#hm actually right now im not sure whether god was actually mentioned in the fic?

[radio-sepia]

shizzle i’m having such a moment rn

ANALYSIS COMIN THROUGH

currently reading ‘the sacred and the profane’ (good omens fanfic by afrai) and listening to ‘looking back is blinding’ (chrome canyon)

and shiz okay apart from the fact that this music piece is literally perfect anytime i listen to it, now I keep thinking of it as the embodiment of Capriel’s arc, or rather, his relationship with Zirah; i get quite similar vibes from both those pieces.

because really ‘looking back...‘ for me, feels like there’s nothing left for you. you’re walking, and walking, and walking and there is no end in sight. every step you take is full of pain, but you keep going anyway. stuck in a loop of the same decision, over and over AND OVER AGAIN. you keep going, even though you KNOW you're actually going.. backwards. you're making no progress, and the only thing you're doing is hurting yourself, but you can't stop. doing what you're doing is the only comfort you have. and there is some small part of you that still holds on to hope, that maybe if you try hard enough, it will get better. as if that part had anything to hold on to. you tried to rip that hope out of yourself so many times, but apparently you can't. maybe it's the only thing keeping you alive.

and that's how i see Capriel. the only thing of value he has in his life is Zirah; and since the latter is deep into trauma induced psychopathic-like mindset characterised by zero empathy for anyone except Capriel and acts of bloodcurdling violence done without so much as a hint of remorse... yeah, you could totally equate the toxicity of that relationship with a 'bucket of carcinogen' as done so in the fic. and he keeps it up. he can't help falling back into Zirah's arms, can't help the comfort that it brings him, even though with that comes sorrow and grief and agony. he desperately wants Zirah to be different, to heal, but he knows it's practically impossible since Zirah doesn't express any interest in changing himself. but that little hope is still there, hovever small and awful. like a knife leaving him bleeding every single time the same thought enters his mind. 'he'll always be like this'.

but if he were to end it, nothing would remain. an angel, unable to die, among humans who come and go, among angels stuck in their superiority and petty rivarly with Hell, with God that doesn't seem to care about any of Her children...

[omgkatsudonplease]

lily!!! thanks a ton for offering to write me a birthday ficlet! i have two prompt options for you to choose from (courtesy of my personal prompt generator wife, robbie): 1. "we met each other on a sunday morning, both doing our walk of shame" au OR [cont.]

[cont.] 2. "i’m obsessed with a food blogger who writes about cheap ways to be gourmet in your 20s and i flirt with them over comments but they never post pictures of their face and ALSO there’s a really cute grocery bagger at the store down the street who teases me and always asks to join me for dinner and i definitely want to say yes" au. all ships fair game (though ofc i'm partial to victuuri, milasara, & phichimetti). thank you lovely!!! appreciate you tons!!!

okay so this is a belated bday ficlet for the super lovely @extranikiforov​! (ilu rae im just a butt who has no concept of time) i’m going to uh... hahaha okay this is prompt 1, phichimetti, and tangentially related to the mayo jar fic that @sinkingorswimming​ wrote for me:

Christophe has heard of him, of course -- no one who likes figure skating and Instagram hasn’t heard of Phichit Chulanont and his excellent little videos of him goofing around on the ice to various strains of pop music. He’s probably personally responsible for at least 85% of the plays on the one video of Phichit dancing to Beyonce’s “Single Ladies” and somehow managing to nail the moves whilst having knife shoes strapped to his feet. 

But it’s one thing to know about the legend, and it’s another to meet him in person. And it’s another to run into him sneaking out of his neighbour Viktor’s apartment at six in the morning. 

“Seems we had the same idea,” he remarks cheerily, and Phichit nearly jumps a foot in the air at that, dropping his paper bag as he does. Christophe bends to get it, handing it back to him. “Visiting a friend?”

“I suppose,” says Phichit, and then frowns as he looks him up and down. “Wait. I’ve seen you around. You’re Yuuri’s Saturday Night.”

Christophe raises an eyebrow. “Saturday Night? Is that all you know about me?”

Phichit opens his mouth to protest further, but Christophe laughs, shaking his head as he takes out the key to his own apartment and fiddles with the door. 

“Want to grab brunch?”

Phichit snorts. “In your apartment?”

“Well, I’m amenable to going to Panin’s, but I do need to put on clothes that aren’t obviously from last night,” replies Christophe, gesturing to the rumpled date-night outfit that Yuuri had half-torn in his eagerness to get them off of him. 

Phichit looks him up and down, hums, and nods. “I see your point,” he says. “But Yuuri might be worried if --”

“Nonsense.” Christophe waves an airy hand. “You know he sleeps like the dead when he’s very tired out.”

“No thanks to you.” Phichit snorts again, but then his expression grows a little downcast, a little sheepish. “I’m... I’d be down for eggs and pancakes,” he says, his cheeks flushing a little darker at that. “But do you think I’d need to change, too?”

Christophe looks him up and down as briefly as he can. “Very Holly Golightly of you,” he declares. “I’m sure it’ll be quite the statement.”

