#BLACK ENEMYS PROJECT

[savage-kult-of-gorthaur]

HAGSTROM POWER MEETS AMERICAN PSYCH ROCK SOUNDS IN '68.

PIC INFO: Exporting American psych sounds to the Nordic countries -- Spotlight on the reportedly short-lived Swedish psych/garage rock band BLACK ENEMYS PROJECT, c. 1968, photo courtesy of @fadingyellow, mastermind behind the seminal "Diggin’ For Gold" obscuro '60s beat/garage compilation series.

Source: www.picuki.com/media/3286569485606568541.

[beanghostprincess]

Fem Sanuso Outfits save me... Fem Sanuso Outfits... Save me Fem Sanuso Outfits...

[projectmayhem-stims]

COMPOSER BUT NEVER COMPOSED, SINGING "I ONLY WANT WHAT I CAN'T HAVE"

🦴 🦴 🦴

❤️ ❤️ ❤️

👻 👻 👻

9/37: Aradia Megido

[rares-posts]

Todd x Kill Bill - SZA

Not me series | Masterlist of edits

[firestorm09890]

weird take maybe considering how hard some of the later floor themes go but I wish they'd kept the motifs of the lobby theme/battles 1-3 consistent throughout every floor instead of just the Asiyah floors + Keter. I know the composers are capable of it! Look at what they did for those 5 floors (it's done 6 times, since the enemies have a version of it as well): Keter is strings and piano, Malkuth is jazzy and upbeat piano, Yesod is atmospheric/electronic, Hod is pretty similar to Keter but more lowkey piano, and Netzach is... also atmospheric but very distinct from Yesod (I dumped all my music knowledge into classical sorry, idk how to describe it other than that). It's not like they would've run out of musical genres to do 5 more. Tiphereth is sort of twinkly and dramatic + in 3/4 instead of 4/4, Chesed is somber strings, Gebura is heavy metal, Binah is epic orchestral with compound meter, and Hokma has a Mass (music compositional term) feel, with instruments like bells, organs, harpsichords, and choir. that's all different enough that they could've done it. I have the bare minimum knowledge of arranging music that I could probably attempt to do it myself... hm...

[raspberry-rampage]

between 0 and 1, I’m the whole code

[ceilidhtransing]

The discussions around whether or not to vote for Kamala keep being dominated by very loud voices shouting that anyone who advocates for her “just doesn't care about Palestine!” and “is willing to overlook genocide!” and “has no moral backbone at all!” And while some of these voices will be bots, trolls, psyops - we know that this happens; we know that trying to persuade progressives to split the vote or not vote at all is a strategy employed by hostile actors - of course many of them won't be. But what this rhetoric does is continually force the “you should vote for her” crowd onto the back foot of having to go to great lengths writing entire essays justifying their choice, while the “don't vote/vote third party” crowd is basically never asked to justify their choice. It frames voting for Kamala as a deeply morally compromised position that requires extensive justification while framing not voting or voting third party as the neutral and morally clean stance.

So here's another way of looking at it. How much are you willing to accept in order to feel like you're not compromising your morals on one issue?

Are you willing to accept the 24% rise in maternal deaths - and 39% increase for Black women - that is expected under a federal abortion ban, according to the Centre for American Progress? Those percentages represent real people who are alive now who would die if the folks behind Project 2025 get their way with reproductive healthcare.

Are you willing to accept the massive acceleration of climate change that would result from the scrapping of all climate legislation? We don't have time to fuck around with the environment. A gutting of climate policy and a prioritisation of fossil fuel profits, which is explicitly promised by Trump, would set the entire world back years - years that we don't have.

Are you willing to accept the classification of transgender visibility as inherently “pornographic” and thus the removal of trans people from public life? Are you willing to accept the total elimination of legal routes for gender-affirming care? The people behind the Trump campaign want to drive queer and trans people back underground, back into the closet, back into “criminality”. This will kill people. And it's maddening that caring about this gets called “prioritising white gays over brown people abroad” as if it's not BIPOC queer and trans Americans who will suffer the most from legislative queer- and transphobia, as they always do.

Are you willing to accept the domestic deployment of the military to crack down on protests and enforce racist immigration policy? I'm sure it's going to be very easy to convince huge numbers of normal people to turn up to protests and get involved in political organising when doing so may well involve facing down an army deployed by a hardcore authoritarian operating under the precedent that nothing he does as president can ever be illegal.

Are you willing to accept a president who openly talks about wanting to be a dictator, plans on massively expanding presidential powers, dehumanises his political enemies and wants the DOJ to “go after them”, and assures his supporters they won't have to vote again? If you can't see the danger of this staring you right in the face, I don't know what to tell you. Allowing a wannabe dictator to take control of the most powerful country on earth would be absolutely disastrous for the entire world.

Are you willing to accept an enormous uptick in fascism and far-right authoritarianism worldwide? The far right in America has huge influence over an entire international network of “anti-globalists”, hardcore anti-immigrant xenophobes, transphobic extremists, and straight-up fascists. Success in America aids and emboldens these people everywhere.

Are you willing to accept an enormous number of preventable deaths if America faces a crisis in the next four years: a public health emergency, a natural disaster, an ecological catastrophe? We all saw how Trump handled Hurricane Maria in Puerto Rico. We all saw how Trump handled Covid-19. He fanned the flames of disaster with a constant flow of medical misinformation and an unspeakably dangerous undermining of public health experts. It's estimated that 40% of US pandemic deaths could have been avoided if the death rates had corresponded to those in other high-income countries. That amounts to nearly half a million people. One study from January 2021 estimated between around 4,200 and 12,200 preventable deaths attributable purely to Trump's statements about masks. We're highly unlikely to face another global pandemic in the next few years but who knows what crises are coming down the pipeline?

Are you willing to accept the attempted deportation of millions - millions - of undocumented people? This is “rounding people up and throwing them into camps where no one ever hears from them again” territory. That's a blueprint for genocide right there and it's a core tenet of both Trump's personal policy and Project 2025. And of course they wouldn't be going after white people. They most likely wouldn't even restrict their tyranny to people who are actually undocumented. Anyone racially othered as an “immigrant” would be at risk from this.

Are you willing to accept not just the continuation of the current situation in Palestine, but the absolute annihilation of Gaza and the obliteration of any hope for imminent peace? There is no way that Trump and the people behind him would not be catastrophically worse for Gaza than Kamala or even Biden. Only recently he was telling donors behind closed doors that he wanted to “set the [Palestinian] movement back 25 or 30 years” and that “any student that protests, I throw them out of the country”. This is not a man who can be pushed in a direction more conducive to peace and justice. This is a man who listens to his wealthy donors, his Christian nationalist Republican allies, and himself.

Are you willing to accept a much heightened risk of nuclear war? Obviously this is hardly a Trump policy promise. But I can't think of a single president since the Cold War who is more likely to deploy nuclear weapons, given how casually he talks about wanting to use them and how erratic and unstable he can be in his dealings with foreign leaders. To quote Foreign Policy only this year, “Trump told a crowd in January that one of the reasons he needed immunity was so that he couldn’t be indicted for using nuclear weapons on a city.” That's reassuring. I'm not even in the US and I remember four years of constant background low-level terror that Trump would take offence at something some foreign leader said or think that he needs to personally intervene in some military situation to “sort it out” and decide to launch the entire world into nuclear war. No one sane on earth wants the most powerful person on the planet to be as trigger-happy and careless with human life as he is, especially if he's running the White House like a dictator with no one ever telling him no. But depending on what Americans do in November, he may well be inflicted again on all of us, and I guess we'll all just have to hope that he doesn't do the worst thing imaginable.

“But I don't want those things! Stop accusing me of supporting things I don't support!” Yes, of course you don't want those things. None of us does. No one's saying that you actively support them. No one's accusing you of wanting Black women to die from ectopic pregnancies or of wanting to throw Hispanic people in immigrant detention centres or of wanting trans people to be outlawed (unlike, I must point out, the extremely emotive and personal accusations that get thrown around about “wanting Palestinian children to die” if you encourage people to vote for Kamala).

But if you're advocating against voting for Kamala, you are clearly willing to accept them as possible consequences of your actions. That is the deal you're making. If a terrible thing happening is the clear and easily foreseeable outcome of your action (or in the case of not voting, inaction), in a way that could have been prevented by taking a different and just as easy action, you are partly responsible for that consequence. (And no, it's not “a fear campaign” to warn people about things he's said, things he wants to do, and plans drawn up by his close allies. This is not “oooh the Democrats are trying to bully you into voting for them by making him out to be really bad so you'll feel scared and vote for Kamala!” He is really bad, in obvious and documented and irrefutable ways.)

And if you believe that “both parties are the same on Gaza” (which, you know, they really aren't, but let's just pretend that they are) then presumably you accept that the horrors being committed there will continue, in the immediate term anyway, regardless of who wins the presidency. Because there really isn't some third option that will appear and do everything we want. It's going to be one of those two. And we can talk all day about wanting a better system or how unfair it is that every presidential election only ever has two viable candidates and how small the Overton window is and all that but hell, we are less than eighty days out from the election; none of that is going to get fixed between now and November. Electoral reform is a long-term (but important!) goal, not something that can be effected in the span of a couple of months by telling people online to vote third party. There is no “instant ceasefire and peace negotiation” button that we're callously overlooking by encouraging people to vote for Kamala. (My god, if there was, we would all be pressing it.)

If we're suggesting people vote for her, it's not that we “are willing to overlook genocide” or “don't care about sacrificing brown people abroad” or whatever. Nothing is being “overlooked” here. It's that we're simply not willing to accept everything else in this post and more on top of continued atrocities in Gaza. We're not willing to take Trump and his godawful far-right authoritarian agenda as an acceptable consequence of feeling like we have the moral high ground on Palestine. I cannot stress enough that if Kamala doesn't win, we - we all, in the whole world - get Trump. Are you willing to accept that?

And one more point to address: I've seen too many people act frighteningly flippant and naïve about terrible things Trump or his campaign want to do, with the idea that people will simply be able to prevent all these bad things by “organising” and “protesting” and “collective action”. “I'm not willing to accept these things; that's why I'll fight them tooth and nail every day of their administration” - OK but if you're not even willing to cast a vote then I have doubts about your ability to form “the Resistance”, which by the way would have to involve cooperation with people of lots of progressive political stripes in order to have the manpower to be effective, and if you're so committed to political purity that you view temporarily lending your support to Kamala at the ballot box as an untenable betrayal of everything you stand for then forgive me for also doubting your ability to productively cooperate with allies on the ground with whom you don't 100% agree. Plus, if the Trump campaign gets its way, American progressives would be kept so busy trying to put out about twenty different fires at once that you'd be able to accomplish very little. Maybe you get them to soften their stance on trans healthcare but oh shit, the climate policies are still in place. But more importantly, how many people do you think will protest for abortion rights if doing so means staring down a gun? Or organise to protect their neighbours from deportation if doing so means being thrown in prison yourself? And OK, maybe you're sure that you will, but history has shown us time and time again that most people won't. Most people aren't willing to face that kind of personal risk. And a tiny number of lefties willing to risk incarceration or death to protect undocumented people or trans people or whatever other groups are targeted is sadly not enough to prevent the horrors from happening. That is small fry compared to the full might of a determined state. Of course if the worst happens and Trump wins then you should do what you can to mitigate the harm; I'm not saying you shouldn't. But really the time to act is now. You have an opportunity right here to mitigate the harm and it's called “not letting him get elected”. Act now to prevent that kind of horrific authoritarian situation from developing in the first place; don't sit this one out under the naïve belief that “we'll be able to stop it if it happens”. You won't.

[decolonize-the-everything]

Project 25. The Heritage Foundation.

It's behind every single anti-lgbt law pushed the last year. They are why Roe v Wade was overturned. They are successful, well funded, and a massive threat.

What you can do is educate yourself and others about it. Get to know your enemy. Protest. Wear pride pins. Put out your flags. Show solidarity. We are ALL under attack by this white supremacist christo-fascist group.

Remember when 2020 had kpop stans organizing on twitter and gen z using tik tok to make Trump meets flop while white vets made themselves frontline walls at BLM protests that were organized to handle shit like kettling thanks to their amazing black organizers? Remember how people actually Showed up to those protests for awhile?

We need that cross-generational Fuck The System energy again. Not just for a summer this time. This needs to go passed the election.

They're playing a long game and so do we.

Get inspired.

Their goals include saving the children and traditional family, and "to lay the groundwork for a White House more friendly to the right."

This translates to destroying the EPA, disability rights, and criminalizing being LGBT. Also to overthrow the US government, as stated in their manifesto.

They want to replace our democracy with a theocracy. No Republican in office was elected without their approval.

They're the kind of right that makes being LGBT punishable by death. That makes it a crime just to exist where others can see you. They want librarians who work in libraries that make LGBT books accessible to be registered sex offenders. They want you prosecuted and even specify that no mercy should be shown to people the "left" likes (ex: immigrants, black people, etc)

That's the extreme right who's been manipulating our laws.

And they plan to make things a lot worse within the first 180 days a Republican is elected president.

Source

If you don't have plans coming up.... Start organizing them. We will be okay if we work together.

We will be okay if we work together.

If we have each other, we'll be okay. We have to rely on each other. You have to be reliable. You, person reading this, have to show up. That's how this works.

I have your back if you have mine. Do not leave me to the wolves and I won't leave you.

[periprose]

Sweet as Nuka Cola

Cooper Howard/The Ghoul x Reader

You're an upcoming actress who has a constant flirtation with Cooper Howard. But even if things seem to be off to a good start, a nuclear bomb, a cryogenic pod, and two hundred years of carnage ruins all of it. Is there something to be salvaged from your relationship with Mr. Howard?

Genre: Mutual pining, flirting, slow-burn, angst, friends to kind-of enemies to lovers (no cheating but maybe it's a little murky?)

Word Count: 11k

“Action!”

“Hello. Yes, it’s me.” You wave at the camera, adorned in a classic-red sweetheart neckline dress. “You might know me from ‘Girls Want It All’ or ‘Next Door Babe.’”

