positions, but I think and I wonder and hope that some of the skills that I think that people have developed over this year, over these 10 months, will enhance and further develop them professionally, but further enhance their job skills and their job abilities.

Z: Yeah, interesting. I guess to me, one thing that I’ve been thinking about a lot, and I certainly have heard from peers, colleagues, friends, et cetera throughout the industry who have themselves been displaced, laid off, furloughed, given a new set of responsibilities, et cetera in this period of time, I do wonder, we were kind of at this period into 2019, where the sommelier was kind of riding high. I mean between the positive associations that the title had from the “SOMM” films and just general cultural cache, I think it was a period of time when there was this sense that maybe it could be this piece of the restaurant industry that really was a thing for people to strive for. And I still think it can be that my question and concern is that, what I’ve heard from a lot of people that I’ve talked to is their fear is that we’re going to go back to a period of time where “Yeah, OK, you can be the wine director, but you also need to be the general manager. You also need to be the floor manager.” That the idea of wine specialists in restaurants — and maybe to come back to that pastry chef analogy — it’s kind of like yeah, you can be the pastry chef, but I also need you to work a station on the line. That might not be a viable thing for a pastry chef, frankly, but for sommeliers I’m just concerned and I don’t know if you have any thoughts on this, about the subsuming of wine responsibilities in a restaurant into a larger set of job descriptions, as opposed to breaking it out as was maybe starting to happen in the latter part of this past decade.

J: That combined position, we sarcastically call it a “som-manager” a sommelier and a manager combined into one. I know that’s a necessary evil. But I also hate that position because those are two full-time jobs that are then squished into one person and one lower salary as a result.

And I do hate that, but I understand why it’s necessary. And I think that there have been some examples around the country of wine professionals who’ve really —and please, I’m going to try so hard not to use the word “pivot.” It’s the most overused word of 2020. I never want to hear it again, unless it’s in relation to basketball, but I’ve seen some examples of people adapting.

And really taking what the sommelier does, which is providing hospitable wine service and really taking it next- level. And sometimes in small restaurants, I’ve seen that in developing a wine club, and I know wine clubs can be a dime a dozen, but restaurants can be very theme-specific. And so to operate that, I think it’s an interesting idea to do a wine club or to do a little bit more of a guest service, “in-depth information sharing” situation, where there might be interviews with featured producers or winemakers or distillers whose products are heavily featured or partnered with the restaurant.

And so I would hate to see all sommeliers pushed into a job where they’re only doing the wine aspect of things 25 percent of the time. But I think there’s ways to make the case that it’s not just ordering, receiving, inventorying wine. That there are other things that a sommelier can do that will add value and add revenue.

And I think that’ll be critical, honestly. You have to make that case for yourself, you can’t expect it’ll just be OK. You’ve got to fight for that.

Z: I also think that there’s something to be said about one piece that none of us really know at this point, because we’re still in the pandemic, even if it feels we might be seeing the light at the end of the tunnel. Is that I think a lot of people’s relationships with restaurants will have changed to some extent in this period of time, that people will have either, at least for a while, maybe a greater appreciation of what they missed when restaurants were not an option, or at least were complicated for people to go to as opposed to a thoughtless thing.

And also I think that we’ve gotten so used to engaging with not just friends and coworkers and family virtually, but also with businesses and entities that we care about, at least in a more abstracted attenuated way than we had pre-Covid. And I think that point you make is a really valid one, which is that the good wine professionals, sommeliers, et cetera, will find ways to continue to connect with guests even when they’re not in the restaurant. And I think that’s going to be a huge piece for a lot of businesses, because I think everyone has been reminded that you can’t take that customer connection, that outreach, for granted because it’s your lifeline if things go sideways. And I think all of us know now that they can go sideways and then go sideways quickly, in ways that no one anticipated.

J: 100 percent, and look it’s going to be hard. But I think that’s one thing that hospitality industry workers generally, and sommeliers for certain specifically, have in common is there’s some hustle there.

And so I think it’s just going to be one of those things where we’re going to have to dig a little bit deeper and find the emotional energy to wax creative and come up with some new ideas, but it’s going to take some hard work for sure. But that’s how you get the good things to happen is hard work.

