#sorry this is so long but this whole thing is a masterpiece and deserve to be seen in full

[spicyvampire]

Happy 3 years anniversary to the best marriage proposal in existence

MANNER OF DEATH (2020 - 2021) EP. 14 — Air date : February 22, 2021

[fandom]

Top 23 of 2023

Have you been aching to get your hot little hands on 52 weeks of data around original posts, likes, reblogs, and searches, all weighted and ranked and tied up into categories with a nice little bow on top? Well, today��s your day! It should come as no surprise that Artists on Tumblr reign supreme: from stunning traditional art, jaw-dropping digital art, fanart, sculptures, textile art—you name it, basically—this year’s list shows that Tumblr truly is the home for art and artists. Thank you, Artists on Tumblr, for enriching our dashboards day after day. 

Rounding out the top three, we have two iconic shows: Good Omens is live-action, and The Owl House is animated, but both have a heck of a love story at their core. The second season of Good Omens blessed us with not one but two ineffably exquisite ships, while the final season of The Owl House broke and then healed fans’ hearts in equal measure. Thanks, @danaterrace! Actually, come to think of it, the Good Omens finale kinda did the same in reverse. Thanks to you, too, @neil-gaiman! We can’t wait for season 3. 

Speaking of heartbreak and healing, Our Flag Means Death’s second season offered both in droves. The entire cast gave stellar performances, and fans couldn’t have been happier to see the kinds of representation the show displayed. Last year’s #1 topic, Stranger Things, may have dropped a bit, but trust us, you wouldn’t know it from the amount of meta, fanart, and fics in the tag. And did you hear about the live-action adaptations of both The Last of Us and One Piece? They were a preeeetty big deal this year, too. Check ‘em out if you haven’t yet (lol, of course you have). And we’d be remiss not to mention the hugely dedicated fans, fanartists, and fic writers devoting their time to all things Rise of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Y’all deserve a little pizza, as a treat.

2023 was also a year for blockbuster movies, which of course hasn’t escaped anybody’s notice here on Tumblr. Barbie smashed box offices worldwide and left us reeling with every re-watch. How can one describe Greta Gerwig’s pink-filled opus? It certainly is one of the movies of all time. Meanwhile, with its incredible animation and soundtrack, Spider-Man: Across the Spider-Verse introduced us to a whole new multiverse of Spider-People, opening the portal to a veritable flood of incredible OCs. And then, of course, we got a fresh perspective on an old classic when cinephiles introduced Martin Scorscese’s cinematic masterpiece, Goncharov (1973), to a new generation of film aficionados who resoundingly agree that it is, in fact, the greatest mafia movie ever made. We’re so glad this underrated film finally got the acclaim it has long deserved.

In the realms of gaming and tech, the long-anticipated Baldur’s Gate 3 has basically become everyone’s new favorite D&D/dating sim combination. Of course, the Pokémon franchise, games, shows, and Hatsune Miku collabs remain perennial favorites. Elon Musk’s purchase of Twitter, sorry, we mean of course X, made waves across the internet. Similarly, the Reddit blackout drove Redditors to new venues, and Tumblr users welcomed the folks from r/196 with open arms—we’re huge fans of your memes, y’all, and you fit right in. Welcome, we’re glad you enjoy the chaos. Here’s a fun fact: if we included post metadata in Year in Review rankings, #polls, introduced in January of 2023, would have been the #5 topic on Tumblr this year. Phenomenal. 

And, oh right. Taylor Swift had kind of a big year, what with the albums, the epic global tour, and the movie and stuff. Fantastic work, @taylorswift, the Swifties on Tumblr thank you for everything.

This is Tumblr’s Year in Review.

Artists on Tumblr

Good Omens

The Owl House

Barbie

Pokémon

Spider-Man: Across the Spider-Verse

Critical Role

Goncharov

Taylor Swift

Genshin Impact

Stranger Things

The Last of Us

Rise of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles

Elon Musk

196

Star Wars

Our Flag Means Death

Crowley | Good Omens

LGBTQ

Cottagecore

Baldur's Gate 3

One Piece

Aziraphale | Good Omens

[ihopeinevergetsoberr]

the counterpart

chapter 8 — fly on the windscreen (final)

wc: 11k~ (a lengthy one, i know, but i spent two months on this for a reason).

more angst, chess metaphors and depeche mode references (sorry). but i promise i fixed it. and besides — who doesn’t love a good makeup sex scene? oh yes, i went all out with that one. you’re welcome.

—

In 1956, at the chaste age of thirteen, Bobby Fisher made history. 

Game of the Century — that’s what people dubbed it, and it sure did deserve the title: a teenage boy defeated an international master, and with precision so oddly fascinating, that it instantly put the whole chess-world in a strangling chokehold. You never paid that event much mind — young geniuses are not that rare of a thing in this pedantic industry. But Viktor claimed it impacted him — he, too, won his first significant tournament at thirteen, and therefore related to Fisher immensely. 

You remembered the day he told you this in explicit detail: it was the third evening of your affair — right before the mangled bouquet incident. He showed up a tad later than he usually did — and you smiled, realizing that such time-defining adverbs were now acceptable to use while referring to his treasured visits. He was wearing a plain, frayed shirt: a smear here, a patch there: had to help his professor in the lab with something awfully urgent. You rushed to get him out of that sordid thing. Helpful hands popped all buttons open and nudged him softly into the shower. You liked him to enter the filth of your bedroom clean, so the traces of it last longer afterwards. He always complied. 

By the time you set up the board and settled on the comforter, cross-legged, he was done bathing. His skin no longer smelled of dust and machinery, the slippery swiftness of it longing for your attention. He walked out bare — both due to the lack of spare clothes, and because you’d shed them off of him even if those happened to be thrown somewhere nearby. His chest swelled under your hand, flushed and wet.

You made love. It’s funny how fast you stopped calling it just ‘sex’ or ‘fucking’ — oh no, with him you suddenly saw the act of letting someone into your flesh gentle, and, accordingly so, couldn’t just abide by those two simple terms. Sometimes they failed to embrace the concept. 

He tastes of soap and salt when it’s over. Sweat politely intrudes the new, fresh smell of him, and you kiss its tiny drops off his clavicles — two beautiful dips, fragile masterpieces of skin and bones. He laughs and lets his eyes rest. You watch his pupils move under the veiny eyelids, and his lashes tickle your finger when you swipe it gently over those delicate things: to feel the soft movement underneath, to absorb every internal shift in him — his heartbeat, his wincing, the fall of his stomach when he exhales. You wonder if he does the same when you don’t notice. 

“Can I show you something?” It comes out of him strangely flimsy, in a much thicker, throatier timbre. You nod, and he reaches for the board. 

He shows you the Game of the Century. Has it memorized by heart: goes over each move with excited commentary, and his eyes beam almost as passionately beautiful as when he looks at you, dreamily mesmerized. 

“I don’t get it,” you murmur. Your head rests on his lean thigh, pieces a shaky, hlack-white horizontal blur. Scrawny fingers tangle little loops into your hair. “Why did Byrne never take Fisher’s queen? It was right there in front of him the whole time!” 

Viktor chuckles. Bends down to kiss you softly on the temple and smirks discreetly when your pulse touches his mouth, rapid and intense. Playing chess with him always gives you lovely headaches. 

“Because Fisher offered it to him on purpose. He wanted to perform a Smothered Mate.” 

“Oh.” You humm. 

Now you saw it. 

—

You roll over to intercept the little affection. Prop your back with both elbows. Let him comfortably straighten his spine. It’s sweet that he allows it to twinge for you, even if just for a moment, but you don’t appreciate such sacrifices.

Teeth hurt a bit from a sudden clash, but he soothes it when tongues twine, circling lazy patterns. It’s slobbery — a tad clumsy, even, but you like it that way: wet, raw, and terribly, sorely tender. 

He takes you again. Disperses a hundred breathy ‘laská’s all over your pliant skin — neck, and shoulders, and breasts, and thighs. They’re still there, even now that he’s gone — now that you made him go, but the traces of him are no longer sweet and darling. They’re bits of pleasure you were never worthy of, a constant reminder of how you treated that soft man. Not as boldly dark as they used to be: plum started to dissolve into faint, flimsy yellow. The plague of his lovebites, the lasting symptom of his fondness. 

You think of that evening again. 

“Thank you. For showing me this.” You nod to the board and hop on the windowsill to light a cigarette. His heart tries to find its way out of his sternum, muscles still twitch in the afterglow of his orgasm. Both a vision: him — a tired one, full of delicious soreness, you — candid and gorgeously smudgy. 

He rolls on his stomach and cocks a brow, meets your gaze with a warm half-smile. “And here I thought you weren’t interested in a tutor,” sasses delicately. You threaten to throw a lighter at him. You both laugh. And when the balmy sound dies down, his intricate eyes narrow cat-like. They cautiously slide over your form with a quizzical little flicker, and you know he’s contemplating something — it’s visible in his every motion, in the humm he makes before finally daring to be bold. 

“Could I request something… a little risqué?” he finally asks. 

That intrigues you. You take a hissy drag and lean on the glass behind you, wincing when smoke comes out of your nostrils. “I don’t know,” you muse tortuously, “could you?” 

“I would appreciate it if you dropped the obstinacy.” 

“Viktor. I’m probably giving a view of my naked ass to god knows how many people in the building in front of us. How much more risqué can it get?” 

“And yet, I prefer to be certain. Don’t taunt me here, milackú. Please.”

Please. You love it when he says that. There’s something so syrupy about getting this word out of him, and you’re not sure you ever wish to bid farewell with that little addiction. 

He crawls to you out of a damp mess of sheets, pale skin almost peachy where the evening sun embraces each bony slope of his. Thin arm reaches for something on your nightstand and snatches it. Has you smiling in curious bliss when he leans closer, almost falling off the edge of the mattress. Finds some leverage in your hanging off the windowsill legs and clumsily curls around them, pressing the gentlest of kisses to each knee. Now you rise above him, gorgeously drowned in a forthcoming sunset, and light peeks through your fingers when you spread them to catch a hold of your cigarette. 

Viktor hands you the ‘something’ he stole an instant earlier. It’s your seedy “Canon”, with  its murky lens looking up at you, reflecting the perplexed frown of your face. You run a finger over its cold, metallic frame. 

“Does this have any film in it?” Viktor asks. Places his chin on your thigh and stares, beautifully hopeful. You shrug.

“Most definitely. It might be expired, though. Why?” 

He gives it a thought. Leans into your touch and sighs gratefully when you cradle his cheek and stroke — a loving swipe of a trembling thumb over his hollow features. His kisses strike again — now to the inside of your palm, a whisper of a touch, warm and a little ticklish. 

“I want to take your picture,” he finally mumbles. 

You almost choke on the filter. Ashes fall on your skin and Viktor rushes to blow the damage away —soothes it gently before it burns through. 

“What? You mean… now?” Your voice is weak when you say this. Not due to shame or some other internal quandaries — you’re astonished, and it entertains him, makes him laugh again when you pull away to stare at him mid inhale, smoke a bitter halo around your disheveled hair. Yes, he wants to capture this. He absolutely has to. 

“I’d like to savor this,” Viktor explains. “In a more… tangible way. If only you’re willing to indulge me, of course.”

Of course. 

He says he doesn’t want you to pose. A rather hard request, considering the scenery: it simply calls for a pretty arch, for any method of glamorizing your crippling addiction and sheer immodesty. But you aim to please him. Your shoulders laze, narrowed eyes try to sneak a sly peek when he presses the shutter button. He tempts you to smile — the way he bites his tongue in an earnest search of a flattering angle. The flawless intimacy of taking a boudoir picture. You wonder how the local CVS workers handle those. Then chuckle, realizing they’ve probably seen much worse.  

Viktor clears his throat. 

“Can I… have it? After you develop those?” His plea is careful, hushed. Always so sickeningly polite.

“What for?” You torture him again, letting yet another stub rest in a porcelain grave of cigarette bums. Viktor shrugs. 

“Oh, I… I suppose I could keep it in my wallet. After I receive your permission to be that bold.” 

“In your wallet? How scandalous!” 

“Scandalous?”

“Exactly. I’m wearing nothing but thin air in there. Doesn’t it bother you?”

“No.” He shakes his head so innocently it makes him look grotesquely oblivious. “Should it bother me?” 

Your foot softly presses into his chest and pushes him back on the bed. He meets that fate with a dainty laugh, and it’s even lovelier when the rest of you follows along, mindful not to make him wheeze. A harmless vengeance, a tacit promise of what’s to come. And he welcomes it, each hand awfully tender in a cautious hold of your rear, curled in the most adoring of squeezes.

You hover above his face, smiling. “I doubt it came out beautifully.” 

He smiles back. “Of course it did. It has you in it.” 

And he’s almost right. Because it comes out perfect instead. 

—

Here you are, in the mighty fervor of your bareness, your cigarette a sparkly scepter between delicate fingers. It’s a little grainy, yet still lush with saturation — all yellows, pinks and reds, flowing prettily into terracotta precisely where sun wraps around the curve of each breast and dark nipples — those gorgeous lines of stilled tenderness. Head thrown back, mouth parted to let out a livid smoky mist — he must’ve caught you mid exhale: so conveniently brusque. Pure art in the obscene privacy of your bedroom. 

…But it’s been a torturous week of avoidant silence, and your bed, albeit filled with memories, feels terribly empty — wraps you in its reproachful mess and strangles relentlessly, and you have no desire to come back to it anymore; seven languid dawns met anywhere but in the sheets. 