Here, you play up your recent bombshell status. As Ed, the director of this advert, keeps reminding you, you need to sell yourself to make customers listen.

You sway in your dress, squeezing your arms and throwing your waist back to plump and push out your chest. The implication of the sex appeal in your movies keeps people watching.

But you’re still a rather new actress, so America might not know you so well. You’re glad Nuka Cola has hired you– if you want to be a star, you need more exposure.

“Do you enjoy feeling refreshed?” You cock your head to the camera, pursing your red lips. “Well, golly, what a silly question. Who doesn't?”

“That's where Nuka Cola comes in.” You lift a bottle out of the cooler next to you, all gentle in demeanour, showing off the logo of the bottle to the camera, in your perfectly manicured hands. “With triple the amount of caffeine found in competitor's bottled cola, it's sure to keep you feeling up for a long, long time.”

“And it's good for you.” Ed whispers, a last minute adlib you did not agree to, but you're a professional, so you add it on with a little wink.

“And it sure as heck is good for you.” You smile, the infamous smile that's won you notoriety to Hollywood execs for being the newest bombshell on the block, and you throw your shoulders back as you really lean into your image. 

“Cut! That's a wrap, everyone!” Ed, wanting to finish early, quickly starts ushering everyone out so not a cent more gets spent. 

You immediately relax out of your practised, professional smile. “Any ADR needed?”

“Don't think so, but we'll let you know.” The director is already moving onto whatever his next project is. Advertisements make more money than anything else these days.

You head over to catering, where you're craving– not a Nuka Cola, considering how much sugar is in that thing it's hardly refreshing at all– but an iced tea. 

You stretch out your ankles in your kitten heels as you prepare it. If you told your Ma back in Mojave that the worst thing about fame would be the uncomfortable outfits, she'd smack you. So you keep it to yourself– you're grateful, you're humble, you'll never be an entitled asshole like those fucking execs.

“Watch out, I'm behind ya.” A man gently presses your shoulder as he walks next to you.

You know that voice. Famous movie cowboy, devilishly handsome, easy to admire. A career worth emulating.

“Mr. Howard?” You turn to look at him, and it is him. Wearing a tuxedo suit, smiling his classic, rugged grin at you.

“The one and the only.” He laughs in a self-deprecating way, as a man tired with his fame and used to mocking it. “Hey, wait, don't I know you?”

You immediately feel your face heat up. “Probably not– lots of people have mistaken me for Lucky Yates so far…”

“No, I do know you.” He points a finger at you, while pouring himself a mug of black coffee. “I told you mister, I'm not here for a long time. Just a good one, and if you can't provide it for me, I'll be inclined to look elsewhere.”

Cooper Howard does a perfect impression of your girly, haughty tone from “Girls Want It All”, and it surprises you that he even knows your dialogue that well. You're not used to this much attention, especially not from one of Hollywood's most notable movie stars.

He says your name.

“Yeah, that's me.” You say sheepishly– even though you know you have to fake that confidence, it's hard when you've been caught off guard. You're starstruck– you don't know how to operate, now realizing that even celebrities are noticing you. “Just shooting an ad for Nuka-Cola.”

“Ah, that’s smart of you.” He leans in– about to give you a bit of Hollywood advice, no doubt– and you feel yourself turning warm at the attention he’s giving you. “I wouldn’t expect any less from one of Hollywood’s upcoming stars– residuals aren’t enough to make the world go round.”

You know he’s admiring your street smarts, but you have to ask. “Upcoming, really?”

“Miss, I’m not sure many other actresses could’ve delivered that little monologue I just did without, er, pardon my language,” Cooper takes a sip of his coffee, his eyes peering down at you over the perimeter of the cup. “Fucking it up. Pantomiming too much wily, feminine shit  that execs love, without that little edge of real, subtle emotion. I’m not the only one who thinks so.”

You giggle a little. “C’mon, really? I hardly got to act the way I wanted to.”

“That’s how it starts. Little moments, little subtleties where you’re letting your real character shine through– it’s noticeable to the industry. More opportunities come that way. But it’s smart to use, uh…” Cooper swallows, a tiny, imperceptible thing that reminds you of your bombshell image, that he must be thinking about it. “Smart to use such attractive imagery, if you get my drift. The public will eat you up.”

The way he drawls that latter part makes you feel excited, but you keep it down– it’s well known Cooper Howard is a married man, and you are not about to be ruined by an affair. Even if he does sound sort of flirty, this sort of complimenting is so common in Hollywood.

“What are you doing in the advertisement shooting lot?” You ask, changing the subject, and Cooper shrugs, a nonchalant ripple of a movement that tells you his general cool demeanour isn’t just acting.

“Promised my wife I’d shoot an advert for her. Vault-Tec, you know?” He admits, telling you he hasn’t forgotten about his wife, either. “Gotta head to the experimental Vault they’ve set up next door.”

“Yes, of course.” You, like anyone else, have seen the ads of Cooper in the Vault-Tec suit– it’s a rather controversial thing to be partaking in, but you think he knows what he’s doing.

“Well, Nuka-Cola.” He hands you an iced tea– one you didn’t even notice him making for you as you were talking to him. “I’ll see you around.”

/

The Ghoul walks around the wasteland, two hundred something years into the future.

He’s searching for a bounty– Leopold St. West– worth at least 1000 caps, and it’s terribly difficult to find him when every single person claims he’s in all these different locations, not a single one correlated to each other.

So he’s walking around a destroyed neighbourhood, where Leopold was last seen a day ago, if his fellow ghouls are to be trusted. If he had to guess, these are the remnants of China Town– the faux Asian-esque details, the cheesy red colouring, the false authenticity Hollywood loves to portray as “good as the real thing”. God, Coop does not miss some parts of the fame.

He suddenly stumbles over a piece of the broken sidewalk. Coop’s usually pretty agile, nonchalant on his feet– he knows this feeling. He’s going through withdrawal.

“Shit, I need a minute.” He mutters to himself, feeling a bit woozy.

He's only got a couple more vials of drugs, so he can't be using them all willy-nilly. No, he needs to recoup things and go through this carefully.

Shelter is necessary– the longer Coop is out in the sun, the harsher the effects of withdrawal feel. And, if he’s lucky, one of these buildings might have something for him to loot– more drugs if he’s extra, extra lucky.

Coop enters a nondescript building– where a radroach is waiting, and he immediately fires at it without even looking, killing it in one shot– and he sees the sign over the entry way, marking the lobby.

This is some Hollywood executive-owned club. It’s hard to tell– two hundredyears of wear-and-tear will do that for you– but Cooper Howard distinctly remembers this place, maybe in some conversation back then, maybe when he was networking. 

Every single thing has a distinct, thick layer of grime over it. Coop thinks of sweaty strippers dancing, actors cheating on their wives– they’re all probably dead now.

He reaches into his satchel and takes a hit of one of his vials– and hopes he can replace what he uses with something here.

There’s not a single bottle behind the bar, and he jostles through, not seeing a chem or a drug left behind by anyone on the floor or behind the counter, and he’s mildly disgruntled over how every place has nearly everything picked clean by raiders, wastelanders– just other people. Coop will always loathe these other assholes.

He climbs the broken stairs with a lanky, languid stretch, making it over a fairly large hole where a corpse waits on the floor below. A raider who didn’t watch where he was stepping. That tells him there should be loot up on this upper floor– at least a bit of it.

He walks to the one closed door in a less-than-discreet hallway, gold sconces and railings marking the way.

“Ah… private office.” Coop jiggles an ostentatious handle to a mahogany door, that is surely leading to an even more pretentiously ostentatious office, and he finds that it’s locked.

A good sign. Most likely no one’s ever been in there, because it’s probably a difficult lock to pick. 

It surprises him that no one’s ever just forced their way through.

Coop doesn’t waste time on this though– he just takes a teeny gun out of his bag, fires it, and admires the hole in the door where the handle used to be. The door creaks open on it’s own, and he saunters into a well furnished, dusty office room.

“Nope, nope, nope…” He pushes box after box in the shelves next to the wall, and they fall with loud clatter– loaded with panicky, nuclear-war-on-the-horizon type shit, like canned meats and beans and preserved jams and pickles. “Fuck no.”

He pushes off a toy figurine of Vault Boy down with extra gusto.

Coop looks behind the desk, where there’s a dusty placard reading Adrian Amos II. He grins– one of the worst producer bastards of all time is not someone he’d feel bad about stealing from, even if there was still some conscience left in him. No, sir, Adrian Amos the second did not deserve any sympathy, especially after the way he was known for bitching about salaries, abusing PAs, and having a predilection for going after less-than-consenting women.

Coop grits his teeth, remembering that asshole and how terrible and gaudy this club was back then. Not that it was better now– but he’s grateful for one man’s deserved death, at least.

He jostles open where the second drawer is filled with the glass clinking sound of many, many vials.

“Fucking jackpot, Jesus.” Coop stares down at how many there are– at least 40 or 50– a hell of a lot to just be left behind.

Well, based on the other supplies, Adrian Amos got fucked over and either didn’t make it to his vault in time, or forgot to run to his private club before heading in.

Coop doesn’t give a fuck, though. He starts piling the vials into his cases, and then back into his bag.

There’s a sudden whirring sound near him. “Huh?”

To his left, an imperceptible secret door has pushed itself outwards, decorated in the same dark brown wallpaper as the rest of the room.

Coop looks down and under– he’s accidentally pressed a secret button on the underside of the drawer. “Fuck.”

He doesn’t know what would be inside the secret room– assassins, raiders waiting on someone to dupe? Maybe even synths, just meant to protect Amos when he needed it.

Inside the room, it’s dark, and he can’t make out anything. Coop can only draw his gun rapidly when there’s a blue light suddenly emitting out from the inside.

He’s careful as he approaches– last thing Coop wants is an ambush– and as his vision improves, he sees it’s a cryonic pod, all frosted over so he can’t make out who’s inside.

Coop sighs, ready to leave it behind– he’s not interested in waking up Amos– and instead, the thing whirs, heating up it’s insides with extremely hot steam, and then opens up with a mechanical flourish.

Coop instinctively steps back, coughing “Holy shit!” as the air whooshes past him.

A body falls out, just looking slightly frosted– mostly thawed by whatever the cryo tank just did. 

/

You're on set again, sitting in a free lawn chair while others get ready for their take– it's not for a Nuka-Cola ad, it's just a guest appearance on everyone's favourite sitcom, The Grady Group, where you play an overly promiscuous babysitter who has no sense for watching over kids.

It's comedic, it's an easy way to get laughs– plus it actually boosts the shows’ ratings since you've been in movies and all. You’re done filming already, you’re just sitting here watching the rest of the shoot, dragging out your return to your car, and then back home. 

Something about the fictional family you wait on, Gill and Gina Grady, and their kids Gideon, Gessica, and Gwen, it makes you miss having a family of your own. In fact, you have half a mind to call your mother, despite all the bitching she’ll give you about the things you haven’t done yet.

It also doesn't help that Gill and Gina are a couple in real life– named Arthur and Bea Smith, they really, really are in love, and in between takes they're often canoodling with each other.

You're happy for them, if not a little– jealous, despite the fact that you're not interested in dating anyone right now. At least, you thought you weren't, but you find that lately, when you return back to your apartment all lonesome after a shoot, you feel like something is missing.

“Hey. Nuka-Cola.” Cooper Howard strolls over to where you're sitting, and you smile up at him, covering your eyes from the sunlight streaming through the windows.

“Mr. Howard. Shooting today?” You ask, and he shakes his head.

“Not at all. Just lounging around, waiting for my kid.” He sits in the lawn chair next to you, leaning back, crossing one leg over the other. “Janey is on a field trip at a museum next door– I thought I’d kill some time before picking her up.”

“Ah, cute.” You grin. Janey Howard is an absolutely precious kid– she shares her dad’s smile, but has a curious nature that you admire. “Is she well?”

“As well as kids can be at that age, running around all the time.” Cooper shrugs. “You know how it is.”

“Kind of. I actually did used to babysit kids, so I know– they can never sit still or mind their business.” You laugh as Cooper grins. 

“So you went method for your guest appearance, huh?” He asks, and you’re mildly baffled.

“How do you know about that?” You squint at him, just being jokingly suspicious.

“Oh, I saw a few clips of your footage. While I was walking over here.” He points over at Stu, the director, standing on the living room set, watching clips on his viewfinder. “Seemed pretty natural to me.”

It almost bothers you that he seems so interested in you and your work, that he always voices support– but he’s well-known for being happily married, for being content in general, unlike you.  

Still, better a friend than nothing at all, that’s what you always tell yourself.

“Thanks. But it’s not hard being around kids, is it?” You reminisce being a kid in Mojave, playing with your friends on your street– and then as a young adult, babysitting new kids that still wanted to play with you. “I still sometimes feel like I’m just a kid pretending to be an adult.”

“That never goes away, darlin’.” Cooper laughs, and you blink. “Being an actor, especially, you’re never losing that childhood sense of wonder, you get my drift?”

“Yeah, of course.” You nod. “I just don’t feel complete, I guess. I’m still waiting for the moment I’ll know I’m an adult– like maybe if I get married or something like that.”

“Being married didn’t change that for me either. Neither did being a dad.” He winces, and scratches at his stubble. “Just don’t tell anyone I said that, but I think it’s all apart of being a human person.”

Your face turns a little more glum at that, and he wonders what he said that bummed you out. It’s not his intention– he wants to cheer you up.

“What’s with the sad, forlorn, ‘I’m-a-pretty-girl-come-comfort-me’ look?” Cooper utters as he leans in, and you laugh a little but silence yourself, recognizing his compliment.

It’s dangerous to flirt with this guy, this taken man who has nothing to gain but a bit of affection he may be missing, but you see that he knows his compliment had effect anyways– and he definitely likes that.

You just choose to assume it’s entirely friendly.