Z: Yeah, and speaking of hard work, you know a hell of a lot about it, probably in some sense more than you care to. And I think it’s important in this conversation — it would be remiss of us not to talk a little bit about the other piece of 2020 for sommeliers, which has been, the incredible storm of scandals surrounding the Court of Master Sommeliers.

And obviously we’re a part of, unfortunately, this initial crack in the ice, but it was certainly a seismic thing. I mean, much more so for you being one of the people directly involved in the cheating scandal, as an innocent bystander, I should point out, not anything other than that.

Whenever those words get thrown out, that gets really messy. I apologize. But yeah, you just happened to be taking your exam at the same time as other people who were perhaps cheating. And then obviously this year, the really horrific, if perhaps not completely surprising, allegations and reports of widespread sexual abuse throughout the court at the highest levels.

And maybe even more than that, the very willing blind eye that many of the Master Sommeliers within the court turned to the predatory actions of their fellow Master Sommeliers. So we can talk about this in whatever dimension you want, or multiple dimensions, obviously. But I’m just curious first and foremost, how has this been sitting with you?

J: It’s been very frustrating because of what’s happened over the past couple of years in my experience with the Court of Master Sommeliers, I certainly have had every reason to just wash my hands clean of this organization. But I haven’t. And I do feel that I’ve had to explain that to some people who do want to see it completely dismantled. And I will say this: I won’t make any excuses or any apologies. What those men did is horrible. And there needs to be consequences, pretty severe ones. I’m going to take out the pretty severe consequences.

I’m not going to modify that at all, but I gained a lot through the process of going through certifications with the Court of Master Sommeliers. I didn’t chase a pin. It led me to develop professionally and it provided a roadmap for me. And I didn’t experience what so many of these women did. So I believe the women and we always have to believe the women, but I do believe that since some people didn’t experience that, that means that there are some people who are in the organization that are good and decent and honorable. And for an organization that’s primarily male. It’s not like all the men are being accused. It’s a subset, it’s a subset of bad actors. And so I think that this organization has not evolved the way the wine industry has evolved. And it started off 44 years ago as a certification body, but it’s become so much more than that. And now it’s something that people really identify with and not just Master Sommeliers.

I mean, there are definitely Master Sommeliers where it’s part and parcel to who they are and how they work. But for people all over the world, it’s been a really important, impactful thing. And I still think there’s a place in the wine diaspora for what it does. The “WSET,” which I am also a part of, that organization is not the equivalent.

It has a different testing process and it also tests different skills. And so I believe there’s a place for it, but I think it needs to evolve and we need to recognize and understand that it’s not just an examination body anymore. And as something that people so strongly identify with with any level of participation, it needs to understand that not acknowledging what’s happening in the world around us with regard to racial and social unrest — that’s not acceptable because that hurts people. And the court is officially organized as a not-for-profit and I don’t represent the court. I can’t speak for the court. But I have this conversation frequently these days.

What is this organization? Is it just a nonprofit? Is it a club? Is it an academic credential? What is it? Because sometimes I feel that the people who are in charge of it for a long time really believe it to be so much more important than I think it actually is in the wine world. That if it is just a credentialing organization and there are some people who have demonstrably behaved so horrifically, boot them out! That shouldn’t be hard. And I struggled to find what’s so complicated and difficult about this. It’s not impeaching a president. It should be a little bit easier. And I also think that one of the biggest disconnects is the speed at which things happen internally, and the speed at which the external wine industry wants to see things happen. Because if we look at the court as a business, which people pay to take the exams, and we look at candidates for exams as customers, the customer base is not happy right now. And so we need to — we as a company — need to figure out how to reach our customer and how to not lose them and how to make them feel that there’s a return on their investment.

And I think that there’s just been a real disconnect with who our customer is now and what the wine industry really looks and how this organization operates. And I’m hopeful. I am hopeful that with this new elected leadership — I’m not trying to be ageist here, but it is a much younger group of individuals because some qualifications for leadership were changed.

And I think that some of these people are a little bit more in touch with the methods of communication and the speed of communication and the expectations of the industry. So I’m hopeful that things will improve, but yeah it’s been a hot mess.

