#learn the hard way

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Learn the Hard Way 3

Warnings: non/dubcon, power dynamic, age gap, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Lloyd Hansen, Nick Fowler (Professor AU)

Summary: you return to campus is less than glorious.

Part of the Bad Professors AU

Note: Please leave some feedback and reblog <3 As always, I love to chat with you all. 

Despite the apartment being a dream come true, almost too good to be real, you find it hard to settle in. Something has you uneasy. You know how life goes. There’s going to be a kick in the mouth at some point. 

You’re still waiting for it the next day. You shower and dress before you head off to campus. You wear your favourite getup; not that you have much variety. Jeans, vans, and a plain tee under your grey denim jacket. It gives off the vibes that you don’t give a fuck, yet you really have a lot of fucks to give. 

First on the docket is your most dreaded. The Business of Photography. You’re sure it’s practical but you’re also not the best at logistics. You’ve looked over the syllabus and there’s a whole unit on accounting. Gulp! 

You follow a group of girls in uggs and barrel jeans into the lecture hall. One look from the blond with the high ponytail girds you way from attempting to ingratiate yourself. Flashbacks of high school have you finding a seat well on the other side of the room. 

More students siphon in and the room grows raucous as their voices rise to the high ceilings. You sit with your head down, scrolling on your phone. Oh! You forgot. You bring up Auburn’s convo and type in a quick hi. You haven’t heard from her since right after you parted the day before. You wonder how her classes are going. 

You black the screen of your phone and put it face down. You lean back in your chair and flutter your fingers impatiently. Your ears are starting to itchy from the sheer volume of your peers. 

The overhead speakers scuff and a deep voice fills the hall. “Shut the fuck up!” 

The silence that falls over the rows of students is so stunned you almost laugh. What you overheard amidst the cacophony was way worse and you had half a thought to tell them the same. You peer down to the front of the hall and wince. You knew that voice was familiar... 

“Now that I have your attention,” your landlord lets go of the microphone and stands straight at the podium. “I’m Professor Hansen. Professor Mason has gone on a sabbatical so here I am to pick up his mess. This is--” He pauses, seemingly annoyed at even being there. He pulls his phone and squints at the screen. “The business of photography? Good fucking luck.” 

He’s unbothered that his last comment echoes in the speakers as plain as day. You hide your mouth behind your hand. It’s not funny. It’s obvious he doesn’t give a shit. That being here is like plucking hairs from that mustache of his, yet, his agitation is entertaining. 

“Alright, which of you is gonna get up here and get the slides going?” 

There’s hesitation and students look back and forth, hoping anyone is brave enough to sacrifice themselves. There’s no volunteer. Hansen’s sigh wafts over the mic. 

“Four-eyes,” he points and snaps at the front row. “You look like you play League, get your ass up here.” 

The skinny boy in the front row stands, hesitating before he gets his footing. He crosses to the podium as Hansen snaps his fingers again and stomps his foot. “Chop chop, Revenge of the Nerds.” 

Ooh. You haven’t seen that in a minute. You know for damn sure it aged like lettuce.  

The class is silent as the unlucky soul assists Hansen in setting up the projector. You can hear the little snipes through the microphone. What a start to a class. It only dawns on you as the slides flash onto the screen that this is weird. You’re taking a class with your landlord. Should you switch sections? 

“Alright, hey, Poindexter, take a seat,” Hansen chirps and points the skinny coed back to the front row. “Let’s get started.” 

He swipes up the clicker and goes to the next slide. He groans, “really? Look at this shit. I’m no artist but the composition...” he stares up at the projected slide. “Holy fuck. Alright, write this fucking down.” 

He tosses the clicker. 

“Business isn’t fucking pictures. Business is numbers.” A murmur ripples through the classroom and Hansen leans into the mic again, speaking directly into it. “Did I say you could fucking speak?” 

You snort into your palm and keep it flush to your mouth. You shouldn’t laugh. It’s really not funny. You lean your chin into your hand and focus on keeping your amusement locked up. 

“Back to business. Literally.” He says, “and that’s how you fucking use that word, girlies. Your little feels, those aren’t ‘literal’,” he mimics a California bleach blond in the last utterance. 

There’s an uncomfortable shift in the seats. You huddle down as much as you can. As funny as this very crass and unprofessional lecture might be, you really don’t need to be noticed. Especially considering you could very easily bring any drama home with you. Would that be literally? 

Hansen continues on in his lecture-slash-diatribe. He might be blunt and at times condescending, but he knows what he’s talking about. He dismisses the class with a ‘you can go now’ and slams shut his laptop. He definitely is not happy about this spontaneous assignment. 

You’ve never seen college students move as fast as they do in that moment. There’s a low buzz of voices, too afraid to rise over a whisper, and the rustle of skirts and jackets, the squeak and scuff of sneakers. You sidle along the row, penned in by those closer to the center aisle. 

You come out at last and as you head for the rear door where everyone else is streaming toward, that deep timbre rolls over the hall again. 

“Ashley,” Hansen calls out. Several girls turn around in dread as the professor calls out the common name. “The one dressed like Cobain, get down here.” 