“I just… I like the thought of having a family.” You suck in air,at how foolish and girly this sounds, hardly the cutthroat businesswoman you need to be out here. “This is stupid, I’m sorry.”

“No, no, it isn’t.” Cooper taps his arm rest, thinking. “You’re hurting, I can tell. You got that same pissed off look most ladies get when they ‘don’t wanna talk’ but they’re holding tons of shit inside.”

Damn this guy, you think, but you decide to be honest.

“I just didn’t think it’d be so lonely out here. In Hollywood.” You press your palms together. “Like, everywhere I go, I’m surrounded by classic Americana, the nuclear family– and I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m jealous.”

“As a bachelorette, don’t you got plenty of options?” Cooper grins. “I mean, are men not lining up to court Nuka-Cola girl?”

“Ah…” You hum, thinking of dates you’ve had here, settling back in your seat. “I don’t know– it’s cheesy but I want more sincerity.”

“In that case, don’t be jealous, marriage ain’t all that.” Cooper tuts, knowing that you of all people should hear about how it doesn’t complete you. “It’s not perfect, it’s not a magical fairy-tale where everything gets solved, it’s a hell of a lot more work than people let on.”

“Oh.” You knew that, deep down– but hearing it from him really solidifies that for you. It’s a silly dream.

It sounds like he’s speaking from experience, so you quiet down. But you’re not trying to get your hopes up about that or anything.

“And you’re not an idiot, Nuka-Cola. Don’t get into something you’re not a hundred fucking percent sure about.” Cooper clicks his tongue. “If you really feel the urge to suddenly go and play wife with someone, just for me, make sure he’s absolutely worth it.”

“For you?” You raise your eyebrows at that.

“I figure you won’t do it for yourself. Love is blind and all that.” He points at himself. “But if I, as your buddy Cooper, hold you to that? I’ll bet that you’ll vet every single guy.”

“Oh, really.” You smirk at him, your nose scrunching a little. “Is that for my benefit, or yours?”

“Uh…” Cooper is truly caught off guard here. He knows he didn’t intend anything by what he said, but it does feel like… he won’t enjoy the fact that if the next few times he talks to you, continuing become close to you, he’ll have to get the approval of some man.

Some man who wouldn’t even know you as long he has known you. He always likes his chats with you, and there’s an urge inside him not to let you go.

He thinks again that you’re a little too spontaneous. Not easy to dupe, no– he can’t just flirt with you for fun because you’ll always pick up on it, even if he did it by mistake.

“No comment.” He finally answers with a raspy, low tone, one that you barely hear but are satisfied by.

/

A few months later, you check your face in your little compact mirror before stuffing it in your purse and heading inside Sebastian Leslie’s home. Exciting, yes, because this is the first time you’ve been invited not just to network, not just because a big name has seen you in the movies and wants to flaunt that they know you tangentially.

No, this is the first time you know someone, you’re actually in with a crowd– you’re friends with the host. You don’t feel nearly as awkward walking into Sebastian’s comfortable home and seeing familiar faces that you’re close with, decor that you already recognize.

“There she is.” Sebastian greets you with a tight hug– for a massive flirt he’s actually rather protective of you sometimes. “Love the dress, by the way– is that a vintage Chanel? Black is very flattering on you, my dear.”

You get the sense he didn’t want you to be involved in this industry sometimes, but other times– he likes that you put work in.

“I saw your newest advertisement on TV yesterday.” He comments, and you giggle.

“Was it good?” 

“Yeah, amazing as usual– but you gotta do more than that.” Sebastian holds your hand as he pulls you into the crowd of other low-level actors, people who could risk showing up, really, and you fix your dress, a black one with a low square neckline. “Look into Vault-Tec– I’ve been telling Cooper here about how our futures are totally going to be surrounded by their products, even though that fucker does not want to listen.”

Cooper’s lounging in a low sofa in the pit of this living room, holding a crystal glass full of amber liquid, black button up shirt half open– he looks dishevelled, hair slightly askew, jaw off-kilter as he presses his tongue into his cheek, thinking. Lost by something, but still put together as celebrities are. Geez, you really need to temper your attraction to him.

It doesn’t help how he looks at you, either– there’s something deep and reverent about his gaze, like he wants to believe whatever he sees when he’s looking at you– but you have no idea if it’s real, or if it’s just an act like with most of these celebrities.

You used to see him a lot more frequently too, over the last few months. Either at set, or at more fancy parties– most of which he’s been perfectly pleasant and kind to you.

“Of course you’d label me as some fucking chairman for them, Seabass.” Cooper slams back half a pint of whisky, and pours himself some more. “Hey, Nuka-Cola.”

“Hey, Mr. Howard.” You smile gently. You’ve heard about his divorce– everyone has, but you’re not 100% sure why it’s happened, why now when things seemed to be going so well for him.

Well is relative, though. You know loads of actors have decried him privately– no one wants to hang out with the man promoting the end of the world, apparently. It must be a tough thing to only be hired for your wife’s advertisements– and even then, you don’t exactly agree with what they’re marketing, either.

You don’t feel so strongly against Cooper, though. Maybe because you do like him– but also because you know what it’s like to have your image connected to something you don’t really promote. Nuka-Cola isn’t healthy, it’s got enough sugar to induce instant death when drank regularly. But you do it for the connections, the money– and you’re sure Cooper did too.

“Cooper is fine.” He grumbles, and you remember his last name is maybe a sore subject right now.

“Sorry.” You do your best to be delicate as you sit next to him, and Sebastian sits on the other side of you. “How’re you, Cooper?”

“Not bad. If you count being divorced as being alright.” He sighs, and you feel terrible that you even asked. “It’s like I never knew her, man– I thought Barb was different. Or they changed her, I don’t fucking know.”

“She had her eyes set on the prize. As did you, Coop.” Sebastian states, and Cooper turns, affronted.

“We’re all interested in money and glory, Seabass. Fuck you if you think otherwise.” Cooper tenses, and you feel a bit awkward listening in on this conversation.

“What did I say that negates that? I’m as money hungry as they come.” Sebastian shrugs. “I only meant that– despite it all, making money was what you had in common, evidently not the world-going-nuclear shit. Maybe you’ve got a heart of gold, a change of mind, I don’t know, Cooper. But throwing away an easy life just to pay alimony must be fucking awful, so I just don’t think you’re in it for the money anymore.”

“You’re fucking telling me.” Cooper sniggers. “I don’t think Barb cares. I’m here with no career, and she’s out there getting promoted in Vault-Tec. As for the heart of gold… any former marine would’ve been against that shit.”

You want to ask what shit, but you don’t want to overstep your boundaries. You get the general fear of nuclear war– but Cooper sounds more personally affected by it.

Cooper glances over at you. “What do you think? Better to be richer than you can spend in a lifetime, or to be out with a good conscience?” 

“I don’t know if I’m that interested in money.” You say honestly, and Cooper raises his eyebrows.   

“Really? Nuka-Cola’s a saint, huh.” He chuckles– he’s clearly a bit buzzed.

“No, I’m not. Of course I want to have a career.” You think about this carefully, so it doesn’t sound insincere. “Making money is nice– but I don’t think I have the right to say it should come at the cost of human lives. You know Nuka-Cola is terrible for you, right? ”

Cooper stares at you for a moment too long, and then looks away. “Yeah… addicting.”

He’s definitely not talking about Cola, but you continue on. “Yeah, so just in that way– I disagree with how much power marketing has. We’ve convinced America that they need this– just so some chairman can make an extra dollar.”

Cooper looks at you, renewed by whatever you just said. “Hell, woman after my own heart. That’s damn true.”

“Yes, yes, you two oblivious flirts– there’s no art in filmmaking anymore, just commercialism. Not like it hasn’t been the case for a century.” Sebastian chimes in, and you bite your lip, pretending not to notice how Cooper’s face is smirking bashfully. “But, babe. You’re going to want to make your money before the world fucking ends.”

“What’s that?” You startle, and Cooper laughs sardonically at your surprise, while Sebastian gets up.

“Let me get myself a drink– I hardly want to tell this story sober.” He leaves, and Cooper has half a heart to glare at him– he knows Sebastian is leaving the two of you alone so he can do the dirty work.

Not like his reputation can ever get better, especially by telling this story again with it’s lurid details, but at least it doesn't hurt that he's with you. 

“What does he mean by that, Mr. Howard?” You wince at your use of that. “Sorry– I meant Cooper.”

“Ah, call me what you’d like.” Cooper takes another sip of his drink, leaning back in the couch to the point where he is practically lying down and against you. “It sounds good coming out of your mouth no matter what you pick, Nuka-Cola.”

Now that’s a suggestive, loaded line, and you feel a little more comfortable flirting with him even if it’s a bit of a rebound for him. The end of the world is approaching, right?

“The end of the world?” You prod at him, and he sighs, leaning against your shoulder. 

“It’s fucking ridiculous, what it is… probably never going to happen anytime soon.” Cooper’s tone of voice is hazy as he examines his last sip of whisky in the glass. “No, no. Just something those fucking commies put in my head. I guess they’re not really commies, are they?”

“Unless you elaborate, I can’t say.” You utter back at him, and he pushes down a smile.

“Alright. Vault-Tec’s been selling this nuclear protective stuff, right?” He says, and you nod, your cheek brushing against the top of his hair. “All I can say is that a few… radicals, if you will, think that Vault-Tec might actually be more involved with it than they say. Like, they might be…”

“Not just protective, huh? More offensive? Everyone’s got that feeling, Mr. Howard. And that doesn't sound like a particularly commie-train-of-thought to me.” You hear the sorrow in his tone, even if he’s trying to make it sound like a rumour. “Did you hear this from your ex-wife?”

Cooper winces here. He still feels slightly guilty about spying on her. A part of him thinks they might’ve not divorced if he hadn’t found out– but he knows he was bound to find out eventually, and he would’ve just delayed the inevitable.

“Maybe, Cola. Maybe you’re just sharp.” He whispers, and you smile and he feels it– your skin is intoxicatingly close right now.

“So, odds are?” You ask, just curious, and he exhales.

“Bad. I have to agree with them.” He admits, and it feels exhilarating to admit this– that Vault-Tec is gonna nuke the world at some point, that the radicals are more like minded to him than he’s wanted to believe in the past. “Even if it didn’t cost my movies, I regret partaking in what they were selling.”

That’s a big thing for him to say– you know Cooper loves acting, he absolutely adores playing a hardened sheriff, the last vestige of goodness in the wild, wild west. All the times you’ve visited him on his set– probably during his last contractual movie, now that you think about it– and he was always so excited to show off the architecture and intricacies of the fictional western town they’d set up, share script details and little character quirks so you could have an insider’s viewpoint. He even donned his cowboy hat on you, saying you wore it like a natural.

He loved being the hero, really.

He lights a cigarette, and takes a puff.

“Most big-name connections refuse to talk to me because of this stuff– I’ve basically been dropped out of phonebooks all together. They think I’m still in on it, they think I’ve only stopped because of backlash–” He stops as you begin to scratch his scalp, still leaning against your shoulder, but getting progressively into your neck area.

Jesus, that feels good. He thinks. He hasn’t been intimate in a while– Barb became increasingly more cold to him over the last few months, as their marriage kept falling apart.

“Backlash, really?” You whisper. 

“Yeah.” He stutters for just a moment, because your eyes are peering into his, and for a moment he thinks you could really make it as just a bombshell if you wanted to– then he takes another puff. “When really, I was just backing out of what I thought was really a massive crime against humanity.”

“Are you only telling me this to validate your poor conscience? Remedy that reputation a little?” You ask, and he presses his lips together. 

“Well, I'll be honest, yeah. Of fucking course I'd tell the one woman who seems to be like me on this.” He sounds so certain of you, sounds so sure that you're on his side.

And you absolutely are.

“The world’s about to end, Mr. Howard. You're not a bad man for not wanting to support it. I'm inclined to agree.” You inhale deeply, and Cooper stares at you– something stirs inside him as he does. 

“Kiss me, then. Humour me– since none of this will matter soon.” Cooper murmurs, lying on top of your chest now, the smoke from his cigarette enveloping your face.

He’s so close you barely have to move to oblige to what he’s said– you're second guessing yourself for just a moment, because it feels like a dream that he'd ask you to do this, so out of the blue, such a picture perfect fantasy that you almost don't care about the impending doom, and you press your lips gently to his in an upside-down kiss, his hair brushing against your open cleavage, but Cooper is insistent and leans upward, kissing you with such intensity that your head is spinning afterwards.

God, now that's a movie star kiss. You think.

He kisses you again as Sebastian returns, drink in hand.

“Oi! You two. Jesus Christ, can't keep your hands off each other, can you?” Sebastian pretends to vomit. “C’mon, if I want to talk to you at my party, I should have that right.”

You attempt to pull away– but Cooper, being a little mischevious, perhaps wanting to show off in a way he hasn’t been able to, sits up right and kisses you again, this time normally, just very slowly and passionately though, slithering an arm around your waist in a way that has Sebastian rolling his eyes. 

“Okay, present.” He says, not pulling his arm off your waist. 

“Thanks.” Sebastian shakes his head. “I was thinking we should take the mood off with some party games…”

/

It's about 2 AM when you've finally left the party. Cooper didn't want to let you go– he's crashing at an apartment for the time being, but you really don't want to waste yourself on being his rebound, if he really likes you.

You tell him as much, and he likes that– you really are rather sharp about things. 

“Well. Gimme a call when you realize I'm not kidding around with you.” He says unabashedly, holding your hand, kissing it as you leave.

You’re absolutely sure he's drunk, and he's being a little too clingy– but you want to believe him anyways. 

You walk back to your car, alone. Thinking about if Cooper is worth the damage it could have on your potential career. But then again– the end of the world is coming, right?

So maybe it won’t matter. And you find that you like this, the secret potential of this option, just hanging out with Cooper in a place that used to be America, no more expectations on you both. There’s also the chance you just both die, though.

You shudder.

You don't notice that there's a man in the backseat of your car when you get in, brandishing a chloroform stained cloth.

