Idk guys but i think viktor actually falls in love with yuuri in chapter 4 back when they ran into each other in the bathroom:
“Viktor Nikiforov was standing in front of him, looking faintly shocked at the sudden appearance of a small Japanese boy who had just walked straight into him and proceeded to make a fool out of himself with his stuttering apologies. The Russian’s cheeks were a little flushed and there was a slight hitch to his breath as though he had been running just moments previously. If Yuuri had to guess he would assume Viktor had been running from the paparazzi that were still swarming the halls of the stadium. Since his senior debut, Viktor’s popularity had only grown and press and fans alike were clamouring to get a glimpse of the teenager at every event he attended.”
Now, idk if the blushing and the little hitch in his breathing was actually because of the paps or yuuri but its pretty similar to the banquet scene at the end of ep 10. And if i remember correctly, after that Viktor paid a little more attention to him like in chapter 6 when yuuri caught him staring… and two chapters later he asked yuuri to dance, all nervous like 🤔 ((why would he do that if he didnt have some sort of interest in him?)) ((maybe he did it because yuuri won and he wanted to make some sort of a peace offering?? Shit idk))
Or maybe he could’ve fell in love with yuuri after he first saw him skate which we now know was back in chapter 3. And we know how Vik felt after watching him skate so that could’ve stirred up something within him but idk–
Or maybe he could’ve fell for him much later–
I may be wrong 😂 bc we wont know until we get Vik’s POV but, its just my thoughts.
I'm in dire need of a fluffy scene where Claire tries to read the lines on Jamie's palm and she ends up failing miserably.
Liv says: So this isn’t fluff, so to speak—but I hope it’s still fun! Set about 2-3 years before puir Frank the Mailman died in the Three Witches AU. No worries if you haven’t read it. This one stands alone! :)
Intersection: A Three Witches Story
Claire knew this was against coven rules. Like, totally outside the realm of acceptable witch behavior.
To dole out one’s magical talents—particularly at the county fair—was a bit manipulative (in regards to the customers), a bit sad (in regards to Claire). Still, she liked to think she was working for a kind of greater good. Ensuring the happiness of all mankind! And that was almost admirable, wasn’t it? Giving hopeful glimmers of adulthood to the stork-like teenagers, comforting the mopey singletons who trudged around, heads bent? She’d offered such assurances as:
“A new man will come into your life. A handsome one—with a huge prick! His name…I think his name begins with a ‘T’.” (This to the recent divorcee, clutching her naked ring finger like a burn. She hadn’t known what a “prick” was but was no less forthcoming with her money.)
Or this, to the bucktoothed 16-year old picking at his acne scars: “You’ll be the coolest person in college. Captain of the ultimate frisbee team!” He’d been disappointed at that one, enormous chompers clamping over his bottom lip. “Ho ho ho there, young man!” she’d said then. “Ultimate frisbee is cool where you’re going. The coolest cool.” And then he’d smiled, a patchwork of teeth and holes, which Claire hoped someone might find endearing. A nice and wholesome blind girl, maybe.
And then this, to the both of them: “For just $5 more, I can guarantee it! All you have to do is buy this magical rock and carry it with you wherever you go.” Nevermind that said magical rock was actually from Claire’s backyard. Nevermind that several of them were speckled in bird shit. Maybe some cicada guts.
But that was the thing about desperate Mortals. Metaphorically speaking, their whole lives were a succession of bird shit plops and smeared bug guts. So they didn’t even notice when it was covering their $5, not-magical rock.
“Yes please! I’ll take two!” the divorcee had cried, handing Claire a ten dollar bill. (Did she think this would bring two men into her life? Because that’s not how Claire’s bird shit rocks worked.)
“Um. Yeah. That’s sounds pretty sick,” said Beaver Bobby. “I’ll buy a rock.” He’d paid in all quarters but, hey, beggars can’t be choosers.
If her best friend Gillian were here, she would likely call this “an exploitative farce,” two terms she would’ve picked up from her beloved Word of the Day calendar.
