#real question is why Marshall just has that in his wardrobe

[bubblegum-and-ciggarettes]

Saw this immediately those little fuckers

#fionna and cake #Marshall lee #prince gumball #gumlee #Gary prince #his little stupid yuri on ice suit #real question is why Marshall just has that in his wardrobe #mom or not like??

[singeramg]

Finding Forever: Chapter 1

Pairing: Henry Cavill/Black Original Character

Rating: Explict/ M/ Whatever...will be smut later on. 

Warnings: Cursing, eventual smut, some angst, more tags to come as we get into this. 

Summary: Aura Camilla an actress who has just landed her first lead role opposite Henry Cavill. This story follows her as she tries to navigate her fast developing feelings for her costar. 

A/N: Welcome everyone, so this is my first time attempting to write anything involving Henry Cavill, so y'all bare with me and be nice (Please) Also blame The Witcher for this sudden interest. . I hope you guys will like it and I promise it will get better as we go along. I don’t have any idea of how long this will be. I welcome comments and suggestions.

  Chapter 1: All this Love

“I have everything I need ummm....I think.”

I said to my best friend Mia who was laying across my bed, her hair a black/ white/grey ombré dreads that reached the middle of her back of her chestnut frame. She was mindless playing with one of the furry ivory pillows I had on my bed. 

“Well Aura considering you’ve packed and repacked that bag several times I highly doubt you forgot anything. Shit I’m quite sure you’ve packed the entirety of your room.”

She said with a smirk, then went back to scrolling on her phone. I laughed, flipping her off, and zipping my bag closed. 

“Are you ready to drive me to the airport?”

“The real question is are you ready to go?”

She said getting up from my bed and sliding into her shoes. 

“Come bring your ass on...”

I said with a laugh, hauling my suitcase off of bed and out of my room in our shared apartment...

 ⭐️*** 

To say I was nervous was an understatement. I had just checked into my room on location for the movie I had just landed. I had done some parts in television and movies, supporting characters. This would be the first time I played a lead, it was a romantic comedy. All set around a neurotic late 20 something named Anya Novak that spent her life doing everything for everyone else but never going after what she wants. Her job merges with another and in enters the new guy Carson Wyatt who rubs her the wrong way when they first meet and even more so when she figures out he is her new neighbor. 

I could handle the role, I was certain of that but I was nervous because I hadn’t met anyone from the cast yet. The filming schedule was coming off the heels of filming a big movie for not only the directors but for my co-star Henry Cavill. I had been surprised when they said he would be joining the cast as this type of movie didn’t seem like his type that he would be in. It had very little action and a lot of comedic timing. I was nervous that he and I would not get along at all and make this filming unbearable. We were due to start filming in a day or so but tonight we were set to all meet and have dinner. 

I unpacked my clothes and now found myself standing in front of my closet much like I would at home, except now I didn’t have Mia to help me choose. I would settle for FaceTime.

“ It’s Mia the Mua of your dreams.”

“Yeah my nightmares too. Best friend I need help and I need it fast. Cast dinner in two hours with no clue and what to put on out of all the shit you packed me to wear.”

“Where is the dinner?”

“ Small gastropub, nothing too fancy but I want to make a good impression.”

“Yeah maybe on that foine ass co-star of yours.”

“Mi let’s not go there.”

“You need to let him go there with your uptight ass. Been moving around here for months, working too hard with no play. Especially since Jamal.”

“Ugh, god you said the name. I thought we agreed that name was dead.”

“ I agreed not to beat his ass for that shit he pulled, but that’s all. Now onto what you called for. Dark wash jeans, white and black sheer top, black heels. Light on the makeup, soft curls on the hair.”

“Remind me again why you couldn’t come with me.”

“I might style you in my free time but unlike you my jetsetting darling I still have to deal with my lazy ass ultra extra Ulta manager. At least until you need me full time.”

“But I do this is the problem. I told you to get on the plane with me but no. You didn’t.”

“I’m working on it, you know my manager asked me to hold off on my leave until she came back from vacation. Look don’t worry about me I’ll be there is two weeks you can survive two weeks before I arrive,  just get dressed, go make some friends, and relax because I know you are freaking out and doing yourself a disservice. Remember our saying...”

“Beautiful is who you are not what you are.”

Mia and I repeated at the same time as we had since middle school. In a school where the people didn’t look like us with Mia’s cinnamon tone and my sienna color paired with braids and thick dark hair, didn’t make us popular in a world of blonde hair and blue eyes. We made due as we got older, at 25 we kept that motto as a reminder to love ourselves no matter what.

“Aura go out there and make those people love as much as I do.” 

I sniffed back a few tears and felt grateful for the type of friend I had.

“Thank you Mia.”

“Always. Now I gotta go. I was supposed to be at work ten minutes ago.”

We laughed and hung up...

⭐️Later

I dressed in what Mia said to put on, stepping from the cab, grateful for us filming in the springtime in Canada, despite the nighttime, the air was moderate. The restaurant was lit in a dim light but bright enough to see the faces. I stepped in and the hostess upon hearing the name of the party I was with smile brightened up and walked me to a secluded room to the back of the restaurant. As soon as I entered the directors Marshall and Anne a married couple for whom this was a passion project. We instantly clicked during my audition and subsequent talking they were really nice to me.

“Aura! I’m glad you made it!”

Anne said standing and pulling me into hug, Marshall following shortly after. 

“Yes please come in, have a seat. There’s an open seat left next to Henry.”

I smiled and looked to the room where all the men stood on my arrival as custom dictated, and my eyes landed on the 6’1 dark haired gentleman I had been anxious to meet. Marshall walked me to the other side of the table where Henry was standing.

“Henry meet your co-star Aura Camilla. Aura please meet Henry Cavill.”