/

The Ghoul prods at the body that's just fallen out of the cryo pod.

Oh fuck. 

It's starting to stir, whoever it is, and Coop knows he's ready, if this is really some synthetic android-clone thing, to make their life hell. Get some of his anger out on something that doesn’t matter.

Wait– he recognizes that cherry red fabric. That coiffed hair, frosty after being inside the pod. Oh, Jesus… even the makeup is the same as when he last saw you. 

“Ah… shit.” He chuckles to himself in exasperation, because this is beyond belief. “Nuka-Cola, is that you?”

You tilt yourself to the side, eyes bleary, unable to see clearly. Everything’s dark. But you know that voice, you just heard it a couple of days ago.

“Mr. Howard?” You croak out, and he hisses inwards– nobody has called him that in centuries. Nobody knows who he is… except for you, of course. 

“The one and the same, baby.” He licks the side of his gums, deciding to stick with his identity for now. “Well, maybe a little different. You wouldn't happen to know what a Ghoul is, huh?”

“What?” You don't know how long your vision is going to stay black for, but you don't like the sound of that. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“Eyes haven't been opened for… two hundred years. I'll give you some time, Cola.” He sighs; cracks his neck, while you sink back into the floor. “Just imagine the ugliest horror-picture monster you can imagine. Zombie, no nose. That paint a picture for you?”

“...”

“What was that?” Coop can't hear you when your voice is muffled into the tiles of this secret room. He grasps your hair gently, from the root, pulling your head upwards so you'll speak– clearly you don't have the strength to lift up your body. 

“I said, how is that any different from before?” 

“Oh, she's still a jokester.” Coop scoffs– despite himself he snorts– and he lets go of your hair so you land back on the floor with a thump.

“–Ow!” You flinch, and then turn over so you’re on your back. “Still an asshole, huh?”

“Me?” He grins maliciously. Ooh, maybe he can use some misplaced anger on you. “You're the one who didn't call back for several weeks.”

“How could I? You can see I've been trapped in a cryo thing for… however long. Did you say two hundred years?” You flatly ask, and Coop still thinks you're lying.

“Yes, and bullshit. You probably had a couple weeks since I last saw you to call me.” He states, and he doesn’t actually hold a grudge, at least not that much of it in comparison to all the other horrid shit that’s happened to him– he just thinks it's funny to push your buttons after all of that, like looking into a mirror of the past– and you groan.

“No, I didn't. I got in my car after Sebastian's party, and some goon sprayed something in my face, I passed out, and he drove me here.” You start, and you begin frowning in such a way that Coop almost feels bad. 

“Why you, sweetheart?” He shakes his head. “You weren't exactly high up in popularity yet.”

“Exactly. No one would miss me.” You spit out bitterly, remember the end to that night, where you were so unaware of your surroundings, and terrified of being assaulted as you were pushed around into this room, blindfolded.

“Adrian fucking Amos, the fucking Second, thought it would be great if I just became his permanent doll during the apocalypse.” You swallow, and Coop sits down next to you, to listen more clearly. You shift towards his body heat– and to his surprise, he still likes that. “See, his daddy has shares in Vault-Tec, so he decided before nuclear fallout happened, he wanted a guaranteed sex slave from his favourite advertisements.”

“Nuka-Cola.” Coop utters with the slowest drawl, concluding your statement– and you like that.

“Yeah, Nuka fucking Cola.” You grimace. “Then he undressed me, put me in this little number, and threw me in the pod. I barely remember this shit because I was so out of it.”

“Shame. I always wondered why you never called me back.” Coop circles back to his little grudge– but he also feels bad, feels some level of guilt that neither he nor Sebastian had the sense to look out for you back then, and you were practically assaulted (maybe actually so if you didn't remember). 

“Yeah, because I wanted to miss out on that piece of ass. Sure.” You joke feebly, and Coop laughs despite himself. 

“Honey, you're gonna run away screaming when you finally see me. Don't worry about it.” He shakes his head. “The real world's a lot more fucking difficult than would'ves and could'ves.”

“Okay, explain. If you're willing to owe me that much.” You start, and Coop gets reminded of that fateful night a couple hundred years ago, where he was the one to clue you into the impending nuclear war.

Not even three months later, it was all over, and you were nowhere in sight– if his mind ever did drift to you, the what-ifs and who-knows that still persisted– he would always assume you were dead.

Now he thinks you're just unfinished business. 

“Fine.” He taps your shoulder, and you lean a little closer towards him– you touch his hand, and instead of flinching as many people have in the past– you trace the tough, callused skin there.

He thinks there’s something wrong with you. Why do you seem drawn to him anyways? You’re completely fucking up his tough guy, lone-wolf persona by being here, and he wants you gone. He pulls away his hand, ignoring how your face falls for a moment.

Coop inhales, and then starts. “In October 2077, they nuked America, bombed it all to hell. By they, I think we both know what I’m implying.”

“It wasn’t the Chinese.” You interrupt, and he shushes you.

“Yeah, Cola.” He starts playing with his fingers, feeling like you don’t deserve to be here right now. That you should’ve just stayed dead. “Vault-Tec destroyed it all.”

It’s no good. He’s an old man, and you’re still as soft and young as ever. He’s always haunted by his past, like with Barb and Janey, and then Sebastian’s voice in every single Mr. Handy robot he comes by, and then finally, his last couple memories with you.

“The last two hundred something years have been filled with carnage, death, unspeakable horrors that your pretty little mind could never comprehend.” He grits out, pushing past the past and remembering that this is who he is now– a killer– and you stare at him vacantly, because his tone is so much more serious suddenly. “Nothing is the same. Everyone has blood on their hands, water is a fucking commodity, if you’re not watching out for humans to betray you, hideous creatures like me roam the ground, and that ground? Sands, deserts, barely a hint of green. It’s nothing worth coming back to.”

“So you’re saying I’m in hell.” You suddenly inhale harshly, and Coop ignores the urge to check on you.

The last thing he needs is an extra person to take care of– especially someone who doesn’t know the Wasteland. So it’s better now that he just weans you off and leaves you here.

“Yeah, sweetheart. And I'm the devil.” Coop sucks on his teeth again. “If you had any sense, you’d go back into that fucking freezer until some utopia is born four hundred years from–”

You flinch, and he stops. 

“Oh, God, my eyes–”

The sight comes back slowly then all at once. Light everywhere, overwhelming your senses. 

You blink, tears rolling down your face. 

“Maybe it would’ve been better if you stayed blind, Cola.” He stares at you as you rub your eyes, taking in the state of the room. 

It’s a warning, but you look up at him again anyways. And Coop waits for the utter horror, for the sign that he really has transformed into a monster, so he can hurry up and leave– this entire conversation with you is just him finishing Cooper Howard’s past with a bow. A shiny, Nuka-Cola-red bow.

“...” You swallow, and then bite your lip, tilting your head up at him. “Couldn’t let go of the cowboy identity, huh?”

Coop furrows his non-existent eyebrows, disliking how hard you’re making this, how clever you still seem to be– you also seem way too relaxed with him. He has half a mind to fire a warning shot at you. “Yeah, okay, darlin’. You’re just avoiding facing that horrific, bile-inducing sensation in your throat, aren’t you?”

You shake your head, disagreeing immediately. “You might look– a little less like how I remember you, I guess… but you’re still you. I see it, and apparently so do you.”

How dare you? Coop thinks, how dare you intertwine his two images together so easily when he could never be the same man again, when just seeing an old VHS tape of one of his movies pains him?

“Yeah, no thanks. If this is your way to get me to valet you around, I’m not that man anymore, Nuka-Cola.” He resents the way you think he could still be good– just because his western image brings him a little comfort nowadays. “Not a sheriff anymore.”

Your face drops, but you seem to take that information readily. “Yeah, I figured that based on your outfit, the little blood splatters on your pants… if that’s how the world is, then so be it.”

You’re saying things that on paper should be right– but Coop is getting more and more disgruntled with you, and you feel like you need to separate yourself from him. Yes, tough, because to you it’s been all of forty-eight hours since you kissed him– but you can see, no matter how deep the original Cooper Howard is inside this new Ghoul, you’re not going to be able to bring him out.

You stand up, on shaky, bare feet, and motion for Coop to move out of the way. Independent woman to the end, you are, and you want to get your bearings without him.

Coop internally sighs. He doesn’t believe for one second you’ll survive out there– and he really doesn’t need to spend the time seeing you die, so he turns around, and leaves you here.

/

He never did find Leopold St. West, much to his chagrin– you really, really messed up his day. 

It happens. Sometimes he’ll see Janey in another person’s eyes and freak out, and have to boil it down by murdering random raiders. 

But now Coop is just spiteful. He’s always figured that a lot of what happened to the world was just a bunch of rich people picking and choosing a destiny for themselves to the detriment of everyone else, and now he’s aware that included you, too. To casually be grabbed away by some man, just because he was rich… Coop isn’t unsympathetic to how you ended up, even if he treated you quite poorly. It’s sickening.

Two hundred years of quiet, always-dwelling agony, the first few years out of fear for being alone, and the next few years spent conspiring about what could’ve happened to his family– and then here you are as confirmation of his worst theories.

No wonder he enjoys his casket time.

/

Coop sighs.

Vaultie is hard to keep track of. She got away with murder this time at the organ harvesting clinic– so Coop finds it easier to stop working with her, to move when he wants to.

The Govermint (really just Booker’s shitty gang) was rather easy to dismantle. The two sheriffs that he killed required no expertise on his part.

He’s thinking about the fact that since Moldaver is still alive, and apparently that fucker Hank MacLean, then that means there’s a good chance Barb and Janey are too– perhaps he could go and find them.

It’s an odd urge, though. Everytime he thinks about it, he wonders how he’s actually supposed to connect with them again– they’ve been fractured for so long, and he’s changed, and there’s a good chance neither of them would accept him like this.

But you did, didn’t you? You were on the verge of saying yes, you’d accept him– as if nothing had changed.

Coop grumbles. The big, significant difference is that you were infatuated with him, but Barb divorced him, and Janey was too young to make that choice. He considers that it could be a pipe dream, but he still has hope– for Janey, at least.

He thinks you’re probably dead anyways. He hasn’t seen you in several months, since that day where he unceremoniously woke you up– and he hopes it stays that way.

He's chilling in another small, scrappy area of the wasteland. Nobody bothers the Ghoul, not when he's casually fiddling with his gun and and chewing on a toothpick.

A man runs past him, holding a significantly valuable piece of Brotherhood equipment. Maybe worth thousands of caps if he knows his shit, and he does. That’s a fusion core, and they’re not exactly mass producing those anymore during the apocalypse.

Coop points his gun at him, finger on the trigger, seconds away from creating a bloody mess–

A blade thwacks into the guy’s neck, blood spurting as he falls and chokes. A person– a woman– jumps on his back, her face obscured by a deep green bandana . She yanks out the knife, stabs a few more times for good measure– and Coop knows the game, he’s not surprised he’s not the only one to go after this guy.

He’s pretty good at killing casually, and he barely even moves from where he’s standing, aiming the gun at her.

No way is he letting easy money pass by him.

He’s about to pull the trigger extra-quick when she yanks the bandana down, taking a deep breath as she sweats, and Coop actually misses.

It’s you. You stare up at him from where you’re squatting over the body, and your gaze hardens, furrowed brows, dark lashes, intensely dark pupils. You purse your lips, press them together, jaw set in a stern fashion, recognizing him but refusing to hear him out– and Coop doesn’t know why he’s not firing, but he’s almost… enamoured with how you are now, almost taken aback by your new nature.

Not so taken aback that he doesn’t immediately start firing when you take the fusion core and start running.

And Coop doesn’t want to actually kill you, he just wants to incite some damage. See how far you can take it.

You interweave through random gaps in the metal scraps of this little abode, seeking shelter as you do so, and Coop’s gunfire only ricochets off them with cartoony sounding “pings!”

He manages to graze your left thigh through a small window, and you inhale sharply, stopping as you grit through the pain.

Coop grins to himself. This little cat and mouse chase is what he expected, what was predictable from you– you’re smart enough to stay on the defense, but you would probably never attack him, avoiding him because of your sad feelings of the old times, never resort to carnage unless you needed to–

You shove past the walls where you’ve been roaming, and manage one kick against his stomach and he manages to grab you and restrain you, your back against his front.

You grab his own jacket for purchase, and instead of pulling forward– you push back, landing on top of him with a thud that surely hurts him. Coop clenches his teeth, back against the ground now, but you scramble, straddling him. Hands around his throat, knife pressed against one of his tendons. Not outright strangling him, but just enough pressure that he knows you’re seriously threatening him.

Holy fuck, have you changed. Just like Vaultie, maybe you’re showing your honest self– and Coop supposes it may have been his mistake to underestimate you.

“Got a whole new outfit… I like it.” He admires your new leather jacket, cargo pants around your thighs pushing his arms down, a blouse fashioned out of your old Nuka-Cola dress. Tough combat boots dig into his thighs as you push against him. “Don’t fucking start–” You squeeze a little harder and he groans, the tip of the knife pushing in. “With your on and off, hot and cold bullshit.” 

Ooh, it sounds like you have a little bit of a grudge over how you were treated.

“Get over it, Cola. It was centuries ago, whatever we had.” He spits out, and you have a glint of sadness in your eyes.

He knew you were a little too gushy for your own good– not even he adapted that quickly to the wilderness of the Wasteland. He waits for you to make the mistake, apologize, break down– and then he can take the core and get out of here.

But you’re still firm in your grasp of him, your weight pushing him down, blade against him.

You’re not angry about back then. You’ve come to terms with that.

You’re angry at the state of the world. 

“You know what I fucking hate, Ghoul?” You spit in his face, and he blinks, spittle now on his chin. “You are all so selfish. I got left behind, likely for dead, right, and nobody gives a shit, whatever. But instead of me hoping that the leftover crumbs of society would at least try to be, I don’t fucking know, more hopeful and kind, or at the very least, not be so fucking greedy and transparently trying to be the new party in charge.”