All because comprehension is cruel, and it deprived you of resting, solace long gone alongside him — his tenderness, his touch, his patience. Oh how you longed for it, how agonizingly jealous you grew towards that proudly naked version of you from the picture: she was yet to find out how the lack of him really feels, how heartwrenching his resentment can get. It pierced through you — that all-consuming, frightening realization. And precisely when you first got your hands on developed film, too: Viktor will never have it. He doesn’t want it anymore.  

Heartbreaks always come with additional obstacles: finals week made college feel like a coffin, tight, and suffocating, and overwhelmingly grim. It reduced your days to a torturous routine of turning in essays and sneakily running around the campus in between exams: made you attend to every single precaution in the book to avoid bumping into him. 

You even stopped visiting the engineering department to catch Jayce for once obligatory debriefs by a cigarette — the risks weren’t worth exchanging even the messiest dirty rumors. Besides, what’s there to tell him? ‘I started fucking your ‘grandmaster’, developed a feeling I’m afraid to admit even to myself and screwed it all up by letting my wrathful tendencies take over’? Yeah. That’s not exactly an event one boasts about. 

So you found salvation in misery. Stuffed yourself full of its moping weight, wore it like a veil, showed it off whenever something called to leave your self-prescribed hermitage — an ostentatious ‘Look, I did this to myself!’ So craven. So pathetic.

And you couldn’t look at chess anymore. The image of his sinewy hand was now forever attached to the only board you owned, hovering above the pieces in its usual pensive manner. It wounded you. Filled you with some visceral, peculiar rage — and you couldn’t even tell towards who exactly. It’s like you were suddenly deprived of all the other feelings and now had to make do, seeking solutions in disposing of everything he ever touched in your room. But that would also include your skin, so you quickly abandoned the thought. If only the memories of that last draw were that easily escapable. You swallowed yet another frustrated swear. 

Something about it all seemed oddly… awry. Specifically his queen moves: Viktor was never the one to open harshly, he attacked much deeper into the game and preferred initiating trades — rude invasions were more your style, after all. But that day he developed your approach: you were certain of it, trembled whenever reminiscing hit you. 

And tonight it hits you right in the gut. 

—

You’re down to your last cigarette and it makes your throat wail — you’ve had more of those tonight than there are hours in a whole day. Lost count of desperate, big gulps of wine, too, and even considered asking the Lord himself to turn all the water in your apartment into more of that life-saving beverage. The irony hears your prayer, making you cackle, and ‘Sweetest Perfection’ slowly fades into the sexy guitar riff of ‘Personal Jesus’. But instead of reaching out to touch faith you touch the stop button. It’s hard to appreciate music when a headache is splitting your head in twain. 

An utter mess — that’s what you were, scrunched on the floor in your underpants, trembling fingers tracing chaotic circles over the surface of your favorite record, the tournament notes wounded with a wine stain. Your board laid tiles down, crushing the pieces, evidently knocked over in what looked like a livid splutter. 

Viktor could’ve won. He should’ve, actually — it came down on you when wrath died down just enough to finally set the pointless self-deprecating aside. Better late than never, and yet living in ignorance didn’t seem that agonizing now that you deigned to analyze his moves. 

He didn’t offer you a queen exchange. You were certain he chose to refrain from it on purpose: because that would’ve extended the match, allowing him to move his king someplace safe. And, concurrently, aim for a winning position. Viktor, of all people, wouldn’t miss it — which meant he showed you mercy. Always so goddamn caring — fuck, how blinded one must be to overlook something so gallant? 

He still cared about making you leave with a good rating, swallowed his pent-up pride to evolve all that into a draw. Played with his heart for once. A charity, of sorts, and normally you despised that — would tear him a new one for even assuming that you needed such leniency. But not this time. Not after he responded to your onslaught with chivalry. 

Your world is fuzzy when you reach for the door knob — all astigmatic spurts of light, drunkenly smeared and heavy. It’s a night of spontaneous decisions and you commit to it like a martyr: first deciding to indulge in game analysis, then drinking yourself to death over each new discovery.

And now you wince, slipping into your loafers, feeling their harsh press into those swollen spots under each buckle-bone. No socks. No pants, either. Just half-naked fervor and a long leather coat to loosely wrap around yourself — the only armor you need to run outside and head straight towards his dorm, shivering when chilly air softly creeps up your bare legs. 

It’s terrifying how fast decisions are made when you rely purely on liquor and shaky crumbles of messy sanity; with what menacing speed you rushed for him, breathless and murky-gazed. Fingers fumbled with the sharp edge of that erotic monstrosity you slipped into your pocket before running out the door: something kept restraining you from disposing of it, made your hands twitch whenever you held that picture above the weak fiery tongue of your lighter. Viktor deserved to take a glimpse at it. Even if he decides to burn it himself immediately after. 

You swiftly sneaked past the concierge in awkward, wasted excellency. Stumbled over a threshold with a sobby grunt. Almost expected someone to catch you, to enquire why could you possibly be headed to a young man’s room at two in the morning, with just a weary leather cover compensating for your lack of decency. 

But you’ve made it. Stood by his door before dazed mind even managed to realize just what you’re about to do, knees so pitifully shaky you might just be swept off your feet. Figuratively, first, when your white-knuckled fist dares to knock. Literally, when his footsteps shuffle in your direction. 

You know he’s not asleep. It’s almost like he never is — except for those sacred hours when you somehow manage to tire him out: a rare occasion, a calming little tribute. Your heart shrinks when his hand peeks out, tightly curled around the door knob. He’s tense: more so than ever, weariness prominent in a heavy lean on his cane, eyes dreary and red at the inner corners. They flicker in mistrust — stare through you in a way only he possesses, intricate enough to reach your very gut, chase down the drunken audacity and cut it abruptly at the base. You’re not sure if it can save you the embarrassment anymore. 

Viktor snaps out of it — blinks his momentary awe away and frowns, quizzically hostile. Pale wrist flicks in a sudden rush to fix his unbuttoned shirt: he doesn’t know you came to beg for a truce yet, thinks you might just go for his throat if he doesn’t put up a defense quick enough.

It pains you. Stabs your own neck and twists that thing a few torturous times before you finally remember how to breathe. A silly thing, a craving to lay your heart at his feet — to be bold, or desperate, or either of those at once. Easier said than done, because your courage is in shambles as soon as his lips twitch, and the crease of a pretty mouth you grew to adore suddenly feels like a vicious personal attack. And it only intensifies when he sighs, utterly forceless. 

A rocky start. Even rockier now that he huffs your name out like it’s a swear, and disbelief contorts him, deep and flush-cheeked. 

“Why are you indecent?” He all but hisses it, the perfect mad man — all awe-struck copper and audacious glimmer in the depths of his wide-snapped eyes. Has you hiding both quivering legs behind the leather closure of your coat, suddenly shamefully aware of your state of undress. Should’ve never let that impulse win, should’ve waited until morning, but how were you supposed to fight something so potent, so atrociously urgent? 

“I had to see you.” A whisper, a silly blunder. Like a pathetic attempt at getting out of a fork — a sacrifice of a piece to postpone a checkmate. 

Viktor blinks at you in bewilderment. His throat is dry — it’s prominent in an awkward cough he chokes on, in the way he averts his face. 

“That doesn’t explain much,” mumbles finally, staring into the floor. Bites his cheek to muffle an angry comment, watches you sullenly with repressed bitterness. “Why are you here?” 

It’s a simple question. A straight-to-the-point one, too — he doesn’t move an inch, pierces right through you with the pressure of his anguish. And it’s only fair, after all — you butchered his heart and vanished into a week of soul-crushing silence, only to return with no purpose, answers and pants. If anything, he’s being quite charitable by even letting you in. 

“I couldn’t sleep.” God, would you just tell him already? How much longer can you drag this madness out, how much more liquor do you have to consume until it finally drowns your sorrow? No, that won’t do. And Viktor thinks so too — scoffs with a rageful glare, grabbing a hold of the door knob again.

“Then I suggest you retreat to your room and take a melatonin. Good night.” 

“Viktor. Viktor, please—“ 

You cling onto that appeal with every ounce of your desperation, his name a harsh clash of consonants on your wagging tongue — a slurred and rhotic last resort, a hasty mess of shaky syllables. And, strangely enough, it works: urges him to recoil, to return the tremulous stir, to let you see that blend of hurt and confusion in the blown out voids of his pupils. It’s almost like you’re pushing him to the verge of his kindness, bearing witness to every inner change. Here he is, grim and distant — all clenched jaw and enraged inhales, softening into promising mercy. Through a condescending sigh, no less, but you’ll take it. Oh, you’ll take it alright — because this is not a negotiation. This is redemption at any cost. 

Viktor resigns. Whispers a tired “Come in” and points to his bed, watches you limp inside with a weak, disapproving head shake. It’s a walk of shame — grumpy sounds of skin as bare feet drag pitifully on the floor, shoes and coat shed off carelessly somewhere at the entry. 

An abrupt sound of him fumbling with the lock, then a few light thuds of his cane — you absorb it all, waiting for your execution, eyes nailed to the parquet, skittishly following little wooden patterns. You don’t know what to say to him, and it’s terrifying — sure, wine must’ve triggered the motive, but it can only get one so far. And now you crumble, shrinking when the mattress bends by your side, the cross of his lanky legs cloudy in your peripheral. He keeps his distance, seated at a good arm’s length: too close for a shot, too far for an embrace, just enough to add to your agony. Rubs his forehead with a somber wince, turns to look at you with a harried pout, so tragically handsome. A bunch of veins twined tensely on that pretty ivory neck. 

“Please, say something,” begs you hoarsely, setting his cane aside. “Don’t torture me with your silence. It depletes me. And, quite frankly, I’ve had enough of that.” 

You swallow thick, pushing that lump down your throat with immense effort, bitter sticky spit foaming at the tip of your tongue, threatening to come out if you don’t shove it down your stomach quick enough. Tastes of drunk, delirious promises. And you must spew them out before they drool out on their own.

“I’m sorry.” This comes out slurred too, but you don’t mind the stumbling as long as it gets the message across. Viktor scarcely cocks his head, all flushed ears. 

You proceed. 

“For the tournament. Well, for what I did to you before our game, I shouldn’t have— Fuck, how do I even put this? I shouldn’t have done it. All of it.”

Your tear is in your mouth before you know it, and you swipe your tongue over a chapped lip, rushing to get it out the way while he remains still, simply waiting for you to continue with a straight, cold face. Almost kills you with that indifference, or whatever it is he’s trying to sell for it, but you don’t even think of backing off. You have to look at him. You ought and want to.

“I was cruel,” you confess, gulping down a sob. “Extremely so. It’s the rage, you see. I’m a fucking slave to it. So afraid to be hurt that I rush to do the hurting myself. But you… You, with your good intent, and your endless kindness — you, of all people, shouldn’t suffer from that ugly flaw of mine. And I’m sorry for being so full of it. For making you a victim of my crudeness. And for disappearing to bask in it, ever so selfishly. I didn’t run away because I don’t care. I ran away because I’m a coward.” 

He simply nods. Tortures you with a few more seconds of painful silence, sitting up with a curious humm. Locks both trembling hands together and  lets his thumbs take turns, circling over each other. Wheezes out a careful ‘Are you, now?”

You huff. “Of course I am. It took me a week to say this to you.” 

“But you’ve made it after all.” Viktor shrugs. It’s hard to tell if he’s being genuine or sarcastic, especially when his gaze keeps crashing you with all its reticent spite.

“Yes, but this is not the way to approach this. It’s not like I didn’t consider crawling here earlier, though—“

“Crawling?” he interrupts. Treats you to a minute of quiet turmoil, waits for you to clarify with a sharp inhale. Props himself on a fist and scoots closer, hovering above your face to scrutinize it intricately. “Are you intoxicated?” finally guesses when the evidence hits him in the nostrils. 

You shrink away, blinking in confusion. Wasn’t it obvious?

“Yes,” you respond in a skittish whisper. “And I’m sorry for that too. I just… I couldn’t bring myself to come to you earlier, but then… That draw, you see. It didn’t sit right with me, and so I tended to some self analysis. I noticed what you’ve done. Noticed what you sacrificed to make me walk out of there with a decent rating. Even after the way I’ve treated you. It made me hate myself so bad I felt the need to flush it down right that instant. But it only got more unbearable to endure any longer. So I simply… Ran out the door to tell you this. I shouldn’t have. Well, now I know that I shouldn’t—“

You’re rambling, and it’s a lengthy, fidgety monologue. So utterly terrified that you can’t even keep track of those ugly cries anymore — they fly out in between words, cutting into a fusion of your candor and hysteria.

But Viktor doesn’t soften. If anything, he’s even sharper now, frowning deeper with every new sentence you throw at him. Cuts you off with a scoff, wagging his head in bewilderment — like he can’t stand to even look at you, let alone listen to any more of these heartful babbles. Curses in Czech under his rapid breath. 

“Unbelievable,” he blurts out, turning away. “So that’s how you view me? That’s how you view us? A meaningless, casual affair you can abandon whenever you please and then repair with a few desultory ‘sorry’s? Is that what I am to you? A foolish suitor undeserving of a proper, sober apology? Well, I’ll have you know that I’m not one of your pawns. And I won’t put up with it — not in a hundred years.” 