You lift your foot to the next step and stop. The rest of the girls quickly flee. You think he forgot your name. You turn and point to yourself with your thumb. 

“Me, sir? It’s Ash,” you explain. 

“Don’t give a fuck, come here.” 

Great. How the hell did he sift you out of the sea of students? You slowly descend as he lifts his bag from the table and crosses his arms. He approaches you around the other side of the podium. 

“So?” He prompts. You stare back at him dumbly. “The apartment?” 

“Oh, yes, it’s awesome. Thanks.” 

“Sure the fuck it is. All the work I put into it. Look, was gonna drop a notice but I’ll just tell you now. I need to check the alarms. City bylaw.” 

“Right,” you nod. “Okay.” 

He narrows his eyes, “I need your schedule.” 

“My schedule?” You wonder. 

“Fine, I’ll just fucking walk in, I don’t care.” 

“Shit, sir, I mean... I just, okay, like I didn’t know what you meant. Fu—shoot,” you take out your phone. “I’ll send you a screenshot.” 

“Fan-fucking-tastic. Now get the fuck outta here. I’ve had enough of you college girls,” he growls. 

You nod and turn back up the steps. As you ascend, you mutter to yourself, “my fucking pleasure, sir.” 

He huffs, “fucking heard that.” 

You freeze and cringe at the doors ahead of you. 

“Like I said, have a good day, sir,” you turn back to wave then quickly flit out. Well, that went horribly. 

[altercreole]

trying to find good where evil is will get you nowhere.

[brandybrandybrandy]

@brandybrandybrandy

[punkrockmixtapes]

Listen/purchase: She Turns It Up by The Copyrights

[hkthatgffan]

ALEX PLEASE! I CAN'T TAKE HANDLE THIS MUCH BABY BILL CONTENT IN ONE YEAR! 😭🥺

"These horrible wretched babies birthed from the pen of Emmy Cicierega."

[expressive-synapse]

Making my own posts aren't usually my thing but I wanted to talk about this. I use a overly elaborate setup that utilizes a combination of NixOS, a couple additional modules, and some bash to make everything on my computer not specifically declared otherwise in the config files to be removed on restart.

I fully understand it's crazy, and kinda impractical. Downright inconvenient at times. But I absolutely love it. I never need to worry about old trash files piling up over time, I know exactly what files stay on the computer, and I've learned a lot about the linux HFS in the process.

Anyway, follow your heart, do stupid shit on your computer, experiment, learn. It's not a smooth ride but it's rewarding.

It is so handy how on Unix you can just write files to /tmp and they will be cleared up automatically upon shutdown!

So if I want to write a disposable python script to test something - put it in /tmp!

Or if I want to view e.g. an MS Word document that my browser can't read, just save it in /tmp.

And of course if it's worth keeping, then move it to somewhere permanent.

[idontmindifuforgetme]

I don’t know who needs to hear this, but please don’t break promises you make to yourself just because it’s you the promise is being made to. You told yourself you’d go on a walk tomorrow morning? Do it. You said you’d get more consistent with your skincare routine? Make it happen. You promised yourself you would work on establishing boundaries regardless of who’s on the other side of them? Follow through with that. Don’t wake up the next day and go “well I don’t HAVE to do this” “it wouldn’t hurt to postpone this” “this isn’t a big deal” because it literally is. Every promise broken is another nail in the coffin of your self-actualization. It’s another major roadblock to developing healthy self-love and self-respect. Weigh promises you’ve made to yourself the same way you would weigh promises you’ve made to others.

[lucybellwood]

Desperately trying to finish listening to this audiobook before Libby repos my shit

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Just your average male living space.

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Learn the Hard Way 1

Warnings: non/dubcon, power dynamic, age gap, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Lloyd Hansen, Nick Fowler (Professor AU)

Summary: you return to campus is less than glorious.

Part of the Bad Professors AU

Note: Please leave some feedback and reblog <3 As always, I love to chat with you all. 

“It’s a nice place,” you say as you keep a grip on your duffel bag. 

You took a big chance trusting in the online posting. Furnished and a decent price. Your innate cynicism told you it couldn’t be true and yet your dire financial straits convinced you to take the risk. Even if it turned out to be a mattress in a dingy basement, you would make it work. 

Yet, your pessimism makes the reality even more of a relief. The apartment is just like it was listed in the virtual walk through. And it’s all yours at such a good rate. 

“Got everything you need,” the man explains as he pulls out a tube of lip balm. “And if it doesn’t, you have my number.” 

“Sure, uh, I don’t think I should,” you shrug. 

You peek over at him again. He seems every measure the slimy landlord, mustache included. Designer polo, loafers without socks, tight pants, thought his jacket does give a slightly refined touch to the whole aesthetic. 

“Rules. No parties. You can have some girlfriends over for a little pillow fight now and again but I don’t want a rager. This shit’s too nice for that,” he warns. 

“Right,” you agree, ignoring his strange comment. “I don’t think I’ll be throwing any parties.” 

“Good,” he tuts. “Well, I got shit to do. Class in an hour.” 

