“You're doing it wrong.” That cursed accented voice tutted once more. The heat of his body felt as he leaned over your shoulder to watch what you were doing.

Nikolai. Fucking smug bastard. You'd never caught his last name, but it didn't matter. You despised him enough even without knowing much about him.

What you did know was that he was sleazy, arrogant, mansplained everything to everyone, and was generally an asshole to you.

The first time you met him was during your metalworking class at university. Your first class, in fact. You'd been eager, happy to finally be here and learning from professionals about what you enjoyed.

And then this Russian bastard slid into the chair next to you and proceeded to point out every flaw you made and how you should've done it– how he would've done it.

And when you kindly told him to piss off because you didn't want criticism from a stranger?

Oh, Nikolai got mad.

He'd given you this fake smile and patted you on the head, hard, the bastard. Who did he think he was? Just because he was an older student didn't mean he could just… talk down to you! Treat you as less!

Oh, but he did. And he still does. Every lesson was filled with cruel words, heavy-handed touches, and eyes that dripped with arrogance and ridicule as he tore you down verbally.

Clucking his tongue, Nikolai shook his head. “You shouldn't have started from here, глупышка вещь.” He pointed out. “If you started here, it would be less visible, less ugly.” He huffed, giving you a (unwanted) pat on the shoulder, lingering too long for your taste. “But you never listen, do you, Болван?”