Z: I have a couple of questions I wanted to ask to follow up to that. The first one is that, I wonder, and I think a thought that struck me for a while, honestly, since the issues with the master examinations in 2018. And maybe even before that, is one issue that I think has plagued the court maybe in public perception over the last couple of years, certainly within the sommelier community is a general level of secrecy that seems unnecessary. And I understand that to some extent you need there to be a certain amount of secrecy surrounding an examination because obviously you can’t tell people everything. There has to be some level of uncertainty. Otherwise, if you tell people exactly what’s going to be on the test, it becomes then an examination of something other than the skill they’re trying to test for.

But I do think that that level of secrecy as we’ve seen has really been exploited on multiple fronts. It’s part of what gave these predatory men power over women who were aspiring to achieve higher levels. There was a sense, I think, that these Masters Sommeliers had this secret knowledge that could improve or hurt your chances of advancement both specifically on exams and also, of course, getting placement in exams and things like that. But also, more broadly, even for people who weren’t necessarily going to be victimized in that specific way, there is a lot of confusion and I think unnecessary confusion about the exam, the format, the kinds of things that one was expected to know, and really more than anything else the fairness of the adjudication of those exams.

And again, a lot of that was brought to the surface in 2018 when it became very clear to most everyone that it wasn’t particularly fair. Either how the exams were handled and certainly the aftermath of the cheating scandal, but also I think that that always has been an issue. Do you feel it’s possible to conduct the exams throughout the levels that the court does with significantly less secrecy?

J: Oh my gosh, yes. This is a thing that has been incredibly frustrating for me because I feel that again, if this is purely an examining body, there is no need for this “supreme secrecy” and redacted minutes and all this garbage. We’re just a bunch of sommeliers. We don’t have nuclear codes. So I think a little bit is just self-important and extreme. And I am not convinced, nor has anyone been able to convince me that the levels of secrecy that those who have claimed are necessary are actually necessary. That said, I’ve never actually seen an exam.

But I teach, and I teach classes of all levels with the Wine and spirit Education Trust. And it’s a very different organization, but the exams are graded by Masters of Wine and I am not a Master of Wine, but I’ve certainly proctored exams and I teach classes, and that organization provides a pathway, a syllabus, study materials, and yet still people still don’t pass all those exams. So there is a way to provide more direction, more guidance, more clarity, and more exam expectations and it won’t necessarily mean that there’ll be a hundred percent pass rate because I see that. When you’re preparing for an exam, people go down wormholes.

And if you don’t give them a roadmap of what is expected or reasonable, people can really take it to absurd levels of “I need to know this” and that’s not necessarily helpful, but they have no one telling them, “Stay the course. You’re really veering off into minutiae here” and the WSET is better about that. I also think that throughout this whole pandemic I’ve been searching for what I call “little silver linings,” little things to grasp at. And while the pandemic and the subsequent unemployment of many Masters Sommeliers has proved that a credential does not guarantee employment, one thing I’ve seen is that a lot of people at various levels of education are pursuing certification.

Just one, they have the time or just trying to keep engaged in what they’re doing. And I’ve taken actually a couple of exams. One to just experience them for classes I was going to teach. I’ve taken online exams and the level of security is really quite impressive, for both the WSET or The Wine Scholar Guild. And so I know that these things are possible. But I also feel that transparency is paramount because if you’re not doing anything wrong, then what do you have to hide? And I agree, there are things in an exam like if you think back to high school or college, we had tests of varying styles there and teachers perhaps, or professors may have prepared students for general expectations, but they didn’t reveal the questions that they were going to be asking prior to the exam. So no one’s expecting that, but, blind tasting is part of both the WSET and the Court of Master Sommeliers and there’s never been a reveal of what the wines are. I’m not even talking about producer, but vintage or variety or, region of production. That would be helpful because if you don’t know what you should be focusing on, there are too many places for candidates to spiral off.

And so I think more specific guidelines, more transparency, and more secure testing methods, I think, are really, really important. I mean, tests are administered by humans in our case, and humans are fallible. And so there needs to be a backup. I mean, if it’s just a candidate and two or three master sommeliers in a room, there needs to be something else.

