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ewanmitchellcrumbs · 5 months

Text

Stuck On You

Pairing: Michael Gavey (Saltburn) x f!reader Warnings: Dark themes, slut shaming, obsessive behaviour, smut.

Word count: ~6k

Summary: When her email is hacked and racy photos she'd sent to her boyfriend find their way onto Myspace, she becomes the social pariah of Oxford University. She turns to the only person she believes is intelligent enough to be able to help; Michael Gavey. Could uncovering the truth of the situation make things worse than they already are?

Author's note: Written to celebrate one year of my blog existing. Sorry for the delay. Crumbageddon beat the shit out of me. No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Community labels are for cops.

“Using a painting of that former duchess as a conversation piece, he describes what he saw as her unfaithfulness, frivolity, and stubbornness, and implies that he prefers her as a painting rather than as a…as a living woman,” her voice shakes, stumbling over her words, watching as her essay papers slip from her hands, fluttering towards the rug of the study.

“Sh-shit…I’m sorry,” she stammers, leaning down to snatch them back up, feeling her skin heat up with embarrassment as she attempts to rustle them back into order.

“Everything alright?” Professor Ware asks, shifting in his seat and clasping his hands in his lap.

“Distracted by her own portrait, I should imagine,” snarks Farleigh, cutting her off before she has a chance to reply.

He smirks up at her, before returning his focus to the screen of his Macbook, fingers tapping quickly across the keys as he sits on the floor with it in his lap, leaning back against the armchair she currently sits in, his legs crossed at the ankle.

Of course he’d left it until the last minute to do his essay. Lazy prick.

“Stop it,” she hisses, knocking his shoulder with her knee.

“Why? It’s up again already anyway,” he retorts with a casual shrug, not bothering to look at her this time.

Her blood runs ice cold, dread gnawing a pit in her stomach. That would be the fourth time this week.

“Where?!” She demands, leaning down to snatch Farleigh’s Macbook from him, ignoring his protestation of “hey!” as she clicks on the minimised Internet Explorer window to see her Myspace profile already open.

Just as he’d said, there she is. Her profile picture depicts her in a lacy two piece lingerie set, laying on her bed, her cleavage, stomach and thighs on full display. She’d thought the angle flattering when she’d first held the digital camera above herself and snapped the picture, but now it’s splashed all over the internet for everyone to see. It makes her feel sick.

“I have to go,” she says hurriedly, shoving Farleigh’s Macbook back into his lap and stuffing her essay papers into her bag.

She almost trips over Farleigh’s long legs in her rush to escape the tutorial room, the air suddenly feeling too thick and difficult to breathe, as her heart hammers in her chest. Her feet carry her down the hallway in quick strides, no particular direction in mind, just eager to get away.

It had all seemed like innocent fun at first. She had felt excited on the second day of Fresher’s Week when a group of girls from the floor of her accommodation had invited her to go shopping with them

They had wrinkled their noses as she had beelined for the Ann Summers in Westgate Shopping Centre, lured by the big, red sale banner in the window.

“Oh darling,” India had cooed, “don’t buy that rubbish. We’ll get the train into London and take you to Rigby and Peller in Mayfair, if it’s lingerie you’re after.”

She had balked inwardly at the thought of how expensive that would be, but had simply smiled politely, stating “this is fine”, more than happy with the matching black lace set she’d picked from the sale rail.

Back in her room, she’d tried it on, loving the way the material hugged her curves and felt against her skin. Excitedly, she’d dug out her digital camera, contorting herself into various poses that she felt best displayed her assets, until she was satisfied she had several that looked good.

She hadn’t seen her boyfriend, Jake, since she had left for Oxford and he had gone to Brighton. Their reading weeks didn’t align, which meant they’d have to wait until the term came to an end to see each other at Christmas.

Emailing him the photos had felt like a nice way for them to maintain some sort of intimacy, despite the distance, and he’d certainly appreciated it, as a couple of hours later she’d gotten a text from him which simply said “wow!”

The high from that had left her with a smile on her face for days, until she’d stepped out of a tutorial a few days later to see a missed call and a text from him.

“What the fuck are you playing at?!” It had read.

She’d called him back straight away, the urge to vomit growing acrid in her throat as he’d told her what he’d seen, holding the phone to her ear with her shoulder, she’d scrambled with shaking hands to free her laptop from her bag, to confirm what Jake was saying.

There it was. Her Myspace profile picture had been changed to one of the lingerie photos she’d sent to him. This one was a full length photo she’d taken, aiming the camera at the mirror in her room.

The hot prickle of tears had burned beneath her eyelids, as she’d drawn in a shaky breath. “Wh-why would you do that?” She’d whispered tearfully into the phone.

“It wasn’t me!” Jake had snapped angrily. “Perhaps if you hadn't taken those bloody photos in the first place then this wouldn’t have happened.”

“Are you seriously blaming me?!”

“It just looks bad. I think maybe we should cool things for a bit, I can’t with be someone that—”

Tears had rolled down her cheeks as she’d pulled the phone away from her ear, seeing the call had cut off. She’d run out of credit. In a way, she was grateful; she didn’t want to listen to Jake ending their relationship, to continue to blame her for something that wasn’t her fault.

She had taken the photo down, changed her profile picture back to what it was before, and changed the password for both Myspace and her email. However, the damage was done, the whispers of “slut” as she walked to lectures had already started.

Another two days later she had entered the IT lab to print out her essay, and saw a group huddled around a computer, laughing together. They had turned, immediately quietening down, their voices hushed whispers as they looked at her.

She had pushed them apart, already knowing what it was they were all looking at, but wanting to confirm it. Just as she’d suspected, her Myspace profile was open. This time her photo had been changed to an over the shoulder shot. The side of her face and her buttocks visible as she’d arched her back.

Running back to her room, tears of humiliation blurring her vision, she’d taken the photo down again and changed all her passwords. But once again, it was too little, too late. A print out of the photo slipped beneath her door that same day, with the word “whore” scrawled across it.

Her friends were already starting to pull away, the invites to the pub had dried up into nothing. When another photo had been uploaded, Felix had pulled her to one side.

“Look, I think it’s incredibly daring of you to be doing what you’re doing, and I respect the fuck out of you for it, really I do,” he’d said, eyes filled with sympathy as he’d looked down at her. “But a few of us really aren’t comfortable with how you’re going about…getting attention, so I just think it’s for the best if we take some space until you’ve figured out whatever this is.”

She had been stunned by his words, her eyes going wide as her mouth had dropped open. “You think I’m doing this to myself?!”

“Well, what else are we supposed to think? We’re worried about you. There are better…healthier ways to make yourself stand out. Just come clean and all of this can stop.”

