#science and publishing is a mess

[fake-married-my-dead-fiance]

For those watching Doctor Slump who may not be in a scientific field... what Min Kyung-min did was incredibly shitty but not uncommon. It's also definitely fraud.

The word my subtitles are using is "dissertation", but since those are uncommon in medicine, I'm pretty sure Ha-neul is writing a scientific research paper intended for publication. Anyone hoping to become a professor would need to publish frequently. The rules for authorship are that anyone who has made a major intellectual contribution to the paper are supposed to be included as an author. It is common to sometimes add authors who are just in the lab group, the bigger problem is leaving someone off.

However, sole authorship is "better" and so at the end of grad school, your professor may encourage you to write a paper yourself. Kyung-min wanted that sole authorship but didn't do the work. If anything, Ha-neul deserved sole authorship. It's likely that Kyung-min was editing a draft and just submitted the paper without Ha-neul noticing.

Anyway, I have watched this sort of thing happen and I've heard horror stories about it. Science can be cutthroat, but I've been lucky to always work with people who were happy to share authorship. I've even been given authorship in some borderline cases because the primary authors wanted to be as inclusive as possible.

[starlightartemis]

I have all night to make 7 illustrations of raptors that I should’ve done weeks ago, bc the biologist needs them for Tomorrow

[valeriefauxnom]

No joke I was just talking to WillofWinnie about this a week or so ago! Granted it was more in the context of me complaining about Forgotten Truths and other events that I think ultimately were the main problem-causers to sending Dragalia's story off the rails at the end, but still!

I was talking about it in the context of Zethia not really doing anything during the event even if it's supposed to be partially 'her' event. One of the elements that I had noted that kinda rubbed me a little 'hum' was that even when I might expect her to put something together/remember something else relevant, she doesn't. Like when Ilia goes:

Zethia doesn't so much as spare Phares (or heck, Leonidas, as he was explicitly the first between the brothers to start looking into alchemy) a second of thought here, which, I know I'm biased and might make this petty complaint suspect, but I dunno. Phares is among the most accessible siblings they had growing up since he still lives at the castle and is a member of its court. And yet she only ever spares any thought for Euden and Notte, which, while understandable that those two 'made the mental cut', still was a minor minor thought of mine when she has a sibling so versed in a topic relevant at large.

It's far from a large complaint, but another echo of it is later in Blood That Binds, as you point out, where Phares has apparently managed to do something more of the capabilities of what alchemy could do in its golden age, and yet Zethia doesn't have a moment of 'oh like Ilia did' to where she could apply and or share knowledge that she'd gained in the past, even to just ask a question (ex, 'has he gone berserk, then?')

To get back to the actual topic at hand before I start typing out my more large complaints about the story, I just find it funny that Phares wasn't actually trying to bring 'Alberius' back, per se, and just casually wound up with Whole Deal still.

From what he makes it sound, he was more just looking for a body vessel that was strong and smart enough that he could foist his possession off on to regain full control over his own body than trying to fully resurrect the dude spiritually. And yet somehow he (or the Progenitor) manages to get the dude's OG soul crammed into a body anyways!

Interestingly, another way you could spin it is that Replica!Alberius is almost more suggested to be a super-advanced semi-organic android than a true biological copy, in that he also possesses a core like the other androids do. In that regard, you could view it that the key to truly getting someone back more lies in magical tech than just magic.

...Now I'm just trying to chew on the morality of body-(re)creation in Dragalia.

Ilia's act of creating Mordecai for a wandering soul isn't viewed as inherently evil even if Meene and co fear the dragons would not like it for enabling an otherworld presence in their world.

Raising the dead is otherwise generally portrayed as evil, with the exception of Horus (which isn't condemned nor affirmed). Double double out of topic but I've always thought that if I had to give the fam other dragons besides theirs, Horus would be the perfect dragon for Phares! We see this with the whole Nedrick/Euden manner and the Sheila Incident, as well as the Postmortem Panic event.

This is where Phares' act gets doubly tricky. He wasn't explicitly trying to 'get' Alberius (and by proxy raise the dead) but he was trying to create an entity solely to foist his possession on. He doesn't seem particularly remorseful for it, nor were other siblings harking on him for trying to raise the dead. I think in the end it all would rely on what degree Phares was intending this creation to have its own cognitive power. It needs to have the capacity, but does can it actually use the ability, especially before being possessed? Even murkier is the faint suggestion Phares was also secretly desiring to create an Alberius that could just swoop in, save the day, and fix everything wrong in his (and everyone's) lives.

I have honestly no idea where I am going with this, but hopefully someone can kinda get my nonsense here regardless. A surprisingly high amount of the fam are involved with tampering with life and death and otherwise raising Complicated Questions of Morality!

What The Heck Was Going On In The Royal Family???

Ok, I've dug up my fair share of 'huh, they never really mentioned that' in Dragalia about the royal family already, like Leonidas' secret panther he kept as a pet or the running faint suggestion Phares is not an organized person, but I must say, I'm not sure how I overlooked this exceedingly rare lore hint about the QUEEN:

Fullmetal Alchemist references so blatant that even I (who has never seen or read any of its works) aside, while I had known Cassandra had started trying to resurrect Aurelius, there clearly was something else going on here, too.

Specifically, this line:

"We're not talking about tryin' to cram a soul back in its old box like a certain queen we won't mention. This is playing Frankenstein for your own selfish reasons."

To that, I say: what?

Cassandra isn't exactly associated with any queens, and yet the only one was in her vicinity for the most of her life was the Queen of Alberia.

Here, to me, even if the details are vague, it still seems like some dramatic moment in Alberia. Doleur is contrasting what he knows is an 'evil' act (raising the dead and trying of, as with Aurelius), with some unspecified incident in which the queen... apparently needed her soul 'crammed back' into, presumably, her own body?

Alternatively, I suppose one could take Doleur's words as instead a contrast of it being for a selfish reason, which would leave both actions free to be potentially 'evil' on Dragalia's scale of Magical Morality. There, I might almost be tempted to float the idea that Cassandra was at one point trying to resurrect the Queen, not to try to bring her own love back, but Aurelius'. After all, the Queen died when Euden and Zethia were still pretty young, as is stated and shown several times. Even Leonidas was maybe an early teen.

