Things Yuuri Katsuki has definitely thought about while masturbating:
Viktor Nikiforov (Obv)
Viktor Nikiforov(’s hair)
“What if I die while I’m masturbating and my family finds me with my hand around my dick oh my god I would never live that down”
The very faint whiff of applewood that Yuuri got from Viktor Nikiforov that one time when Viktor passed Yuuri in the Olympic Village in Sochi and Yuuri was too busy feeling his soul ascend to even say anything to him until it was too late
The Russian Lit project that’s due in three days that he hasn’t started on
Viktor Nikiforov blowing him in a warm rainstorm while Yuuri holds a large umbrella and Viktor kneels on Yuuri’s shoes to avoid getting the knees of his two-thousand-dollar suit wet.
A recurring and elaborate fantasy of his involving an empty train car, a silk tie, and Viktor Nikiforov.
All of the priorities that he is anxiety-masturbating to escape.
Viktor Nikiforov flopping around on top of him in the surf of one of the beaches back home only in, like, a sexy way, and because it’s a fantasy they don’t run the risk of being observed by six fishermen and someone’s great-grandmother.
That one time he and Phichit found that website that supposedly accurately displays the size of a celebrity’s handprint and Yuuri held his hand up to Viktor Nikiforov’s and realized just how much bigger and longer his hands were and went immediately and painfully hard.
“SOOOO I’ll tell you what I want what I really really want so tell me what you want what you really really want–”
Viktor Nikiforov fucking him in a bed full of roses with flapping gossamer curtains like some Victorian protagonist. In this fantasy, they are going to be married soon but Viktor couldn’t control himself and Yuuri didn’t want him to. Viktor doesn’t take off his waistcoat and Yuuri doesn’t take off his glasses.
How many of Phichit’s hamsters are watching him right now. He tries not to think about it, but it always comes into his mind.
“Are you humming the Spice Girls while you masturbate? Again?” Phichit crashes in the door and turns on the light.
“NO.” Yuuri flips onto his stomach and throws the shot of Viktor from last week’s issue of SKATE under the bed.
“Whatever.” Phichit throws this week’s copy of People at him. “Here. For your spank bank. Viktor’s got half a page on page seventeen. He’s shirtless.”
Not only is Viktor shirtless–his pants are unbuttoned. Yuuri clutches the magazine to his chest and stares up at the ceiling. “Am I pathetic?”
“No,” says Phichit, who completely and totally believes in his friend and knows that Yuuri will someday manage to blow Viktor Nikiforov in a men’s room somewhere
“Thank you,” says Yuuri, who isn’t quite sure he believes him.
That one image of Viktor Nikiforov from the March 2014 issue of People Magazine where he’s shirtless with his pants undone and looks like literal soft-core porn.
the problem with MCU Tony Stark characterisation in fanfic
okay so I love smol, soft, vulnerable Tony Stark as much as the next person, but sometimes I think we forget some super important things when writing him:
literally within an hour of IM1 we see Tony hammering metal with basic tools in a cave which is very physically taxing for someone not used to it
we see Tony Stark miniaturise the arc reactor, something his own dad never figured out, in the space of three months whilst probably battling chest infections, the threat of death and low cognitive function (the fluctuating temperate, irregular meals, sleep cycle and high risk of infection from open heart surgery drastically affects your thought process, genius or not) - with fuck all available
there is the suggestion that Tony + Running isn’t so much of a novel idea in IM1′s ‘Dogfight’ as Rhodey doesn’t bite back and say ‘you don’t jog’ in response to Tony’s flighty responses - that would be the first thing a best friend would point out to their fellow bullshitter
he and Happy practise MMA against one another (IM2) and Happy isn’t someone to go gentle - Tony isn’t one to want Happy to pull his punches so Tony is proficient in some form of close combat when fully cognisant - we see Happy’s skills when he finally (!) punches one trained fighter as Tash knocks off everyone else. if Happy can do that, Tony certainly can - and even better now he’s a full Avenger (we ignore Civil War, okay)
he literally takes a sledgehammer to his own home and re-discovers and element once again previously hidden to his own dad - a man heralded and lauded as The Genius - so he’s very proactive and willing to move shit around to figure something out