“Claire,” she would hiss, “this is such an exploitative (Wednesday’s word) farce (last Friday’s word).” And then she’d pull out her Moleskin, update her word count with a self-satisfied tick. Her record, she claimed, was sixty words in a single morning, and Claire imagined a horrible plague descending upon their town, zombifying everyone until they could only grunt “verisimilitude.” Gillian thought an expanded vocabulary made her smarter but, really, it just increased her smart-assedness to a barely tolerable level.
Luckily, Gillian wasn’t here to offer one of her impressive synonyms because she’d bailed on their plans. If Claire could place money on it—and she couldn’t, with only $7 to her name, the very reason for this “manipulative/sad/exploitative farce”—Gillian was protesting GMO’s one county over. Perhaps arguing for the rights of beluga whales. Or, and this was the most likely, she was loitering at the Creamy Whip, breasts thrust at a very specific angle so that customers’ cones would find their shirts and not their mouths.
Psh! Now if that wasn’t an “exploitative farce” then Claire didn’t know what was. Gillian had mosquito bite boobs and a push-up bra more magical than her own powers.
But here was the thing: Claire wasn’t completely faking it. She wasn’t, so to speak, wearing a bra with three inches of padding. She could read palms, see futures unfurl, weblike, across strangers’ skins. Forks, divots, complex branches—each had such a distinct voice, that Claire had no doubt as to whether or not, say, Mr. Duncan over there would choke on a hot dog and die very suddenly. Or whether young Malva—that girl with the cotton candy and ruffled socks—would pop out a kid by the time she was 17. Claire, being a witch, knew precisely what would befall her clients by simply looking at their hands.
But of course, teenage pregnancy and death by synthetic meat logs weren’t exactly good for customer satisfaction. And so Claire would read Mr. Duncan’s palm, and she would see Mr. Duncan’s red face, gasping on a particularly troublesome bit of hot dog, but say he’d live until he was 85. A little white lie for a happy client. And a happy client meant A) money, B) a potential second visit, and thus C) more money. The $5 rocks weren’t scams, just for-profit business cards.
So she was lying, but not, y’know, totally lying. She’d deal with the prevention of hot dog-induced deaths later, when it better benefitted her monthly budget. (Because just as she wasn’t a complete liar, she wasn’t a complete asshole either.)
The fair had died down to a trickling of stragglers: mostly drunks, a couple of junkies who’d staggered into Nayawenne County for cheap-rate smack. Sighing, Claire stood to begin packing up, turned off the moody sound effects, gathered Gillian’s stack of Tarot cards (all hand-painted variations of herself: man Gillian; tree Gillian; Gillian with bigger-than-mosquito-bite boobs).
In the five hours since Claire had arrived, she’d made $120. Not a terrible turnout if one compared it to last year’s fair, when an angry swarm of Bible-thumpers had tossed her earnings into the funnel cake fryer. Sally Bain—or, as Claire called her, Sally Bane-of-Her-Existence—had rallied her troop of Jesus warriors and thrust crucifixes into Claire’s face, chanting things like, “Begone Satan!” and “This is God’s land!”
Which was kind of funny when you thought about it. If God wanted to claim ownership of Nayawenne—out of every other place in the universe—then he was pretty damn stupid.
Fortunately, Claire had suffered no further Bible-thumping, crucifix-wielding disturbances. Sally Bane-of-Her-Existence had fled town once she’d discovered her husband had fucked the organ player up in the ass. And in the church rectory, no less. (Such irony! Claire’d had absolutely nothing to do with it. Ha.)
It had been a windy afternoon, and Claire’s crystal ball was now coated in a fine layer of dust. Though it was only for decorative purposes—for customer satisfaction!—Claire decided she ought to give it a nice shine, make it look at least halfway capable of revealing visions of tomorrow.
Witch Tip #1: Unbeknownst to Mortals, crystal balls were like kisses from a true love. Which was to say, not powerful in the slightest. The most a kiss could do was give you mouth herpes. And, at its highest power, a crystal ball would fly across a room, break a window and the pinky toe of an irritating significant other. Not that Claire had experience with either situation. Certainly not the mouth herpes.