I could see Aurelius being doubly upset not just for the loss of his wife, but also the confusion of how the heck he's going to keep an adequate eye and help rearing the throng of children he has, since he himself is rather busy with little things like the running of the country. Can't let all those scheming servants, nobles, or guards get any claws into them, after all, and it would be even more difficult without another parent to keep track of these sorts of things. There we could get an easy 'evil, but selfless act' - she's trying to bring back the true love of the man she loves back, but trying to use evil magic to do so.

So... yeah. Whatever the case may be, whether there was some funky incident of the Queen's soul getting misplaced and needing Fix-It Cassandra, Court Sorceress Extraordinaire to find it, or her having dabbled in necromancy even before Aurelius to try to get his wife back, there definitely was Something going on regarding the Queen and I am pained we'll never hear about it!!!

As a last note, this whole thing gets doubly more complicated when you realize that the Queen is still seemingly kicking about the world spiritually, strongly suggested to be haunting Euden, and even funnier when you also realize Aurelius is also suggested to be his own presence, both within Zodiark and maybe able to protectively haunt Cassandra too.

Can none of the Alberian Royal Family have a normal life or death, for that matter????

[markscherz]

I'm sorry... snake paper? Are things heating up in the snake researcher fandom?

16 February 2024: A team of researchers (including a generally well-respected anaconda expert) found minimal and partly contradictory genetic differences in green anacondas over an enormous area, summarily dismissed all previous work on the taxonomy of green anacondas, and gave the mitochondrial lineage concerned a new name, along the way making some huge fumbles that show plainly that they have no idea how taxonomy works or what certain technical terms mean. They published the work in a journal from a suspect publishing house that is known to rush, skip, or ignore peer review as and when it suits them. And apparently there was some suspicious funding involved, though I don’t know much about that. They made a media storm with ‘a new anaconda!’ but within minutes there were people raising huge red flags about the paper, for the reasons enumerated above and others.

The response from ‘the community’ has been swift and harsh, but mostly fair, in my view. The discussion on ResearchGate reflects this pretty well. There are some bad takes about keeping ‘wokism’ out of science; I would argue that it remains critical to incorporate native peoples, knowledge, and languages into taxonomic work—just not the way this was done, in flagrant and intentional conflict with the established methods and protocols. There are also responses in the discussion by the lead author that show that he is evidently impervious to all of this criticism, and stands by the belief that the work and taxonomic reasoning is sound.

19 March 2024: two papers were published simultaneously in Bionomia, that both enumerate and rebut the problems of the original paper. And I know there are more on the way, though I don’t know if they are all going to be completed now that two responses have already been published.

The one thing I would weigh in on from my perspective is that it is the *taxonomy*, and not necessarily the evidence presented in the paper, that is the biggest problem. Species are described based on mitochondrial data alone all the time. Some of the results are quite interesting. But the taxonomy of the paper is a mess, full of contradictions, cherry-picking, and terminological errors. In the hands of competent taxonomists, the work might have been much more difficult to dispute. But also, no competent taxonomist would have assigned a new name to this lineage; there are too many existing names that would have priority, if it is worth recognising.

Undoing public perception of there being a new anaconda species will take years, if it can ever really be achieved. Always easier for media stories to go around than corrections.

TL;DR big snake paper made big mistakes, and within a month was dismissed. It has probably done lasting damage to perception of anaconda diversity.

[i2sunric]

𝗬𝗢𝗨’𝗥𝗘 𝗟𝗢𝗦𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗠𝗘 (s.jy)

unrequited love (but is it really?)

MASTERLIST

PAIRING: bestfriend!jake x reader (f)

SUMMARY: you’d loved him quietly for so long, it felt like a part of who you were. but love, when unspoken, had a way of festering. it filled the silences, lingered in the spaces between you, and left you questioning everything.

WARNINGS: heartbreak, too little communication (barely one at all), reader watches from afar, jake is kinda a f boy (but make it romantically, lol), if only they confessed they’d be happy, lmk if more. NOT PROOFREAD.

PUBLISHED: 1st December 2024

WC: 2k

TAGLIST: (permanent) @stolasisyourparent @jaeyunsbimbo @jwnghyuns @bangtancultsposts @shawnyle @jooniesbears-blog @skzenhalove @ro-diaries @onlyhyunjin @xcosmi @strawberrhypen @heeheeswifey @jakeflvrz @astratlantis @tunafishyfishylike @branchrkive @insommni4 @kirinaa08 @leiclerc @nxzz-skz @laurradoesloveu @beomluvrr @heeshlove @17ericas @riribelle @cloud-lyy (project) @whateverhoon @theothernads

NOW PLAYING: You’re losing me (From The Vault) by Taylor Swift

a/n: very low effort, i’m sorry

Middle school had been a maze of awkward hellos and the formation of friendships, but finding Jake had felt like finding your person.

He'd been the boy who shared his snacks with you when you forgot your lunch, sat beside you in class, whispering jokes that got you both in trouble, and the first person you called when something — anything — happened.

“You're stuck with me now," Jake had said that first day, his grin as bright as the summer sun.

His cheeks were round and he was wearing glasses while his brown hair fell onto his forehead, a beautiful mess.

"Lucky me," you teased, rolling your eyes. But deep inside, you had never felt luckier.

You weren't one to make friendships fast, all your attempts at small talks always ended up being awkward and uneasy, usually with you making a fool out of yourself.

You were glad Jake had been extroverted enough to adopt you.

You still remember the middle school science fair, which was supposed to be a showcase of brilliance and innovation—or so your teacher had declared with far too much enthusiasm. To you and Jake, it was more like a recipe for chaos.

The two of you had decided on making a volcano that would erupt using baking soda and vinegar. It seemed simple enough, but it was proving to be anything but.

"Alright, now we try," he gawked excitedly, holding high the plastic bottle that served for your volcano.

The construction-paper casing you had made in arts and crafts sat beside it, drying after unfortunate an incident involving too much paint.

"Wait," I said, looking at his hands where the measuring cup full was held. "How much vinegar did you put?"

"Uh…" He paused, looking suspiciously guilty. "I don't know. A lot?"

"Jake!" you groaned, trying not to laugh. "It's supposed to be precise! What if it explodes everywhere?"

"That's the point, isn't it?" he shot back, grinning mischievously.

You rolled your eyes but couldn't hide your smile as Jake dramatically tipped the baking soda into the bottle.

For a moment, nothing happened, and the two of you leaned in closer, peering into the bottle like a pair of amateur scientists.

Then it happened.