He had a look on his face that I honestly couldn’t place, but once Marshall made introductions a wide grin broke across his face, and he offered a hand out to me. I took it and we shook, with him seeming to stare at my face my hazel eyes locking with his blue. 

“Pleasure to meet you Henry. Big fan of your work.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you as well Aura. I’m excited to be working with you as well.”

It was then that I guess he realized he was still holding my hand and he let go quickly only to pull out my chair, nervously, actually tripping over the edge of the chair slightly but not falling. The cool persona he had to world, out the window for a split moment, but that was okay because I liked it...

*The next day* 

I was sitting in the make-up artist chair, as they worked to make me look as scripted for our first scene. I was going over my lines when I heard the door to the trailer opened and closed, the next to me groaning under the new weight in it. I smiled when I realized who was now occupying the chair.

“Good morning Aura. Sleep well I hope?”

Henry looked fresh, wearing sweatpants and a black zipped-up hoodie. No product in his hair, and freshly shaved as opposed to the light stubble he sported yesterday night. Honestly we got along really well, which was a relief in terms of working. We actually vibed during our talking last night. He was a breath of fresh air in this industry to have a conversation with a man who wasn’t talking to my boobs.  We just laughed and joked most of the night, leaving off with him agreeing to help me out in the gym, I also think I left feeling like my soft admiration for a man I didn’t know to a man I kinda knew to a real world potential crush that could crush me and I wasn’t sure I was ready for it.

So now here I was sitting next to a man that I was attracted to. I could smell the trouble brewing.

“Yes, I did. It’s always a little difficult getting used to sleeping in a bed that’s not my own.”

“I have the same problem. Takes me a few days to adjust to the time change and a different bed. I am usually up all night until then despite being tired from a long day. I find that working out helps me get back on track, if not watch some television.”

“Yeah I’m more the type to watch TV or a movie and I’m out like a light. Thank god we don’t have a super early call time for the first couple of weeks.” 

“You ready to go out there and hate my guts on screen?”

“Sure, as long as you are ready to hate mine.”

“I am going to have to put my acting skills to the test. This would be easier if you were a horrible person.”

“Excuse me for not being a drag on your life Cavill. I think this would be easier for me too if you hadn’t endeared me to your dog and told me about your terrible bullying experience. I can’t actually hate you now.”

We laughed along with those in the trailer and as I was ushered into wardrobe I had to cut off those butterflies in my stomach and focus on doing my job....

A/n: So tell me what you think? If you want to read more let me know. Thank you for taking the time to read this little piece of crap I managed lol

#henry cavill #henry cavill x ofc #henry cavill x black ofc #henry cavill fanfic #fanfiction

[lookatthesetreasures]

conversation means both of you are listening

another birthday gift for the incomparable kazliin! again, if you don’t know her, she’s the author of Rivals universe, one of the best yuri on ice fanfic out there, no lie. 

a running theme in her work has been conversations overheard, postponed, or avoided, and of course this results in ~shenanigans~. but to say that everything would be better if they finally talked would be overly simplistic, and after thinking of it for a while, i ended up writing this fic. i hope y’all (especially kaz) enjoy this! 

Summary: “you talk, but i don’t hear the words you’re saying,” said the pot to the kettle. 

“Why do we have to know this? That cruelty

has to exist to propel kindness into relief; that relief

must first imply pain?”

-- Ange Mlinko

I. Goddamn Room Service

Yuuri woke up sweaty, sticky, and completely surrounded by warmth. He blinked blearily, trying to chase the last of his drowsiness away – and then the closeness of another body registered, and Yuuri snapped to attention.

That was Viktor Nikiforov. He’d just slept with Viktor Nikiforov, and that was Viktor’s dick bumping against Yuuri’s thigh, and Viktor’s naked chest he was rubbing his face against. His face burned, and he wrenched himself away from Viktor’s arms, landing in a heap of soiled sheets.

Memories of the previous night began to filter in, and Yuuri’s panic steadily grew. He tasted bile at the back of his throat remembering how much he had enjoyed it, felt sick remembering how thoughtlessly he had declared his hatred of Viktor. It was absolutely impossible to deny what had happened; not with the burn at the end of his spine, the damning scratches on Viktor’s back, the trail of clothes from the doorway to the bed.

At the loss of warmth beside him, Viktor had begun to stir. Yuuri stared at him, horrified at the aftermath  of what could only be called ‘hate sex’, as Viktor sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Then he stopped, eyes widening at the sight of Yuuri, naked, covered in semen and sprawled out at the foot of his bed.

Well, thought Yuuri, almost hysterically. At least I’m not the only one freaking out.

Last night he had assiduously avoided looking at Viktor, losing himself in the pleasure of other sensations instead: the smell of Viktor’s skin, the sound of his broken breathing, the slick slide of his dick in Yuuri’s ass. In the light of the early morning, however –

Viktor was achingly beautiful, silver hair offset by the morning sunlight, and the hard planes of his face and body made soft by sleep. He was just as naked as Yuuri, the graceful lines and dips of his shoulders and collarbones covered with vicious marks of Yuuri’s teeth from the previous night, red and purple against Viktor’s pale skin. Somewhere in Yuuri’s brain, past the agonizing awkwardness of this encounter, the leftover animal instinct that drove him last night began to purr. Viktor was beautiful like this, naked and covered in all sorts of marks that screamed of Yuuri’s presence.

Yuuri flushed, feeling the heat all the way down to his chest. This was not the sort of thing that he should be realizing about his greatest rival after a night of hatefucking.

Viktor looked to be at a loss, mouth hanging slightly open. He schooled his expression, seemed to marshal this thoughts, and before he could even begin to speak, panic had overtaken Yuuri and he all but sprinted to the bathroom.

“I – I just – I need to clean up,” he stammered over his shoulder, slamming the bathroom door closed behind him.

