#trademark class list

[stupidlittlespirit]

Rating: NSFW (kissing) Type: Long form, Stanford Pines x Reader Tags: Enemies to lovers, Academic rivals to lovers, arguing that turns into making out, bullying, no pronouns used, minor injuries, making up, injury care, art student!Reader Word count: 19,567 (yikes!) My other works: here on tumblr and here on Ao3!

You're forced to work with Ford, your sworn rival, for a college project. Things quickly get out of control.

@sleeplessdreamer14 asked for this so I hope it's okay dude!

Right in the centre of the list, glaring up at you in black and white, reads the worst thing you could possibly imagine: your name and directly across from it, Stanford fucking Pines’, joined together by a backslash and grouped snugly under the heading ‘MID TERM, PARTNERSHIP PROJECT.’

Your heart feels like it might be ejected through your mouth. You re-read the list, and then re-re-read it again, but the text doesn’t miraculously change. It still states the unholy student matrimony between you and the biggest asshole in Backupsmore.

Oh no no no no no.

There is never, and will never, be anything wrong with a little bit of friendly competition.

Competition drives innovation, innovation drives achievement and achievement drives happiness. A harmless rivalry can benefit just about anybody, provided it stays as just that: harmless.

Whatever you have going on with Stanford Pines, however, is decidedly not that.

Naturally it's all his fault, of course.

You've shared a space with the man for only a couple of months now, since the beginning of the second college semester of Backupsmore, and you're absolutely positive that you've never met such a stuck up asshole in all your life.

Pines had joined your Fine Art class late. Significantly so, in fact. The course had already been halfway through its first year when he had darkened the doorstep of Studio 1B with his stupid tweed jackets and his fluffy hair, and even at the time you can recall how taken aback you'd been when Professor Stonepoor had announced his joining.

Stonepoor, a surly old chap with bright silver hair and a penchant for chain smoking indoors (one which you’re not sure you can begrudge him, honestly, because if you had to work in a place like Backupsmore, you’re sure cigarettes would be the mildest form of distraction at your disposal), had announced Pines’ unorthodox arrival to the studio one wet September afternoon.

Before any of you had had the chance to take your usual seats for the afternoon, Professor Stonepoor had clapped his hands together from behind his cheap desk and caught everyone’s attention the moment you had all filed inside. Standing at his side, Stanford had shifted uncomfortably from one loafered foot to the other under the abrupt attention of the room.

“Kids,” Stonepoor had said, in his bored, trademark voice akin to gravel being dragged across concrete. “This is Stanford Pines. I trust you’re familiar, yes?”

And of course, the entire class had nodded their affirmation, yourself included.

Barely six months into the year and Pines had already left quite the impression upon his fellow student body, a far less complimentary achievement than it might sound. Stanford had garnered a reputation of sorts, almost from his first day of term, and unlike most other rumours that run alongside young men of fraternity age, Stanford had become known for being the exact opposite of the trope: Extremely intelligent and extraordinarily lame.

Stanford Pines was, as the kids say these days, a Square. As strait-laced as they came: He never attended parties, not even when he managed to garner pity invites from some of the nicer students on campus.

He didn't take drugs, he didn’t skip classes, and he didn't drink. All Pines ever did was flex his abnormally large brain on every other student at the school. Everyone on campus knew Stanford Pines was a genius, but no one knew it more than Pines himself. Belligerently and exceptionally intelligent, and utterly obnoxious about it, Stanford never cared to let others forget it.

Professor Stonepoor had nodded at the collective hum of acknowledgement from the other students and gestured vaguely to Stanford. “Well, fortunately for you lucky people, Mr Pines will be joining the class for the remainder of the term.”

With little care for the rudeness of the action, you’d scoffed aloud and questioned exactly why a student with no artistic inclination would join a fucking fine art class halfway through term. Everybody knew Pines was a die-hard scientist wannabe, what on earth would he be doing here?

You can still recall how Stanford had frowned down his aquiline nose at your comment, despite the disinterested air he’d displayed suggesting he felt similarly.

You’d scowled right back and held defiant eye contact with him for as long as he dared.

Mr Stonepoor had rolled his eyes and replied, very simply: “Ford has…. Run out of classes to take.”

“What?” You’d laughed, disbelieving and mildly confused.

“He’s completed significantly more of his major ahead of schedule and the dean thought it might be good for him to, and I quote, ‘soak up as much education as possible’ during his time with us.”

Which was, of course, utter bullshit. The dean had probably panicked about not receiving a full year’s worth of tuition and tried to drag out his stay in this desperately underfunded shit hole for as long as possible.

You hadn’t offered more than a sceptical arch of your brow and Mr Stonepoor had met you with a disinterested shrug before simply ushering Pines towards the free desks.

At first, you'd tried to play nice despite your initial annoyance at being disturbed. Perhaps Pines would be willing to take a back seat in a class that wasn't his forte? You'd approached him as he'd stood awkwardly by an empty desk on the far left of the room, a hand outstretched in a stiff welcome and your name on the tip of your tongue.

Stanford had regarded your hand like it was covered in bees, his big, brown eyes flicking from your fingertips to your eyes, before turning away to rifle through his briefcase (and honestly, who carried a briefcase in college?) as though you'd never even said a word. “A pleasure, I’m sure.”

In spite of his lack of manners, you can recall how surprised you’d been at the sound of his voice. You’d never crossed paths with him before and certainly never held a conversation with him, and it had come as a mild shock that such a voice belonged to somebody so….

Well, somebody so like him.

You’d expected a nasally tone, something more fitting of such a nerdy exterior, but instead Stanford sounded…. Strong. So completely at odds with his unimpressive stature and awkward aura, that for half a second you had been too surprised to respond.

And then his snarky address had caught up with you and you’d found your tongue well enough.

Teeth gritted, you'd applied your best faux smile and steamrolled over his rudeness. “You know, you'll need to catch up on last semester's work. I'm the highest ranking student in this class, I'd be happy to show you some of my-!”

“No need,” Pines had dismissed you without looking up. “I completed it last night. Professor Stonepoor has my folder.”

You'd laughed, until it had become clear that he wasn't actually attempting a bad joke. “You…. Are you telling me you completed an entire semester's worth of work over the summer?”

It had been Stanford's turn to laugh then and finally he'd faced you. “Oh, no,” He’d scoffed. “I did it in two weeks.”

“Sorry, you what?”

“No need to apologise,” Stanford had said before giving you the kind of smirk that screamed just how much he knew his words were intended to provoke.

Your teeth had been ground further down.

“The dean asked me to join the class a few days after we returned for term and well, as much as I consider it a waste of my time, he said it might benefit me, so I figured why not.” Stanford had shrugged.

“‘A waste of your time’?” You'd frowned.

“Of course,” Stanford scoffed, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I mean, who pays thousands of dollars to study something as menial as art? College should be used for education, not for daydreaming and doodling.”

It had taken every ounce of decorum you owned not to punch his lights out, and from there, things had only gotten worse.

The next time you'd attended class, motivated to simply ignore Pines (and maybe to show off your extensive knowledge of your chosen subject to him to ensure he knew who he was sharing the floor with), you'd made a beeline for your usual desk only to find the object of your ire already sitting in it.

The seat by the East window of the studio was yours. Nobody else’s. You’d had a claim over it for the better part of the school year and nobody in class had attempted to challenge it. Not until Pines’ arrival, anyway.

At your insistence that he find somewhere else, Stanford has brushed you off yet again: “Your name isn’t on it. Can’t you take the one in front?”

Somewhere behind you, a classmate had hissed through clenched teeth and another had choked on a poorly stifled laugh; your exchange with one another was apparently entertaining enough to warrant a minor audience.

“No,” you’d snipped. “The light here is best, that’s why I sit in this one.”

Pines had hummed thoughtfully before finally meeting your eyes. “Well, now I’m definitely not giving it up.”

And so, he had commandeered your own seat from you in front of the entire fucking class.

But he hadn’t stopped there, oh no.

Your top student status had been more or less demolished in the space of a week.

You’ve always prided yourself on your work, on being number one amongst your classmates. You work hard and it has always paid off, as evidenced by your grades and your standing. Except, Stanford had practically appeared out of thin air and blown you out of the water immediately.

He raised his hand faster, he was quicker with his answers, more precise with his art history timelines and to make matters even more utterly miserable: he’d turned out to be an exceptionally talented artist.

His work was near-photorealistic in its detail, his anatomy was excellent and he’d picked up his colour theory in less than two classes on the subject. A significant improvement on the time it had taken you.

Stanford Pines absolutely dominated the classroom. Your classroom.

Your passion, your talent, your achievement. All of it had been bulldozed by the guy.

Of course, never having been one for going down without a fight, you had bitten back hard: pulling all nighters and skipping parties to ensure you’d still topped the charts in your scores. You’d even beaten him a couple of times, and the tangible frustration you’d felt from him had been enough to encourage you to keep at it.

That’s how the entire thing had started: You and Stanford Pines vying for top dog status of Studio 1B, horns locked and grievances held, no matter the day, no matter the project, no matter the reason. You absolutely had to beat him.

Today has been no different.

Class is coming to a close for the evening and you've spent most of it battling with Stanford, as per usual, over answers. The two of you have been going back and forth together for the better part of forty minutes before Mr Stonepoor manages to cut in whilst Stanford is taking a breath.

“While I appreciate your passion for Winckelmann, Mr Pines,” Stonepoor says, with little enthusiasm to match his words. “We really ought to be finishing up. I need to discuss the upcoming projects with all of you.”

Stanford's mouth shuts with an audible click! and you shoot him a smug look, pleased to have gotten the final word in class.

Stanford rolls his eyes.

“As you all know, in the next week you’ll be beginning work on your mid-term projects. Alongside your mini-exhibition, you’ll be expected to complete a short presentation on your chosen topic and explain the sense of meaning behind your themes.” Professor Stonepoor continues, oblivious to your exchange. “Except, this time things will be a little different.”

Stonepoor’s words are enough to get you to halt in your gloating and pay abrupt attention again.

“This won’t be a solo project, as the others have been. This time, you’ll be partnered up and expected to work together with a classmate to show how well you can collaborate with your peers.” Professor Stonepoor takes a seat in his creaky chair and procures a lighter from the top pocket of his suit jacket. He’s clearly preparing to deal with the stress that will inevitably come his way.

You raise your hand. “Will we get to pick our partners, Professor?” You ask, cautiously hopeful. You’ve only a few friends in Backupsmore: Jennifer, who you sit beside currently, and Melissa, who attends opposing classes to you but who technically counts as a peer. If you’re going to have to work with anybody, it’ll be them.

Stonepoor lights his cigarette and fixes you with a look that makes something cold settle in your stomach. “No,” he says simply, and the amusement in his voice fills you with uncomfortable concern.

Before anybody can question him, the shrill sound of the bell rings out and the rest of the students dutifully begin to pack their things away. As much as you’d like to question Stonepoor further, for now you’ll have to hope he does himself a favour and sticks you with somebody you’ll get along with.

It’s not like he’d partner you up with Pines of all people anyway. It’s unlikely he’ll want to cause himself more stress, right?

Right?

You’re lounging on the Quad later that evening, killing time with a couple of classmates and sheltering from the bright sun under the shade of an ancient oak tree, when the topic comes up again.

Thumbing through the battered copy of Pride and Prejudice on your lap, you listen to your friends complain back and forth about the strife in their lives until their annoyances invoke you directly.

“I can’t take another day of you two arguing like that, y’know,” says Jennifer, your fellow artist in 1B.

“I don’t know what you mean,” you mutter, picking at the corner of the novel and only barely paying attention.

“You and Stanford Pines,” she clarifies, and you can practically hear her rolling her eyes. “You’re driving everybody nuts.”

“It’s his fault,” You shrug one shoulder. “If he wasn’t such an asshole about, like, everything, I wouldn’t-”

“Be such an asshole back?” Jennifer finishes. “God, why don’t you two just fuck it out already?”

Her comment is enough to get you to snap your head up, attention on your novel shattered instantly. “What’s that supposed to mean?!” You exclaim, almost choking on your tongue.

“Oh, come on,” Melissa snorts. “There’s enough tension between you two to kill the Professor ten times over.”

“And the rest of us,” Jennifer adds, high fiving the other girl. “Poor Stonepoor always looks on the verge of a breakdown when you guys start fighting.”

Melissa laughs. “Yeah, and besides, everybody’s noticed it. You’d win me ten bucks if you jumped his bones.”

“What do you- Are you taking bets on my non-existent sexual chemistry?!” You ask, appalled. “You’re not even in the same class as us, you’ve got no idea about my…. Thing, with Pines.”

Perhaps that isn’t the most ideal choice of words, but still.

As though she can read your mind, Melissa shoots Jennifer an amused look.

You scoff, shaking your head vehemently. “You’re wrong. I can’t stand him and he definitely can’t stand me. I’d rather puke in my hands and clap than touch that guy.”

There’s absolutely no way you’d consider anything of the sort with Stanford Pines. Sure, objectively he isn’t too bad to look at: He’s tall and broad shouldered, with a stocky form in spite of his lack of sporting ability, and he’s got a nice enough face, but he’s nothing special. Puppy dog eyes and strong features are ten a penny, aren’t they?

“Anyway, I think he’s kind of cute,” Melissa says, bumping shoulders with you. “Y’know, in a loser type of way.”

“Yeah, well, that’s why you’re dating Jamie,” you grumble under your breath. The less said about her blockheaded jock boyfriend, the better…. “You like losers a little too much.”

Melissa opens her mouth to defend her pet idiot, but she’s cut off by someone shouting your name.

You glance up just as someone skids to a halt in front of your group, their trainers sliding on the poorly maintained lawn. You can vaguely recognise him as a kid from the studio…. Danny? You think. Darryl? “Oh, hey, uh….”

“Damian,” says Damian, looking a little annoyed. “We’re in Studio 1B together. Have been for a while now.”

“Right….” You give him an apologetic smile. “What’s up?”

Damian pauses, like he hadn’t expected to actually have to voice his reason for catching your attention. He looks uncomfortable and it sets your teeth on edge.

“Is everything okay?” You ask, shifting to stand up. “Has something hap-”

“Have you, uh….” He clears throat stiffly. “Have you seen the partner listing for the mid-term project yet?”

You frown. “No, I didn’t even know it was up.”

Damian flinches again and rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah. It went up like twenty minutes ago….You might wanna take a look. Figured you’d want to know..”

You’re not sure you’ve ever moved so fast in your life. Without more than a thanks to Damian, you toss your paperback into your bag and leap to your feet, barely hearing the annoyed shout of your friends as you scramble past them to head straight for the arts building. You take the stairs two at a time, weaving between crowds of other students, your heart beating so hard you think it might burst right through your shirt.

Why would Damian bother to alert you? You’re fairly certain you’ve only ever exchanged niceties with the guy over the paintbrush station, he’d have no reason to bother you about something like this unprovoked. Not unless….

“You’re driving everybody nuts….”

As you round the landing of the stairs, you spot the old stained door that leads to Studio 1B, along with the bulletin board that’s positioned right at its side. There's a small gathering of students around it, all talking amongst themselves, and you slip right through them to get up close to the A4 pieces of paper that's tacked to the cork surface.

Your eyes scan it, desperately searching for confirmation that you're overreacting and that Damian is probably just being helpful, right? Not forewarning of an incoming storm like you fear he might be, until….

Oh.

Oh, no.

Right in the centre of the list, glaring up at you in black and white, reads the worst thing you could possibly imagine: your name, and directly across from it, Stanford fucking Pines’. Joined together by a backslash and grouped snugly under the heading ‘MID TERM, PARTNERSHIP PROJECT.’

Your heart feels like it might be ejected through your mouth. You re-read the list, and then re-re-read it again, but the text doesn’t miraculously change. It still states the unholy student matrimony between you and the biggest asshole in Backupsmore.

Oh no no no no no.

You can feel the eyes of other students of 1B burning into your back. Clearly your predicament is common knowledge already. You feel a warmth burn on the base of your neck and very carefully, you avoid meeting their gaze.

Perhaps there's still time to talk your professor out of it. It's not even 5PM yet, he'll still be knocking about in the classroom for a while and if you’re quick, it might be your best and only opportunity to talk him into reconsidering. Surely he'll be easily convinced to change his mind? It's not a secret that he's more than a little fed up with your bickering; you're certain that the only reason he allows you and Stanford to go back and forth so often is because it means he can put less effort into teaching the rest of the class. He practically owes you both one!

Ditching the throng of students, you press your ear to the door of the studio. It sounds like somebody is already talking to Stonepoor , but whoever it is will have to wait. Right now, you're on a mission to ensure your sanity stays intact.

You hammer a quick series of knocks on the door before wrenching it open and ducking inside without even bothering to wait for a welcome, your protests already loaded in your mouth: “Professor Stonepoor , there's some kind of mistake on the-!”

Your words die a quick death on your tongue when you realise who it is that's currently talking to him.

Stanford Pines looks over at you from where he's standing, arms crossed and brows furrowed, in front of your teacher's desk, evidently as equally as annoyed as you are. He's wearing a blue button down shirt and brown corduroy pants, and his hair looks messier than usual, like he's been running his hands through it in distress.

You know how he feels.

Stonepoor leans sideways slightly in his chair, another cigarette in his mouth (he really must be stressed), and peers around Stanford's broad form at you. He doesn't seem very pleased to have you here.

“A mistake?” Asks Stonepoor, tiredly.

“Yes,” you say assuredly, ignoring the way Stanford watches you approach. “On the partner list. You put me and…. Him,” you struggle to keep the disdain from your voice and Stanford scoffs. “Together.”

Stonepoor laughs and for once he sounds genuinely amused. “No mistake there. You'll both be working together on this project.”

Instead of vomiting your heart, it drops out through your ass and a cold dread settles in its place. “What?!”

“Precisely my sentiment,” says Stanford, nodding. “Why on Earth are we being paired up? I could do far better work alone, I don't need someone dragging me along-”

“‘Dragging you along’?!” You snap, scowling over at him. “I'm perfectly competent, thank you. I don't even see why we'd need to work together out of everyone else in the class! If Stanford wants to work alone, why can't he-”

“Because this is a paired assignment,” says Professor Stonepoor slowly, like he's talking to an idiot. “And you two are top of the class. I'd like to see what you can come up with when you put your heads together willingly, instead of butting them back and forth.”

Stanford huffs, petulant. “But I-”

“But nothing, Mr Pines,” Stonepoor sighs, exhaling a long cloud of smoke and sitting back in his chair. “You're an excellent student, Stanford, truly-”

Stanford puffs out his chest at the acknowledgement and you have to force yourself not to pull a face to illustrate your disgust.

“-But you're still a student,” Stonepoor goes on. “And I'm your professor. It's my call, and I say you two need to learn how to work cooperatively for once. You won't get anywhere if all you do is piss each other off, so the decision stands. Work together.”

You want to argue more and you can tell that Stanford does too, but Stonepoor isn't having it. It quickly becomes clear that you'd each have better luck arguing with the stack of still-drying canvases in the corner rack of the room.

The moment you open your mouth, he holds a hand up to silence you. “If you can't get along and you can't produce something worth my time, I'll give you both the lowest grade and you can fight it out over who gets to hang that on their wall. Do I make myself clear?”

And just like that, your fate is sealed.

You're going to have to work with the one person you like least, whether it destroys your sanity or not.

Stanford sighs, long suffering and put upon, and once you've accepted your situation, he follows you from the classroom and out into the hallway. Thankfully it appears most of the people who had been lingering around initially have moved on, leaving the corridor uncomfortably quiet and the perfect place to lay down some organisation.

Taking a deep breath, you turn to Stanford.

“So, here's the deal-”

“Why don't we just-”

You both speak at the same time, words rushing out in a hurry to beat one another to the point, and Stanford sighs.

“Look, I'm as apprehensive about this whole thing as you are, believe me,” he says. “I'd be perfectly happy to work alone but it seems as though we're just going to have to get along for this whether we want to or not.”

As much as it pains you to admit it, he's right. Stonepoor has made that perfectly clear. You’re not going to let this fucker leave a blemish on your record and you’re sure he feels similarly.

“Fine,” you murmur, leaning against the classroom door. The stress of all this has already exhausted you and you haven't even had one on one time with him yet. God, this is going to suck. “Let's just…. Agree a truce for now, right? We get through the next few weeks, get our heads down and then we can go right back to how things are supposed to be. Deal?”

Stanford nods. “Deal.”

You mirror him and yank your bag up your shoulder. “Starting tomorrow, meet me in the library. The art history section. We can work out what we want to do and build from there. Sound good?”

It doesn’t look like it sounds good to him, but to his credit, Stanford nods stiffly. “Be there at six.”

“Done.”

..

As expected, Stanford is utterly unbearable to work with. If, that is, what you’re doing can even be compared to working together.

From the moment your ass touches the seat opposite him at the library table, he rubs you the wrong way. For one thing, he doesn’t even greet you. He doesn’t even so much as look up at your arrival, for god’s sake. Instead, he keeps his big nose buried in a dusty book he’s reading and says: “You’re late.”

You cast a glance at the wall clock to see that you are, technically, about four minutes behind when you said you'd be here for. That doesn’t mean you’re going to take the heat for it though.

“Barely,” you mutter, dumping your bag onto the table and making his thermos wobble.

That’s enough to get him to look up.

Stanford frowns and catches it before it can fully tip over, avoiding a spill. “If we set a meeting time, I’d appreciate it if you kept to it,” he says snippily.

You nod, but you’re not really taking his chastisement on board. You’re too busy checking out the array of books he has splayed open in front of him like a weathered old cheeseboard for his perusal. You’re expecting them to be books on the Renaissance or maybe some old masters biographies (he seems like the type to enjoy the classics), but when you peer closer you’re surprised to see that they’re predominantly all physics books. Even the yellow legal pad at his elbow is full of mathematical equations.

“Not interrupting something, am I?” You ask, raising an eyebrow at his work.

Stanford clears his throat and snaps his book shut before you can gawp much more. “Of course you are,” he murmurs, beginning to clear them away. “Art is hardly my most prominent area of work, you know. Some of us are studying for more than one thing, hence the importance of time management.”

“And just how many things are you studying for, Stanford?” You say, amused by how easily you can get under his skin. “I hope they won’t get in the way of this project.”

Stanford furrows his impressive brows at you. “Just because I don’t care about art, that doesn’t mean I’d let my work slip,” he says as he piles the textbooks up. “And I’m taking five degrees, thank you.”

“Five?!” You say, a little bit louder than is appropriate for the setting.

Stanford shushes you, as do a few more students at other tables, and you offer them an apologetic wave before repeating yourself at a more suitable stage whisper: “Five degrees? How the fuck are you managing that?”

Stanford scoffs, sitting forward in his chair to rest his elbows on the table. “With a great deal of talent and commitment, of course,” he says, as though it’s obvious.

Holy shit, you think. That’s insane. As much as you want to fire off a snappy comment about big headedness, you have to admit that perhaps some of it is warranted if the man can manage five fucking degrees in one go.

“I intend to take more but I’m focusing on those for now. I plan to make it to PhD as quickly as possible so I need to concentrate and manage my efforts accordingly. I’d hate to throw off my groove by picking up random, useless classes that I’ll never use again.” He pauses to bark a laugh. “Not that this isn’t exactly that, mind you…. No offence.”

You roll your eyes. “Every offence taken. Art might not be as academically lauded as science or maths, but it’s just as important.”

Ford snorts as he shoves his books into his briefcase, mildly amused by your comment.

“I’m serious, Stanford,” you say, defensive. “How do you think you get those illustrations in your anatomy textbooks, for example?”

“Those are different,” Stanford says, waving you off. “They serve a purpose.”

Jesus.... This guy’s grandiosity knows no bounds. “All art serves a purpose for somebody. Just because it doesn’t serve your every purpose, doesn’t make it useless,” you scoff. “Art informs science just as much as science does art.”

Stanford opens his mouth to answer back but he seems to fall short of actually finding the words to fire off at you. Behind his eyes, you can practically see the gears whirring and ticking as he weighs up your statement in his mind, and after a moment, he exhales the air he’d saved to fight back with through his nose, sharp and short. The tips of his ears are a little pink and he looks decidedly annoyed.

It strikes you suddenly that you might have just accidentally bested your sworn rival over a ridiculously simple concept. Your skin prickles with righteous pride and you fix him with an assured smirk, absurdly pleased to have beaten him so casually.

Rather than apologise, Stanford simply ignores your statement and flips through his yellow legal pad, settling on a clean page and placing it between you both. “If you're done debating me,” he says, clearing his throat. “I suppose we ought to figure out our roles, yes?”

“I’m not debating you, Stanford,” you say, rolling your eyes with a smile. Sure, technically you won your point, but you’re not actually trying to beat him in this discussion any more than you are just bringing the truth to his attention. He really can be a misanthrope sometimes. “We’re socialising. Normal people do it all the time, so I’ve heard.”

He looks a little taken aback at that, and you can't help but think the owlish way he blinks at you suits him quite nicely in comparison to usual scrutinising stare. “Oh,” he says. “Right.” He nods quickly and averts his gaze downward to the pad.

It's painfully clear he isn't used to being spoken to on such a level. You almost feel a little bad for him. It must be hard to make friends when you're all work and no play, and especially when someone has the aura of a person who'd rather be laying on train tracks than holding menial conversation….

Mentally, you yank on the reins of that line of thought: you are absolutely not going to feel bad for someone that's always such a jerk to you, and to everybody else. No way.

Stanford taps the pad of paper between you both. “I can do most of the work. You’ll just follow along and I’ll write in some speaking parts for you, so that way you’ll still be included in the grade,” he says, rolling his shoulders and slipping back into the usual aura of asshole-ness.

There goes that empathy.

“What?” You stare at him like he’s gone mad, the smile sliding off your face. “Absolutely not. This is as much my project as it is yours! We can go fifty-fifty, that way it’s totally fair.”

“No disrespect,” says Stanford, and you can tell he’s about to say something that intends fully to illustrate how much he doesn’t mean that caveat. “But your history and research is lacking, and you tend to focus more on the intricacies of the piece than on the entirety of the project. I’d be happy to shoulder most of the work. That way we’ll have fewer weak points.”

You grip the edge of the table, hard. Weak points? Who does this guy think he is?!

“I want to earn my grade, Stanford,” you say, quite admirably keeping the anger from your tone. “Maybe you’re used to working with people who are happy to sit in for the ride and get top marks for doing fuck all, but I’m not that kind of person. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t treat me as such.”

He regards you for a moment, seemingly nonplussed by your adamant refusal to accept the easiest option, and for a moment you think you’re going to have to fight it out with him.

You’d rather not get banned from the only library Backupsmore owns for beating him to death with his own physics books, but you’re not going to just let him take control like he so clearly wants to.

However, much to your surprise, once he’s finished turning over your words in that big brain of his again, he nods. “Fine. If you think you can do it, have at it.”