With a loud whoosh, the vinegar and baking soda reacted with more enthusiasm than either of you had anticipated. The foam burst out of the bottle, spilling onto the desk and splattering onto your hands and clothes.

"Jake!" you shrieked, jumping back as the foam continued to pour out, dripping onto the floor.

Jake was laughing so hard he could barely stand. "It works!" he managed to choke out gasps for air.

“You're impossible," you said, trying to sound annoyed but failing miserably as laughter bubbled out of you.

"Admit it," Jake said, wiping his hands on his already-ruined shirt. "This is way cooler than whatever the other kids are doing."

You shook your head, still smiling. "We're definitely getting detention for this."

"Totally worth it," he said, grinning at you.

Through the years, Jake had been your constant— your rock, your safe haven.

Along the way, your feelings changed. It wasn't his laugh that warmed your heart; it was how his hair fell in his eyes when he was focused on something, the way he would hold the door for you without a second thought, and the way he knew how you were feeling without your ever having to say anything.

But you kept those feelings locked away, terrified of what might happen if you said them out loud.

You thought that maybe, with all the high school matters and puberty hitting, Jake would grow distant from you.

You weren't as popular as him; you liked being on your own or with your small circle of friends, especially due to your awkward nature.

But, much to your surprise, your connection only got stronger.

The hallways were never empty, always alive with laughter, chatter, and the occasional sound of lockers slamming shut. You could usually maneuver them with ease, but today was different.

You could feel it— the weight of whispers, eyes darting toward you, and the kind of sharp-edged giggles that made your stomach churn.

You knew they were talking about you. They usually did.

“She's got Jake wrapped around her finger, and I saw her laughing and sweet talking to Sunghoon too. She wants everybody, uh?”

"I know, right? She's so clingy. It's so embarrassing."

The voices were muffled but not small enough, and their words pierced into you like small, jagged pebbles. You continued walking, trying to keep your head high, but it was hard to avoid the way their laughter trailed after you.

As you turned the corner, almost colliding with him, Jake leaned casually against your locker, waiting for you, just like he always did before class.

His smile vanished the instant he saw your face. "Hey," he said quietly, straightening up. "What's wrong?"

“Nothing," you mumbled, fumbling with your combination lock.

Jake's eyebrows furrowed, and he looked down the hall, where the girls were still whispering, their eyes darting between you and Jake. It didn't take him long to put the pieces together.

"Are they bothering you?" he asked, this time sharper.

"No," you said, lying, avoiding his eyes. "It's fine, let's just go to class.

Jake wasn't convinced. He stood there a moment, his jaw clenched, before turning on his heel and walking straight toward the group of girls.

"Jake!" you hissed, grabbing at his arm, but he was already out of reach.

"Hey," he said, his voice even but with a firmness to it as he came to a stop in front of them.

The girls froze; smug expressions faltered under his gaze. "Got something to say about my best friend?"

The hallway grew eerily quiet.

One of the girls, the ringleader of the group, stammered, "W-We weren't talking about her—"

"Right," Jake interrupted her, his tone heavy with sarcasm. "Because I definitely didn't just hear you." he sneered bitterly "Listen, if you've got a problem with her, you've got a problem with me. And trust me, you don't want that."

The girls looked at each other uneasily and then murmured something about needing to get to class, scurrying away.

Jake turned back to you, his expression softening when he saw the mix of embarrassment and gratitude on your face.

"You didn't have to do that," you said quietly as he walked back to you.

"Of course I did," he replied, slinging an arm over your shoulder as if to shield you from the rest of the world. "No one messes with you. Not on my watch."

It was the protectiveness in his voice that warmed your heart, and as the two of you walked to class together, you couldn't help but think that Jake had always been more than just your best friend— he was your safe place, your unwavering ally.

Starting university together had been exciting, a new beginning for the both of you.

New faces, new experiences, and yet the comfort of Jake remained the same. You still would study late into the night together, eat cheap takeout, and walk across campus under the streetlights.

Then Jake started dating.

It wasn't sudden. It began with a girl from his biology class, someone perky and charming.

Then there was a girl in his intramural soccer team, followed by a string of casual dates that never seemed to last long but still stung like tiny pinpricks against your heart.

You told yourself it was fine, that you had no right to feel this way. Jake was your best friend, and he was happy. That was what mattered.

But it's another thing watching him laugh with someone else, watching him give away the pieces of himself you selfishly wanted for yourself— it just hurt in a way no words could describe.

It's one Friday night; Jake convinces you to join him at a party. That wasn't your scene, really, but he had begged, promising it just would not be the same without you.

The music was loud, the laughter even louder, but none of it could drown out the sound of your own thoughts.

You stood by the corner of the room, nursing your drink and pretending not to notice the way Jake's smile lit up the space.

He was in his element: talking, laughing, charming people around him with ease. His dyed blond hair caught the light as he leaned in to hear someone over the noise. And though you tried not to stare, you couldn't help it. He had that effect on you; always had.

You’d loved him quietly for so long, it felt like a part of who you were. But love, when unspoken, had a way of festering.

It filled the silences, lingered in the spaces between you, and left you questioning everything.

“Hey,” Jake’s voice cut through your thoughts, startling you.

You looked up to find him standing in front of you, his signature grin in place. "You've been awfully quiet tonight," he said, tilting his head. "Everything okay?"

You forced a smile, hoping it was convincing. "Yeah, just tired."

Jake studied you for a moment, his gaze softening. "You sure? You've been kind of… distant lately.”

The concern in his voice made your chest tighten. He cared. Of course, he cared. But not in the way you wanted him to.

"I'm fine," you lied, taking a sip of your drink to avoid his piercing gaze.

Jake frowned slightly but didn't push. He never did. It was one of the things you loved about him, his ability to read the room, to know when to give you space.

“Well," he said finally, his voice lightening. "If you need anyone to talk to, you know where to find me."

You nodded, gave him a small smile. "Thanks, Jake."

Yet even as he walked away, your heart was aching, knowing that he'd be there for you but just never in the way you actually needed him to be.

Later that night, after most of the party had cleared out, you found yourself sitting on the back porch, staring up at the stars.

Almost everyone was gone, just a small afterparty happening inside, though you didn't want to be part of any. The chill in the air was a welcome distraction from the turmoil in your chest.

"You okay?" Jake's voice came again, softer this time.

You turned to find him standing in the doorway, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket.