Your panic comes back, drawing a snappish bawl out of stinging lungs, and you sniff, trying to push those unsavory tears back where they belong. Unkempt nails bite into your palms, leaving a violent pattern of rouge, deep punishment. 

“You don’t have to put up with it,” you speak again, trying to redeem that heavy home truth. “I don’t want you to.”

“Stop mentioning that,” Viktor demands with a furious scowl, making you gobble up that stupid semantic. “I’m in no need of your elaboration.” 

“But I truly mean that!”

“Mean it all you want, but don’t expect my approval just because you finally deigned to throw a plea at me. I did nothing to merit that. Both the insults and this mess of a repentance.” 

That one does the job. Peels the scab off your wounds, urging each evil goosebump to rise — and thank god for the soft bed under your trembling form, because your knees feel like soaked cotton, unsturdy and doomed to fail.

But you force them to obey, springing up above him in a snappy jerk. It’s a classic, of sorts, like a denial of a King’s Gambit: he doesn’t take the piece you offer him, aiming for something else instead. Something more crucial, and so inherently fragile. Stares up at you with his head thrown back, threateningly beautiful in the sheer shadows that blinds cast on his face. Urges you to seek silly symbols in the way your lack of clothes contrasts his utter modesty. 

Here you are — raw and exposed. One step from shameful nakedness, standing trial in this state of non-sexual, sudden nudity. Here he is — armed with thick fabric, not a smidge of his usual emotive range prominent in both expression and attire. All edgy cheekbones and pure, unfiltered anger in the slight twitch of a bushy brow. So snarky when it arches, challenging you to keep going. To fight for forgiveness for once. 

“You’re right.” It’s a simple statement — a calm, casual acknowledgement. Still teary-eyed and puffy, but those are merely debris. You wipe them away, ready to strike again. “I am a mess. A mess like no other, that’s for sure. I don’t expect you to fix me. I simply paid you what’s due, and you’re allowed to send it back — I’m in no position to demand you forgive me. I never wanted to do that anyway. I’m simply sorry. For mistaking your help for malice, for letting the fear of losing my silly independence win, for prioritizing it over the bond we’ve built. And for not giving you the apology you deserve. Truly. That might just be my biggest regret so far.”

Viktor doesn’t respond. His chest feels heavy, swiftly falling after each deep breath. He’s taking you in — bare legs, bare soul, bare feelings. A sweet contradiction, a living oxymoron in the suspenseful darkness of his bedroom,  but he doesn’t know what to do with you, how to save either of you from the power you hold over each other. 

This calls for a solution. And you come up with one, attempting to step away, already eyeing the corner you’ve thrown your coat into. 

“I should go,” you propose, carefully inching towards the door. “That would be the wise thing to do.” 

But Viktor’s views on prudence evidently differ. Because his fingers gnaw at your wrist, startling with the tight strength of their gentleness. Such a warm handcuff — it reminds you of your starvation, of just what you’d cross to experience him like this again — insistently gracious, caring to his very core. Pulls you towards him, biting a cheek when you don’t slip away. Realizes the extent of your desperation and sighs, admitting that his own reaches the same depth. Wins a silent staring competition when you blink, completely dazed, finding your voice in a weak ruckle of his name. 

“No,” he drawls, squeezing firmer, “you’ve done enough ‘wise’ deeds tonight. I’m not sure I can endure one more.” 

“I know, Viktor. That’s why I need to go.” 

“You’re a fool if you think I’m letting you walk out of here in that state. You came to apologize, after all. It would be quite counterproductive of you to storm off sobbing instead of achieving your initial goal.”

Your lashes flutter again, flicking a tear. It crawls back into your eye, blurring the world around you, and you rush to rub it out of there, freeing your hand out of his insistent grasp. He lets go, surprisingly reluctant. 

“I thought we’ve already established that I’m in no state for this conversation.” 

“Indeed, we have. Which is exactly why you’re going to take a shower and go to sleep, so your wits are about you when we’re back at it in the morning.” He then clears his throat, fighting a sad, hopeless smile. Loses when the corners of his mouth inch up, adding a sarcastic “I would, actually, lend you a melatonin, if it weren’t for the consequences of mixing it with alcohol. But your loss, I suppose.” 

He’s quieter with that remark. Spares you a moment of familiar, light-hearted comfort — all hushed chuckles, lost, frustrated glances, and fidgety, lonely hands. 

The embodiment of confusion, of bitterness that still fights to linger around, but doesn’t stand a chance against longing. Reducing the smartest person you know to a love-struck man that has no idea how to save this, yet wants you to stay so badly. Even worse when you look him in the eye, shyly asking if there’s any hot water left for you to use. 

The world makes sense again. Or so it seems.

— 

Your dream is lucid — a blend of bizzare, threatening images stirring you awake every time the thing gets too real, forcing bloodshot eyes to snap open and search for him in the opaque darkness, pulse a racing, unpleasant thump in both sweaty temples. Only simmering down when you manage to make out the skews of his shoulders: distant, but so darling. So many torturous inches separating your back from his — it’s more gaunt than you remember, the lopsided arch of it suddenly more bitter than ever, and you quit stealing discreet peeks, nuzzling back into the clean, mint-scented comfort of his pillow. Drifting back to yet another frenetic vision, thinking about how strange it is to share a bed with Viktor without lying tucked under his sharp, bony chin. 

You wake up morbid and, expectedly, hungover. Still wearing both scandalous garments you barged in — numb fingers slide over an exposed thigh, then rub the bridge of your nose hard enough to snap the delicate cartilage. You watch the ceiling tarnish full of flimsy black holes, whimpering as it cleanses of them just as swiftly when your sight repairs itself after a long squint. Shaky arms rummage around, stilling mid slow caress over Viktor’s side — still warm and slightly bent inwards, that overwhelming evidence of his presence. He left you an aspirin and a silly note:

“I have a final to take. Will be back at 10. Don’t you dare run away. 

P.S.

Please, don’t drink coffee. Your head will kill you.“

Your finger stumbles, covering the sharp ‘V’ in the lower corner. An excessive little gesture — as if you wouldn’t guess the sender if he didn’t sign it. You put the sweet warning away and swallow the pill, wincing when it scrapes its way down your throat. 

The morning finally starts.

Sore for whatever reason legs still hang back, and you force them to oblige, scrunching over the sink when those bratty, boneless appendages finally get you to the bathroom. It’s a lifeless, automatic routine — except you have to smear the toothpaste all over your teeth with a trembling finger. You thought of buying a brush to keep next to his for the nights you’re over, but now it repulses you, urges to avert your tired eyes from the mirror: what if you fucked it up beyond return? What if there’s no ‘for when I’m over’ anymore, but only ‘for when I used to be’? 

You don’t embrace that revelation. It appalls you, makes you crave the tasteless comfort of a cigarette — but you ran out of them last night, and, concurrently, respected Viktor’s strong preferences for keeping your favorite vice at least out of his room. And it’s not like this horrific anticipation should last much longer — self-doubts were kind and time-consuming, carrying you through fifty five minutes of tedious, head-in-hands agony. And when the key finally clangs, albeit a quarter later than expected, you rise from the unkempt bed, untangling from the blankets. 

He looks collected: walks right past you, rushing to rid that lanky neck off the strangling tie. Softly hums an unbothered ‘Good morning’, sparing you nothing but a reserved nod, and you writhe upon that calm violence, watching him tend to yet another languid habit — as if both the tournament and last night never existed, as if him simply coming back from a tiring final is the only thing that’s happening in this room, and you’re going to watch him settle back into his domesticated, quiet life. 

But no, you’re convinced that it’s a vengeful punishment — a silent treatment to make up for the one you put him through during your endless days of lacking courage. And so you sit, mouth agape, while he fetches his notes out of a shabby bag, flipping through them with a casual yawn. Plugs the kettle into an outlet, running a hand through a short row of tea boxes on the desk (you only managed to notice that little collection now), then shrugs, picking out a random one with a casual finger-flick. Stills in a half-turn over an angular shoulder, cursory inquiring what flavor you prefer. Driving you deeper into tremendous confusion. 

“I.. Whichever you like,” you mumble from the bed, chewing on the inside of your cheek. Only stopping when it starts to slightly taste of iron. 

Viktor understands. Hands you a steaming mug and pulls out a chair to be seated right in front of you, and it all resembles a pitiful, canonical therapy session — even the way you stare at your tea (chamomile, so it seems), shamefully making out the floating, whimsical reflection of your face in the brownish liquid. Wondering if it’s hot enough to burn your tongue. Preferably, to a decent degree. 

Viktor coughs. Crosses his legs again — always chooses that pose for uncomfortable conversations, whereas you always shrink embryo-like — a disparity to his almost professional manner. Oh just how he sits, vestless and relaxed, taking a slow sip. Makes you wish you were the cup, so he could wrap his hand around you and squeeze — to death, or bliss, or revulsion. Anything, but apathy. Please, no more of that. Please please please. 

“How are you feeling?” he asks. Grabs the mug by its rim and holds it like one does a wine glass, lets you see the tension in each fingertip. You return to staring down, unsure how to approach the question. Really, though, how do you feel? Scared? Excited? Nauseated? Sorry? You’re sure he gets it by now. And, therefore, all this — is a penalty. It’s only right. It has to be. 

You shrug, letting a whiff of fear invade every sharpened sense. Chamomile joins in, too. This time, evidently. 

“Are you punishing me?” you finally croak. He frowns at that, treats it like the silliest nonsense to ever be said out loud. Rushes to shake his head, to deny and prove wrong. And it confuses you beyond belief, forces an exchange of wide-eyed, bewildered gazes. 

“No,” he insists. “Of course not. I’m asking because I want to be certain that you’re able to proceed with the colloquy. That wouldn’t be possible were you still under the influence of any… substances, would it, now?” He adds with a chuckle. Dry, and curt, and failing at easing anything at all, but you still believe him. You choose to, even if it’s hardly plausible. 

“Yes.” You offer him a lie. “I want to proceed.”

 It’s best he doesn’t know how not ready you really are. 

He gulps, then. Waits for your confession to unravel, plowing through you with the sheer power of patient madness, even if that doesn’t make much sense — how can someone stare with such urgency, yet remain so gentle with it? You know you’ll find him drawn to you if your own eyes dare to move from the slowly growing lukewarm tea. 

“Were you cordial with me last night?” He finds a way to pluck the answers out of you, appeals to something you’re convinced is always the case with your inept amends.

“Of course. I always am.” He arches a brow, causing you to reconsider. As if to cut you off with a silent, cheeky ‘Really, now?’. 

“I meant… I’m always sincere with my apologies,” you try to recover, setting your mug down on the floor before it slides out on its own and shatters into pieces. Can’t have it sharing the destiny of your stability. 

“I just… I’m really struggling to understand you here,” he spoke softly, putting his own tea away — and it’s left forgotten on his desk, like a non-verbal, inanimate testimony. “Why would you turn to anger in response to aid? I don’t think I’ll ever distinguish that, you’ll have to excuse me here.”

“No, that‘s a… really good question.” 

“Answer it, then.”

“I don’t know if I can.” 

“That won’t ease our quandary.”

“I’m aware, but… Just let me think a little. Please.” 

He lets you. Invites you to help yourself to all the time in the world, but you only take two minutes — it’s important not to squander his generosity. Especially when you don’t know exactly how much more he has to spare.

“It’s like… Caro-Kann, and I’m playing black,” you finally mumble, knowing he’ll ask to elaborate. 

“Caro-Kann?” Viktor muses, visibly besotted. As if he expected you to think anyhow but in chess.

“Mhm. Seems so safe and solid, and yet the development is so slow, and the board lacks space for me, and white can be so unpredictable with their responses—“

“Yes, I’m familiar with the disadvantages of this opening.” He raises a hand, stopping you from burrowing any further into tiring theory. “Please, get to your point.” 

Your pulse thumps a march so terrified it echoes in your throat, swells above your left breast into something unbearably massive — capable of breaking the ribcage and rolling out to his feet. It reverberates in your temples, too, and you squint, as if enduring a migraine. Eyes shimmy down to pathetically shaky knees. 

“When I play Caro-Kann, I prepare for an attack from white,” you continue carefully. Viktor looks at you, attentive to the bone. “But it doesn’t happen — and I panic. Like I’m all ready to be aggressive, to sting if you come any closer, and you just choose… not to. Here I am, with my developed bishop, threatening a check, but you ignore it and play something like… say, pawn h4. And I grow livid, and my pieces fly all around the board, but it all seems so useless, because you haven't taken anything from me yet. And I take first, and inevitably lose by taking more and more — because I was scared to let you do it to me first.”

“That’s just ridiculous,” he protests. Crosses both lanky arms on his chest, leaning into the chair. Rests his neck on the top back, glaring from beneath heavy lids. “You’re not supposed to play it like that.” 

“Exactly. That’s why I like gambits. You always know what to expect with a gambit. Even if your opponent declines it, you know it’ll hurt later. For both of you. It’s predictable, and beautifully violent. It’s what I’m used to. Not only in chess.” 

“As much as I’m infatuated with your skills at merging logic with poetics, metaphors are not my forte. I’d much rather you explain in layman’s terms.” 

Hearing Viktor call himself that sounds almost blasphemous. But you don’t argue with his wording. You fix your posture and recline, mirroring the angle he looks at you from — your one last death rattle before resignation. And he waits, fumbling with a rolled up sleeve. Getting more vulnerable, inviting you to follow suit. His eyes fill with contradictory, somber candidness. ‘Get right with me,’ they beg of you discreetly. 

