#Safin Sunday

[crewman-penelope]

[chieftyphoonchaos]

A sunny beautiful and calm Safin/Mathilde Sunday 🌞🍵❤️

Many greetings from Rhodes where we stand at the city gate of the ancient and beautiful castle town on our last day in Greece

Enjoy the sun,love and a nice cup of tea ❤️

The new ‘Colossus of Rhodes’

My fiancée's inseparable living troed animal and her magic skills,if only for a day 😉

Reunited with my grandparents-in-law who are also on holiday in Greece, Earl and Countess White

Many greetings,sweethearts....

Lyutsifer, Mathilde and Dou Dou + Earl and Countes White

@daughterofthesilmaril @esconognosia @thefluffiestseahorse @chevy2497 @ramicastiel @ellen-the-radiant @ellen-the-wise @moon-stars-soul @sakurasoulgeneral @ghoulsister1 @squidwujun @satanhauntedourfears @bearbruno14 @grumpyoutlaw @silverlambcaptain @neverendingstories00 @honestmysteries @one-boring-person @poptod @koshi-sama @padawansubscription @sapphicsandsupernatural @yagurlny @chieftyphoonchaos @villainworshiper @alessiathepirate @colourful-serendipity @chloriine36

[honestmysteries]

It’s the 2-year anniversary of No Time To Die. I remember how much we Rami fans were all salivating to see Safin in action, counting down the days after so many delays! 😈😍🔥

[teamcivilian]

Small announcement from Penny

It came to my attention - quite late I must confess - that there is no official villains day.

Even as an civilian I do love a sexy good villain, therefore I have regular my Safin Sunday.

If the others don't mind I would post at every remaining Sunday's a villainous edit, in hope some hop on the train, and show us their favourite Bond Villain.

Of course all for fun and without any pressure!

Much love, Penny

[angstyandromanticwriting]

Lyutsifer Safin X Fem!Reader Angsty Prompt with a cute and hopeful ending

!TW: Dead body/Corpse/Presence of corpse, mention of character being shot/word ‘shot’/presence of violence previously, gun/mention of gun/presence of gun, implied suffering from depression, wanting to be shot, word ‘shoot’, mention of previous violent occurrences, suicide attempt, suicidal intentions/thoughts, mention of pain/mental pain!

“We failed,” Safin whispered, a pained expression on his face; he was stood above Mike’s limp body after he’d shot him when he threatened to tell the police about him threatening you during an argument. Mike had seen him threatening you with a gun through the letterbox on the door; he’d decided to look through it when he heard shouting through the door, and he’d caught sight of the gun, and just about caught sight of Safin holding it. “I - I failed,” Safin murmured, his voice briefly trembling; he knew he shouldn’t have been threatening you with the gun, but he couldn’t control himself; he was still struggling with his anger. You were stood in the corner of the room, your body trembling visibly; you were in shock. Safin then hesitantly turned and advanced closer to you, a hurt look on his face when he noticed that you seemed to be fearful of him as you’d moved away when he got closer to you. “I..” Safin faltered, setting down his gun on the table, before he stepped back, looking up at you; he just wanted you to shoot him.

“You - Should run,” you whispered shakily, “someone might have h-heard-..” Safin shook his head; he had no intention to run away again. “Why not?” You questioned, not daring to look down at the gun; you didn’t want to think that he’d placed it there for you to shoot him, even after he’d shot Mike.

Safin looked away from you; he didn’t want you to see that his dark greyish blue eyes were glistening. “I just-” he uttered, his voice weak, “I don’t want to run anymore. I can’t do it anymore.” You frowned, not sure of what to say as you fidgeted with your trembling hands. “I can’t eat, I can’t sleep,” he mused, “I can’t do anything.” You nodded gravely; you’d noticed that he was more distant with you lately; he must have been quite anxious about everything, including Mike and James. “Just kill me, Y/n,” Safin requested, gesticulating to the gun, “I’ve got nothing to live for, anyway-”

“That’s not true,” you interrupted, a hurt look on your face, “you have Emily, Sylvia, and me.”

Safin shook his head gravely; he felt as if he didn’t deserve you, Emily and Sylvia. “I don’t deserve any of you,” Safin expressed, “I threw Emily, remember? What if I hurt Sylvia? And I still can’t fully control my anger around you, w-what if I hurt you again?” You shook your head, trying to forget about the body behind him, and trying to focus on how he had been improving, and how you could possibly help to improve him more. “I - I know you were trying to help me, Y-Y/n,” Safin continued, “a-and I’m sorry I let you down again.”

You shook your head, bringing yourself to step closer to him. “You - You haven’t let me down, Safin,” you claimed; you didn’t want him to feel worse. “I - I should have done better to keep Mike away,” you stated, but Safin shook his head; he didn’t want you to blame yourself for what happened.

“No, kitten,” Safin interjected, “this was all my fault.. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen, and I’m so sorry..”

Safin then reached for his gun on the table, and you knew immediately what he was planning to do, so you panicked, throwing yourself forward to take the gun from him whilst crying ‘don’t’. “Please, stop,” you begged, “I can’t take anymore of you doing this to yourself!”

“I don’t want to live anymore, Y/n,” Safin responded dejectedly, wishing you’d just let him take his own life. “Maybe, in another universe,” he began thoughtfully, “this life would have been worth living-”

“It is worth living, Safin!” You interrupted, wishing he could see through the pain he was suffering. “You just need to stop doing this-!” You exclaimed, clicking the safety back on his gun, before you threw it away from him.

“Okay!” Safin cried, feeling overwhelmed. “I’ll do whatever you want me to do, okay? I’m tired of fighting, I’m tired of everything,” he admitted, his voice faltering toward the end of his sentence. “Do - Do you hate me?” Safin inquired, and you shook your head.

“I love you,” you reiterated, and Safin would be surprised, expecting you to scold him after, but you didn’t. “I-I’m sorry, I don’t know what else to say,” you added, seeing that he appeared to be expecting you to say something else.

“H-Hug me,” Safin requested, and you nodded, wrapping your arms around him. Safin returned the hug, expressing relief; he felt slightly better after what had happened. “I - I love you so much, Y/n,” Safin whispered, and you smiled weakly, nodding.