It was true, he did.

Semen had dried up into a disgusting crust on his stomach, and even though it took some time to clean it off, Yuuri stayed shut up in the bathroom longer than necessary, dreading the conversation waiting outside. To make matters worse, there wasn’t a towel in the bathroom, and as he tried to dry off as well as he could, Yuuri resigned himself to walking out naked.

Viktor had already put on pants and a t-shirt when Yuuri stepped out of the bathroom, and was setting down a tray of tea on the little breakfast nook of his hotel room. All of their clothes had been picked off the floor, and the room looked tidier. Viktor still looked shell-shocked, and Yuuri flushed again, embarrassed by the question he was going to have to ask.

“Your clothes are on that chair,” Viktor supplied, and Yuuri muttered his thanks, hurriedly getting  dressed in last night’s clothes. His mind stalled, however, when confronted by the ruin of his shirt.

He was still freaking out over this crisis, when Viktor said hesitantly: “I got you some genmaicha, if you wanted something to drink, before…” He trailed off.

Yuuri turned, confused. “Genmaicha?”

Viktor frowned, and asked carefully, “That is what you drink in the morning, right? I was going to order sencha instead, but then I remembered that you once mentioned in an interview that you preferred genmaicha in the morning.”

Yuuri tried to recall an interview where he had mentioned this; there’d been so many over the years that he couldn’t recall. There must have been an interview like that, though; Yuuri really did drink genmaicha in the morning. He used to have Mari-neechan mail genmaicha to Detroit before he found a Japanese grocery store that stocked it near the university.

The odds that Viktor had watched one of his interviews, however –

“You watched my interviews?” Yuuri asked numbly, accepting the cup from Viktor. Viktor blushed, and really the whole morning had been entirely overwhelming for Yuuri. Why would Viktor Nikiforov be watching trashy, trivial interviews about what kind of tea Yuuri drank in the morning?

“I like your skating,” Viktor admitted, scooping cherry jam into his own black tea. That was his preferred morning beverage; Yuuri knew that, something he hated himself for knowing. Because for months before the Junior World Championships where everything changed, Yuuri had taken his own tea with cherry jam even as his mother had laughed indulgently from the sidelines.

There must have been something in his expression, because Viktor turned defensive.

“I really do admire your skating. It’s beautiful, the way you move on ice. I’ve been following your career since you were a junior,” Viktor chuckled self-consciously. “Georgi used to tease me for it, a few years back.”

No matter how much Viktor spoke, it didn’t seem to be sinking in. His face was probably contorted into an unattractively baffled expression by now, and he could only watch helplessly as Viktor continued.

“I really wanted to speak to you, before. I tried once, when you were still a junior. But you seemed so unresponsive then, so I backed off, and when you went into seniors…”

Everyone knew how that story went, and it seemed that Viktor hadn’t needed last night’s confirmation of hate to know that Yuuri didn’t like him. An awkward silence descended between them, as both of them recalled exactly why they were both sitting in Viktor’s hotel room in Saitama, drinking tea in sweatpants while Yuuri was still shirtless and covered in love bites.

Yuuri wanted to avoid Viktor’s gaze, but he couldn’t.

There was a burning intensity in those cold, blue eyes, the question hanging heavy in the air between them. Yuuri willed Viktor not to say it, not to make it real; but when had Viktor ever obliged him? Yuuri felt the question rather than heard it; it had the same inevitable impact as falling on the ice after a doomed jump. He’d been waiting for this question for nearly ten years.

“Why do you hate me?”

Yuuri’s hands were shaking, and he set down his tea cup with a loud clatter.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Never, in his wildest daydreams, had he ever expected that he’d have to answer these questions just hours after having sex with Viktor. He’d imagined saying those words on a podium. Taunting Viktor with the implication at a banquet – much like he did in Sochi or on the dance floor last night. But the quiet intimacy of waking together, Viktor’s thoughtful kindness even after Yuuri’s needless cruelty last night, Viktor’s inexplicable admiration of Yuuri that stretched back to the beginning of Yuuri’s career – Yuuri was confused and thrown off-balance, when before he had been unwavering in his resentment.

Viktor was still looking at him, expectant, and Yuuri refused to acknowledge how small it makes him feel, how petty.

He didn’t have to answer.

He refused to.

He’d given his body, his virginity, to this man last night, sacrificed years of hardship and brutal training just to catch up to Viktor even before that. He refused to give any more ground, refused to give Viktor another opportunity to hurt him.

Yuuri felt the tears come like they always did, and he angrily swiped at them. He hated this. He’d sworn not to cry over Viktor again, and he’d be damned if he ever looked weak in front of him again.

He got to his feet, steeling himself, only to realize that he was trembling.

“Do you have a shirt I could borrow?” Yuuri asked with as much dignity he could muster. His voice came out frigid and robotic, but Yuuri couldn’t care. He needed to leave. Everything felt surreal, like everything was happening at a distance and Yuuri’s senses were straining to keep him grounded.

“You still haven’t answered my question,” Viktor said quietly. He’d stood up too, and Yuuri resented Viktor’s extra height at that moment. He’d looked up to Viktor before and didn’t want to do it ever again.

“It doesn’t matter,” Yuuri snarled. “It was years ago, and it was never important enough to you that you’d remember.” Yuuri strode across the room to Viktor’s wardrobe, yanking it open and taking the first shirt he could find, pulling it on. Viktor had ruined his shirt last night; he could damn well take one of Viktor’s as a replacement.

“It’s clearly important if it still means something to you,” Viktor finally snapped back, slamming the wardrobe door shut. He braced his arm against it, cutting off Yuuri’s path to the door and crowding into him. Viktor’s arm trembled, and Yuuri could see him struggling to reign his anger in. He takes a deep, shuddering breath.