Turning away in disgust, anger and betrayal flaring white hot in her chest, she’d walked away. This was happening to her, she wasn’t complicit in it, and yet people continued to act like it was her fault. She had started to wonder if she really was to blame. Had she tempted fate by taking those photos in the first place?

Today was the fourth time a photo had been uploaded and having fled from the tutorial with Professor Ware and Farleigh, she finds herself in the Bodleian Library, having walked on instinct.

It serves as a quiet refuge for her in moments when she feels overwhelmed, hiding among the shelves, admiring tomes that are older than she is. She’d come here on her first day, when the influx of new people, sights and sounds had become too much, and she had crouched between the stacks the first time one of her photos had been leaked. The smell of old books and the peace and quiet feels safe.

Walking silently between the study tables she spots him, alone, as he always is; Michael Gavey. He is hunched over a notebook, scribbling furious notes, stopping occasionally to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his index finger.

She had thoroughly embarrassed herself the first time she’d met him, the only time she had ever spoken to him. It had been the night of the fresher’s welcome dinner. She’d heard his outburst in the dining hall, heard how he had answered the subsequent multiplication sum flawlessly and been bowled over by how effortlessly brilliant he was. It was intimidating.

Yet, later that evening fuelled by the courage of five tropical watermelon flavoured Bacardi Breezers, she’d stumbled over to him in the rec room, ignoring how he’d recoiled slightly at her advancing towards him.

She’d wrapped an arm around his neck, taking no notice of the way he’d stiffened beneath her touch.

“Wha’s nine hundred and ninety nine divided by thirteen?” She’d slurred into his ear.

He had bristled slightly, before answering quietly. “Seventy six point eight five.”

She had giggled, patting his cheek, knocking his glasses askew. “Don’t even know how to check that, but I’ll take your word for it, genius.”

Kissing his cheek, she’d stumbled away, leaving him to wipe away the sticky residue her lips had left behind, while Felix and Farleigh had fallen about themselves, laughing, finding it far funnier than she’d intended for it to be. She had ended up making him a laughing stock without even meaning to.

The memory fills her with shame. She really did find him impressive. He was precisely the type of person she had wanted to rub shoulders with when she arrived at Oxford, yet she had made a fool of herself instead.

She smiled at him whenever she caught his eye on the rare occasions they crossed paths, but he’d either look away or stare at her expressionless.

Perhaps now was her opportunity to make amends. She has no friends now anyway, so it’s not as though she has anything to lose.

Walking over to his table, before she has a chance to talk herself out of it, she sits down heavily in the seat next to him, depositing her bag onto the tabletop.

Michael’s pen pauses its movements, and slowly his head turns to the side, narrowing his eyes at her in silent question.

She suddenly has the urge to run, realising this was a terrible idea. She feels enormous discomfort beneath the scrutiny of his gaze yet, determined to push through it, she offers him a bright smile.

“You’re Michael, aren’t you?” She says, attempting to sound more cheerful than she feels.

“Yes,” he replies simply, placing his pen down and straightening in his seat.

“Thought so. I’m–”

“I know who you are,” he cuts her off. “What do you want?”

“Oh,” she swallows, shifting awkwardly in her seat. She hadn’t anticipated him being quite so blunt. “Well, I wanted to apologise for how I behaved on the first night. I thought maybe we could be friends?”

He scoffs, the corners of his mouth turning up into the faintest of smirks. “As if I’d be friends with someone who’s reading literature. Why pay all that money in tuition fees for a glorified book club?”

For a moment she doesn’t know what to say. Shock, offense and hurt swirl in a hot mixture in her chest. She fights the embarrassing urge to burst into tears. Her voice is small and weak when she finally asks “How do you know what I’m studying?”

Michael nods towards the desk. “There’s a book of Robert Browning poetry sticking out of your bag.”

“Right, yeah…” She feels her skin heat up, turning to slowly tuck the book further down inside, still able to feel his eyes upon her. It’s disconcerting to be observed so closely.

“Where’s that group of losers you usually hang around with anyway?”

The question takes her by surprise, and she laughs softly, though there is no real humour to it. “I don’t think they want to hang around with me anymore.”

“So you’re a Norman no mates too then?”

His expression has softened, a slight playfulness brightens his blue eyes as she looks back at him, and she can’t help but smile. “Yeah, I suppose I am.”

He leans forward, resting his elbow on the table and propping his chin up on his hand. “Hmmm. So they got bored of you then?”

“No…I–”

She sighs exasperatedly, running a hand through her hair, before digging through her bag to pull out her laptop. “It’s probably easier if I show you.”

Setting the laptop down on the table, she loads her Myspace page, the same picture she’d seen on Farleigh’s Macbook earlier still set as her profile photo. “Someone keeps changing my profile picture to this. I sent my boyfriend…ex-boyfriend…some photos and now someone has them and keeps doing this every time I change it back.”

Michael’s expression is impassive as he stares at the screen. “Have you changed your passwords?”

“Yes,” she sighs.

“So, you’ve been hacked.”

“Looks that way…I don’t suppose you know anything about computers? Maybe you could help me figure out who’s doing this?”

“Ah,” he clicks his tongue, staring intently at her, “so there it is, pretending to befriend the college nerd because you need computer help. Do you not think it’s a bit of a tired stereotype to assume that because I’m reading maths I’d be able to help you with your IT issues?”

“No, it’s not like that!” She protests, her eyes welling up with tears. She turns away, defeated, deciding this is a lost cause and closes her laptop. “I’m sorry, I’ll leave you alone.”

He sighs. “Well, there’s no need to cry about it. I can help you, just not right now. Are you free later this evening?”

She sniffles, her eyes going wide as she looks at him in surprise. “Really?”

He nods, closing his notebook and slipping his pen into his breast pocket. “I’ve got a tutorial in twenty minutes, but I can help trace the IP of whoever’s hacked you. I’m on the first floor of the Brasenose, second room left of the staircase. I’ll be back around five.”

Nodding, she immediately feels lighter, the possibility that this may finally come to an end instantly lifting her spirits. A chance to get her life back. “That’s perfect, I’ll see you then. Thank you so much.”

He rises, his gaze remaining fixed upon her. “See you later.”

The way he addresses her, first and last name, sends a shiver down her spine as she watches him turn away and walk slowly out of the library. She wonders what she has gotten herself into, but with no friends and no other options there is little else to be done.

She is filled with restless energy for the rest of the day, unable to sit still or concentrate during the only other lecture she has that afternoon, until eventually she finds herself standing outside of Michael’s room at quarter past five, the hours leading up to that feeling as though they’ve lasted an eternity.

Where there is the faint sound of music or talking coming from the doors she’s passed already on her way here, she is struck by the eerie silence she is met with from his, and wonders for a moment if he’s even home.

Nervous excitement crackles like electricity through her body and her knock is louder than she intends for it to be. She hears shuffling from the other side, until the door swings slowly open. Michael stands poker straight on the threshold, staring down at her.

