alan rickman character oneshots

4. harry trevor. still into you

nsfw. professor x student. class trip, alcohol, jealousy, a bit of texting, outdoor sex. for sof. ti amo, puttanella.

The third gin and tonic slid over the counter, followed by another shot of Tequila, without any salt or lemon – on the contrary, you wanted the whole damn, bitter and humiliating experience of a heartbreak-hangover.

You were angry, fed-up, and ready to get blackout drunk until you couldn't remember your own name anymore, and, much more important, his name, too.

The bar where your professor decided to get fucked up in wasn't exactly crammed, in fact, beside your small group only five other locals sat at the tables scattered around the room.

It was your second year at college, a quite successful one at that, and to outsiders it must have looked like you were celebrating the end of another crazy year at college, but alas – it could have been if it wasn't for Harry fucking Trevor.

You shot him a nasty look he didn't even catch because he was oh so busy with being charmed by your pretty little classmates fluttering with their pretty little lashes and touching him far more than necessary, far more than professionally appropriate.

You downed your shot and slammed it back down on the counter, grimacing at the burning aftertaste of the alcohol, and grimacing a bit more when you caught his curious eyes. He drew his eyebrow on a silent question, but you just rolled your eyes in annoyance and turned back to the barkeeper, ordering another shot.

That fucking bastard.

To your dismay, your core began throbbing und thrumming nonetheless, because he still was fucking hot, and you needed him to fuck you right now or, so god help you, you would claw out these bitches' eyes.

Yes, you weren't in an exclusive relationship, hell, you weren't even friends, more specifically, you were the student that slept with her professor, and you sure as death didn't need to share him with your classmates after classes too, thank you very much – well, if you even were the only one.

With Harry, you never knew. And here, at this little bar on the very last evening of your short trip, oh, it was so much worse than when you were back at uni.

If you had to pinpoint when the tension between you and him had begun to thicken, you couldn't. You really couldn't remember.

He was attractive and you were drawn to him since the first time you stepped into the small classroom where he held his course – a niche course with only a handful students, really so it didn't take long for him to notice you, to get to know each other. Weeks, maybe two months.

He was clever, funny, sassy. He encouraged you to speak your mind, to bend and pull and strengthen it, to let it discover even the littlest, weirdest nooks and crannies – people were awfully small-minded, he always said – and eventually, you started to drift into different spheres, too. It was not only your mind that was wandering, but your gazes and fingers and lips, first alone in your flat in the secrecy of the night, and soon enough during classes.

You could argue it was inevitable. During intense discussions, diving into passionate poems and philosophic movements too adventurous, too woozy to be based on human logic, you simply couldn't avoid the burning curiosity in his hazel eyes, peeking over the rim of his glasses, the drawn eyebrow encouraging you to voice apprehension or impulses or desires whenever you read one explicitly vague reverie, which happened more often than not – he was exceptionally good with providing these musing scripts.

So, when the conversations grew heated and you started to talk with your whole body, not only your lips, but with waving hands, shaking heads and agitatedly bouncing legs, the boundaries started to blur.