But begging is hardly necessary. Not when he’s entitled to knowing the truth. 

“I see you as a threat to my independence. Not just you, I suppose — anyone who’s not responding in a way I know how to handle.” 

Viktor nods. “So you’re implying that you only know how to handle… mockery?” 

“Correct.” You stop to gasp for air, the sharp pang of its scarcity pinching at your lungs. “I’m sorry,” you add in a mumble, and he sees just how vehemently you mean it, pupils so wide they almost steal every bit of your beloved copper. 

A creak of a chair when he gets up, sighing harriedly. Has you stirring, utterly convinced that he’s about to fetch his cane out of its convenient spot against the desk — but he never reaches for it. Finds leverage in a sturdy hold of your knee instead, leans on it with a wistful smile and settles right into the notch of sheets next you. Not quite where he sat last night, but much closer — evidently so. And when he doesn’t move, letting your bare thigh freely rub against the thick fabric of his trousers, you know he accepts the truce, even with no verbal confirmation. Bless the mighty power of his languid body language. Careful, when he takes your hand in his, covering the tracery of palm lines in lovely strokes. So darling. So familiar. 

“You,” he emphasizes with sweet indignation, “are incredibly gentle. I don’t ever wish to hear that you’re incapable of handling kindness. You simply ought to learn not to bite at the hand that feeds you. And that requires playing more Caro-Kann. I’m willing to help with that. As long as you’re willing to learn.” 

His touch grows firmer, suddenly flowing into a squeeze, and you bate a breath, tongue a swirling little drill into the slopes of your palate. But Viktor goes on, keeping you close — practically face-to-face, and so very, very intimate. 

“And no more returning to stupid vices when you’re facing a nuisance,” he demands. Means it with every ounce of his being. The veins on his neck swell again, menacingly handsome. 

“Yes.” You gulp. The knot in your throat dissolves. “Of course.”

“I see it now. The reason why you think I’m encroaching on your autonomy, that is,” he muses, a bit sorrowful. “It must feel torturous — having to keep your guard up all the time. And I detest those who put you in such misery. However, I don’t like to be mistaken for such a man. I spoke up because I don’t tolerate disrespect. Not because I was trying to assert… ownership of you.” He trailed off, eyes filled with awkward sheen. “Although, I do admit that some possessiveness was involved.” 

Your chuckle turns into a sonorous laugh, but it’s hardly mocking. Insightful, more so.Like the one people emit after solving an equation with the most simple of formulas, like finding out that a confusing answer was sickeningly obvious all along. He allows you to touch him, stays still when you dare to entangle a hand in his hair, brushing through it with a little tug. Lets you know that he’s starving, too. For conversation, for skittishness, for what it augments into when the tension softens. 

Shivers run all the way up to tense shoulders when he wraps an arm around the arched curve of waist, pressing flush against his side to fetter into a desperate embrace. You giggle, dragging a fingertip over his flushed ear. Catch the shift in his breath, so abrupt and delectable.

“You know, I really did threaten to kick that prick in the crotch,” you murmur.

“Oh, I’m aware. Should I be concerned for my own, er… testicles?” 

“No. Well, not in a way that hurts. If you’ll have me.” 

A sheepish grin pulls at the corner of Viktor’s lip. “Now?” prods so huskily that it paints his motives unhallowed, and you hussle in his grasp, wondering if the implication is really there. Wondering if his hunger had suddenly merged with yours. 

And, well, that’s certainly a way to secure an amnesty. One you’re conveniently very eager for. 

So you decide to be bold. “Like I said.” You lean closer, tipping your head down. “If you’ll have me.” 

Viktor chortles. “Is that even a question?” 

Oh fuck.

The malt of his tongue sliding sloppily into your mouth — a kiss so lewd it has your world tumbling indistinct under fluttering eyelids, blurring completely when he steals your breath, ardent and tumultuous when your gasps turn into whines under that persistent, sweet pressure of his lips — starved enough to bruise, to bite a chunk out of you if only he tried hard enough. So wet it threatens to get into your throat, or drip down both of your chins in a glistening little trace — and you open up for him, always so incessant with that reciprocation: tongue, and teeth, and lips so pliant at his disposal. Doesn’t matter if you’re choking. You want to pass out under that gentle mouth, so warm, and inviting, and pressing into you in the most perfect of kisses. Even more strangling when his fingers dig into your hip, holding in place, eager enough to linger there for a few hours in speckled red, engraving his sheer desperation. You can hardly control your own, pulling at one messy chestnut strand. And it earns you a moan — gorgeously wheezy as he sucks at your bottom lip, teeth a sudden sunk into it when he senses the sharp affection and returns it right that instant. 

And you’re putty in those sinewy hands, arching backwards and falling senseless onto the sheets, tangling them with every new jerk of shaky legs. Spiraling into immaculate, tingly madness when Viktor exhales a chuckling breath somewhere above the collarbone, grabbing an overbearing hold of your chin. Coaxing your head to tip back and make some place for his teeth; thirty two little prickles plunging into your throat with pent-up vigor. Pulling at your skin in a not-so-gentle lovebite. More canines than anything, overwhelmingly so. 

But you let him, and meet it with a moan, needy, and high-pitched, and utterly unfeigned — an invitation to suckle more of you into his eager mouth. So he accepts it, freeing a soft breast out of the loose hold of a lacy shirt — and suddenly you’re grateful for that rushed choice of attire, so fitting for the way he squeezes, and twists, and selfishly laps up to tease a soft nipple to delicious stiffness. Watches the fleshy shade of it darken, growing hard under a playful lick. Smug, when he looks up, going in for another taste, pinch slow and torturous when he pulls at that tender nub, prideful for the way you keen, twitching with a fistful of his hair between lithe fingers. And so indecisive, too: does he want it nice and slow, or impatient, hasty and salacious? So many options to choose from. 

He’s leaning towards the latter, however. Lurches the shirt off your chest, tucking it to hastily ruffle around your waist — thank god for the lax straps, so helpfully hanging off both shoulders. Always teasing the lack of a bra. 

Warm palm lingers over the dip of your solar plexus, so gentle between the spread of breasts. And when it creeps higher, lingering over your chin, you force him to be even bolder. Stealing a sharp, dazed exhale when you capture his wrist, leveling those talented digits with your open mouth. Cheeky as you guide them inside, tongue a hot, wet fondle between ring and middle finger. And he shudders, enthralled by the sight, swallowing a whimper as you taunt him. Dragging out that debauched pop when you wrap your lips around them and suck hard, looking up with needy, impudent eyes. 

Such a filthy thing. Even dirtier now that you’re done with your little performance, head drooping to the side, adding to the complacent smirk. Viktor heaves out a laugh. 

“You’ll be the death of me,” whispers sweetly. Presses a peck to your shoulder, smiling when you trace the sharp line of his jaw. Tilts a hollow cheek into your touch, stilling above you. Steams pure admiration, pulling you closer. And you let him have that, so sickeningly starved for his love, grateful for the kiss he plants on the corner of your mouth, shivering when his caring hand — still a little spit-slick at the fingertips — brushes somewhere dangerously low, tickling at the pelvic bone. 

“Wouldn’t that be a good way to go?” you muse. The ever indefatigable tease, gorgeous, as you wrap both arms around his neck, noses pressing together for a split second. 

“I can think of a better one.” He shrugs. And when you humm, asking to elaborate, he simply clings to your thigh, thumb a fleeting brush over the damp edge of your underwear. “Crush me,” he pleads, “while I taste you.” 

“That’s hardly fair. I want to taste you too.” 

And he falters, coyly chewing on a thin lip.

“I think there’s a remedy for that.” 

Always a sight when he rises to undress, fumbling with the impressive amount of buttons. Makes it feel like a striptease, of sorts — an unintentional, lazy show. But this time he’s a little hasty. Almost tears that shirt apart, cocky when it gets to you, thin and immaculate — the pretty tautness of what little muscle he possesses, a shadowy slope of his navel and the curly black fluff running down right into his trousers. Besieging what you know must be really hard to keep in there when you look at him like this — so achingly desperate. Nimble, when you kindly help him with a belt, grinning vixen-like when the buckle budges. Normally, you’d palm him through all those layers, perhaps adhering to some languid torment. But today you’re undressing him rather crudely, eager to pull every cover down long legs and grab a hold of that lovely cock, fingers curling at the base to lay it flat against your restless tongue. 

But he stops you. Grabs a gentle squeeze of your hair somewhere at the nape, coaxing to meet the lustful scold of both glowing eyes. The slight twitch of a lopsided smile, weakly melting into an open-mouthed gasp. 

“Not yet,” begs of you so softly you can’t help but comply. With a reluctant whine, no less. And Viktor dismisses it, crawling back in between parted legs, fingers the sweetest of hooks into your underwear, then an eager drag of it all the way down and off the ankles. Dazed, when he notices a slick little stripe precisely on the pliant inner thigh. Cheeky, when he nudges legs apart again, and nuzzles into the delicate wetness, tongue darting out to lick the trace away — a tad sour, but he adores it, wants to bury his face in that divine flavor, to drench his fingers full of it. 

“Tease,” you accuse. His chin rests in that sweet spot between your thumb and index when he leans in for a kiss, grinning almost ear to ear. Can’t taste yourself on his tongue yet, but that’s a question of lust and a few more minutes of fervent devouring. It’s manageable. Exciting. 

“Bold of you to assume I can last through all your tortures,” Viktor murmurs, a little strangled. Falls supinely on his back, staring lazily from under dark lashes. “Although, I’m flattered. You give my stamina much more credit than it deserves.” 

“Oh please,” you scoff, turning around. Gasping, when long fingers curl into your waist, each thumb a press into your back dimples. And he pulls you onto him, nudges to throw a quivering leg over his neck and drift higher – until your knees press into the matress, and you’re hovering above him in a clumsy squat. And he’s gorgeous beneath you — hair sprawled out on the pillow into a myriad chestnut strays, eyes instantly meeting yours when you throw him a lustful look over your shoulder. 

“Sit.” His breath is syrupy against you, making the slick of folds feel somewhat cold when he exhales into that darling flesh. 

“On your face?” You want to be sure, to coax the obvious answer out of him. It’s a delicious offer, and you wonder if it still stands — as if Viktor’s hands digging into your sides with such firmness is not enough of a confirmation. 

“Precisely,” he rasps. Strokes each haunch in admiration, slowly making his tender way to your ass, spread slow and gentle, yet so achingly lewd it has your face blushing a pretty coral. Twitching, when he smooths a palm over one soft curve and fights the urge to leave a pink trace of a loving slap. And he smiles when you leak at the touch, tongue peeking out to deliver a shuddering lick, to circle the lovely orifice loose, sucking gently on your swollen clit. And you arch backwards again, mouth agape and stuffed full of your own fingers — to muffle that loud whine of a plea, preventing a noise complaint. And Viktor stirs your heat awake again, kisses coyly at the entrance before his index effortlessly slips inside — pumping, and curling, and making a nice, wet sound. “You’re so beautiful,” he praises. “Please, don’t crouch. Sit. I beg of you. You don’t know what it does to me.” 

And he’s right. You don’t know, yet his cock teased full of blood gives you a decent idea on that. So you melt, sighing when your clit lands exactly where you prefer it: on Viktor’s precious tongue, always so eager to please, to whisper filthy words or confession-like Czech nothings. And it’s a pleasant fusion: you know his eyes snap wide open when you reach to push him into your mouth, licking off the musky bead at the reddened tip and humming at the familiar, salty taste. He follows suit, meeting every bob of your head with the loveliest of little wet thrusts — tongue and fingers working together to earn yet another clench, while you tense up, gagging when he tickles the back of your throat. And you’re struggling to take him full, yet yearn for it with such genuine madness: so determined to please and be pleased, merciless with each persistent grind on the seediness of his tongue, grateful for the white-knuckled grip sturdily keeping one hip in place. And it consumes you, that earnest  chase of dizzying undoing, the need to memorize the patterns of the throbbing veins on his cock, each slippery, muffled gulp as you swallow around him, keen on having him paint your throat in warm, slightly bitter spurts. 

But you could also have him find that release inside you. How precious that must be — the tempting stretch of him, gorgeously raunchy, the sounds of skin slamming against Viktor’s narrow hips so utterly debauched. How good he’d feel, pulling you apart, coated in sweat, and slick and your greedy kisses. How breathy you’d plead him to fuck you stupid, moaning things so obscene your ears might still burn hours later. Yes, you’d rather finish him off like this. And you almost feel sorry for that impulse, yanking your mouth off his cock. Deft, when you slip from his grasp, turning to find him flushed and almost drunk on sensations. Oh, he was so, so close. How cruel of you to dispose him of that bliss. 

But you’re about to offer him so much more. So darling when you roll onto your back, open legs a lewd, tantalizing invitation. Beckoning to slide back in — deeper, heavier, closer. And he whimpers at the loss of you, hands immediately aching to gnaw at whatever they can reach. 

“Didn’t want you to cum yet,” you murmur. “Not until you’re inside me.”

That breaks him. Urges to accept the endeavor, rolling swiftly atop your sprawled out form and into the tender twine of limbs. “Milackú,” he keens through a shaky sigh. Pointy lips tremble against your neck. “Oh, milackú. What am I supposed to do with you?” 

