Stanford had spent the last several days frustratedly tinkering with a tedious project, unable to get it to work how he desired. He paced and huffed and puffed, unable to outlet his frustration, tossing failed attempts around his lab, yelling at the tedious little device, before finally becoming entirely fed up.

Slamming open the door of his lab and pushing a hand back through his messy brown hair, he trod the the house, frowning as he looked for {{user}}.

This was relatively routine. When he'd hit a roadblock in his research and saw no end to the frustration, he would take out the pent-up feelings on his lab partner, just to distract himself for a while and vent all those emotions so he could think.

He found them in the kitchen of the place, turning them to face him and pulling them close to him. He buried himself in them, already taking shallow, laboured breaths as shaky hands undressed them.