I mean, one of the best examples I can give for blind tasting because I’ve done so many blind-tasting exams, you walk into a room, you sit across the table from two or three Master Sommeliers. In more recent years, there’s been another person in the back of the room observing, but that’s still people listening to you. They can see who you are. They can see if you’re visibly nervous, there’s possibility for innate bias. But I think back to middle school when I played the clarinet, and I was not some gifted musician, but I remember auditioning for like municipal concert or something, and there would be blind sight reading and you would walk into a room. There would be a curtain. And behind the curtain was someone who would purely listen. And you would sit down at a chair. You couldn’t see who was behind there — man, woman, what color, how old? And there’d be a piece of sheet music on the stand, and you would hear the beep of a timer and you would just have to sight read.

You didn’t even talk. And so there are ways where you can isolate the product of someone’s work product or what their exam product is, and it can eliminate, or at least drastically reduce, any implicit bias. ‘Cause that’s one thing I think that we’ve realized this year, upon some introspection and examination is how important it is to pay attention to all of the implicit bias and micro-aggressions that probably a lot of people in this organization and the organization writ large around us is not even aware of, but that exist.

Z: I think one last thing I wanted to ask about and to come back to this issue of fairness and secrecy, a question that I have, ’cause you’re a person who has not only achieved a level of a Master Sommelier but who’s been heavily involved in WSET, but also is currently involved in education. One thing that I always wondered about with the court in particular is it has not often seemed to me — especially as I got a little further in — that really truly the goal was for me to succeed. And by what I mean by that is that it felt that in some sense, especially maybe in the period of time after the movie “SOMM” was released, which I think was fairly viewed as something of a watershed moment for the organization, because it really fundamentally changed the publicity, the level of a claim and just attention paid to Master Sommeliers and the Court of Master Sommeliers is that protecting the pass rate such as it is, or the low pass rate became a point of pride, or even maybe a focal point, and maybe it’s in those redacted minutes that none of us will ever see. But the exams were set up, or even perhaps administered in such a way where the goal was here’s what we want the pass rate to be. How do we design the test? How do we administer the test to protect that? And I will say this, this is me speculating wildly — this is not Jill. She can tell me I’m wrong. She can come back to me. It’s always been my belief that part of the reason the entire set of results for 2018 were invalidated is because frankly, too many people passed. And that is to me, a load of horses*** and really unfair. And is that a little conspiratorial thinking? Maybe. But I am pretty confident in saying that this isn’t the first time that there have been questions about whether someone had had access to information beforehand but it is the first time when 20-odd people passed. And I think, yeah, I think that was taken as an invitation to keep that pass rate down.

J: Well, I don’t necessarily agree with that and I’ll explain why. I could be wrong, by the way. And if that was the case, that would be horrible, but I don’t necessarily agree. For a couple of reasons.

One, I have seen — because I’ve been around for a bit — and I’ve seen the numbers of people passing increase. So when I passed the advanced exam in 2012, there were only 10 people in my group who passed. And in subsequent years, over the past decade, I’ve seen that number be in the teens and 20s and more, the MS has been historically low.

And that’s part of the fact of the matter is there’s just a lot fewer candidates. There’s just a lot fewer people at the MS exam. Now that said, at the 2018 exam that was a watershed moment because four years prior, in 2014, the format of the exam changed. There were so many people who had reached that level, because with the MS exam, you have to pass all three parts in three years, or you have to restart.

But from my understanding, there were more and more people who had reached that level, who were masters candidates and there were so many people who — frankly, there needed to be a way to allow these folks to test, but also keep it manageable. And so they separated theory from the other two parts of the exam.

So theory became a gateway, you had to pass the theory exam first. Once passed, you could then take service and tasting. So for example, I passed in 2018 on my fifth try. So I took the theory exam in 2014 for the first time and I passed it. That’s not terribly common, but I did.

And other people have, too. And then later that year, I took service and tasting and I passed service, but not tasting. I didn’t pass tasting the next year or the next year in 2016. So I reset, which sucks, but it happens to a lot of people. So 2017 rolls around and the same rule applies. I have to take theory and I pass theory, later that year I take service and tasting.