“I don’t know why you hate me so much,” Viktor said, quiet. “But if you tell me – if I knew why – maybe I could fix it.”

There was silence, and then a hysterical laugh bubbled its way up in Yuuri’s throat. It sounded cruel and mocking, even to Yuuri’s ears. It hurt. He never wanted to be a cruel man.

“It’s not something you can fix that easily.”

“Won’t you let me try?” Viktor pleaded, not missing a beat. Yuuri almost scoffed, but there was something in Viktor’s eye, something desperate and earnest. “Yuuri, I’m in –”

Before he could even finish his sentence, Yuuri pushed him away, furious.

“Don’t throw those words around lightly.” He pushed past Viktor and unearthed his shoes, shoving his feet in.

“I’m not,” Viktor protested. He watched helplessly as Yuuri tried to tie his laces and failed, swearing explosively in Japanese. Yuuri slumped to the floor. The tears hadn’t stopped since Viktor had started talking; Yuuri gave in to it finally, buried his face in his hands and sobbed. It was all too much. This, here, was all his dreams from before and all his confusion from after, but he couldn’t take it, he couldn’t understand anything anymore. Too much had happened in too little time, and it went by too fast for Yuuri to comprehend.

He barely noticed when Viktor sank to the floor beside him, a comforting weight. He turned to bury his face in Viktor’s shoulder. “I loved you,” Yuuri sobbed. “I worshipped you, and you treated me like nothing.”  He felt Viktor stiffen against him in shock, and Yuuri expected to feel a stab of vindictive pleasure. He felt nothing, instead.

“It was a long time ago, and I was just a fan – what would I have mattered to you? But you had already changed my life; from the moment I saw you I knew you were going to change my life. But you didn’t even remember.”

“Yuuri, what are you saying?” Viktor’s voice was hoarse and horribly confused. That only made Yuuri cry harder, and Viktor’s arm tightened around him. Yuuri didn’t want to tell him, didn’t want to admit to anything further than what he let slip, but he knew that he had to say something or he would never get another chance. Every sentence was punctuated by a sob, every breath a struggle to take in, but Yuuri needed to get this out, and get it out now. It was poison, and it had been swimming in his veins for too long.

“It was years ago. I wanted to skate like you. My parents knew, and that year when the Junior Grand Prix Final was in Tokyo, they had taken me to see you.” Yuuri refused to look at Viktor. “I had the poster, I was lined up to get it signed and everything. And then I met you.”

“What did I do?” Viktor whispered, horrified. “Yuuri, what did I do?”

The tears had dried. All that was left was a dull emptiness. “You broke my heart. I worshipped you, and you broke my heart.”

II. Overheard at the World Championships

Chris is a wonderful friend, Viktor knows. He’s a man who doesn’t make friends easily, who charms many but shies away from casual intimacy for reasons that even he never really understood. It’s easier to present yourself as something easily digestible, and Viktor has always known how to work an audience. But Chris – he knew how to read Viktor’s silences, knew how to tell if Viktor was lying. It’s both a blessing and a curse.

“Viktor, you want something you know you’re never going to have. You need to give it up now. You’re practically begging for scraps as it is and Yuuri’s never going to love you back.”

Chris is a wonderful friend, but hearing the raw, unvarnished truth stings.

“I know!” Viktor only barely manages to keep himself from shouting, and he instantly feels guilty for the way Chris flinches in surprise at his anger. Viktor knows that he needs to keep this part of himself hidden away, to never speak of it. He knows it’s ugly; it’s his bitterness and disappointment, fury and desperation. Viktor doesn’t know how to deal with it, doesn’t want to deal with it. It makes him cry and flub his jumps: therefore, useless. So Viktor swallows it down and buries it, tries to smile again.

“’I’m sorry, Chris,” he tries again, forcing his voice to be calmer. “I just – I know what’s going on, okay? I understand how this works. But I can’t change what I want. If this is all I’m ever going to get, even if I can’t have anything else, then I’ll take it. It’s better than nothing, after all.”

“Is it?” Chris demands.

Viktor avoids his eyes and pushes past him towards the door. He doesn’t want to talk to Chris, doesn’t want to talk about this anymore. He’s bitten back these words, kept himself starved of all hope and stunted, because it would never work. Yuuri could never know, because Yuuri had made it clear that it would never happen.

Viktor wrenches open the door, and his heart stutters in his chest.

Just outside the door, clutching his gym bag so hard his knuckles are turning white, is Yuuri, who looks just as shell-shocked as Viktor feels. Chris, who had hurried to catch up with Viktor, barrels into him from behind, and Viktor crashes into Yuuri. Yuuri drops the bag, and the hallways echo loudly, damning Viktor to his humiliation.

There was no way that the sounds of their argument hadn’t carried beyond the closed door.

The three of them stare at each other in a horrified silence, until Viktor croaks out: “How much of that did you hear?”

Yuuri says nothing, but his eyes are wide and he’s shaking, which is answer enough.

Viktor shoves Chris out of the way and tugs Yuuri into the storage room, slamming the door closed and locking it. Yuuri’s small gasp of pain startles Viktor out of his panic, and he drops Yuuri’s wrist like he’s been burned. He’s never wanted to hurt Yuuri, and Viktor is ashamed to see that he’d gripped Yuuri’s wrist  hard enough that a thumb-shaped bruise was already starting to form on Yuuri’s skin. Yuuri hisses and rubs at the bruise, studiously avoiding Viktor’s gaze.

Neither of them says a word, and every second of uncertainty feels like choking to Viktor.

“You don’t need to say anything,” Viktor eventually blurts out. “I know you only ever wanted a casual thing; this is too much for me to ask from you. You can just pretend you didn’t hear a word –”

“Why?”

It’s the only word Yuuri says, but Viktor understands him anyway.