Phichit laughs at that. “Right, breakfast at Panin’s in last night’s party dress. I’ll be accepting my Oscar now, thanks.”

Christophe smiles. “I like it,” he says, and vanishes into his apartment.

“So,” Christophe continues, half an hour later in a booth at Panin’s Diner on the corner. The city is starting to wake around them, cars and trucks honking and moving through the streets outside. Phichit stirs some whipped cream into his hot chocolate, and raises an eyebrow. 

“So?” he echoes.

“I’m just Yuuri’s Saturday Night to you?” Christophe prompts. Phichit laughs, resting his chin on his hands. His smile is as indolent as the Sunday morning outside, slow and sweet and a little worshipful. Christophe’s never been one for religion, but maybe there’s some hint of God in the way Phichit’s eyes sparkle. 

“I mean, I’ve heard other things,” Phichit replies, now idly licking his spoon and setting it back on the saucer. Christophe has barely touched his own coffee, but he’s more than alert to the way Phichit’s tongue dances along the steel edge of the spoon. “All good things, I’m guessing. I’ve always suspected Yuuri was a bit of a freak in the sack, so thanks for confirming that.”

Christophe feels his cheeks heat up, and he slowly slides his face into his hands. “How much did you hear,” he mutters. 

Phichit takes on a distinctly breathless tone. “Oh, big boy, don’t stop, right there, mm, yes, like that, harder, yes!” It attracts a couple curious stares from other diner patrons, and Christophe isn’t sure whether to try to shut him up or evaporate on the spot, but either way he looks around and beams widely at the rather bemused server headed their way with breakfast.

“He’s really into the hot chocolate,” he explains, and Phichit bursts into laughter. 

“So, big boy, I have to say, congratulations. I think you’re the first Saturday Night who’s ever gotten my poor roommate to think of someone other than Viktor Nikiforov for a couple hours at a time,” he teases. The server sets down their plates then, and almost immediately flees back behind the counter. Christophe can barely bring himself to be embarrassed at that. 

He opts instead for smothering his fluffy pancakes -- Panin’s are some of the finest in town -- with maple syrup and whipped cream. “I’ll be accepting my... what’s the equivalent of an Oscar for good sex, then?” 

“The... Golden Dildo,” declares Phichit, layering whipped cream between each layer of pancake and grinning from ear to ear. “A really big one, too. Yuuri once complained to me in this very booth that one of his Saturday Nights lied to him about being a grower.”

Christophe nearly spews out the pancake bite he’d just eaten. “What a disappointment that must have been,” he remarks. 

Phichit shakes his head. “He was betrayed.” 

“Hm. Speaking of betrayal, though -- ” Christophe’s eyes narrow. “Why were you sneaking out of Viktor’s place in a cocktail dress?”

Phichit shrugs. “Why does anyone ever do anything?” he wonders innocently. 

Christophe waves an accusatory fork at him. “Does Yuuri know you’re test driving Viktor for him?”

Phichit gapes. “Test driving!” he exclaims, laughing. “That’s one way to put it. I rather prefer the term ‘loosening the mayo jar’, but yours is classier.”

“I can’t believe I’ve finally lived to see the day where five-time world champion figure skater Viktor Nikiforov is referred to as a mayo jar, but here we are.” Christophe shakes his head. “What a strange world we live in.”

“Strange indeed,” agrees Phichit. “Considering that Viktor Nikiforov’s hot neighbour is screwing my poor, sweet, introverted dancer of a roommate.” He waggles his fork back at Christophe. “You’d almost think there was some big cosmic mix-up going on around here.” 

Christophe raises an eyebrow. “You think I’m hot,” he states.

“I’ve known you were hot for a while,” replies Phichit. “And I was surprised to see you show up sometimes on Saturday night, but hey. Hidden depths for everyone.”

Christophe wonders if this is the emotional equivalent of a punch to the solar plexus. He leans back in his seat and finally takes a long sip of his coffee. It’s not nearly as bitter as he’d like it to be. 

“Let’s make a deal,” Phichit says suddenly, setting down his fork and knife and folding his hands conspiratorially. “You and I know better than anyone that those two idiots we call our roommate and neighbour are... how do I put this lightly?”

“Emotionally constipated but pining after each other?” asks Christophe.

Phichit snaps his finger. “Precisely. And you and I also know we’re both very hot and would like to try this out, too.” He gestures between them. 

Christophe nods. “Viktor has... mentioned a couple times that he’s had his eyes set on his partner’s roommate,” he remarks. “He’s also then wondered if that makes him a bad person, but he doesn’t want to cheat, etcetera, etcetera.”

“It’s not cheating if we all agree to swap partners for a night,” Phichit points out, and then his eyes light up with some stroke of divine inspiration. “What are your thoughts, big boy, on a key party?” 

Christophe vaguely wonders if Phichit actually knows his name, though he also has to admit, he doesn’t mind being called ‘big boy’ in that tone of voice.

He takes a bite of his pancake. “Tell me more,” he says, and Phichit grins.