“I can think of a certain verb. Four letters. Short and sweet.”  

And Viktor’s eyes lance your very heart when he whispers “I can think of two.” 

“Mmm, I’m not sure I want you to ruin me. ‘Fuck’ will have to suffice.”

“Not the word I was referring to.”

He’s gentle when he pushes in, hooking one thigh over his hip, thrust slow and deliciously torturous — more so to savor, to feel every crevice of yours wrap around him tightly. 

“Viktor,” you plead, wheezy and breathless, but he cradles your face and tips it towards him, aching to have you crumbling under his foggy gaze, drawling a high-pitched whine as he slides in hilt-deep, leaning in to lick a slippery kiss to the side of your neck.

“I want to love you,” he pants. “Four letters. Short and sweet.”

It courses through you, that tender revelation. And he means it, stroking a thumb over your bottom lip, gently nudging your mouth open for another heartful collision. Pours his whole being into that tangle of tongues, glides two shaky fingers over the swell of your clit and presses, stealing moans, twitches and incoherent mumbles.

You want to let him love you, to emit something that isn’t a muffled cry of his name, needier with every motion. And it’s so inherently filthy. The arc of your back over the damp sheets, the debauched stumble of your words as you whisper that confession back, nails a deathgrip into his shoulder when he thrusts again, gently working you through a release. Always so keen on making you cum first, on hearing more of those lewd squelches. And when the stretch stings you for the umpteenth sweet time, it takes him only a few more flickers over the sloppy mess of your clit to coax the final plea out of your sore throat, uttering a praise so dirty it has your toes curling tight enough to spread the tension all the way up to calves. Makes you feel the delicious pain of an orgasm spasm in all its candid beauty — perfect, loud, and hard, swathing around his cock in the loveliest of squeezes. And Viktor claims it like his greatest achievement, moaning into your ear as he finally allows himself to follow suit, lean body a tired collapse on your chest when it waves through him, sticky and so, so warm. Must be the result of a week’s long obstinacy or the plain desperation he nourishes when it comes to you, but you know you just have to make him cum like this again — unarterlably inside you, with every twitch of him so clearly palpable against slippery walls. 

And you’re full of him, overflowing, pulsating and suffocating, the ripples on the ceiling indistinct when you rest your slightly teary eyes. Viktor slides out, stealing a glance at a white little trail running down your thigh in a way so salacious he almost bites his tongue. Breathes so heavily you can feel every shift of his lungs under a flushed cheek. And you notice just how he holds you, basking in the weary afterglow, his chest a heaving pillow for you to nuzzle into. There they come — the loving trades of glossy glances, the smiles when you notice a bold scratch on his scrawny shoulder: he’s going to wear you for days, grinning whenever he passes a mirror naked.

Naked. It strikes you, the little thing you still have to do. It’s right there, in the pocket of your leather coat, probably a little crumpled. But you rush to fetch it nonetheless, ignoring Viktor’s confused humm of a protest. Laughing when he tries to stop you from making your way to the peg, so nimble even with your wobbly, fucked out walk. 

“You wanted to have it.” You grin, handing him the picture. So excited for the gasp when he reaches for it, weary eyes still adorably puzzled as you slip back in bed and under his gentle arm. Giggling when he unfolds the thing and utters an insightful ‘oh’.

He remembers now. Holds it with a knowing smile, amber eyes gliding over each divine line of you, eyeing first your version from the windowsill, then looking back at the real thing with even more striking appreciation. Like he couldn’t believe that a gorgeous creature from the photo is actually sprawled out in his bed; that he’d touched her, pleasured her, been inside her. 

“Thank you. It’s breathtaking.” His forehead presses against yours, and you flick a few wet hairs off its salty, sticky skin. You both need a shower, terribly so. 

“Do you really want to carry it in your wallet?”

“Oh, I intend to. If you approve of it, of course.” 

You chuckle, rolling your eyes at him in a theatrically mocking way. “Mmm, I don’t know about that. Normally, I wouldn’t allow it, but I suppose I could make an exception for the man I love.” 

His laugh wraps around you, warm and dear, muffling against your mouth when you lean to kiss him again — to ensure he doesn’t doubt you, to show him that you’re certain. Sighing when mouths part, but he’s quick to offer you his hand instead, and fingers carefully coil together, tender and still shaky. And Viktor bows his head, settling a soft peck against your knuckles. 

“Go take a shower. I’ll get the board. We’re playing a lot of Caro-Kann today.” 

—

i want to thank every single one of you. this fic has been A JOURNEY. it gave me a better vocabulary (because writing viktor requires research, especially when english is not your first language), a chess addiction and a stronger nicotine one (you don’t want to know how many cigarettes i’ve smoked during those long writing sessions, and neither do i — i’ve stopped counting for a reason). i don’t know if i’m pleased with how this fic turned out. it’s my first multichapter, so of course it’s not exactly perfect, but it was a fine ride nonetheless and i’m glad so many of you loved it. so excited for season 2!!!! so excited to write more for my favorite boy!!! but as of now, i’m taking a small break from writing.

oh, and i wanted to do something special once i’m done with this au. so here’s a spotify playlist dedicated to this fic: the c(o)unterpart

tags: @zaunitearchives @blissfulip @thehistoriangirl @queen-of-elves @vyshnevska

[wannaeatramyeon]

Hi~ can I request "committed relationship with lookism boys" headcannons (such as samuel, jake, gun, eli)? Sorry if it's too much and thank you in advance! 💙

Hi anon, thanks for the ask and sorry for the delay! Of course you can but how dare you leave off our Goofy and also Viiiin. I've got quite a few hc floating around (latest one here for almost everyone). Let's do committed committed though.

Do I have to mention that I hc most of the Lookism guys as romantics in their own way?

Lookism Boys in committed relationships (longer term etc.)

The usual - Sammy, Jake, Gun, Eli, Goo, Vin

Samuel Seo

Being in a committed relationship, or really a relationship at all isn't something he has thought much about but with the right person it can work.

He wants the whole thing - engagement, marriage, kids.

Proposal would be something more traditional and romantic than you would expect.

Likely booking out the fanciest restaurant, enjoying a candlelit dinner followed shortly with Sammy down on one knee with a diamond ring the size of your fist.

Honestly, everything would be a little bit of a spectacle. Used as much to express his love to you as well as his power and status so it's not going to be quiet or chill.

Wants someone that will stay by his side and wants all the formalities to go with it.

The piece of paper saying you're legally married, in sickness and in health, for better or worse would mean a lot to him, though he would never express it.

As always with this guy, fingers crossed he's had a buttload of therapy especially before any kids come along.

Jake Kim

Hmm, let's leave anything longer term until after he retires from Big Deal.

Obviously a romantic, though he does not want a repeat of his dad, where he leaves you at home and he's off gallivanting doing gangster shit.

It goes without saying but to clarify: Jake is a one woman man. If he's in a relationship with you, nothing will ever make him turn his head.

Like Sammy, wants to experience everything with you by his side. The marriage, the kids, the growing old together.

As the head of Big Deal though, he knows that he would not be able to give you the attention you deserve.

Doesn't ask you to wait for him, he could never get in the way of your happiness though he desperately wishes that you would.

And of course you do, it's Jake!

Meeting his mother, that force of a woman, wife of Gapryong Kim, might be the most intimidating experience of your life. You leave in awe and a little in love with her yourself.

Gun Park

Actually did think marriage would be on the cards, although one of convenience rather than love.

(It would come as a very pleasant and welcome surprise that his life turns out that way.)

If it was an arranged/convenient marriage then you'll barely see him tbh. And he would expect an open marriage.

If Gun loves you, then this guy is traditional as hell in a committed relationship, and a romantic too.

Will get you a gifts sent to your work, bouquet of roses, or just buy you something because it reminds him of you. Remembers anniversaries and make sure there is something special prepared.

That antique necklace you said you liked in passing? It's on your pillow the next day. That place you said you wanted to see? You're going that weekend.

Yes to engagement, yes to marriage, yes to kids.

The proposal would be something very specific and sentimental to you both. The wedding, less so. He has a lot of customs he would need to follow being head of the Yamazaki Clan and Gun being who he is.

With kids, doesn't matter what gender, Gun would mould them to be his masterpiece.

Eli Jang

Quite honestly didn't expect a long term or committed relationship to be on the cards. (He should really be focusing on Yenna instead of gallivanting around playing loan shark with 5A - ahem).

Most responsible parents would take a while before introducing you to their kid, but with Eli - has the vibe that oh shit something has come up with 5A and will dump Yenna on you.

What can I say, it's been obvious that this guy's logic and critical thinking isn't his strong point.

Doesn't really care for all the formalities of long term relationships, the expectation of marriage but isn't opposed to it. Besides, it would be good to have the extra bit of added stability for Yenna.

Would have a small intimate wedding with just the nearest and dearest.

Likely to also get a couples tattoo too (have you seen the H on his FOREHEAD? That guy is BOLD.)

Can't imagine him actually wanting more kids, the first time round was traumatic enough.

However, if you really want more then he will consider it. Especially because it would be pretty cute for Yenna to be the older sis.

Goo Kim

Hard to get this guy to commit to you in the first place. He generally only has one thought: mind on his money and money on his mind.

Will be hard for this guy to admit his feelings for you, and whether he truly misses you or if it's just his clingy nature.

Once in a relationship, expect to be spoiled. What's the point of making all this if you can't enjoy it? And even though the gifts might not be to your taste (and in all honesty, pretty ostentatious), it's the thought that counts.

With long term plans, Goo is pretty easy-going and happy to go with the flow.

If you want to get married, just say the word. A little backyard wedding or hiring the most expensive wedding in Seoul - go for it.

Want a lil sparkle on your ring finger or none at all, also fine too.

Hint: best wedding present for him? Get him some swords.

Fence-sitter with kids, but if you want them then he can be swayed. Let's just enjoy more of our youth and our freedom first.

Vin Jin

Ahhh he's a secret cheeseball. Although maybe it's not so secret. He is SOFT for you, in his own standoffish way. Thinks he's cool about it but it's obvious to everyone.

Doesn't think too much long term and doesn't feel the need to get married. He's committed to you, he shows you, he tells you and feels that that's enough.

More likely for you guys to get hitched with a quickie wedding where you may or may not be drunk.

And then the morning after and nursing a hangover, Vin thinks huh. This is sorta nice.

You guys don't really do the engagement ring or wedding ring thing. There'll be something just as sentimental like a couples necklace.

Besides, who wouldn't be able to tell you're together with your constant couple outfits.

Kids? Ehh. Vin likes the idea of them but not the responsibility. If it'll happen, it'll happen.

[starlost97]

— muse.

summary: Charlie found the muse he needed to his most personal love poems.

tags: almost? a smut, abstract, worshipping, gn!reader.

characters: Charlie Dalton, Mr. Keating (mentioned).

warnings: insinuations of a smut?, very abstract, reader's clothing is not specified (only the material).

a/n: so sorry for taking so long! I got sick in the middle of writing this (not I-have-a-cold sick, more like throwing-up-food-from-a-decade-ago kind of sick) so it took me way more than it needed to. I might rewrite this later but I didn't want to keep the person who requested waiting any longer!

word count: 443.

requested?: yes!

Charlie Dalton never expected to still nurture such love for poetry even after finishing school. His room in college was full of books about "the biggies", as Mr. Keating loved to call. Not only that, but some works of his own too.

He loved to surprise other people, it didn't matter how. It could be by playing the saxophone or showing how weirdly broad his vocabulary was.

However, his poetry was something that few people had the honor to listen.

Sure, he had shown some random things he wrote in class, but the ones that he truly poured himself in it were guarded to the deserving only.

And you were definitely one of them.

When he saw you alone, sitting at the barstool, he couldn't help but be mesmerized. His knees almost failed him, and with that only he already had the beginning to the poetry inspired by the masterpiece of you.

He watched you for a while, getting jealous of the silky cloth around your torso and how it slided around your waist.

Charlie didn't remember how he approached you, because when his lips touched yours, everything else didn't matter anymore. His hands were on your body and he felt himself getting hotter and hotter by the second.

As he removed the fabric from your body, his breath was mercilessly taken away from him. Not only because his lips weren't on you anymore, but also because your heavenly curves were much more that he could ever imagine.

His mouth was soon brushing against your skin again, and each sound gained from you made his whole body ache for more.

"It's ridiculous how obsessed I already am." He muttered, pressing his lips against your skin, feeling your scent. "Are you a witch or something like that?"

"I might be." You joked, gaining a smile in response.

It didn't last much, however. Charlie was more focused on grazing his lips all over you, leaving some kisses behind as a way of showing his appreciation. It was his way of thanking you for blessing him with the power to worship you.

Something that he definitely didn't take it for granted on that night, under the weak light of the tiny unisex bathroom hidden inside a cheap bar, thrilled with the risk of getting caught.

The most unexpected place to find his muse.

But isn't that the beauty of love?

It makes us feel alive.

Charlie maybe didn't love you yet on that night, but he loved being passionate over you.

He loved so much that he didn't know how the hell he was supposed to live without it.

And he wasn't going to find out.

[hollow-prior]

3 Criminally Underrated Musicals (And why you should listen to them)

1) The Mad Ones

[Image Description: Kerrigan and Lowdermilk's The Mad Ones. It shows an empty road disappearing into the distance under a starry sky. Full ID in alt text. End ID.]