Why did he fall in love with Yuuri Katsuki? It seems like it’s been such a long time since it started, such a long time since Viktor had tried to deny it, but the reasons come up clear and true.

“You’re beautiful when you skate,” Viktor starts, voice still hoarse. “You have so many emotions on the  ice, like you’re opening yourself up for everyone to see. But when you leave the rink that window closes, and no one can ever tell what you’re thinking. That’s beautiful too, in its own way.”

“That’s not enough,” Yuuri snaps. He still refuses to look at Viktor. “That’s never enough for love.”

That stings, but Viktor takes a deep breath and plows on. “I know it’s not enough. But I want to get to know you. I want to hold your hand, I want to kiss you goodnight, I want to make you laugh and smile and make you happy. It feels like magic when you smile, like what’s making you smile is the most precious thing in the world.

“When you’re happy you look – like you feel it, in the deepest parts of your heart. When you’re on the ice you look like you’re feeling everything down to your bones. I want that.” Viktor’s voice breaks. “You’re the only one who’s made me feel anything this deeply. Even when you –” hurt me, leave me “—it’s more than anything I felt in so long.”

Viktor laughs, a small, broken sound. He must sound pathetic, but when he glances at Yuuri, Yuuri looks stunned.

“Me? I think you’re making a –”

“Don’t,” Viktor says sharply. “Don’t you dare try to make light of my feelings, Katsuki. I know you don’t feel anything back,” a hitch in his breath, “but even you wouldn’t be so cruel.”

Yuuri opens his mouth, shuts it again. It feels awful, coming clean. This is something Viktor’s held onto for years, something he’s mercilessly tried to crush ever since Yuuri had confessed his hate and demanded to be fucked in the same breath. Viktor hates it – hates himself for falling in love when Yuuri has only ever hated him, hates Yuuri for never explaining why. A tear falls to the ground, and in the stillness of a rundown storage room in a foreign city, both of them are frozen in shock.

“Oh,” Yuuri murmurs. “You’re crying.” He steps into Viktor’s space, and before Viktor can protest, Yuuri brushes Viktor’s hair away from his face. “You’re really crying.”

Yuuri’s hands cup his face, thumb brushing away his tears. Viktor cries harder, silently. If none of them makes a sound, neither of them says anything that meant anything real here – maybe Viktor could pretend, just once, that it was tenderness that made Yuuri’s hands so soft and warm against his skin.

Yuuri’s eyes are a gentle brown; they always have been. But now, there’s something in there that reminds Viktor of Yuuri’s graceful Ina Bauer. It’s something he’s never seen in the guarded tension that was Yuuri’s default face to the public, or in the wild hostility that made their nights together so passionate and punishing. Viktor could look into those eyes forever, but in that moment, it’s too much.

Viktor closes his eyes.

A brief exhale, and then there’s a touch on his lips, soft and chaste. They’ve never kissed like this before. All the kisses of the past were meant to hurt, meant to bruise or draw blood, and in those moments they had felt glorious. But on the flight home, when they were going their separate ways, the bruises on his lips, his neck, the scratches on his back – they hurt, bodily pain mixing with the ghosts of an aching heart.

This kiss felt like a caress.

“I need to think about this,” Yuuri said quietly when they break apart. “I just – I need time.”

For the first time, hope begins to unfurl in Viktor’s chest.

It was a chance. He’ll gladly take it.

III. Jumping to Conclusions: or Chapter 13 Fucked All of Us Up, or: Viktor Please Start Knocking Before You Enter

“Yuuri, I saw you –” Viktor pauses, sees the pills in Yuuri’s hands, and blanches. White-hot terror runs through Yuuri’s veins, but Viktor, after a moment, leaps into action.

“Solnyshko, did I hurt you badly last night?” he rushes to his side, worried. “Last night was… amazing,” Viktor blushes, “but if you were hurt it was most definitely not worth it.”

Viktor must think they’re painkillers, Yuuri realizes. For his potentially sore ass. Yuuri shakes himself, mentally castigating himself for jumping to such baseless conclusions. What else could Viktor have thought they were? Viktor had warned him about a sore ass the night before, even before they started really getting into it, and even Yuuri knew what he was getting into when he -

He recalls what he said last night, and he blushes. He can’t believe he said that. Yuuri saying “Make me remember you when I do,” so confidently one night, and the next morning shaking in fear when Viktor finds him drinking painkillers?

Suddenly it’s hilarious, and Yuuri begins to laugh.

“You think these are painkillers?” Yuuri asks through his laughter, and only laughs harder at Viktor’s confused expression. Viktor starts to look affronted.

“You can hardly blame me,” Viktor mutters sullenly. “’Make me remember you’, he says; of course one could not hold back on the lovemaking.”

That only makes Yuuri laugh harder, his earlier anxiety forgotten. His ass, as expected, was sore that morning. It still twinged now, but not enough that he’d have to take painkillers. Just enough that he’s not likely to forget last night any time soon. The hickies are there too – stark across his neck, and this morning when he came down to breakfast Celestino only raised an eyebrow before commenting: “You’re not going to be able to hide that with your costume.”

His coach was probably judging him, but Yuuri hadn’t cared. It was a fantastic night.

“So, what are those pills for? Are you sick?” Viktor prods at the pillbox, amused by the poodle print. “Where did you get the box anyway? It looks just like Makkachin!”

“Phichit got it for me,” Yuuri says fondly. “My dog’s a poodle too, remember? He got it for me years ago, when I –” Yuuri stops mid-sentence, equal parts horrified and surprised. Horrified, at the realization that he was about to tell Viktor Nikiforov, of all people, about his anxiety disorder. Surprised, because of how easy the whole conversation seemed to feel.

“Yuuri?” Viktor prompts, head tilting in concern. Makkachin does the same thing, Yuuri recalls, and suddenly, he feels unspeakably fond of this man.