You’re astounded he’s given in so easily until he adds:

“But if you start to drag me down then I won’t hesitate to scrap whatever you’ve come up with and do it all again from scratch myself.”

There it is.

As an afterthought, he tacks on: “And if we're going to be partners, you might as well call me Ford. I prefer it.”

A nickname? That's awfully familiar of him…. But you suppose if he prefers it then you'll bite.

“Fine,” you say. “Then let’s do this, Ford.”

And if you’re not mistaken, he might even smile a little at that.

This is going to be a weird couple of weeks….

Nothing much changes in the classroom.

The two of you still go back and forth like your lives depend on it, much to the visible chagrin of your professor and peers.

At first, your pairing with Ford had been the talk of the studio. The other students had made offhand comments about it all behind your back, but none had brought it up to your face.

Melissa and Jennifer had been as amused as they were apprehensive about it all, both of them begging you to at least try and get along for everybody’s sake, but of course all you’d manage to do for the first week or two was complain and lament to them about the entire situation.

“He’s a total nightmare! A complete control freak and a perfectionist. I can’t survive another day with him, I swear,” you froth to the girls over lunch one afternoon, after yet another frustrating session spent with Ford.

The entirety of the study time had been spent arguing back and forth about painting techniques, and you had had to leave before you’d throttled him with a cleaning rag.

Every complaint fell on deaf ears, of course. Both Jennifer and Melissa only ever exchanged mutual looks of exasperation with one another any time you moaned about him and neither seemed to offer much more than a conciliatory ‘that sucks’ with each grievance you bring them.

Eventually, you and Ford had come to the agreement of using ‘uniqueness’ as the basis of your project.

The idea had been brought up at the start of the third meeting, once everything had been arranged for responsibilities and chores, when Ford had dropped into conversation that he held a penchant for the strange and unusual.

Although your initial reaction had been to disagree simply on principle, the idea had been interesting enough that you’d caved without much argument.

When you questioned why his interest lay in things like cryptids and paraphenomena when he clearly lauded himself as a serious scientist, he’d given you a strange look that you had struggled to decipher.

“Isn’t it obvious?” he’d asked toward the end of your second week together, watching as you’d painted fine details onto the fur of thylacine one rainy Tuesday evening.

You’d shrugged. “Because you’re a nerd?”

That was the most obvious answer, wasn’t it? Excluded by his peers and his own intelligence, he probably felt a kind of kinship with things that others didn’t accept. Perfectly understandable, you supposed.

Whilst you’re no genius, you’ve never been immune to exclusion. You can recognise traits in monsters that you might share with them, in the ways that nobody ever believes in them.

His interest made sense and for some reason, it had even made you feel a little more…. Connected to him. And while you’d rather die than admit that aloud to anyone, a secret awareness of empathy for the guy wouldn’t hurt anyone.

“No,” Ford had replied, coming to stand behind you. “It’s because I…”

You’d lifted your head from your work, glancing over your shoulder and craning your neck to stare up at him expectantly.

Ford had paused as he’d met your eyes, unsure of an answer for only the second time in your presence, before he’d cleared his throat and looked away again. “It hardly matters. I suppose you’re right.”

He had stood so close behind you after that, silently observing; the scent of his cologne, all spice and musk, filling your nose and making your mouth water.

You had struggled to concentrate then, but you’re sure it had been for no specific reason, of course. Just a simple case of being uncomfortable with having someone in your personal space. That was all. Nothing more.

Still, Ford pushed harder for results than any other project partner you can recall having. Possibly even harder than any teacher you'd ever had, too.

Despite giving you the grace to put your own touch on the project, it had become clear very quickly that Ford was decidedly not very good at collaborations.

He worked at a break-neck speed and with laser precision in everything he did, whether he was passionate about the subject or not, and if you couldn’t keep up? Well, that was a personal failing on your part, obviously.

His intensity had built up very quickly and it hadn't taken long to feel less like you were partnering equally on a job and more like you were being dragged along in the dirt by an unruly workhorse.

Long hours in the studio weren’t unheard of for you, but pouring over your canvases until the wee hours of the early morning every night? Less so. Arguments over techniques and methods weren't uncommon, and unrequested criticism from Ford quickly became the norm.

Lack of sleep and total dedication to the project combined with all your other classes had begun to take a toll on you. For Ford, it seemed he barely needed sleep or lunch breaks, but for your much more average ability, you couldn't quite say the same.

Even your arguments in class had become less and less heated as you'd lost the free energy to fight it out with him.

The first time you'd almost dozed off during a study session in the library for background research, Ford had clicked his fingers in front of your closed eyes with the loudest snap known to man, jerking you awake and almost causing you to fall out of your seat.

“If you can't keep up, just say so,” Ford had quipped, going back to his elegant cursive-filled page of notes. “I told you I'd be happy to take over.”

Of course, you'd told him to fuck off. No way would you be seen dead giving him what he wanted. No matter how exhausted you got, regardless of the pressure on yourself, you absolutely would not give in…..

Which is why today, you find yourself slumped before your half finished canvas, vision blurring at the edges from lack of rest and head throbbing painfully.

There's only one week left of prep time for the project and you're not even sure you'll live to see the fruits of your labour at this point. Your back aches from sitting at awkward angles and leaning over your work for one too many hours a day, your hand is painfully stiff from gripping pencils and paintbrushes 24/7, and alongside the pressures of this project, you've still got to contend with your other classes too.

Fine Arts degrees aren't all about painting nice pictures and using free time to kick back and slack off, despite what some people may think. Your grades are important to you and you're pushing yourself in every other class you have too: history, sculpting, printmaking and more. You're spread as thin as you can be and it's taking its toll.

At this rate, you'll fail in several of those. Even a few of your teacher's have pulled you aside to ask about the abrupt decline in your attendance (late nights lead to oversleeping, who knew?) and you're not sure you can bear another ‘are you taking this seriously?’ scolding from them again.

You've arrived early today. Typically you meet in the spare studio with Ford at six o'clock sharp, but today you'd decided to try and come in sooner in order to get a head start.

You've fallen behind with some of the work; the oil piece currently propped up in front of you is still only in its early stages and it'll take you a while to get it finished to the standard you hold yourself to, plus you still need to draft your speeches for each painting and write your cue cards out too.

If you can push yourself to complete the best part of this painting today, though, then it will be one less thing to worry about. Not to mention that you haven't even started on your presentation rehearsal yet.

Miserably, you dump your paintbrush in the glass of murky water on the trolley beside it and sit back with a groan, digging the heels of your hands into your eyes. You're so fucking stressed you want to cry.

Your eyes burn when you lower your hands and distantly, you realise that you already are crying. Wetness trails down your cheeks and you can feel the tips of your ears burn with embarrassment. Crying over a fucking presentation. Pathetic.

You cast a glance over to the corner of the room where Ford has left out one of his own pieces of work to dry, and it only makes you feel worse. He's so precise with his brush strokes and colours, and so effortless with what he does.

It's enough to encourage more tears; his skill is admirable, even if you'll only ever concede that through brutally gritted teeth, and knowing that he's so talented even in a subject he doesn't care about only makes you feel worse.

“This is ridiculous,” you groan aloud, voice thick with distress.

Why hadn't you just taken Ford up on his offer? Stupid fucking pride, always getting in the way of an easy ride and making things harder than it needs to be….

You sniffle and heave a great, shuddery sigh. Could be worse, you think miserably. Ford could be here to see me be all pathetic and snotty.

And because the universe is a cruel and unforgiving mistress with a sick sense of humour, the door to the studio opens at that exact moment and the man himself barrels in with an arm full of textbooks. “I hope you're here early because you plan to make back the time on those diagra-!”

Ford stops mid sentence, eyes going wide at the sight of you. The door bounces off the wall behind him and slams shut as he stares in your direction, taking in your downtrodden appearance.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

You feel your entire face go red, and roughly, you wipe at your eyes. You attempt to duck back behind the safety of your canvas and hide your tear stained face from the exact person you'd hoped to avoid, but Ford has already seen the state of you. There's not much you can do to hide it.

You clear your throat, head ducked to conceal your face. “I'll get them done,” you say, only slightly croaky. “Relax.”

Ford stands rooted to the spot, his textbooks hugged to his broad chest. He's silent for a minute, only staring right at you with wide eyes, and then he mirrors your awkward throat-clearing. “Are you…. Okay?” He asks, stiffly. “Did something happen?”

“No. I'm fine.”

“You don't look fine,” Ford says, finally wandering over. “And people don't tend to cry when they're just ‘fine’.... Something must have-”

“I'm stressed, Ford,” you cut in, a little sharper than is necessary. You're not really in the mood to explain everything to him like he's your therapist, but maybe he'll back off a bit if you give him something to sate his (evidently unstoppable) curiosity. “I have other classes as well as the one we share, you realise? Other projects. It's- It can be a lot. I'm tired and I'm stressed.”

Ford frowns, his confusion palpable. “Stressed?” He repeats, putting down his armful of textbooks on a nearby desk. “About art?” He sounds so baffled, like it's impossible to imagine someone might struggle with such a ‘lesser’ pursuit than his own.

It’s enough to get your back up so high that you instantly forget to measure your response before you open your mouth. Maybe it's the tiredness, or the mounting pressure, or maybe just a combination of all of it, but you just can't take his obnoxious way of addressing you anymore.

“Ford, give it a fucking rest would you?” You snap, standing up from your chair in anger and finally meeting his gaze. He already knows you're upset, there's little point in hiding it anymore.

“See, this is exactly why I didn't want to tell you! You just don't get it! You're so fucking intense about all of this,” You gesture vaguely towards your canvas and the rest of the room, confident that he'll pick up what you mean. The entire fucking project. “I'm not used to it! I've never worked with somebody so- so like you, before.”

Ford flinches and somewhere within you, you feel a little guilty at your choice of phrasing. It's probably not the first time he's had someone say such a thing, judging by his reaction.

Undeterred, you push on, unable to stop the exhausted word vomit: “Staying up every night, pushing me on everything I do, it's relentless! You're relentless! I'm not like that, Ford, I can't just burn my candle at both ends when there's nothing left to burn.”

Ford seems surprised by your outburst. It's hardly the first time you've yelled at him, but it is the first time he looks out of his depth about it. He opens his mouth but nothing comes out. Instead of answering, he runs a hand through his messy chestnut hair, forcing the strands to stick up, and blinks back at you, deer-like.

Under any other circumstances, you'd find it funny how blatantly nervous he is at your display of emotion. Ford is the sort of person who runs solely on logic, on equations and science, and definitive answers.

He's never once given you the impression that his IQ extends to EQ and seeing him try to figure out how he ought to approach such a difficult problem would be comical if you weren't so upset right now.

After a moment of silence, filled only with you sniffling, Ford finally finds his voice again. “I told you, I can handle the workload alone if you can't-”

“Oh, sure!” You scoff, before he can finish his stupid sentence. “You'd love that, wouldn't you? Then you can totally win this stupid thing by yourself and leave me in the mud.”

You shake your head and turn away, wiping your face with the sleeve of your sweater. “I knew I shouldn't have said anything, you're just gonna use this against me now, aren't you?” You mutter.

Ford, unexpectedly, looks a bit hurt by your unfounded accusation, and guilt nibbles at your gut again the moment you've said it, even if it is a genuine concern of yours.

“I would never do that,” he says defensively. “We're partners, aren't we? It wouldn’t be…. Fair for me to use your emotional state against you like that.”

He sounds so genuinely certain in his words that you find yourself unable to answer him. You'd expected him to laugh and snatch the project out from underneath you instantly, with little care for your wellbeing.

Not necessarily out of spite, but out of indifference. The way he rejects your assertion so defensively is enough to make your eyes water all over again.

“I'm not a robot, despite what some people may think. I know how it feels to work under pressure,” Ford says, and you suppose he must, what with the extortionate number of degrees he’s currently juggling. “Maybe not from art,” he admits. “But I’m not immune.”

“I told you, I can take on what you struggle with,” Ford continues on, and at your attempt to interrupt, he steamrolls on. “And before you say anything, no, I don't mean that because I think you're not good enough. I just mean that I can help.”

You raise your brows, surprised, and turn to face him. “I thought you thought my work was shit,” you say, picking up on his comment instantly.

Ford frowns. He takes a deep breath and comes to your side, a bit hesitant to get closer than within arm's length of where you stand at your station.

“I don't think that at all,” he says, like it should be obvious to you. “Why would you-”

“Ford, all you do is criticise the stuff I create,” you say, exasperated. “You spent forty minutes telling me my shading was bad on that fucking sketch last week alone.”

Forty minutes is conservative. The drawing hadn’t even been part of the mid-term line up. It had been a warm up piece before you’d started on your actual project work, and yet he’d still gone off about how your light source had been inconsistent, that the still-life had lacked depth et cetera et cetera.

You’d seethed in the corner and attempted to burn holes through the back of his head with your venomous gaze for the rest of the evening, but he hadn’t noticed a thing. He rarely does.

To his credit, Ford looks embarrassed now that you’ve brought it up. He adjusts his glasses nervously. “That's not- I don't do that because I think you're bad,” he assures you. “I do it because I can see where you'd be even greater. I just… Thought it might help.”

You stare at him. Out of all the reasons for him to be so pushy, he thought he was helping? “We hate each other, Ford, why would you even want to help me get better?”

“‘Hate each other’?” Ford says, only growing more confused. “I don't hate you. On the contrary, I thought we were having fun…. Are you…. Not having fun?”

You stare at him as though he's just sprouted a third eye. “But, in class- all we do is fight and argue, and-”

“That's just good debate, isn't it?” Ford says with an awkward laugh. “Did you- Don't tell me you thought I hated you?”

Well, now you feel like a total fucking idiot. “I mean, can you blame me?” You say defensively. “You’re hard to get a read on. I’m not exactly a telepath.”

Ford gives you a shy, lopsided grin and rubs the back of his neck, bashful. “Right, right. Sorry,” he says, the first apology you’ve ever heard from his mouth. “I suppose I assumed you could handle the way I am sometimes, what with the way you work in class,” he admits.

“Fiddleford, my roommate,” he explains, “He says I can be… What was the word he used?.... ‘Difficult’,” Here, Ford puts dramatic air quotes around his roommate's statement and it’s enough to make you smile a bit, watery and weak.

“How very diplomatic of him,” you hiccup a laugh and Ford smiles again, the skin at the corners of his eyes wrinkling. There's a compliment hidden in his words when you turn them over in your mind: I thought you could handle the way I am.

“He’s much better at being tactful than I am,” Ford admits, looking a bit sad about the fact. “I’m afraid I’m not the best at all this social stuff. If I gave you the wrong idea about it all then….. That wasn't my intention.”

He's looking at you strangely, his eyes searching yours in the silence. He almost looks guilty. It's as though something has flicked a switch inside of him and for a moment, the impossibly high walls with which he surrounds himself have lowered fractionally. Only a little, but enough for you to catch a glimpse of something…. Softer.

Up this close, you can read the minute changes of his expression far easier than when he's across the classroom or buried behind a book. You’re not sure you’ve ever been so near to him before, not face to face like this, anyway, and you can see all the shades of brown in his eyes.

He’s got wonderfully long lashes, thick and curved in a way that would make even a beauty queen weep with envy, and a smattering of very light freckles across his strong nose. The bridge of it is curved and convex, a Roman-esque quality that only adds to the subtly strong features of his face and balances out the harsher lines of his face.

You worry your lower lip between your teeth, brain caught in a loop of cataloguing his features. He really isn’t all that bad looking up close….

Ford’s gaze drops to your mouth. The movement barely lasts point-five of a second, hardly long enough to even really take note of before he aborts it in motion, the two of you sharing a slightly awkward laugh. A redness tints the tops of his cheeks.

The familiar scent of his subtle aftershave wafts towards you again, and you’re reminded of when he’d stood behind you during that studio session a week or so ago.

You swallow thickly and look away to quell the funny feeling that makes your stomach flutter nervously. You’ll blame your vulnerable state for that.

Desperate to find something to distract yourself with, you look down to where he's nervously toying with the brown leather band of his wristwatch. The sleeves of his chequered shirt are rolled up today, exposing his forearms and showing off the threads of veins that stand out under the skin, and you follow them down to his hands in the hopes of finding a way to avoid examining from whatever dangerous territory your thoughts are trying to wander into.

And boy, do you find one.

Momentarily, you wonder if the tears in your eyes are blurring your vision too much to see straight. You've no idea how you’ve never noticed it before. You’ve seen him painting, seen him gesticulating wildly when he’s gotten passionate about something you’ve challenged him with, and yet somehow, the realisation has completely slipped past you.

When you react, you don’t think about what you’re doing. You're too caught up in your desperation and your shock to really consider that the move might be unwelcome or rude: You just do it.

“Oh, my god,” you murmur, reaching out for him. “You do have six fingers.”

Rumours about Ford’s hands have always floated around school, but you’ve never given them much credence. You’re not one to care about physical features like that; life isn’t a freak show and you’re not part of a baying townsfolk who want to point and laugh at someone else, so you’ve always glossed over them. But when the realisation takes you by surprise so suddenly, you act without considering the consequences.

Like your touch has scolded him, Ford yanks his hands back and steps back, away from you. He looks panicked, as though you’ve just announced his worst fears aloud, and you watch in real time as those castle walls come crashing down all over again.

The redness on his face burns brighter than ever before, a deep rouge that soaks across his cheeks and ears like watercolours on paper, and you’re not sure you’ve ever seen him look so humiliated. His eye contact drops and his expression shifts from panic to anger.

“Look, hate me if you must but I’d rather you not make a big deal about that,” he says stiffly.

“What? What are you talking about?” You frown, shaking your head. His demeanour has changed so suddenly that it makes your head spin more than the smell of white spirit does after cleaning your oil palettes. “I wouldn't-”

Ford bumps into your abandoned chair in his haste to retreat, sending it skittering backward until it rocks onto its side with a clatter. He hurriedly snatches up the textbooks he'd left on a nearby desk earlier and shoves his glasses up his nose again, righting them from where they've slipped down in his hurry.

“If you need time to catch up on your end of the project, then just- Just say the word and I'll finish it alone,” he snaps.

And then he's scrambling from the room, shoulders up around his ears and posture slumped as he wrenches the door open and exits as quickly as he'd entered, leaving you to stare after him in utter disbelief.

What the fuck?

..

Ford doesn't show up to the next study session. He leaves a note on your desk that reads ‘caught up in physics, will see you next time’, which really makes no sense because he'd have to come all the way across campus from the science labs to deliver it. If he was that busy, surely he'd have just left you to it?

Alas, he doesn't make an appearance at the session and he doesn't approach you afterwards to check on your progress, either.

You can see that he's finished his paintings, however. They sit at the back of the spare studio, right near where you work after hours, and you've been admiring them all week.

He has a nice little collection of pieces now, including a moody looking wendigo oil painting and a very pretty study in watercolour of a type of flower that you're not botanically inclined enough to know the name of, but you've a sneaking suspicion it's the gross one that smells like corpses.

You're even mildly disappointed that you haven't had the chance to ask him about it and then watch him passionately lecture you on its ins and outs and whatever else he might find fascinating about unusual flora.

It’s not like you miss him, though. Obviously not. If he was here, he’d just be insufferable about it all, of course, and throw off your creative vibe with all his science talk. At the start of the project, after you’d seen all the physics books he carried on his person so often, you’d made the mistake of politely asking about his lab work and then been subjected to a full hour of listening to him harp on about topics that might as well have been in a foreign language to you.

But then the way he’d just sort of….Lit up about it all had been strangely breathtaking. He had practically burst into fucking flames of passion about molecules and dimensions and all sorts of things the moment you’d shown even the most tepid bit of interest that you hadn’t had the heart to stop him.

He’d looked so alive, so much more animated than you’d ever seen him, and something about it had been horribly endearing.

Still, you totally don’t miss that. Not his wild gesticulating, not the way he would run his hands through his hair in concentration and leave it all fluffy and stupid right after. The way he would chew his lip as he watched you paint.

Definitely not. Too annoying and far too distracting, for reasons you’d rather not study too closely.

In class, Ford barely looks at you. He doesn’t say hello, he doesn't bring up the project, he doesn’t even acknowledge your presence when you attempt to talk to him on the way out of class, either.

It feels awful.

You try to tempt him into debate a few times but shockingly, he doesn't rise to it. Instead, he looks everywhere but at you, jaw tight and head bowed, and he even pretends not to notice when you purposely get a history fact wrong in the hopes he might feel compelled to correct you. That’s the moment you realise that something is seriously wrong.

You hate to admit it, but the lack of challenge and his avoidance is making you so fucking miserable that even the other students have begun to pick up on it.

You’ve been moping about so much recently that Melissa and Jennifer have dragged you along to a party under the guise of getting you so insanely drunk that you might either admit what’s pissing you off or forget about it altogether.

As far as you’re aware, none of them know the real reason for your melancholy and they’re putting it down to academic stress. They’re not entirely wrong in that vein anyway, and you suppose it might be good to focus on something else (and chug free booze), so you agree.

Which is why you find yourself standing about on the quad this evening, dressed up as nicely as you can be bothered to be, and milling around while you wait for the others to get their act together and head over to the East Wing dormitories where the party is taking place.

The group is made up of yourself, Jennifer, Melissa, and Melissa's boyfriend Jamie, plus one of his idiot friends that you're too annoyed by to ask their name.

The others are already drunk enough that it's been a challenge in and of itself to herd them downstairs and out into the open night air, and getting them to actually follow you across campus is proving equally as hard.

You're only slightly buzzed; barely a couple of clear-liquor drinks in so far and not at all as wasted as you'd like to be if this is going to set the tone for the evening.

Frustrated, you roll your eyes at where Jamie and his buddies are attempting to show the other girls how many people they can lift with just one arm, and step away. “Are we planning on actually making it to this dumb party, or do I have to watch you guys try and put your backs out all night?” You ask, not even attempting to hide the annoyance in your voice.

Melissa laughs and shakes her head. “Oh come on, you're no fun!” She says, coming to your side to hang off your arm. “Live a little!”

The bag on your shoulder, the one you carry with you everywhere, slips down a little at her insistent touch and you huff, pulling away to correct it. It's less filled than it usually is tonight, only holding your purse, your keys, and the small, reliable, battered sketchbook that you always keep close just in case inspiration hits.

“I'm living vicariously through you,” you tell her dryly. “But right now I'm cold and I want a fucking drink, so can we please just get a move on already?” The night air is cool enough to prickle gooseflesh on your bare arms and you rub at them insistently.

“Take my jacket, babe,” says the other jock, lumbering over in the hopes of winning favour.

“Thanks, but I’m good,” you refuse, wrinkling your nose a little. You really don’t want to give him the wrong idea and let him think he’s got an in with you. You know how these types are, after all.

“God, lighten up already!” Jamie scoffs, swaggering along with one arm thrown around Melissa. “You're being such a bitch tonight.”

You open your mouth to inform him that you're most assuredly not being a bitch but that you'd be very happy to show him what you're like when you are, when Jennifer cuts you off.

“Working with Stanford Pines for whoever-the-fuck knows how long will do that to a person,” she snorts. “That's enough to turn anyone into a dick.”

Jamie and his buddy gawp at you. “No kiddin’?” The jock says, a broad, blonde spectacle with unsettling blue eyes. “You’re in with that fuckin’ loser? Bummer, dude.”

“Oh yeah,” Melissa giggles. “All we hear these days is how much he sucks. Says he's a real asshole….”

“What's he doing in an art class?” He asks. You think his name might be Riley. “Isn't he like, a total math geek or whatever?”

Before you can interrupt, Jamie laughs, obnoxious and scathing. “Oh yeah, totally. I bet he only gets hard for science, right?” He says, grinning nastily toward you. “Or have you been- What's that guy called…. Purlow? Pavlov? That's it, Pavlov!” He snaps his fingers together, clearly pleased at the chance to flex some of his psychology minor in front of the girls. “You been Pavlov-in’ him to get hard another way?”

“Ew!” The girls collapse into giggles.

You grit your teeth. “Wow, Jamie, it's so cool that you know such a big word!” You grind out, jaw flexing. “I didn't know they taught Psych 101 in Kindergarten.”

“Hey, fuck you-”

“And,” you keep going, temper rising not least because of the topic. “For your information, we've just been doing a project together. It wasn't exactly by choice and anyway, he won't even talk to me anymore so problem solved, I guess.”

“Wait, is that why you two stopped fighting in class all the time?” Asks Jen, suddenly intrigued. “Did something happen?” Her intonation is suggestive and you know she's probably coming up with wild theories in her mind already.

Melissa squeals. “Oh my god, did you finally fuck him?!”

“No!” You say immediately, shaking your head. “Nothing like that!”

The boys guffaw and shove each other around, jeering and laughing. “That's fuckin’ gross,” says Riley, “Who would wanna screw him?”

“Hey, I heard he’s got six fingers,” sniggers Jennifer. “I bet that makes a difference, huh?”

“God, shut up,” you mutter, rolling your eyes. “I told you, it’s not-”

“What a fucking freak,” laughs Jamie.

“He’s a loser, babe,” scoffs Riley, attempting to put an arm around your shoulders again. “You need a real man, not a fuckin’ dork like that. I bet he-!”

“Look, he’s not that bad!” You interrupt, raising your voice a bit and shucking the boy’s arm off of you. “He’s not- He isn’t a total asshole all the time, okay? And he’s not a freak, that’s not cool. Don’t talk about him like that.”

Truthfully, you say it accidentally. You don’t mean to defend him and especially not to this particular group of people, but they’re being so mean spirited and these jocks are such dickheads that you feel dirty even allowing them to say as much as they have.

All’s fair in love and war between you and Ford; going back and forth with one another is purely business. It never reduces to calling the other person names or taking low blows like this, and it feels weird to let other people outright bully him. Especially over his hands.

You think that might be the cause of his whole meltdown earlier this week, and even the thought of him overhearing such cruelty makes you feel sicker than any amount of alcohol could.

The others stare at you like you’ve announced you intend to swan dive from the campus clocktower and momentarily, all of them are silent. That is, until Jamie opens his big mouth again: “What are you, like, in love with him or something?”

You feel your face suddenly begin to get very warm. “What?” You laugh, trying to sound dismissive. “No! God, no! Of course I’m not! I just-”

“Holy shit,” Jennifer says, a slow grin spreading on her face as she puts the puzzle pieces together. “You’re totally into him, aren’t you? That’s why you’ve been so lame recently! You’re all sad that he won’t talk to you!”

“No!” You refute, holding your hands up defensively. “No! It’s nothing like that!”

Your bag slips down your shoulder again and Jennifer grabs it without warning, dragging it off of your person and procuring your sketching journal.

“You’re such a liar,” she says, laughing, “Look, here,” She opens the journal to the page that your pencil is lodged into and flaunts it to the others. “I saw you drawing these last free sesh’ when he wasn’t in class! Makes total sense now….”