I pass service. I don’t pass tasting. I come back the next year, I pass tasting. That was true for a lot of people. So by the time you get to the service and the tasting exam portion, everyone in the room, all 50, 60, 70 people has already got at least one part down. And a lot of those people only needed one more part to pass and it’s not correct to assume that if you just keep taking the exam, you’ll pass it. There’s enough people who have never passed it, who would attest to that. But there were a lot of people at that exam who I’ve known most of my adult professional career, and we’d come up through the ranks together.

So I wasn’t the least bit, I was a little surprised, but I wasn’t shocked that so many people passed because so many people were so ready to pass that only had one part left who had taken the exam multiple times and were really seasoned, highly skilled sommelier professionals. Now here’s the problem, because it was so record-setting, that so many people passed, the lack of communication and explanation about the statistics of the candidate pool and those who passed has never been clearly articulated by the court. And I think that’s a huge failure. And I think that led to so many people thinking that the reason that exam was invalidated had to do with the large pass rate, because again all the people in the room had already passed one third of the exam, and I don’t know what proportion, but a large proportion of us only had to pass one more part. And so if we looked at it from a statistical standpoint, we weren’t starting at the start line at that point. And so I think that that’s part of it. But if the court had ever revealed data on “here’s the number of people who applied,” “here’s the number of people who tested,” “here’s the breakdown by gender and by sector of the industry that they work in,” that kind of data sharing where you can still protect identities would be incredibly helpful.

And if you look at the total candidate pool for the Masters exam in 2018, you have to include all the people who sat for the theory exam in 2018 and didn’t pass. And that’s the larger number. And if you look at the number of people who passed the whole exam, based on the total number of not just those of us who are in St. Louis but those of us who also took the theory exam that year, the percentage is actually fairly consistent with what it’s been through the years, but there’s a larger number of people in the shoot, and people who are testing through this organization. So of course the past numbers are going to go up, but I don’t know if that means the pass rate changes, but that’s never been clearly explained or articulated.

And when you don’t provide the information, people can draw whatever conclusion they want. So I don’t a hundred percent agree with you on that one.

Z: Fair enough. Fair enough. I’m over here, I’m down here in my basement with the photos and the red string. I want to shift gears and ask about one last thing before we wrap it up here, Jill, which is what you’re doing now for SOMM TV and in particular, your podcast. Do you want to say a little more about it?

J: Yeah, so this is peak 2020. I, like many others, started a podcast this year and it’s really funny. I’m a perpetual student. I just like the process. It gives me a sense of direction with my wine focus, and I like being informed. And so throughout the years in all of the different tests and things, I’ve become an avid collector of wine books and books are challenging because they go out of date really quickly when the world of wine moves fast.

But I like books for reference. I like books for aesthetics. I don’t know. I’m an avid reader. My grandmother was a librarian. Maybe that’s part of it. And the thing that I’ve noticed and it’s over the past few years, and I think it coincides with me reaching a level of — I know a lot about wine. I don’t know everything about wine, no one ever can, but I know a lot. And I’d be reading books and I was like “Oh, that’s just wrong. Wow.” And I started to develop this theory that one, I have no idea how one gets a publishing deal. I’ve never written a book. I’ve never tried to write a book, but from what I understand, and I have friends in the publishing industry, from what I understand there are editors, and I have friends who have published books and their editors work with them to make sure that their writing and the facts and things are correct. And I started reading these wine books and they were just full of errors. And sometimes the writing was awful and I thought maybe there’s a gap in the industry that I’m not aware of, where there’s just not enough editors who know enough about wine to edit a wine book. And it’s not a widespread problem. I mean, there are wonderful, wonderful books out there, but I was reading a few books and I was like this is just hot garbage.

And so I had done a few small feature pieces, videos and stuff with the team from Somm TV. And I was joking with Jason Wise, who’s the producer of the Somm films and Somm TV. And I was like, does Somm TV need a book reviewer? Like a wine book reviewer? And he was like ha ha call me. And so we hatched out this idea and so it just started on a lark.