He stepped outside and sat down beside you, the warmth of his presence seeping into your skin.

"Done cleaning?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

He shook his head, leaning back against the railing. "I was worried about you," he admitted.

Your heart clenched. "I told you, I'm fine."

Jake let out a soft laugh, shaking his head. "You're an awful liar, you know that?" he eyed you up and down "Seriously, you're quiet. more than usual."

The corner of your mouth twitched, but the smile didn't quite reach your eyes. "Maybe I just don't have anything worth saying.

Jake turned to him, his face soft but serious. "You always have something worth saying," he said. "You just don't let people hear it."

It was a comment that hit closer to home than he probably realized, and for a moment, you considered telling him the truth-about how you felt, about how much it hurt to love him from a distance. But fear kept the words locked in your throat.

Instead, you laughed quietly, shaking your head. "You're too good at this, you know?"

"At what?"

"At making people feel seen," you said, glancing over at him. "It's kind of unfair."

Jake chuckled, his gaze softening. "I just care about the people I love," he said simply.

Your heart skipped a beat at his words, even though you knew they weren't meant the way you wanted them to be.

"Jake," you started, voice shaking very slightly. "What if—"

But before you could finish, the door behind you creaked open, and someone called his name.

One of his last situationships, asking for him to come inside. To join her.

"Hold that thought," he said, standing up.

You nodded and saw him disappear into the house; his figure grew tiny before tucking into it. It sounded in the air-the speech you wanted to say after he was already out the back door.

And with all that, beneath the vast expanse of star, something struck you - maybe love towards Jake would mostly be experienced in silence: the remembering of moments and convincing you enough even when those weren't.

Because you wanted him, his presence, half of his heart. You knew you would be content, even with a quarter of that.

But nothing would occur if one kept silent, afraid of spoiling all those years of friendship for some fleeting thing.

[dark-lord-of-awesomeness]

I saw your tags from the post about Stanley not breaking Ford's project. I just wanted to add: imagine if Ford realized the truth years later when Crampelter told him that HE broke his project. Like "I'm a changed man and I want to get this out my chest: I'm the one who broke your project in high school. But since your life seems to be good, then it probably didn't matters hahaha— why are you having a breakdown right now?"

Oh Ford would be so devastated, especially because there was a whole second half that got cut in the tags when i hit reblog:)

For those of you interested, here's the OG post

(Also, if anyone knows how to make the link smaller, i'd appreciate it. I don't know why its so big)

I had a whole thing about Stan, getting accused of breaking Fords project and no one believing him when he says he didn't do it (not even Ford), goes back to school and finds evidence that he wasn't responsible, like a video or someone else fessing up to it. Only Ford doesnt want to hear it, too stuck in his own hurt to listen to what Stan has to say. They have a whole argument that ends with Ford shouting at Stan to actually own up to something for once in his life and grow up.

Cue hurt feelings.

Well, since Stan knows he's innocent, and therefore owes Ford nothing, and Ford doesnt want to hear about said innocence, he's going to use his hurt feelings and anger to fuel his petty ambition of one upping Ford. Ford wanted to ditch Stan and become a famous scientist? Well now Stan's going to do that. He goes to school, manages to scrape enough passing grades to graduate and works in the evenings to feed himself, graduates, and goes to college. Its not Backupsmore, for two reasons.

This is not a college reconciliation story

Stan's college is actually halfway decent. Its not great, but its not bottom of the barrel, for a reason that will become important later.

Stan's now in college, working to get any kind of fancy science degree, where he meets (Drum roll) Emma-May! She becomes his new BFF and helps tutor him, through their shared love of pettiness and crime. They meet by both breaking into the same terrible professors office, Stan to cheat and mess him up because he's a jerk, Emma-May to riffle through his files and also mess him up because he's a jerk. Stan's a great partner in crime, and together they manage to graduate and get their degrees. Stan doesnt have a million phds like his brother surpress-a-lot, but he's got maybe one and a grant to study what he came to school to study.

Anomalies.

Ford was always going on about them, so Stan's going to discover something, publish it, and become super famous. Finds the perfect place to start and everything! He's got a place, money, a friend (who, aw dang, couldn't make it to her wedding because he was working/studying or whatever, but he sends her a card and calls to congratulate her).

Then four years after getting kicked out, he moves into his new house/lab/base of operations in Gravity Falls. Surely this is where he'll one up Ford! He's going to shove his success in Fords face and then who will be sorry for ever doubting Stan's ability to grow up and get things done!

Cue pikachu face spiderman meme in the grocery store as the new scientist Dr. Pines meets the new scientist Dr. Pines. Their labs are either on opposite sides of town or right across from each other, and now they are racing to be the first one to discover something truly grand about Gravity Falls. Stan would have published in year one but he knows if he does it too soon with something small beans Ford will swoop in with something more impressive immediately just to mess with him. Both of them summon Bill and Bill pops up to both because its hilarious, but Stan clocks him immediately, then goes to Fords house the next day and says 'oh i bet you fell for that triangles tricks didn't you! LIKE THE SUCKER YOU ARE!!" and Ford can't admit that he did so now he only talks to Bill to vent about Stan but also knows Stan's probably right but he has to prove him wrong! Meanwhile Stan just gets angrier and angrier, because Fords using every opportunity to show off how smart he is, and can't even let Stan have this one thing. Fords a genius! He can do whatever he wants! Stan fell in love with looking at all the strange and cool things in the woods and this is all he has going for him, and Ford's being a jerk by not backing off and finding some other field to excel in.

The portal never happens, because both of them are too busy spying on what the others doing and trying to out do them in some manner. Stan makes fun of Ford for going to Backupsmore, both as a proud alumni of a better college, and to really drive it in that Ford could have done better with his better grades and smarts, but went to the worst out of some sort of 'if i can't have the best why even try for anything good' mindset. Ford hate's it because Stan very much has a point.

SO if Crampelter ever came forwards and admitted to Ford that he broke his project, Ford's world immediately drops as he realizes he is now the bad guy in Stan's story. Stan was innocent, told him he was innocent, found some kind of proof 10 years ago about being innocent, and Ford turned his back on him and trusted the words of everyone around him that his brother was a scoundrel who was jealous of his success. He didn't see his brother for four years over this, and their pa kicked him out. He's spent the last 6 in some kind of weird science off competition, growling about how Stan's a con man who lied his way into a degree for the sake of petty revenge (which he's sure Stan did! He's sure! Stan's a trickster and a liar and-and)

And his twin brother, who's been his neighbor for six years and maybe even tried holding out an olive branch once or twice that Ford snuffed because it was never an apology like he wanted. Because Stan was never going to apologize, because he never did anything to apologize for.

