i could do better... :(

sometimes “doing your best” is being top of your class, straight As, etc. sometimes “doing your best” is just showing up to class without your homework and sleeping through half of it because that’s the best you can do. be proud of yourself either way.

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HECK!!! IM GOIN TO BEd 

7

Isak’s good vs bad lying game!

“Holy fuck you’re such a bad liar!” “Huh, I’m a bad liar?” “Yeah!” “I’m a bad liar? I’m the fucking master liar, there’s no one who’s better liar than me! I man, you have no idea what I’ve gotten away with.” “Well, tell me. What have you gotten away with?”  “No, I mean, you don’t want to know.”

             // requested by darktwistedlady

Your secret is safe with me. Largely because I don’t care, and I’ll probably forget.
—  Coran, maybe
live with a man who knows you

do you live with a man who knows you / are you living the life you chose?

Summary: Victor has spent nearly his entire life being cold, from being born in the dead of winter through growing up in northern Russia to deciding to dedicate his life to ice rinks. He’s never thought much of the cold—until spends enough time feeling warm. (Or: adjusting to domestic life in St. Petersburg, the fanfic)

Word Count: 3,569

A/N: Annnnd it’s finished! This one gave me an unusual amount of difficulty to write, but I really, really wanted to do it anyway.  It can also be found posted to AO3 here.

This is the second of a few fics I plan to write for follower requests after I hit a milestone about a week ago. @subteraneans and @demisexualmako both asked me for domesticity in St. Petersburg, and @comet-kind requested something fluffy and sweet and snowy for the season. The two requests ended up in combination here. 

Thanks to @subteraneans for helping me with Russian terms of endearments, and happy belated birthday to @comet-kind, who shares the day with Victor!

Call it a weakness, but if there is one thing that will keep Victor lingering in a store for hours, it is the search for a perfect pair of leather gloves.

He has a whole drawer full of them in his closet, bunched behind soft-knitted scarves and few mismatched fuzzy socks. Yuuri discovers this when helping Victor pack up his room in Hasetsu, his eyes wide with a disbelief Victor rarely gets the pleasure of seeing on him in such a mundane setting. There have to be at least fifteen pairs, he points out. Yuuri pulls each pair one by one from the fingertips and deposits them on the floor in front of him in a damning spread of evidence. For what on earth does Victor need so many pairs of gloves?

The answer is simple: absolutely nothing.

Victor likes the scent of leather. It’s that somewhat sweet, somewhat sharp tang that wears away with age but never fully disappears. He breathes it in from his hands when it clings to his palms and cracks it in the air when he curls his knuckles, flexes fingers with each new glove pulled snug. Good leather, soft leather is pleasant to touch. And most importantly, whether each pair of gloves is lined with fur or fabric or nothing at all, they keep out the cold. 

He jokes to Yuuri that since he has to wear cheaper, moisture-wicking gloves for exercise when he’s skating, he’s had to buy so many other nice ones to make up for all the lost time. Yuuri rolls his eyes and tells him this is absolutely terrible logic. 

Victor laughs and falls back with his head in Yuuri’s lap, holding up a white fleece-lined glove to Yuuri’s cheek.  “Hm,” Victor murmurs. “Perhaps a brighter color would be better with your skin-tone, Yuuri.”

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