“You’re living in a dream world.” Coop interrupts, and he’s rewarded with you carving a small, little cut on his cheek, a rapid movement you hardly think about, and it causes him to inhale sharply, a drop of blood smearing across his face.

“Oh, no. I’m not asking for everyone to hold hands and play family.” You laugh suddenly, and then somehow lean in closer, and Coop finds that in some fucked up way he enjoys the pressure against him. “It’s bullshit, that kind of image making– you and I both know that. But for all this supposed talk against the rich billionaires who ruined our lives, how are we not just emulating them?”

Coop is actually drawn to silence.

“Maybe you actually got fooled by self-image, Cola.” He murmurs. “Or maybe that’s just people’s true nature.”

You don’t like that answer. You don’t actually want to believe that, but the more you think about it, the more it’s probably true. People lie all the time, but the amount of outrage you’ve heard from people the last few months, bemoaning Vault-Tec and all those rich fuckers, you were inclined to believe they wouldn’t act the exact same way.

Just at a different level. Power corrupts all, you guess.

You loosen your grasp a little. “Thank you.”

It’s honest, and Coop doesn’t like how much he does like your nature of trusting him– how even as this new, terrible version of yourself, you still trust him, and you still ask for his advice.

He doesn’t know what to make of this, but he thinks maybe he can get some use out of you yet.

Coop wrangles his arm from out under your thigh, where you’ve accidentally let a gap through, and shoves you over.

You fall with a gasp, hitting the ground, and he stands up and kicks you for good measure, while you screech in pain. 

Coop picks you up by your throat, and you instantly move to fighting– your blade against his stomach, teeth gritted in resolute urge to kill– but he’s got his pistol at your neck, and the way he brushes it against you is almost like a lover’s embrace.

“One thing I hate is a fucking liar, Cola.” He grumbles, and you glare at him. “You’re not some innocent– why else do you got a fusion core in your pocket?”

“I never claimed I was a good woman.” You shake your head. “I just wonder why the Brotherhood, the Enclave, hell, even some of the Raiders… everyone wants the ultimate piece of the pie.”

“Besides, you’re the one who kept saying to survive out here I’d have to be a killer.” You remind him, and he looks down at you, thinking. “The world’s grieving– I don’t blame it for that, I feel the same way.”

You’ve still got a way with words, he thinks, and he was right. He can use you for his benefit.

“Say, Nuka-Cola. Why don’t we take some of those fuckers down?” He stills. “Not randoms. The power-hungry pie-eaters, like how you so eloquently put it.”

You don’t fully trust him again, but you’re into the prospect. You don’t want power, and you know he doesn’t either, but it’s not just looting. No, no, this is something akin to revenge.

“Alright.” You whisper.

“Alright. Okay, I won’t shoot if you don’t cut me.” He speaks softly, slowly, trying to cajole you out of attacking– and you move as he does. 

The threatening air of before is gone now, and the Ghoul has only a odd stare for you, something that makes you feel watched, almost reminding you of two centuries ago. It could be that he doesn’t trust you either– and so you walk onward with a gap between you two, heading to wherever a faction that needs fucking up could be.

/

Coop strolls inside the makeshift bar as you make conversation, staying within the shadows. It’s not on official Enclave grounds, it’s simply a nearby bar where members have been known to hang out. 

He doesn’t exactly mind being the one to pick up the slack of killing people– he can tell you’re good at charming people what with your former bombshell acting techniques, your silly, soft blinks, the way how your skin still looks smooth and untouched.

Was it all a lie with him? Aw, shit, why does he care? He really doesn’t have time to wonder if he’s been manipulated by you– he won’t be manipulated by you now, when he gets rid of many the people who represents obstacles in his way to finding still-existing Vault-Tec members.

Yes, that’s all this is to him. Another step to finding Moldaver, Henry MacLean, then his family if he’s lucky. And you’ll get some rage out of it, so he doesn’t even consider this to be that bad of an evasion of his. 

You laugh at something the guy next to you says. Coop catches a bit of it, of him asking how you look under that big jacket– and you mentioning you’d like to see him without that government get-up, too.

He grits his teeth. He’s not fucking in love with you, or anything stupidly juvenile like that– but he definitely felt something before when the two of you were fighting, or when you had conversations during the long, arduous talk here– you bit into a piece of his jerky when he offered it, and he laughed in surprise that you didn’t spit it out after he revealed it was feral ghoul ass jerky.

He also found that his gaze kept being drawn to you, too. You kept up with him, you were capable of hunting and searching on your own, you took lives when the need arose, and you had his back, even if he didn’t ask for it.

You made him subconsciously draw from the past, reminiscing about a time with you and a future he never thought he’d revisit. And now he can’t ignore that, so he needs to let off some steam.

There’s a splatter of blood across your face as the guy in front of you splutters, a bullet hole shot through his forehead. Little pieces of flesh hit the bar counter as he falls, and you gasp.

Coop is kind of quick with it now– he fires off, and because these “politicians” are unprepared, he’s able to kill off more than half.

You get over your shock quickly and fire your own tiny pistol at random, managing a few kills, but the Ghoul takes the last one and looks back at you, with an intrepid glance that you can’t figure out.

“What the hell was that?” You call out, and he doesn’t respond, instead beginning to pilfer the bodies, looking for shit to take. “Hey, Ghoul…”

“We came here to kill off those guys.” He answers you, but it’s not really an answer.

“Yeah, but I thought we agreed on discussing this shit as we were doing it. What happened to signalling?” You approach him, and as you get close enough, he turns around and stares unnervingly into your eyes.

“I did signal, sweetheart.” He clicks his tongue, lying through his teeth. 

“Bullshit.”

“No, I did.” He points at you. “It’s not my fault that you were too busy schmoozing and flirting to notice.”

“Wow.” You laugh exasperatedly at his antics, while he tilts his head. “You’re really obtuse, you know?”

“Nah. I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. You’re gonna say you’re not jealous–” At that word, the Ghoul snarls, ready to tell you exactly how little he cares for you, and you motion for him to zip it. “But at the very instance of seeing me flirt, mind you, in the most fake way possible, you lost it. You can’t even tell the difference between my genuine flirting and the fakest, schlockiest shit?”

“...” Coop frowns, because you’re right– he did kind of let his mind go wild over nothing in particular. 

Even worse, it means he’s made it apparent to you that he still harbours some feelings for your long-ago relationship. And that’s definitely a potential weakness– he does not want you to believe you can just work him around.

“Fuck you.” He spits, and instead of your face flinching in hurt, you stay neutral.

“I know you think you can come close and then shove me off every once in a while, because you’re fucking terrified of what it means that you’re not as hard as you pretended to be, that you still have a bit of human emotion inside you.” You tiptoe up to his face so he can’t avoid you. “I don’t care. That’s your problem.”

You turn to leave, to continue looting the bodies– and Coop’s hand wraps around your wrist. 

He hates what you’ve said, because it’s absolutely provoking the worst issue he has– he can never just let go. Two hundred years of this has made him a different creature altogether, spiteful; evil, but Coop knows as well as anyone that his transformation doesn’t negate his original nature, buried deep down.

It was a lie on his part– people are not as evil as he made them out to be, it’s the cycle of this situation that perpetuates that shit. Violence begets violence and all that. He can’t seem to say this to you, though, because he can tell you already probably knew that.

What is this fuckery, that you’re able to generate such a sense of guilt in him?

“Show it to me again. Genuine flirting.” he says instead, and he knows it’s stupid as hell to say something like this. “It’s been hundreds of years, you can’t expect me to fuckin’ remem…”

You grasp his arm back, making him quiet.

He’s half expecting you to punch him, but you see something you like– something that finally satisfies you, and you kiss his cheek, where you cut him much earlier in the day. It’s a soft bruise, mostly healed over in the way ghouls heal– but it’s overwhelmingly, embarrassingly hot there now as you pull away.

“I won’t forget the difference next time, Nuka-Cola.” He tips his hat at you in a mockery of his acting as a dashing cowboy once upon a time.

“Won’t be a next time.” You shrug. “I would hate to have to flirt with someone again just to get you to notice me.”

This severely bothers him, like you haven’t been an annoyance in his mind this whole time. And then he wonders if you’re an idiot, like you have no idea the effect you had on him back then, and even now. Hell, even that overly-chaste kiss has him remembering how he felt at Sebastian’s party when you humoured him the first time.

Do you think the only thing he’s burying is some empathy for the human race?

He can’t just let you be this wrong about this, no fucking way. And it’s with this in mind that the Ghoul feels his reserve melt as he tightly grabs your face and kisses you. Not a soft, movie-star kiss of the past, but one more hungry, his lips swallowing yours, pressed sternly, firmly, like he’s not gonna let you go. He parts his mouth ever so slightly, trying to catch a reaction from you.

You’re caught off guard, and he’s glad. He likes that you don’t know what to do with yourself, that for once you’re floundering rather than him, and you barely remember to kiss back until a couple seconds later when your hands grasp the base of his skull. You’re tracing grooves, calluses, skin that’s been eroded by his ghoulishness. You feel like he tastes ever so acidic– perhaps from the radiation emitting from his body– but some weird part of you loves it, and you part your lips as you kiss him harder, wanting to feel his tongue.

Your lips are just as soft as he remembers– but there’s more excitement now, more of an urgency as you kiss him, so he takes your invitation and swirls his tongue around on yours, disgustingly vulgar and perversely fast, yet lingering to enjoy the sensation, and he kinda loves being a corrupting force, being the ghoul who eats up this sweet human girl, and he tightens his grip– it almost hurts you, how tightly his hands weave around your waist suddenly– and then before you know it, he pulls away.

He wipes his mouth, never taking his eyes off of you.

“So. Did I taste like Nuka-Cola?” You joke, and he laughs in your face.

“Nope. Darlin, you haven’t been the Nuka-Cola girl for hundreds of years. They replaced you not long after you vanished.” He smiles widely at how your face drops. “I can show you some of the new girl’s billboards, if you’d like.”

“That would explain the lack of revenue.” You raise your eyebrows. “Then why do you still call me Nuka-Cola, Cola, etcetera?”

“That’s how I remember you.” It sounds too sweet, too nice that he keeps your nickname on tabs, so he twists his lips in a sneer. “Plus I don’t remember your name.”

“Oh.” You bite your lip, finding his insult more funny than anything else, and turn around to take items from the bodies around you. “Okay, Mr. Howard.”

It was the optimal moment for you to joke back, calling him the Ghoul, but in classic you-fashion, you decided to extend an olive branch to him– reminding him that he’ll never just be the Ghoul to you. And even if Coop knows he’ll always remember you by Nuka-Cola, he has a fondness for you that he doesn’t neglect anymore– and he murmurs your name so softly, but just enough that you turn back and look at him, and smile with pleased recognition. 

[primalsharkman]

Petty? Pretty.

Kim Chaewon x M Reader | 🔞 Smut

[Enemies to Lovers, Academic Rivals, Fake Dating]

Word Count: 5,385

You sighed as you put the pen down at the table. It was your final exam for the year, meaning that all your hard work has officially paid off. The projects you made were certainly extraordinary, definitely leagues apart for the company you were in. However, the pressure of coming in second was like a pump shotgun being shot into the back of your head multiple times. You know, you cannot let Chaewon win again this year.

Of course, Kim Chaewon. The school's greatest academe mind since, ever. Always getting the top grades, the top approval, and all the top boys. The latter which, you really didn't care for. But she had the run of the mill, taking the best with her for her own pleasure. Stories and rumors of her taking the university's quarterback spread around like wildfire. She'd deny it, but everyone knew otherwise.

You roamed around the halls in deep thought, the heavy weight of your books in your hand was very aching, but you were close to dumping them into your locker.

"Finally..." You sighed after arriving at your locker and opening the combination, and only then dumping the books inside.

Vacation was on your mind, but you knew the year isn't over yet. A familiar scent was on your tail, and you knew exactly who wears that specific perfume in your school.

Turning around, you found the academic goddess herself, standing beside you with her bag slinging by her side and giving you a stare. "I hope you did better than you did last year, it was almost too easy for me to beat you." Chaewon said, confidently and with a smirk.

You rolled your eyes at her and crossed your arms, "I've had enough of your gloating, Kim. You're an egomaniac and you really need to get yourself checked before you break down once you see I did better than you."

"Big talk for someone who's only ever beaten me once, in a team debate, no less." Her voice pierced through your heart, and it did hurt. Sure, you did never beat her one on one, but you fought her so hard that you'd get recognized and put in the same conversations as her name did.

"What do you want, Kim? Are you just going to ogle your tits in front of me? Because let's be real, I wouldn't fuck you in a million years." She just chuckled at the statement and gave your crotch a light tap using her wrist.

"Trust me, I wouldn't fuck you in a million years too. But there is something I need." That was when you just smiled at her and closed your locker before walking away from her.

Chaewon panicked and followed your pace, keeping up by your side. "H-hey, I just said I need your help!" You waved her off before she grabbed your wrist and sped up to drag you away from the halls and into an empty area away from the students.

"Listen, I know we've had our differences but this is about prom." At this point was already looking at you like she made up her mind and she will do everything to convince you.

You sighed. "Let me guess, you want me to go with you to the prom?"

"Yes."

"I don't think we should, Chaewon."

"But we could win prom king and queen."

"Does that even matter?"

"If it means beating Yunjin and her very clingy boyfriend, yes."

You just stared into her eyes after that quick exchange, but you knew how insufferable the school couple was. They were everywhere, being flirty and just rubbing it in people's noses. It was a sight.

Pacing around the room and opening a window, it was easy to see that this was an opportunity to get your name trending again. But was it worth it when Chaewon's name is going to be beside yours?

"Okay, but I will dictate the ground rules. You will wear a black dress, you will do the talking, telling people that we got together recently and that you were the first to fall for me." Chaewon just looked at you angrily while the demands were being listed.

"Ugh, fine. I'll pay that price just to stick it to her. Just see how she likes it." She may hate you, but she really doesn't like being upstaged, and unfortunately for Yunjin, she got in the way.