we also see the strength needed in the synthesising of this element - his arms are literally b u l g i n g with muscle mass, so this gives us the nod that Tony does work out to keep himself fit
in IM3 he literally has nothing? he makes his OWN weapons again from store-avaliable items and takes down literally a whole compound under his own steam (reminiscent of IM1 building of the suit with a box of scraps) so he isn’t exactly ‘useless’ when given the correct tools
despite that bullshit scene where he suddenly ‘forgets’ that magazines aren’t universal for all, we know Tony handles guns - he does it when he’s escaped the bed in the basement, when facing the Mandarin etc and he’s confident enough to use them correctly (deliberately missing Trevor but close enough to make him shit himself) so this crap about him suddenly being unable to shoot a light from that distance is again, bullshit
he literally drags the iron man suit through the snow - whilst it’s (MK42) is about 240 pounds on, it’s gonna be a lot heavier with all the hydraulics and electrics powered down. it takes core strength to make it and drag it, guys, so he’s pretty well built for a civvie
in avengers he spends just as much time moving - you need insane core strength to maintain a flying position, metal suit or not, and you need to be physically fit to fly it too if you think of how often it would have glitched and malfunctioned with hits before it rebooted. just because he’s in a metal suit it doesn’t mean it’s effortless and JARVIS does it for him - it’s like riding a horse. the movements are subtle but you’re using so many fucking muscles and so much energy
in AOU he literally fucking JUMPS FROM THE BALCONY ONTO A BOT floating in mid air like, that’s super gutsy for a civvie who has no official ‘spy’/army training or no backup Green Machine but by this point nothing surprises us about this fuckwit tbh (it gets me every time when I see him do that)
he gets thrown into walls so often with enough force to knock out a normal person like, i’m surprised he, Rhodey and Bruce don’t have constant concussion tbh - in IM3 with a missile blast/ in AOU against the wall after Ultron and down to the floor from a great height
he’s super fucking gutsy and takes massive risks for someone with no healing factor or special skills - in IM3 when he faces off against the Mandarin with nothing/jumps off a balcony on the rig and slides down the bending metal before jumping into fucking mid-air relying only on his suits to save him/facing off against Loki and then being thrown out of a window despite not knowing what would happen at all and knowing that his suit wasn’t quite ready/relying only on his mobile gauntlet to save his whole fucking face when Bucky (poor soul) tries to shoot him (unintentionally it isn’t Bucky okay) in the middle of his freak-out (and these are all without the whole suit, only bits and pieces, so don't say he’s a little wallflower he has as many balls as the rest of them in combat)
have you seen him in a three piece suit??? his figure is fine af from all this shit
he literally survived a blast to the fucking chest with a bomb, survived palladium poisoning, thought his way out of countless shit, is a certified genius, a massive polyglot, has several doctorates and isn’t the soft, smol, vulnerable little chicken so much fanfiction makes him out to be
I love reading those smol, cutesy fics from time to time too - because lbr MCU!Tony IS small in stature because Robert is, bless his platform shoes - but please remember Tony is actually meant to be a badass physically fit (wiry or lithe, depending on comics or movieverse) superhero - he may not be great at hand-to-hand combat like Cap or twenty feet tall like Thor but he can certainly hold his own fgs.
Above them, Cabal ships drag thick black smoke across the flickering twilight, and flames rise from the Tower. Legionnaires scour the streets, seeking out the cries of the wounded and afraid.
“Hush,” he says again, as the child starts to sniffle, and he pulls her into the shadows cast by an apartment block as a patrol makes its laborious way past. He was made to protect, made to serve, but he feels clumsy now; the hand on her shoulder is almost larger than her head and she has no armor to protect her bruised and burned skin from his rough gauntlets. When he tries to wipe the tears from her face he worries that he will be the one to break her.
He followed her screams, just as the Cabal did. He had no rifle to kill the Legionnaires that would have silenced her; dispatched the first one with his boot-knife but was not quick enough to catch the second unaware. It is dead, but his chest-plate is cracked and burned and the thing that eats the Traveler has also eaten his Light.