Instead of saying anything about the pillbox, Yuuri just draws Viktor in for a kiss. Viktor goes rigid in surprise at first, but melts into it, arms encircling Yuuri’s waist. It all feels so natural; nothing about being with Viktor feels forced or unwelcome. Somehow, Yuuri always knew this, even way back when they were still hurting each other terribly.

They break apart, and Viktor looks more than a little surprised -- but, Yuuri is cheered to see, not displeased. Yuuri gently tugs the pillbox from Viktor’s hands, bends down to get his water bottle. He has already decided to love Viktor. and It was about time he started to trust Viktor too.

“Phichit got me this box three years ago,” Yuuri begins, “because I hated seeing the prescription bottles for the meds my psychiatrist gave me. Of course, when I travel I need to bring along labelled medication, but I don’t like bringing them to the rink and letting people see. So –” Yuuri gestures to the box.

Viktor has gone quiet, whether in surprise or in deference to Yuuri’s story, Yuuri doesn’t care. He’s just grateful for the silence, the way Viktor lets him sort out his own thoughts in aborted half-sentences.

“It’s for my anxiety,” Yuuri finally manages. “I used to get these really awful panic attacks before competitions, and in my first senior GPF –”

“Oh,” Viktor breathes. “Is that why you messed up your short program in your junior debut?”

Yuuri had not forgotten that somehow, Viktor had walked into him crying his heart out in his junior debut at the JGPF. He wasn’t likely to forget. Who’d have thought, years ago, that the same man who spurred him on with hate and spite would be a man that Yuuri’s heart would call beloved?

Yuuri only nods, and Viktor says nothing. He just lets Yuuri lean against his side as Yuuri swallows down his pills, basking in the companionable silence. Yuuri wants to stay here forever, wants to rest his head on Viktor’s shoulder and unburden himself, secret by secret, to Viktor’s capable hands. He’s never wanted that before, and the strength of that desire surprises him. But it’s Viktor. Viktor has always surprised him; why should it be any different now that Yuuri had admitted he was in love?

“Thank you for telling me,” Viktor whispers into Yuuri’s hair. “You really don’t have to tell me anything if you’re not comfortable.”

“That’s alright,” Yuuri murmurs. The smile, when it comes, feels easier than it has felt for years. “If feels right, with you.”

#thankyouforsteppingonus #umfb&mha #fanfic #yuri on ice #yoi fic #viktuuri #viktor nikiforov #yuri katsuki #fanfic of fanfic #lol

[mathematicianadda]

The Quiet Revolution of the “Math Gals” T-Shirt

Earlier this year, the award-winning/Radiolab-guesting/New York Times-bestselling mathematician Steve Strogatz messaged me to ask if I wanted a free T-shirt.

This is a bit like Steph Curry offering you a free pizza. Don’t ask why. Just say yes.

So I said yes, and within weeks, became the proud owner of this lovely garment.

Me (dressed like a million bucks) with my daughter (dressed like a cartoon prisoner – not her fault).

If my baby’s beautiful grumpiness is making it hard to read, then here’s a cleaner shot.

The shirt lists eight celebrated female mathematicians. First names only. On the back is the hashtag #mathgals.

I was grateful for — and mystified by — the gift. For the first and no doubt last time in my life, strangers were expressing enthusiasm and curiosity about my wardrobe. Somehow my love of math, combined with my inability to choose my own clothes, had landed me in an elite sartorial club.

The shirt is the handiwork of math educator Chrissy Newell. I reached out with questions about this underground movement.

What inspired you start making these T-shirts?

Two summers ago, my then 9-year-old daughter and I were reading Power in Numbers: The Rebel Women of Mathematics by Dr. Talithia Williams. We learned so much about amazing women that I had never even heard of.

We decided that a shirt with some of their names on it would help us share their stories, and #MathGals was born!

Initially, it was just a project for us. But as soon as I shared a picture of my daughter wearing the shirt on Twitter, people wanted to know how they could get one. I love it when people stop in their tracks as they try to figure out who is on our shirt.

How do you pick which names to use?

The first version has women that my daughter chose, whose stories were particularly interesting or inspiring to her. We also kept diversity in mind, and wanted more than just the names of white women to be brought into the spotlight.

The second version features women who were “first” at something – Euphemia Haynes was the 1st black woman to earn a PhD in mathematics, Mary Ross was the 1st American Indian engineer, Mary Jackson was NASA’s 1st black female engineer, etc.

The third version has women who are currently making a difference in mathematics, including Katie Bouman, Eugenia Cheng, Talithia Williams, Vi Hart, Jo Boaler, Marilyn Burns and others.

There’s no way we could ever capture all of the amazing women whose names we want to share, but it’s fun to come up with new ways to highlight different #MathGals.

Why first names only? To me, it creates a different kind of spotlight – less like lionizing or canonizing, and more like a birthday party.

That was actually really important to us. Many of the #MathGals had to learn, research, and publish under male pseudonyms. (Sophie Germain was a pen pal of Gauss for two years before he knew her real identity!) For some, it was illegal to study mathematics, or they weren’t allowed to earn advanced degrees or teach at the university level. We wanted to honor these women with their first names right up front.

There are three different ways that the list of names might end. Can you explain?

We started with the original: just names.

Then a teacher request that we add “& me.” I thought it really brought home the message that it’s not just career mathematicians that are #MathGals – we all are!

After that, a male teacher from an all-girls school asked about putting “& you” so he could wear it to inspire his students. Again, we thought it was a great idea. We always welcome new ideas and suggestions!

How have sales been so far?

We have sold over 1,000 shirts! We have teachers, students, administrators, mathematicians and other supporters (my mom) wearing them proudly.