“I love you, too, Safin,” you returned, before you lifted your hand to play with his hair, providing extra comfort to him.

~~~~~

Hope you enjoyed this prompt! ❤️

[savethegrishaverse]

Let’s talk about the enduring bond between Genya Safin and David Kostyk! 📚✨ Come prepared with your best tweets, questions, comments, gifs, memes, and more. Let's make some noise! 🗣️

#SaveShadowAndBone and #SixOfCrowsSpinoff TWEETING PARTY 4/13 at 12PM! Come check it out here!

Remember to:

Only use three hashtags.

Enjoy and be engaging with your tweets! Keep sharing! Timezones under read more.

If you cannot attend, you can always schedule tweets ahead of time on desktop in order to help out still!

ALL TIMEZONES: Saturday, Apr 13: 9am PST 10am MST 11am CST 12pm EST 2pm -03 5pm GMT 6pm CET 8pm MSK 9pm +04 10:30pm IST

Sunday, Apr 14: 1am CST 2am JST 4am AEST 6am NZST

[padawansubscription]

The Refill.

Pairing: lyutsifer safin x gn!reader

Summary: a direct sequel to spilled milk (tea). safin brings you a gift to make up for your loss

Word Count: 1.5k

Notes: power imbalance/the start of a workplace romance (reader calls safin ‘sir’), mention of character deaths, two people mourning their familial losses, reader anxiety in the beginning

A/N: new year, new fic! it’s been ages since i’ve written anything here, so naturally i had to come back with safin. also, feelings are blooming in this chapter?? it’s about damn time 😭 and shout out to @crewman-penelope​ for always tagging me on your sunday safin posts! they’re great reminders that i love this wretched man

as usual, no beta reading. open to feedback! hny y’all!

You don’t like Primo. Sure, you’re no saint yourself, but at least you don’t manhandle people like he did. The man caught you by surprise. One moment, you’re leaving the office. The next, you’re pulled into a dark, mysterious hallway with instructions to follow him.

You were about five minutes in when you finally voiced your confusion. “Where are we going?” Are you going to kill me? Did Safin order this? Because of what happened last night?

He stopped, causing you to run into his back with a light “oomph!” Rubbing your nose, you looked over his shoulder, finding a flight of stairs that led to a dark entryway. If impending doom was an architecture, it'd be this.

“Go.” He stepped aside, gaze cold and void of any indication regarding your circumstance. If anything, he looked irritated.

You took your first step, then your second, before looking back at him. But Primo did little to nothing to ease your mind. With a sigh, you willed your legs to carry you to the very top until...

“Doctor.”

Safin knelt in front of a table. Ever the composed gentleman, he smiled upon your arrival and gestured to that mat on the other side of the table across from him. He held onto a cup of tea, its half-empty content evident of his patience. “Take a seat.”

“Sir,” you returned his greeting and obliged. Your eyes roamed the space around you, taking in its bare form. It felt unfinished, unused. Only the table, mats and lamp occupied the room. The cold concrete covered the walls from top to bottom with the exception of the left wall, which featured a peculiar gaping hole.

“I brought you a gift.” Your attention snapped back to the man on the floor. His smile widened. He almost looked...excited? It was an odd thought. You’ve seen Safin smile before but they were always composed and polite. This was borderline eager in your book. He lifted a cup previously hidden behind the table and—

“Sir. Is that boba?”

“From the very same shop.”

“How did you-? But,” you stuttered. As far as you knew, the island was miles away from any civilization. “Did you go to London today?” You asked, trying to connect the dots in your mind because your boss didn’t travel to London just to get you boba?

"No. Primo did.”

“For a mission?”

“For this.” He pursed his lips, head tilting as he scanned your expression. “You’re upset.”

“No! I- I’m just-,” the words failed to form until you finally exhaled, “I’m just surprised.”

"I see.” His smile remained, but it was tense, not quite reaching his eyes anymore. He slowly retreated his hands, the cup dragging along the table, leaving behind a trail of condensation.

"Wait!” You grasped the cup without thinking, your fingers brushing against his knuckles as you held onto the top. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to say that. I’m just...confused and also kind of worried that I may have inconvenienced you over milk tea.”

His eyes dropped to your hand, then back up. “You can just say thank you.”

“Yes. Right. Thank you.”

“You’re very difficult to please.”

“I’ve been told I can be difficult overall,” you chuckled in an attempt to lighten the mood. But his frown deepened, and you swallowed hard as brought the drink to your lips. “Again, thank you.”

Holy shit.

One sip was all it took. The flavors hit your taste buds all at once; you’ve forgotten how sweet milk tea can be. The past two years haven’t been bland per se, but they were certainly nutritional and healthy, focused on sustaining the island’s employees in optimal condition. Sugar existed, but it was minimal. You may or may not have had some withdrawals in the beginning. “Shit,” you whispered, “This is good. I forgot how much I missed boba.”

“Tell me. What else did you miss?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Surely, there’s more to your past life than just boba?”

“I wouldn’t be so certain. My life wasn’t all that existing before the island,” you shrugged.

Safin held your gaze. He was waiting.

“I suppose I miss- Okay. I had this neighbor, Mrs. Fletcher. She had this wonderful cat with the world’s most unfortunate name—Gregory. He’s a small tabby, had a hook for a tail.” You crooked your finger in a demonstration. “Not that I need a cat,” you quickly added.

“I’m sure Primo wouldn’t mind,” Safin sipped his tea.

“I’m pretty sure he would, sir.”

“What else?”

“Um. Musicals? Music in general, I guess,” you rolled your eyes back and forth in remembrance. “I hate to say it, but I miss cooking. I used to survive on congee. But I can make a mean char siu with fig jam.”

“Char siu with fig jam?” He frowned, skeptical.

“It’s an amazing combination. I had this food delivery service that delivered five times a week. It was my favorite dish out of everything. The rest were kind of lackluster.”

“We can add it to our menu if you’d like,” he offered.

“Thank you, sir, but I think I miss the act of cooking more than the food itself.”

“What else?” He asked again.

So you answered. And he asked again. So you answered again.

You’re not sure how much time had passed, but it was enough to elicit a yawn from you near the end. The boba was long gone, now a mere cup of water. You can feel your guards coming down. Your answers were more casual, less formal now, emboldened by sleep deprivation. “What about you, sir? What do you miss?”

His fingers traced along the ridges of his cup. “I’m afraid I don’t miss anything.”

“There’s got to be something,” you pushed. Safin quirked his eyebrow. Damn, the sugar wasn’t helping.

Safin hummed as he turned the wall. You followed his gaze. There was that hole again. “My sister used to sing this awful lullaby,” he said quietly. It was almost a hushed whisper, like a secret in the fog.

You stilled at his admittance. Never once have you heard Safin mention his family. And while stories of his past circulated the island, they were part of exaggerated speculation that no one confirmed.

“Awful because she was a horrible singer, not because the lyrics were bad. Vadim was a better singer. And my mother...” He trailed off as his gaze lowered to his empty cup. It didn’t take a genius to know what he was thinking.

You knew better than to press for more. “I miss my parents,” you sighed quietly, matching his volume and secrecy. “Sometimes, I wonder if things could have been different. They were ill, but.. I don’t know. I just think that I could’ve done things differently. Be a better child.” Your tongue swiped across your bottom lip as you swallowed thickly. “Don’t think they’d be fond of your evil plan,” you smiled. “Anyway,” you cleared your throat, “at least we know what you won’t miss.” You leaned forward conspiratorially. “Boba.”

Safin blinked.

“Sorry, that was a joke. I-”