Anyway Ford would drag his feet over to Stans, apologize and tell him Crampelter confessed, then immediately get punched because really? Stan's been telling him for years that he didn't do it, and Ford only believes it because the truth came from someone else? Anger! Anger towards brother a hundred years!

Now the shoes on the other foot as Ford's scrambling to figure out what he's supposed to be doing about all this while Stan's a pile of misery over Ford trusting their childhood bully more than Stan himself. No idea how this would shake out long term, but its what i got.

[hivemuthur]

To Be Known - Ch.2.

viktorxfemale!reader explicit! Modern AU, set in London, current era but not very specific. It's just a love story.

<- previous chapter MASTERLIST next chapter ->

word count: 4,6K

warnings, or rather this chapter contains: one saucy Freaktor, smut in d/s dynamics, very slight barely-there miss-it-if-you-blink degradation, no crazy stuff yet just plain old sex, subspace/domspace, two people in utter delulu about feeling like that about each other after one night. So, kids shoo!

author’s note: Ok, this is us, eating the veggie meatballs. My knee is jumping because I really want to go look at the organization containers to sort out my storage room. So, for me this is sort of a filler episode :v Also, I made a playlist, if you want to listen. I think Sundays will be my days to publish this, if you like consistency.

Special thanks as usual to @rennethen for proof reading. Artist is @petitesieste ♡

Cross-posted on AO3

—

Oh, how he hates gatherings. Every second is so precious to him. Every single moment wasted on indulgence is one that could’ve brought him closer to whatever goal he was working toward with Jayce. But even Viktor is only human. So, after hundreds of whiny please and tons of pleading eyes from Jayce, he finally caved.

He begged Jayce for five more minutes, then another five, before relenting when his partner came at him with the intention of dragging him out of the lab by force—by the ears, or worse, by throwing him over his shoulder like a damsel.

He complained all the way in the cab, telling Jayce that he needed to vent before putting on his social face. He spent the first half an hour sipping his drink, unamused by all the conversations about superficial science and culture, forcing himself not to roll his eyes at Salo.

Until Mel’s eyes lit up with that familiar excited glint when she waved at you stepping through the door. Viktor stole a glance, then lingered despite himself, only turning away when your eyes began to roam the table. He couldn’t help but notice the one too-low undone button of your shirt, the crease in it, and your freshly applied red lipstick, making your mouth stand out the most. Pretty, Viktor thought, and immediately regretted not taking Jayce up on the offer of meeting you earlier.

But Viktor knew better than this. He knew better than to step his foot into the crack of a door that should remain closed. A man married to his work, he occasionally engaged in affairs to quiet the storm in his mind when it became unbearable. But here, dealing with a common friend and a potential disaster of what his usual practices might entail, he was, after a moment of thought, grateful that he hadn’t met you earlier.

And he worried momentarily that you would notice, or rather, feel the way his eyes burned into your throat every time you spoke. Or that you would notice the special attention he gave each time you cracked your fingers with a loud pop. When you rolled your spine against the back of the chair, he nearly sighed, but managed to swallow it down. Your frazzled demeanour and the way you spoke about your work had him both hypnotised and impressed—not only because every word spilled from your red mouth, but because he welcomed the thought of reducing this sharp, self-possessed creature to a whimpering mess at his feet faster than he could blink.

A theory formed in his head quicker than he would like to admit, based on loose evidence that made him think he might be wishing it into existence. Only one way to check. A perfect opportunity presented itself when your carefully held facade slipped through the overlapping voices of a tiresome conversation.

When he leaned in and rested his hand on your thigh, he thought nothing of it. When his nose brushed under your ear and he inhaled your scent, he still thought nothing of it. Even when you froze at the feeling of his arm crowding you, there still wasn’t a thought of conclusion clattering through his head. Yet once the command was served and you slipped back into laser focus, his cock knew before he did. It twitched insistently at the ghost of your fingertips passing him the bottle and at the sight of your parted mouth and hooded eyes as you ogled his throat.

And he had to hold himself back so dearly from yanking his hand higher, from gathering the damp evidence between your legs—before deciding, just this once, to leave it to faith instead of peering through the looking glass.

His own stoic veneer began to crack once when he learned where you lived, and then again when you agreed to share a cab with him. It felt as if he were asking whether you’d like him to fuck you stupid, and your answer sounded as if you were telling him that you’d like it very much—please, thank you. He watched your lips wrap around the question of when, not if, he wanted to go, and he said the first thing that tore through his throat faster than any other could. Now. Now. Let’s go now.

Immediately, desire followed the glance you gave him, and Viktor hoped pleasure would quickly follow desire. He knew soon enough—when he had you undoing his buttons, pushing your hands to his bare stomach like a greedy little thing. He had to stop you right there with a witty remark, hoping you wouldn’t take note of the sanctimonious edge to his tone.

Now, with you pressed against the elevator door, Viktor still profoundly believes that he is never wrong—except for the one to ten times he refused to meet you under the excuse of being buried under an avalanche of tasks. He is almost glad it’s only happening now, because you will be a massive distraction for his hard-working brain.

A perfect mirror of his desires, where you give everything he wants and take everything he gives. He doesn’t have to worry when his mouth lays waste to the remnants of your red lipstick, because you push yourself against him as if you’d rather exchange it for a tattoo of permanent bruise. He needn’t worry about his hands raking your thighs a bit too roughly, because your tights are already torn. In this moment, when you whine out his name after every tease he throws at you, he worries about absolutely nothing.

With his cane wedged under his armpit, he holds you tight by the ass, rutting into your hips, pretending it’s only to keep you from toppling out with a loud thump once the elevator pings open. A dozen ideas crash through his head the moment it does—from fucking you against the hallway wall (was his leg going to be this gracious today?) to yanking you down onto your knees and fucking your throat instead, smearing the last traces of red from your lips all over his cock, aching and straining in his pants. Holding your hair tight and praising you for each gag.

“Wait,” he tells you firmly when you leech onto his neck while he fumbles with the keys. You obey—not without a pout—but you stop, your arms falling loosely around his stomach. The moment the door cracks open, he sweeps you inside, locks it blindly, and walks you to the nearest soft seating—the bedroom is too far.