A quick thought entered your mind. "Oh and one more thing," Chaewon turned around. "... You're not allowed to fall in love with me."

She just smiled, "Won't be a problem, I'll see you at my place then. Don't forget to bring flowers. Ciao~" She said as she left the vicinity. You were left standing there with nothing but your bag in hand, and shortly afterwards you went home.

_____________________________________________

The drive to Chaewon's was fast, thanks to the traffic not holding people up. Her apartment was still 3 floors up, so you had to climb up the flgiht of stairs to reach her door and give her a knock.

"God why did I listen to her..." You whisper to yourself while holding a bouquet of flowers in your hand as your cheeks fill with a red blush.

Chaewon opened the door and gave you a judging smirk. "For once, you finally listen to me huh?"

Embarrassed, you just looked away and handed her the flowers, which she gladly took and had a whiff of them. "They're pretty, okay? Don't be too shy, you're acting like this is real." She giggled as she went down the stairs waiting for you.

You opened the door for her, and she went inside without a word. You breathed out a sigh of relief and went back inside the driver's seat and started driving.

It was mostly a silent trip, neither even giving each other exchanging hi's and just humming to the song playing on the radio. It was nerve-wracking for you, as she can just say anything crazy in a second.

But then you heard a sweet and soft voice speak, it was soothing to the ear and yet you know Chaewon is never this soft and sweet. "So, this is it. Time to act flirty, you'll take care of me right?" You just nodded at her, "Just behave like a good girl and we'll win your petty prize." Getting out of the car and you open the door and take her hand before guiding her inside the venue.

The vibe around the prom was magnificent. It was themed as a romantic getaway, with beach designs and a drawing of a sunset as the backdrop for the stage. You can only look around as the people start filling in the place and you stare at Chaewon.

You weren't kidding yourself, she was looking spectacular. She left the flowers in the car but even with just one flower tucked on her ear, just looking at her makes your heart skip a beat.

You found some seats for you and Chaewon to sit in, it was in plain sight so everyone could see that the two of you are in this prom together. You put your arm around Chaewon and she gladly put her hands on your inner thigh, dangerously close to your crotch.

"Dangerous game you're playing here. Be careful not to touch anything." You gulp as you say those words.

You only heard a small chuckle as she whispered, "Try not to get hard okay? We don't want you going in the bathroom leaving me out here don't we?" She sure has her way of being very provocative.

Yunjin and her boyfriend finally showed up, dressed perfectly to compliment each other's styles. Everyone was astounded at their sight, looking like the royal couple, everyone was reminded of who they really are.

The grunt Chaewon releases between her lips was pretty cute, she was angry, but most of all she was very petty. "Okay, time to turn up the heat." Those were the last words you heard before you felt her lips crash into yours.

Her kiss felt like floating in space freely. It felt freeing and wonderful. Next thing you know, you were making out with your rival and the event hasn't even begun. You could get lost in this feeling forever, and you wanted to stay in this moment. Somehow, someway, Kim Chaewon is a perfect match for you. The way she holds you, the way she wraps her hands around you, it is truly something worthwhile.

These thoughts were interrupted by the sound of loud music entering your ears once you realize she let go. "...What the fuck was that for?" was all you can conjure up for your first, and possible the best kiss of your life.

"Gotta show them who's boss. And right now, we have the mental advantage. Everyone's looking at us right now." You did look around to see them whispering and muttering to each other about what they saw, even Yunjin was perplexed when she took her seat nearby.

"If this doesn't end in sex, i'm dropping you off the side of the highway." You claimed jokingly.

"Ha! As if you'd actually want to fuck me."

"With a kiss like that, now I know why all the boys want you."

"Is that a fact?"

"Oh shut up, i'm giving you a genuine compliment." Chaewon smiles after hearing that and gives you another kiss. This time, it's even more passionate. Your pants were starting to tighten and it got really, really heated. You knew you had to get some food to calm yourself down before your primal instincts take over and bend her down the table and fuck her brains out.

Once you broke the kiss, you asked her. "Do you want me to get you a plate or no?"

"Okay, boyfriend. Go get me a plate." She hit your balls again as you stood up and you lightly kicked at her feet before walking towards the catering.

Right now, you didn't give a shit about the deal you made. It doesn't matter whether you win prom king and queen, because pretending to be her partner was already a thin line to walk on, but now that she's being very playful and teasing you to great extent, you might not last the night.

You got her the plate, and you sat back down next to her. Before she could even mutter a word you just dug into the food. Thankfully she didn't say anything and just ate.

Thank god no one bothered you two, just having people pass by and smile or even give a simple wave is enough. Chaewon was a tiger in academics but socially, she is so much worse. There's a reason she doesn't have a clique, or even a best friend. She just preferred studying and going at it alone. Even with projects, you saw firsthand how she asked the professors if she could do it alone. She was granted her wishes, and she's done better than all of them. You were no slouch of course but, you're not insane enough to do group work solo.

"Let's go dance. We need to be as cute as we can." She said as she put down her fork and wiped her lips with a tissue.

"Don't fucking tap my balls again, you stand up first." Chaewon nodded and stood up, waiting for you to join her.

Taking her hand, you guided her to the dance floor and thankfully, the music was set low. There were a few people on the floor including the royal couple but the spotlight was on you. Nobody thought the two best minds in the entire university would be on good terms, let alone dating.

Chaewon did her best to act as subby as possible, knowing that it was her best chance to win those votes. She smiled, giggled at your jokes and even started talking to the other students on the dance floor while you roamed her around in the dance. If this was the Chaewon you saw in school everyday, you might've just fallen for her instantly.

"Hey, look at me for a while would you?" You said as you grabbed her chin and made her face you.

"What do you want? I'm trying to win us some favor here..." She said in a quiet but rage-filled voice.

"Is it so bad for a couple to actually look at each other and talk? Come on, you know better than that."

Chaewon just nodded and looked at you. Your heart melted through every wall you ever put up once she did. How in the hell are you falling for Chaewon? You know how she is. You know every dirty tactic and every move she's done to you. You hated how she tapped your balls everytime she found an opening. You hated the way she liked other boys. You hated it when you found out she was absent for a week due to a fever. You hated missing her. You hated falling for her at every step of the way.

Chaewon yelped when you firmly grabbed her waist, pulled her close and straightened her hair out behind her ear. "If you're gonna kiss me, I'd do it that way too."

You ignored her words and just kissed her. You didn't care if everyone was watching, you didn't care if anyone actually wanted to see it. All you wanted to do was kiss your rival. The rival you desperately tried to hate because you knew she'd never love you. The rival you never asked out because she was too busy studying her tits out. The rival you only ever loved.

As you let the kiss go, Chaewon stared at you for a moment. She immediately let that go and went back to being the same Chaewon you know. For that night, she belonged to you. And you took full advantage of that fact. You ate, you danced, you loved. It was all you could think about for the rest of the night.

It was over soon enough, and you remembered why you were there in the first place. You breathed in heavily and made Chaewon put her arm around your waist as you waited for the announcements. You didn't even listen to the announcement, all you did was feel her touches and let her hear the names she wanted to being called. Next thing you know, you were up there with her, taking a ribbon and a crown. It was pretty funny looking, but seeing Chaewon's face light up is a pretty good sight. You smiled at the crowd and thanked them for the vote.

This was when Chaewon broke free. She let you go and went to the car so she could celebrate her victory. You followed suit and went back in your car.

"Well, i've had my fill of achievements for the day. Take me home." You just nodded and drove. It was a pretty slow night drive. You didn't go over 40, mostly because you just wanted to enjoy her company more.

"That's all you wanted? Seems pretty shallow to go through all that trouble." You said.

"Then I'm shallow. All I care about is that I am on top again." Spoken as softly as she could.

"You do realize we're gonna have to break up during the summer right? I can't fake date you forever."

"Then let's break up."

"Fine."

"Fine." She just crossed her arms and sat on the passenger's seat and stayed quiet.

----------------------------------------------------------

You parked your car in the back, you wanted to clear your head space once you drop her off back at her door but you just stayed in the car first, and so did she.

The crickets chirping made the deafening sound of night feel, not so deafening. You took time to process everything that happened in there, and you looked at Chaewon, who seems to be doing the same thing.

"Hey, can I see your cock?"

"What the fuck, Chaewon?"

"Don't be a fucking pussy about it."

"I'm not in the mood."

"Why not?"

"Because... because I'm not sure if I like you or not."

"What?" Her eyes grew wider as you dropped those words.

"Just... let me think, okay? You were out here all night flirting with me like... it felt real chaewon. It felt real, all of it."

"You don't have to think about it..."

"Oh so now you're trying to restrict my thoughts of you? Don't play games with me Chaewon."

"I'm not!"

"Then why—"

"Just listen to me! You boar-headed dipshit! I like you too! Okay?! Is that enough?!"

You two just looked at each other with your eyebrows furrowed and neither of you were able to land a word after she confessed her feelings to you.

"I like you too. I didn't want to, but I like you! Get that through your thick fucking skull." She said angrily.

It was a lot to process. You both broke the rule of not falling for the other. And now you are at each other's throats because you both were confused and angry that the person both of you were trying to beat at every turn, was someone you actually were into.

If academics didn't mean a thing, you two would probably have hit it off at some point. But unfortunately, that pressure got to you both. For the first time, the weight of that pressure was actually lifted and you could only breathe out a strong, relieving sigh.

"Damn your kisses, Chaewon." You joked.

"Oh boo-hoo." She went for you and kissed you again. This time climbing out of her chair and sitting on your lap. This time, the kiss was different. It was more carnal than romantic. There was more tongue involved as you swing yours with hers and intertwined then as the shared kiss continued.

You grabbed her waist, and slowly reached out those hands into her ass. She gave out a lot moan and adjusted her position so you have full access to her plump, round ass.

She leaned her kisses towards your cheek and towards your ear, where you can hear every small moan and whimper she lets out of her mouth.

The hands you had around her ass were fondling them and enjoying the soft cushions they gave you. Chaewon was already getting wet, but you have yet to know that. You didn't want to go over what she considers her boundaries so you didn't move a muscle.

She felt your cock under her getting bigger and she just looked into your eyes. "Hey... we should take this inside."

You nodded and opened the door so she can climb out. You followed her and locked your car before heading up those dreaded stairs to her door. Once the two of you get there, she immediately opened it with her keys and dragged you inside by your collar.

It only took a shut of the door for her to throw herself at you with another kiss, jumping into your arms so your hands can carry her thighs as she wrapped her legs around you.

"Fuck..." you could only mutter as she rained down heavy kisses on your lips, your ears, and even your neck. It seemed like she knew what she was doing, and for your virgin ass, you went along for the ride.

"Take me to my bed. And take that goddamn suit off already."

"Yes, baby." You dragged your feet through the room and plopped her down the bed. You untied your necktie and threw it across the room. She kneeled on the bed as you stood over her, and she grabbed your polo and unbuttoned each and every single one while giving you the hungriest look a horny woman can give.

It was obvious she was having fun playing this game, and it felt like hell for you. Your cock was twitching in your pants and it started to hurt. She noticed you wincing and took off the polo before unbuckling the belt in your pants.

Her head was dangerously close to your cock and your hand moved itself to brush her hair and hold it down to your crotch, which was her eye-level. She pulled it all down and your cock sprung to hit her nose.

"Ow..." she said as she grabbed the hard cock in her hands, smiling.

"Your hands are pretty nice..."

"It fits your cock really well." She giggled and hummed as she dragged her hand down the length of your cock as you moan out quietly. She knew not to put too much pressure and she knew the perfect way to touch your cock and give you the pleasure your body is used to.

All you could do was grab her hair and turn it into a makeshift ponytail, where she smirked. "You know what it means when a guy does that to a girl right?"

"I think so. Do I get a guess?"

"No. You just get to feel your consequences." Her lips enveloped itself around the head of your cock, and the heat from her mouth makes you hold on the ponytail tighter.

She looks up at you as she takes your cock in painfully slow, licking along the way. You were panicking as the pleasure was getting too much for you, and Chaewon was just getting started. You didn't want to be a 10-second wonder.

She kept working around your cock, drenching it in her spit and sucking it like it was her final project. She's making sure it felt perfect.

Your legs were shaking at this point, your cheeks turning red at the possibility of you not being able to control yourself and not cum in her mouth. These sensations got you to let her hair go and put your hand on the wall nearby so you won't fall down.

Chaewon dragged her mouth down to the last inch of your cock, and tightly pulled out giving your cock a light lick at the end before she sat up and looked at you. "You're gonna cum, aren't you?"

"I'm trying so hard not to." You decided to be honest with her.

She pulled your waist down so you're sitting beside her. She gave you a smile and said, "Cum inside my mouth. I really want to know how nerd tastes." She giggled as she went down on your cock again, not holding out anymore and giving you the most sloppy and disgustingly heavenly blowjob you've ever had.

Her tongue was circling around your length as she bobbed her head up and down. You couldn't even speak due to how good she was sucking your cock. All you could do was grip her sheets and moan out her name again and again.

Her lips kissed your underside, and her free hand gave your balls some love, fondling them. She took your cock inside again and deepthroated every inch you can give her.

She was blushing. She enjoyed sucking cock, especially if that cock belonged to someone she knew on a personal level from many years ago. Sure, it was all on hatred, but she knew you better than anyone, and that turned her on even more.

Your cock was twitching in her mouth, she knew you weren't gonna last longer, so she pumped and sucked and the same time, and that was all it took for you to explode.

"M-ngmhHgh! Chaewon...! mmgh! fuck!" That was the most coherent sentence you can come up with while your body was in ecstacy. Orgasming to the point not even you have reached before.

Her mouth stayed where it was, your cum filling her cheeks as she swallowed each strand of cum, one stroke after another.

When she was done, she sucked your cock to clean it, and wiped her lips off before laughing.

"Nerd doesn't really taste different from jock. But I gotta say, your cock was so much cleaner and doesn't smell as bad."

"That's supposed to make me feel better?"