And so I was furloughed for five months this summer. And so I had a lot of time on my hands, like many people, and I had never done anything like this. And so I had a very steep learning curve and some very kind and patient people shout-outs to Jason and Nadine. But it was very interesting and the whole premise is that I would just review wine books and try to offer some informed opinion and guidance on whether it was something that I felt people should certainly buy.

Maybe if they found it used to just give it a read and borrow it, or avoid this flashing red lights, this is garbage. And so it was really fun. And we recorded all these during the summer while I was furloughed. And then I had this moment before they launched and I was like “Oh my God,” have I been in this weird protected, isolated area where I think we’ve put up something that’s really clever and the population at large is going to think this is ridiculous and absolutely far too niche? And have no merit in the world of wine. And thankfully that’s not been the case. I mean, I don’t know what the stats are in terms of subscribers and downloads and things, but we’ve gotten some really positive feedback and it helps me in my goal to become well read and it’s been a passion project and it’s really funny when I talk to people and they’re like, “Wow, what’d you do this year? You weren’t working for a long time,” and I’m like, “I started a podcast.” It was my 2020 story, but it’s been so awesome. And, we took a little break, for the six weeks at the end of the year. ‘Cause I got to read some more books and then we’ll start back up again in January. So I’m excited.

Z: Well, I’m a regular listener. I enjoy it. It’s fun because I also think an important thing to note about what Joel does with the podcast is you really jump around, it’s a lot of different kinds of wine books. So there’s a mix of some of the most famous books in the genre that are a little more academic, although I assume you will never do “Wine Grapes” by Jancis Robinson. I can’t even imagine how you would review a book like that. It’s just information.

J: Well, if you’ve heard me fangirl about Jancis. You can probably imagine a little bit that it would be a glowing review.

Z: Since I’ve listened to at least one episode, Yes. I have heard you fangirl about Jancis,

J: But I don’t know that that would be very good listening.

Z: Probably not, but I wanted to say that what’s fun is that there’s also some interesting wine-adjacent books, or at least it’s not all textbooks. It’s not all academic books. There’s a lot of fun books and you even reviewed “Sideways.” I encourage people if they have any free podcast time that is not devoted to this podcast, give Reading and Drinking a listen, it’s a lot of fun. And Jill, thank you so much for your time I really appreciate it.

J: Oh my goodness. Thank you so much for having me. It’s just been a real joy to talk with you and I appreciate the support and shout-out for my podcast, too. That’s awesome, thank you.

Thanks so much for listening to the VinePair Podcast. If you enjoy listening to us every week, please leave us a review or rating on iTunes, Stitcher, Spotify, or wherever it is that you get your podcasts. It really helps everyone else discover the show. Now, for the credits. VinePair is produced and hosted by Zach Geballe and me, Adam Teeter. Our engineer is Nick Patri and Keith Beavers. I’d also like to give a special shout-out to my VinePair co-founder Josh Malin and the rest of the VinePair team for their support. Thanks so much for listening, and we’ll see you again right here next week.

Ed. note: This episode has been edited for length and clarity

The article Next Round: Master Sommelier Jill Zimorski on the Future of Sommeliers in America appeared first on VinePair.

source https://vinepair.com/articles/next-round-master-sommelier-jill-zimorski/

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johnboothus · 3 years

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Next Round: Master Sommelier Jill Zimorski on the Future of Sommeliers in America

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Jill: Thank you so much for having me. I’m delighted to be here.

And I think that’ll be critical, honestly. You have to make that case for yourself, you can’t expect it’ll just be OK. You’ve got to fight for that.

And when you don’t provide the information, people can draw whatever conclusion they want. So I don’t a hundred percent agree with you on that one.

J: Well, if you’ve heard me fangirl about Jancis. You can probably imagine a little bit that it would be a glowing review.

Z: Since I’ve listened to at least one episode, Yes. I have heard you fangirl about Jancis,

J: But I don’t know that that would be very good listening.

J: Oh my goodness. Thank you so much for having me. It’s just been a real joy to talk with you and I appreciate the support and shout-out for my podcast, too. That’s awesome, thank you.

Ed. note: This episode has been edited for length and clarity

The article Next Round: Master Sommelier Jill Zimorski on the Future of Sommeliers in America appeared first on VinePair.

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