You know that feeling of driving fast down an empty road with the windows down, the wind whipping through your hair? You know that feeling of being able to do anything you want, like the world is right at your fingertips, just waiting for you? You know that feeling of sitting in the middle of the woods with a good friend and thinking about how incredible it is that you live on the same planet at the same time?

Well, this is that feeling.

The Mad Ones is about Sam, who just graduated high school, and her friend Kelly, who died in a car accident before she could graduate. It's about Sam's journey in remembering Kelly and learning to live in the moment without her. It's also about freedom, and expectations, and living life to its fullest.

Also it has the phrase "kidnapped by aliens with enormous genitalia". What's not to love?

Seriously, this is one of my all time favourites and it has a very special place in my heart. I love to listen to it on those rare days when everything seems to be falling into place and it feels like life is actually going somewhere.

From a writing perspective, this is just an incredible masterpiece. The lyrics just stir something in my soul and the friendship between Kelly and Sam is just <33333 (Heart). It deserves so much more love than it gets.

2) The Lightning Thief

[Image Description: The cover of The Lightning Thief: The Percy Jackson Musical. It shows a blue brick wall with a yellow glowing lightning bolt symbol against it. Full ID in alt text. End ID.]

Okay, so the books are iconic and the movies sucked and the TV show is looking good but everyone's been sleeping on the musical for far too long. I had my doubts at the beginning too, I'll admit it, but honestly this slaps.

Although it isn't an exact one-to-one with the books, the vibes are spot on which is the most important thing anyways.

Percy is a sarcastic little shit, Annabeth is a total smartass, and Grover is... well, the impossible-to-explain awesomeness that is Grover Underwood. As funny as it is, though, there are some moments that just hit you right in the feels. The Tree on the Hill, anyone? My Grand Plan?

Also the Luke reveal gives me literal chills every time. It's so SO well done, much better than any other depiction in my humble opinion.

The whole thing is just an excellent balance of feels and humour and has some truly iconic lines. Case in point:

Percy: "Grover, you're a good friend." Grover: "Awwww. Dude, I'm your only friend."

Mr. D: "Oh, you're alive. I suppose that's good news for you but it means a lot more paperwork for me, so don't expect me to be happy to see you. Of course, being alive is temporary..."

Luke: "The Hermes cabin takes anyone who hasn't been claimed. You know what that means... we're literally the reject cabin. Welcome to the dysfunctional family!"

[Literally just the entirety of Luke's part in Their Sign]

Grover: "You hurt his feelings. Tell the squirrel you're sorry." Percy: "I am not saying sorry to a squirrel." Annabeth: "He's very sorry. Tell the squirrel you're sorry, Percy."

Alright, anyways! This is the Percy Jackson website, right? It's great, just listen to it.

Moving on!

3) 35MM: A Musical Exhibition

[Image Description: The cover of 35MM: A Musical Exhibition. It's a red background with a black, ink-like camera design from above. Full ID in alt text. End ID.]

God, how do I even begin to explain 35MM?

There's so much going on here in the best way possible. It's not a traditional musical, at least not in the way people immediately think of musicals.

The idea behind 35MM is that there's multiple separate songs, each based on a photograph. That said, there are some theories about the level of connection between the songs and if they're even connected at all. Either way, it's absolutely incredible.

The songs all have different themes including babysitting a murder doll, a homicidal prom queen, a vampire love story, the young love car crash tragedy that lives in my heart forever, and many more! If you're a fan of the strange, unusual, and vaguely unsettling, this is the musical for you.

Although the fandom is small, it's incredibly dedicated and there are some truly wonderful animatics on YouTube to check out as well as some theory threads on Tumblr, Reddit, and basically anywhere else if you look hard enough.

I made the mistake of accidentally introducing my English professor to this musical so now you all can be introduced too!

And now some honourable mentions:

Islander

Islander is an acapella musical done entirely by two women. It tells the story of an island nation that was split in half long ago, with two girls (Each from one of the halves) meeting for the first time. It has a super cool Scottish folk song-style of music to it and just an incredible plot.

Jekyll & Hyde

Jekyll & Hyde is the musical adaptation of the famous gothic story. It's intense and dramatic in all the best ways and I Need to Know always sends shivers through me. The voices are incredible and it's just AHHH!! Wonderful! Also Confrontation is a work of art and nobody can tell me otherwise.

36 Questions

36 Questions is kind of unique in that it's a podcast musical, meaning that there's no stage performance. In the most basic terms, it's about two people trying to fix their marriage with the whole '36 questions to help strangers fall in love' type thing. Part of one of the songs, For the Record, was a popular song on TikTok a few years back so it may be somewhat familiar to folks. Either way, worth a listen!

[cal-daisies-and-briars]

Hi Cal!! I hope you’re having a nice week!

First of all, I’m so glad that you enjoy my submissions - I’m really happy that I can pay forward even just a little bit of the happiness that your writing brings me! Second, major props on finishing Any Other Way! The ending was absolutely fabulous, just so sweet and exactly what they deserve. I remember when you started it and have really enjoyed reading it! It’s truly a masterpiece of characterization. I love these versions of Buck and Eddie and I’m sorry to see them go (but mostly just happy that they exist)

The first theme for this week is “child-incoming” fics! Very excited to have my heart stolen by all these fictional kids!

🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞 (not sorry to see Tommy go but very excited to get to know Dove! This is such a fun twist on the ‘single-father Buck’ trope and I can’t wait to see where you take it!)

🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼 (omg how did you manage to level up tsunami angst?!?! I’m living for it!!)

⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️ (TWATYTK my beloved!!! Chris feeling insecure about his place in Buck’s life! Buck promising that Chris will always be his first kid! That’s that good stuff I love!)

- PCA <3

HEY!!! I do enjoy them so much!!! And thank you!!! I am so glad you enjoyed it. I had a lot of fun spending so much time in that world.

LOL child incoming! So true. Didn't even realize I had three of those.

63 for 🪞 (Yay! Glad you're excited to get to know Dove!)"

---

Just… Buck finds himself on a bit of a learning curve. He tries to remind himself that’s to be expected. Every new parent finds themselves a little out of their element, right? It’s not just because she’s already six and he doesn’t know her and she literally won’t ask for anything ever. Like even her most basic needs. 

At first he doesn’t notice. Of course he doesn’t. That seems to be the whole point of whatever she’s doing. 

It starts when his alarm goes off after her first night home with him. Seven in the morning. A reasonable time to start the day, he figured. He’d not expected to get a full night’s sleep, but somehow he did. Hen and Karen had warned him about it. The rough first few transitional nights with many of their foster places. So Buck had been ready to be woken several times by movement or her calling out or any sort of thing. He’s used to sudden wake up calls. He’s a firefighter. But when his alarm goes off, he’s well rested. Uninterrupted. 

He gets up to check on Dove. Pads down the hallway quietly, so as not to wake her. The door is left open a crack from when she went to sleep. When Buck peers in the room, he finds that she’s sitting up in bed, covers hugged around her, hugging her stuffed crocodile and staring at the wall. Wide awake. There’s a disconcerted expression on her face.

“Hey, kiddo,” Buck says gently, knocking softly on the door. “How long have you been awake?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know.”

Fair. There isn’t a clock in her room. Maybe he should get one? Can she tell time? He doesn’t actually know. Why didn’t he ask Angie?

“Okay, well,” Buck says. “You can wake me up in the mornings if you need anything. Even if it’s really early.” 

She nods. “Okay.”

Buck doesn’t think much of the interaction at first. Assumes maybe there was a rule in the group home. He doesn’t know. So he brushes it off. But then it keeps happening. 

If he doesn’t offer her drinks and snacks, she never mentions that she’s hungry or thirsty. At one point, she’s licking her lips to wet them before he notices. And he feels like a complete idiot. Like he should be checking in way more. Or way more attuned to her needs. He would know the signs better, if this was Jee or Chris, wouldn’t he?

Later, he takes her to the park nearest the house. He wants to show her that they can have fun. That he wants to be involved. At first, it goes well. They have fun. She likes the swings and the teeter totter. After a while, she starts to get quiet. A little irritable. Buck tries to find out what’s wrong, but before he can, she has an accident. Pees herself, right there. Turns out she’d desperately had to go, but wouldn’t tell him. Buck is at a total loss. 

That’s the only accident she has, but the next two days are marked by similar behavior. 

---

27 for 🔼:

---

He’s in the water. He’s moving. He’s tumbling. He can’t tell which way is up. He’s desperate for air. Things are smacking him as he’s sent careening away from the Panda Express. Away from Shannon and Christopher. 

The thing is, he’s probably going to die. Drowning. Head trauma. Bleeding out. Maybe he’ll be crushed by a vehicle in the water. There are lots of ways this could go badly.

And honestly, he keeps waiting for it. Not in an anticipatory way. He doesn’t want it. But something tells him, this is it. He survived the truck bombing and the embolism for this reason. He did what he needed to do. He did what was important. And now he’s going to die.

But then he just doesn’t. He keeps surviving. It keeps going. Until his lungs are burning and his head is throbbing and the salt in his eyes has temporarily marred his vision. Until he is desperate for relief. Woozy and senseless. 

---

63 for ⚡️:

---

Well, Buck thinks it’s a little more complicated than that. 

“I don’t know,” Buck says. “I’m not close with my parents just because they’re my parents. You and I, we’re not related, but you’re my family in more ways than they ever have been. And that’s about how much we love each other, right? That’s a choice.”

Christopher thinks about that for a minute. 

“I didn’t think about your parents,” he admits.

Buck nods. “Yeah, so it’s different for me, you know? I always had my sister, but other than that… I mean, Bobby’s the first person who made me feel like I had a parent that loved me. And we aren’t related at all.”

“And you were like already old when you met him,” Chris observes. 

“Okay, I was twenty-six. I’m not even old yet, now!”

Chris laughs a little. And Buck knows their talk is working. Thank fuck.

“But the point is,” Buck continues. “Doesn’t matter when we met. Doesn’t matter what our DNA might look like. And it doesn’t matter who else I get to love in my life. You’re my kid, okay?”

“Okay,” Christopher says. Then he turns and hugs Buck back. 

Buck squeezes him tight. 

“I love you so much,” Buck tells him. 

“I love you, too,” Chris says. “We can go home now. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Buck says. “I’m glad we talked.”

“Me too,” Chris says. “I feel better.”

“I’m glad,” Buck says. “You want to stop for milkshakes on the way home?”

“Yes!” Chris exclaims. “Thank you!”

It’s not until they’re in the truck headed back, each with their own milkshake in hand, that Buck thinks of what Eddie said on their honeymoon. About talking to Bobby. 

It hadn’t seemed pressing, is the thing. It had felt like Eddie was being a little unnecessarily pushy. Buck had promised to consider it, as a term of naming any future son of theirs Robert, but that was it. He hadn’t seen the urgency. But maybe… Well, this whole thing with Christopher has reframed his perspective. Maybe there is harm in leaving this unsaid. Especially if Buck’s main motivator in doing so is fear of rejection. 

Maybe Buck needs to think about this some more. 

Maybe Eddie was right. Damn. He’s definitely going to gloat. 

☆☆☆

Eddie gets home before sunrise. Which isn’t hard exactly, in January. 

He’s tired, sore from a shift with an unexpected amount of heavy lifting, and disappointed to have missed the sort of final moment of moving. He thinks he’ll go back to the old house one last time before it’s no longer theirs. Just to say goodbye. After all, so many big parts of his life happened there. He feels like he owes it more than that. Weird as that is to say about an inanimate structure. 

[alice-the-demon]

I want to share it here because I'm not seeing anyone talking about this injustice on Tumblr.

Idk what the hell happened between Elon Shit-Musk and the Brazilian government, but prohibiting the civilians in there to access popular social networks and socialise with other people around the world is just so absurdly unfair.

And here you might say "Oh, don't exaggerate so much, they still have Instagram, Tumblr, etc" but that's not the main problem for me. There are people and influencers who made their account there since the day Twitter was created. People who over the years built an audience, whether they did blogs, shared their opinions and masterpieces or just liked to talk and comment under their friends'posts. And I'm certain that a good portion of these people are Brazilian.

I'm not Brazilian myself though, I'm from the pizza-making boot-shaped peninsula also known as Italy, and fortunately the Italian government did not decide to decapitate Twitter here too. Not yet at least. I hope.

So why am I complaining about something that doesn't even involve my people?

Well... I just feel so sorry for the Brazilians. I believe that everyone deserves the freedom of speech, no matter how right or awfully wrong they are. Yes, there are people who can be really annoying or, hell, can have some extremely controversial opinions, but I think that people often forget that the more importance and vocal we become about the person we don't like the more powerful they become.

I know that sometimes being vocal about something wrong can be useful, it can unite people to fight injustices and change things for the better, but at the same time there will be annoying people, like Elon Fuck-Musk, who will use this attention to their advantage and eventually gather people who will be on their side.

So what do you do in this case? You ignore them. You stop giving importance to what that idiot is saying and move on with your life. And when people will realise that this idiot's opinions are not getting traction and attention, they will stop giving importance to it too. And when that idiot will realise that no one is listening to them, maybe they'll realise that what they've been saying is stupid.

Not saying that it'll certainly work with people with bigger followings, there will always be people that are stupid enough to lick Elon or Trump's feet no matter what, but as long you stop giving importance to their followers at least you'll have your mind clearer from negativity.