“Did you bring your laptop?” He asks.

Yet again she is taken aback by how forthright he is, but she nods, stepping in as he moves to the side to let her pass.

Looking around the room, she takes in the plainness of his bedspread, the shelves of mathematics and physics textbooks, the desk set up in the corner that has his laptop open on it. There is nothing that gives even the slightest indication as to who he is as a person.

The sound of him clearing his throat startles her attention back to him, and she turns with an apologetic smile to face him. “Sorry, always weird being in someone else’s room…”

“Right,” he replies, his gaze unwavering as he looks at her. “Laptop?”

“Oh, yeah, sorry,” embarrassment heats up her skin, as she rummages in her bag, taking it out and handing it to him.

He settles it next to his own on the desk, before taking a seat.

She stands awkwardly in the middle of the room, looking around, not quite knowing what to do with herself. “Um…where should I…?”

“Anywhere,” he says with a dismissive wave of his hand, not looking at her.

She settles on the edge of the bed, running her hands over the soft cotton of the duvet cover. It’s an odd sensation to sit so casually in the space that she knows he sleeps. It feels too familiar, too intimate.

Glancing to the side, she notices the shimmer of gold and purple in the bin. She smiles to herself, having learned something about him in spite of the lack of personal effects in his room. He has a sweet tooth, evidenced by the Crunchie bar wrappers in the bin.

“Password?” He asks, and her head snaps up towards him.

“Hmm?”

He turns in his chair, resting his arm on the back of it, glaring at her over his shoulder. “The password for your laptop, what is it?”

“Oh!” She exclaims. “Is it safe for me to tell you that?”

“It is if you want me to help you,” he sighs.

She squirms uncomfortably. He has the innate ability to make her feel small, foolish, but what’s most disconcerting is that she doesn’t dislike it, there is something about him that draws her to his condescension.

“It’s Shakespeare,” she tells him sheepishly, “with a four in place of the first A.”

“What about the passwords for your email and Myspace accounts?”

“The same.”

“The same?!”

“I’ve changed the passwords each time a new photo has been posted, but it’s just easier to have the same one for everything.”

He groans, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “No wonder you’ve been hacked, typical fucking liberal arts student.”

She lowers her gaze, fingers plucking nervously at the bedspread. “Different passwords for every account, got it.”

“Well, that’s a start, yes,” he tells her, turning back to the screens. “Has anyone but you had access to your computer?”

“No, it stays in my bag when I’m not using it.”

She sits watching him tap away at the keyboards of both laptops alternately for a few moments before she speaks again. “I’m not stupid, you know,” she tells him, her voice sounding meeker than she means for it to. “English Language and Literature is no less of a respectable course than Mathematics. I wrote an essay on the Robert Browning poem, My Last Duchess, recently. It’s a fascinating piece, focusing on the Duke of Ferrara using a painting of his former wife as a conversation topic. The Duke speaks about his former wife's perceived inadequacies to a representative of the family of his bride-to-be, revealing his obsession with controlling others in the process. Browning uses this compelling psychological portrait of a despicable character to critique the objectification of women and abuses of power. It’s a compelling commentary on social status and elitism.”

“What would you know about either of those things?” He asks, continuing to type.

“More than I’d like to,” she says quietly, “I don’t fit in here, not really. I earned my place with a scholarship.”

He pauses, stiffening, glancing over his shoulder at her with a “hmm”.

“I’ve managed to get into the access logs for both your email and Myspace accounts,” he tells her. “There are two sets of IPs that have accessed both accounts in the last week, but both are eduroam IP addresses.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that whoever is uploading those photos is doing so from the university.”

The revelation hits her like a punch to the gut, she feels paralysed, unable to speak as his words sink in. A part of her had wanted to believe it was Jake. To think there is someone at the university who is doing this to her makes her feel nauseated. Her mind races with the possibilities of who it could be. Felix? India? Farleigh? What reason could any of them possibly have to want to do that to her?

“What should I do?” She asks worriedly, staring at Michael with her brows pinched together. “Do you think reporting it would help?”

He swivels his chair fully around to face her and shakes his head. “Not if you intend to keep your scholarship. Rocking the boat over leaked nudes won’t look good to the university board, they’ll take issue with the fact that you even took those photos in the first place.”

“So I just have to let this keep happening?” She feels her throat tighten, wetness rims her eyes.

“Change your passwords,” he says matter of factly. “A different one for every account.”

She nods, expelling a shaky breath, before standing. “I should probably get going. Thank you…for everything.”

Before she goes to bed that night, she changes her passwords - a different one for every account she owns, and deletes the newest uploaded photo, returning her profile picture to its original state.

As far as she is concerned, that should be the end of it. However, her breath hitches, icy cold fingers of fear gripping her heart when she logs on the following morning. Not only has her profile picture been changed to another photo from the set she’d taken for Jake, but the “about me” section now reads “vapid cunt”.

On autopilot, she dresses, taking her laptop and walking the six minutes from Christ Church Halls to Brasenose College.

As soon as Michael’s door opens, she flings her arms around his neck, sobbing into his chest. He stiffens, not returning the gesture, until she finally pulls away.

He straighens, adjusting his glasses. His hair is rumpled from sleep, clad in a t-shirt and plaid pyjama bottoms.

“God, I’m so sorry, I woke you up,” she says tearfully, “I should go. I didn’t think, I just–”

“It’s fine,” he says flatly, ushering her in.

She sits down on the bed. It’s unmade, still warm from where he’s been sleeping in it. The feeling sends a shiver down her spine, despite her emotional distress.

Gingerly he sits next to her, keeping a respectable distance as she removes her laptop from her bag and opens it. “It’s happened again. I did everything you said to do, but it’s happened again, and it’s worse this time. Look–”

Handing him the laptop she shuffles closer to him, her thigh pressed against his. She can feel the warmth of him through her leggings. It causes butterflies to flutter in her belly, it’s been so long since she’s been this close to anyone.

Michael doesn’t stiffen at her touch this time, whether it’s because he doesn’t mind it or is too distracted by what he sees on the screen, she’s unsure, but it’s progress.

“Hmm. And you’re sure you changed your passwords?”

“Yes, all of them. I don’t know what else to do. If I report it, I risk my scholarship, but if this carries on I’ll lose it anyway, because how can I concentrate when this keeps happening?”

He says nothing, closing her laptop and passing it back to her.

“I’ve worked my arse off to get here, to earn my place, this can’t be what ends it,” she says miserably, tucking her computer back into her bag.

“I’d suggest focusing on your studies and less on your peers,” Michael says matter of factly. “You haven’t made the best choice of friends since arriving here.”

“They’re not my friends,” she whispers, her hands fidgeting in her lap. “At least not anymore. Do you think it’s one of them doing this?”