He broke into a chuckle, so sudden, so unexpectedly. It must’ve surprised him, because his hand shot up to cover his mouth, but it was too late. He was already laughing. The sound grew louder and louder despite its quiet and calm nature. And you found yourself chuckling with him, finding his soft laughter strangely contagious this late at night.

“I want to show you something.” He whispered. “Come.” He rose to his feet with the same eagerness that you saw before.

You hastily followed his steps as he approached the wall with the hole. Except, it wasn’t a hole. It was a window to a small garden. You gasped as the pond came into view. There were foliages and flowers on one side, and a zen garden on the other, raked to perfection.

A soft, orange glow highlighted each ripple of the pond, casting a shadow along the rough edges of the logs around it. Sunlight, you realized with a start. Your breath hitched as you looked up at the sky. It was a clear morning. No clouds in sight. The stars hid behind the warm hue among the blue, painting a perfect gradient on the vast canvas.

"My father’s garden,” Safin explained. “You could say it was his prized possession. It’s toxic, of course, but perfectly safe to walk around.”

Your vision blurred as the tears welled in your eyes. “It’s beautiful,” you sniffed, wiping your nose with the back of your hand. Was the sky always this beautiful? You couldn’t recall the last time you looked up from the ground. It felt foolish, in retrospect, to ignore such a sight. What else did you miss out?

“Doctor.”

You turned to Safin, only to find grey eyes watching you. The sunlight kissed his scars, and you couldn’t tell if his gaze only appeared soft because of the sunlight or not. He was glowing, ethereal. And for once, he looked young and handsome, far from the intimidating man whom you once avoided at all cost.

You blushed at the growing realization and quickly dipped your head in a faux yawn. “Something tells me I’m going to miss this,” you exhaled. “Thank you.”

“Of course, doctor.” He replied quietly.

Despite feeling his gaze on you, you refused to look him in the eye. Instead, you focused on the sunrise and calming your fluttering heart.

[crewman-penelope]

4 times Lyutsifer gets your panty wet let your heart flutter 💙

[crewman-penelope]

Love. Love. LOVE to get back to this story! Out poor little meow meow Safin 😻

Past The Point Of No Return (Masterlist)

“Over time, you will adjust over time. One day, you will see,” He cooed, moving small strands to clearly see your face. His hand rested on your cheek as his thumb caressed your soft skin. “All of there ignorance. I saved you from them for a reason. When I eradicate tyranny, you will be grateful.”

You saw his face more clearly in the fire. From a distance, his skin looked olive bronzed and normal. But up close, it was different. It was burned and scarred, the man was horribly disfigured. No wonder he wore a mask, to conceal his identity and frightening face. Safin looked like the monster in a child’s nightmare, in which he was. He stood up and walked to the door, acting as if he hadn’t threatened to kill your family if you didn’t do as he pleased.

You’re the young and fiery Cryptographer of M16 who happens to be the obsession of the mysterious and disfigured Safin.

Masterlist (🍑 = smut)

Ch.1

Ch.2

Ch.3

Ch.4

Ch.5🍑

Ch.6

Ch.7

Ch.8

Epilogue

[chieftyphoonchaos]

A quiet and sunny Safin/Mathilde Sunday

🍵❤️🌞

We wish you from the Greek capital Athens, where we start our engagement trip through Greece and the whole of Europe…

a quiet and very sunny beautiful Sunday to all of you with nice tea time with your loved ones

Lots of kind regards from us

Lyutsifer and Mathilde 💞❤️❤️

@daughterofthesilmaril @esconognosia @thefluffiestseahorse @chevy2497 @ramicastiel @ellen-the-radiant @ellen-the-wise @moon-stars-soul @sakurasoulgeneral @ghoulsister1 @squidwujun @satanhauntedourfears @bearbruno14 @grumpyoutlaw @silverlambcaptain @neverendingstories00 @honestmysteries @one-boring-person @poptod @koshi-sama @padawansubscription @sapphicsandsupernatural @yagurlny @chieftyphoonchaos @villainworshiper @alessiathepirate @colourful-serendipity .

[teamcivilian]

007 Fest 2023 Team Civilian Captains Intro Post:

Co-captain Lasika (aka turtle) @00qsillyfanturtle

Civilian Name: Domino's Turtle Taxi (a tourist attraction run by no one other than Emilia Janusova)

Second year at Fest and a first time co-captain (exciting and terrifying in equal measures 😬). And a second time civilian on top!

More into the 00q side of things, though I do adore the Daniel Craig Bond movies (and the others too, for sure, but DC Bond did make me cry in a way the others quite didn't manage to 😐).

I am neither a fanfic author (hello ao3) nor a fanartist (nor that good a gifmaker 😓) but I am an awesome cheerleader/enabler of all fan things that must be written, drawn and/or created in any format xD so feel free to prod me here on Tumblr or Slack :D

I'm super excited for Fest as my first experience was an absolute blast and I had so much fun making new friends in the Bond fandom (you guys know who you are! Good luck - now you are stuck with me 😈). So here's me hoping to make more new friends, hopefully participate in some activities (come on, workplace, gimme a break!), and make sure that Team Civilian has a great time too during the Fest!

*

Hello Everyone,

Co-captain Penny

@crewman-penelope here!

Civilian Name: Gingerfan

This is my third fest year, my first as co-captain.

Bond fan since childhood, back sucked in while the Pandemic, I happily found this awesome community on Tumblr ❤️

I'm a fanfiction writer, picture editor and lousy gif-maker, just for fun, and the creator of the Safin Sunday. You can find me on A03 as Anja_Petterson, and speak with me here on Tumblr on the chat system.

I can't wait to meet the team and to create some awesome Bond relates stuff with you all!

[chevy2497]

Sunday 11th June 2023

Bohemian Rhapsody is on tv (it’s got ads) but since my parents have the movie, my mum and I are watching it. I’m also wearing the two bracelets that have “Rami Malek & Bohemian Rhapsody” on them. ❤️🥵😎⭐️❤️🥵😎⭐️

@ramilicious @honestmysteries @maleked @maleklovers @ramimalek4ever @rami-malek-yeah @ramibabe @ramicastiel @rami-hoe @safin-supremacy2 @safinsscars @ramimalekbrasil @ramimalekonline

[ravka-bracket]

ROUND 1B

Alina Starkov vs Marie

Luda vs Alexei Stepanov

Botkin Yul-Erdene vs Fedyor Kaminsky

Genya Safin vs Adrik Zhabin

Vasily Lantsov vs Nadia Zhabin

Tamar Kir-Bataar vs Sergei Beznikov

Harshaw vs Oncat

Nikolai Lantsov vs Isaak Andreyev

Round 1A is wrapped up. Round 2A will start Sunday night eastern time

[infinitegalahad]

AMERICAN PROMETHEUS AND HIS ATHENA - CHAPTER ONE

Pairing: J. Robert Oppenheimer x Female Identifying! Reader Summary: In the fall of 1939, You are an incoming freshman at Berkeley. Despite your love for literature and the pressure of your parents, you begrudgingly enroll in a Physics course. There you meet J. Robert Oppenheimer; your professor turned into your best friend and most importantly, your lover. Word Count: 4.5k Warnings: Nothing major, minus the huge age gap. The reader is 18, and Oppenheimer is at least thirty. Everything is legal and consensual. If this bothers you, please do not read it; thank you! Notes: gonna be a long note, so strap in folks. so i have this tendency to get hyperfocused on a piece of media, get my little gremlin hands on any piece of media about it, devour said piece of media, and then poop out 5k+ words in under 24 hours due to my obsession. this happened two years ago with safin from no time to die, and let me just say that it goes to show that history is a sick cycle. not sick, I'm just literally insane. lol, anyways! here's some lore. last Sunday i saw oppenheimer and thought it was a masterpiece! i also love cillain murphy too, so that's a massive bonus. the next day, i bought american prometheus. i started reading it on tuesday, and finished it on Friday. if you haven't read it, please go read it. the book is impossible to put down, and a lot of characterization of robert and other characters come from the movie, but mainly the novel. this fic is heavily researched. this fic is also very dark too, and the content is...yeah. the age gap is very massive and while legal, very taboo, so please keep this in mind. there will be dark content in this story so be warned. trigger warnings will be in the beginning of every chapter. this is on my tumblr and ao3 as well. here is a playlist i made while writing this , if that does anything. my masterlist is also at work too; the new and updated version will be out next chapter. <a href="url">add yourself to the taglist if you are interested</a>. thanks for reading and i hope you enjoy.