He checks his watch and you give him a curious look, “you’re a student too?” 

“Fuck off,” he chirps as he tweaks a brow. “Professor.” 

“Professor. Wait, so isn’t this like a shit, what’s it called, ah, conflict of interest?” 

“What are you? A law student?” He snaps. 

“Photography, actually.” 

“Oh, so you like to throw your money away. That’s good to hear,” he chortles. You frown at the insult. “And now it’s not a goddamn conflict. It’s off campus and you just happen to be a poor student. It’s fucking fine or do you wanna go find something else? Half your monthly to break the lease.” 

“Shit, no, I mean, no. No, it’s cool. I was just... as long as it doesn’t affect me, that’s fine. It’s smart. I mean, if I had money, I’d do some investing too.”  

His eyes dart towards you sharply, “whatever, stop wasting my time.” 

“Sorry, uh, well, thanks, Lloyd.” 

He winces and tilts his head, “I think I prefer professor.” 

“But you’re not mine--” 

“Look, I don’t like you uppity girls gettin’ fun with me. You think I don’t got tail wiggling at me for a higher GPA every goddamn day.” He clucks and straightens his coat, spinning on his heel, “tell your boys not to flush their rubbers.” 

He struts through the door and it snaps shut behind him. You look down at the keys in your hand and cringe. It’s not exactly the best start but you won’t bother him again. This place is perfect. 

You bring your bag into the living room and drop it on the couch. A couch! A chair, dining table, a separate bedroom, and a nice kitchen... you even have a stacked laundry set-up. Shit, feels like you’re robbing the guy. It’s almost too good to be true. 

You pace around for a while before you start to unpack. You didn’t bring much. You’re a person of very little means. You worked two catering jobs in the summer just to get tuition and the whole housing spike on campus had you worried it was all for not. 

Hey, it all turned out. You’ll never trust fate, but fuck dammit, it can be kind when it wants to. 

You head out shortly after, restless, and find the bus stop. Tuition includes a bus pass but you need to go to the Student Support Center to get your card reactivated for the term. You spend the change and weave your way around campus. 

The wait for the simple swipe of your card and a few keys tapped, is far too long. But now you have your transit pass and your meal plan. You’ll hit the cafeteria and hope that they have hiked the cost of a tuna sandwich with the rent. 

The prices may not have gone up but you’re not sure the quality is what it was. You examine the thin prepackaged sandwiches. You’re suddenly not as hungry. You can get a noodle plate and split it between today and tomorrow. A coffee is always cheap too. 

You get your container of pad thai and stop to peruse the self-serve karafes of coffee. Irish Cream, blech. You opt for the caramel sundae flavour. You get maybe two drops and it bottoms out. What the hell? 

“Piss,” you mutter. 

Whatever, you’ll just have some medium roast. You move over to press your cup to the lever and hit someone else’s hand. You recoil, “fuck, shit, sorry.” 

The man grunts and fills his cup. He’s older. Likely a professor judging by the blazer. He watches the slow drip and you do too. You just want a coffee. You wait and as he finishes, you step up to claim your cup. The karafe runs out at the half line of the cup. 

“What the shit?” You huff. “I swear to fuck--” 

“Eloquent,” he remarks as he takes a lid from the stack. 

“Huh?” You look over at him. “Oh, you can hear me? I thought that was my inside voice.” 

He narrows his eyes and shakes his head. He snaps the lid on his cup and takes it. You get no response but the roiling judgment rising off of his rigid posture. 

You top off your cup with the dark roast. Maybe you should let the staff know the coffee is almost out. You go to join the line for the cashier and find yourself facing the back of the man’s blazer. 

He pays and you move up to tap your student card. You thank the cashier and head off, the smell of the noodles stoking your hunger. Mmm, you can’t wait to dig-- 

You collide with something and your coffee bursts and pours over your hand. You look up to find the splatter of mixed brews across dark blue fabric. You squeak as the liquid scalds your hand. 

“Fuck, I’m so fucking sorry, dude,” you say as the same man snarls and turns stiffly on his heel. 

He looks down at you with his icy eyes. You tremble as they’re harsh enough to cool the heat of the spill dripping from your hand. You give a sheepish smile. 

“Hi again,” you murmur. 

He shakes his head and reaches to feel the back of his jacket. He takes a deep breath, a tick in his jaw. “I can clean this, can you clean up that gutter you call a mouth?” 

He doesn’t wait for your answer. You suppose it’s rhetorical and well-earned. You did just dump coffee down his back. 

[suntails]

ride the carousel!

[stemmmm]

if you havent read my wife's gf fanfic WHAT ARE YOU DOING!!

(no sound)

[ryssbelle]

Drew a bunch of Marinettes in a bunch of different artists styles it was a lot of fun!!

Artists who's styles I mimicked: @buggachat @hamsternamedmarinette @ladybeug @sabertoothwalrus and @anna-scribbles all epic artists 🤟😎

[call-me-littlesunshine]

[kkoct-ik]

second batch of yttd doodle requesties

[anbaisai]

Love languages

Happy Valentine's Day! ❤