Greedy hands tremble as you yank the belt from the loops at his waist. Viktor chuckles, bewildered by your eagerness, but decides it feels nice to be wanted so openly.

His trousers slide down to his thighs as he sinks onto the sofa, guiding your hips to glue onto his. He groans at the lovely pressure of your weight resting against his cock—hard and leaking—and runs a flat palm up your legs, rolling your skirt higher. His fingers find the growing eyelet in your tights, thread through, and pull. The sound of tearing makes you gasp and giggle. It doesn’t stop there—three fingers hook into your underwear, sliding it to the side as he drags them through your folds.

A breathy hum escapes him. “So fucking wet. What a lovely slut you are.”

And you know damn well you are anything but. Sensible in your choices, reason always outshining need—where a sloppy one-night stand never seems worth the next-day headache or the risk of running late for work, which you love and cherish above all else. But from his mouth, it sounds like the highest of praises, sparking a searing greed that courses through your veins and drops between your legs as you grind against his cock, begging for more.

“Say it again.”

“Ask me nicely,” he murmurs with a smirk, moving his fingers into your hair and tugging at the nape, fixing you in place.

“Please, say it again,” you plead, your hands trailing tenderly along his face, catching at his lips before sliding lower to his neck as you tickle behind his ear.

Viktor memorises the shape of your mouth when you say please—yet still, he wishes to see it in the flesh more. He brings your head close, rubs his nose against your cheek, and inhales, eyes fluttering shut.

“My gorgeous little slut. Oh, you look so fucking pretty,” he breathes against your lips before sinking his tongue between them. The connection he feels is instant, almost uncanny. He explores your mouth freely, licking at the roof, nipping at your tender flesh through hums and chuckles when your hips roll over his. A torturous drag along his clothed cock where your dampness seeps into the fabric, mixing into one.

Your fingers drop lower, tugging at the waistband of his briefs. You break the kiss and ask needily, “Do you want to—?” Take these off and give me your cock. Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.

“Not yet,” he murmurs, shaking his head—a promise of something else exciting you stupidly. “Be a good girl and make yourself cum like this first.”

You don’t need to be told twice. Utterly possessed by the sight of him beneath you, you wrap your arms around his neck, bring your face close enough for him to feel the way your brows scrunch in focus, and rut your cunt into his lap. An embarrassing amount of slick leaks from you, drenching his underwear, adding to the delicious friction you’re chasing until your core is swollen, twitching, clenching around nothing—as if you could pull his cock inside by sheer force of will.

Viktor watches, transfixed, eyes wide with admiration, hoping he can hold out until he’s truly buried deep within you. Each time he mutters a lewd remark, you feel an invisible fist closing around the muscles of your lower abdomen, sending a nearly painful pang through you, making your hips jolt and stutter.

“I knew I had to fuck you the minute I saw you,” he murmurs, brushing your damp hair back—his touch light, its kindness contradicting anything that falls from his lips. Your eyes roll in a full circle, each word choking spasms out of your core.

“It’s hard to be in charge all the time, isn’t it?” His voice is smooth, full of temptation, dripping sugar straight into your ears. It’s within reach, a release of all your worries for you to grasp as he holds it out to you on an open palm. Indulgence you realise you need so dearly to stay sane. You feel like you’ve found a missing piece of a puzzle, something that will make you whole by taking something else away.

His fingers slip beneath the torn fabric of your tights, kneading the flesh of your ass as he guides you over his lap, grinding, rolling—each movement pressing your swollen clit against the hard ridge of his cock. You whimper in response, clutching at his neck, nails biting through the skin leaving crescent dents.

“Do you want me to fuck you stupid?” His breath ghosts over your cheek, hot and unrelenting, each word a hook that tugs something deep in your belly.

You nod, frantic, but it’s not enough for him. His grip tightens, forcing you to slow, to drag yourself over him with purpose, until each pulse of pleasure is unbearably sharp.

“Use your words,” he murmurs. “Tell me what you need,” Viktor says with a raw and honest intention. He means every word.

You moan, lips parted, head falling back. “Yes—yes, I want it. Please.”

He groans, full and pleased, drinking in the sight of you becoming undone above him. He loves this—the feeling of being alive and kicking as control seeps from someone to him. His hands squeeze greedily at your flesh, guiding you down harder, and he smiles when you shudder from the pressure.

“It’s alright, you don’t need to worry about anything,” he soothes, voice dipping into something dangerously gentle. “Just cum for me.”

A helpless little cry breaks from you, your movements turning more and more jerky. Each filthy drag against him sets you hot, your body writhing, helpless in his hands.

“Such a good girl,” he praises, voice drenched in satisfaction, watching the pleasure ripple through you, your thighs clenching and tightening around his. When you come—wrecked, panting against his mouth, clinging to his neck—Viktor feels it like a gift. Precious. Just for him, given willingly and gratefully. He keeps it close and doesn’t show to anyone.

It’s nearly enough for him to have you settle and cool down, slumped against his chest, looking an absolute mess—hair still damp, coat ruffled, skirt twisted around your waist, shirt full of creases, tights torn, makeup smeared across your face. A perfect picture to summarize his work.

As you blink, your eyelashes tickle his neck, and Viktor noses into your forehead, urging you to look up at him. “All good?” he asks when you do, his grin is loose, toothless, completely at ease.

Slowly, you blink again and nod, painfully aware of how hard his cock still is beneath you.

“Can you get up?” Viktor murmurs, tucking your hair behind your ear. With another quick nod, you scramble from his lap, and he groans at the loss of contact.

A pleading hand reaches for you, and you take it, helping him up. He sweeps his cane from where it lies abandoned on the floor. A wave of self-consciousness floods you as you glance at him—at both of you—realising that neither of you had undressed, not even slightly. Clothes wrinkled, hair messy. Viktor pulls up his trousers and fastens the buttons, uncaring, just enough to manage a safe walk to the bedroom. He doesn’t comment on how wet his briefs are. Only in his head.

Taking your hand again, he leads you through the apartment in silence. Were you not so utterly fucked-out, you might have tried to steal glances, to memorise every detail of his space, let it tell you things about him he might not say aloud. But the short walk passes in a haze, and you doubt you’d be able to find your way back on your own.

When you reach the bedroom, he motions toward the adjacent bathroom. And when you catch sight of yourself in the mirror, your hand flies up to clasp over your mouth.