There are people talking, and while they are close, their voices are nothing but mindless mutters.

Despite how much they had to drink, the buzz managed to slow their thoughts yet made them somewhat aware of their surroundings. If you tried, not like they really wanted to, you could point out every little detail around them–all small things, meaningless and unimportant, in the vast growing universe. 

The uneven vintage ski portrait on Hatomi’s side of the room, the dim light covered by the French literature nights on the window sill, the light of the moon in boxy shapes across the aged wooden door, your feet sticking out underneath the blanket and the cool air bringing goosebump to your toes, the heat of your flashlight against your cheek; it’s all so small. 

You’ve known Hatomi, your roommate at Berkeley, for the last week. A Japanese American from Davis, she’s a lover of literature like you, albeit you’re more into Russian and American literature than French. Both of you have concluded that you are different but are different enough to put those said differences aside to be friends. Hatomi, unlike you, is smiley and bright, the type to make a conversation not as awkward. She’s made many friends, some of whom are yours, and you’re thankful for her. In your orientation week at Berkeley, she’s helped you break out of your shell, and you’ve gone around campus and to parties to get out and meet people.

As thankful as you are for Haotmi, you are not very thankful about her bringing in some guy into the room without making it clear and having full-blow sex. Hatomi tries to keep her moans contained, but the slapping and grunts from the man beneath are not in any way contained or quiet. He’s as loud as possible, and you can identify him from one of the many parties you’ve been to, but all of them in your state become a gradual blur. 

There’s a visible outline of the two through your quilt. Hatomi’s on top, and said the man is on the bottom with messy hair. He’s got a hand on her hip, and she nudges forward, her body moving forward. It makes you feel even lonelier than you already feel, but it's not intentional, but it’s certainly a jab. Hatomi cries his name, an emphasis on the end of his name. 

You haphazardly try to catch his name, but end up forgetting it, the alcohol from earlier helping sing you to sleep. 

–

It soon became a cycle—the whole lot of it. 

You’d wake up at seven for your eight in the morning English class. Then you’d head to your philosophy class from nine-thirty to ten-thirty before heading to lunch at eleven. After that break, then comes your Greek class from twelve to one. Then it’s physics. 

It’s not that you don’t like physics. Actually, you love it—the concept is fascinating. The movement, gravity, and being a small thing in the grand scheme of the infinite universe is a topic you could dive into for hours on end. And not to mention, you have a burning hatred for the mathematics of it. You know you can do introductory algebra, but that’s where you draw the line. Calculus and all of that is too advanced. You can do it; at the bare minimum. 

Your class is not that big. It’s your smallest class with ten students, all intrigued by a fascinating professor. 

The first time you met him, he stood by the chalkboard with a huff of smoke following behind him. He wore a dark gray tweed suit and had thick, coarse hair which was wild, maintained with gel. He was tall but not towering and rather slender. With the bluest eyes you had ever seen, you knew that this man was a character; not to mention, he also looked intelligent. 

And that he was. 

Dr.Oppenheimer was the reason you started actually to love physics. Not like, love. He was not an easy teacher; he was complex but rewarding. He took the concept of physics and made it more interesting than it already was, adding another dimension to it that you didn’t think was possible. 

Instead of the class being a lecture, Oppenheimer discussed the fundamental forces and philosophy. He, like you, enjoyed how physics interacted with the classical world. With a cigarette in one hand and a piece of chalk in another, and in his velvety voice, Oppenheimer taught something along the lines of the cosmic universe or the quantum tunnel and would look to his students for their input, arguments, questions, or their voice to the topic. 

You know, or thought he knew, that you weren’t the best at physics, but could always add a philosophical or insight on how physics affects both in the modern and classical world. Sometimes in class, the two of you would dive into a conversation. Oppenheimer would give you a serious loo, staring directly at you with his bright blue eyes. You could have sworn they were the bluest eyes you had ever seen, in which you were. As you challenge you, Oppenehiemr would stare, blowing the occasional puff of smoke. You could see him smile, but maybe that was a part of your imagination. 

Physics was complicated, but not only did you enjoy the class for Oppenheimer, but you also look at Oppenheimer. You would not have said it initially, but he did come and was attractive to you. He looked serious, older, and cold; which all remained true, but he was also intelligent, and that was the most attractive thing to you. His intelligence made him overall even more handsome than he already was. With this new found elevation, you soon began to find everything he did attractive. It became a slight distraction, but it was enough to make you leave class with pink cheeks and smile to yourself all giddy. The fantastical thoughts of “what if” played in your mind, making going to sleep a little easier than it usually it. 

–

On Monday, Oppenheimer deemed that your class was heading into the “most brutal” and “nightmare-causing”  fundamental force of Physics; Quantum Mechanics. 

He also declared it was one of his favorite micro topics in Physics and, in his mind, “not too difficult if you truly look into it.”

 Everyone got a horrible gut feeling in their stomachs. 

Oppenheimer was blunt and did not sugarcoat, which was a fair warning to his class. Quantum Mechanics took everything that was horrible about Physics and made it increasingly worse. Wavefunctions, Eigenstates, Quantum Measurement, and all the new equations hit you like a frictional force. And it began to show on your assignments. 

Your normal average in the class was an A- (with Oppenheimer giving you an E for “exceptional effort”) hanging off the side of a cliff, but this new topic dragged your average down with massive magnetic force. Soon, your average became a B-. Homework assignments and reading responses leaned towards a B, while your test and quizzes averaged at failing or border failing. You felt relieved that one of your quizzes on Bra-Ket Notation came back as a C+. 

Oppenheimer was writing on the board, finishing a Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle equation on the board. He looked at the clock, knowing that class was going to end soon. Putting his chalk down and burning the small amount of his cigarette on the ashtray, he reached for a large stack of his papers. Most had red handwriting with circles, arrows, and question marks. A heavy wave of anxiety hit the class as a perpetual sigh raised. 

You could have sworn Oppenheimer stared directly at you. The vast blue eye started to haunt you, but you convinced yourself it was your mind playing tricks. You turned to one of your neighborhoods and sighed, shaking your head. 

“I understand you are all eager to receive back the recent test on the basic equations of Quantum Mechanics. I have taken my time grading each one and you will see why it looks like a long time,” Oppenheimer noted, with a tinge of dark comedy and sarcasm in his voice. He didn’t look up at the class as he walked around, gently putting each paper on the desk. Each paper he put down made a student who was having a good day a very not good day.