My point being, I don't think that any governments should ban any social media from their states, it's like prohibiting your child from going to their favourite park just because it has a broken bench. One rotten flower doesn't ruin a whole garden, idk if it makes sense.

Phew... That's pretty much all I had to say about this situation. I got very sad because the Twitter account of my friend @panhbr (a wonderful person and amazing artist btw you should follow him) is about to be obliterated at any moment and I wanted to use this opportunity to talk about the importance of freedom speech. I don't think I'll talk about political stuff again (mostly because I don't know much about politics in general and I don't want to be attacked by people who are "fans" of it) but it is pretty liberatory to vent about stuff like this.

Edit: So uh... Some people from Brazil corrected me and said that it's not a freedom of speech problem, it's just Elon that did a bullshit move as always. Of course. I hate that man so much. But I think that what I said about not giving importance to stupid people is important, so I'm keeping the post up. Thanks to the Brazilian folks who corrected me 👍🏻🇧🇷

[lilgoblinbitch]

THE ONES WHO LIVE EPISODE FOUR (spoilers)

my reactions while i watch this masterpiece of an episode:

HELP OMG MY HEART IS POUNDING

why is there a roomba

HOLY FUCK THEY LANDED IN THE OCEAN OKAY

WHAT IS THIS GIANT BUILDING THEYRE IN

“we needed a time out” YES YOU DID TELL HIM BAE

“the hell is this place” ITS WHERE U AND MICHONNE ARE GONNA-

why are they both so sexy omfg this is ...

OMG MICHONNE HAVE MERCY Y ON ME

rick that stare is making me feel things, STOP.

IM SCREAIMUNG INTO MY PILLOW SO MY ROOMMATES DONT HEAR ME FOLDING OVER TWO FICTIONAL CHARACTERS

MICHONNE I COULD SEE U AS A CREATIVE WRITER OMGGGG

the queen is so smart and witty and STRONG HOLY SHIT???

no because if i was her at that moment i would be on the ground sobbing and convulsing

“CHILDREN?” HELP PLEASE SOMEONE

rj…

oh god.

WHAT THE FUCK RICK

WHY DO U THINK SHE PULLED YOU OUT OF THE HELICOPTER YOU DUMB MALE

have sex already please

MY TV PARENTS ARE FIGHTING :(

michonne it’s not that simple you can’t just go home yet :(

“what did they do to you” bad things :(

“do you still love me? :(“ MY POOR BABY MICHONNE

“little brave man” i can’t.

please smack some fucking sense into him michonne.

poor rick he’s so fucking broken. and poor michonne i can’t imagine what it feels like to find your husband after 8 years and he’s just…gone. 😔

STOP IT I DONT WANNA CRY AGAIN

THE WAY HE SAVED HER FROM THE BUILDING COLLAPSING

OH FUCK THE KNIFE OH NO OH NO THEYRE GONNA FIND OUT

LMFAOOOOOO MICHONNE IS SO SASSY I LOVE HER SM “I DONT EVEN HAVE A WEAPON, COMMANDO”

okay he deserved that shove from her.

ANDY AND DANAI DESERVE AN AWARD

oh god mich again i’m so sorry. rick is gone he’s got stockholm syndrome or some shit

rick lost his manners fr he is not treating his wife well, the blood on her face the “DAMMIT HUG THE WALL” UM RICK DO YOU KNOW WHO YOURE TALKING TO HELLOOO?????

uhhhhhh what is happening….

oh! i like this part :) (they’re kissing)

oh! i like this even more (they’re fucking)

OH FUCK YES I NEEDED THIS

oh poor rick my baby he waited for this moment for way too long

omg the look in their eyes STOP THIS IS SO MAGICAL AAHHHH

i’m actually fucking sobbing.

i love them sm i don’t ever want them to leave that bed (unless they go back to their children ASAP)

DARYL MENTION!!!!

“sit, rick.” YES COMMAND YOUR HUSBAND

“we, our family, are real. our love doesn’t get denied.” 👏👏👏👏

CARL MENTION PLEASE HELP HELP HELP IM NOT OKAY :(

rick sobbing makes my heart drop. this tissue box is my new bff.

the CARL DRAWING….

i’m still fucking sobbing. like, hysterically.

THE ELEVATOR MAKE OUT YESSS

THE CAR MAKE OUT YESSS

“WE CAN MAKE THIS WHOLE DAMN WORLD OURS IF WE WANT TO” YES YOU FUCKING CAN RICKY DICKY DOO DAH GRIMES!!!!

MY TV PARENTS ARE BACK TOGETHER YIPPIIEEE

holy shit that was truly an emotional rollercoaster. honestly this was my favorite episode. danai, you are fucking amazing, thank you for feeding us this delicious richonne meal today!!!

[becauseanders]

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Spread the self-love ❤️

ahhh hi thank you! (finally answering this!) 🖤

It Took the Night to Believe: chapterfic, complete, 100k. dragon age ii, anders/male hawke. pacific rim au. i am honestly really fucking proud of this fic, like i thought it was great even though it didn't do super well kudos-wise and i did notice that i definitely did lose readers as it went on. i truly have no idea why, this fic is fucking great. it's got angst, it's got comfort, it's got near death experiences, it's got fluff, it's got kaiju—what's not to love??

No Wound as Sharp as the Will of God: chapterfic, complete, 99k. dragon age ii, anders/female hawke. canonverse, post-da2. it took me seven years to post a second chapter of this and a total of eight years to finish it, and the whole time i was writing it after i picked it up again i was so unsure of it, but turns out i really like it. very heavy content, please do mind the tags. takes place while hawke is with the inquisition. anders positive, justice positive. a very intense, very deep, very affectionate friendship between anders and fenris is an extremely important part of the story. like, seriously, the platonic fenders is just as important as the romantic handers. a lot of angst, like so much angst, but the hurt/comfort is real. the b-plot pertains to my theory that justice cures anders of the taint. cole is there. the emotions are high and you can feel them strongly in the writing. again, be careful, but this is a good fic.

A Thing With Feathers Now, Elevate: one shot, 11k. dragon age: origins, alistair/female amell. canonverse, takes place over the course of da:o. this fic is a fucking masterpiece. another that didn't do well numbers-wise but this is easily one of the absolute best things i've ever written and is quite possibly one of the best fics on ao3. i am so fucking proud of this one. the prose, the metaphors, the handling of trauma, the found family—this one deserved way more love than it got. like, i'm serious, this fic is amazing.

It Means Tumult: chapterfic, wip, 349k (yes, you read that right). dragon age ii, anders/female hawke. modern au. okay, obviously i've got to mention this one. i have been working on this fic for eight years and i am very sorry to everyone who saw this go from updating multiple times a week and asking me how the fuck i write so fast to three years without a single update and then i think only one more in the past two years. i'm working on the penultimate chapter, i swear i am, i'm just super stuck right now. this fic is…this fic. i'm not going to lie, i don't really know if this is any longer some of my better writing, but the premise is fucking solid and i have been told more than once that it's clear this is a labor of love and that this is endearing. au where the obvious metaphors are made reality: the circles are psychiatric institutions and being mentally ill is a crime. a lot of angst, but a lot of love. pay no mind to how much better of a character and person aveline is when i write her. i also do admittedly use this fic to deal with my own demons frequently. an andrea gibson poem helped me write one chapter and i later got to tell them about it and they hugged me. this is also very heavily centered on music and has a lengthy soundtrack. please ignore the fact that when i first started writing this i used british english when i typed because i thought it looked better, as i had started doing as a teenager, which tbh i still kind of do but i also realized that's just fucking pretentious to do when you're american, and it was already so long by the time i stopped doing it that there was no way in hell i was going back to editing all of that (as i actually did do with nwasatwog). so that's just the way it is. but yeah, there's a lot of feelings happening here. also the only fic on this list that has an original title instead of song lyrics despite being the one with the most music involved, lol.

Through the Fall and the Feel: chapterfic, wip, 52k. dragon age ii, anders/male hawke. modern au. this is the one i'm working on most right because that's just where the brainworms are. hawke is a teddy bear doctor and anders goes to see him because instead of a pillow from his mother he has a stuffed cat, and she has seen much better days. this fic has a very wholesome premise but has gone into some pretty heavy angst already and i did not mean for eating disorders to be as important to the story as they have become, so be mindful of that. but this fic has a lot of heart and it's absolutely tanking, so if this piques your interest maybe go give it a look? this is also my second foray into m!handers and i am again having fun writing them. but yeah, i actually like this fic a lot and i do recommend it.

[littleracha]

hai , this is my first request 🙈😇 I just started embracing my regression and I feel so safe with jinnie. I would love a story where maybe hyunjin has had a hard schedule day and comes home tense but when he finds you regressed he softens and takes care of you with bubble baths and hair brushing and bedtimes stories etc ? 😇 if not it’s okie I just thought I’d try to ask , I like your writings 😇

Hello Little Ducky!

I am so honored to be your first request! I am so very sorry this took so long for me to get to. I appriciate you duckling, I hope you enjoy

(Thank you for your kind words)

Sometimes Mama's Deserve Care Too

Comebacks were always the best but worst times for Hyunjin. He got to show the world all his hard work and put his all into another form of art. Dancing was an outlet where he could get lost in the moment. Sharing that with Stay and watching their reactions was electrifying. However, doing it day after day was taxing. It was the same dance with the same song, it played in a loop like a drill in his head. With this, he also had meetings, interviews, photoshoots, fan meets, and a whole bunch of other things added to his schedule. Worst of all he was away from you. The one thing that seems to bring happiness to his life. A single smile from your pretty face was enough to make any storm cloud clear. He just needed you in his arms more and more these days.

Finally, this last bit of filming had ended and he could go home. It was late and dark, a storm seemed to be building on the horizon. He jiggled his keys in the lock and shoved the door with a frustrated groan. All Hyunjin wanted was to curl up in bed with you. He skipped going to the kitchen for a bite to eat and walked passed the bathroom for a late-night shower. The bed was calling his name. However pure exhaustion morphed into anxiety when he didn't see you laying down. Where could you be? You didn't mention working late, you would text him if you were out with friends, and your car was still in the driveway. A soft yet joyful giggle knocked him out of his brewing storm. Hyunjin made his way to the hall where a light from the playroom glowed. Cracking the door open slightly, his heart melted at the sight.

You were sat at the coloring table with your crayons a mess everywhere. Your hair was in knots, presumably from your afternoon nap. A paci hung from your lips and a sippy was long forgotten. However, his favorite part was the serious face you had as if you were working on a true masterpiece.

"little muse?" he spoke softly to not scare you. He frowned as you still jumped a little.

"Mama! You scare me!" you yelled playfully and pouted

"Mama is so sorry little artist. He sees you are working on something, can mama see it sweetie" he kneeled next to you and began to pet your messy hair down. Working out these tangles was going to cause a few more tears than he think he could handle.

"Mhm! I color a spaceship and stars for Mama! Cuz mama is doing the star dance!" how could anyone get any cuter, he thought to himself.

"Oh my goodness little one! This belongs in the Mama Museum! Want to go add it to your gallery?" You nodded big and he laughed as you raced to the kitchen.

"MAMA WE NEED TO USE THE STAR ONES"

"Shhhhh inside voices little muse, but yes, mama thinks the star magnets would be perfect for this piece." Hyunjin tacked your coloring onto the fridge front and center. He smiled as he looked over all of your work. Jinnie turned back to you and picked you up, living for the way you giggled. Life was so simple to you, so fun, and so easy. This is why he loved to care for you, you made him forget all the struggles of an idol life. Here it was Mama and baby.

"Lovebug, have you taken a bath yet sweetie?" He questioned and he placed sweet little kisses on your cheeks. You shook your head and pouted. "No need for a pouty baby, how about Mama helps you take a bath, then we get all snug for bed." He could tell by your response you liked that idea.

Hyunjin drew you a bath and added all of your favorite soaps and bubbles. He even threw in some extra special bath glitter. When he turned around he couldn't believe his eyes.

"Little dancer, what are you up to silly one?" he had just caught you trying your best to do the S-class arm choreography. Hyunjin even heard you softly whispering the lyrics to yourself.

"I try to dance like Mama!" he smiled and placed you into the bath, humming so you knew he was listening. "But it so hard! Mama is so mazing!"

"You are amazing too sweetheart, mama just has lots and lots of practice. But want to know a secret little one?" it was your turn to hum. "It can be hard for Mama too." you frowned at the thought of your caregiver struggling, he caught on. "But taking care of you little muse, well that makes it all worth it"

He heard you say something under your breath as he slowly brushed out the knots, hoping you were too distracted by the glitter to notice. "What was that little one"

"Mamas deserve care too!" You looked up at him so he knew you were serious. How did he ever get so lucky? Here he had the best thing in his whole life getting even better. The sweet angle that he was meant to be protecting from the world, was instead protecting him.

"Thank you, lovebug. Mama's do deserve care too." He lifted you out of the tub and dried you off. As he dressed you in your jammies he spoke again. "You know what Mama thinks would help him so much little one?"

"What mama?" you were so curious as to how you could care for your mama.

"I think cuddles and a bedtime story are exactly what I need," Jinnie replied as he took your hand and walked you into the bedroom. You picked out the best book you could find and crawled up next to Mama in bed.

"This one help Mama, I knows it!" you handed him the book and snuggled in tight.