“I wouldn’t put it past them,” he replies bitterly, “stay away from them. I’ve got a lecture this morning, but maybe when I’ve got some downtime, I can do a deeper dive, perhaps see if I can track the logins to a device type.”

“You’d do that for me?” She whispers, looking at him with eyes full of appreciation.

“That’s what mates are for, right?”

“Thank you…just…thank you,” she tells him with sincerity, holding his gaze.

She reaches for his hand and gives it a gentle squeeze, desperate to kiss his cheek as a gesture of her gratitude, but remembers the first time she’d done it and cringes inwardly. Though Michael’s hand doesn’t clutch back, he doesn’t move it away and, after a few moments, she realises they’re simply sitting holding hands, looking into each other's eyes.

He is beautiful in his own way. His stare, though intimidating, is piercingly blue, and his lips are soft and plump. She swallows, lashes fluttering in embarrassment when she realises she’s staring at his mouth.

Chancing her luck, she leans in, planting a lingering kiss to the corner of his lips. “I’ll be back at lunchtime, okay?” She whispers, before standing and moving towards the door.

He simply nods, fingers raising to brush over the spot where she’d kissed him. The sight puts a spring in her step for the rest of the morning, almost enough to forget about her being hacked. Almost.

She stops at a vending machine in the rec room on her way back to Brasenose at midday, deciding to buy Michael a Crunchie, an additional thank you for him going out of his way to help her.

As awful as having her privacy violated has been, she is grateful that it has brought her and Michael closer together. She had started the term wanting nothing more than to be his friend, and had royally fucked it up.

Now it seems they have mended their rift, and the prospect of being more than just friends is on the cards. Admittedly, he isn’t her usual type, but there is something about him that excites her. She hopes that once this is all over, this can be a fresh start for her at Oxford; her and Michael, just the caliber of intelligence she had wanted to associate with when she’d first applied.

She knocks at his door, hesitating when he doesn’t open it.

“Michael?” She calls out, brow furrowing in concern when he doesn’t answer.

They’d agreed upon lunchtime to meet, where was he? She tries the door handle and it’s unlocked, gingerly she pushes it open, peering slowly inside. He’s not there, but if he’d left it unlocked then he’d surely be back soon and wouldn’t mind her waiting inside for him.

She steps into the room, finding it much the same as before, only this time the bed is made. Walking over to the window by the desk, she stops to admire the view of the church, startling slightly when her bag knocks the computer chair, disturbing the mouse and taking Michael’s laptop out of sleep.

As she is about to turn back to the window, she notices her Myspace profile is open in edit mode in his browser. She frowns, a feeling of unease washing over her, as she steps towards the desk, her hand trembling as she reaches for the mouse.

She minimises Internet Explorer, gasping when she sees a folder open on his desktop, filled with the photos she had sent to Jake, all of them, even the ones that hadn’t yet been set as her profile picture.

Her heart pounds as she selects all of them, deleting them before clicking on the recycling bin to empty it.

“You didn’t think I’d be stupid enough to not create back ups, did you?”

Turning, she sees that Michael has returned, so quietly she hadn’t noticed. His fingers clutch at the USB stick that’s clipped to his cargo shorts, lips turned up into an expression of smugness.

Tears prickle her eyes, as her heart lurches, the only word that escapes her is “why?” as she looks at him with arched brows, her face pinched into an expression of emotional hurt.

“Why?” He repeats, cocking his head, advancing towards her as she shrinks back into the corner. “Because someone needed to take you down a peg or two.”

“You’ve ruined my life!” She cries, tears slipping down her cheeks, looking at him in disbelief.

This has to be a dream, it is too surreal. Any moment now, she’ll wake up and all of this will have been a terrible dream.

Only it’s not, it’s real, real as the heat of his breath that fans across her face as he looms over her, having backed her fully into the corner between the desk and the window.

“What life? Pretending to play a part with people that don’t really like you? Using your pretentious choice in reading material to make yourself seem intelligent?”

“You don’t know anything about me!” She says defiantly.

“Oh, I know all about you. Hiding your scholarship from those vapid cunts, so they won’t sniff out your working class background and drop you. The variations of John Browning as your password - adding a different number to each variation doesn’t make it a different password, stupid girl.”

“I was nice to you…” She offers feebly, almost pleading with him.

He smirks, taking her chin between his thumb and forefinger, gripping harshly, forcing her to look at him. “You felt sorry for me. But it’s not me that needs pity, is it? It’s you. Poor little scholarship slut. You love that My Last Duchess poem so much because you see yourself in it, don’t you? Think you’re being objectified, treated unfairly. Well, let me tell you something, you are like that poem, but in the sense that you’re better in pictures than you are in real life.”

“Stop it,” she whispers, trying to pull away from him.

“Truth hurt, does it?” He asks, his grip on her face remaining tight. “That’s a pity. I enjoyed those pictures, really enjoyed them. It’s a shame the real life version is so whiny and pathetic.”

“I’ll report you,” she says quietly.

“Oh, I don’t think you will, somehow. You love the attention,” he tells her, dropping his hand from her chin to her shoulder, turning her and backing her up towards the bed. “I’ve seen how you look at me. If I wanted to fuck you right now, you’d let me.”

“I–I wouldn’t!” She stammers, feeling her face grow warm.

With a gentle shove from him, she topples back against the mattress, and he is quick to move over her, caging her in. “Liar,” he whispers in her ear.

She shudders at the sensation, despising the way her body betrays her, as heat pools between her legs. She shouldn’t be turned on by this, yet she can’t deny the way he sets her pulse racing.

“I haven’t ruined your life, but I could and you’d let me, wouldn’t you?” He hisses.

The weight of him on top of her, his warm breath fanning against her neck, it’s dizzying. She wants to tell him to get off of her, to push him away, yet she cannot find it in herself to do so. There is a part of her that’s curious to see how far he’ll push this.

When she doesn’t say anything, he carries on, nimble fingers moving to the waistband of her leggings, tugging them down. “I’m going to treat you like the desperate, little slut that you are, and you’re going to let me, aren’t you?”

She whines, lifting her hips as he rids her of the bottom half of her clothing.

“That’s what I thought,” he smirks.

His gaze falls between her legs, tentative fingers reaching out to brush through the wetness that has gathered there. She sees a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes and wonders if he has ever done this before.

She knows his moment of hesitation would be enough for her to push him away, grab her clothes and report him, yet she feels compelled to stay. If this is his first time, then she wants it to be her. She enjoys the dynamic of the power he has over her, while simultaneously being able to take something from him.

Wanting to bolster his confidence, urge him to continue, she sits up, eager hands unfastening his belt and unzipping his shorts. It flips a switch inside him, and he’s surging forward once more, pinning her beneath him as he pushes his boxers down just enough to free his cock.