Between the heavy sighs and whispers between the students, you gulped as Oppenheimer passed your desk. He looked down for a split second and put your paper down. He pointed to the red writing right where you had written your name before moving on. Gathering yourself, you grabbed the test, and not your shock, was disappointed. 

Out of forty-five points, you had only gotten nine. It was a new low you had hit in the class. It seemed like it would keep getting lower. Everything was far from right, and he gave those points only because you tried by writing a passage by each equation explaining what you had tried to replicate, knowing it was very wrong. 

You skimmed the front, noticing the red writing on top. He wrote your name in cursive, and you would hear him say it, asking you to “please” meet him. 

And then the bell rang. People talked amongst themselves and gathered their things as they headed out of the classroom. You sat there and sighed, visibly upset. You weren’t going to cry, but you felt like it. You tried not to show it as you began to gather your books, covering the physics test, preparing to get up. 

“Y/n.”

You freeze and look up. Oppenheimer has been leaning on his desk, looking at you like a dashing Spectre. He puts his hands in his pockets and slowly begins to walk towards you. 

“Is this a good time to talk?”

Hearing the word talk made your stomach turn. You look up at him and clasp your hands together, nodding. You feel your left leg begin to shake. 

“Yes, Dr.Oppenheimer.”

Oppenheimer made his way over and stood beside you, leaning on the side of a desk, looking down at you. He took a quick glance at your shaking leg before looking back at you.

“You’re not in trouble.” 

You didn’t verbally acknowledge him, but you took a contained sigh and stopped shaking your thigh, paying full attention to the attractive older man. 

“I want to preface this conversation that you, Y/n, are one of this class’s most active and enjoyable students. Your participation and observation add onto the lesson, helping others around you, and even myself, learn more about Physics,” Oppenheimer said with high praise. He had a regalness to his soft voice. You felt your cheeks burn, containing your smile as you quietly thanked him. You watched his hands fidget inside of his pants pocket. 

“As talented and educated as you are in Academia, especially Physics, I notice you don’t do well on tests and exams. Everything else is excellent, and your effort is always there. However, with tests,” Oppenheimer moved his hand downwards, “It’s all negative. When I got your first test, I found it hard to believe it was your work. But then it all made sense.” 

“Now understand, Y/n, I am not mad or upset. I am worried. I can see there is an act of force, which is your anxiety. I do believe this is something we can work on–” Oppenheimer clearly explained. He saw your shoulders lower, relieve your tension had disappeared, “--Together, outside of the academic setting.”

“Like one-on-one?” You questioned. 

Oppenheimer nodded, “Yes, just the two of us. It would be an hour and a half to an hour, nothing more and nothing less.”

Hearing “just the two of us” made your mind go to wild places. You bit your tongue and squeezed your clasped hands together. You smiled, “Yes, of course. I think this would help a lot.”

“Now tell me, what is your availability? I understand you are busy.”

You shrugged your shoulders. You were busy but also could make time for a lot of spare time. 

“I can do any time work, preferably if you are okay with Friday afternoons,” You brainstormed, thinking about your schedule, “I know you teach a graduate class in the morning, and I have Greek at the same time.”

Oppenheimer furrowed his eyebrows, intensely studying your appearance.

“Friday afternoons?” He questioned, “Don’t you want to be with your friends and not have to worry about work? I understand your drive, Y/n, but I don’t want it to mix with your limited downtime. I hear you are an excellent student, and this is a very fixable grade. I rather you create a balance than an offset. 

While an average first-year would rather skip meeting with a Professor on Friday Afternoons, it didn’t bother you. Getting your grade up in Physis was very important. Education in your family was everything and meant a lot to you. Seeing a C with A’s and A-’s made you feel incomplete. You needed to feel complete. 

“Dr.Oppenheimer, thank you for your concern. I insist that Fridays work as well. Mondays through Tuesdays, I’m either studying or leading other study groups for my other classes. If you are worried about my social life, I can assure you that I do get out of the dorm and library with my friends,” You reassured the older man, “Besides, the whole party scene is really not my scene. I’ve seen enough parties at Berkeley to be okay with missing them. If Fridays don’t work, I will work with your time.”

“Fridays work well for me as they work well for you,” Dr.Oppenheimer concluded. He looked at the clock above his desk before looking at you, “How do Fridays at 5 pm sound?”

“Perfect timing, Dr.Oppenheimer. Shall we meet here?”

Oppenheimer rubbed his index and middle finger on the temple of his head, “Well if you are comfortable, I’d rather congregate at my house rather than the classroom since we will be out of the Academic Day.”

Taken aback by the bold move, your lips made a subtle “o” shape. You squeezed your hands together, contemplating. His house, where he slept, ate, and did other things that were not fit for the academic setting? This made your imagination run wild—the idea of being in his house, just you and him, fed into your fantasy. 

“My house is on Shasta Road. It’s right off the campus. It’s a short walk. However, if you are not comfortable, especially late at night walking home alone, then I can–” 

“Dr.Oppenheimer,” You insisted. He stopped speaking and looked at you, waiting for you to speak.

You stuttered, feeling the heat up your throat to your face, “It is okay. Friday at 5 pm at your house is perfect. The walk will help me clear my mind before tackling the equations.”

Oppenheimer studied your features for a second before coughing and putting his hands together, “So, it’s settled. We will meet tomorrow then. Thank you for your time, y/n.”

As Oppenheimer began to head back to his desk, you stood and gathered your books, ready to head to your Greek class. You could feel how hot your face was, but you couldn’t imagine how red and embarrassing you looked. 

“Thank you, Dr.Oppenheimer. 

Scurrying to leave the classroom in a flustered state, one of your books falls over. It makes a loud slamming noise into the ground. You’ve got a solid amount of books in your hand, varying in topic and weight. Turning around, you are about to awkwardly bend down to pick up the book, but Oppenheimer has beaten you to it. His presence scared you at first. He’s holding the ivory, aged book, examining the cover and back. You stand two inches away from him as you cradle your books, not wanting to say something to disrupt him. 

“Sentimental Education. Is this for class or pleasure?” Oppenheimer inquired. He looked back at you as he placed it on top of your books. He saw the one below, your Greek textbook, was sticking out and about to fall. He made sure to push it in to balance the books and make sure you didn't fall over. 

Not that you were complaining about falling over since he would have to catch you. You cursed at your wild imagination. 

You let out a long uhm before declaring it was for class. More specifically, your English class of The French Adventure: Word, Sound, and Image taught by Mr.Chevalier. But it was unimportant. It was a good book, albeit obscure. Oppenheimer probably thought you were some idiot for both failing a test and reading some silly book. He probably wondered why you were even in a physics class to begin with. 

“Do you like it?” He questioned. 

“Yes, a lot,” You expressed, “It’s the second book we’ve read, but so far my favorite. It was ahead of its time,” You go red, “And even for this time. I don’t know what I’m saying even, my parents made me read it in high school.”