"Yeah, no one sucks cock better than me."

You sat up and put a hand around her thigh. "So, what's next?"

She smiled as she pushed you down, "You're the first guy to ask for what I want."

You turned your head to look at her and she was taking off her dress, and you were watching her show off her body to you.

You were blushing but the next thing you see was her towering over you, and you get a VIP look of her beautiful pussy. It was shaven, it was perfect, and you wanted a piece.

Your mouth opened and she smiled before lowering herself down to you and sitting down on your face. She grinded slowly as you moved your tongue to eat her pussy out.

Her taste was a new sensation to you. The first time you've ever ate pussy, and you're already getting addicted to her taste. She was sweating and that only added to the tang of her flavor, you dug your tongue deep in her folds.

Your tongue found her hole opening up and you slid it in. "Oh..! Good boy... that's a good boy..." Chaewon muttered while hissing and holding on to your hair.

You closed your eyes and moved you head to tongue fuck her, as she moaned loudly like she had no neighbors. She gripped her bedside and bounced on your tongue as she kept moaning.

"Yes... baby... oh fuck! come on..." She kept hissing and moaning under the sensation of your upper lip kissing her clit and tongue fucking her. You picked up the pace and held on her thighs, taking your tongue out of her hole and focusing on licking the clit fast and good.

"Oh it has been a while! Yes! Don't you dare fucking stop, don't stop, don't stop!" She kept screaming while grinding her pussy on your tongue on her clit. You put more pressure by pushing your tongue into her sensitive clit more and more as she gets brought to the brink of her orgasm.

"I'm gonna cum! Please, don't stop! I'll get off if I want you to stop, okay? Please just... ah! Keep going!" Chaewon says as she reaches her orgasm and grinds on you harder as her moans become more hoarse and heavy.

You kept licking her to destroy her senses and feel an seemingly un-ending orgasm for Chaewon. She got off you and laid down the bed before catching her breath.

"Where... how did you learn... to eat pussy like that?"

"I never did. I only know the clit is the most sensitive part so, I guessed."

"You're a natural then, god damn. Despite being a nerd, that knowledge came in handy. Try using that knowledge to beat me next year okay?"

"What if I beg you to lose for once?"

"That's a price you don't wanna know." She smirked as she recovers.

"More pussy eating?"

"I have a list of demands. I'd rather show them to you before we start school next year."

"Good. But we're not done here Chae." You show her your hardened cock once again, showing her you have recovered from her blowjob.

Chaewon smirks and lifts her ass a little bit. "I want it deep, hard, and fast. None of that slow, methodical, romantic bullshit."

"You got it." You lined yourself up behind her and didn't even hesitate to stroke your cock and slide it deep in her.

"Mmph! Good! Just like that." All Chaewon could do was moan on her pillow as you started picking up the pace and fucking her pussy like your life depended on it.

You grabbed her ass and spanked it, earning a yelp from the girl. She kept asking for more, so you put a strong hold on her hips and crashed your cock deep inside her wet pussy again and again and again.

The sound of your sex was echoing across the room, it was erotic and accompanied with her moans after every thrust, it was truly music to your ears.

"Yes! Your cock is so big inside me! I love every single inCh of it! Mmm!"

Slapping her ass, you kept your mouth open and joined her moaning. "Good god Chaewon, your pussy is so good! So wet and so fucking delicious." You gave her ass another slap.

"Ah! So it is! Fuck I wanna fuck you again and again. Please, make me cum again, make me yours and I won't ever be a bitch around you again!"

"Good girl, I like that." You pulled her arms back into you and grabbed her head so your face is buried in her neck while you fuck her from behind.

"F-Fuck! Rub my clit!" You follow her command and rub her clit in the same pace you're fucking her pussy.

Her moans get even louder and you had to use your hand to cover it up so her neighbors wouldn't get the wrong idea.

Her bed was rocking and it was making a lot of noise. Between the creaking, the moaning, the sloshing sounds the sex was making, it was very hard to hide the fact you were fucking her like a machine.

She kept begging for you to cum inside her and you keep telling her to wait. You were looking for your orgasm but she was ready to unload hers.

"I'm gonna fucking squirt all over! Please I want your cum! I'm gonna fucking... ah!" You pulled out as you felt gushes of water from under her. You held on to her neck as she gripped your arm tightly while she was squirting. Your arm reached down and rubbed her clit so it felt extra pleasureable to her.

"God! I made a mess..." She yelped before you took her body and lied it down on the dry part of the bed and kissed her hard.

You slid your cock back in and fucked her in missionary. Her legs were up in the air as she was moaning in your kiss. The thrusts your cock was giving to her kept sloshing as the rest of her squirt and the never ending wetness of her pussy was lubricating your cock to the point where it looked like cum.

She already came multiple times and she wasn't going to stop, until you did. "What is taking so long?! Mm! My pussy is destroyed here... you need to fill me up, please daddy."

That was the last straw. The final push you needed. Once you heard her say daddy, your senses kicked into overdrive and you fucked her like a machine one more time before unloading your second round of cum in her pussy.

This orgasm hit you like a truck, it felt good, but once it was finished you feel like you have been ran over by a truck. It was tiring and you were drained.

"I guess... daddy is the magic word then." Chaewon giggled as she wrapped her arms around you and pecked your lips.

"I'm sorry I didn't warn you. You must've been so surprised."

"No, actually. I knew you were tightening up when your cock pulsated aggresively. So I expected the creampie sooner."

"God damn it, you're not gonna get pregnant now are you?"

"I'll be okay. I wouldn't have let you fuck if I was in danger of getting pregnant anyway." She giggled again.

"Really? Even after the kissing we've done earlier?" You sound a bit perplexed at this point.

"I'm not an idiot. I'm smarter than you, remember? Don't feel superior just because I called you daddy once."

"I'm just curious, no need to gloat."

She kissed your cheek and chuckled. "I'm okay, you don't need to worry."

You nodded and pulled out her before lying down beside. "So, what now?"

"What about it?" She looked upwards at the ceiling.

"What are we?"

"Right now? I can't say."

"We just told each other we liked each other. What else is there to think about?"

Chaewon playfully hits your arm. "You need to court me, genius."

"Wouldn't you just say yes immediately?"

"I probably would."

You held her hand and kissed it. "So, will you be my girlfriend?"

Chaewon smiles, and turns towards you. "Yes. I'll be your girlfriend."

~FIN~

A/N: That was rough for a first fic, I didn't proof read this so I'm open to suggestions and whatnot. Twitter is the same handle as this one, you know where to find me.

[ventresses]

Star Wars: Attack of the Clones - (3/?)

Star Wars + Text Posts & Headlines

Note from OP:

I'm retracting the Mace Windu meme from this post ("I wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy/I would. Pussy.”)

This was posted 2 months ago and has been shared quite a bit, so I suppose it's too late, but still I regret creating and sharing that one so the best I can do is add this to the original post.

I've realized that when I made that one

I was projecting the personalities of some of Samuel L. Jackson's other famous characters onto Mace Windu, and

Not only was it not accurate to his character, but it was veering into the "Angry Black Person" stereotype/trope.

I hate the idea of perpetuating racist stereotypes in stuff I make, and goodness knows there's enough racism and stereotypes in Star Wars as it is, and in the structural racism of our society (which I benefit from as a white person.)

Here’s a really good post I saw a few days ago, discussing Mace Windu’s character in the fandom, I highly recommend it:

Also, here's a great article I highly recommend, discussing race and stereotypes in Star Wars

[veryrockyraccoon]

So I found a few things like this awhile back but figured I’d share my own thoughts about it.

The Mandalorians thinking of the Jedi as great warriors and to them getting a Jedi in the family was considered a great feat (that no one has managed to achieve yet), they think the Jedi have incredibly high standards, as the great warriors they are should, and continue to follow, flirt with and try to parent Jedi they see.

Meanwhile the Jedi fully believe the Mandos hate them, they specifically warn all younglings to avoid them and it’s one of the first lessons for Padawans.

At one point a Mando sees a Jedi with a Padawan and try’s to compliment the Jedis child rearing skills but they say something like “Your young one is very strong, they would make a great Mandalorian!” Which to the Mando is a compliment and a little bit of flirting, but for the Jedi, who’s already primed to stop someone from kidnapping their padawan because of how popular force-sensitive slaves are (especially those with training who aren’t considered to dangerous, ie Jedi padawans) takes this as a threat and responds with a snarled “Yes they are, and so am I” while projecting every ounce of ‘I’ll beat you black and blue’ they can into the force, the Jedi quickly pulls their padawan close and leaves. Meanwhile the Mando is like “Wow that was hot” and is all proud of themselves for coming up with such a great compliment.

A ton of other shenanigans ensue and it’s great.

Side note I love the idea of the Jedi being very off putting to most others, not in a clear way but a lot of small things (just to fast reflexes, knowing what you’re about to say and responding before you even started etc).

Also here’s a list of reasons Jedi are the perfect spouse to Mandos

They’re great warriors who treat battles as dances, you will never get tired of watching their swirling robes and glowing blades.

They’re amazing with kids, raising their young is a great honor to them.

They stay level headed in the most stressful of situations, remaining competent and calm the entire time.

Their ability to sense danger means they almost always have the upper hand in battle.

Again great fighters, you won’t know true awe until you seen a Jedi cut down a field of enemies in less time then it takes most to fight a small gang.

Anyway these were just some thoughts I had, if anyone has any fic recs with this premise please let me know!!

[pombeom]

pose away | yeonjun fic (nsfw)

nsfw, mdni!

pairings: enemies to lovers, arrogant model!yeonjun x sub photographer!reader

warnings: nicknames, slut shaming, blowjob, wall sex, markings, unprotected sex, hair pulling

a/n: this might be my favourite fic written yet! djsjkskssjjaka im craving mean yeonjun so bad rn! not proofread

Working as a freelance photographer bought its many challenges. Today was one of them. You hauled yourself out of bed early in the morning to begin setting up the make-shift studio in your living room. Whilst you were studying photography at a college, working part time gave you the opportunity to build up both your experience and portfolio. Often times you don’t get a choice as you take on whatever projects come your way. Even when the person you despised most on campus comes to you asking for a photoshoot, no matter how much you wanted to refuse, you agreed, setting up a date for your shoot which happened to be today. 

You move the lights arounds, working out the best places for them and begin creating an inspiration mood board on your phone before he arrives. The sun burned through the large windows, raising the inside inside your home so you turn on the aircon, hoping it would cool your house down in time for your guest’s arrival. You know he would complain about it being too warm being the spoiled brat he is. You didn’t want to take any chances, especially not today when he had promised you a large sum of money for your services even though you often charge little to nothing. 

Just as you finished setting up, cleaning up the final bits and bobs around the room, you hear the bell ring and not even a second later, a loud thumping on the door. 

“My god, he can’t even wait a second can he,” you sigh shaking your head at his impatience, already regretting accepting his clientele. 

You open the door to see a tall man standing arrogantly in front of you, wanting to wipe away that smirk on his face as he walked in, shoving past you. 

“Nice set up you there,” he says as he makes his own way through your living room, seating himself down on your leather sofa, manspreading his long legs. 

“Thanks,” you roll your eyes, attempting to suppress your annoyance. Why on earth is Yeonjun in your house right now? How did this even happen? 

He’s wearing a linen shirt, the first few buttons undone, and black slacks making his outfit look laid back in a put together kinda way. His long hair is styled so it’s tucked behind his ear but a few strands strayed and fell onto his face. No matter how much you hated him, you weren’t blind to the fact that he’s probably the most attractive person on campus. There’s a certain aura he possesses that just lures you in. But you were better than that. He doesn’t seem to control you the way he does other girls. No matter how many times you nearly slipped into his charm, you had always managed to bring yourself back. 

“Are you gonna tell me what to do, or are you just gonna keep staring at me like that?” His sharp voice brings you back, slightly embarrassed that he caught you. 

“I wasn’t staring, simply observing you to see what I’m working with.” 

“I’m pretty sure you’ve already “observed” me enough before. Unless you wanna keep staring, then go for it. I don’t mind. I know you like it too,” you let out a sigh, making sure he could hear it, rolling your eyes at his self-centredness. How you were to put up with this for another 3 hours was beyond you. 

“Come stand here. You see the green tape? Just make sure you stand behind it. You can pose away Mr Choi Yeonjun,” you instruct, getting behind the camera as he makes his way onto the white screen. 

Without needing much guidance, he gets into all sorts of poses. He starts off by crouching, sticking out his tongue, eluding with sexiness before shifting to another pose where he’s standing up again, hands in both pockets as he tilts his head ever so slightly but in all the ways that makes a difference. 

For the next 30 minutes, he is constantly moving while you’re almost having to do an entire workout just to keep up with him. The heat of the room also gets to you, your cheeks flushed red which Yeonjun notices. 

“Are you blushing from how good I look, doll?” his smirk, combined with the nickname sets you off, feeling the heat burn through your cheeks even more. 

“Shut up. How about we take a break?” You question, trying to distract you from the fact that you’re now ever so slightly turned on by his comment. 

With that, Yeonjun is slumped back on your couch, while you run to the kitchen, rummaging through your freezer trying to find an ice lolly to cool and calm you down. 

You discard the wrapper in the bin, taking the long stick of coloured ice in your mouth, sucking off the first layer is its juices. You moan at the feeling of the cold entering your mouth, as the ice begins to melt around it. Walking back to the living room, Yeonjun puts his phone down to look up at you, once again with a smile that has a mischievous allure plastered onto it. 

“Doll, you think you could suck a cock like that?” 

His remark has you pulling the ice lolly out your mouth instantly, making a pop as it comes out. Your jaw is left hanging as you feel the butterflies in your stomach travel up to your throat, leaving you speechless. 

He stand up and steps towards you ever so slowly that for some reason you wish he would go faster so he could be closer to you sooner. When he gets less than 2 feet away, you step back hitting the wall as his arms cage you, trapping you in his presence. His fingers wipe away the juice from your iced treat in one swipe as he takes it to his own mouth sucking off the liquid. Your eyes enlarge from the proximity and his actions, feeling the ice drop down your fingers as well as a wetness forming in between your legs. 