“Tell me you want this,” he rasps against the shell of her ear.

“I want this,” she mewls desperately, feeling the head of him resting at her entrance.

“You’re going to keep letting me do this to you, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll wear that tarty underwear from your photos for me, won’t you?”

“...yes.”

He presses forward and is met with resistance, not having fully prepared her. He draws back and pushes against her again, repeating the motion until he’s fully sheathed inside of her. It’s exquisite torture, a pleasurable hurt to be split apart by him, to feel so full.

Breathing heavily through his nose, he stills and she can feel his inexperience in the way that he tenses, but isn’t prepared to give up when they’ve already come this far. She rolls her hips against his, a breathy sigh escaping her as she feels her sweet spot rub up against the head of him.

He screws his eyes shut, jaw going slack, before beginning to move his own hips, pulling back to slam forward once more, quickly finding a rhythm that suits him. This isn’t careful, considered lovemaking, they rut against each other like animals, both of them allowing instinct to guide them as they seek out the movements that feel most pleasurable.

She clings tightly to him, meeting him thrust for thrust, their breaths coming in hot, shallow pants.

“Fucking knew this was all you needed,” he mutters, “someone to teach you a lesson, see you for what you really are.”

“Please,” she whimpers, her hands sliding down to his backside to push him in deeper, causing him to groan.

“F–fuck,” he stutters, picking up his pace when he feels her start to tighten around him. “Tell me you’re mine, you don’t need anyone else, just me.”

“‘M yours,” she gasps, pushing her hips against his, zeroing in on the precipice she is about to fall from.

A particularly harsh thrust is the final shove she needs, and white hot waves of euphoria wrack her body, as she cries out in ecstasy. Suddenly, Michael is withdrawing, leaving her to clench around nothing as he paints her inner thigh with sticky warmth.

He collapses beside her, and she stares into the lightly fogged lenses of his glasses, their noses bumping together.

“Are you still going to ruin my life?” She asks, hazy with pleasure.

For the first time, their lips meet, a messy clash of tongue and teeth, that’s sloppy and wet, their breaths still heavy and movements uncontrolled.

“You’re going to let me,” he whispers when they finally break for air, “because you’re mine.” Resistance is futile, she will let him. She wants this, needs this. After all, Michael Gavey is the type of person she came to Oxford to associate with in the first place, and she’s gotten exactly what she asked for.

#michael gavey x reader #michael gavey smut #michael gavey imagine #michael gavey x you #michael gavey x y/n #ewan mitchell #michael gavey saltburn #satlburn michael gavey #saltburn #michael gavey fan fiction #michael gavey fanfiction #michael gavey fan fic #michael gavey fanfic #saltburn fanfiction #saltburn fanfic #satlburn fan fiction #satlburn fan fic

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molkolsdal · 2 months

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Kashmiri woman looks at a picture on a digital camera during a Republic Day parade at the Bakshi stadium in Srinagar on January 26, 2012. Republic Day marks the proclamation of India as a republic in 1950 -- three years after it won independence from British rule.

Tauseef Mustafa

#tauseef mustafa #kashmir #women #tradition #fashion #jewellery

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destinyc1020 · 1 year

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Exactly! It’s the digital age for the LA truthers always hemming and hawing about when is she going back to LA. When she needs to go back! Like what in LA does she need to do that she can’t do in London? A photo shoot? Photographers and cameras are in London. A production meeting? Sam got a laptop. A script can be sent to her email and she can read on her iPad. Her agents can call her. The core four of Darnell, Zink, Law and her can have team meetings on Zoom. Y’all want her to be working and back in LA cause y’all think it’s going to get her away from Tom. It must hurt people’s hearts that they spent an entire month in the Caribbean together, Valentines and India and now them building a home in London for the past month and half. Y’all see how serious their relationship is and how they move like a serious couple and y’all wanna yell she needs to be back to work as if that’s going to change anything about how in deep they are.

Exactly! Distance won't change a thing at all for them lol. They've been doing long-distance since 2016 okay?? They've mastered it. Plus, you all saw that a pandemic, even them dating OTHER PEOPLE, and not seeing each other for almost a YEAR didn't change their feelings one BIT for one another, so what makes you think Z going back to LA (or Tom being in London) is gonna change their feelings for each other now?? 😅🤣

These two are moving like an ENGAGED couple, and have been doing so since 2021 as far as I'm concerned. 👀 Like, it's so obvious! When you're ENGAGED, you feel more secure in the relationship, your love DEEPENS astronomically for that person, you know you're about to build your LIFE with that special someone... It's a totally different feeling from just "dating" or "in a relationship". You're also a little more "FREE" about being more open re: your relationship. I'm sorry, but their last birthday posts to each other were pretty telling to me. And for Zendaya to be THAT vocal about posting Tom and how he makes her "the happiest"? Chiiiiiile...I'm sorry, but I'm fully on the "They're Engaged" train lol.... 😅 Her "my fffff-ff-fffff family" stuttering during "Dune" press was also very telling to me too! 🤣🤣 It's just been a totally different vibe w/them for at least over a year. Maybe I'm crazy and imagining things (so be it lol), but that's just what my GUT is telling me. These two are not just "boyfriend" and "girlfriend" anymore, and if they want to keep it private, then I say let them! :)

Either way, they're obviously building a future w/each other and even the trolls and antis can see it too, and that's why they're so triggered lol.

All I have to say to that is:

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hedwig-dordt · 7 months

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The Ig Nobel Prize, for scientific research that makes people laugh and then makes them think. This year's winners!

CHEMISTRY and GEOLOGY PRIZE [POLAND, UK] Jan Zalasiewicz, for explaining why many scientists like to lick rocks. REFERENCE: “Eating Fossils,” Jan Zalasiewicz, The Paleontological Association Newsletter, no. 96, November 2017. Eating fossils | The Palaeontological Association (palass.org) WHO TOOK PART IN THE CEREMONY: Jan Zalasiewicz

LITERATURE PRIZE [FRANCE, UK, MALAYSIA, FINLAND] Chris Moulin, Nicole Bell, Merita Turunen, Arina Baharin, and Akira O’Connor for studying the sensations people feel when they repeat a single word many, many, many, many, many, many, many times. REFERENCE: “The The The The Induction of Jamais Vu in the Laboratory: Word Alienation and Semantic Satiation,” Chris J. A. Moulin, Nicole Bell, Merita Turunen, Arina Baharin, and Akira R. O’Connor, Memory, vol. 29, no. 7, 2021, pp. 933-942. doi.org/10.1080/09658211.2020.1727519 WHO TOOK PART IN THE CEREMONY: Chris Moulin, Akira O’Connor