Oppenheimer made a noise of approval, placing his hands on his hips, “Well, it shows that your parents wanted you to be well-rounded, and here you stand at one of the best public universities in the world. So I would say you do know what you are saying since I fully agree.” 

The compliment made you want to make some happy noise, but you bite your lip. You nodded your head and naked it, knowing it came out as a mumble. Everything you said felt super embarrassing. 

“Y/n, I understand you have class,” Oppenheimer cut to the point, “But if you ever want a book recommendation, come to me. I’ve been looking for someone who understands.”

“Understand?” You asked, dumbfounded. 

“Someone who both understands and enjoys art.”

“Oh,” is all you can manage to say. You smile and hold your books closer, “Well, I should-”

“You should-” Oppenheimer highlighted, hands on his hips, “I shouldn’t keep you.”

You wanted to protest that he should, but you didn’t. As you made your way to the door, you looked back. There he stood in his slender and regal form, hands on his hips. For a cold man who never looked happy, he did. You could have sworn his eyes had a spark to them that made them brighter. You felt brighter too. 

On your way out, he froze and looked at you again, and gave a small smile. 

You smiled back. 

–

It’s 4:50pm.

Your mother always said it was better to be very early than to be very late. Those words guided you through life, following you from home to high school to Berkeley. 

After class, you spent the hour getting ready. Taking a shower, you made sure to look your best with low effort. You didn’t want it to appear that you were trying to look good, even though you wore it. Putting on something very casual, you made sure to wear yourself nicely and even added a sweet touch of Chanel Coco perfume that your father had gotten for you in France for your high school Graduation. 

You walk up the hill and spot the house, recognizing the numbers on the mall box. The house is well sized and has the architecture of a craftsman. It’s hidden by numerous large plants and bushes, which you take a second to admire as you walk to the door. Eventually, you reach the door and hesitate to knock. Check your watch, it’s 5:52pm. If he’s busy, you can wait. 

There’s no point in knocking since you can hear the lock on the door unlock. As you put your hands behind your back, the door opens and it reveals Oppenheimer. He looks weirdly normal and this comforts you. He swaps his flannel suit jacket for a white oxford button up with dark slacks. The top button of the shirt is unbuttoned, and in one hand he has a cigarette, in which he is trying to successfully hide. 

“Dr.Oppenheimer,” You greeted with a small smile, squeezing your hands behind your back. 

You could swear you saw a small quirk at the side of Oppenheimer’s mouth. He stands to the side. 

“Y/n, welcome,” He greets. You quietly thank in as you walk in, standing to the side as you clutch onto your brown leather alligator bag with your textbook and notebook. 

“How was the walk?”

“Not bad. It’s nice outside. I’m sorry if I’m early, it’s a bad habit-”

“No need to apologize. It is a good habit. It will serve you well,” Oppenheimer praised once again as he led you into the kitchen. You hadn't been alone with him, let alone in his own house, but he was different. Around others, he was cold and calculated to a tee. But around you, something felt warm and strangely comforting. 

When walking to the kitchen, you catch a glimpse of his house. It feels rather empty, and in a way, very melancholic. 

The kitchen is simple and small. For a California one story however, the kitchen can fit more than two, maybe three. 

“Sit,” Oppenheimer subtly commands. It’s not an intentional command, but upon hearing this, you immediately sit down on the nearest chair. As you pull out your textbook and notebook with some pens and pencils, you can see Oppenheimer rummaging through the fridge and grabbing two glasses. 

“Do you drink?”

You're in the middle of opening your notebook. You look down and lick your lips. 

“Yes.”

He doesn’t respond and proceeds to make whatever drink he is making. You sit there and swing your legs back and forth, waiting in silence minus the shaking and pouring. 

“Speak to me,” Oppenheimer announces. You look at his back as he makes the drink. Once again, he’s slender, but yet strong and vibrant in his appearance, “Go to the first page of your test. Read the equation.” 

You feel lucky Oppenheimer’s turned since your cheeks, like yesterday, have gone to a light pink. 

Obeying his words that feel like a command that you are more than happy to accept, you grab your test and open to the first page to read the first question. 

“Consider a particle in a one-dimensional potential well of width of L and infinite potential barriers at its edges. The potential inside the well is given by V(x)=0 for 0<x<L0<x<L and V(x)=∞V(x)=∞ for x < 0 x<0 and x>Lx>L,” You read out, “The Hamiltonian operator for this system is H; where x is the mass of the particle. Find the allowed energy eigenvalues and corresponding eigenfunctions for this system.”

“A fundamental. Now, tell me your answer.” 

You get your pen and calculator out, placing it at your side. “I started with the Time-Independent Schrödinger Equation and substituted v(x) for the kinetic energy term. Then I tried to solve and it, uhm-”

Not only were the calculations for your test both difficult to answer and hard to process, but having Oppenheimer stand right behind you further proved to be a brain block. He was only an inch away from you as he had leaned to look at your paper, a hand on the back of your sheet which scraped your warm back. You had been so caught on the equation that you hadn't noticed he was an inch behind you, breathing down your neck. Thank god there had been a table since your legs began to shake; a combination of raw anxiety and pure adrenaline. 

You started to write the equation into your calculator, pressing down on each button. Scribbling away at your notebook, you felt his warm breath down your throat. Just as you wrote the solution, you felt him smell behind your ear and into your hair. You had sprayed some perfume there, which was a habit of yours. He leaned into, gentle and careful not to touch you, taking in the airy and smooth feminine scent. Not protesting, you finished your solution and let him bask, all while basking his cold yet comforting presence.

 “The corresponding eigenfunctions are: ∣ψn⟩= Asin⁡(nπxL)∣ψ n ⟩ =Asin( Lnπx ),” You gulped. You felt his warm presence move back, yet his hand remained on the chair. You pushed a piece of hair back, “I guess it’s not too different from my old answer. It’s right, it’s just-”

“The math piece of it,” Oppie pointed out, “Well, there was no issue here. With your calculator of course.”

“Yes,” You chuckled to yourself and looked at the big device. It really did help.

“Use it more,” Oppenheimer said, “Don’t be scared too. Math is not everyone’s strong suit; including mine.”

You smiled at him as he sat in the chair next to you. 

“I don’t know if you drank from our conversation earlier, but I made you a martini,” Oppenheimer said. You looked at it and picked up the drinking, examining the liquid. 

“Oh, thank you. I do, just the…better stuff,” You thanked with a small confession. You took a sip and let the strong liquid ooze down your throat. It was excellent, in which you proceeded to drink more. 

Oppenheimer leaned back in his chair and smiled to himself. He wanted to make sure you didn’t see that, but you did. 

For the next hour, the two of you talked about your test. Each question you read out, and he helped you with the math, but overall you were able to solve most of it. It wasn’t perfect, but it was progress. He seemed pleased, and you were as well.

Once you had finished going over the test, you sighed and leaned back leisurely from both Oppenheimer's presence Martini. 

“Well, thank you, Dr.Oppenheimer. This has been short, yet helpful.”

He crossed his arms as he also leaned back, “Of course, I’m pleased to hear.”

There was a silence before you looked at your watch and grabbed your books. 

“It’s 6pm. I’m sure you’ve got things to do, I should go-”