You instantly know exactly what she’s showing them: In free sessions, you’re given time to practise areas you might need to improve upon, and Ford had mentioned your anatomy a while ago. You’d taken it on board, however testily, and found yourself sketching away that afternoon.

Only, what you’d been drawing had been Ford’s anatomy. Nothing lewd, obviously, but something still intimate: his hands.

Ever since noticing them, you’ve been intrigued. Call it fate from the theme of your project, but something about them has drawn you in and you’ve struggled to forget them. They’re fascinating and beautiful and very weirdly him, and maybe yes okay you've been having some complicated feelings about him recently but does everybody need to know?!

Jamie laughs at you, snatching the book from Jen and inspecting the sketches up close. “Holy shit,” he says. “You’re made for each other, pair of freaks!”

“Fuck off, Jamie!” you snap, face burning. You try to snatch the book back and he holds it aloft, out of your reach. “Give it back!”

“No way!” He jeers, and then he glances off above your head and his ugly grin grows even wider. “Hey, check it out…. There’s your boyfriend now! Why don’t we ask Fordsy what he thinks of these?”

Much to your utter horror and absolute distress, when you turn to see where Jamie is pointing, you spot Ford striding across campus. He’s wearing an argyle sweater and brown slacks (and bless him, he really does look like a nerd), and he seems to be heading towards his own dorm.

He hasn’t spotted your group yet and silently, you pray that Jamie is just trying to rile you up.

Except, Jamie gives less of a fuck about your prayers than the universe itself does. He raises one shovel sized hand and yells out to him: “Yo, Stanford! Hold up a minute there, buddy!”

Ford freezes on the spot and turns your way, eyes wide like a rabbit in headlights. He looks confused.

“Jamie, don’t you dare!” You hiss, attempting to kick at the bigger man’s shins as he strides past you. It does nothing to stop him and instead, you turn to Jennifer. “Do something!” You say, and you hate how much it sounds like begging.

“Take a chill pill already,” Jennifer laughs. “He’s just kidding around.”

It takes great self control not to tear your own (or her) hair out as the rest of the group trot after Jamie.

Petrified, you jog along to catch up with them and by the time you reach them again, they’re already collaring Stanford.

Jamie slings a heavy handed arm around Ford’s shoulders, knocking his glasses askew, and he jerks him about a bit. “How’s it hangin’, buddy?” He asks, grinning. “Up to no good?”

“What?” Ford says, both annoyed at being stopped by such a group and awkward about how to deal with the interaction.

Jamie rolls his eyes and shakes his head, dramatically playing it up for the sake of the others. “What are you up to tonight, man?”

“Oh,” Ford shrugs. “I just finished at the library, I was going home. That’s all.”

Jamie laughs and the others join in. “On a Friday night, dude?”

“Is…. Is there a more suitable night to do it on?” Ford asks, sounding genuinely curious, and oh god your heart breaks for him.

The boys share a look of incredulity and laugh amongst themselves as you elbow your way through them. They part after a second, with some sharp elbow pokes to persuade them to move, and you stop in front of Ford and Jamie, hoping you don't look as distressed as you feel.

Ford's expression hardens the moment he notices you. It's obvious he's about as pleased to see you as he is to see the others and although, admittedly, that stings more than it has any right to, you half hope it might work in your favour to get him to leave.

“Hi, Ford,” you say, hoping you sound both casual and suggestive enough to let him know he should run for the hills. “Why don’t you get outta here and we’ll just-”

“Woah, woah,” says Jamie, cutting in before you can finish your sentence. “Not so fast, man. I have a question!”

Ford's frown deepens and he looks over at Jamie. Although the jock is tall, Ford matches his height well enough that, other than his lack of muscle, means that he doesn’t seem to be quite as intimidated as somebody of a smaller stature might be. That being said, he still looks decidedly uncomfortable with the whole affair.

“Uh, sure…?” Ford says, shrugging one shoulder. “What can I do for you?”

Jamie stifles a laugh and looks to the others, who similarly struggle to keep their laughter contained.

You know where he’s taking this topic. He’s still holding your sketchbook, waving it around to punctuate his words. “Jamie, leave it alone, stop being-”

“Come on, don't be such a square!” Melissa laughs, and Jamie is quick to agree.

“Is it true you've got extra fingers, Fordsy?” Asks Jamie, through the most horrible shit-eating grin you've ever seen. “According to certain sources,” He winks dramatically at you, implicating you in his plan. “You're rockin’ six on each hand, right? That’s far out, man. ”

Ford pales and simultaneously turns a deep shade of crimson, and his gaze snaps immediately to you. “What?” He says, his usually deep voice suddenly weak.

“You heard me, check it out,” Jamie flips open your sketchbook and you know he's showing Ford the pages of your sketching study.

Ford's brows knit upwards as he realises what he's looking at, distress and anger clear on his handsome face, and your blood turns to ice.

He looks devastated, eyes scanning back and forth over your work like he can't believe what he's seeing. Rather than seize the book for a closer look, you watch as he slips his hands into the pockets of his pants, hiding them from the view of everyone else, and your heart squeezes unpleasantly in your chest.

The subtle way that he does it makes you realise this is probably not the first time he's pulled such a move.

“You…. You drew these? Of me?” He asks in a small voice, glancing up at you. There's such a dejected sadness in his eyes that you almost want to be sick.

“No!” You say immediately. “I mean- Yes, I did, but not- I didn't draw them like tha-!”

“Some people must dig freaks, man, you're all over this shit!” Jamie chokes out through his laughter and the others follow suit.

“Shut up!” You snap at him before turning your attention back to Ford. “You don't understand! Yes, I drew them, but not because-!”

“I understand perfectly,” says Ford stiffly, and something steely and cold flashes in his gaze. He presses his mouth into a thin line and you can tell he's not just upset, but furious.

“Yeah,” Riley grins, stepping forward for his turn in the ring. “If you weren't doing it because you thought they were fuckin’ weird then why were you drawing them?”

“I….” Your voice dries up. What are you supposed to say? Because I think they're really stellar and unique, and I think you are too? Jamie and the others will eat you alive. The words just won't come and all you can do is stare back at Ford, equally as red faced and humiliated.

Jamie is still harping on about the sketches, pointing things out to Ford who isn't looking at anything he's being shown. He's just…. Staring right back at you with a mixture of genuine sadness and utter betrayal on his face.

You have to look away after a moment. It's too much to bear and you feel so awful that meeting his eye feels shameful. Although you know you haven't done anything with the intention of hurting him, you know how it must look.

When you tune back in, Jamie is still going: “-should be grateful you got to work with her, buddy. What other chance would a guy like you have to be friends with-”

You're not sure what makes you react, whether it's the combination of guilt and embarrassment, or whether it's simply because you've had enough of all this, but almost automatically, you step forward and shove Jamie away from Ford.

“Jamie, shut the fuck up,” you snap, pushing him as hard as you can manage in his stupidly broad chest. “Don't talk to him like that, asshole, it's not fucking cool. You're a piece of shit, man.”

Thankfully, the push is just about strong enough to get Jamie to stagger back a couple of paces and relinquish his grip from around Ford's shoulders. He stumbles and his laughter dies, along with the others.

“Hey!” He growls, stepping toward you and puffing out his chest. “What did you just say to me?”

This is exactly the reason you hate his type. They're loud and braggadocious and cruel, and they absolutely cannot take the heat themselves.

You square your shoulders back. You're nowhere near his size and if he decides to hit you then it'll be a permanent lights out for sure, but you're hoping he might at least realise his girlfriend would be upset if he knocked out her classmate. Desperately hoping, in fact….

“I said, stop. You're acting like a loser, leave him alone,” you say, admirably firm in spite of your nerves.

Jamie stomps over to you, teeth bared in a grotesque grimace. “You fuckin’ bitch, who are you callin’ a loser?!” He stretches out one hand as if to grab you and you brace yourself for the final nail in your coffin, when Ford abruptly steps between you both.

“That's enough,” he says firmly, sounding more fierce than you've ever heard him. “If you want to act like a child and bully me, do it. I don't care.” Ford glances back at you. “But don't drag other people into it just because you're a fucking drunken manchild who can't take it.”

For half a second, everything goes deathly silent. No one says a single word. All you do is gape at Ford in utter disbelief at his cutting words, as do the others. Even Jamie looks completely blindsided by it.

Clearly not finished, Ford keeps going, and this time it seems he’s talking more to you than to everyone else. “I don't need anyone to stick up for me, I'm not a child anymore. I’m perfectly capable of arguing against idiots like y-!”

Unfortunately for Ford, no matter how much you deserve his ire, with his attention on you instead of the threat, he completely misses Jamie reeling one of his big fists back and you watch in horror as he swings it in Ford’s direction.

You barely get the chance to let out an aborted shout of warning before Jamie’s knuckles collide solidly with Ford’s nose and send him stumbling back past you. They make a sickening crack! as the hit lands perfectly across his face, and Ford is sent sprawling on his ass in a lightning quick second.

Jamie moves as though he intends to follow Ford to the floor and keep hitting, but one of the other boys thankfully catches his fist and prevents him from going through with it. The group shout amongst themselves about it, evidently surprised by the sudden turn.

Instantly, you drop to your knees in the damp grass beside Ford and hover anxiously around him. Blood gushes out of his nose as soon as he hits the floor, cascading down over his lips and smattering onto the wool of his sweater, and his glasses are thrown from his face with the force. He groans in pain, his once hidden hands flying up to cradle his injury and to stem the bleeding. It does little to help.

“Oh, my god!” Your hands hover around his face helplessly, unsure where to touch him. “Fuck, Ford, are you-!”

“He’s fine,” says Jamie, waving away the concerns of the others. “Forget about him, we’re leaving.” He leans down to grab you by the arm but you smack him away angrily.

“Fuck off!” You shout, voice wavering. “You hit him!”

“So? He shouldn’t have mouthed off like that,” Jamie says, like it’s obvious. “Whatever, you wanna stay with him? Fine. Be two fuckin’ freaks together for all I care.”

He gestures for the others to follow him as he begins to walk towards the party dorm, carelessly tossing your sketchbook into the dirt beside Ford. You look up to the others for help, yet they only spare you a half-hearted sympathetic look before following the ringleader.

You want to yell after them, to tell them how pathetic they are laughing along, but for now you’ll have to save your anger. Instead, you root around in your bag for some spare tissues and quickly hold them up to Ford’s bloody face. “Shit,” you breathe, noticing just how much blood there is. “I’m taking you to the medical office, Ford.”

You grab his glasses and attempt to help him to his feet, however he shrugs you away. “Get lost,” he says thickly through the wall of blood on his mouth, snatching his glasses from your hands and shoving them into his pocket.

“What?” you say, confused as though you’re the one who’s just had your shit rocked. “Ford, you're hurt, let me help you!”

“I don't need your help!” he snaps, struggling to his feet.

You’re taken aback by his reaction, however he’s a little shaky, clearly discombobulated by the hit and the entire event, and even though he doesn't seem open to your touch, you catch him by the elbows to steady him.

He wipes his lips with the sleeve of his already-ruined sweater, dark blood swiping across the wool. It’s a fruitless effort; the gore is simply further smeared around his face. It does little to reduce the mess and everything to spread it, and Ford turns his head away from you to spit out the blood that's gathering in his mouth.

As soon it's clear that he can stand unassisted, Ford shakes off your tentative touch as though you're some kind of leper. He meets your eyes and the look he fixes you with is so searing that it's enough to turn your insides to liquid ice. He shoulders you aside and takes off across the lawn, ignoring a few curious onlookers and striding towards his dorm.

Momentarily, you’re too stunned to follow him. He’s never looked at you like that before and frankly, it fucking hurts. After all this time, after all of your disagreements and squabbles, Ford has never been quite so…. Disgusted with you.

As much as you might like to crawl under a rock in your ashamed state, you just can’t leave things like this. Besides, he might be seriously hurt beyond what you can see; that punch was solid and Ford isn’t much of a fighter, not to your knowledge anyway. If he dropped dead of a brain bleed or something equally as awful and dramatic, you’d never forgive yourself.

Frankly, you’re not sure you ever will anyway.

You shove your sketchbook back into your bag and take off after him, jogging across the damp grass to try and catch up with his purposeful movements.

“Ford!” You call out to his retreating back. “Wait up!”

He does no such thing. His stride doesn’t even falter at your request.

You push onwards, trying to tamp down the frustration you feel and speeding up just enough to reach his side as he swings open the door to his building, leaving a smear of blood across the handle. “Stanford!”

“Stop following me!” Ford snaps over his shoulder. He lets it fall heavily back onto you without even glancing in your direction.

You ignore him, chasing after his back. The building is surprisingly quiet for a Friday evening; there are usually at least a few students milling about in the halls, whether they’re looking to party or just avoid studying for a few hours, most of the time there’s someone about.

Not tonight though, it seems. Perhaps they’re all off to the party you’re supposed to be attending…..

As you follow Ford down the North hallway, past the walls of pigeon hole letterboxes and glass cases of alumni photos, you try again to stop him. “Ford, come on, you’re bleeding everywhere. Just stop a second, please,” you cajole. “What if you have a concussion?”

Ford still doesn’t answer. He keeps power walking down the corridor, taking a sharp right and barrelling into what seems to be a common area.

There are couches and chairs pushed towards the corners of the room, arranged around mismatched tables and strewn with remnants of earlier life: styrofoam coffee cups and screwed up pieces of paper, and even a couple of crumpled beer cans.

As he passes through, Ford shows no signs of slowing and your frustration rises. “Look, you can be mad at me all you want but please just let me take you to the nurse’s office!”

“I’m fine,” Ford says, voice strained in a way that betrays how much he definitely is not fine. It’s a sick parody of your last conversation in the studio.

He starts to speed up again, nearly jogging now in his determination to escape you as he approaches the farthest side of the room, and despite the way your breath is already burning in your lungs, you force yourself to match his stride.

The shaky way he dismisses your worry only upsets you more and in your unfit desperation, before he can reach for the exit, you jerk out a hand and grab the sleeve of his sweater, snatching him back by the fabric at his elbow. “No, you’re-!”

“Let go of me!” Ford rounds on you, shoulders squared and chin jutted upward like he expects you to be the next person to fight him. He halts so suddenly that you almost crash into him, stepping into your space and causing you to stumble back a few paces.

He’s tall enough to be intimidating when he draws himself up fully like this but you refuse to let him make you back off.

“No!” you shout back, keeping a firm hold of his sweater as best you can. “Let me help you, Ford, I can explain-!”

“Did you all have a good laugh?!” Ford asks bitterly, cutting you off. He seizes your wrist, his grip tight over where you’re clutching onto him. “About my hands? About me?! When you showed them those sketches, did it feel good to win their stupid approval?”

He squeezes your wrist tightly and you grit your teeth, acquiescing your hold on him and releasing his sweater. The blood on his fingers smears across your skin, cool and coagulated, and he uses a strength you didn’t know he possessed to hold you still.

“It's not like that!” You say, breath hitching. “I didn't draw those for anybody but myself.”

“Bullshit!” Ford snarls, jerking your wrist back and forth. “I know you're lying!”

“It's the truth!” You snap, hackles rising at his roughness and his accusations.

Tonight has been full of mistakes on your part, sure, but if Ford won't even let you explain then how are you supposed to even try and fix all this?! “Jamie and the others grabbed my sketchbook off of me, Ford. I didn't give it to them! That stuff was private!”

“Then why would you even have things like that in there?!” Ford yells back, scowling.

“Because I- It wasn’t supposed to be-” You stumble over your words as you shout back at him, anger and humiliation lodging them in your throat, and Ford seizes the opportunity to scold you further.

“Exactly! Stop lying to me!”

“I’m not lying to you, Ford!” You wrench your hand from his grip, fed up with his claims. For all your guilt, you’re not going to let him just shout and scream at you in a public hallway until he deigns you with the opportunity to explain yourself. “I wouldn’t do something like that, no matter how little you think of me!” You say, jabbing him in the chest with your finger a few times.

You rock up on your toes to try and draw your faces level as you bark back and forth at each other. “They were the ones who brought it up, not me! I was telling them to stop!”

Ford’s jaw flexes with each jab of your finger, lip twitching with anger. “Yeah, right.” He laughs, scathing. “You think I missed how you reacted in the studio earlier this week? I mean, was that even the first time you realised or was it just the first time you saw me up so close that you couldn’t help yourself? I know you think I'm a freak, just like everyone else does! That's why you drew those- those fucking caricatures of my hands and you laughed it up with your stupid little friends about me!”

“No, I-!” idiot

Ford jabs a finger into your chest, right above your heart, mirroring your pose to him and pressing down hard as he shouts in your face, like a haughty parent telling off their unruly child. “You know, I hate to admit this, really I do, but I'm actually disappointed in you! I had hoped it wasn’t like that between us! I enjoyed that you disliked me because I’m smarter than you, because I’m a better artist than you are, and not because of my hands. Everybody else goes straight for the obvious bait because they can never compare to the rest of me, but I suppose you must be just like your asshat, jock buddies afterall!”

“I am not-!” You attempt to shout over him, to interrupt his tirade, but Ford keeps going, poking you hard again.

“And do you want to know the worst part about all of this?” He demands, looking borderline insane with wide eyes and blood all over his face. “The worst part is that your sketches were fucking terrible! Your anatomy is just as shitty as it was the day we met!”

Like a dam, your limited composure breaks. The insult is small in comparison to all his other harsh words, some of which you can even admit you might deserve, but his obnoxiousness has grown steadily like a snowball careening down a slippery slope and gathering mass, and that’s the final nail in the coffin for you.

“You know what, Ford? Fuck you!” You shout, driving your own finger back into his broad chest as hard as you can and poking him with every word. Your breath comes in short, sharp pants as you lay into him, your noses almost touching as neither of you back down to the other.

“Fuck you! You fucking idiot! You don’t know anything about how I feel. Do I think you're an asshole with a god complex? Absolutely! Do other people say all kinds of shit about your hands? Of course they do! But I never cared enough to actually check how many fingers you have! The other day in the studio, that was the first time I ever even noticed it! ! I never thought that you were a freak, Stanford, not even once!”

Something strange falters in Ford's expression but you barrel onward, refusing to give him the chance to come back at you.

“Our entire project is about uniqueness, you stupid fucking idiot!” You continue, desperately fighting the thick lump that rises in your throat and the burning that prickles the corners of your eyes. You're so exhausted and worked up, so humiliated and angry, and this is the fallout of everything at once. There's no stopping it now.

“I mean, for god's sake, we talked about how much we both like unusual things! That's why we picked that fucking topic, Ford! I like odd shit! I wasn't drawing your hands so that I could show my so-called friends and laugh about it with them, you moron! I was drawing your hands because I can't stop fucking thinking about them or how pretty they are, or how fucking pretty you are and if you just listened to me for once in your stupid-!”

You don't even get to finish your sentence before Ford's mouth is on yours, hot and determined, in the fiercest kiss you think you’ve ever experienced.

You're not sure who moves first.

With barely a whisper between the two of you it's hard to tell, but in a flash the distance is closed and your hands are twisted in the front of his dirty sweater, leveraging him down as he backs you up into the closest wall.

Ford makes a guttural sound, the kind that rumbles in your chest, and one of his hands gropes blindly at your waist as he returns the kiss whilst the other plants itself beside your head on the wall.

He’s clumsy and unskilled, and you’re pretty certain you can feel wet blood smearing across your own face as he presses into you, yet he’s so enthusiastic that you can’t bring yourself to care much about any of that right now. It just feels so fucking good.

He tastes like coffee and copper, and his musky aftershave overwhelms your senses again, enveloping you as he presses even closer along your front. Ford's broad form is warm against your exposed skin where his weight pins you up against the wall. He's clearly been tipped off of balance by the motion and without his quick thinking of walking you back to the surface, you're sure you'd have bowled over by now.

Your hands slip up from the front of his sweater to tangle in his thick, curly hair, fingers catching in amongst the strands to pull him in until he's melting against you, pliant under your touch. It's evident that he doesn't have much practice at this and that, combined with the fervour of the motion, makes the kiss sloppy.

As foggy as your brain is right now, you manage to conjure just one silly thought as you coax his tongue with your own: Finally. Something I am better than him at.

Ford gives another groan at the sensation and almost instinctively, he slides a leg between yours. It's not clear if he knows how arousing it is or whether he's simply trying to balance himself better, but it does wonders for you all the same.

Warmth burns in the pit of your stomach, a molten hot interest that takes you by such surprise it practically has stars blooming behind your closed eyelids.

It feels like this is the catalyst: the final moment that’s been building and building between you both ever since Ford arrived in Studio 1B. Rivalries and arguments that on the surface, had appeared to everyone but the two of you as a sign of more than just academic passion and the desperate need to be right. Everything has led to this and god, does it feel spectacular.

The tangy flavour of blood begins to overwhelm Ford's spit and just as you tilt your head to up the ante, sighing happily against his mouth, your nose catches his in the motion and Ford rips himself away with a yelp of pain.

“Fuck!” He cries, letting go of your waist and pushing off the wall to cradle his nose.

You start, completely having forgotten about his injury, and rush to his aide. “Shit! I’m so sorry, I didn’t even think-”

More blood trickles out from his nostrils, though thankfully not quite as much as on the initial hit, and winces. “Probably not the wisest of ideas in this state,” Ford mutters thickly, but he's giving you a lopsided smile that's big enough that you can tell he doesn't seem to mind too much. You can even see the blood that's settled in the gaps of his teeth.

A similar expression crosses your own face: a shy, stupid grin tugging at your mouth as you both share the same pleasantly surprised, if disbelieving, look. A few moments of silence follow the halting of the kiss and your situational awareness creeps back in.

The abrupt reminder of his injuries and the fact that you're likely equally now covered in blood, coupled with the fact that you're both still in a public space is enough to kick the sensible part of your brain into action.

You clear your throat and push up off the wall, straightening your clothing where Ford has left it rumpled with his wandering hands. “We should probably get you cleaned up before we….” You trail off, unsure of exactly where you mean for your train of thought to go.

Ford nods, understanding. “Right. Of course.”

“I’ll walk you to your room,” you say, gesturing for him to show you the way. “If you won’t go to the nurse then at least let me fix you up a bit.”

Ford nods again, cheeks flushed, and takes you through the double doors you’d stood by barely five minutes ago, leading you deeper into the building. He’s only living on the second floor with his roommate and thankfully, it doesn’t take too long for you to reach his dorm.

There still aren’t many students hanging around up here and the ones that are are far too preoccupied with their own business to even spare a glance at you both. You suppose that without engaging in a screaming match, you can pass by covered in whatever substance you like without drawing attention.

“F is out visiting his parents this weekend,” Ford explains as he unlocks the door to his room and lets you inside. “It’ll just be us.”

“‘F’?” You ask, stepping into the darkness.

“Fiddleford, my diplomatic roommate,” Ford says, and even in the dark you can hear the smile in his voice.

“Ah, I remember,” you grin.

Ford fumbles around until he finds his desk lamp, flicking it on and filling the room with a soft, warm glow. It makes the mess on his face look an otherworldly black. He busies himself with rummaging around in the bottom drawer of what you presume to be his personal desk that sits at the side of his bed, and you take the opportunity to absorb his living space.

All the dorms in Backupsmore are built the same: cheaply and efficiently with the bare minimum added, and Ford’s is no different. The far wall is exposed brick, with a broad window in its centre, while the other walls are covered in drab, ochre wallpaper.

Above Ford’s half-made bed is the navy BMU flag along with a few posters that are, frankly, quite adorable. There’s one of Tesla posed before his famous coils and another of Sagan, with what you can only describe as an alarmingly seductive look on his face. Admittedly, Sagan is quite the looker, as is Tesla when you really consider it, so you can hardly blame Ford for his choices.

Nestled around the posters are books. Lots of books. All packed in tightly on cheap shelves and those that won’t fit with their partners are stacked up around the room in untidy piles. You can count at least six different stacks by his bed alone, most of which seem to vary from physics to astronomy to advanced mathematics.

Ford must catch you taking it all in because he clears his throat awkwardly and you break away from your staring to look at him directly. “Sorry,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “I don’t really get any company in here besides Fidds, so it’s a little messy.”

You laugh quietly. If only he could see the state of your room…. “Don’t worry about it,” you assure him. “Nobody comes to college to be tidy.”

Careful not to disturb their precarious resting places, you pick your way around the book piles and take a seat on the edge of his bed.

Ford joins you after he adjusts the desk lamp to shine directly over you, carrying a small white plastic box and setting it between you both. He retrieves his glasses from his pocket and puts them beside the box so he can sit comfortably.

You realise it’s a proper medical kit. “Do you just happen to carry around a first aid box with you all the time?”

Ford huffs a laugh as he clicks it open and roots through it to find what he needs. “When you get bullied enough as a kid, you start to learn that carrying around things like first aid come in pretty handy sooner or later.”

He says it so casually that your heart squeezes in your chest. “Ford….” You say, soft and slightly pained. “That’s awful, you know that, right?”

Ford shrugs one shoulder, procuring some sterile wipes and plasters from the kit. “You get used to it.”

You want to tell him that that's ludicrous, that he shouldn't have to do any such thing, but you know how cruel people can be. It's not like he can do much to stop them anyway; Ford fights back intellectually, not physically, and talking back to someone in the way he has done tonight has only worked out poorly for him. Rather than reply, you put your hand on his knee and he pauses in his motion of opening the wipes.

“If anyone gives you trouble again, tell me,” you say with a smile. “I'll put white spirit in their coffee.”

“Thanks,” Ford laughs and you can see the upset tension leave his shoulders a bit. “I’d rather not kill anyone over it, but that’s very kind of you…. In a weird, unethical sort of way.”

He goes to use the wipes on his face but you stop him, taking the packet from his hands and plucking a couple out. Ford lets you do it without any quarrel, watching you closely.

The blood isn't too thick when you begin to wipe it away, although it has begun to oxidise into a more congealed state, and carefully you start to swipe it away underneath his nose.

For a few minutes, Ford observes you in silence before finally speaking up again: "Did you really draw my hands because you like them?" He asks, voice quiet.

You don't meet his eyes as you take hold of his chin, gently tilting his head towards the light a little more. "Yes," is all you reply, praying he doesn't pick up on your embarrassment.

The area you're working on is close enough to his mouth that you catch him bite down on a smile, and you try to fight your own grin by doubling your focus on your work. Neither of you press the matter.

You clean up over his philtrum and his lips, covering your thumb with the wipe and swiping it across his closed mouth slowly. You swear you do it only to ensure that you’re being gentle, but you can hear Ford’s breath catch in his throat with the movement and you’re not immune to the intimacy of the act.

Despite not looking directly at him, you can feel his gaze boring into you. You imagine this must be how his science experiments feel, pinned down under his watchful eye and dissected by observation. Admittedly, it’s not the worst feeling in the world….