My friend Sameer Shah was instrumental in reaching out to some amazing authors and mathematicians like Eugenia Cheng, Steven Strogatz, and you. Jo Boaler even has one with her name on it!

I’d love to get one to Talithia Williams with her name on it since her book started it all, but I haven’t been able to get in contact with her.

Using Twitter and word of mouth, my daughter and I love to gift t-shirts to teachers and students who show a passion for learning more about #MathGals. Coming soon, we’re going to offer mini-grants for teachers to help them bring #MathGals into the spotlight at their schools.

What sort of reactions have you gotten?

The math community has been ecstatic and has made the movement their own. The general public is shy about asking, but I know they’re looking. I started putting the #MathGals hashtag on the back of shirts so that people who were afraid to ask could research for themselves.

I’ve had people ask hilarious questions. “Are you in a bridal party?” “Are those the names of hurricanes?”

I love being able to tell them they are all famous female mathematicians. I usually get a response like, “That’s awesome!” or “How cool!”

It’s interesting how the reactions are different than when I say I’m a math teacher.

I don’t want to give surname spoilers, but could you provide us a list of the mathematicians’ full names?

Version 1: Original (a.k.a., O.G.)

Katherine Johnson, NASA mathematician and subject of Hidden Figures

Maryam Mirzakhani, 2014 Fields medalist

Hypatia, mathematician of antiquity

Sophie Germain, who did foundational work on Fermat’s Last Theorem

Ada Lovelace, often called “the world’s first computer programmer”

Emmy Noether, founding figure in abstract algebra

Sofia Kovalevskaya, influential researcher in analysis

Julia Robinson, researcher in computational complexity

Version 2: Women who were “first”

Euphemia Haynes, first African-American woman to earn a PhD in mathematics

Melanie Wood, first American woman to make the International Mathematical Olympiad team

Jeanette Scissum, first African-American mathematician to join NASA’s Marshall Space Flight Center

Mary Ross, first recorded Native American female engineer

Mary Jackson, NASA’s first Black female engineer, subject of Hidden Figures

Gladys West, who helped pioneer GPS technology

Enriqueta Gonzalez Bay y de la Vega, first woman to earn a degree in mathematics in Mexico

Hypatia, first recorded female mathematician in history

Sofia Kovalevskaya, first female PhD in mathematics

Version 3: Women making a difference in mathematics today

Katie Bouman, Caltech professor studying computational imaging

Eugenia Cheng, category theorist and author of How to Bake Pi, Beyond Infinity, and The Art of Logic

Karen Uhlenbeck, winner of the 2019 Abel Prize for “her pioneering achievements”

Talithia Williams, Harvey Mudd professor and author of Power in Numbers

Vi Hart, mathemusician and YouTube star

Jo Boaler, Stanford professor and creator of YouCubed

Marilyn Burns, educator and author of About Teaching Mathematics and The I Hate Mathematics! Book

Megan Franke, UCLA professor and member of the National Academy of Education

Tahani Amer, NASA employee and advocate for Muslim women in science

My thanks to Chrissy for answering my questions! You can buy your #mathgals garb here.

from Math with Bad Drawings https://ift.tt/31U8zjT from Blogger https://ift.tt/2NmIrcf

#Blogger

[flauntpage]

NFL Network Sexual Harassment Lawsuit Another Example of the League Rotting from Within

If you were waiting impatiently for the tsunami of sexual harassment allegations to impact a sports organization, your wait has apparently ended.

Jami Cantor, formerly a wardrobe stylist for NFL Network and a 51-year-old mother of three, has sued NFL Enterprises, alleging among other things sexual harassment and a hostile work environment. If the allegations in the complaint are true, the NFL Network offices sound like a terrible place for anyone to work regardless of gender.

You needn’t bother reading the entire complaint end to end, but if you have the time you should read all of Paragraph 23 found under the heading “Facts Common to More Than One Cause of Action.” Paragraph 23 is where Cantor names names and tells the graphic stories of how eight — EIGHT — different male co-workers harassed her sexually.

It is crucial to note here that all sexual harassment is wrong and cannot be tolerated. Again with the caveat that allegations are not facts, the allegations below range from inappropriate to terrifying.

Among the lesser actors, you find Cantor’s colleague Marc Watts, a Talent Coordinator for the network. Cantor alleges that Watts “made sexually inappropriate comments” about Cantor’s body and asked “invasive and inappropriate questions” about her sex life. Again, this is the low end of what Cantor was allegedly subjected to. Perhaps the saddest part of Cantor’s claims with reference to Watts is that she apparently thought she could rely on Watts for help. When Cantor complained to Watts about sexual harassment she was receiving from other co-workers, Watts replied “(i)t’s part of the job when you look the way you do.” What a hero.

Another relatively insignificant player in this story is former Tampa Bay Buccaneers defensive tackle and accused woman-biter Warren Sapp. Cantor probably thought her job at the network couldn’t get much worse when they stationed her in the men’s room, but she was mistaken. “Sapp came into the restroom,” Cantor’s complaint alleges, “and urinated in front of her.” When she yelled at him to leave, Sapp shot back “sorry mama, but your office shouldn’t be our shitter.” Sapp gave Cantor sex toys for three straight holiday seasons and bragged to her about his sexual conquests. All of this is awful; when you consider that Sapp is 6’2″ and certainly north of his 300-pound playing weight these days, it gets a bit scary. And yet, Sapp isn’t really a significant target here.

It gets a lot worse.

(Photo Credit: Kirby Lee, USA TODAY)

I encourage you to review our editor’s concise summary of the allegations of Eagles Hall of Fame quarterback Donovan McNabb’s contributions to this sad story. McNabb’s fixation with Cantor’s perceived “squirter” status is:  A) super-creepy; B) something he was clearly guessing about and wishing desperately to be true; and C) not appropriate to be texting to a casual acquaintance or any other average decent human being, much less a female co-worker. McNabb’s life after football has been rife with bad choices and this one will probably cost him yet another job.