“I’ve only got dinner to make. Chicken, peas, and potatoes,” Oppenheimer said. He smoked another cigarette, which made you wonder how many he smoked a day. You focused on his chapped lips and the way they lightly held the cigarette, sucking in and dragging out ashen smoke. 

“Say, would you like to stay for dinner? There's plenty for two.”

The task made you blink a few times to make sure this wasn’t one of your fantastical thoughts late at night as a way to soothe you to bed. You opened your lips in an attempt to create a coherent response. 

“I can make you another Martini, even show you.”

You knew you were red, but it clearly to him did not matter. 

“Yes, I’d love-would be happy to stay for dinner, Dr.Oppenheimer.” You said, very flattered.

A slow exhale released a veil of smoky allure, as if the very air itself surrendered to Oppenheimer’s fiery elegance.

“If you are staying over for dinner from now on, please, call me Robert.” 

[crewman-penelope]

Such an amazing piece! It is smut, yes, but so faint and non-grafic, but leaves a lot of space for the readers own imagination. I adore it!

Entr’acte

Fandom: James Bond Genre: Drama/Romance (burdgeoning) Characters: Lyutsifer Safin, Madeleine Swann Rating: M/E Warnings: Mildly dubious consent ft. assertive shower sex. Also witness my first attempt to emulate Ian Fleming’s prose directly??? Summary: “It was a rare instance where he could let his guard down; or so one would think.”

NOTE: Deleted scene for Insult to Injury that was too spicy to make the cut. Takes place directly after Chapter Four.

Translations are in the notes at the end. If there’s a mistake somewhere, feel free to bring it to my attention; I’m admittedly more fluent in Spanish than French.

He had left Swann asleep and the door ajar. Upon his return she could be heard conversing quietly on the phone, presumably with White. At a glance she had thrown her shirt back on and her posture was tense. As he was still waiting for a verdict, Safin went to take a shower.

The body wash smelt artificial, some lemony concoction, but the bar soap was workable. He let the warm water rush over him and his mind go blank.

It was a rare instance where he could let his guard down; or so one would think.

He did not hear Swann come in after him. He only saw the door move and the indistinct shape in motion against the fogged glass. Safin made himself very still. He waited until he determined the gait and build were in fact Swann’s.

Now, Safin knew she’d been carrying a handgun in her bag when she was first collected from the clinic in Paris. He knew also that she had expressed a fair amount of contempt towards him up until several days ago. Either she fancied herself an assassin or she was simply vying for a second go. Regardless of her intent, there were three bathrooms in the house and no justifiable reason for her to be in here.

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[sa7abnews]

The Russian ‘bad boy’ who brought tennis glory to his country

New Post has been published on https://sa7ab.info/2024/08/16/the-russian-bad-boy-who-brought-tennis-glory-to-his-country/

The Russian ‘bad boy’ who brought tennis glory to his country

With the 2023 Australian Open nearing its conclusion, we look back at a charismatic Russian former winner of the event

The Australian Open runs to its conclusion this weekend, with the first Grand Slam of 2023 set to be bookended on Sunday when the men’s championship match is played between record nine-time winner Novak Djokovic and debut finalist Stefanos Tsitsipas. With the exit of Karen Khachanov in the semifinals at the hands of Tsitsipas, Russia is again left ruing a missed opportunity for glory in Melbourne after Daniil Medvedev was beaten in successive finals in the past two editions of the tournament. Indeed, it is fast approaching two decades since the last Russian man won the title Down Under. On that occasion it was Marat Safin, one of the most charismatic, combustible characters of his or any other generation of tennis talent. The second Russian to win the Australian Open after Yevgeny Kafelnikov in 1999, Safin struck gold in 2005 in Melbourne by coming back to beat local favorite Lleyton Hewitt in what was his last great individual triumph. Despite retiring prematurely in 2009, Safin is far from forgotten in the tennis world – as evidenced by a viral throwback photo from 2002 which circulated during the current edition of the Australian Open, and which featured the eye-catching female following in Safin’s box during his playing days. A playboy once described as a “two-meter embodiment of women’s dreams” by compatriot Dmitry Tursunov, Safin was often admired for his “frankness, outrageousness and charm” – married with no shortage of talent on the tennis court. The Australian Open was a tournament that Safin graced with all of those attributes, reaching the final three times. The re-emergence of the famous photo from 2002, where he allegedly partied before being beaten by underdog Thomas Johansson in the final, has led to many recalling one of the most colorful characters to have played the game.

Marat Safin's box in 2002 Australian Open, where he lost in the final to Thomas Johansson 😄 pic.twitter.com/B6m4bOghok— Luigi Gatto (@gigicat7_) January 13, 2023

Rise to the top   Born in Moscow to Tatar Muslim parents, Safin showed early promise as a tennis prodigy and moved to Valencia in Spain as a 14-year-old to access advanced tennis training programs. As a teenager who – in his own words – grew “very fast … with no muscles,” Safin felt that Spain’s clay courts would be better for his knees. The surface was arguably better for his overall career progression and development. After turning professional in 1997, he took the scalps of Andre Agassi and reigning champion Gustavo Kuerten at the 1998 French Open, before being eliminated in the fourth round by two-time Grand Slam finalist Cedric Pioline. Agassi pulled one back against Safin by beating him in the final of the Paris Masters in November 1999, but Safin had already tasted triumph by pipping Brit Greg Rusedski in an ATP final in Boston in August. Turning 20 on January 27, 2000, the new millennium ushered in Safin’s most successful year in which he set records that remain intact to this day. He won a Masters tournament in Canada, then beat four-time champion and 90s great Pete Sampras in straight sets at Flushing Meadows to become the third youngest winner of the US Open aged just 20 years and 228 days. 

A fresh-faced Safin won a stunning victory at Flushing Meadows in 2000.

©  Jon Buckle / EMPICS via Getty Images

Safin’s maiden Grand Slam title also saw him become the first Russian to win the title in New York – and it was a full 21 years until Daniil Medvedev became the second to do so by beating Novak Djokovic in the 2021 final. The youngest Russian winner of any major tournament, Safin went on to become the youngest player of the Open Era at the time to reach the world number one ranking with his number of titles (seven) the most on the ATP Tour that year.  “For me it was very strange in my experience reaching number one. I wasn’t ready for that because I couldn’t imagine just a few months earlier that I’d have the chance to become number in the world. I was Top 50, dropping, playing very badly,” Safin later confessed to ATPTour.com. “I underestimated myself… I didn’t believe in myself, and I was seeing myself weaker than others, which is unbelievable. Now I can understand tennis better.”

What a year 2000 was for Marat Safin…🔹 US Open champion🔹 ATP Finals semifinalist 🔹 Seven singles titlesOn this day 21-years-ago, the Russian reached the 🔝 of the ATP rankings for the first time in his career! pic.twitter.com/MgaqLwMpYd— US Open Tennis (@usopen) November 20, 2021