Once the blood is gone from his face, you turn your attention to the rest of his injury. The hit must have been solid; a strong blow square on the nose. There’s a fairly clean cut across the bridge, probably from both the force and the metal of his glasses biting into the thin skin there. The edges are raw and reddened, and already you can see a purplish bruise beginning to spread from the cut outwards towards his left eye.

“I don’t think it’s broken, thank god,” you murmur, dabbing the cut gently. “But you’re gonna have one hell of a bruise for a while.”

Ford winces slightly. “That’ll be humiliating to explain.”

“People will think Jamie is the embarrassment, Ford, trust me,” you assure him. “All you did was stand up for yourself…. And for me. Thank you for that, by the way. You really didn’t need to-”

“He was going to hit you.” Ford interrupts. “I didn’t want that, no matter how upset I was.”

“Maybe, but it’s not like I didn’t deserve it.”

Ford catches you by the wrist where you’re finishing with his nose, lowering your hand, and you meet his gaze. He's looking at you like you've said the stupidest thing imaginable. “No, you didn't,” he says, so firmly that you find yourself unable to argue.

“I still should have done something sooner, Ford. This whole thing is my fault,” you say, shaking your head. “I swear that I didn't draw those sketches of you because I wanted to show the others, and definitely not because I think you're weird. I'm sorry that I didn't just admit everything before things got so out of control, but I meant what I said earlier.”

“I think it's fairly clear that we both misunderstood each other, wouldn't you agree?” Ford says with a tiny smile. “I overreacted in the studio without thinking and I didn't want to bring it up in case you really did think I was a freak. I'm not sure I could've taken it, to be honest.”

“Is that why you've been avoiding me all this time? Skipping sessions and stuff?” You frown.

Ford's cheeks stain red, visible even in the low light, and he looks away with a nod, abashed.

“Why not just talk to me, you idiot?” You say, not unkindly.

It's evident that he's embarrassed to go further into detail, but he's piqued your interest now. It's too late to play coy and he probably knows it.

“I….” Ford huffs, still not meeting your eye. “Fidds is my only friend here and, well…. Even when you and I argued in class you were never cruel about it. You held your own and I respected that. I still do. That's why I assumed we were having fun,” he says, recalling your discussion in the studio last week.

“And then we started working together. I suppose I expected it to be terrible but you talked to me like I was just another normal person. You asked me about myself. No one ever does that….” Ford says, looking so wistful that your heart threatens to break further. “Usually it’s about my hands or my brain, or ‘Ford, can you do my essay for me?’, ‘Ford, can I copy your test?’, and it was just so different that I suppose I hoped we might eventually become friends. When you saw my hands and reacted out of nowhere, I worried that you'd wind up being just like the others, so I avoided asking so I didn't have to have my fears confirmed.”

You struggle to form the words that you desperately want to say. Not out of humiliation or fear this time, but because the lump in your throat is so big that nothing seems to be able to get past it beyond a weak sounding: “Ford….”

“That was wrong of me, I know,” he continues. “Old habits die hard and all that…. Plus, I can't say my intentions were wholly pure, but that is mostly your fault.”

That's enough to startle a laugh from you. “Oh?”

Ford smiles to himself and takes a deep breath, like he's finally admitting to a deep secret. “You're very attractive, I couldn't really help it…. Why do you think I kept standing so close to you in the studio?”

You can feel your cheeks burn and you smile, stupid and shy. Slipping free of his grip, you take his hand in your own and lace your fingers together. The fit is unusual with his extra appendage but you find that it's quite nice to have your palm so entirely encompassed.

Ford is surprised by the action, staring down at where you're holding him.

“Look at me, Stanford,” you command, and he does exactly as you ask without hesitation.

You use your free hand to grab his glasses from the bed and, mindful to avoid irritating the cut, you slide them onto his face gently so that he can see you properly.

“You almost drove me mad with that, you know?” You smile and Ford does too, hope dawning on his handsome features. “I admit that I thought you were a total asshole at first. You made me look like an idiot as soon as you started in class and I hated it. You didn't even want to be there but you were better than everyone else, and I took it personally. I mean, you were also kind of a jerk about art and that did get under my skin….”

Ford winces, looking suitably guilty, but you smile.

“The more we spent time together, though, the more I realised that you’re not so bad…. Still a bit of an ass but it’s not like I’m always an innocent party either,” You grin. “And for what it’s worth, in the studio that day? I only noticed your hands while I was looking for something to distract myself with because you were so close to me. I was worried I’d make an idiot of myself and do something stupid that I couldn’t take back.”

“Oh….” Ford’s brows raise. “And…. Do you want to take back the- Our- I mean, what happened earlier?”

It’s sweet that he can’t quite say it. “You mean when you kissed me?”

“Technically, you kissed me,” he argues back without hesitation.

“I don’t think that’s how it went down,” you smirk. “Fairly certain you were the one who started it.”

“I'm afraid I only work with cold, hard facts.” Ford grins. “You'll have to prove it.”

“Make me.”

Ford takes a sharp breath in, gaze dropping to your mouth. “You have no idea how much I want to, but…. You're still covered in my blood.”

Oh, right. You’d forgotten about that.

“Shit,” you mutter, grabbing one of the wipes and blindly smearing it over your mouth. You must look crazy.

Ford laughs under his breath and takes it from you, making quick work of the spots you've missed. After a moment, he speaks again: “That was my first kiss, you know,” he admits.

You're too polite to voice your lack of shock, but you had suspected it might be. Ford is hardly the type to get about in such a way if his behaviour at Backupsmore is anything to go by.

Even in the flurry of action it had been easy to pinpoint a certain lack of grace. Not that it's an issue for you, of course, it certainly feels nice to possess a skill that he doesn’t for once. “And how was it?” You ask, tactfully avoiding any insecurity he might have over it.

“Besides hurting my nose?” Ford says, tossing the wipe onto the soiled pile. “Better than correctly calculating a hypothesis before anyone else has even started the experiment.”

You stare at him blankly.

“Thrilling,” Ford clarifies with a grin, and then he's kissing you again. It's gentle and nervous, yet hungry enough that you can feel how desperate he is to return right back to that earlier moment.

You make a soft, happy sound, your eyes falling closed and hands reaching up to cup his face. Again, Ford takes a hold of your waist and leans into you, exhaling heavily through his sore nose. You'll have to remind him to take some painkillers before he loses himself completely for the evening….

The rest of the night passes just like that: Exchanging slow, delicate kisses with barely restrained heat and talking about life. Ford (just about) apologises for his anatomy comments ("They're better than the other ones, at least....") and you take it in gracious stride; a lot of things have been said (or not said, as the case may be) tonight that neither of you mean.

It won't do to hold them against one another now and anyway, you can pick a better time to help him work on his constructive criticism delivery than right this minute.

Things don't progress further than that, though. You're too concerned that his brain might still be rattled from the punch and even he confesses he's a little nervous about bleeding all over you again.

You stick to chatting, punctuated by measured makeouts and hesitant touches, and somehow it’s impossibly more arousing than jumping into bed with him immediately.

Hours go by before you can bring yourself to leave, and when you do Ford is polite enough not to beg you to stay even though it's blatant that he wants to. You’re both completely rumpled, hot from toe to tip and wound tighter than a drum, but Ford doesn't pressure or guilt you to come back in the way others have before.

He offers to walk you home again, but the temptation to bring him inside your own dorm would be too much; you decline and assure him that for both of your sakes it’ll be better that he stays here, and Ford, being the smart cookie that he is, understands immediately.

“Would you like to come over after our next study session? We could practise our presentation, hang out for a bit,” He suggests when you're standing on the threshold of his door, ready to leave. “Maybe listen to some records….?”

You hope that's code for ‘fuck each other's brains out’.

“That sounds groovy,” you say, smirking. “Are you bringing the vinyl's or should I?”

Ford flushes pink from his throat to the roots of his hair at the heavy innuendo in your question, but he keeps it together admirably, leaning on the doorframe as casually as he can. “Well, you’ll be my guest,” he says, trying not to grin. “It would be awfully rude of me to make you bring them yourself, would it not?”

Oh, that is so definitely code for ‘fuck each other’s brains out’.... This is going to be fun.

The two of you share a long, charged look, all barely restrained smiles and electric hope, before the slamming of a door down the hallway is enough to spur you back onto your original course of action.

“I’ll see you in class, Ford,” you say, leaning up to press a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“Sweet dreams,” he murmurs, and then he’s closing the door and leaving you out in the hallway alone.

That night, your dreams really are the sweetest they’ve ever been.

In the end, your mid-term presentation with Ford is a resounding success. Professor Stonepoor seems pleasantly surprised by your cooperation, though he gloats a little about it being his plan all along, and all your hard work pays off when he awards you both top marks. He does also pull you aside to ensure that you aren’t the one responsible for giving Ford his black eye, but Ford is quick to assure him that it’s quite the opposite.

Everything else between you both stays a secret, at least for now. Not because you’re ashamed or because Ford is unsure, but because it’s just too much fun to play along with the rivalry narrative. The back-and-forths stay the same in class, though now they serve closer to full on foreplay than academic fighting, and despite the fact that you’re sure a few people might have caught the little glances you throw at each other, nobody pulls you up on it. If they’re still placing bets on your chemistry, you’ll be damned if you give them the satisfaction of knowing for sure.

When Stonepoor catches the two of you making out in the spare studio after hours one evening, however, said plan falls apart. He declares, very jovially, that at least two other faculty members are going to owe him twenty bucks before he shuts the door on you, and as much as you want to complain about his lack of professionalism, the moment you meet Ford’s eyes neither of you can keep it together for long enough to form the words.

All’s well that ends well, you suppose.

A/N: and yes, Stonepoor's name is a play on Rockwell, a famous artist from the 70's (man standing up meme!). I thought it was funny and I'm not sorry.

[haikyu-mp4]

I’d say it’s destiny

word count; 1605 – f!reader, implied age gap

Osamu and Atsumu weren’t completely identical, as some might know. Most notably, they decided to dye their hair differently in high school and it made the contrast of their eye colours stand out more.

However, one scenario it always worked for was substitute teachers. Osamu really didn’t mind stepping in for Atsumu today, because it meant he owed him later, but he totally forgot he was stepping in at all when he saw you.

Fresh out of university and first-time substitute teacher.

And you were crazy good-looking.

So when you were taking attendance and asked for Miya Atsumu, it went something like this…

“Here!”

“Hello, Miya,” you said, just like you did with all the other students because some teacher you once had said it made the pupils feel seen. Perhaps they weren’t considering high school students though.

“Call me Osamu,” he said with that trademark smirk he borrowed from his twin as if he was acting his part despite saying the complete opposite.

“…Atsumu?” you read off the paper, with no intention of using his given name but still curious about the name change. Suna already had his phone out in his lap, camera peeping just over the edge of his desk to film this.

“No, that’s my stupid brother.”

“So why are you… here then?”

Osamu slowly deflated, not looking as confident as he did a few seconds ago. Right, he’s not actually in this class. “I’d say it’s destiny?”

You blinked for a moment. This was not what you expected on your first day, and you weren’t quite sure what to do. Do you send him to the principal’s office? At least he’s getting an extra lesson, his apparent twin is the one who missed his. “Come to my desk after class, Miya,” you said strictly before moving on to the rest of the list, not missing the way some brunette kid snorted in the corner as Osamu agreed like you asked him out for dinner.

“You wanted to see me?” Osamu said, a cocky smirk back on his face and bag slung over his shoulder. You frowned, trying your best not to find it funny.

“Not like that, but you know it’s not okay to attend in someone else’s place?” you started, still not decided on how to lecture him properly. Fortunately, you had the number of another teacher that gave you some help.

He sat down on the chair on the other side of your desk. “I’m sorry my brother gave you trouble. What did you say your name was?” he asked, earning another squinted glare from you.

You ignored the comment and question, sighing and looking at the post-it note stuck to your schedule, scribbled with a name. “I was told I should talk to Kita Shinsuke about this, so unless you have something better to say, I think we should move along to find him and your brother.”

Osamu felt like the colour might have drained from his face, thinking of facing both his idiot brother’s complaints and Kita’s cold lecture at the same time. “Oh, uhh…”

You gave him a small smile, standing up already. “They should all be in the gym, right? Please show me the way there, I still get lost.”

Osamu would be damned if you kept smiling at him like that, making him stand right up with a sigh and hold the door open for you before leading you there. “Right this way, my lady.” At least he got to ask you about your favourite foods and other basic stuff that you didn’t mind answering on the way there.

Once again, he opened the door for you when you got to the gym, eyes quickly scanning around to see Suna already showing Atsumu the video. “Kita Shinsuke?” you asked loudly, looking around until you made eye contact with someone who seemed to respond to that name. The grey-haired boy came over, calmly asking you how he could help you while Osamu avoided eye contact but still didn’t want to leave your side. “I’m sorry for disturbing you, but another teacher told me you’re familiar with the problem. I had this Miya in my class while it should have been the other one,” you informed him, almost letting their given names slip off your tongue. Osamu was tuned into your voice, but it was difficult to ignore the agitating voice of his brother, which he heard in the background.

Kita nodded with a confirming sound, dark in his throat as he glared to the side at Osamu. “My apologies, I will make sure they receive the proper consequences,” he said and bowed to you.

Osamu looked at you with a sheepish smile. “Thank you for following me here, I’ll see you around?” he asked, using his possibly last moment alive to look at you one more time with every ounce of charm he had left.

You huffed a small laugh, nodding and turning around to find your way back. “Sure, have fun at practice, Miya.”

Kita and Atsumu were both angry, but who cares?

Osamu Miya was in love.

You saw Osamu around a couple more times while substituting for other teachers, even stepping in for the volleyball coach once. Now that, was something.

“What’d ya think, coach?” Osamu asked you, quite frankly looking like a puppy after spiking and turning to you. You sighed, once again trying to act indifferent and ignore him while also treating him like any other student.

“That was great!” you said with some enthusiasm, also leaning a bit to the side to look at his twin. “And a great set as well!” So now you had two flustered Miya twins.

“Let’s try the soul swap, ‘Samu!” Atsumu roared with newfound vigour, and you could see Kita about to protest.

“Here we go, I should film this,” Suna snickered from somewhere beside you, and you couldn’t help but agree.

After a year, you were offered a permanent position at another school in the prefecture, meaning you didn’t really see any students from Inarizaki again. You had almost forgotten them by the time you walked past a sign that said Onigiri Miya after going to an interview for a higher position in another school.

You tilted your head, squinting at the sign as you tried to remember where you heard that before, and then you looked down and through the window. Jaw slack, you were looking at a much more grown version of your biggest fan, Miya Osamu.

Walking in, you were overwhelmed with the delicious smell, your chest filling with air as you took in a long breath. Then you walked over to the short line, standing behind a rather burly man, meaning Osamu probably hadn’t seen you yet. You got a bit nervous, almost wondering if he would actually remember you or not.

Finally, the line moved along and you were face to face with a mouth-watering man. Mouth-watering food! He was even taller than in high school, shoulders broader and body a bit beefier from choosing this line of work but probably still maintaining some workouts.

You had to shake your head a bit when you realised you were just staring, plastering on a smile and then realising he was staring too, looking pleasantly surprised. Perhaps it was inappropriate to suddenly be interested in him, but while an awkward age difference stopped you from looking at him like this before, he was now an adult and you suddenly saw him in a new light.

“Hi!” he said cheerfully before huffing when he accidentally knocked over a cup of pens, scrambling to pick them all up again and shuffle them back into the cup. He glanced up at you with that familiar sheepish smile. “What can I get you today, teach?” he asked, applying the nickname to further emphasise that he remembered you.

You could feel your ears turning red as you pursed your lips, and you were about as beautiful as he remembered. “I’d like two tuna mayo onigiris, please,” you requested, pulling your card out to pay while he was watching your every move. He was glad he already had a lot of food prepared at this time of day so he wouldn’t have to leave this station to make them for you.

“I thought you liked salmon, want to try one on the house?” he asked, somehow remembering your conversations back in high school. You were shocked for a moment before nodding.

“If you insist.”

He smirked, and it was so familiar yet the feeling it gave you was so new and exciting. “I sure do,” he confirmed and then put one on a plate to hand it over. No one had come in after you yet, luckily. “I haven’t seen ya in a long time, do ya live close by?” he asked hopefully, trying to sound nonchalant.

“I’m out on a job interview actually,” you said, taking a bite of the onigiri and sighing with appreciation at how delicious it was. Truly made with love. “So who knows, maybe I’ll be around here more.”

“Then you’re more than welcome to stop by again.”

You smiled at him, and it was warmer than the ones he had received from you before. “I’d love that. It’s a bit far from where I live, though.” Your voice drifted off, unsure if you were oversharing because you were nervous.

“Oh? How did ya end up applying for a job here, then?” he asked, moving around to grab some fresh onigiri in a box for you and taking an extra breath to calm his heartbeat.

“I’d say it’s destiny.”

masterlist

[mariacallous]

In late August 2023, Ilya Gambashidze was in a conference room at the office of Social Design Agency, a Russian IT company he founded that is based in Moscow, close to the world-renowned Moscow Conservatory. Gambashidze was relatively unknown in Russian politics at the time, but just a month earlier his name had appeared on a Council of the European Union’s list of Russian nationals subjected to sanctions for playing a central role in a sprawling disinformation campaign against Ukraine.

In the conference room, Gambashidze was laying out his plans for a new target: Along with his colleagues, he began drafting what would become known as the Good Old USA Project. The project was supposed to influence the outcome of the US presidential election in favor of former president Donald Trump, specifically targeting certain minorities, swing-state residents, and online gamers, among others, in a scheme that included a full-time team dedicated to the cause.

On Wednesday, Gambashidze and his company were named by the US Department of Justice among the architects of a disinformation campaign known as Doppelganger that has for the past two years been targeting Ukraine and, more recently, US elections. The Doppelganger campaign uses AI-generated content on dozens of fake websites designed to impersonate mainstream media outlets such as The Washington Post and Fox Business, using a network of fake social media accounts to disseminate pro-Russian narratives targeting audiences across the globe. Doppelganger is a Kremlin-aligned disinformation campaign that was first linked to the Kremlin in 2023 by the French government.

On Wednesday, the Justice Department announced the seizure of 32 internet domains it says are linked to the Doppelganger campaign which violate US money laundering and criminal trademark laws.

“Today’s announcement exposes the scope of the Russian government’s influence operations and their reliance on cutting-edge AI to sow disinformation,” FBI director Christopher Wray said in a statement. “Companies operating at the direction of the Russian government created websites to trick Americans into unwittingly consuming Russian propaganda.”

The Treasury Department had previously sanctioned SDA and Gambashidze in March for its part in the Doppelganger campaign. But the court documents unsealed on Wednesday contain a treasure trove of documents and meeting notes from Gambashidze and his colleagues, outlining in unprecedented detail the goals and tactics that the Kremlin has been deploying in order to influence the outcome of the 2024 US election.

The records also reveal the plan was discussed at the highest levels of the Russian government, with Sergei Kiriyenko, the first deputy chief of staff of the presidential executive office, playing a key role. The notes appear to show that President Vladimir Putin may have been updated on the campaign; in one meeting with Russian government officials, Gambashidze wrote that government officials told him they had “reported to the President about the project,” which the FBI agent who authored the affidavit said he took to refer to Putin.

The documents show that the orchestrators of the campaign targeted existing divisions within US society, using racist stereotypes and far-right conspiracies to target supporters of former president Donald Trump.

​​"They are afraid of losing the American way of life and the ‘American dream,’” Gambashidze writes in one document outlining his “guerrilla media” plan. “It is these sentiments that should be exploited in the course of an information campaign in/for the United States.”

The same document is full of racist and conspiratorial claims, including that Republicans are “victims of discrimination of people of color.” It adds that white middle-class people are being discriminated against with high inflation and rising prices, while “unemployed people of color end up being privileged groups of the population.”

And the goal of the campaign, from the beginning, was crystal clear: “To secure victory for [Donald Trump],” Gambashidze wrote in the Good Old USA Project planning document.

The Good Old USA plan openly admits that “none of the significant American politicians can be considered pro-Russian or pro-Putin,” and so rather than focus its efforts on trying to convince people that Russia is great, the plan called for promoting the idea that the US should be focusing its resources less on Ukraine and more on domestic issues, such as rising inflation and high gas prices.

“It makes sense for Russia to put a maximum effort to ensure that the Republican Party’s point of view (first and foremost, the opinion of Trump supporters) wins over the US public opinion,” the Good Old USA Project planning document reads. “This includes provisions on peace in Ukraine in exchange for territories, the need to focus on the problems of the US economy, returning troops home from all over the world, etc.”

As well as getting Trump elected, the campaign’s secondary goals included increasing the percentage of Americans who believe the US is doing too much to aid Ukraine to 51 percent, and reducing the percentage of Americans who have confidence in President Joe Biden down to 29 percent.

The plan lists a variety of audiences the campaign specifically wants to target, including residents of swing states, American Jews, “US citizens of Hispanic descent,” and the “community of American gamers, users of Reddit and image boards, such as 4chan.”

The document describes this category of gamers and chatroom users as the "backbone of the right-wing trends in the US segment of the Internet.” In recent months, the Trump campaign has embraced many of the most influential figures within these communities, including many who share deeply misogynistic rhetoric on a regular basis.

To spread their narrative, the plan called for the creation of YouTube channels that shared pro-Trump content as well as other viral videos (“music, humor, beautiful girls etc,” according to the documents) in order to appear at the top of search results for “US elections.”

Meanwhile, Gambashidze and his colleagues used Facebook, Twitter, and Reddit to create community groups of Trump supporters, with one sample name given as “Alabama for America the Great.” The document also reveals that the Russians planned to use Reddit as a vector to disseminate their propaganda as it is a platform “free from democratic censorship.”

Gambashidze’s plan outlined how Doppelganger would create 18 “sleeper cells” on social media platforms in each of the swing states, which would “at the right moment, upon gaining momentum, become an important instrument of influencing the public opinion in critically important states and portals used by the Russian side to distribute bogus stories disguised as newsworthy events.” It’s unclear if these so-called sleeper cells were created and, if so, whether they are still present on the platform.

The campaign also used targeted ads on Facebook to not only promote their narrative but also to gain valuable insight into what messages were sticking and which were falling flat. “Targeted advertising in Facebook allows tracking reactions of users to the distributed material in real time and directing the psychological response group to contribute to comments thereof,” the document reads. “With the help of a network of bots the psychological response group moderates top discussions and adjusts further launches depending on which group was affected the most.”

One of the key aspects of the Kremlin’s campaign is also to engage with influencers. According to the FBI’s affidavit, Gambashidze’s company ​​“extensively monitors and collects information about a large number of media organizations and social media influencers.”

According to the Good Old USA project document, the Kremlin was seeking to work with influencers who are “proponents of traditional values, who stand up for ending the war in Ukraine and peaceful relations between the US and Russia, and who are ready to get involved in the promotion of the project narratives.”

Among the types of influencers listed as possible collaborators are actors, politicians, media representatives, activists, and clergymen.

The affidavit references one document maintained by the Social Design Agency, which is not included in the unsealed court documents, that contains a list of more than 2,800 people identified as influencers. While this list is global, US-based influencers account for around 20 percent of the accounts being monitored, including many US lawmakers, according to an analysis of the list by the FBI.

The Social Design Agency also maintains another list, again not included in the court documents, that tracks over 1,900 “anti-influencers” from 52 different countries, with US-based accounts. The FBI agent who authored the document assessed that “anti-influencer” refers to accounts which post “content that SDA views as contrary to Russian objectives.”

In a note from one of the meetings with Russian government officials discussing the campaign’s use of influencers, Gambashidze wrote: “We need influencers! A lot of them and everywhere. We are ready to wine and dine them.” Though no links have been confirmed, hours before the Doppelganger affidavit dropped on Wednesday, Tenet Media, an organization that features a slate of right-wing commentators, was alleged in an unsealed Department of Justice indictment to have been largely funded by Russian state-backed news network RT.

The Social Design Agency operation appeared to be extremely well-run and well-resourced. There is a “project office” consisting of four teams that include one entire group dedicated to monitoring the social media posts from GOP lawmakers in order to generate ideas for topics to cover.

These would then be handed to a “text factory," with orders to whittle down the topics handed to them by the monitoring team to four to five main issues, along with eight to 10 basic posts for social media platforms and 40- to 60 comments to post under those social media posts for the network of bots. Another team was called the “manga editorial office,” which was charged with producing a daily output of three to four images, including memes. Finally, a video team was tasked with producing three to four videos each day.

“In order for this work to be effective, you need to use a minimum of fake news and a maximum of realistic information,” the document’s authors wrote. “At the same time, you should continuously repeat that this is what is really happening, but the official media will never tell you about it or show it to you.”

Antibot4Navalny, a group of anonymous Russian researchers who have been closely tracking Doppelganger’s activity, are doubtful that the affidavit will have a significant impact on the campaign’s activity.

“Frankly, I believe it's whack-a-mole as long as EU providers keep doing business with [Social Design Agency], and UK-registered shell companies keep helping SDA with its operation,” the researchers told WIRED, citing their own investigations earlier this year.

[neonoddeye]

A lesson in physics | College! Gojo Satoru x Reader

In these trying times, I will provide: a college au! I actually wrote this as a birthday present for my best friend, but I wanted to post it here as well. It’s also my first chaptered fic, yay! I hope you enjoy :)

CONTENT INCLUDES: AFAB! Reader, cursing, Gojo and reader are both in college and everything is NORMAL and HAPPY, Gojo is a frat boy, enemies to friends to lovers, will be NSFW in later chapter (MINORS DNI)

Monday, 12:00pm

Working with Satoru Gojo on a class assignment was a horror you only conjured in your nightmares. And as you look at the physics class assignment on your laptop screen, you realize you wouldn’t be waking up from this one any time soon.

“Oh god, him?” Your roommate Shoko joins your gaze of disgust as she glances at your fate. “You’re gonna end up doing the whole thing by yourself!”

“Don’t remind me” you whine, leaning back in your chair and placing a hand on your forehead in dramatic distress. “Can I switch with you?”

“Hell no, I’m securing this A with Nanami” Shoko laughs, patting you on the back as a poor attempt at pity. “But we’ll be praying for you.”

You and Shoko had just left said physics class, the two of you lounging at the library to get a head start on the week’s assignments. You couldn’t help but truly stress over your predicament instead of starting on your homework, however: everyone and their mom knew of Gojo Satoru and his infamous Kappa Alpha frat boy title. Ever since he was on your dorm floor freshman year of college, you’ve harbored a vendetta against him. While you were immune to his mesmerizing blue eyes and undeniable charisma, most of your friends weren’t, and pursued him in droves. With every poor girl’s broken heart that he stomped on, your hatred grew, until you infamously bashed him at his frat’s party that same year. While his reputation was almost impenetrable in the eyes of his male friends, you definitely did a little damage to him from the outside. Two years later, you never thought you’d have to deal with him again- until you both enrolled in the same physics class. Hell, you didn’t even think he had the brain capacity to handle a STEM major. And now, you have to work alongside him; you can’t help but question the universe and wonder what you ever did wrong to deserve this.