Dark streaks run down your cheeks—whether from rain or tears, you can’t remember. A stain of pink smudges past the border of your lips, spreading to your cheeks and chin. Your neck is marked with his lips and teeth, blooming in angry colours.

Abruptly, you wash your face as best you can, grabbing a random towel to dry off. A brief concern flits through your mind—that this might be his ass towel—but the thought is quickly followed by another: you don’t care.

You peel off your tights and, for whatever reason, roll them into a ball and shove them into your coat pocket. Only now do you notice the undone button of your shirt, revealing the bridge of your bra.

One deep breath. You shake off your coat, drape it over your arm, and step out from the bathroom, shoes in your other hand.

Viktor is sitting on the bed, waiting. He’s taken his coat off too, and when he looks up at you, you catch sight of the mark you left on his neck. Much less impressive than the ones you’re sporting.

“Come.” He beckons you forward, and you abandon your belongings right where you are, tossing them onto a nearby chair before closing the distance in a few short steps, as if he’s coaxing you by a leash.

Once you’re within reach, he seizes your hips, pulls you close, and breathes against your stomach. “Do you wish to stop or continue?” he asks, hands sliding back to cup your ass.

He already knows the answer, but hearing you say it makes it better. He can see you sinking into the space he wants you in, and the sight grants him a sense of fulfilment—different from the satisfaction of cracking open some nagging problem in the lab with Jayce. Incomparable. Not better or worse, but this—this feels close to best.

He’s certain the alcohol burned off somewhere between the cab ride and you writhing on his lap, but he still feels faintly drunk. Just on something else. And when his eyes meet yours—dazed and dark with want—and your lips mutter a shy, “Please, continue,” he has to supress a dumb smile and possibly a triumphant yes slipping from his mouth.

“Good,” he says instead, unzipping your skirt. It falls to pool around your feet. Next goes your underwear.

You just stand there, letting him undress you, heart hammering in your chest. Your breath hitches as his hands brush over your belly, undoing the remaining buttons of your shirt. Then, he slides his palms flat up your sides, reaching for the back of your bra. With a single twitch of his fingers, it unclasps, and all you have to do is shake everything off to be completely bare.

You stare at him expectantly when he mutters, “Sit,” and pats the space beside him. Thoughtlessly, you obey, eyes never leaving his. “Undress me,” he commands, though the words come out too breathy to be firm.

It’s all so easy. Completely violating your usual paradigm and you wonder if that’s exactly why the momentary exit of this recursion tastes so sweet. It’s heavy on your tongue when you swallow, blink slowly and naturally give yourself into every gentle order. It coats your insides with warmth as you truly feel like there is nothing you need to worry about and whatever Viktor says is the law.

Calmly, you bring your hands to his buttons, undoing them one by one, exposing his chest. His sternum juts out between flat pectorals, the skin dipping above his clavicle. As you slide his shirt off his back, your fingers trace over those hollows, lingering.

Viktor hums in appreciation, then stands, stepping between your legs. His hands settle on your shoulders as you fumble with the buttons of his trousers—then pause, distracted by the bruises marking his lower abdomen.

One is faint, yellow and brown blooming across his pale skin. The other is fresh—an angry smear of red and purple beneath the porcelain layer.

You brush tentative fingers over it, your mouth already forming a question, but Viktor takes your hands and guides them back to his crotch. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

You nod, brows still knitted, before sliding his trousers down along with his underwear, revealing his cock for the first time. Viktor doesn’t say a word—just threads his fingers through your hair, cradling the back of your head, and gently guides you forward. He doesn’t force, doesn’t push. Just holds.

Your cheek presses against him, the warmth of his half-hard length seeping into your skin. He’s hot beneath you, smooth, and when you exhale, the shift of your breath makes him twitch.

You close your eyes and let yourself sink into it, hands coming up to grip his hips. His ribs expand with a slow inhale, fingers stroking lazily at your scalp. Not urging, almost longing. The weight of him against your face makes something in your stomach swell—desire-adjacent, but warmer, gentler. Intimate in a way you hadn’t expected back in the cab.

Viktor purrs, deep and satisfied, as if you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be. His head tilts back, eyes slipping shut as he breathes into the ceiling, holding onto you and wondering how he’s found something like this at the world’s fucking end. He might still be drunk after all.

He grows fully hard just from the warmth of your skin. With a long sigh, he tilts your head up so that your chin rests against his stomach. “Lie down for me,” he murmurs, stroking your cheek, eyes molten.

You crawl back onto the mattress on your hands and knees, feeling oddly exposed. This doesn’t feel like just any one-night stand, and a small worry appears—that the mistake you were so willing to make might not be so easy to shake off. Viktor follows, moving more gracefully than you expect, and only now do you notice the brace hugging his knee. He catches the shift in your expression and repeats, “Don’t worry about that one either, hmm?”

Leaning over, he pulls open the bedside drawer and retrieves a condom—a mundane little gesture that has your eyes tracking the movement of his hands. You prop yourself on your elbows and watch as he rolls it on, then shiver when his palms slide from your thighs to your sides. He braces himself against you as his head dips in, settling between your legs. His eyes flick up to yours, a smile curving his lips, before he lets a slow stream of spit drip onto your cunt.

You watch, wide-eyed, until you feel it hitting your skin, slipping snugly into your slit. Your mouth falls open when he drags his fingers through the mess, spreading it over your folds. An occasional fingertip dips inside, shallow and teasing, just enough to make you gasp. Each time it does, your muscles contract, trying to keep him in.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “So needy.” It’s meant as a tease, but his voice holds too much wonder.

He leans back, one hand wrapping around the base of his cock, dragging the head through the slick he’s worked into you. The touch has you trembling, thighs twitching when he presses forward just enough to catch at your entrance before pulling away again.

“Do you really want me so much?” His lips curl, tone bordering on mocking, but his thumb strokes your hip as if in apology. You nod, resisting the urge to shift your hips down and take him in yourself. “So desperate… squeezing around nothing.” He tsks, shaking his head.

And then, finally, he pushes inside.

It burns from all the work you’ve done on yourself, grinding against his underwear. He stretches you inch by inch, even though you can feel how much he wants to just slam deep inside—leave you breathless, fill every empty space inside you.