She is wearing yellow. A summer dress, for a celebration. When he offered her his gore-spattered hand she took it at once, and did not look back at the splayed and broken limbs visible beneath the rubble around her as though she knew there was no one left to wait for. He brushed dust and chips of concrete from the tight black curls on her head, and when she tried to smile her gap-toothed smile at him despite it all he knew that he would die the second death to save her.
They pick their way through dust-covered streets and alleys, one grimy hand holding his armored fingers, the other wrapped around the silent shell of his Ghost. He told her to keep it safe, and she clutches it to her chest with an intensity that would do any Titan proud.
To those behind the Wall, love and service. To those outside it, fury and fire. He is young: the Order’s maxim has never meant much to him, but here at the end of an Age he feels each word burning in his chest and he wraps his Mark around her shoulders like a cloak, like a little Hunter, to keep the nearness of the night from her as best he can.
When they hear the distant bursts of gunfire he waits until the chatter fades, then leads them in a different direction even though it gives him hope to know the City is still fighting. Perhaps if he ran to the violence he would find weapons or more Guardians, but he will not risk it. And so hours pass as they slink across the city, and as slowly as his wounds force him to move she still takes ten strides for every one of his. She has only one sandal, silver leather wrapped around a tiny leg, but he thinks that a single piece of armor is better than no armor at all.
He finds a battered pulse rifle in a street that leads to a square, tries not to wonder where its owner went. The magazine is full, but it is all he has and there is no Ghost at his shoulder to synthesize ammo. He bends to pick it up, never letting go of the hand that holds his own, just as a troop of Legionnaires turn the corner in front of them.
He pulls the child behind a crumbled wall. Waits one heartbeat, two; no slug throwers roar in response. Even so, they are between him and the direction he has lead, and he doubts he has the strength to cross the City again.
Love and service to those within. Fire and fury to those without.
The Legionnaires do not notice, but neither do they move on. More join them, and they begin to spiral out in all directions, continuing their search. It will not be long before they find him and the child. A narrow street, once hung with banners but now collapsing from the rooftops down, will lead her west, to the walls, away from Cabal patrols - as long as there is a distraction.
He lifts her chin as gently as he can.
“You have to run,” he whispers. He is bad at whispering. “I’ll keep you safe.”
“That way,” he says when she stares at him in silence, pointing with his outsized hand down the shadowed street.
He gives her a delicate push, points again. She blinks, once, then toddles into the dark, Ghost held close as though it will protect her. Perhaps, if there is a way to undo this disaster, it someday will.
He props the rifle atop the ledge, lifts his visor and sights with naked eye. There are so many, he thinks, and then bites back a laugh - there are only eight.
Love within. Fury without.
The rifle barks. One Legionnaire dies and the others spin in confusion, firing in the direction of his cover. He ignores them, squeezes the trigger again. And again. And again.
Love within. Fury without. Love within. Fury without. Love within. Fury without. Love within -
Something tugs his arm. He looks down into the eyes of the little girl, and pure terror finds him.
“I said run,” he growls, but she does not, her face set in a scowl. He shakes his arm and she does not let go.
A micro-rocket bursts against the barricade and he ducks, throws his body over her, sprays the rest of his bullets in response. The child buries her head in his cracked armor, her frail body shaking.
Never has he been so afraid to die.
He feels a fool. He tosses the rifle down, wraps one arm around the child and pulls her close. With the other he slams his visor shut. He takes a deep breath, and then another, and when at last there is a break in the constant fire he lurches to his feet, lifts the child to his chest, and runs.
It is hard, so hard, to move full Titan-plate without his Light to drive it. His body aches. Something inside is probably broken, and he does not know how long it takes a body to heal without a Ghost.
A slug hits him in the back and he stumbles but his armor holds, and he sprints down the street where he tried to send the child, the sound of jump-packs following behind. He ducks his head and cups himself around his charge, makes himself as big as he can, plows across the debris-choked pavement. The girl begins to cry again, though to his ears it is not the sound of fear but of fury, and before long he is roaring with it, and the two of them roar together down the long, narrow street as explosions scatter bits of ruins that once were homes. He does not know where he is going, knows only that he must go somewhere, that he will not stop until the child is safe or his legs no longer work; that when he has nothing left he will throw her from him and tear the Cabal apart with fists alone, Light or no.