It came as no surprise to me to see former NFL fullback Heath Evans’ name in this complaint. Evans is the stereotypical moron jock who was last noted in these parts for needlessly dumping on Chip Kelly. It seems that when Evans was not writing crappy takes or bloviating on NFL Network air, he was doing stupid and possibly criminal things off the air. “Current on-air talent on NFL Network, Heath Evans, sent (Cantor) nude pictures of himself on at least two separate occasions” and at one point told her that he “needed to get in you deep and hard.” Another NFL Network pundit, former Pittsburgh Steeler defensive back Ike Taylor, “sent (Cantor) sexually inappropriate pictures of himself, and a nude video while masturbating in the shower.” Such smooth operators, these guys. It’s hard to see why Cantor didn’t fall in love with both of them.

Still, at least the aforementioned (alleged) dirtbags didn’t physically assault and/or threaten and/or abuse Cantor. But two of the alleged harassers did, and their alleged actions are really disturbing.

(Photo Credit: Charles LeClaire, USA TODAY)

NFL Hall of Fame running back Marshall Faulk, star of the Greatest Show on Turf, seems to have had it really bad for Cantor. He asked her “deeply personal and invasive questions” about her sex life, including “her favorite sex position, whether she liked oral sex, and whether she dated black men.” Eschewing the usual greeting of “good morning” or “hey, how are you” on reaching the office, Faulk opted instead to greet Cantor by “fondling her breasts and groping her behind.” Thereafter, Faulk’s advances escalated to “stroking and pulling out his genitals in front of her” and “demanding oral sex while pulling his pants down” after he had pinned her to a wall. Yeah, that’s sexual assault. That’s criminal behavior. We’re way past harassment now.

If Cantor only had the foregoing allegations to work with, this would still be a huge story and it would still be a very pricey lawsuit for the league (via its asset, NFL Enterprises) to litigate or settle. Unfortunately for the league, it wasn’t only colleagues and men who were arguably not in positions of power over Cantor who engaged in this behavior. It was the big boss man.

Eric Weinberger is (at least as of this writing) president of Bill Simmons’ media group which includes The Ringer. Before taking that job, though, Weinberger was the Executive Producer of NFL Network, i.e., he who had to be obeyed. Weinberger’s alleged conduct toward Cantor was consistent with the culture of harassment that swirled around Cantor. Looking at the allegations against Weinberger, you might even conclude that the others watched Weinberger lasciviously pursuing Cantor at work and figured it was open season. “Weinberger asked (Cantor) to meet him in the back bathroom because he needed to see her and was ‘super horny,'” the complaint states. In case his intentions weren’t clear, “Weinberger pressed his crotch” against her shoulder and asked her “to touch it.” He also put his hands on her behind, crotch and breasts and put his hands down Cantor’s pants to “check if she was wearing underwear.” At work. As her boss. Sexual assault. Criminal behavior.

Big if true, and The Ringer knows it:

UPDATE: The Ringer has released a statement about Eric Weinberger, and he has been placed on leave indefinitely: https://t.co/JBGnOZP40F

— Deadspin (@Deadspin) December 12, 2017

So does the league:

Breaking news from @soshnick below. The NFL Network confirms to @SInow that Marshall Faulk, Ike Taylor, and Heath Evans have been suspended from their duties at the NFL Network. http://pic.twitter.com/UE6pzvekeW

— Richard Deitsch (@richarddeitsch) December 12, 2017

The NFL Network has pulled the talent bios on its website from those involved in the allegations of sexual harassment: https://t.co/iXsWgJHXzH

— Richard Deitsch (@richarddeitsch) December 12, 2017

Probably the saddest part of this whole tale is that some of you are going to look at what happened to Cantor and figure that even assuming it’s true, well, so what. Cantor didn’t get sexually assaulted to the extent that medical treatment was needed, the way Matt Lauer’s colleague allegedly did. Cantor wasn’t raped, the way some of Harvey Weinstein’s accusers have alleged. A lot of smoke but no fire, some will be tempted to say about Cantor’s case.

Don’t you believe it.

Cantor’s complaint sets forth obvious violations of her rights as a human being and a citizen to work in a place where colleagues are respected and treated equally and fairly. On that basis alone, if the allegations are proven true, all of these men should lose their jobs. But even though it isn’t likely to go further than that into criminal proceedings, it’s imperative to understand that the actions of some of these men (if proven in court) were definitely criminal and worthy of prosecution. Because here’s the ugly truth: A moment like Faulk pinning a woman to a wall and demanding oral sex or another moment like Weinberger summoning a woman to the rear bathroom because he’s “super horny” can’t be fully understood without realizing that those moments had the very real chance of turning into violent sex crimes under the right circumstances. It’s crass to say Cantor got lucky, but at some level it’s hard to say she didn’t.

As for the NFL, Cantor’s lawsuit is another example of how the league continues to pretend that everything is all right even though ratings are plummeting and players are suffering debilitating injuries at a frightening pace. The NFL’s typically tone deaf response to the league’s ongoing self-immolation was to extend the contract of its wildly unpopular commissioner.

We can safely assume that the NFL will eventually buy its way out of Cantor’s lawsuit. Disproving all of her allegations in court would not only be nigh on impossible, it would be costly and it would also be a public relations black eye that the league obviously does not need now.

But given the breadth of the league’s business operations and its male-dominated culture, Cantor’s suit almost certainly won’t be the last of its kind. At some point, one way or another, there probably won’t be enough money to make reports of similar conduct and its sickening consequences just go away.

NFL Network Sexual Harassment Lawsuit Another Example of the League Rotting from Within published first on http://ift.tt/2pLTmlv