"My Mama is the best" he read the title out loud. That personal storm cloud was long gone now. "Comfy little one? Let's Begin"

[hidden-poet]

I love rereading your stuff and noticing things I didn’t pay attention to before, especially in part 9 of commander snow since it’s so long and packed full off stuff. My favourite bits are probably him having her ring stacked on top of his 🥺 (sorry let me pretend he’s not awful for a moment) her counting the confetti in his hair and when he pulls the car door shut so the driver doesn’t see 😭. I know he’s awful but I just love your attention to detail. It just makes the characters so whole and feel freakily real when you think of little things like that. Stuff I never In a million years would even think to come up with. Boy is that man scary but he feels so REAL. I totally pictured him with the end of movie hair throughout the whole thing though because I am an unashamed buzz cut hater 😂 ooohhh and just Imagining him when they’re found at the camp - did you picture him in his end of movie red coat? Or just something similar because I totally did. I love imagining their outfits but when I think of reader it’s just completely blank because I just cannot do self insert 😂 I’m not sweet enough for commander snow to fall for me in the first place haha.

sorry if this was totally too much, just thought you deserved some appreciation for that masterpiece because I loved it.

I am crying!

I so love that one you went back to the story 😭😭 and two that you picked up on the little details!

I totally get the reader thing. It’s a hard line because I don’t want to describe them too much because then it alienates the audience but also you need to help set the scene! I am still getting the hang of it!

Thank you so much for this ask! I definitely think you are sweet enough to make Commander snow fall in love with you ❤️

[khaleesiofalicante]

You see, there's something in this whole time traveling mess I can't piece together or maybe it's just because I don't want to piece it together.

I feel this quote by Hermes is very ominous to what I yearn for.

Then this one from Kincaid(Kyle)

Yes, OtherMax could possibly be a hero but that would mean going back to antagonize his family, lying, betraying the love of his life, reliving the worst moments of his life to save the world.

The Lightwood-Banes always choose their family first. Like Alec once said to Magnus, 'I don't want the world. I want you.'

Though, Max does have a penchant for punishing himself when he thinks there's something he doesn't deserve.

Why would he do this, then?

The only reason I could find is if his actions might lead to a world where David (and maybe the extended family) would live longer. He did say 'I lost everything'.

With that being said, it doesn't sit completely right with me.

OtherMax said Lance must die, but his death is not a canon event. It makes no sense, after telling David for years that he'll be fine, only show up at the worst possibly time when Mavid are the most vulnerable and then just "I'm sorry you lost Arthur, I'm glad David hasn't begun crying and hey, Lance must die or the world will be destroyed so I created Kincaid to kill Lance. You can absolutely not stop Lance from dying. Oh, and also, this will be the last time we see each other."

It's just not very clever. To ensure Lance dying, it would have been smarter to simply continue on the 'he'll be fine' path. Many things could be said about Max, but stupid isn't one of them.

I think he took the stele for a reason. I think he lied about lying. I think he pushed them all over an edge for a reason.

Another completly random question: does Lucifer not know about OtherMax? When talking to Azazel he only went on about nephilim.

My heart when Max threw himself into his brother's arms. 😭😭😭😭💔💔💔❤️

I just had to say it wven if O stay away from emotions right now bealcause I won't function otherwise.

Oh, well. I'm just absolutely gutted and gripping at straws.

^^^Final totally unrelated thought: I absofuckinglutely love that art for The RWRB au. Truly a masterpiece.

Leaders, sacrifices and difficult choices are definitely a big theme of LBAF (as you might have already noticed).

You are right to point out that heroes save the world and heroes make sacrifices. They choose the greater good over their own interests. So, yes, it doesn't make sense that Max is now a hero and trying to save the timeline. Because Max has always been David's hero first - his Lancelot.

But.

It's been 700 years. That's a long time. It's hard to assume that Max now is the Max 700 years later. After all, the Magnus we meet in the beginning of the Bane Chronicles is not the same man we know in TDA.

But you are not wrong to assume that Max, whatever his intentions and actions may be, will always try to protect David. In whatever way he can.

We'll see about that. Whether it's still true. 700 years later.

Lucifer knows about Other Max! It's actually there in the Azazel chapter - they talk about the Time Traveller 🥲

I'll see you soon with the interlude and hopefully, that answers a lot of questions - or leave you with more!

[personthattoleratesme]

tell me what the video Basically, I’m Gay means to you?

My answer will discuss suicide and death of a family member, so trigger warning for that

I feel like this might be a little trauma dump-y but also you asked and I want to give a genuine and honest answer, perhaps it's not what you were expecting/hoping to hear but my relationship with BIG is very unique and I do want to share it, so click keep reading if you want to hear it.

On June 6th 2019 my 24 year old cousin passed away due to suicide. He meant a lot to me, he was the only member of my family who was openly part of the lgbt community. We grew up very close - almost as siblings - so his death hit me incredibly hard, to this day it's the worst thing I've ever been through.

The weeks surrounding his death - when he was still in the hospital, and then afterwards the funeral arrangements - were extremely awful for me. My teachers at school were entirely unsympathetic towards what I was going through, none of my friends or peers really understood the grief I was feeling, and I essentially had no support system to help me through this time period. I felt so alone in so many ways.

I must've gone to bed early on June 13th, as the funeral was going to take place the very next day. I remember being in bed when the notification appeared on my phone. Daniel Howell. Basically I'm Gay. 45 minutes long.

You can probably imagine that considering the emotional roller coaster I was already going through at the time, this very notification - and with that the video - made me feel emotions so bizarre and complex that they're only visible to shrimp. I do think the whole dead cousin thing made me unable to truly appreciate watching that masterpiece the first time, and I am sad that I'll never be able to experience it for the first time again in better circumstances. But it did provide me with an interesting core memory.

The contents of the video hit incredibly close to home at the time. I remember being sad that I couldn't show it to him. That it was just a few days too late. That maybe he needed to see someone who made it, another queer man who had been where he was and has now gone to live a happy an unapologetic queer life.

I was mourning the end of my cousin's queer story, but also feeling pride because I was witnessing the beginning of Dan's. It was confusing and upsetting. It was the proof that queer stories can have happy endings, but my cousin would never be able to get his.

I feel many emotions when I think of the release of BIG. But I do think I am genuinely happy that it was uploaded when it was. It fucked with my brain in many ways, but it also gave me hope. It gave me a much needed light when I was spiraling deep into a depression in real time. Without it I would've felt even more hopeless.

I am genuinely very thankful that Dan has proved to me that there's hope and a light at the end of the tunnel. He's definitely saved my life a few times. And look at me, almost 5 years later I'm still here. And I'm not going anywhere. I'm sorry for my cousin, that he never got to find that light and have that happy ending. He deserved it just as much as Dan and myself. Which is why I'm living for the both of us now and holding onto any hope for dear life.

If you've made it this far, thank you for reading all of this. I hope it wasn't too sad. I'm kind of glad I got to vent about this I won't lie. Sorry about the length of it.

[gojonanami]

Sab, my dearest, my beloved, the light of my life,

I know I'm two weeks late (and that a certain professor would be on my ass for it) but I had the wonderful idea of re-reading the whole Prof Geto series before reading part 6, thinking it would make for the best emotional impact and after doing just that I have to say... my hypothesis was correct. There wasn't a single second where I regretted my decision (except, maybe when I had to read the breakup scene again 😭), not a single dull word in the +90k masterpiece you wrote (isn't that the length of a novel!?), the flow of your writing is just so good, the dialogue, the internal conflict of the characters... I loved all of it, Sab. This series holds a special place in my heart and I'll probably read it time and time again in the future ❤️❤️❤️

And this chapter– god. I really have no words, it was just a whirlwind of emotions. I was giggling and kicking my feet in the hair like a teenager and I even cried at some point. I loved the beginning, the raw emotion of seeing each other again after what happened, the longing... the way Suguru and Yuta felt so conflicted about their feelings for the reader, and her getting jealous over Mei Mei... omg.

I also loved how Geto helped her with the citations of her dissertation (they were my worst nightmare during undergrad) and hated how Yuta broke up with her right after she presented it. How could he ruin such and special day like that!!! (Ofc I know it made sense to have it happen right then, but gosh 😭💔) but anyway, regarding Yuta... I love how you've set up his part. I'll love to read it when the time comes ❤️❤️

Oh! And the way Yaga *knew*. Now I can't believe that the whole reader assigned as a T.A thing wasn't tampered by him in some way– he had to play a part in that, and I bet he wasn't too fussed with them sharing a hotel room, as long as Suguru was happy hahah.

And then, the passion in his office, the reconciliation and the ending... I had to stop reading a couple of times because I was getting way too emotional, Sab. It was beautiful. I can't wait to see more of them in the extra credit fics (!!) I really hope you make a proposal one <3

I wanted to thank you for writing this series, I've loved it more than I could ever expect to and I believe it came to me in a point of my life where it just... made sense. I was stressed and unsure about continuing in academia and I believe I told you a few months back that I was applying to grad school... well, I got accepted and then hired as a research assistant at the same university!! This is as close as it gets to me living reader's life though I'll keep living vicariously through her for a while longer, I think.

Anyway– I believe I'm babbling now. I just want to thank you again for writing this wonderful series. I'm so excited for Prof Gojo and all the wonderful things you'll write in the future, Sab ❤️

baby, love of my life, the sun to my earth

haha I think prof geto would more than forgive you — especially after the diligent work you did rereading — dare I say he would be very impressed—and I am too omg

I cannot believe you read all 90K+ that’s insane and it means so much to me 😭🥹 thank you so much — it truly means the world to me because I had so much fun writing it!! it was really a special series to me and will continue to be as I write more extra credit fics :).

ahhh I can’t believe you cried 😭 I’m sorry but also thank you haha. it’s the biggest compliment 😭🥹 I really wanted to convey both yuta and suguru’s conflicted emotions — and I’m glad they came across 😭 writing mei mei was so fun because it was very spur of the moment — and I love jealous reader 🥹🫣

citations are truly a nightmare and when I thought of the idea to have that be reader’s crisis, it was so perfect because I think so many of us in academics can relate to that 😭 we all deserve a suguru. I can’t wait to write yuta!!! it’s def gonna have stuff from prof Geto like the repercussions of his relationship with reader and it will be fun :)

hahah yaga knowing was also spur of the moment — it just felt full circle since so many times he’s also pulled them apart in some way 😭😭😭

thank you 🥹💕 I’m glad you enjoyed the reconciliation scene — it was so important to me to get that so right. and I really took my time and I’m glad you think I got it right 🥹💕💕I’m def writing the proposal!!! Don’t worry :)

aww baby thank you for reading 😭🥹 I’m so glad this series could help you in any small way that it did. omg I do remember and that’s amazing!!!! Congratulations I’m so so proud of you (and professor geto is too)!!!

writing this series also came at the perfect time for me because it just was such a wonderful thing to post a new part and see everyone’s reactions — it truly made my day. I especially loved your asks as well 🥹💕

thank you for being here and sticking around. I can’t wait to start writing more of professor gojo — I think you guys will really like it 🫶🥹💕

[gustingirl]

10 films I love (not showing pictures lol)

tagged by my angie again @smythecriminal ilysm and you should know it.

ok this will definitely be long cuz i love talking about myself so after this break!

i. dead poets society (1989)

i think many of you have seen my obsession with this film oh my god it truly went through my heart and still does every time i rewatch it

ii. relatos salvajes / wild tales (2014)

i rewatch it every chance i have. there's something about watching humanity lose their mind over maybe mundane things, it's so weirdly entertaining. every story is written so beautifully, i can’t believe it didn't win an oscar

iii. velvet goldmine (1999)

i’m amazed not many people have seen this film, that's a whole crime. you got gay ewan mcgregor and gay christian bale, what else do you need? it's glam and it's fun to watch and i can go on but i already said what needed to be said

iv. esperando la carroza (1985)

one of the few films i can rewatch a thousand times and never get tired. i laugh every single time and i quote it at least once a day.

v. takers (2010)

it's a silly movie tbh but that makes it fun to rewatch. besides hayden christensen is hot as fuck and so is idris elba, the only problem is trigger warning chris brown but other than that it's such an enjoyable film

vi. hijo de la novia / son of a bride (2001)

i cried, i laughed, i sobbed, i enjoyed it so fucking much. i cannot rewatch it for the sake of my heart but please this movie is so perfectly done. it has a thousand life messages, they get to you the older you get.

vii. the budapest hotel (2014)

i’m sorry i really do enjoy wes anderson films. i’m obsessed with simmetry and he's the best at the cinematographic resource. besides, he does it so well, i’m surprised. it never feels forced and, adding to the palette he uses, it just has this feeling of comfortable and cozy, no matter the story.

viii. nueve reinas / nine queens (2000)

obsessed for real. well anything ricardo darin does but this one blew my mind. i just really enjoy watching films that completely distract me from the unimaginable ending. very well done, very easy to carry too.

iv. death becomes her (1992)

i've read that this film did not help meryl's career but i don’t understand how. i know she was doing many good dramatic movies with accents and strong scenes and this film was silly next to them, but it's so fun to watch. she's hilarious and so fucking beautiful oh my god and i had no idea bruce willis was this funny too!

v. el secreto de sus ojos / the secret in their eyes (2009)

had to leave this one for the end because i consider this film one of the few masterpieces i've seen on the big screen. i can’t even write down an opinion, it was outstanding. the ending still lives rent free in my head. deserved that oscar and many more.

little extra one just because: tacones lejanos / high heels (1991), i just love pedro almodovar's films so much

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