He has stopped counting the impacts. Every step is a knife in his chest. The Legionnaires must be close but he does not turn, lest the shield that is his body fail. He can feel himself slowing, a sensation that fills him both with wonder and despair, but he cannot force himself to let her go despite his promise. Something cracks against the back of his leg, and he is too tired and too hurt to correct. He lands heavily on one shoulder, slides ten grinding yards, arms still wrapped around the child. At the very least, they will have to rip him apart to get to her. Maybe, if he dies quickly, they will not notice her at all.
Gunfire interrupts his thoughts, along with the sound of footsteps and the roar of Cabal. Hands grab him, drag him out of the street, but still he does not uncurl. He sees Hunter cloaks, Warlock robes, a Titan mark.
“Hush,” he tells the child, head still tucked close, while they cower in a doorway and around them Guardians fight.
“Hush,” he tells her, over their surprised cries of pain.
“Hush,” he tells her, over and over, until at last all is silent and he dares to lift his head and stand.
He helps the child to her feet, and though he leans against the doorway it is her tiny hand in his that keeps him upright. He looks around at their saviors: most are near as bruised as he is. They nod their heads, pat him on the back, and he opens his mouth to ask for forgiveness, for leading the Legionnaires here, but a Hunter shakes her head as though she knows what he will say.
Two Guardians lie dead. Truly dead. One Hunter, one Titan wearing the Mark of the Gatewatch. He waits the half-second for their Ghosts to revive them, feels sick when they do not rise. He swears that he will learn their names and add them to the Order of the Pilgrim Guard.
Someone makes cooing sounds and tries to take the child, tries to give her water, but she refuses to let go of his hand, refuses to surrender his Ghost. For a moment they stand there, all seven of them in a circle around her, and it is as though a different light has risen to bond them all.
They need ships. Weapons. Food, maybe. The child, at least, must eat. The Hunter offers water again, and he wonders how many new scraps of fabric she has taken for her cloak. A different Titan, this one wearing the Mark of the Six Fronts, hands him the dead Hunter’s rifle - then looks down at the child, still clinging to his hand, and passes him a sidearm instead.
They turn their backs to the Tower, and continue their slow march to the western wall. Perhaps they will find supplies along the way. If not, so be it - they are still Guardians, and they will save what light they can.
Love within. Fury without.
The Cabal have no word for ‘retreat.’ Soon, they will learn that the Guardians have none for ‘mercy.’
Like, popular and easily accessible. Maybe YA marketed since it’s so popular.
Imagine it: Book reviews, author interviews, book box reviews, spotlights on certain genres, interviews with people in the editing and publishing industry, ads for upcoming books, places to buy book-themed goods, recipes of foods from books, looking a fan art and stuff inspired by books, news from the publishing and bookstore business.
gerard: yeah an mcr reunion is a possibility, but we’re all really happy where we’re at right now.
every rock magazine: MCR is BACK ! 😱😱 grab your EYELINER 🐼💀👀 emos, this ⚡️⚡️SHOCKING ⚡️⚡️ news is bringing us all back to 2007 😭!! ! 🎹🎼black parade frontman 🎤😈gerard way 😍😜says an💔💧 MCR reunion is in the works ! 😱😨what doe s this mean?!? 🕵⁉️
eating was weird because i knew i had to be a “good girl” about it, i knew i had to not obsess, but obsession was expected from me by society. i would buy the food i wasn’t obsessed with only to check out in an aisle where magazines boasted women folded over themselves, thin and glossy, even beautiful in a pout, bold letters underneath promising new ways to obsess about food. i didn’t really care about being thin, but i knew i should care, but i didn’t care if other people were big, but i felt uncontrolled when i felt big, i felt swollen or greasy or gross, or all of the above. i loved when i could forget about it, but i often couldn’t, feeling like other people ate less, that they judged me for eating more - even though i never judged anyone for what they ate or how often. it was a fine line. we could joke about diets and calories and complain about how wide we were - but if you talked about it too much, threw away too many lunches, didn’t smile fast enough, you were crazy. and it became this odd hole, where i’d eat to fix things, but eating made me feel guilty. i couldn’t do it normally. three meals was too many, then not enough. one meal would have thousands of calories one day, the next i would spread out celery sticks for all three. i just wanted to be normal. something about eating took that from me.