“Guess I’ll get his contact info” you sigh, pulling up the list of class emails and scrolling for his name.

“Hey! Y/N, right?” You hear a familiar voice ahead of you. Your lab partner, Gojo Satoru, has already found you in the library. The devil works hard, but Gojo works harder. 

“Hey Gojo” you reply monotonously, barely glancing at him over your laptop screen. He’s dressed like a poster frat boy, wearing a dark blue knitted sweater vest over a crisp white button-up paired with slim khakis. His paper white hair is unkempt yet tamed, and his irritating blue eyes sit behind round gold-rimmed glasses. His trademark smirk is replaced by an awkward smile as he approaches you; it’s good to know your blow at his ego was permanent.

“Uh, long time no see” Gojo continues while messing with his disheveled hair, “did you see we’re working on that project together?”

You can’t help but let out a belated sigh. “I sure did. You have any ideas for it yet?“

“Oh nah, I haven’t really looked at the whole thing yet. Do you wanna start it right now? I have time.”

“Oh uh, I have to leave for class in 15 minutes.” In reality, your next class starts in an hour; you just didn’t feel like talking to him right now. Still, you keep up the act by packing your belongings to head out.

“Oh that’s all good. Here,” Gojo hands you his phone, presenting an empty contact card for you to fill out. “Let’s set up a time to work on it later. We have two weeks, but I wanna get it over with”.

“Well, that’s something we agree on” you mutter, filling out your contact info on his cracked iPhone screen. You then hand his phone back to him and rise from your seat. “I’m usually free after 4pm. Just remember to actually text me back, Gojo. I know you’re not very good at that.”

“I will, I will,” he chuckles, holding up his hands in surrender to your threat. “Promise!” he holds up a pinky and winks at you, to which you roll your eyes and head back towards the door. You’re really hoping these next two weeks aren’t as difficult as you think they’ll be.

Thankfully, Gojo actually responded, and the two of you agreed to Tuesday evening at the library. You’re currently waiting for your project partner at a cozy corner desk, taking out your notes and laptop to begin the assignment. It’s 5 minutes past the agreed upon time when Gojo saunters up to you; honestly, you thought he’d show up later or forget entirely, so you’re not upset.

“Sorry, club meeting ran a little later than usual,” he says as he slumps into the couch across from you, his legs dangling over the armrest. “I got you this, too,” he adds, sliding a Red Bull over to you. “I don’t know how long we’re working on this tonight, but I thought I’d get us both one, just in case”.

“Oh, thanks. I got something already, though,” you reply, picking up your thermos of espresso and politely pushing back the offering. “What club are you in?” It seems like you’re both attempting to make amends to make the project a little easier.

“I’m in an astrophysics club. It’s nothing much, tho”, he shrugs. We just talk about nerdy shit and occasionally do projects and stuff.”

“I’m not gonna lie, I didn’t expect that from you”, you lean back in your chair, now slightly interested in the man before you.

“Yeah, I actually do more than just party.” Gojo adds while taking out his own supplies. “Believe it or not, I’m not the same guy I was freshman year”.

“You’re gonna have to prove it to me, I’m afraid”, you retort. If he’s trying to charm you, it won’t work. 

Gojo clears his throat. “Anyway, here are some ideas I had for the project”. He slides his notebook closer to you, revealing a page full of bullet points aptly titled “project ideas.” His handwriting is messy, but legible, and as you read his notes you’re reluctantly impressed by his insightfulness and creativity. Gojo reveals that he actually stayed behind at his club to relay his ideas and ask for tips, admitting he was more interested in the material than he thought he’d be. As you lean over the table to point out one particular idea, you catch a hint of cologne from him. You can tell it’s not a cheap scent, with notes of mandarin and cypress above amber and leather. His hair is slightly neater than it was yesterday, and up close you can tell that his skin is flawless. You’re almost annoyed at his effortlessly attractive appearance; no wonder so many people fawn over him. 

An hour passes briskly, with the two of you making ample progress with the project. Surprisingly, the two of you work well together, even getting off topic a few times to discuss frivolous subjects. You learned that he likes watching cartoons and reading, and wants to go into research after college. You can’t help but feel a little guilty for holding a grudge over him for so long; it seems like he really has changed. 

After 30 more minutes, Gojo stands up to stretch. “Alright, we’re done with the outline”, he yawns, taking a sip of his Red Bull. “I don't wanna keep you too long, how about we call it for the night?” 

“Sounds good to me”, you yawn in response, closing your notebook. “It takes me a bit to walk home, anyway”.

“You’re walking home by yourself? At dark?” Gojo questions you with genuine concern in his words. “I can drive you home, if you want”.

“Oh no, I’m fine. I do it all the time”, you shrug.

“It’s no big deal to me”, he flashes a small smile. “I respect having the balls to walk home alone at night, but I’d be a dick to not offer”.

“Sure, why not. I appreciate it”. You smile back, getting up to follow Gojo to his car. As you walk with him to his car, the two of you excitedly discuss a new anime you’ve both been watching. You didn’t take him as the type to be an anime guy either, but he’s surprised you a lot today. When you get to his car, it’s as nice as you expect it to be: a slick silver BMW with a clean interior, accompanied by a new car smell. Of course he has money, too. He’s not a menace to society on the road either, and the low hum of his Spotify playlist accompanies the small talk. 

“By the way”, Gojo pipes up after a moment of silence, “I feel like shit for how I acted to your friends freshman year. You were right to call me out like that”.

“I know”, you reply, with a hint of playfulness in your tone. He chuckles in response. 

“No offense taken. But really, I hope we can be on good terms now. I had a good time, even if we were working on an assignment.”

“Unfortunately, I think I did too”. He’s pulling up to the entrance of your apartment complex, and parks neatly by the door. 

“Next time, how about we work at my place? Only if you want to though, just thought I’d suggest some place quieter”.

“I’m down”, you nod, “I could bring snacks, too”. 

“Sounds like a deal. See you on Thursday, Y/N”. He gives you a short wave as you exit his car, and even makes sure to watch you get inside safely. As you walk to your apartment, you battle with your renewed thoughts of the frat boy you once detested. After being alone with him for an extended period of time, you hate to admit that you can see the appeal; he’s handsome, charming, and seems to have mellowed out over the years. But should you really be giving Satoru Gojo a chance?

Fuck it, you might.

(Stay tuned for part 2!)

[hwashotcheeto]

𝑩𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝑭𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒅'𝒔 𝑴𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓

Best Friend's Mother Masterlist

Chapter: Prologue/Teaser

Milf!Park Seonghwa X gn!reader

Summary: Winter Break is fast approaching. With nothing else to do, you ask your best friend, Wooyoung, if you can go home with him and meet his family.

WC: 982

CW: Nothing, just the set up for what's to come

AN: AAH, my first series! I'm so excited for this one! I'm putting a lot into this, as this is an idea I've had since this photoshoot came out (Park Seonghwa, you'll be the death of me-)

Tag List (Please ask if you wanna be added!): @hyunjinsjeans

It was the end of November in your third year of college, sitting by the windows in your study hall period. You were lucky enough to get one for your first semester, so you used it to relax before your final class of the day. 

The large room was filled with light chatter of other students, collaborating or spending the period as a social hour. You kept mostly to yourself, not knowing any of the other people and not wanting to talk to them anyways. 

That was, until a familiar face stumbled through the doorway ten minutes after the bell rang. You looked up and smiled at your best friend, Wooyoung, who smiled back at you. He was about to make his way over to you when the professor cleared his throat, motioning for Wooyoung to come talk to him. Wooyoung held up a finger, as if to say “one moment” before he went to his desk. You couldn’t help but laugh softly. 

Wooyoung eventually made his way over to your table and sat next to you. “I got moved here because they realized they put me in the wrong class,” he said loudly. Wooyoung never cared about his volume, he just liked to talk. 

“And why did you stay in the wrong class for-” You counted the months since the beginning of the school year “-Four months?”

“Because I didn’t say anything.” 

“Why not?” 

“Because I wanted to see how long it would take them.” 

Your eyes went wide as Wooyoung giggled at himself. Ever the brat, he was. 

“What class was it?” 

“One I took last year.” 

You choked and coughed, making Wooyoung laugh harder. His laugh was turning into his high pitched witch cackle that could’ve been trademarked as his. There was no other witch cackle like his. 

Once you recovered, you looked at him incredulously, to which he laughed silently in a wheeze, smacking his hands on the table as he leaned over it. The sound made a few people turn their heads, including the professor. 

“You sat in a class you already took for four months just to see if the professor would notice?!” You couldn’t believe what you were saying, it was so ridiculous. Then again, this is Jung Wooyoung. 

Wooyoung, through gasps and fits of laughter, tried to explain himself, but he devolved into giggles every time. And eventually, it made you start laughing too, until you both were trying to hold back from dying laughing like hyenas. 

A few of your classmates looked over in disdain, and the professor looked at you two over his glasses disapprovingly, but you two couldn’t care less. You’d really lucked out finding Wooyoung, and you didn’t want to lose him. 

You’d gotten put in one of your general classes together in your first semester of your first year. He came over, introduced himself, and the rest is history. The two of you hit it off, and you’ve been inseparable ever since. 

Wooyoung introduced you to his other friends as well, Yeosang and Jongho, and his “definitely not boyfriend” San. The four of you all got along well, you all hung out together when you could, went out, took each other to parties, your average college friend group. 

But you and Wooyoung had a special bond, and you were so grateful to have him.

You and Wooyoung were on the phone later that night, and eventually, you got on the topic of what you were doing for Winter Break which was coming up soon. 

“Are you going to your mom’s or your dad’s for break?” You asked him, laying on your bed, looking at your ceiling. The stupid little popcorns stared back. 

“My-” Wooyoung paused, as if he had to think about it. You looked at your phone and was about to ask him if he disappeared when he continued. “My dad’s.” 

“Did you not know?” 

“Yeah, I’ve been thinking about it for a while, and I’d rather go home with my dad. He took better care of me than my mom did anyway.” 

Wooyoung had talked about his childhood sparingly, and usually didn’t talk about either of his parents. You didn’t push, in case it was a sensitive topic, and let him open up or tell you what he wanted to. Therefore, you knew virtually nothing about either of his parents or his home life. 

You hadn’t told Wooyoung much about your childhood either. You’d cut contact with both your parents after you went to college. You still talked to a few of your cousins and some of your aunts or uncles, but you didn’t want anything to do with your parents. You hadn’t gone home for any of your breaks, the most you did was hang out with some of your cousins for a few of them. 

And as all of that came back to you, you realized you dreaded the idea of spending another break alone when all your friends went back home, and you were left by yourself. Your own family was busy this year, so there was no hanging out with them either. 

So you desperately threw out an idea, hoping it would land. 

“Hey, I know this is out of nowhere, but do you think your dad would mind if I went with you?”

And at first, there was silence. It made you start rethinking, regretting such an awful decision to ask. How could you intrude on another family like that? You opened your mouth to take it back, but Wooyoung piped up. 

“I have to ask him, but I don’t think he’d be against it.” 

You sighed heavily in relief and smiled. “Thank you, thank you so much.” 

“Hey, I still have to ask.” 

“The fact that you’re asking at all means a lot, Wooyoung.” 

“Don’t mention it. It’s what family does, right?” 

Of course. Family. That felt good to hear. 

Thank you for reading! Please reblog if you enjoyed! 💜

This is a work of fiction written by me. This does not represent the idol(s) in any way. Any re-upload is not allowed and will be reported.

[hypnolurker]

MindBrokenSluts Masterpost

There’s a post going around with links to all the “named” stories written by mindbrokensluts, but since that blog is long-gone it’s just a list of dead links. Here are some new links to those stories:

A Genie-uine Opportunity https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/724236369273274368/a-genie-uine-opportunity

A Hard Deal https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/724624501731737600/a-hard-deal

A Magical New Years https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/713563354713800704/a-magical-new-years

A New Kind of Workout EITHER https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/724330217275080704/mollypops23-mindbrokensluts-kelly-was-full-of OR https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/724395833255165952/mindbrokensluts-username-trademark-im-not

A new massage technique https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/708613752748163072/totallyshattered-milkjunkie13-drippinglips

Alice Vs The Beast https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/718861923835346944/alice-vs-the-beast

All That Glitters https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/720432084735426560

Android 18 And The Red Ribbon Remote https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/720995064948686848/android-18-and-the-red-ribbon-remote

Batgirl Ensnared, Part 1 https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/724624558865481728/batgirl-ensnared-part-1

Batgirl Ensnared, Part 2 https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/724624624890019840/batgirl-ensnared-part-2

Bikini of Bovine Beauty https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/724334925367689216/fantasytransformations-mindbrokensluts-when

Bimbos Are Contagious https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/724393538480209920/bimbos-are-contagious

Brain Away Spray https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/705540521256468480/brain-away-spray

(Brain)Washing Machine ???

Brand new Barbie https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/718362179719610368/brand-new-barbie

Breaking In And Breaking Her In ???

Breeding Rites https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/724236276760543232/mindbrokensluts-breeding-rites-my-story

Brought to heel https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/720360785605459968/brought-to-heel

Bunni-Bot: Now In Stock! https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/718362318884438016/bunni-bot-now-in-stock

Bunni-Bot: Family Pack https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/720363647020466176/bunni-bot-family-pack

Callista In Control https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/724396267975966720/callista-in-control

Chewtoy ???

Chrissy and the Cash https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/724394774079176704/mindbrokensluts-chrissy-couldnt-believe-she

Corrective Lenses https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/705540649690251265

Dolls On Display: Beth’s Breakout https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/724236241278746624/dolls-on-display-beths-breakout

Eraser https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/721129640895348736/eraser

Erin the playful pet https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/721129291950292992/erin-the-playful-pet

Flipping the Switch at the Back of Her Throat ???

Ginny Gets a Mouthful ???

Glass Half Full https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/721129493169913856/glass-half-full

Gordon’s cock and the 3 babes ???

Harem Application Form ???

How I Became A Rape Doll https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/724624663106469888/how-i-became-a-rape-doll-erotic-fiction

Hunter’s Downfall https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/718861709312409600/hunters-downfall

Hybrid Hijinx https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/720120963350626304/hybrid-hyjinx

I am a dumb cow https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/713563217415323648/omystephaniemichelle-mindbrokensluts-who

I Will Not Suck Dick In Class https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/718449102792343553/i-will-not-suck-dick-in-class

If It Leaks I Can Fuck It https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/719398284686409728/if-it-leaks-i-can-fuck-it

Level Down https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/724395036719169536/level-down

Little Girl’s Room ???

Love Is Easy https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/724624716289212416/love-is-easy

Mad Scientist’s Mind melting Miscalculation ???

Mary’s Rebirth https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/724624774357188608/marys-rebirth

Melanie Moo-ves to greener pastures https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/718861455451095041/melanie-moo-ves-to-greener-pastures

Melanie RPG https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/724236311067852800/melanie-rpg

Mistress of the Rings https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/719945117228777472/mistress-of-the-rings

Monster Fuckers Anonymous https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/720993417959800832/monster-fuckers-anonymous

My Strange A-Dick-tion https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/721695188830076928/my-strange-a-dick-tion

Natasha’s ballet training https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/720121066481156096/natashas-ballet-training

Nefarious Narration https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/720360850370772992/nefarious-narration

Night At The Mall https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/724624904891383808/night-at-the-mall

NymphoMania https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/720432760797413376/i-need-help-doc-ive-been-losing-control-of-my

OK Boomer https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/713566350952497152

Orcs https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/720993996760104960/orcs

Orgasm Enterprises - The Beginning https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/720433936996696064/savagereborn-mindbrokensluts-orgasm

Orgasm machine overload https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/721131685309300736

Penelope and the Thought Police https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/720363587153149952/penelope-and-the-thought-police

Penny For Your Thoughts, Dollar For Your Dignity https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/720432254529273856/mindbrokensluts-penny-for-your-thoughts-dollar

Pleasant Dreams ???

Pink Haze https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/723797445039063040/pink-haze

Piper Vs The Brain Bandit https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/724236343360815104/piper-vs-the-brain-bandit

Ruth-Less Revenge https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/718618785204109312/ruth-less-revenge

Ruth-Less Revenge 2 https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/718618818423963648/ruth-less-revenge-2

Sasha and Sandy’s sapphic Ritual https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/724395156165591040/mindbrokensluts-sandy-wasnt-sure-what

Sculpting Venus https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/705541008242491392/sculpting-venus

ShE-Sports: Breaking Bethany https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/718618655319080960/she-sports-breaking-bethany

Silly Bunny https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/723947485718085632/silly-bunny

Slap It! https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/718449190991249408/slap-it

SlutPics https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/724624955655028736/slutpics

Sticky Fingers https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/724393593301778432/sticky-fingers

Stockholm Syndrome https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/724236320462061568/stockholm-syndrome

‘Straight’-Jacket Stephanie https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/718449517228343296/straight-jacket-stephanie

Struggle at the doll facility https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/718077977668222976/mindbrokensluts-no-no-let-me-go-you-cant-do (im not TOO sure about this one, but I think this is it)

Supergirl becomes a Super Whore https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/720432881483300864/mindbrokensluts-even-the-most-powerful-of

Suzi Succumbs https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/724236330797776896/suzi-succumbs

Sylph seduction https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/724334916221960192/mindbrokensluts-it-was-a-time-of-war-as

The Dildo In The Room https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/720994876255338496/the-dildo-in-the-room

The Fairground https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/724236418287878144/the-fairground

The Implant https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/713563766197010432/the-implant

The Maid Interview https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/724624418059534336/the-maid-interview

The Perils of Science https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/724625008860741632/the-perils-of-science

The pink phone (Part 1) https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/714193084148318208/mindbrokensluts-the-pink-phone-part-1-molly

The pink phone (Part 2) https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/714193098199154688/mindbrokensluts-the-pink-phone-part-2-part-1

The Remote https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/724334886283083776/mindbrokensluts-hey-ian-how-do-you-work

The Truth About Belle Delphine https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/724234582404333568

Thinking With Her Cunt https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/713564120393351168/thinking-with-her-cunt

Tina’s Fetish https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/724396280315559936/mindbrokensluts-whilst-tina-sat-in-the-corner

Trish gets turned on https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/720360708258283520/trish-gets-turned-on

Uber Abduction https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/724625107049398272/uber-abduction

Ultra-Violet Gets Ultra-Violated https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/724395011206168576

Victoria Drools Her Brains Away https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/724393814147710976/mindbrokensluts-orgasm-junkiee-somebody

Vivienne Vs Voodoo ???

Walkies ???

We All Moo For Ice-Cream https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/724625139527008256/we-all-moo-for-ice-cream

Where’s My Gift https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/724393838132838400/mindbrokensluts-i-hope-my-shorts-help-give-you

Women used to be people? And not sextoys? Crazy https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/724234373521670144/mindbrokensluts-its-hard-to-imagine-nowadays

You don’t want to be raped https://www.tumblr.com/hypnolurker/720993472288636928/you-dont-want-to-be-raped-erotic-fiction

[m00nlight-ramblings]

Like Real People Do: Chapter 2

Chapter 2 of "Like Real People Do"

After a slight mishap in the admissions office, you find yourself in the same History class as Eddie, pushing your friendship forwards (thanks to the help of Dustin Henderson).

Read Chapter 1 here

Pairing: Eddie x AFAB reader (named "Brooke" because I hate using Y/N, but will also be using "you" to make it reader-centric!)

Warnings: Swearing, dual pov. This entire series is 18+ MINORS DNI!

Word Count: 2.4k

A/N: I'm so happy so many people are liking this one...I love writing about Eddie *kicking my feet*. I've also noted that some people are wanting a tag list for this one, so if you want to be added, let me know!

The heat inside the class room was stifling – one last heat spike seemed to be in full effect in Hawkins, and the lack of air conditioning inside Hawkins High really put a damper on any chance of comfortability. Eddie fanned himself with his hand, rolling his eyes at the sweat he felt pooling slightly at his collar.

Mr. Binkins, the history teacher, was droning on an on about World War I, much to the dissatisfaction of what seemed like the whole class. Eddie’s eyes wandered to outside the window, Mr. Binkins’ voice slowly morphing into the Charlie Brown adults – womp womp WOMP wOmP womp. This was his second time taking this particular class, and even though he got a D+ the last time, he had still retained the information somewhat.

In other words, he was really, really bored.

Eddie resisted the urge to start tapping a drum beat to the latest Metallica song he heard on the radio, his pencil resting between his fingers, ready for him to say “when”. No…he wouldn’t be that annoying in first period – besides, Mr. Binkins would probably tell him to stop within 10 seconds of him starting, and where the hell was the fun in that?

His mind wandered, running down his usual daydream subjects: music, his DnD campaign, the newest issue of Playboy Wayne was hiding under his bed that he thought Eddie had no idea about…

You.

He sat straighter in his seat. You’d been in classes for a few days now, but Eddie had only seen you in the hallway a couple of times. You’d pass by and offer a polite smile, or even a friendly wave, and he would return the favor. He noticed you hadn’t seemed to be initiated into any cliques yet, and that you were equally friendly to everyone you came across whenever he saw you. At lunch, you were either sitting by yourself, or not there at all. Eddie hadn’t gotten the courage to ask you to sit with him and the Hellfire Club just yet.

Suddenly, the door to the classroom opened and in you walked, holding your books in front of you. Eddie’s heart lurched and he furrowed his brows.

Had he…conjured you? Like straight up wizard-ed you into the classroom?

“Can I help you?” Mr. Binkins asked, all heads turning to you. You offered him a smile – your trademark smile – and handed him a pink slip from the office.

“I was apparently put in the wrong history class for the past few days. The office told me I should’ve been in this one.” You scanned the class quickly, and when your eyes passed by Eddie’s, you deepened your smile, causing Eddie to blush.

Jesus, dude. Get a grip! You thought, slouching in your chair again to try and regain any sense of cool you had left in your body.

“Huh. Okay, Miss…Henway. Welcome! Tell the class a little about yourself.” He gestured to the rest of class and you turned.

“Okay. Um…hi,” You offered a little wave, “I’m Brooke. I moved here from Ohio at the end of June…um…” You made a face, pursing your lips together to try and think of something, “I’m a junior? And I work at the library. And I have a dog! Her name is Molly. Um…I think that’s it?”

“Very good. Have a seat anywhere that’s empty. Quite exciting…not only that you’re a new student, but that you’re in a senior class! Very good.” Mr. Binkins clapped his hands together, “Now, as soon as Miss Henway takes her seat, we can continue you.”

Eddie watched you scan the room again, and once you noticed the empty desk next to him, you made your way over, sitting in the seat and plopping your books on the desk. You turned to him and smiled.

“Hi again.”

“Hey,” He said, returning the smile. Lowering his voice down to a whisper, he spoke again, “So you’re in this class now? Cool.”

You nodded, “Yep. I guess the office messed up. Based on my transcripts I should be in this class. Do you know what page we’re on?” You asked, point to the textbook. Eddie shrugged.

“No idea?”

You raised your hand, “Sorry, Mr. …”

“Binkins.” The teacher said, turning around from the blackboard.

“Right. Mr. Binkins, what page are we on?”

“33.”

“Great, thanks.” You started flipping through the book and snorted, your eyes darting over to Eddie. You whispered, “I don’t mean to sound rude but…Mr. Binkins sounds like he should be related to Bilbo Baggins with a name like that.”

Eddie chuckled and his heart flipped. “Fan of ‘The Hobbit’?”

“I read a lot.” You shrugged and gave him one last smile before turning your attention back to the lesson.

Eddie leaned back in his chair, his mind starting to swirl. So, he had met a cute – beautiful, really – girl, who was also really nice, and now in one of his classes. And on top of that, she seemed to share some similar interests? He blew out some air, trying to slow down the rapid pace of his heart.

He had a feeling he was going to be in a lot of trouble.

Lunch period came quickly – thank god – and once you had grabbed your tray from the cafeteria lady, you turned to face the lunchroom. You had spent your lunch periods either sitting by yourself at the end of a table, in the library, or taken in by various random students like an orphaned colonial child. Which, really, you didn’t mind – you didn’t mind being by yourself all that much, especially when you remembered to bring something to read, or had some homework to catch up on.

You started to make your way to your favorite empty table when you heard a voice shouting behind you. “Hey! Hey!” Turning, you saw Dustin, waving his arms in the air with enthusiasm. Eddie and Mike were sitting next to him, hanging their heads in embarrassment. The other few at the table were snickering, smiling at you. Dustin waved you over and motioned to sit.

You sat down across from Eddie, sliding your bookbag underneath the table. “Hi, everyone.” You greeted.

“Hi! I’m so happy I noticed you walking to your usual empty table – you should sit with us instead from now on!” Dustin said, sitting back in his seat and smiling, “If you want!”

“Oh, thanks!” You said, “Yeah, maybe I will, if you don’t mind.” You eyed Eddie and he immediately smiled back at you, nodding slowly.

“Yeah, sure, of course.” He said.

“Great, then it’s settled! You can be apart of the lunch crew!” Dustin smiled proudly and ripped into his sandwich, chewing with his mouth open slightly, “How have your first few days been?”

You shrugged, pushing the salad you had gotten around with your fork, “Oh, it’s fine. I like school so it’s not too bad, but…” You trailed off, crossing your feet at the ankle, “Just an adjustment, is all.”

“Have you made any friends?”

“Dude!” Mike hissed, looking at Dustin, “You can’t just like, ask a new kid if they’ve made any friends yet. That’s rude.”

“No, it’s okay!” You offered, trying to lighten the mood, “I have…kinda? No one that I’ve hung out with outside of school yet…I have a bunch of classes with Nancy? Wheeler? So we’ve been chatting. Do you know her?”

Mike rolled his eyes and Dustin barked out a laugh, “Yeah, we know her. That’s Mike’s sister!”

“Oh! Oh, okay. Cool! She’s really nice.”

“Yeah…” Mike grumbled, in only the way younger brothers could. You shoved some salad in your mouth to shut yourself up, nodding and hoping someone else would take over the conversation.

“You could hang out with us, if you wanted!” Dustin offered, leaning in, “Do you play Dungeons and Dragons?”

“Dustin…” Eddie quietly groaned, “Please stop interrogating her. She’s only been able to take like, one bite of her food because you won’t stop asking her about her life story.”

“I…don’t, sorry,” You said, “Is that the game with like…dwarves and stuff?”