MECHANICAL ENGINEERING PRIZE [INDIA, CHINA, MALAYSIA, USA] Te Faye Yap, Zhen Liu, Anoop Rajappan, Trevor Shimokusu, and Daniel Preston, for re-animating dead spiders to use as mechanical gripping tools. REFERENCE: “Necrobotics: Biotic Materials as Ready-to-Use Actuators,” Te Faye Yap, Zhen Liu, Anoop Rajappan, Trevor J. Shimokusu, and Daniel J. Preston, Advanced Science, vol. 9, no. 29, 2022, article 2201174. doi.org/10.1002/advs.202201174 WHO TOOK PART IN THE CEREMONY: Te Faye Yap and Daniel Preston

PUBLIC HEALTH PRIZE [SOUTH KOREA, USA] Seung-min Park, for inventing the Stanford Toilet, a device that uses a variety of technologies — including a urinalysis dipstick test strip, a computer vision system for defecation analysis, an anal-print sensor paired with an identification camera, and a telecommunications link — to monitor and quickly analyze the substances that humans excrete. REFERENCE: “A Mountable Toilet System for Personalized Health Monitoring via the Analysis of Excreta,” Seung-min Park, Daeyoun D. Won, Brian J. Lee, Diego Escobedo, Andre Esteva, Amin Aalipour, T. Jessie Ge, et al., Nature Biomedical Engineering, vol. 4, no. 6, 2020, pp. 624-635. doi.org/10.1038/s41551-020-0534-9 REFERENCE: “Digital Biomarkers in Human Excreta,” Seung-min Park, T. Jessie Ge, Daeyoun D. Won, Jong Kyun Lee, and Joseph C. Liao, Nature Reviews Gastroenterology and Hepatology, vol. 18, no. 8, 2021, pp. 521-522. doi.org/10.1038/s41575-021-00462-0 REFERENCE: “Smart Toilets for Monitoring COVID-19 Surges: Passive Diagnostics and Public Health,” T. Jessie Ge, Carmel T. Chan, Brian J. Lee, Joseph C. Liao, and Seung-min Park, NPJ Digital Medicine, vol. 5, no. 1, 2022, article 39. doi.org/10.1038/s41746-022-00582-0 REFERENCE: “Passive Monitoring by Smart Toilets for Precision Health,” T. Jessie Ge, Vasiliki Nataly Rahimzadeh, Kevin Mintz, Walter G. Park, Nicole Martinez-Martin, Joseph C. Liao, and Seung-min Park, Science Translational Medicine, vol. 15, no. 681, 2023, article eabk3489. doi.org/10.1126/scitranslmed.abk3489 WHO TOOK PART IN THE CEREMONY: Seung-min Park

COMMUNICATION PRIZE [ARGENTINA, SPAIN, COLOMBIA, CHILE, CHINA, USA] María José Torres-Prioris, Diana López-Barroso, Estela Càmara, Sol Fittipaldi, Lucas Sedeño, Agustín Ibáñez, Marcelo Berthier, and Adolfo García, for studying the mental activities of people who are expert at speaking backward. REFERENCE: “Neurocognitive Signatures of Phonemic Sequencing in Expert Backward Speakers,” María José Torres-Prioris, Diana López-Barroso, Estela Càmara, Sol Fittipaldi, Lucas Sedeño, Agustín Ibáñez, Marcelo L. Berthier, and Adolfo M. García, Scientific Reports, vol. 10, no. 10621, 2020. doi.org/10.1038/s41598-020-67551-z WHO TOOK PART IN THE CEREMONY: María José Torres-Prioris, Adolfo García

MEDICINE PRIZE [USA, CANADA, MACEDONIA, IRAN, VIETNAM] Christine Pham, Bobak Hedayati, Kiana Hashemi, Ella Csuka, Tiana Mamaghani, Margit Juhasz, Jamie Wikenheiser, and Natasha Mesinkovska, for using cadavers to explore whether there is an equal number of hairs in each of a person’s two nostrils. REFERENCE: “The Quantification and Measurement of Nasal Hairs in a Cadaveric Population,” Christine Pham, Bobak Hedayati, Kiana Hashemi, Ella Csuka, Margit Juhasz, and Natasha Atanaskova Mesinkovska, Journal of The American Academy of Dermatology, vol. 83, no. 6, 2020, pp. AB202-AB202. doi.org/10.1016/j.jaad.2020.06.902 WHO TOOK PART IN THE CEREMONY: Christine Pham, Natasha Mesinkovska, Margit Juhasz, Kiana Hashemi, Tiana Mamaghani

NUTRITION PRIZE [JAPAN] Homei Miyashita and Hiromi Nakamura, for experiments to determine how electrified chopsticks and drinking straws can change the taste of food. REFERENCE: “Augmented Gustation Using Electricity,” Hiromi Nakamura and Homei Miyashita, Proceedings of the 2nd Augmented Human International Conference, March 2011, article 34. doi.org/10.1145/1959826.1959860 WHO TOOK PART IN THE CEREMONY: Homei Miyashita, Hiromi Nakamura

EDUCATION PRIZE [CHINA, CANADA, UK, THE NETHERLANDS, IRELAND, USA, JAPAN] Katy Tam, Cyanea Poon, Victoria Hui, Wijnand van Tilburg, Christy Wong, Vivian Kwong, Gigi Yuen, and Christian Chan, for methodically studying the boredom of teachers and students. REFERENCE: “Boredom Begets Boredom: An Experience Sampling Study on the Impact of Teacher Boredom on Student Boredom and Motivation,” Katy Y.Y. Tam, Cyanea Y. S. Poon, Victoria K.Y. Hui, Christy Y. F. Wong, Vivian W.Y. Kwong, Gigi W.C. Yuen, Christian S. Chan, British Journal of Educational Psychology, vol. 90, no. S1, June 2020, pp. 124-137. doi.org/10.1111/bjep.12549 REFERENCE: “Whatever Will Bore, Will Bore: The Mere Anticipation of Boredom Exacerbates its Occurrence in Lectures,” Katy Y.Y. Tam, Wijnand A.P. Van Tilburg, Christian S. Chan, British Journal of Educational Psychology, epub 2022. doi.org/10.1111/bjep.12549 WHO TOOK PART IN THE CEREMONY: Christian Chan, Katy Y.Y. Tam, Wijnand A.P. Van Tilburg

PSYCHOLOGY PRIZE [USA] Stanley Milgram, Leonard Bickman, and Lawrence Berkowitz for experiments on a city street to see how many passersby stop to look upward when they see strangers looking upward REFERENCE: “Note on the Drawing Power of Crowds of Different Size,” Stanley Milgram, Leonard Bickman, and Lawrence Berkowitz, Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, vol. 13, no. 2, 1969, pp. 79-82. psycnet.apa.org/doi/10.1037/h0028070 WHO TOOK PART IN THE CEREMONY: Len Bickman