Claire ripped off a paper towel and went to grab the Windex, only to realize she’d left the Windex at home. Had, by a stroke of poor planning, only brought the herbal tonic she sometimes had to spritz into her eyes when they got a bit cloudy.
Witch Tip #2: Seeing the future had its drawbacks. Your eyes would get all crusty if you did it too much. As if your body was punishing you with goopy morning blindness. Honestly, it was pretty gross.
Well shit, Claire thought. She spat on her hand and rubbed the ball, hoping the couple beside “Whack-A-Democrat” wouldn’t think she was, like, doing something sexual to an inanimate object.
But whatever the couple thought, they were watching her, whispering behind their hands and giving her darting glances. Oh God, Claire thought, Bible-thumper radar blaring. Did Sally Bain send them? Did she organize a sabotage via prayer? Was it possible to raise an army of vengeful Baptists an entire state away? (Claire wouldn’t be surprised. She’d heard of stranger things. Done some of them herself. See also: anally-fucked organ player before he was anally fucked.)
But no, the couple wasn’t looking at Claire with the fury of God in their eyes—but fascination. The woman, a petite but sturdy thing, was shoving her partner in Claire’s direction. Making a not-so-obvious pointing gesture, like, Her. Her! that he seemed somewhat reluctant to obey. Still, he did, and soon he was striding towards Claire, long legs stomping up clouds of dirt dust, red hair matching the synthetic blood of a “whacked” Bill Clinton.
“Are you…” the man began, looking nervously over his shoulder. The woman pursed her lips, arched her brow like, Do it, you pussy. He shoved his hands in his pockets, defeated. “Are ye done for the day, lass?”
“I was just about to pack up, but I’ve time for another reading if you’re interested.”
“Aye…” he said, completely unconvincing. “Aye, I suppose I’m interested.”
you wake to the sound of a door closing, and your first thought is well, that’s symbolic.
you’re in his apartment, on his couch, and still wearing your pantyhose; at some point in conversation, you must’ve fallen asleep, and he must’ve spread that patterned blanket of his over you, pulled it up on your shoulders in the way he knows you like. the last time you woke like this, he was sitting alongside you, the rented starship troopers tape - his idea, of course - left unwound in the vcr, your last memories being those from twenty minutes into the movie; the time before that, you’d been awake since four in the morning because, of course, he’d called you and claimed he needed your expertise in regard to a pressing matter even though you know he just wanted to hear your voice, so that evening, while you wore lacy lingerie beneath your work-clothes, you conked out long before he could realize you’d made an effort. though you knew going into this that it would be a marriage, not a courtship, you wish that you at least felt some discomfort toward him, that you would keep your makeup on all night and sneak away to reapply it, that you would cover up in front of him so that you still held some air of mystery. with daniel waterston, you were elusive, the other woman, the young and malleable mind, the woman of the future; with mulder, you’re the partner who falls asleep on his couch. though you scoff yourself for thinking that, insist that what you have now is far more real than anything you ever had with daniel was, you still wish you accented your femininity more often. you wish you still knew how to be romantic.
but instead, you fall asleep on his couch, and now, you can hear the sink running, so you figure he’s in the bathroom. last week, he told you that the valve must not be working because the faucet leaks, but after the case with the luckiest man on earth, he figures he should hire someone to fix it. soon enough, you’ll have to teach him how to use a wrench.
you check your watch; the night’s still young, and you don’t plan on going home, so you’re going to bed in one of two ways: naked or clothed, sexed or unsexed. regardlessly, you won’t be spending the rest of the evening on his couch, so you shrug out of the blanket, messily fold it onto the edge of the cushions, crack your sleepy joints as you stand. though the thought of exercise, be it walking up a flight of stairs or exerting yourself in other ways, makes your muscles tense, you count the days anyway. four, five…ten. it’s been ten days since you last had sex with him, not even for lack of trying. though he wanted to stay over, and though you wanted to spend time with him, journal articles and crows in vermont took momentary precedence, so it’s been ten whole days. before you can think the course of actions through, you pull off your blazer, shimmy out of your skirt. though the easygoing pace of what you have with mulder is comfortable, you’ll be damned if you ever go more than ten days without him again, so you pull off your shirt, your brassiere, abandon your pantyhose on the floor. when the door to the bathroom reopens, you pick up the blanket once more, wrap it around yourself, push your clothes off to the corner of the room, sit back down where he left you.
