Maybe He Gives Me More

Fucking Slut

                      Harry POV
It'd been an hour into US History and the boy who sucked me off couldn't keep his eyes ahead of him. I knew it was wrong, but I pretended I couldn't see him or his attempts to make eye contact. It was easier that way. His loss of innocence wasn't something I was ready to bear nor was it something I ever wanted to.
      His feminine hands went towards a pencil and a scrap piece of paper and soon I got a note passed over on my desk through shaky fingers. I made him nervous and it was obvious he wasn't the type to let the other day go.
      The note read, "Are you just going to pretend yesterday didn't happen?" I smirked and took his sparkly pencil in my hand, and wrote back "That's kinda my specialty Loverboy." As soon as I slid the note to his desk I saw a new found look of hurt in the creases of his face.
      Loverboy pulled out his phone and began typing furiously and wiping away a few stray tears. Not my finest moment, but he knew getting into it with me I wasn't looking for anything after. Anyone with a brain would've assumed that if you fuck around with the school slut chances are there's not much that's going to happen after. That's how real hurt happens. You get attached and shit goes to hell.
      The bell rang and all the sudden I felt like I had done something wrong by acting like I didn't remember. Like I owed him more than that. More than just saying Loverboy because I didn't want to admit to myself that I remembered his name. That I imagined myself saying it, the way the vowels would form on my tongue.
      But I knew too well, to name something is to make it real. To name something is to make this all more than muscle spasms and foreign hands. Fucking is what I was made for. I was not created to cater to the emotional needs of all my downfall fucks, and I was not meant to be the type to remember names. I needed a cigarette.
       As soon as I stepped out of the room I felt two pairs of hands push me back into the wall. "Who the fuck do you think you are Harry Styles?" A boy with rough rich brown skin and a hyper-masculine sex appeal said inches away from my face.
    He continued to talk but each word was muffled and I couldn't concentrate on anything except that his hands were holding the collar of my shirt with a grip so tight his knuckles were purple. 
     His hot breath was blowing onto my face and I could see each nerve in his body on edge. I couldn't see how I looked, but I could take a good guess that it would like how I did when other angry men came at me because I wasn't a good enough fuck. Empty. Ashton said to always look like I was a statue, still and docile.
      "Answer me you dumb slut, you think it's okay to hurt Louis? Huh? You're a worthless sack of shit. Answer me."