PHYSICS PRIZE [SPAIN, GALICIA, SWITZERLAND, FRANCE, UK] Bieito Fernández Castro, Marian Peña, Enrique Nogueira, Miguel Gilcoto, Esperanza Broullón, Antonio Comesaña, Damien Bouffard, Alberto C. Naveira Garabato, and Beatriz Mouriño-Carballido, for measuring the extent to which ocean-water mixing is affected by the sexual activity of anchovies. REFERENCE: “Intense Upper Ocean Mixing Due to Large Aggregations of Spawning Fish,” Bieito Fernández Castro, Marian Peña, Enrique Nogueira, Miguel Gilcoto, Esperanza Broullón, Antonio Comesaña, Damien Bouffard, Alberto C. Naveira Garabato, and Beatriz Mouriño-Carballido, Nature Geoscience, vol. 15, 2022, pp. 287–292. doi.org/10.1038/s41561-022-00916-3 WHO TOOK PART IN THE CEREMONY: Bieito Fernandez Castro, Beatriz Mouriño-Carballido, Alberto Naveira Garabato, Esperanza Broullon, Miguel Gil Coto

#science #ig nobel prize winners #ig nobel prize

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artsupplies-battle · 11 months

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Art supplies battle

blood of my enemies VS synthetic voice bank

Glitter gel pen VS mayonnaise

Glass dip pen VS shitty cheap half empty pen

Graphite pencil VS Ribbon tool

Highlighters VS acrylic paints

Camera VS tones

Ballpoint pen VS vocoloid

Kneadable graphite VS watercolor pencil

Charcoal VS paper

Silver wire VS the shitty dried out markers from the artist briefcase

Digital pen VS the kickers brush they made

Nail art brushes VS hair

Glue dibber VS bleach

Blend tool VS found objects

Kneadble eraser VS harmonica

Yarn VS the sharpener on the back of a Crayola crayons 64 box

Water colors VS mouse (computer)

A cats little foot VS knife

Dirt VS Bobby pin

Rocks VS bow rosin

Photoshop VS Bic Atlantis ball point pen

Sketchbook VS knitting needles

Crochet hooks VS cintiq

Oil pastels VS washi tape

Bic mechanical pencil VS uv resin

Crayons VS disk (like a CD)

Sumi brush VS scanner

Ukulele VS rubber (condom)

Bass guitar VS roofei art kit

Waterproof pens VS Wacom drawing tablet

Fluffy watercolor VS gumi

Charcoal VS gold leaf

The notes app VS pencil (not specific)

Fingers VS toothpick

Tipex VS big tubs of paint

That dry pen you have VS processing

Saliva VS melted chocolate ice cream

Sugar VS prismacolor alcohol based markers

Money VS electric guitar

Rubber (eraser) VS kum pencil sharpener

Hatsune miku VS epoxy resin

India ink VS Copic markers

Tattoo machine+ tattoo ink VS MS paint

Lead pencil VS printmaking ink

Needle threader VS flip a clip

Curved needle VS vantablack

Sewing machine VS artists loft dual tip

Blue print VS my tears

Glitter glue VS beads

Ruler VS origami paper/ patterned paper

Prismacolor pencils VS sculpey

Macaroni noodles VS Mr. Super clear matte

Brain VS blood

Sharpie VS bark (wood kind)

Utau/ open utau VS the good pen ™️

Fake blood VS clay

Wooden human model VS fire

Icing bag VS clip studio paint

Posca pens VS cable needle

Fishing line VS ctrl +z

Rattlesnake VS human

ASCII VS 5$ crappy sketchbook

#I DID IT #YES #thanks to bo burnham for getting me through this #art supplies battle

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silvereyecertification · 6 months

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BIS Certification Consultants in India

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mariacallous · 1 year

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There’s a good chance you’ve seen a photo like this before: a man with a shaved head and a black jacket faces away from the camera. He’s got a swastika tattooed on the back of his head as a Nazi flag flutters in the background.

It’s the kind of default image we often have of when we think of the far-right — obvious, identifiable and recognisable. That’s why this exact photo has been the cover image for so many articles about the far-right around the world. No matter that the image itself is from a very specific context, when a handful of neo-Nazis protested outside a Holocaust memorial centre in Illinois, USA back in 2009.

But it’s seldom this straightforward to identify symbols the far-right uses, let alone identify members of far-right groups or advocates of such ideologies solely because of the symbols they use.

For every culture, symbols of any kind matter. They evoke emotions in us, from the positive to the negative and the simple to the complex. Of course, this certainly doesn’t just exist in the context of far-right extremism. Think of the kinds of symbols in your life that you react to and the national, cultural, or subcultural contexts you come from.

Maybe it’s a symbol you’re quite literally attached to, tattooed on your body. Maybe it’s a symbol that angers you to the point where you feel your identity is threatened. Maybe it’s somewhere in between. You feel a bond, some sense of community with those who view and react to these symbols in the same way. So symbols mean different things to different people, at different times and in different contexts. They’re not static, nor are they usually as simple to interpret as the swastika tattooed on the back of that neo-Nazi’s head. They have multiple levels of meaning, even contradictory ones. This is particularly the case for the far-right, who use symbols in deliberately coy and confusing ways that make it more difficult to pin down who they are and what they believe in. In her 2020 book, the US sociologist and expert on the far right Cynthia Miller-Idriss called this technique “game-playing” — coded messages laced with ambiguity, irony and humour with which the far-right not only “troll” their perceived opponents, but help “carry extremist ideas into the mainstream.”

Symbol, Context, Intention: Keys to Interpreting a Far-Right Symbol

So how should you go about interpreting, understanding and analysing a symbol which you think is or could be affiliated with the far-right?

There are three questions you should ask yourself, in any order you please. As you’ll see, these are questions that some of the simplest digital investigative tools and techniques — web searches and image searches — can help answer.

What symbol(s)?

Sometimes this question is relatively simple to answer. The far-right often uses obscure symbols or co-opted national symbols, such as the Patriote Flag in Quebec. They use symbols that have multiple meanings and symbols also used by non-extreme mainstream actors, such as the Eureka Flag in Australia. They even use symbols that are only meant to hint at the existence of other, more extreme symbols. It should be noted that while ultranationalist movements flourish across the world, such as in India, Israel, Japan and Turkey, the symbolism detailed in this article comes from white nationalist and far-right extremist contexts in Europe, the Americas and Oceania. Many of these symbols can be found on regularly updated databases maintained by organisations such as the Anti-Defamation League (ADL). This t-shirt is sold on a website from a small European country.

The text reads “me ne frego” — an Italian phrase roughly translating as “I don’t care”. A quick search online will reveal that it was used as a motto by Benito Mussolini’s Fascist Party.

Here’s another example, a smaller screenshot of a t-shirt sold by another European far-right website.