“Uh-huh! It’s really cool…if I do say myself.” Dustin reminded you of an over-enthusiastic puppy, which was really endearing. You noticed that Eddie, though seemingly annoyed with him, couldn’t help but have an affectionate air towards him. “I mean, we do other stuff too…not just DnD. We do movie nights, and go to the mall, and stuff.”

“I like the mall.” You offered politely, “I like to do a lot of stuff. And I like movie nights, too.”

“Next time we have one, we’ll invite you! Right, Eddie?”

Suddenly, Dustin shot up in his seat and yelped in pain, reaching down to his foot. Everyone at the table stopped to stare at him, including yourself.

“Jesus, that hurt, Eddie! Why did you kick me?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Eddie said, in monotone. His eyes flickered to yours and back to Dustin, “I say we let her decide if she wants to hang out with us. Stop peer pressuring the poor lady to go to a movie night with us for Christ’s sake.”

Your heart sank a little – even though Eddie was friendly enough, it didn’t really seem like he wanted you to hang out with his group. Which was fine, since you didn’t know each other very well, but it still would’ve been nice if he had been a little more welcoming. Especially, considering you thought he was really handsome…in a rockstar, grungy kind of way.

“Um…well…I work weekends sometimes for the library so…I don’t really know my schedule. So who knows when I can even go to a movie night…” Pushing your food with your fork again, you tried your best to sound nonchalant, and not like a movie night would be the most fun you’ve had in a while.

Dustin frowned a little and took another bite of his sandwich, “Yeah, yeah. Okay…well…let us know…” He focused on his food and trailed off. You quickly looked up to Eddie, who was looking at you, but then looked away at his own food.

The rest of lunch was kind of awkward, with everyone making polite conversation about their “newest campaign” (whatever that was), and peppering questions in for you about your previous life in Ohio. Soon, the bell rang, and you made your way to the garbage can, throwing away the leftovers and sliding the tray on the collectable surface on top.

“Hey…” Eddie slid next to you, falling in line while you started to walk to your next class, “I’m sorry about Dustin. We don’t get a lot of…um, excitement? In Hawkins, so a new girl is quite a big deal for him, I guess,” He offered a smile, shoving his hands in his jeans pockets.

“Oh, it’s okay. It’s kind of sweet, actually. I like him…he seems nice.”

“Yeah…he is. He’s really nice.”

Your heart felt like it was being squeezed with the obvious tenderness Eddie had for Dustin. You both walked in silence for a second before he spoke again.

“Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that the next time we do have a movie night, you are more than welcome to come. In fact, we’d love to have you. If you want, of course.” He said, avoiding eye contact. You brightened a bit.

“Yeah? Okay, then. I’d like that.”

“I’ll let you know, then. I do have to warn you, though – we usually watch strictly horror flicks.”

“Oh, no!” You squealed, a laugh rising within you, “I love horror movies but I get scared so easily…just make sure I have something to hold on to so when I jump in fear, I don’t fall off the couch!”

As soon as the words left your mouth, your mind immediately flashed an image of you in Eddie’s arms, nuzzling into his neck to hide from the movie playing on the television. Heat creeped into your neck, no doubt causing you to blush.

Eddie awkwardly cleared his throat, looking away, “Yeah, I’ll make sure to have a blanket or something…a super special blanket made to protect you from the big bad scary man on T.V.” He ended the sentence in a goofy voice, wiggling his fingers for affect. You scrunched your nose and giggled, both of you walking up to the entrance to your classroom.

Suddenly, the bell rang, giving you one minute to get to class. “Well…thanks for lunch today. And for the movie invite. I’ll see you around?” You said, smiling. Eddie nodded, rocking on his heels.

“Yeah, see you around.”

You turned to head into class and for some reason, looked back at Eddie. He was inching his way away from the door of your classroom, but made sure you were fully in your seat before walking away. Smiling to yourself, you sat down.

You were really starting to like Hawkins.

Saturday night, you found yourself in front of Eddie’s trailer, smoothing your shirt and taking a deep breath to calm your nerves. Your first time hanging out with someone from Hawkins – hanging out with anyone in months, really – and you were a bit nervous. Never mind the fact that you were seeing Eddie.

No…those nervous butterflies definitely didn’t have anything to do with that.

The trailer was on the smaller side, so you heard multiple voices right away. It seemed like you were one of the last ones to arrive, even though you were right on time. Suddenly, the door opened, and Eddie’s smiling face greeted you.

“You made it!” He said, ushering you inside. “Did you find my place okay?”

“Yeah, it was easy! You’re close to my house.” You said, walking into the trailer. Eddie shut the door behind you.

The trailer was homey – full of knick-knacks and memorabilia. Though the amount of stuff was overwhelming (in a good way), it was meticulously clean. You immediately felt at ease – almost at home.

The rest of Hellfire looked up at you in surprise. Eventually, Dustin smiled and stood up.

“Hey! I didn’t know you were coming!” He said, almost too excitedly. Immediately behind him, Mike rolled his eyes and Gareth, Jeff, and Dougie chuckled.

“Must have forgotten to mention it,” Eddie murmured quickly, guiding you to the couch, “Okay, who’s ready for the movie?!” He moved on quickly, shutting down any conversation Dustin was about to start. Dustin shot him a curious look and shrugged, heading to the kitchen.

“I’ll start to popcorn!” He called, opening the microwave.

You sat on the couch and Eddie immediately handed you a crocheted blanket. You looked at him, confused.

“The blanket…you know…to protect you from the big bad man on T.V…” He answered sheepishly, turning a light shade of scarlet. Your heart flipped at the recognition from the conversation you had a few days ago. Taking the blanket, you unfolded it and smiled.

“Oh, Eddie. Thanks. That’s so sweet.”

Eddie shrugged and sat down on the other side of the couch, leaving at least two people’s worth of space between you, “Yeah well, I couldn’t have you scared shitless your first time in my place.” He tried to wave it off like it was no big deal.

“So I’m assuming we’re watching a scary movie?”

“Not one, not two, but THREE scary movies!” Dougie said, holding up three fingers, “If you can handle it, that is.”

“Oh, she’ll be able to handle it,” Dustin said, coming back with a big bowl of popcorn. He sat next to you, offering the bowl, “Right, Brooke?”

You nodded, taking some popcorn. “I hope so.” You looked towards Eddie, only to find that he was already staring at you. When you made eye contact, he immediately looked away, fiddling with the remote in his hand. Your heart did a cartwheel, and you stifled a blush rising on your neck.

You certainly hoped so.  

---

Thank you all so much for reading! As always, comments, reblogs, and likes mean more than you know!

Taglist: @cosmicdanielle @sapphire4082

[chaifootsteps]

Chai, i’m really interested in seeing your or the anon’s rate Stolas outfit (before there’s probably a new one he’s going to wear in court during “honorable judge gina”), so here’s a condensed list of thoughts i had

- i remember a lot of people complaining about his hat in 2019-2020 saying it looked dumb. personally i always enjoyed that part of stolas design, the top hat has always been a trademark of the victorian upper class and the tiara and costume party mask makes it so extra, its wonderfully cartoonish and inherently villanous-looking, even if i know theres no thought put into it other than “now make him look like the onceler!”

-the ermine coat he puts on during “what kind of monster does that make me?” were iconography of royalty for a long time because they were associated with moral purity (i’d love to see what hell weasels look like!). on that note, i wish we could see royalty from countries that arent inspired by european ones, but that would mean doing research on how Hell is depicted in other cultures

- the vest and pants were fine, sometimes they switched from being a onesie, until it became a fully fledged baby pijama in Look My Way. no other comments, i just love this

- Aristocrat anon

Yeah, I've always liked this hat, and it's probably the last remnant of his outfit that makes sense and is good. I hope the baby onesie becomes more and more pronounced until he's just going up to speak to Judge Gina looking like what he is inside, which is this.

[smurphyse]

Low Tide | Spencer Reid

Smurph's Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Part 9 of Routine Maintenance

Warnings: makeouts, dry humping, sexual negotiations, nipple play, rough heavy petting, hair pulling, interrupted sex

Summary: You give Spencer a haircut... which leads to something else. Later, you go out to dinner with Holly and Michelle and Spencer.

Spencer spent the week avoiding Honey, and she seemed to be doing much of the same. He heard through the grapevine that she spent most of it working on her boat. He didn't know how to address the kiss any more than he'd already. He didn't really want to get into it with her, and now that they'd been forced into this double date he was feeling more anxious by the day. 

His car was in the shop still, and unlike every other town he'd been to in the last two years, he couldn't just hop in and drive away from his fears. He was stuck here for at least another three weeks, but as Friday finally approached, he found himself standing outside her apartment door. 

He kept finding himself staring at the wall, knowing the only news from her might be bad news. He was making lists of shit to tell his therapist, all the reasons it had been a shitty thing for him to do, when it hit him. 

Who gives a shit? 

He'd be leaving soon, and she had clearly been interested in him. She didn't tell him to stop, not even when Rose and Emily showed up. Honey hadn't pushed him away or yelled. Instead, she'd kissed him back and moaned in his ear. He had nothing to feel bad about, and neither did she. 

It was best to act like it didn't happen. 

The last time he really saw her was when Emily left. They'd shared a hug and a long talk, then she went inside. He and Emily had a tearful goodbye full of hugs and promises to call more often, and since then Spencer still hadn't called the team. He should. Maybe tomorrow to let Emily know how it went. 

Tucci's wasn't a high class restaurant according to Holly, but it was nicer than the ones in town. Spencer's hair had grown out so much in the last few years, and even after the bruises from the fight faded and he returned his brace to Dr. Altman, he was still struggling with his looks. 

Spencer just looked so tired, and with his scraggly beard and overgrown hair, he decided it was time to make a small change. He didn't plan on wearing anything besides a nicer jacket and pants to dinner, but he still felt he owed Honey the decency of looking nice for their forced date. 

He knew nothing would come of it, and he didn't want it to. He was a wanderer now, had no home, but he wanted to look nice for her. 

Spencer's hand shook as he knocked on her door. He didn't even know if she could help him, but he'd yet to figure out where the barber shop was in town and he didn't want people to gossip around him after he cleaned himself up. 

She opened the door in another pair of her trademark tiny shorts and a tight crop tank top. Her newly dried hair hung in ringlets down over her shoulders, the fresh scent of citrus and saltwater wafting from her after a shower. 

"Hey," she breathed with an awkward smile. "Is everything okay?"

Spencer nodded, trying to ignore how good her curves looked in that outfit. She still wore her wedding ring around her neck, and he couldn't help but think about how it had felt to lick his way under the strap and taste her skin. 

"Do you know how to cut hair?" he asked instead of kissing her like he wanted to. She leaned against the doorframe, tapping it as she watched him. 

"Uh, yeah," she replied with a smirk. "Come on in."

She turned on her heel and went right up the stairs, expecting him to follow. His eyes went straight for her ass, watching as it jiggled with each step. She looked too damned good for how long it had been since he'd had sex. It was frustrating. Now that he'd gotten a taste of her, he just wanted more. But he was leaving soon. Not soon enough for it to not be awkward after. The last thing he needed was to be chased out of town under a cloud for fucking their beloved young widow. 

Spencer looked around as he reached the top of the stairs, taking in the lofted apartment above the Inn. It was just a big open concept room with a kitchen in one corner, her bed in the other. A television was set up on the wall, a small dining table nearby. There was a room in the middle with an open door, and he could see the big clawfoot tub sitting inside the bathroom. 

She had a lot of sea-related decor, mixed with a bit of boho. Her couch was bright orange velvet, with teal and pink throw pillows. She had gauzy white curtains embroidered with seashells along the windows. One of the walls was a brightly painted mural with flowers. The whole place seemed to be jam packed with ridiculousness that somehow fit Honey perfectly. 

The walls were mostly windows, overlooking most of the town. It was beautiful up here, the view of the midday sun heading toward the ocean in the distance. Like Mattie May, she had pictures plastered all over. 

He recognized Ernesto, Holly and Rico, though they were much younger. Rico had long hair and Ernesto’s hair was braided back. Holly looked more or less the same with his military haircut. There were pictures of more townsfolk, including some with Honey, but there was one that caught his eye. 

It was of Honey, but she looked to be about fourteen in the photo on the mantle. A girl had her arm slung over her shoulder and flashed an easy smile at the camera, but she barely looked older than Honey. She also looked almost exactly like her. The broad expanse of the ocean in winter laid behind them, both dressed in puffy coats with red cheeks and bright grins. It must have been taken in her home town in Maine. 

"My sister Madelyn," she said behind him. Spencer turned, feeling nosy and caught. 

"I've never heard you talk about her," he muttered, shoving his hands in his pockets to quell some of his anxiety. "You're not close, I take it."

"We were," she replied with a soft smile. "She died when I was sixteen."

"Oh. I'm so sorry."

Honey shrugged, turning on her heel. She snagged a chair from the table and dragged it into the bathroom, beckoning him to follow. She patted the seat, then ducked down to open the cabinet under the sink. 

The bathroom was small, with a freestanding tub and separate shower on one wall. The shower was encased in glass, hand laid tile against the wall and the floor. She had a vanity mirror in the center of the wall, the toilet on the other side. 

She pulled out a little case and a cape, which made Spencer chuckle. "You do this a lot?"

"The only barber in town is nicknamed 'Wandering Willie,'" Honey replied, frowning. "And it's not because his name is William."

Spencer made a face and plopped down in the seat. Honey made quick work of tossing the cape around his shoulders and tying it. She gently tugged his hair out of the collar and ran a light hand through it. 

"What do you want me to do? Do you have any pictures?"

Even though he had no cell service, Spencer had made a habit of keeping his cell charged and in his pocket. He pulled it out and unlocked it, then went about flipping through old photos of himself. Honey went to the sink while he did so, likely going out of her own way not to be nosy again like she had with his suitcase. 

"I always liked it like this," Spencer muttered as he came across a photo of him and JJ. It was at Rossi's wedding, still a bit long but manageable for him. The shorter it was the more often he needed it cut and he wasn't a fan of strangers touching his hair. 

Honey stepped behind him, looking at the photo over his shoulder. She smiled, "Cuuute. You look a lot different there."

"Yeah, it was a few years ago," he grumbled, feeling much older than he had when the photo was taken. 

Honey tapped his jaw as heat rushed to his cheeks. "I like the beard, though. It's a good look on you."

Spencer bit back a rather foolish grin as she poked through her kit for scissors and a comb. Armed with them and a spray bottle, she shook it a little and smiled, "Ready Freddie?"

"Do your worst."

Honey made quick work of combing his hair. Her deft fingers flitted through his locks, trimming carefully. She was laser focused, those pretty eyes watching every snip of her scissors. 

Spencer couldn't help but watch her through the reflection in the mirror. Her hair hung in ringlets, bouncing as she fluffed up his hair to see where to cut next. She pressed her tongue against the back of her teeth as she focused, lost in what she was doing. 

She moved to stand in front of him, angling his bangs to see where she wanted to make the cut. Her hip leaned against his thigh, her upper body contorting a bit before she changed her mind. She moved to his other side but seemed to run into the same problem. She didn't seem to want to push her luck and touch him. 

Spencer's hands threaded out from underneath the cape before he could really think about it. He palmed her hips and slid her onto his lap, and she put steadying hands on his shoulders to keep herself upright. His thighs spread to hold her in place, safe and upright. 

Honey looked down at him with wide eyes and her lips slightly parted. Her cheeks dusted with reddish pink, looking far too innocent and kissable for his liking. 

"Keep going," Spencer muttered, his voice husky. "Just do what you need to do to be comfortable."

Honey nodded, but there was no mistaking the uptick in her breathing. It wasn't panicked, and Spencer watched as the blotchy red inched its way up her chest. She wasn't wearing a bra, and he easily noticed her nipples begin to pop through the thin fabric of her tank top. 

Her fingers shook a bit as she finished up the front of his hair. She set her scissors down and fluffed it up to eyeball it and make sure it was even. Her nails grazed against his scalp as she did it again, and Spencer couldn't help the way his eyes fluttered shut.

His hands were still on her hips, the pads of his fingers grazing her skin. Thanking God silently for crop tops, Spencer did his best to keep still. Her skin was so warm, and she smelled incredible. All he wanted to do was bury his face in her neck and breathe her in. 

"You don't get touched enough," her voice came softly after a moment. "Do you, Spencer?"

Spencer struggled to peel open his eyes as her fingers dragged down and over his beard. He cocked a brow at her while she inspected the fuzzy mess. "What makes you say that?"

"Nobody enjoys getting a haircut this much," Honey smirked. She adjusted on his lap to reach for the scissors and comb again. Spencer did his best to accommodate her. He didn't want her to get up. She was also the only one he'd ever enjoyed a haircut this much from. 

"More barbers should look like you, then," he replied smoothly. Honey flashed him a playful squint, pressing on the underside of his jaw to start trimming his beard. 

The cool steel of the scissors scraped lightly along his jugular. He swallowed thickly, but willed himself to relax. Her soft hands danced along his jawline, but kept him firmly where she wanted him. 

"I'm a bit nervous about tonight," she confessed quietly, her voice hardly above a whisper. 

Spencer's brows furrowed, "Because of Michelle and Holly?"

Honey shook her head. She wiped the scissors along the cape before going back in, the smooth slices of the metal sending shivers up his spine. 

"I feel like things are weird between us…" she murmured, still focused on what she was doing. She avoided his gaze, and Spencer could see that she was finished, so he put a hand over hers and pulled it away. He didn't want her to stop touching him. 

She moved to get off his lap, but Spencer held her tighter. Her belly twitched under his touch, but instead of fighting him she simply deposited the scissors and comb on the floor before taking the cape off him. Letting it fall to the ground, she grabbed a fluffy brush and began sweeping stray hairs from his neck. 

"I know you weren't drunk when you kissed me, and that you had second thoughts because of Emily and Rose." Honey spoke quietly, keeping her eyes trained on the brush tickling his skin while he kept his on hers. 

"I don't want you to fix me," she declared, strength returning to her voice as she tossed the brush onto the sink. Her hands landed on his shoulders where she sat on her side on his lap. 

Honey moved enough to bring one thigh over his spread legs, straddling him. Her eyes blazed as she watched him, her back arching just enough for him to feel under his heavy hands. Spencer swallowed down a lump in his throat as she gathered up the courage to continue. He knew she had more to say. 

"I'm not just some sad widow looking for a man to come along and take me away from my grief." She was closer now. Charged air crackled between them as she licked her bottom lip and pulled it between her teeth. 

"I'm leaving in a few weeks," Spencer reminded gently. "I don't have time to fix you, anyway."

Honey chuckled and brushed a stray hair behind her ear. She nodded to herself, "I'm well aware…"

She clicked her teeth and gave him those same hooded eyes she had the night before, blush flooding her cheeks. "I also know how boring it can be here without cell phones or the internet. Three weeks is a long time to do nothing, or try to pick up girls in a small town bar who live to gossip… and want more than a hookup."

"It's a lot of effort," Spencer agreed. The air was so thick between them, he couldn't help but wonder where the bomb was going to go off. She was hard to read, but he was beginning to see what she was trying to say. 

Honey's palms smoothed over his chest, her breath picking up. She opened her mouth to speak a few times, seemingly deciding what to say. She closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them again they were deliciously dark. 

"I could keep you company," she murmured, her voice dripping with heady need and nerves, like he might say no. "Give you something to do in the meantime, some stress relief."

Spencer adjusted beneath her, and it would be a lie to say that she wasn't getting to him. That damned scent of citrus and saltwater, those shy nervous eyes, and her curvy stunning body on his cock was almost enough to take her right there. 

"What do you get out of it?"

Honey smiled sweetly, which only made him want to shove her against the wall even more. She leaned in, her breasts pressing against his chest as her nose nuzzled against his. Her lips hovered just in front of his as she whispered, "Three weeks of good sex and an escape from all the shit I'm dealing with outside of my apartment.

"You don't like me and I don't like you very much either," she continued, her thumbs rubbing along his collarbones as her gaze flicked to his lips and then back to his eyes. "I think we can find a way to take that out on one another."

Spencer couldn't help the wolfish grin that peeled open across his cheeks. Keeping one hand on her hip, Spencer tangled the other in her hair and pulled her quickly to him. Their lips crashed together, a surprised but excited yelp escaping from Honey's chest. 

She was stubborn to the core, and Spencer found himself battling her for dominance right away. She gripped the lapels of his flannel, pulling him closer. Her strong thighs cradled his lap, and Spencer hooked a few fingers under her knee to tug her flush to his hips. Barely restrained moans echoed between them. His fingers tightened around her thigh, his cock straining in his pants until he couldn't take it anymore with her grinding down on him. 

Spencer lurched forward, jostling her onto his hip. She never let up, her fingers tangling into his hair as she nipped his bottom lip. Her scent consumed him, drowning him in the fresh smell of the ocean and the need emanating from her. He carried Honey out of the bathroom and straight toward the bed in the corner. He wanted her now, and now that he had permission he was going to take her. Her thighs clamped down around his waist, but he managed to untangle her and toss her onto the mattress. 

Her breasts bounced as she landed, and he descended on her in an instant. They clashed together in a flurry of teeth and tongue, pushing and pulling as she shoved his flannel from his shoulders. Spencer tossed it to the ground, his hands palming her tits through her shirt as she went for his belt. 

She managed to get it unlatched just as the phone on the bedside table rang. Spencer pulled back enough to glance over at it, but she just pulled him close and moved onto his neck. 

"Shouldn't you get that?" Spencer asked, his voice embarrassingly breathy. Honey’s insistent nipping along his throat was driving him crazy, but the shrill tone of the landline kept breaking through.

She groaned in irritation, wiggling her hips for more friction, “If it’s important, they’ll call again.”

Spencer was about to take that as a good enough answer when her palms flattened on his chest and suddenly he was pushed onto his back. Honey mounted him in one swift move, gripping his jaw tightly in her fingers and kissing him furiously. She did it like she was winning a fight, and he was more than happy to battle with her.

Gripping her hair, Spencer gave an experimental tug that elicited a beautifully dirty moan. Her hips jerked, grinding down on his clothed length. The phone faded into the background of his mind as it stopped its sharp crying through the apartment. Honey’s tight, smaller body arched with every swipe of his palms along her skin, sweet excited groans bouncing between them as they explored one another.

Her warm skin blazed under his hands as he threaded them under her shirt. Bringing them down, Spencer smoothed them over the curve of her ass and thighs, pulling her flush to him once more. The way her hips swirled over his dick drove him wild, the thought of himself inside her doing the same thing nearly made him burst in his pants.

Spencer sat her up, his palm spreading wide along her spine. Each breathy exhale and sigh made his vision blur, but he wanted to see her. All of her. He wanted to watch as she fell apart for him, piece by piece.

Honey didn’t fight him as he ran his fingers under her tiny tank top. She worked with him, arching her back and lifting her arms as he pulled it up. Her breasts bounced free from the thin fabric as she threw the tanktop to the ground. Spencer went straight for them, one hand palming her perfect tit as his lips went straight for the other nipple. 

She gasped as his teeth grazed the sensitive flesh, her hips grinding down on him. Swirling around with his tongue, he pinched her other breast, swiping a soft thumb over as a weak apology before doing it again.

“Fuck,” she groaned, her hips working for some relief through her shorts. He was painfully hard, wanting nothing more than to toss her to the ground and fuck her hard with little prep, but he also wanted to savor it. 

Honey’s fingers tangled tightly in Spencer’s hair, clutching him tightly to her chest as she moaned wantonly. She whimpered, low and needy, "Spencer, please, fuck!"

"Take off your pants," he commanded as he pulled off her with a soft pop. 

Honey went for her button when the phone rang again. She sighed, her chest patched red and blotchy as she leaned over him to snatch it from the nightstand. 

"No, no, come on," he begged pitifully as she pushed him into the mattress. She sat on top of him, her hand on his chest as she looked at the screen. She panted, her chest heaving. She was fucking stunning. 

"Shut up," she told him playfully, grinding down on him for good measure. Spencer set his twitchy hands on her thighs, squeezing and bucking lightly to keep some of the friction going. Honey held the phone up to her ear, “Thunderbird Inn. How can I help you?”

Honey’s dark eyes fixated on him, her head cocking to the side, “Oh, hey, Emily.”

Feeling suddenly caught, Spencer’s eyes went wide, but then he squinted at her as she listened to the other end. She waved a hand in front of her face and shook her head, “I’m fine, really. I just got back from a run.”

Spencer was growing restless, so he trailed his fingers up lightly. Brushing them along her exposed skin, he delighted in the way she shivered and goosebumps appeared as she spoke to Emily. Her chest puffed out, eyes fluttering shut. She was truly beautiful, strong and unyielding like a port in a storm. 

As he palmed her breast, she covered his hand with hers, holding him in place. Her eyes had a devilish glint as she watched him caress her body. His other palm smoothed up her side, tickling along her collarbone before he decided to experiment and see what she liked. Spencer spread his fingers over the column of her throat, getting up on one elbow to brace himself. 

She watched him through those hooded eyes, lashes fluttering as she struggled to stay focused on the phone call. His hand flattened over her windpipe, tightening just enough to see her cheeks flush bright red, then he let go, opting instead to trail his fingers down her chest as though he didn’t know what he’d done. But he knew now what he wanted to… just how open she was to other things.

“How about this?” Honey gulped, taking a deep breath. “I’ll call his room to see if he’s there and then patch you through? I’ve got to put you on hold, though.”

Spencer shook his head, but she just squinted down at him. “Sounds good. Give me a few minutes.”

Honey pressed a button on the phone and pointed out toward the window, “I’ve gotta get ready for tonight, and you need to talk to your sister.”

“She’s not my sister,” Spencer grumbled. He fell flat on his back, mourning the loss of his boner and soon to be release. Spencer got up on his elbows and flashed her a cheeky grin, “I’ll be quick.”

Honey shook her head, “Uh-uhn. You’re gonna fuck me the way I deserve, and to do that we need a bit more time.”

She rolled off him, plopping down on the mattress beside Spencer. Her body heat blazed against him, and he let out a pained breath as he eyed her breasts. Playfully, he reached out and patted one with the flats of his fingers, making her laugh. He couldn’t help but smile back, chuckling a bit.

“Fuck you the way you deserve?” he murmured with a furrowed brow and a grin. 

Honey nodded. “I didn’t stutter.”

Spencer laughed as he got up. He made sure to lean down and give her nipple one last light bite before he rose from the bed, and she made a delightful little cry at the feeling. He loomed over her as he adjusted himself in his pants, and she just lounged half naked on the bed and smirked up at him.

“See you later,” he muttered. Spencer leaned over the mattress and hooked his fingers under her knees, jerking her forward until she was nose to nose with him. “Wear something pretty, yeah?”

Honey smiled, and in a show of silliness he rarely got to see from her, she licked the tip of his nose and giggled. “Something with easy access?”

Spencer growled a bit and nodded, “I don’t have a lot of patience.” 