“I asked you a question. Do you think you could suck a cock like that?” 

“Mhmm…” you were only able to make a short sound while you nod your head, not shying away from his sharp gaze. 

“Why don’t you show me then, doll?” He caresses your hair before grabbing it into a tight ponytail and before you know it, you’re on your knees below him, almost seeming as if you were begging for his dick. 

With his free hand, he unbuttons his trousers letting them slip down his lean legs and as if on cue, you pull down his black boxers, his long cock springing out. Whilst he may have been an average on thickness, he definitely made up for it in length, so much so that you could already feel it hitting the tip of your cervix. 

“Come on doll, suck my pretty cock.” 

You begin by encapsulating just his tip in your mouth, letting the coldness from the ice transfer onto his hard length to which it reacts by twitching in your mouth as Yeonjun hisses. You slowly move up and down his shaft looking up at his face whilst doing so, meeting his eyes filled with lust. 

“You’re pretty mouth looks so good around my cock, doesn’t it, doll? Go faster.”

His grip on your hair tightens as he begins shoving his dick into your mouth as if on a rampage, tears falling from your eyes. His other hand grabs ahold of your chin, lifting it up further to better his view of what he was doing to you. Your moans vibrate against his cock, sending him into a high as he grunts with every pump. You feel him twitch in your mouth and before he can cum, he pulls out harshly, making the same pop as your ice lolly. Your sobs don’t stop even after he’s pulled out, craving to feel him more. Especially inside you. 

“Aww, is my doll crying because she wants me? I think I can help with that. Stand up,” he commands, his voice firm but flirty. His assurance only made him sexier at this present moment as much as you hated to admit it. 

Once you’re on your feet, he slams you back into the wall and pulls down your shorts in one swift move, revealing your white lace thong. 

“I knew my doll was a slut for me. Even if you hate to actually say it.” 

Your excuse was that you hadn’t done your laundry yet so you were left with your more extravagant pieces of lingerie but even you knew that deep down he was somewhat correct. 

You feel a sudden sensation as you feel Yeonjun’s lips attached to your neck, sucking under your ear, instantly having found your sweet spot. Melting under his magic touch, your hands automatically move around his neck, pulling him in closer, wanting to feel him more. 

“Yeonjun. Touch me please.” 

You were desperate for him and you hated it but with the puddle increasingly seeping through your underwear, you couldn’t care less, only wanting to feel him inside you. 

Yeonjun, strokes your clothed pussy, that being enough to send you off high, as you moan in his ears, humping his hands. 

“Such a slut for me, are you doll? Wonder what you’d be like if you had the real thing slamming into you?” 

And that’s exactly what he did. Pushing your thong to the side, he rams his cock in, not letting you adjust, pushing in and out of your pussy as he holds up your thigh, ensuring that he can hit into you deeper. With each thrust, you let out a sinful moan, as Yeonjun’s pride and ego skyrocket through the roof. As he picks up the pace he lifts you up, supporting you against the wall by holding up both your thighs. Even then, he didn’t slow down, continuing to slam his cock into you, abusing the top of your cervix over and over. 

“You’re so fucking hot, doll. Can’t wait to be cumming on you babe. Can’t wait to ruin you. You want that don’t you?” 

The way he thrusts has you feeling his cock all the way in your throat, making deep moans the only thing that come out your mouth. 

“Going dumb on my cock, doll? Such a slut aren’t you?” 

He rams into you even faster as you feel your orgasm getting closer. Your hole now sensitive as you feel the knot in your stomach build. 

“Yeonjun! I’m gonna cum!” You scream, wanting to reach your high. M

You let out one last moan as the orgasmix wave ripples through your entire body, leaving goosebumps on your skin. Yeonjun rides out your high before pulling out and pulling his own spurts of cum onto your T-shirt which you hasn’t removed. Your favourite black T-shirt was now stained with his cum, not knowing if a round of washing would help. 

You collapse as your legs were physically unable to hold you up but before you reach the ground, Yeonjun’s arms catch you, supporting your waist, helping you remain standing. 

“Fuck, you’re so hot. And you’re such a slut for me. If only I knew sooner. Would have fucked your brains out much sooner.” 

You finally fell. After 2 years of holding it back, you finally fell for Yeonjun’s charm and his lustful aura. Any sense of disappointment you would have felt was overridden with the fact that you had gotten the best sex of your life from this man you despise. 

[drdemonprince]

I don't think I have it in me to be an abolitionist because I read that horrible story about the trans teen murdered in South Carolina and my knee jerk reaction is, those people should rot in jail, ideally forever, or worse. No matter how I look at it I can't make myself okay with the idea that you should be allowed to steal someone's life in such a horrible way and then just go back to enjoying your life. Some stuff is just too over the top evil.

You can have whatever emotions you want about that person's murderous actions, but the reality is that the carceral justice system is one of the largest sources of physical, emotional, and sexual torment for transgender people on this planet.

Transgender people are ten times more likely to be assaulted by a fellow inmate and five times more likely to be assaulted by a corrections officer, according to a National Center for Transgender Equality Report.

Within the prison system, transgender people are frequently denied gender-affirming medical care, and housed in populations that do not match their identity, which increases their odds of being beaten and sexually assaulted.

The alternative to being incorrectly housed with the wrong gendered population is that transgender people are also frequently held in solitary confinement instead, often for far longer periods on average than their non-transgender peers, contributing to them experiencing suicide ideation, self harm, acute physiological distress, a shrunk hippocampus, muscculoskeletal pain, chronic condition flare-ups, heart disease, reduced muscle tone, and numerous other proven effects of solitary confinement.

The prison system is also one of the largest sites of completely unmitigated COVID spread, among other illnesses, with over 640,000 cases being directly linked to prison exposure, according to the COVID prison project.

We know that number is rampantly under-estimated because prisoners, especially trans ones, are frequently denied medical care. And even basic, essential physical care. Just last year a 27-year-old Black man named Lason Butler was found dead in his cell, having perished of dehydration. He had been kept in a cell without running water for two weeks, where he rapidly lost 40 pounds before perishing. His body was covered in rat bites.

This kind of treatment is unacceptable for anyone, no matter who they are and what they have done, and I shouldn't have to explicitly connect the dots for you, but I will. One in six transgender people has been to prison, according to Lambda Legal. One in every TWO Black transgender people has been to prison. One in five Black men go to prison in America.

THIS is the fate you are consigning all these people to when you say that prisons must exist because there are really really bad people out in the world. We should all know by not that this is not how the carceral justice system works. Hate crime laws are under-utilized, according to Pro Publica, and result in few convictions. The people who commit transphobic acts of violence tend to be given softer sentences than the prisoners who resemble their victims.

We must always remember that the violent tools of the prison system will be used not against the people that we personally consider to be the most "deserving" of punishment, but rather against whomever the state considers to be its enemy or to be a disposable person.

You are not in control of the prison system and you cannot ensure it will be benevolent. You are not the police, the judge, the jury, or the corrections officers. By and large, the people who are in these roles are racist, transphobic, ableist, and victim-blaming, and they will use the power and violence of the system to terrorize people in poverty, Black people, trans people, "mad" people, intellectually disabled people, women, and everyone else that you might wish to protect from harm with a system of "punishment." Nevermind that incaraceration doesn't prevent future harm anyway.

You can't argue for incarceration as the tool of your revenge fantasies, you have to argue for it as the tool that it actually is. The purpose of a system is what it does. And the prison system's purpose has never been to protect or avenge vulnerable trans people. It has always been to beat them, sexually assault them, forcibly detransition them, render them unemployable, disconnect them from all community, neglect them, and unperson them.

[star-suh]

Enemies to Fuckers

Park Sunghoon x Male Reader 

cw: enemies to lovers friends trope, university au, anonymous sex at first, gloryhole, implied musk kink, implied sweat kink, drunk sex, bathroom sex, hair pulling, creampie, dirty talk, fluff-ish end.

—

another year of studying at the university it's coming to an end and as always one of the brotherhoods will be in charge of organizing a party. This time it's the turn of the one that sunghoon belongs to. 

y/n was sitting on the grass listening to music while drinking some cold coffee. when he turned his head he saw that sunghoon was coming towards him handing out the invitations “fuck he's coming” he tried to gather his things as fast as posible and run away from there but two pairs of black boots stopped him from doing so. “do you hear that?” asked sunghoon to his companion “it's like a fuckass rabious dog it's around here” both laughed. “yeah and there's a bitch too. i'm looking at it right now” y/n mocked making eye contact with sunghoon. “son of a bitch” sunghoon was ready to punch y/n but his companion stopped him “what happened pretty boy? if you like throwing “jokes” at someone you gotta learn to take them as well” he winked and then made a disgusted face getting ready to go. “see you tonight at the party fucking pussy” sunghoon threw his invitation to the floor and went on with his day.

the rivalry between them began with that pathetic cliché that one was smarter than the other. every day the competition was growing, the tension as well and in the end it exploded with sunghoon ruining y/n's project ending in a fist fight where they both got bruises, cuts and a two-weeks suspension. since that day they cannot see each other and if they do they will say all the possible insults at each other and if they don't remember any more they will make new ones.

y/n was standing in front of the door that separated him from the party, the boy was hesitating whether to enter or not and just when he was going to leave he saw his crush, jay park, enter the party "maybe it's a good opportunity to talk to him..." y/n murmured as he crossed the door. 

hours have passed and he hasn't found jay. "he's probably fucking a lucky bitch" he pouted gulping the remaining liquid on his cup. he was getting dizzy and walked towards the bathroom holding onto the walls to not trip and die of embarrasment in front of the whole university. he sat on the toilet and closed the door. when he was about to fall asleep he noticed a hole in one of the sides of the bathroom stall “the fuck is this” he wondered watching how it had tape surrounding the edges.

he was getting ready to get out of the bathroom when suddenly a big veiny cock appeared from the other side of the hole.

y/n's jaw dropped and he finally connected the dots “this is a fucking gloryhole!! what the actual fu–”. “are you gonna suck it or what?” a kinda familiar voice asked. y/n's face and neck were red as a tomato it was the first time he had seen such a beautiful and appetizing cock, his mouth was watering.

“if you're not going to do something move out and let others do i–hngh…” moaned the other male. y/n kissed the tip licking the pre-cum and then swallowed all the shaft “hmpgh soo goodd~” the cock's smell sending him into a dizzier state. “you're deepthroathing skills are fucking amazing” growled the male on the other side “no other bitch has sucked me as good as you” he added thrusting his cock at an animalistic pace chasing that feeling, seconds later cumming inside the other's throat. on the other side y/n came as well painting the bathroom's floor in white. drool mixed with cum spilling out of his mouth while the cock keeps fucking him.

then the cock suddenly disappeared leaving a pouting y/n that wanted more of it. suddenly the bathroom's door is opened and both males make eye contact, mouths wide open. it's as if the drunkenness of both of them has dissipated. an awkward silence between them as they look at each other with disgust. “i can't believe i just sucked fuckass sunghoon… so disgusting” y/n broke the silence “that's not what you were saying before tho. you were moaning like a bitch in heat” sunghoon pointed his finger touching y/n's chest.

“don't fucking touch me asshole” snarled y/n. “or what?” sunghoon's face inches away from y/n's. they stare at each other's lips… it's a desperate kiss, finally the tension between them broke again but this time in a more pleasant way.

“your sucking skills are so damn good. i want to see how you handle it down there” a hand sliding down y/n's underwear and a finger started rubbing his hole. with his hands locked around sunghoon's neck while the latter kissed his neck y/n asked “i thought you liked pussies”. “but you're a pussy… fucking coward” he snickers. “that doesn't make sens–” sunghoon hand covered his mouth “shut the fuck up and let's just fuck, i'm so bricked”..

sunghoon sat on the toilet while y/n rode him taking all the cock inside him. “hngh shit” he growled “who would've thought that I was fucking my enemy... the worst of all is that he has such a tight and delicious fuckhole” y/n just trying to contain his laugh after hearing that focusing on squeezing hard sunghoon's cock “come on cream this fucking hole. m-motherfucker”. “what's the hurry whore? we have all the night. and i have a lot of cum to cream your fuckhole so many times” whispering that last part.

the sound of skin slapping being muffled by the loud music, sunghoon pulling y/n's hair so he can thrust hard “gonna break you and make you come asking for more” sunghoon's tongue licking a strip from y/n's neck till his upper back tasting the sweat “salty” he murmured pushing down y/n's head so he can fuck him harder.

y/n's velvety walls clenching on sunghoon's fuckmeat as if his life depends on it “ready to get your used hole creampied, slut?”, “hng.. yeah bastard be-be fast i want to go home now” he fucked himself on the thick piece of meat. the cock tip brushed that sweet spot on y/n making him see stars and cumming hands free, splurts of sticky cum covering the toilet's lid “oh my god… hngh.. that felt so– good..”. “i know, everyone always told me that” a cocky sunghoon proud kf his fucking skills pull out his dick, jerking it off and spilling his seeds around and on top of the gaping hole of y/n. then uses his cock to scoop it and introduce it again to ride his high, thrusting some times more.

the party organizer helped y/n to clean up and get dressed, then he put him in the car and drove to his house.  “you know.. kinda like it what happened tonight” sunghoon commented “wanna repeat it.. another time when we are sober?” … there was silence but this time it wasn’t awkward … “yeah.. i like it too…” y/n's blushing face being noticed by the driver “friends?” he asks … “friends” sunghoon shook his hand. “then as an act to celebrate this fucking friendship and because you shouldn't be driving while drunk.. umm why don't you sleep in my house” y/n offered to sunghoon who's eyebrows raised in surprise “..unm ‘kay but i'm not sharing a bed with you”. “of course no dumbass you're sleeping on the carpet like the filthy dog you are” a gentle punch landing on sunghoon's arm who just smiled.. ‘cute’ he thought.

[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.