A lot of clothing in the world bears military-style design. That alone is not evidence of far-right ideology. But note the distinctive shape of the shield. This specific shape, with a notch on the upper right-hand corner, was used by Nazi Germany’s Waffen SS Panzer divisions (other divisions’ patches had notches on the left-hand side, while some had none at all).

In addition, the brand’s logo could be interpreted as reading “HH” — a common far-right shorthand for “Heil Hitler.” For example, according to a report on extremist dress codes by the Konrad Adenauer Stiftung, a German foundation, the Norwegian fashion brand Helly Hansen has been worn by far-right extremists who import the same meaning to its acronym ‘HH’.

A screenshot of a Google Image Search of the above photo, showing several hits for a Waffen SS panzer division

Lastly, here’s another example of a t-shirt sold by a European far-right website.

There are several symbols we can analyse here — text reading “the colours of tradition” followed by the brand’s name. Those smaller coloured symbols resemble a Celtic cross, a symbol commonly used by the far-right. Here they also contain the brand’s initials.

The words “colours of tradition” suggest that the use of black, white and red is significant. These are the colours not only of the old Imperial German flag but also of the flag of Nazi Germany — colours that were important enough to Adolf Hitler himself to note in Mein Kampf why the Nazis should use them.

Neo-Nazis in Germany, Austria and beyond have long used these colours as allusions to these flags in order to circumvent prohibitions on swastikas and other more overt Nazi imagery.

Who, When, Where? Understanding Context

It’s a cliche to say something like ‘context is everything,’ but it really is true when you’re trying to understand far-right symbolism.

The contextual spoiler for my three image examples above: they are from known far-right fashion brands. A quick reverse image search of all three photos will land you on the pages of these brands. (To that end, use a browser extension, like Search By Image or RevEye, to allow you to easily and quickly look for images across different search engines).

On the websites of these brands, you’ll see example after example of far-right symbolism, some more extreme and some more subtle. Researching their names reveals that these brands are well-known across European far-right extremist scenes.

Every symbol you see, far-right or not, exists in a context. Always ask yourself: Where is the symbol you’re seeing? Is it on a social media page or account? If so, what other symbols does that page or account share? Are you seeing a symbol in a physical place, like a sticker or a piece of graffiti? If so, what other symbols are around it? Who has communicated the symbol? Is it a specific group or individual? What else can you discover about them and their associations? If it’s a piece of media, when was it photographed or filmed? Was it around the same time the image was posted? To what extent can you chronolocate the image — that is, narrow the time down to a year, season, day or even time of day if necessary? These questions can often be answered using elementary online open source verification techniques.

Context is key. For example, far-right extremists, especially on social media, like to use common number codes as symbols. Among others, there’s 14, referencing the neo-Nazi ‘Fourteen Words,’ or 88 (‘Heil Hitler’, ‘H’ being the 8th letter of the alphabet), and more.

Screenshots of messages from a variety of international far-right extremist Telegram channels. Note the colours of the three hearts and the use of an otherwise innocuous ‘hand raising’ emoji, presumably alluding to a Nazi salute

But if you were to see someone with, for example, an Instagram username with a ‘14’ or ‘88’ and proclaim that on this basis alone the user is a far-right extremist, you could be making a serious mistake.

The same goes for imagery co-opted and frequently used by the far right, like neo-pagan or Norse symbolism. For example, maybe you see someone in a photo with a visible tattoo like a vegvísir (a ‘wayfinder’ or compass symbol that resembles a snowflake) wearing some sort of clothing or jewellery with a mjölnir (Thor’s hammer).

There’s no shortage of people affiliated with far-right extremist groups who adopt and wear these kinds of symbols. But there are plenty of people who have nothing to do with the far right who wear and display these kinds of symbols as well. Bikers, religious groups and heavy metal fans with no far-right sympathies have all used this symbolism. These symbols are often a necessary clue of far-right affiliations, but without further context they are seldom a sufficient one.

Why? Establishing Intent

Assessing intention can be the most challenging. It’s crucial to understand why a specific far-right symbol has been communicated at a specific time and place (virtual or physical) by a specific actor. This also means there’s a chance that someone displaying a far-right symbol — or what you think is a far-right symbol — isn’t doing so deliberately or doesn’t even know that people might interpret a particular symbol that way.

First ask: who are the target audience(s)? Members of the general public? Existing members of the group or adherents of the ideology? Potential new recruits? Perceived adversaries or enemies (e.g., journalists)? Not every symbol flashed by a far-right group is intended to be seen by the same audience or interpreted the same way by different audiences.

Interpreting and analysing the far-right’s use of symbols can be a challenge because of a seeming lack of consistent messaging. Austrian linguist Ruth Wodak, who has written extensively about communication strategies used by the far-right, uses the term “calculated ambivalence,” which she describes as “the strategy of addressing multiple and contradictory audiences via a single, cleverly layered message.”

As Bellingcat wrote in 2020, even Hawaiian shirts have become an example of this calculated ambivalence in action. They’ve been worn by some US extremists to flaunt their readiness for a forthcoming civil war, building off a number of subcultural references and memes. An even more innocuous example is the US and international far-right’s use of the ‘OK sign’ hand gesture.

A screenshot of a t-shirt sold by the German far-right fashion brand discussed earlier

In 2017, far-right extremists on the website 4chan started a hoax claiming that the ‘OK’ hand gesture, an everyday gesture in the US and English-speaking world, was actually a hate symbol. They did so in order to provoke an overreaction from the media and opponents of the far right. Far-right extremists began using the symbol, posting photos of themselves making the gesture in order to troll and “trigger” their perceived opponents. The hope was to make them look ridiculous and mockable for claiming something so common was a far-right extremist symbol.

The far right’s use of the hand gesture has certainly remained an act of trolling — as antiextremism watchdog the Southern Poverty Law Centre (SPLC) writes, it’s a symbol which is “so widely used that virtually anyone has plausible deniability built into their use of it in the first place”. But it was deadly serious when the Christchurch terrorist, after his arrest in 2019 for murdering 51 people at two mosques in New Zealand, flashed the symbol in court before the cameras.

To paraphrase Wodak, there’s a double message at play here: one can either view a far-right extremist’s use of the ‘OK’ hand gesture as just a coincidence — i.e., a mainstream, non-extreme use of the gesture — or they can share the far-right extremist meanings implied by those making the gesture.

The far right, whatever kind of symbol they’re flaunting, is interested in playing games like this.

They’re more than happy to exploit the ambiguous, multivocal and often contradictory nature of symbols, especially in this digital age where we’re all bombarded by them every day. There are certainly some who are still as brazen as that neo-Nazi with the swastika tattoo, but today’s far-right extremists are far less conspicuous and much more creative in the ways they communicate the same old hateful views.

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