Her pupils dilated in a millisecond, her kiss-bitten lip quivering. Spencer gripped her jaw tightly and gave her a rough kiss, relishing in the desperate little moan that made its way to his lips. He pulled away and turned on his heel without looking back, and by the soft exhale behind him he was feeling pretty proud of himself. 

Maybe the next three weeks wouldn't be so bad after all. 

I was struggling to keep myself together. My whole body was a livewire after Spencer came to my apartment for his haircut. I couldn't stop thinking about his hands on my body, or his tongue on my chest. Light bruises littered my neck and all I wanted to do was press on them to feel the sting. 

Oh, if he fucked the way he kissed… I was about to be in big trouble. I needed the release, to fall into something that wasn’t my own pool of misery and let go. His heavy hands on me were the only real thing keeping me grounded the last few days. All I wanted was to touch him again and hear him make those deep guttural groans again. I have so much work to do on myself and my life, and this will be the one guilty pleasure I’ll have for a long while.

In reality it had only been a little over a month since I'd slept with Rico, but it felt like years after making out with Spencer. I was antsy, struggling not to think about just how toe curling it could have been if the phone didn't ring. Idly, I wondered what Emily wanted to speak with him so badly about, but ultimately decided it wasn’t my business.

I wasn't one for makeup, so I just opted to put some on my neck and keep my natural hair down and put on a sundress and some espadrilles. It was yellow with pink and orange flowers, landing just above my knees. I snagged a shawl in case the heat died down, and knowing we were going to a restaurant on the water that was more than likely. 

I stood before my mirror, fidgeting and feeling suddenly quite self conscious. I haven't been on a date of any kind in almost ten years, or had to worry if I looked good enough for one. It hit me how ridiculous I was being, worried if Spencer would like the way I looked when the first time he kissed me I was covered in sand and sweat. The man obviously wasn't picky. 

Michelle asked me to drive separately in case she and Holly wanted to spend some time alone together, so I grabbed the keys to my beat up Volkswagen bus and my purse, then made my way down stairs. 

Spencer waited outside my door, hands stuffed into his pockets as he leaned against the doorframe. He stood up straight as he spotted me, breaking out into a slow smile. 

"Holy shit," he breathed, his eyes raking me up and down hungrily. His hand reached out to touch the bright patterned skirt. "You look amazing."

"Thank you," I blushed like a fool. I waved to his outfit with a smile, "You clean up nice, Spencer."

He wore a simple buttoned up dark shirt with a red cardigan over it and khaki pants. His sleeve was bunched up under his watch, his freshly cut hair curled nicely with the product I'd put in it. He flashed me a crooked grin as he let go of my dress. 

Holding out his elbow for me, he leaned down and murmured even though we were the only two in the hallway, "You ready?"

I took a deep breath before threading my arm in his, "As I'll ever be."

Tucci's was about a forty minute drive down the coast. Spencer lounged in the passenger seat as I drove. We didn't talk much, but his hand rested heavily on my thigh the whole drive. I didn't push him away, and I didn't want to. Instead, I reveled in his heat and his thumb rubbing soft circles into my skin. 

The breeze danced through the windows, the warm summer evening turning the sky orange and dusty. We passed town after town on the lonesome secluded highway, until we were surrounded by trees and billboards. The fluorescent lights illuminated them in the coming darkness, and I didn't even realize I was speaking until I pointed at one. 

"Do you think that God reads the billboards?" I asked quietly, not even sure where it was coming from. 

Spencer glanced over my way and shrugged, "If He did, they probably wouldn't be there."

I wasn’t sure why, but I liked his answer. It fit him and the cynicism that permeated from his pores. Deciding to leave it at that, we instead flew down the highway to our forced get together with Holly and Michelle.

Tucci’s was busy for a Friday night at ten, people waiting in line outside. We spotted Holly and Michelle in the parking lot, with Holly standing a respectable distance away from her as Spencer followed closely behind me. 

Holly had made a reservation, so we were seated soon enough, earning a few glares from the walk-ins. Surprisingly enough, Spencer acted the gentleman even though I knew he had no interest in this date or me romantically. He held doors open for me, and pulled out my chair. When the wine came, he insisted on pouring it for me as well. 

I was never one to be told what to do, or taken care of, but I didn't mind this one bit. It was surprisingly…nice to not have to do anything myself. My nerves were on fire being in this setting anyways, in a restaurant on a dock, the ocean just outside the window we were seated by. It was nice not to have to make any decisions at the moment. 

My stomach swirled with nausea that made me take breaks from the conversation to nervously sip from my glass. Luckily, with Holly and Michelle fawning over one another it took a lot of pressure off Spencer and myself, and we mostly let them do the talking. There were so many people packed in the tiny restaurant. It was intimately lit with candles and red drapery along the walls. Even though the windows were open, welcoming a slight breeze, I found myself sweating by the time dinner was finished. 

This was how I was feeling when I thought I was pregnant, and the doctor told me it was just nerves. After multiple negative tests, I finally believed him, but sitting there trying to keep myself upright I cursed his diagnosis of anxiety and stress. 

I needed to get my shit together. A panic attack was the last thing I needed. 

The dock swayed with the water, and I rubbed a sweaty palm over the back of my neck to ease away some of my nausea. Spencer watched me curiously in between speaking with Holly and Michelle, who seemed to be having a good time and not noticing my mini freak out in a crowded place. 

There were couples all over, leaning over white dropped tables in beautiful clothes. They spoke in hushed tones, even Holly and Michelle, clasping hands on top. Champagne flutes glittered under the lights, the occasional clinking of silverware on ceramic accenting the gentle music playing. 

I missed Ernie… I needed him here, with me. I shouldn't be here. He should be here. He was the one everybody loved, and I was just the outsider who died with him that night, her body returning to shore. 

I ran a shaky hand through my hair, trying to console my body. It didn't want to cooperate, and as sweaty as I was, I pulled my shawl tighter over my shoulders while goosebumps broke out on my skin. Sucking in a wavering breath, I closed my eyes for a moment before letting it go.

A hand on my knee got my attention, and I glanced up to see Spencer pushed forward in his seat across from me, obviously the one touching me. His brows furrowed and he squeezed me gently, cocking his head to the side. 

I stared at him like a deer in the headlights, not sure of what to do. My legs begged me to launch from the table and run all the way back to Thunderbird. I didn't want to stop until I hit the bay and dove underneath the waves. 

"I could use some air," Spencer seemed to decide for me. He stood and folded his napkin before setting it on the table, then held out his hand for me. "Care to join?"

I stared at it dumbly until he rounded the table, his palm up for me to take. Spencer flashed Holly and Michelle a smile, "I don't know this place very well. I don't want to get lost."

My hand moved on autopilot, clasping his tightly. Spencer pulled me to my feet before leading me out of the restaurant, his fingers laced in mine. His gait never slowed, laser focused on the exit as he weaved through the traffic of people coming inside. 

The restaurant windows faced the water, but the entrance faced the parking lot with the dock wrapping around to the back. The walkway to the dock lay awash in fairy lights strung up between posts. The sun had dipped down behind the clouds, and now the small twinkling bulbs lit the way to the water. In my haze, I just let him lead me, trying and failing to keep my breathing under control. 

A hand carved bench sat at the end of the dock. Boats floated in the distance, easing through the water. The waves crested and fell in a natural time, the crash followed by the hushing spread of the water hitting the surface. Spencer guided me to the bench and sat me down. Kneeling in front of me as I watched through glassy, tear filled eyes, he untied my espadrilles and set them to the side. I didn't realize how much I was shaking until he took one of my feet and pressed his thumb into the arch and my body relaxed. 

"Just breathe," he murmured, watching me closely. His eyes held sympathy for me, but no pity. Tears streamed down my cheeks, grief I hadn't expected pouring through, but I refused to let myself completely fall apart. 

I clutched the shawl tightly around my shoulders. I leaned against the cool wood and closed my eyes, listening to the ocean and her beauty. The soft rocking of the dock was surprisingly a welcome feeling, lulling me into a safe place I hadn't been to in a long time. 

I thought of Isle of Honey, of Ernie. Long nights spent floating on top of the water, legs tangled together on the deck of the old schooner. We'd breathe in the scent of sex and the ocean, our hearts thumping in time together. I was in my safe place, with my safe person, just existing among the wild ferality of the sea. 

"I'm sorry," I whispered after a while. Spencer had long since moved onto my other foot, massaging tension gently from my body. I wiped at my cheek and chuckled bitterly, "I'm sure this is really sexy."

All I truly wanted from Spencer was an escape, a few moments to let go and forget about everything going on. I wanted my uncertainty to fade into the background, for my guilt to calm to a simmer when it constantly roared at a boil. 

Spencer made a face and set my foot gently on the dock. He eased himself on the bench next to me, his thigh touching mine, but he didn't move to hold me. I appreciated it. 

"Some guys are into that, you know?" he replied cheekily, giving me a wink and a smile. 

I sniffled through my laugh and shook my head, "So this is your turn on?"

Spencer huffed a bit, looking down at his hands. His voice was low and a bit sad. "That kinda thing takes a lot of time and trust. I don't find that much on the road."

I nodded. That trust was something I built with Ernie, but he never had the ability to be truly rough with me, which I had been fine with. Rico, on the other hand, was more interested in a quick barrel toward both our releases, and I didn't have the mental capacity to do much else. They had both been wonderful and attentive, and I would always be grateful for those experiences. 

I nudged Spencer with an elbow, offering a weak smile through my swollen cheeks and likely red face. "I'm a big fan of the color system, and my safeword is 'applejack.'"

Spencer chuckled. His arm wrapped around my shoulders, pulling me close but not too tight. He was something to lean against during the storm in my heart, and I found myself snuggling into his side and pressing my palm to his chest. 

Cinnamon and bergamot flooded through my nostrils, accented by the salt of the sea as we sat there. A few errant passersby came down the dock, saw us, and quickly turned around. We paid them no mind, just listening to the waves and enjoying the quiet. 

"I haven't been on a date in ten years," I found myself saying. The ocean swallowed my words and took them out to the distance, but not before Spencer heard them. He pressed his cheek to the top of my head. "I know this wasn't really a date but… I don't know why it hit me so hard."

"Memories are like freight trains, Honey," he murmured. I felt him clear his throat, the soft rumble under my ear through his shirt. His fingers tightened around my arm. "You either know when they're coming on the schedule or you don't notice until the whistle blows behind you. Sometimes the whistle doesn't even blow, and it hits you."

I thought about that for a moment. He was right, and a part of me hated this broken man for knowing the broken part of me so well with so little effort. I wanted to hit him and yell and scream, but the broken part of me knew that was exactly what the broken part of him wanted to do too.

"That's the most depressing shit I've ever heard," I said instead. 

The laugh that bubbled from his chest made me smile before it even broke the surface. Spencer guided a hand over my hair and kissed the top of my head as he chuckled to himself. 

"Yeah, well, it's all I've got," he said as he pulled away. 

Spencer leaned back on the bench, legs splayed and his arms laced over the edge. The fingers of one hand ran light lines up and down my shoulder. It only made my body relax more, melting into his side and reveling in the comfort. 

Boat horns sounded in the distance, calling out to other ships in the night. The spotlight from a lighthouse down the coast cut through the darkness, pointing out toward the black. It was guiding people home, back to the land. 

Sitting there, I realized I didn't want to be on the land anymore. Thunderbird would always be the place that took me in and became my home. For far too long I'd treated it like a tomb, my final resting place after a lifetime of mistreatment and uncertainty. 

When I lost Ernie, I stopped moving forward. The lighthouse in the bay became my siren beacon, my way of screaming that I was the safe place now. I would keep everyone safe, I would guide them home. They could come to me for anything they needed, and I would provide. 

Sitting then in the arms of a stranger who'd defended me and saved me, and I'd saved him, it hit me. I wasn't the port in the storm. I wasn't the place to go to escape the monsoon, the hurricane. 

I was the eye of the storm. The place where all this started was with myself, and how I reacted to the world around me. I let myself loose from my tiny fishing town in Maine and descended hurricane Honey upon Thunderbird. I was a wild animal full of rage and regret, and they calmed me to a raindrop. I'd always be grateful to them for that. 

The hurricane was back, and after ten years she wanted to rage again. I needed to find a middle ground. I needed to become the rain after the drought, not devastation or starvation. 

I didn't have to leave Thunderbird forever. I'd spent ten years fixing up our old schooner, repairing the damage caused by the storm that ruined my life. It was almost finished, and in a way, so was I. I could do what Ernie and I always dreamed of, and sail off toward that horizon in hopes of swallowing the sun. Then, I could follow the lighthouse back home. 

"Hey," I started slowly, easing my way out from under Spencer's arm. He looked down upon me gently, waiting for my direction. "You wanna get out of here?"

Spencer smiled. "Lead the way."

Smurph's Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Notes: Oh, I'm so excited for the sex next chapter... You have no idea.

Also, have you guy listened to any of the songs that these chapters are inspired by? Which one is your favorite?

@thedancingcostumeyoungadult @muffin-cup @simplyparker @spencerreidsmommy @hotchandspencearedilfs @gspenc @kbakery @nomajdetective @givemeth @hoshihiime @halloween-is-my-nationality @reidselle @thisiscalmanditsdoctorreid @dreatine @thebloomingeagle @fortheloveofwonderland @theforgottenwinter @parkerreidnorth @reidselle @randomhoex @scargarcia-magshotchner @stitchwrites @pygmygoat-bicyclehelmet @cle13 @aysixdy @elhotchner @directioner5life @elhotchner @loveeee2134 @preciousbabypeter @la-stuffs @stories-you-wont-hear @hotchlover @fortheloveofwonderland @lokiandhisdagger @bellanutellababyyy @dark-night-sky-99 @straightforbuckybutgayfornatasha @maltamurdock @charelletjee @kansas-reid @zephyrmonkey @spencer-reid-wonderland @spencersprettyslut @im-sure-its-fine @tvdstelenaforever @teddylupintonks  @lilibet261 @kneelforloki @dirtytissuebox @almostgenerallyalways @whovian378 @cl0udyqu33n @thegettingbyp2 @averagestudent03 @the-sun-died-out @squishycalumxo @sebastiansstanswhore 

@louderfortheback @pandabiiissh @calebye

@dottirose @lfaewrites @padsfirewhisky @wheels-upin-thirty @f-me-reid @justanothercmblog @academiareid @moyo5653 @comfybabie

[eraldkarma]

Ok so my hyper fixation on aphmau has sparked u again, I've decided to share my little Au with the world because my friends are getting tired of hearing about a minecraft roleplay from... oh god it's been that long? Jeez.

Anyway here is what I'm changing about the base cannon of mystreet before I throw in any crazy AUs like Ein being a decent person and living with Aph and Sylvanna during S2 of PDH or mystreet Dante getting stuck in MCD when everyone ditched him.

So I don't know I can fit my whole four years worth of brain rot in one post so we are going to start with the big blaring walking red flag himself Aaron.

What needs to change?

So so muck For starters, apparently, Aphmau needed to listen to sylvannas internet safety lectures a bit more because SHE STILL GIVES A STRANGER HER ACTUAL PHONE NUMBER!!! Sorry sorry this is a post about Aaron not how nieve aphmau is.

Anyway the guys 18 and is dating aphmau who is probably 14/15. This guy is going off to college in a year and aphmau still talks her stuffed cat and hides in a closet before her first day of high school.

Also at first I defended Aaron becouse I thought he just didn't know how old she was when they were strangers texting each other but they have a whole conversation about how nervous she is ABOUT HER FIRST DAY OF HIGH SCHOOL! Sorry again 😔 but if I was Aaron and I found out that the person I was talking to was actually a young girl who was probably fourteen or fifteen (younger actually since they've known each other and have been texting for atleast a couple months) and knowing that I am seventeen or eighteen would break it off and probably unfriend them not keep texting them about it and then start to ask them to reveal there real name.

Then there's the whole like ultima thing I know it wasn't actually written in until like season 4 of mystreet but I have a question 🤔 if darek knew what kind of life was in store for his son having the curse if he feels so bad about having to isolate his son if he knew the curse is a possibility why have him? Why risk have biological children? Or why not stop after milisasa since for some reason the curse only effects the males of a blood line. (You're telling Me the lycan family has never had an all female generation? Is the curse just dormant in females?) I'm changing that we need to change dark put him on the list right above Sylvanna but under KC.

There's also like why are you the alpha of the werewolf pack? Like I get it in highschool but after in season five? You don't know anything about the culture and Daniel ran the highschool pack for four years you don't have to be the alpha now? I genuinely think that was from Jason wanting his self insert to be the ' powerful hot alpha oc trademark do not steal'

So how an I gonna fix this?

Well we are going to start with Aaron's age, He's aphmaus age or well hes sixteen but so were Garothand Laurence. Plane and simple hes sixteen hes a softmore who was homeschooled is life becouse of his secret ultima curse. He does switch schools temporarily for S2 of PHD becouse dark was worried about how frequently Aaron was loosing control and how he still hadn't had a grasp on the curse, I'm gonna get to that hold tight.

That leads me into my next fix how Aph and Aaron met! They were put in the same online schooling class because Rachel is a bissness major, and Sylvanna is the type of mom to make you cry when she helps you study for your spelling bee (she loves her daughter but she does not have enogh patients to be a teacher.) Anyway they meet in the online class and find out they're both into the same things including a popular Online game and being lonely homeschooled kids latch onto each other, (I would imagine that Aaron went under a different name for the homeschooling program since he can't have the media tracking him down or asking questions y'know?) Then once they get to the age were they have phones reluctantly trade Instagram (aph made a separamount. Just for talking to Aaron and not posting pics because her mom follows her mian and Aaron makes his very first acount and only follows aph who goes by Shu on that account.)

Now to fix the lycann family.

Let's start with the curse, like I said makes no sense as to why Dark still had kids with Rachel biological when he Knew what his kids would go through. So the ultima curse effects all offspring male or female and it isn't usually as strong as Aaron's. In my head not being able to control there eyes was grown out of around five years old to seven years old and then there eyes stop turning red without wanting them to they still pose the danger it's just not that hard to control. It's like potty training they learn as they grow up. But for whatever reason Aaron never really grew out of the uncontrollable eyes thing, infact they were almost always red when he was young. This scared Darek who grew up on these stories about what will happen to them if the curse is ever discovered in they're family blood line, (which is why they still hide that they're werewolves.)

Aaron lived his life in solitude while millisa got to go out and experience the world she got to go the boarding schools in Germany and go with mom and dad on they're business trips while he stayed in they're house in falcon claw with either one of his parents or trusted staff. (This is not how millisa sees it BTW but we'll talk about her later.

I hope you enjoyed my brain dump.

[marketfreshfics]

The Stratagem Strain - Part III

Plot summary: Arriving at Hogwarts for an advanced graduate program on the direct appointment of the Minister for Magic himself, Paisley Gallos anticipates a successful sixth year of classes. Unbeknownst to her, she is a pawn in a sinister ploy orchestrated long before the start of the school year.

Tags: violence | angst | blood | vampires | tragedy | forced proximity | regret | denial of feelings | NDEs | eventual smut | dark magic | accidental death | read on AO3

WARNING: This chapter contains scenes of graphic violence, blood and gore.

Theophilus Harlow was never fond of taking orders, despite his immaculate delivery on the follow-through. Were it anything else besides this momentous occasion, he’d employ one of the handlers at Horntail Hall to check this mess off the to-do list. His compliance was bound to Rookwood's authority and reinforced by the occasional galleon payment. Thus, albeit warily, he resolved with a trademark determination to see this task through to its conclusion.

No stranger to the grittier aspects of his line of work, this assignment would undoubtedly earn him a prominent mention on his professional dossier. The honour was not lost on Harlow; he understood the weight of the curse that churned within his gut—a responsibility he considered both a gift and a source of potent authority. Every detail of the forthcoming endeavour had been meticulously planned, and he stood poised to initiate the chain of events with unwavering resolve.

Naturally, there was a sense of accomplishment. Pride and prestige for being entrusted with setting the components in motion, toppling the first domino, privy to watch as the rest of them fell on the next in line, the forward momentum of disaster and death brought on by his move. He could watch from his vantage point at the start of everything and see the fruits of his labour sprout, bud, flower, and decay in that kingdom of the beginning of the end. The prospect made his mouth swim.

Still, the idea of whetting his whistle with swill this evening fouled his insides.

“Mudblood little bitch.”

“What was that, boss?” The Ashwinder recruit piped up, tugging his snake-emblem bandana over his mouth and nose.

Harlow let out a curt groan. “Keep an eye out. They’ll be along any moment now, and I want to get the jump on ‘em.”

The recruit fidgeted with his wand, tossing it between his palms. "And, the plan?"

“She’ll be travelling with another student,” Harlow interjected with a steely edge. “Make quick work of them, y’hear? Can't leave any witnesses.”

The Ashwinder shifted his weight uneasily, swaying back and forth like a jittery pendulum in an attempt to quash his nerves.

Harlow sighed wearily, the weight of impatience palpable. “Oh come now, don’t bloody well tell me you’re one of those soft ones. You let an Ironbelly singe your arse hairs off, but the idea of snuffing out a mopey teenager is too much?” 

“They’re just kids, boss.” 

Harlow threw him a loaded cannon of glare.

The Ashwinder relented, throwing his hands up. “Alright, alright! I’ll get it done.”

Harlow sniffed the air, catching a faint lick of life on the barely-there breeze. Even through the slight mist, he could discern the subtle aroma of two heartbeats, synchronized in rhythm, growing more tantalizing with each step forward that carried them closer. It was a slow build to savour, a crescendo of anticipation, waiting for the wren to perch so the fox could snap it up. The sensation thrilled Harlow to the core, matched only by his unrelenting thirst.

As footsteps scattered pebbles on the path, marring the scent of blood with upturned dirt, an involuntary growl bubbled within Harlow's throat.

“Which one are you taking, again?” The Ashwinder wielded his wand, his gaze darting toward Harlow for guidance.

Harlow pinched the brim of his bowler hat, his gaze filled with predatory intent.

“The girl. Dispose of the boy, whatever means possible.”

It wasn’t every day that Paisley found herself comparing ratios of Bertie Botts bean flavours based on package size, but Sebastian seemed intent on making it a topic of debate, no doubt to help distract her ping-ponging fears. His freckle-dusted grin broadened before he popped another unsuspecting bean in his mouth, and his complacent expression deemed it savoury. “Honestly, I think the amount of bad versus good beans depends on how the candymaker was feeling that day.”

Paisley couldn't help but emit a derisive snort. “You cannot be serious.”

“There’s a kernel of truth to it,” Sebastian argued. “I’ve been a loyal customer to Honeydukes since my first year, even had the odd treat of stopping in before that when my parents were still around.”

A twinge of discomfort knotted her insides at the underlying tension there. Instead of addressing it, plenty dredged in the difficult anxiety of the present, she deftly changed tack. “Do they change flavour varieties often?”

“Nah.” His response was a chew of sound, of gelatin lodged between teeth. “They’ve been pretty consistent since I was a child, I’m guessing far beyond that as well. But I often wonder how they decide which boxes receive more good beans than bad." A sudden spark of animation lit up his features. "I swear, there was one week when I indulged excessively, and every box I opened contained nothing but delightful flavours! It felt like striking gold. Must have been a stroke of luck from the sweets-maker himself..." “Perhaps someone warmed his bedroll.”

Sebastian nearly choked on his candy. “That’d do it-”

The paradigm shifted so abruptly, so entirely, as Paisley was snatched up before her brain could detect the threat, a blur of broad, striped waistcoat dragging her into the dense cover of the Forbidden Forest. A silencing charm swiftly cut off her shrill scream, planned and executed with chilling precision.

And before Sebastian could even react, dropping the box of sweets to retrieve his wand, he was already dodging a blasting curse from an Ashwinder. 

“Paisley?” The underlying silence behind the zips and thrums of spell barrages heading his way caused Sebastian's voice to become tense mid-battle. He prioritized shield charms, suspecting, correctly, that the dark wizard would employ some more unsanctioned forms of magic. A hex narrowly skimmed his shoulderblade, passing over the arc of his shield spell, and the Slytherin countered with Confringo.

The Ashwinder was fast on his feet, tucking and rolling in the nick of time, and as he took a moment to right himself Sebastian bolted off the main path, diverting towards the Forbidden Forest, sprinting along the dirt path and past the countless signs foreboding the danger within. 

Caught in Harlow's overpowering grasp, Paisley found herself ensnared, her resistance futile against the immense force. She made twisted attempts to break away, but she was entangled in his sinister hold, her flailing movements a tragicomic dance of rebellion against an unchangeable force.

As Harlow's eerie laughter echoed through the air, Paisley's heart sank as she realized how far they had travelled in what seemed like an instant. A chilling sensation enveloped her as she struggled to make sense of their inexplicable journey, of the distance traversed in moments. Her logical mind desperately sought answers, even in the face of danger.

“Your little friend is trying to find you,” He looked at her with disdain, his breath fanning heat and horror on her face. She sensed the spell that had silenced her starting to weaken, her audible grunts of resistance serving as proof, while Harlow continued chiding her. “But I doubt he’ll be so friendly once he does. Perhaps he can be your first meal…”

“What the devil are you talking about?” Still confused by his uncontrollable power over her, Paisley mumbled under her breath as she writhed in fruitless attempts to break free. It terrified her, for more reasons than one.

Harlow grinned darkly at her, then leaned in, mouth open wide, targeting her throat.

“Diffindo!”

Paisley's spell struck Harlow point-blank, the abrupt impact freeing her. She took advantage of the moment to scuttle backwards, creating distance, but the outcome of her quick wandwork was nightmare fuel in itself. The spell shredded through his shoulder cap, flaying his skin, altering his silhouette. The sight of his exposed bone, with its pale pink and white hues, was disturbing enough, let alone the flesh torn asunder to reveal the pulsating agony beneath. The dark wizard howled more in shock than pain, exhaling forcefully through his flared nostrils as he glared knives into her. 

“You bitch…”

It would have been an ideal opportunity for escape then, but as Harlow composed himself, Paisley observed in startled fascination as his shoulder miraculously started to heal right before her eyes. A network of muscle fibres wove around his humerus, connecting with the sinew of bone and nerves, while a fresh layer of skin and visceral enveloped it all, similar to wrapping meat in butcher paper. The bizarre nature caught Paisley off guard, and as Harlow approached, he smirked with irritation. “Well, that pissed me off.” He lunged toward her, but she managed to evade the forward motion, relying on her agility to navigate through the thick bramble around her. She winced as the thorny branches snagged on her forearms, leaving angry, red, weeping scratches on her skin. Her sole focus was to escape from his line of sight, so she could stun or maim him further.

Harlow's head twitched, the scant scent of blood piercing the veil of focus, and a snarl-turned roar ripped from his throat. In an instant, her attention shifted behind her, fully aware that his threat dug beyond the mere barrier of simple harm. With determination, she raised her wand and unleashed another spell, this time shooting Glacius with intent.