The fire and the fury  By now, Safin was building a reputation as a fiery personality who brought everything to the court and who would often take out his frustrations on his racket. Not only boasting generational talent, he had the heart to battle through adversity and was a must-see draw for the crowds, whether on fire at his unbeatable best or out of sorts due to his temperament. In the Paris Masters final of 2000 against Mark Philippoussis, for example, Safin became bloodied from diving for a volley and beat the Aussie with a bandage over his right eyebrow through five sets and a tiebreak.  While 2001 proved relatively quiet, save for two ATP finals victories in Uzbekistan and St. Petersburg, Safin reached his first Australian Open final in 2002 but was upset by Thomas Johansson – turning heads with the aforementioned entourage in his box along the way. Some years later, another controversial character in Daniel Kollerer claimed to have seen Safin partying and drinking before the match played in the run-up to his 22nd birthday.  “He [was] so drunk he can’t even walk on his two feet, it can not be that bad,” reminisced the German to Unbreakable Media while talking about his own descent into a hedonistic lifestyle. “He could never win because he was so drunk, unbelievable. He was celebrating the night before like it was his birthday party. He celebrated like he already won the Australian Open.”

Safin was often portrayed as something of a party boy.

©  Fairfax Media via Getty Images via Getty Images

Safin’s first French Open semifinal ended in disappointment too, and he also fell short of regaining his world number one spot. But he ended the year well by beating the holder of the spot, Hewitt, to clinch the Paris Masters again and by leading Russia to its maiden Davis Cup title in December.  A string of injuries blighted Safin’s 2003, as they did for much of the remainder of his career. Yet he returned to the Australian Open in fine form in early 2004 by topping number one seed Andy Roddick in the quarterfinals and Andre Agassi in the semi-finals, ending the American legend’s 26-match winning streak at the tournament. Those five-set affairs drained Safin, however, and rising star Roger Federer blew him away in straight sets in the final to become world number one for the first time in his career.  That year was another which started with disappointment but ended well for Safin. Losing his head at the French Open and receiving a $500 fine for “racquet abuse” but strangely not for dropping his pants, he blasted “all the people who runs the sport” in a memorable interview.

“They have no clue!” said Safin ranted. “It’s a pity that tennis is really going down the drain… They do everything that is possible just to take away the entertainment. You’re not allowed to do that; you’re not allowed to do this. You’re not allowed to speak whenever you want to speak…” Later, though, he claimed a third Paris Masters crown and became the first man to win the final two Masters of the calendar in the same year by sealing victory in Madrid.   Success Down Under and early retirement  In 2005, Safin got off to the best possible start by reaching his third Australian Open final in four years – and this time finishing the job. In the semifinals, he got his revenge over Federer by winning a five-set thriller, then swatting away Hewitt in the final in four sets after going one down. 

Safin tasted Grand Slam success for the second time in Australia in 2005.

©  Fairfax Media via Getty Images via Getty Images

Sadly, injuries would keep Safin off the court for the rest of the season. Save for winning the Davis Cup with Russia for a second time in 2006, Safin was often perceived as something of a spent force at the top level, except for becoming the first Russian to reach the semifinals at Wimbledon, where Federer beat him, even though Safin harbored an open disdain for grass.  Despite retiring prematurely in late 2009 aged just 29, Safin still boasted a storied career and was immensely popular as a player twice voted the ATP Fan Favorite. The men’s tour described him as a “must-watch player” and many felt he could have achieved more given his natural genius. For this and other facets of his personality, Safin is perhaps most comparable to modern day star Nick Kyrgios as his generation’s most eye-catching on-court presence but with a hint of nonchalance and accusations of underachievement – although unlike the Aussie, Safin does have Grand Slam success to his name. As with Kyrgios, Safin was known for often smashing his racquet – destroying a total 1,055 of them, according to his sponsor who kept count. 

In one of his last stands, at the 2008 Cincinnati Masters, Safin was booed various times by the crowd after throwing his racket and rowing with the match official. He still managed to end his career on good terms at the Paris Masters, though, where he was given the Bercy key after crashing out in the second round to Juan Martin Del Potro in November the following year. In an emotional farewell, Safin said: “Today I will put all my memories, all my wins and losses in a small box. Today a door is closed, hopefully another one will open.” Post-career life  Another door did open, and it happened to be in politics around two years later as Safin was elected to the Russian State Duma as a member of the United Russia Party. It was not to be a long-term career choice, however, and Safin stepped down from his role representing Nizhny Novgorod in May 2017. “I was young and unexperienced. They talked me into it,” he later claimed. “‘Polite’ and ‘likeable’ people. But I don’t regret it. I practiced and used my law degree, I have learned a lot. I got much more experience and finally, more importantly, six long years in the top politics on the federal level in such a huge country like Russia is an amazing achievement, and a very serious lesson.”

Safin pictured at an Australian Open ceremony in 2020.

©  Quinn Rooney / Getty Images

Safin, whose sister Dinara also enjoyed a successful professional career and reached three Grand Slam finals, went on to become an official for the Russian Tennis Federation and a member of Russia’s Olympic Committee. He stayed connected to the sport through coaching a Russia ‘Dream Team’ featuring Medvedev and Khachanov while attempting to recapture his Davis Cup glories after becoming the first Russian tennis player inducted into the sport’s Hall of Fame in 2016. “We had ups and downs, we cried, we broke rackets, we shouted some words, we threw the balls out of the court, we insulted the referees, only sometimes,” Safin said at his induction with laughter. “But this is a part of our life. I’m just so pleased to be part of it. It’s a huge honor to be inducted and be part of history.”

Safin pictured at the ATP Cup in 2020 alongside current Russian tennis stars Daniil Medvedev and Karen Khachanov.

©  Paul Kane / Getty Images

Making headlines for his views on Covid-19 during the pandemic, Safin has been out of the spotlight of late until his recent viral resurgence due to the photo circulating on Twitter from the Australian Open in 2002. That image did not even feature Safin himself, but rather the collection of fetching blonde women in his player’s box known as the “Safinettes” and boasted two Moscow models. Current Australian tennis star Thanasi Kokkinakis even described Safin as the GOAT – greatest of all time – for the eye-catching team he had managed to assemble. Safin is said to have had no fewer than eight women in his player’s box during his run to the final in Melbourne, with a tour insider saying that the Russian “never has difficulty finding female supporters”. “His little black book would be pretty impressive,” the source added to Herald Sun.

Members of Safin’s entourage at the 2002 Australian Open.

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The Melbourne daily newspaper wasn’t the only outlet to pick up on the Safinettes’ presence, as Channel 7 focused on them during Safin’s matches and on-court interviews. “I have to say thank you to all my family sitting over there,” he said to laughter on Center Court at the Rod Laver arena, while gesturing towards the ‘harem’, as the media dubbed them. Safin, who celebrated turning 43 on Friday, described Australia as a place that “stays in my heart.” “I have great memories from Australia. I played well and happy there,” he recalled.

👑 Former World No.1🏆 2000 US Open champion🏆 2005 Australian Open champion🏆🏆 2-time Davis Cup winnerHappy Birthday Marat Safin 🥳#HappyBirthday #MaratSafin #Tennis pic.twitter.com/o1DygcGRYz— Sportskeeda Tennis (@SK__Tennis) January 27, 2023

It perhaps seems unfathomable that a player on the current ATP tour could pull off such a stunt. Yet that was Safin – a unique entertainer full of charisma from a bygone era, but still remembered warmly and with many of his impressive records still intact.