“hey,” he says as he reenters the living room, as he sees your open eyes. “did you have a nice nap?”
“yeah,” you say, flustered; suddenly, you’re cold, and the chill brings your bare skin to a heady alertness. with the blanket covering your shoulders and the tops of your thighs, you appear not to have moved since he left.
“do you need me to drive you home?” he asks kindly, goodheartedly, as though ten days is nothing, as though he doesn’t feel deprived.
“no,” you say. “i’d like to stay.”
“okay,” he says, then offers a hand to help you up, a hand you don’t take. furrowing his brow, he asks, “is everything alright?”
“yes, of course,” you say preemptively.
then, you stand alone, take the blanket up with you, but before he can turn away, before he heads to bed, you let the blanket pool at your feet, the living room lamplight casting you in a warm glow, your piquant body open for him, your eyes demanding something between war and worship.
summary: Dan Howell, piano teacher and speedster, craves chocolate cakes at three in the morning. He meets a baker named Phil who owns the only store opened at three in the morning and who bakes the most delicious chocolate cake in the world. It’s a pretty odd love story.
a/n: this motherfucker. This fucking fic, man. It went through seven different phases I’m not even kidding. This is the Chosen One™. I had such a blast writing this. I loved working on it, and I hope you love it, too. Thank you for 1k, and I hope this shows my gratitude <33
also, quick facts: John Chambers is an actual fictional character! he’s a speedster who obtained his powers via the speedster formula. The more you know.
“Listen son, marry the girl who loves you else you will be hanged all your life. Marrying the girl whom you love but she doesn’t love you back, it’s like taking in poison. You could become a dog from a man for her and she’d still say, ‘you didn’t wag your tail yesterday.’ You could buy the entire world and put it at her feet and she’ll just roll her eyes in disdain and say, ‘idiot, wasting all this money for me.’ This is the story of after a girl becomes a wife. That’s why son, marry the girl who loves you. She’s the one who’ll make you a home. Anyone else will just give you hell.’
Okay, first of all, a confession. I don’t ship. I really don’t. I like individual characters mostly but i will share favourite pairings.
In no particular order:
Clark and Lois: Smallville. Because it was canon in comic books and the movies and in Lois and Clark. And i frickin’ hated Lana Lang in Smallville with a fiery passion. Hated. Her. (sorry Clana fans)
Buffy and Angel. They had one hell of a love story, seasons two and three are my all time favourites. Too many great episodes to count.
Bucky and Steve: I love Steve’s absolute loyalty to his childhood friend. Unquestioning, deep, unwavering. Brothers from another mother. I love how Bucky looked after pre serum Steve with the same dedication and loyalty.
Mitchell and Josie : Being Human: I can’t find a gif of Mitchell and Josie but while he told Annie that she was the love of his life, i always believed it to be Josie. Always. I always felt that the story of it being Annie was too hasty, almost cobbled on (as it was Aidan’s final season) The story of his relationship with Josie was always more believable to me so for Mitchell to profess to Annie that she was his love just made for one giant eye roll for me. Nothing against the Mitchell/Annie shippers but it just sat wrong with me.
Fraser and Ray. Due South. Now i was a fan of both Ray’s. I adored this show from the 90′s. Some great stories and the humour was top notch and of course, Paul Gross was just gorgeous as Benton Fraser but i loved both Ray’s (which is apparently unusual because people liked either but not both). First Ray, played by David Marciano, just made me chuckle and his clothes were something else.
And this is the second Ray, played by Callum Keith Rennie (and he really reminds me of Lance Tucker in the above gif) He was more frenetic and definitely funnier. Just loved the show and both sets of leads. Didn’t ship them, just loved them.
I suppose i do kinda ship in a weird kinda way. Who knew…