The freezing charm struck Harlow's dominant arm, fusing his wand to his palm. With determination, he clenched his jaw as he shook off the layer of frost, raising the conduit of his dark magic to hurl a stun toward Paisley, which she promptly dodged.

Engrossed in an intense exchange of magic, the two ventured further into the Forbidden Forest, the canopy of trees growing denser, the daylight diminishing rapidly. And despite how steadfast she was in her resolve, Paisley couldn’t help but sense that fate had already predetermined the predicament. She glowered at Harlow, before dodging a disarming spell, countering with---

“Bombarda!” Sebastian nearly swung a full rotation around a tree trunk, narrowly evading the Ashwinder's attack. With wide eyes, he observed the enemy preparing to cast another spell his way. Ducking each of his limbs behind the sprawling white oak, he anticipated the impact of the spell on the tree. As the fractured bark shattered and splinters flew outwards, he seized the opportunity to unleash a torrent of Incendio toward his attacker.

“Ah!” The Ashwinder yipped, evidence that Sebastian’s spell hit paydirt. The wizard shook off the stray flames, caught on his pant leg, but it wasn't enough to hinder. “You’ll get raked for that!” He hollered, but Sebastian was already on the move, rolling down an embankment to transition to an entirely different path, intent on confusing his pursuer as he ambled upright into a full sprint again. He refrained from looking back, as the audible crunch of gravel beneath his feet served as a constant reminder of the Ashwinder's near pursuit. Projectiles of red swiftly passed by in close proximity, his erratic running pattern seemingly far from foolish for how effective it proved, and at one point he observed that he managed to dodge a stray tail of green light from a spell he had never seen before--

“Petrificus Totalis!”

Sebastian's body went stiff, his arms rigid at his sides, and he collapsed to the ground, letting out a pained groan as he felt the sting of broken skin along his forehead. The shit-eating grin of the Ashwinder evolved to a guffaw, much to Sebastian's chagrin. He approached Sebastian, panting with self-assured swagger, as if he had just proven himself by outsmarting a student. “About time you stopped trying to scurry off, little rat.”

The dark wizard nudged Sebastian’s petrified form and rolled him over, rendering him face-up. He sneered down with disdain in a sordid, pathetic demonstration of authority. “I’ve got you now…” Sebastian sensed the wane of the petrification charm, though he remained motionless, not letting a single breath escape. Drawing upon his duelling experience, he awaited the moment when the unsuspecting Ashwinder would raise his wand, providing patience over power. There would be one opportunity, no more; with the incoming Expulso spell at such proximity, the sheer force of impact alone would likely stop his heart.

Once the spell manifested, Sebastian immediately flicked his wand upwards, uttering, “Protego!”

As expected, the shield deflected the spell. It ricocheted and returned to the caster, sending the dark wizard flying backwards in a somersault through the air. His cry came to an abrupt halt as he collided with the nearby cliff face, a sickening crunch sealing his fate. 

Wholly unprepared to investigate after the Ashwinder remained still for several heart-wrenching seconds, Sebastian pivoted on his heel in the direction where his newfound companion had been taken away. He hoped above all else that the last of his luck had not run up just then.

Luck was not generous to Paisley. Her competencies in magic combat were remarkable, with spellwork finessed from dedication to her craft, Still, she was not prepared to take on Harlow, deftly avoiding her spells and leaving her in frustrated awe of his dexterity. He appeared to defy the laws of physics with every blurred sidestep, and Paisley couldn't help but wonder whether he had enhancement beyond what mere mortals could achieve.

“Accio!”

Paisley was abruptly pulled airborne towards her kidnapper, who yanked her wand from her dominant hand with a grin before she hit the ground. Her struggle only amused her impromptu captor, his smirk a testament to dominance. 

Harlow caught Paisley’s leg, and despite her kicks and thrashes, his inhuman strength managed to keep a hold of her, dragging her through the underbrush without cause or care for the scrapes and bruises she acquired along the way. “Let, me, go!” She grit through a clenched jaw, curling her torso upright to claw his arm, anything to get him to release her or loosen his grip, but her attempts were met with cruel indifference.

“Ah, a fighter are ye?” Harlow’s snide remark sunk in, wholly entertained as he pinned her to the dirt with an elbow pushing between her ribs, forcing the air from her lungs faster than she could welcome it in. “ That’s good, you'll need it… but for now, you’re just makin’ this more difficult than it needs to be, kid.”

His mouth opened wide, angled at her neck, his intentions clear. When the realization hit, panic surged through Paisley, her cries of terror rending the air as she pleaded for salvation, her mind racing with thoughts of escape, of rescue. Had Sebastian managed to escape from that other wizard? 

In the depths of her terror, Paisley clung to a desperate hope, a fervent wish that she alone would bear the weight of the impending tragedy. It was a selfish plea amidst the chaos of her ordeal. She prayed, with every fibre of her being, that she would be the sole victim of Harlow's depravity this fateful evening. For in that moment of anguish, the alternative was too monstrous to contemplate — the thought of another soul enduring the same fate, the same agony, was a burden far too heavy at this moment. And so, amidst the turmoil that harassed her hopeless soul, she clung to that solitary hope, a fragile thread of solace in the darkness that threatened to consume her whole.

His razor-sharp incisors lacerated her jaw as he missed his mark once, twice, then thrice, still a novice to feeding on something so alive and virile.

Paisley was determined to thwart his progress, writhing and coughing through the pinch point of his arm to her chest. Harlow muttered an expletive, withdrew his wand, and prodded her chin.

“Arresto Momentum!”

Paisley was rendered immobile, and her fate was sealed.

Harlow gave no pause or reprieve, finally biting into Paisley’s throat.

Suction pulled her jugular into his mouth, and he consumed her blood, her accelerated pulse practically flushing it to him willingly, as each heartbeat became a morbid offering. Paisley's final scream rent the air as the stopping charm faded, its fruitless attempt at intervention fading into obscurity, and the darkness swallowed her gargled pleas.

At that moment, Sebastian let the echo of her howl guide the way, his heart clenched with a mixture of dread and despair. The flicker of hope that sustained him faltered, its fragile flame threatened by the relentless onslaught of despair, like the first unsuccessful attempt to blow out a candle, bending the flame to near extinguishment.

“No…” A cold dread settled over him in a suffocating shroud. Sickening certainty assured him that his intervention would come too little, too late, a bitter realization. The burden of self-doubt bore down upon him with crushing force, doubling his center of gravity until he felt liable to collapse under its oppressive weight. He couldn’t manage to keep a classmate safe on a routine trip to Hogsmeade; what good was he for even attempting to cure his sister? Paisley’s already sapped strength was being let out entirely, her heartbeats slowing, her lungs rendered dormant. But for all the pain of holding on, therein lay a tranquil acceptance of the inevitable. As her life came to a close, she felt a strange sense of peace wash over her, as if the forest itself conspired to cradle her in its embrace. In the stillness of that fateful moment, the spectre of death loomed ever closer, its gentle whispers beckoning Paisley forth with a solemn invitation, and it was an all too familiar friend in the end. 

And yet, amidst the darkness, a yearning stirred within her.

Oh, how she wished she could see the stars one last time…

Before she lost consciousness, she witnessed Harlow slash his finger, inserting it into her mouth, and then spreading his blood across her tongue. Fortunately, at that point, she lost the ability to taste.

And then Paisley slipped into the very last sleep she would ever experience.

[dizzy-pops]

This is just gonna be a definitely NON-exhaustive list of some Nimona Noticings (trademark (/j)) aka, things I’ve noticed in the movie Nimona. This list will not include anything from the comic, as I haven’t read it… yet. Also, THIS WILL CONTAIN SPOILERS!!!

1. When Ballister is thrown in jail, and the Director comes to see him, Ballister runs up to the bars and she flinches. Well, she PRETENDS to flinch. You can tell she is only pretending because of how delayed it is. She wants Ballister to think she is afraid of him, but have you ever tried to fake a flinch? It’s pretty difficult and the Director stepping back very quickly like that looks like she was trying and failing to make it look like she was recoiling in fear at Ballister running up to her, even though he was behind bars. This, on rewatch, is a very clear early indication that the Director was the villain all along. 

2. At the beginning of the movie, when Nimona first shows up as Ballister’s ‘lair,’ there is a power saw on a table. She turns it on, and then seconds later, she leans on the saw and STOPS IT. I’ve been in shop class and so I know that there are certain power tools that stop in less than a second when it detects skin/flesh because of the different electrical signals between wood and hands. But this system ends up breaking the saw blade because of the way that it is stopped by the brake. You can tell that the saw is broken because it sinks down into the table.The saw in the movie does not do this, proving that Nimona STOPPED A FUCKING SAW WITH HER ARM.

3. I haven’t yet seen anyone talk about how fucking cool it is that Ballister makes himself a NEW ARM FROM SCRATCH. And he does this with only ONE FUCKIN ARM! Now THAT is goddamn impressive. If the timeline in this movie is established, I didn’t notice it, but I assume that it’s been a few days or less from the time Ballister ‘kills’ the queen to the time Nimona shows up at his abode. Which means he managed to make himself a brand new arm presumably out of spare metal scraps he found just lying around in jUST A FEW DAYS! 

This post will probably be updated in the future if/when I watch Nimona again and notice some more stuff.

[heliads]

Holy crap can I ask to see the list of all the requests you got?! It has to be a lot if you’re booked all the way to July

oh you already know! here goes:

4/25: so, before you go chapter two (the darkling x child of hecate!reader series)

4/27: harry hook x reader (based on 'the way i loved you'' by taylor swift, was literally giggling to myself over how fun this one's going to be)

4/29: so, before you go chapter three (the darkling x child of hecate!reader series)

5/1: thomas x reader (set in the safe haven, newt and teresa are alive, culmination of months of mutual pining)

5/3: so, before you go chapter four (the darkling x child of hecate!reader series)

5/5: luke patterson reader (reader is luke's english tutor)

5/7: so, before you go chapter five (the darkling x child of hecate!reader series)

5/9: charles leclerc x reader (reader is in charge of social media and charles flirts at all hours of the day)

5/11: so, before you go chapter six (the darkling x child of hecate!reader)

5/13: peeta mellark x reader (reader is a friend of katniss, takes place after round 1 of the games)

5/15: so, before you go chapter seven (the darkling x child of hecate!reader)

5/17: loki x reader (reader is an empath, loki is newly forced to join the avengers)

5/19: so, before you go chapter eight (the darkling x child of hecate!reader)

5/21: leonard 'bones' mccoy x reader (star trek x grishaverse au, the thoughts and ideas i have for this >>>>)

5/23: matthias helvar x reader (enemies to friends to lovers)

5/25: charles leclerc x reader (reader is head of pr for ferrari, when ferrari strategy does ferrari strategy she helps charles w the media)

5/27: andrew peter parker x reader (simple headcanons)

5/29: clove x reader (reader is clove's bff and helping her train for the games but gets scared the closer they get to the day of the reaping)

5/31: tom peter parker x reader (male reader is fighting in wakanda during infinity war, they're worried about each other through the blip)

6/1: billy rocks x reader (the magnificent seven but a grishaverse au, i am so so excited to write this, june cannot come quickly enough)

6/3: tewkesbury x reader (both of them are lovesick idiots)

6/5: han solo x reader (escapades w han + singing to get out of a crisis)

6/7: race x reader (reader is brooklyn's second in command)

6/9: peter pevensie x reader (reader is a knight with a gay crisis, i am shrieking, raven i love you for sending this in)

6/11: jack wilder x reader (reader is a paramedic and jack keeps mildly injuring himself so she can fix him up)

6/13: newt x reader (gally's trademarked beverage as a plot device)

6/15: peter pevensie x reader (headcanons for having to live in london after spending so long in narnia)

6/17: finch x reader (the newsies are hanging out, he has a crush)

6/19: daniel atlas x reader (reader volunteers to be a part of a trick, he gets shy)

6/21: newt x reader (tmr modern au, they sit next to each other in class)

6/23: race higgins x reader (race + reader are on a date but get jumped and they must recover emotionally from that)

6/25: kai parker x reader (kai redemption era)

6/27: lucy pevensie x reader (lucy has a girlfriend and gets up the courage to introduce them to the siblings, this is when they're all kings and queens)

6/29: zoya nazyalensky x reader (reader is zoya's #1 fan bc zoya saved them from attack one time, reader is hurt by somebody and zoya nearly becomes a supervillain bc of it)

7/1: andrew peter parker x reader (male reader is peter's best friend but when peter gets bitten by the spider, he stops hanging out with reader as much, angst ensues)

plus bonus non requests that i get to tack onto the end of my queue bc i am the author and i need to clear through some of my unwritten ideas:

7/3: eric coulter x reader (reader was from amity but now tattoos, idk commentary on art surviving in a place like dauntless you get my drift)

7/5: jesper fahey x reader (this quote specifically that has been in my inbox for months: but how long? how long until i blend into the background and i'm no longer unusual? what will you do when i'm no longer a bet that calls your interest or a gamble worth the odds?)

7/7: eowyn x reader (eowyn thinks she dislikes reader bc reader is a girl and can fight but eowyn can't, in reality that's not jealousy but a repressed crush on a girl, we've all had them before)

7/9: peter pan x reader (reader can visit neverland when she's dreaming, she goes there often enough that she wants to live there forever, she asks peter to take her but he hesitates, she decides to never dream of him again, eventually he shows up in person bc he misses her)

[psalmsofpsychosis]

tell me about your favorite movies and books!! i wanna dissect your brain (lovingly) (affectionate)

Choccy my belovedest you broke in through my bedroom window at 3am with the hardest question asked of mankind huh 😭❤️❤️ i have so many favs!!! i dont remember any of them!! but. i will try to make an effort because i love you 💕 so! 5 movies/tv shows and 5 books ayy

For Media,

• City of God!!!

the pace of this movie is insane, i call it the movie that never sleeps, both narrative wise and production wise. It's constantly in motion and a whirlwind of a wild story but it never loses its ground and its significance, which is not something i can say about

• Shameless US

jesus. listen, Shameless US is as wonderful as it's shit, in equal measures. It's a story that feels like the best unprotected sex of your life that also gave you Hepatitis B. ShU travels into territories noone dares to tread, and sometimes it's a cheap hitch in the back of a junkie's stolen van, and sometimes it's a first class experience in Bono's private jet; no inbetween. It's insanely creative, insanely unapologetic and honest, hits like an unexpected 2am urge to go scream from the rooftop of your house, and it's quite frankly unforgettable, both in its bad and good moments.

• Tokyo Godfathers

MOVIE OF ALL TIME!!! MOVIE OF ALL TIME I TELL YA!!!!

• Doukyuusei

This bitch here is SO dear to me, i dont even know how to describe it. It's quite different from the manga, and i love the manga so much i think about it more than 3 seconds and i die, but the story feels more fluid in movie format. To me Doukyuusei is the best example of how you can tell the richest and most fascinating and intriguing story without ugly shock value or Angst TM or stupid twists; just life as it happens. The Manga's characterizations are so intricate and complex and distinct it blows your mind, not a single stereotype in sight. I really need Doukyuusei to be some kinda food so i can eat it for the rest of my life.

• Corvette Summer

¯\_(ツ)_/¯ I have no excuses. This is my trademark movie, the Farimah TM movie, i've claimed it and i bite anyone who gets close. It's so saccharine it rots half of your tooth halfway in and i love a good "take of life all you can; for the love of gods want something, anything, take what is yours and never apologise twice" story. I adore how flirty and sweet and soft this movie is. Plus, yeah, Mark Hamill and Annie Potts. The dream sandwich.

• Honorary mention: Blue Eye Samurai

Simply the most intelligent piece of media i have seen in the last 5 years, holy fucks. It works your brain on 99 different subtle levels to the point that it makes you glad to possess a brain and being able to comprehend stories. It's a challenging watch, intellectually, emotionally— solid makes you proud to understand it the way you'd be proud after finishing a 6k piece puzzle.

And as for books, i've mostly been indulging my fiction thirst with fanfic and flash fiction, and been mainly reading nonfiction in terms of published stuff, so, yeah, it's gonna get a bit technical. sorry.

• Tara Campbell's "Angels and Blueberries"

This story healed 15 years of my childhood trauma with 30% discount.

• Anne Waldron Neumann's "Monologues with Euphemisms"

There's something about flash fiction that forces people to get creative and by gods creative they get. The structure of this piece is so unconventional and sturdy it makes my brain sing 99 motown tunes. Speaking of story structure though,

• Jane Alison's "Meander, Spiral, Explode"

This is a book about story structure. I read it in pieces the way you read poetry and philosophy essays. Take of that what you will. Like, this is such meta read; you can analyse the book itself on its narrative flow and rhythm. I think i learnt more about Aristotle's idealogies reading this book than i learnt by reading Aristotle's essays. and this is the second "nonfiction that reads like poetry" book on this list. The first one is,

• Carlo Rovelli's "The Order Of Time"

Yep. Quantum physics is art to me by nature, but Rovelli really drives the art part home, and he's so sexy for it. This book is so lyrical and it plays with your heartstrings as much as it plays with your brain, i dont care about what category it falls under; this is top notch fiction to me.

• John Luckovich's "The Instinctual Drives And The Enneagram"

an older read i keep picking up every other half year, since i got into Luckovich's theories back in 2017, but yeah, this book is basically the foundation of majority of my worldviews, the spine of it. Luckovich is such thorough and unconventional thinker, getting into his stuff uprooted my brain in uncomfortable ways, and it's been an exhilarating journey.

• Honorary mention: Peter A. Levine's "Waking The Tiger"

Honestly? if i had to give someone one single book to read in their lifetime and nothing else, this would be it. I reference this book mentally in my everyday life so goddamn much i think it's etched into my DNA at this point, this book and Luckovich's theories on human instinct.

Thank you for picking my brain love, be sure to drop the diagnosis in my inbox later 🤣❤️

[wordsandrobots]

IBO reference notes on … the Gundams (Addendum 1)

[Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Addendum 1]

Calling this the first addendum because hopefully, at some point, I'll be doing another to cover the Baklazan Family's entry in the list. In the meantime, let's take a gander at the two 'suits released to the world since I wrapped up my posts on the Gundam frames.

ASW-G-16 Zepar

(With apologies to Gundam Info, who had a higher resolution version of this image than the actual MSV site).

When I separated the Gundam frames into groups for the purposes of not having an extremely over-long blog post, they naturally fell into three groups: relatively simple designs, armed relatively simply; more busy designs featuring some kind of added gimmick; and the freaks and weirdos representing increasingly arcane strategies for beating mobile armours. Seems the official designers intend this to be an actual in-story progression since Zepar, as a low-numbered machine, neatly fits into the first category.

Excepting the 'cape' of shield-wings, Zepar is remarkably unadorned, comparable to Barbatos in its straightforwardness. That a pilot armed only with a sword and shield should have gained a position among the Seven Stars speaks to Embrilla Kujan's skill. True, the shield is motorised so it can be turned into a large-bore drill (handy). But that in itself demonstrates this Gundam did its fighting at close range, further underlining Embrilla's capability. There are undoubted similarities here to Agnika Kaieru's trademark two-sword combat style, which probably looked very good in the late-War propaganda. Indeed, few of the other Gundams seem as gloriously heroic as this in their resting appearance. Put Bael and Zepar in the same place and you're looking at a pair of elegant warriors. Champion dragon-killers, here to save the human race!

Before we get too caught up in the aesthetics, however, let's consider the realities of the Calamity War's outcome. Going by the seating plan, and assuming this maps seniority within the Seven Stars (based on the Issues being positioned at the top of the table), the Kujans and the Fareeds lie at the bottom of the heap. This would actually track quite well with Iznario Fareed's scheming. Lacking the comfortable entrenchment of, say, the Falk Family, he sought to gain other advantages by breaking Gjallarhorn's ostensive political neutrality and acquiring allies among Earth's governments.

Perhaps this also explains why the Kujan Family apparently has connections to underworld figures such as Jasley Donomikols. I'm not going to claim any of the noble families are less than extensively corrupt. Gjallarhorn bends to realpolitik at all levels. But it is notable that the Kujans should have a relationship with the JPT Trust that possibly extends as far as getting them a Halfbeak class spaceship for their boss to ride around in. Is a Jupiter mobster not a rather petty ally for a high-placed house? Or does this represent the level on which such a low-ranked member of the elite can operate?

Without knowing much about Iok's father beyond his earning the adoration of his troops and the above-mentioned connection, it's hard to say for sure. If the Kujans are indeed the runts of the Seven Stars, it seems our red-glad knight was surpassed quite comfortably by peers using different, more pragmatic strategies. Given the drive towards greater complexity in later designs, we might take this to be something the people fighting the War were themselves aware of. At some point, the base Gundam form was judged insufficient for the task at hand.

Then again, the Kujan progenitor still made a place among the seven, however lowly. And, lest we forget, the Falk's Gundam was the fourth in the sequence. The simpler machines cannot be counted out just by virtue of being simpler.

From the Ars Goetia:

The Sixteenth Spirit is Zepar. He is a Great Duke, and appeareth in Red Apparel and Armour, like a Soldier. His office is to cause Women to love Men, and to bring them together in love. He also maketh them barren. He governeth 26 Legions of Inferior Spirits, and his Seal is this, which he obeyeth when he seeth it.

There's an obvious joke in here about preventing Iok's from having been around to screw everything up. That aside, Gundam Zepar is most exactly a 'soldier in red apparel'. Further, on the theme of love, its heroic appearance and the way that Iok's father is talked about in the series seem to mesh well together. Perhaps in Zepar we see the epitome of Gjallarhorn as a positive force -- on the surface, at least.

ASW-G-61 Zagan

16 at the bottom, 61 at the top. I wonder if that was on purpose? They share a designer out of fiction, and seem to share more design cues in-universe than most other pairs of Gundams we could pick. These are perhaps the pair it is most easily to look at and say 'the second is developing on the first'.

Anyway. Gundam Zagan. Original pilot: Arzona Issue. The most prolific mobile armour killer of the Seven Stars. Perhaps *the* most prolific of all the Gundams, depending on whether we assume Bael took the actual top spot and whether the Seven Stars bagged most armours overall, not just out of the surviving pilots.

If Zepar represents simplicity of form, Zagan is a triumph of function. Its numbering places it in the top third of the 72 frames, which by my breakdown classifies it as a freak, and, well. Those aren't just shields it's got there: they're Zagan's main weapons.

With three canonical fights against mobile armours under our belts, we can safely say the goal in such encounters is to rip the 'armour to bits. Whether it be Marchosias dicing Harael with a show of expert swordsmanship, Wiz and friends ganging up to wear down Mebahiah by sheer weight of numbers, or Mikazuki clobbering Hashmal until he gets an opening to stab it in the central processor, a certain degree of dismemberment seems par for the course. This ties into the 'medieval' combat style of the show, but also fits with the general sense that the 'armours are such juggernauts, their defences need to be peeled back to expose any trace of weakness.

A Gundam outfitted with a part of giant tin-openers, therefore, feels like exactly the kind of thing you'd want on the battlefield. Moreover, in his (brief) usage of Zagan, erstwhile Issue Family-supporter Londo Bron demonstrates the sheer brute strength of the machine, effortlessly dispatching a squad of three Grazes, including one he quite literally punches to death. Like Gusion in its Brewers form, this Gundam is built thick, the limbs set wide on the frame. It's the most brutish 'suit we've seen since Gamigin and where that appeared built for heavy-lifting, this one seems designed to be a berserker. Close-range, like Zepar, but discarding swords or spears in favour of crushing force.

Again, it reads as an extension of previous attempts, pushing the envelope in the pursuit of victory. Like Murmur, this looks like a case of incorporating the enemy's strengths: those claws would be at home on a mobile armour -- riffing on Ananel, perhaps? It is certainly building on the kind of equipment Marchosias used, moving from providing auxiliary limbs to making them the Gundam's primary offensive capability (remember, Marchosias' main weapon remained its long sword/club; the other articulated blades were in addition).

What strikes me most of all is how this circles around to what Barbatos will become under Tekkadan's watch. Gjallarhorn might assay the heroic appearance of Zepar, with ornate uniforms and aristocratic trappings, a proud bearing in the face of a grubby world. But the most powerful group among their leadership for three centuries was founded by someone who flew a machine like Zagan, which would be quite at home alongside Barbatos Lupus Rex.

All kingship is rooted, ultimately, in conquest and brutality. The trappings of honour and martial splendour among which Carta Issue dies in PD 323 are a veneer over the horror of a devastating war -- and the horrors required to end it.

One has to wonder what she would have made of her ancestor in their prime, tearing armours apart with their all four of their bare hands.

From the Ars Goetia:

The Sixty-first Spirit is Zagan. He is a Great King and President, appearing at first in the Form of a Bull with Gryphon's Wings; but after a while he putteth on Human Shape. He maketh Men Witty. He can turn Wine into Water, and Blood into Wine. He can turn all Metals into Coin of the Domninion that Metal is of. He can even make Fools Wise. He governeth 33 Legions of Spirits, and his Seal is this, etc.

'Bull with gryphon's wings' is a certainly an apt description of the form and with respect to what I was just talking about, putting on a human shape 'after a while' feels like a theme to run with more than in the other metamorphoses we've read about. Indeed, there is much here to do with the transformation of baser things into the stuff of civilisation: wit, wine, coin, even wisdom. Is this not what the Issues led, the refinement of an organisation dedicated to ending a war into the bastion of a new age? Or, if we are to be cynical about it, is it any surprise a demon's production of such things should only run skin-deep?

Other reference posts include:

IBO reference notes on … Gjallarhorn (Part 1)

IBO reference notes on … Gjallarhorn (Part 2)

IBO reference notes on … Gjallarhorn (corrigendum) [mainly covering my inability to recognise mythical wolves]

IBO reference notes on … three key Yamagi scenes

IBO reference notes on … three key Shino scenes

IBO reference notes on … three key Eugene scenes

IBO reference notes on … three key Ride scenes

IBO reference notes on … the tone of the setting

IBO reference notes on … character parallels and counterpoints

IBO reference notes on … a perfect villain

IBO reference notes on … Iron-Blooded Orphans: Gekko

IBO reference notes on … an act of unspeakable cruelty

IBO reference notes on … original(ish) characters [this one is mainly fanfic]

IBO reference notes on … Kudelia’s decisions

IBO reference notes on … assorted head-canons

IBO reference notes on … actual, proper original characters [explicit fanfic – as in, actually fanfic. None of them have turned up in the smut yet]

IBO reference notes on … the aesthetics of the mobile frame

IBO reference notes on … mobile suit designations

IBO reference notes on … the Gundams (part 1)

IBO reference notes on … the Gundams (part 2)

IBO reference notes on … the Gundams (part 3)

IBO reference notes on … the Turbines, or ‘Tekkadan done right’