Once hilted, Viktor sighs, deep and shuddering, and strokes your stomach before pressing your torsos together. His forehead rests against yours for just a moment before he shifts, hooking one of your legs over his good hip. He considers how to fuck you—how to test the waters without messing you up too much. So far, everything he’s said has had you writhing for him, mussing his hair and leaving wanting open-mouthed kisses everywhere, which is why he decides to tread a path he’s already mapped out for himself.

“Perfect fit,” he whispers, almost reverent, before drawing back and sinking in again, and it’s so achingly slow. His elbows rest on either side of your head, caging you in, and when your neck arches, his hand comes to cradle your nape. A thumb strokes there, soothing as he rocks into you, eyes locked onto your face, memorizing every reaction.

“You’re doing so well,” he praises, voice thick, his hips rolling deeper. “You don’t need to worry about anything.” Hot breath sears across your throat before his teeth sink in, deepening the colour palette there.

“Only about being a good slut, yes?”

The words make you clench around him, and you grasp his hair, pulling his mouth close to yours, just as he expects. You breathe countless yeses against his lips, the panic of being so close to someone bleeding into the tremendous pleasure of being seen.

The more you squeeze him, the more Viktor groans, pressing closer, his weight pinning you down. He takes his time, thrusting deep and sluggish, grinding his groin against your clit. It’s a sweet torture that builds in your lower belly, spreading through your body in rays, buzzing beneath your skin, curling at the tips of your fingers and toes.

You are convinced your brain has turned to mush when all that leaves your mouth is a blabbering mess. Please and fuck and yes make the occasional appearance, but most of it is just senseless mewling, intermingling with the wet, squelching sounds of his cock pumping into you.

Viktor chuckles—breathless and hoarse. “So far gone already? Is this all it takes?” His words are laced with teasing, but there’s an edge to them, a tremor beneath the mockery. He’s losing himself, too.

His hips roll with a strain, and you jerk beneath him, body seizing, jaw slacking in a soundless cry before you gasp in the air he’s stolen from you.

“Good girl,” he rasps, watching your expression twist between desperation and bliss. His hand at your neck tightens, enough to coax a bruise and enough to keep you where he wants you. His other hand slips between your bodies, fingers seeking out your swollen clit. “Come on, almost there.”

The pressure tips you over the edge, white heat flooding through you in an orgasm so intense it borders on painful. Your back arches, nails raking down his spine, and a strangled moan tears from your throat as you convulse around him, gripping him in a vacuous trap. The squeeze wrenches a ragged noise from Viktor’s throat, and makes his hips stutter.

He had meant to pull out, to spill onto your stomach or your tits in a final act of marking, but the way you tighten around him wrecks that plan entirely. A guttural curse breaks from his lips, and he buries himself to the hilt, spilling into the condom with a shuddering groan.

For a moment, he stays like that—pressed flush against you, panting into your ear, his lips catching your earlobe with each breath. His fingers loosen around neck, sweat-slicked hair plasters to your cheek. He seems as far gone as you are.

Then, slowly, he gathers himself, pressing his lips to your throat—soft kisses, tender. His tongue flicks out, tracing the marks his teeth have left, soothing them with lazy strokes.

“How are you?” he murmurs at last, voice spent.

But you are falling, deep and fast. Lodged into a space you don’t know. The world around you feels distant, sounds muffled like they’re coming through water. Your limbs are heavy, yet weightless all at once. There’s warmth—his body, the sheets, the lingering pulse of pleasure still rolling through you—but it feels separate, like it belongs to someone else.

Breathing feels slow, difficult. You need to put effort in it. You blink sluggishly up at him, trying to gather words, but they slip through your fingers, elusive. Nothing hurts. Nothing feels. There’s a quiet in your mind, vast and still, as if you’re floating untethered.

Viktor watches you closely, his brows knitting together. His fingers trace your cheek, then down your arm, grounding and gentle. “Still with me?” he asks, softer this time, concern weaving through the exhaustion in his voice. “Water? Bathroom?” His offers come one after another, and you nod to each without really knowing what it is you need.

Without knowing if this should be happening at all, you let him help you up, his hands steady at your waist as he guides you toward the bathroom. But the moment you reach the door, panic claws up your throat. You press a hand to his chest, stopping him before he can follow.

When he protests, brows furrowing, you manage to breathe out, “Please,” and he hesitates. There’s reluctance in the way he steps back, but he lets you go. He waits, slumping onto the bed, his chin resting in his palm as his knee bounces. It’s a please he doesn’t like.

Inside, you turn on the tap and brace yourself against the sink, staring into the mirror. Your lips are kissed red, your neck outright bruised, dark blotches blooming against your skin. The sight should make your mouth fall open, but your muscles won’t move.

You wash your face again, use the same towel, caring about its purpose even less than before. You feel nothing and everything at once. It’s terrifying and lonely and you have no idea what to do with it. Instinct—the real, honest one—tells you to run back to him and cuddle into his lap. Rest your cheek on his knee and let him pet you until your lids get heavy. But there is another, learned and unnatural that keeps you here, in the bathroom, calculating and worrying about how needy you are about to come off as.

When you step outside, the vacuum begins to suck you inward, hollowing you out. With the wrong instinct at hands, you reach for your coat and shoes. You need to leave.

Viktor shoots you a questioning look. He stands up, limps toward you, fingers curling gently around your arm beckoning you to pause. “I can’t let you go home now,” he says in a calm voice, as if there is something he knows that you don’t.

“I—” The excuses pile on your tongue, desperate and clumsy. “I should get back. I have… work, and—”

“I’ll wake you,” he says simply. “But you should stay.”

“I… I don’t have any clothes,” you grasp, even as you clutch your coat tighter.

“We’ll figure it out in the morning.”

"Viktor, I—" Your voice wavers as fear grips you, tight and suffocating. “I don’t have time for… I’m so busy, I can barely—” You cut yourself off, frustration spilling into frantic gestures. You can’t even articulate it—this sense that you’ve made a mistake, that none of this should have happened, that you shouldn’t have come to Mel’s party in the first place, because this… this is way too frightening.

Something flickers across Viktor’s face, subtle but unmistakable. Something that sinks, just slightly, despite the euphoria he’d felt only moments ago. It’s swept away with the wave of your hands, and he curses himself for letting you alone into that bathroom.

He forces out a chuckle, but when he speaks your name, it’s firm. “I am not asking you to marry me. I am busy too.”

The words land sharper than he intends. Regardless of everything that has happened tonight, this one little remark you give him is enough to slam his defences back into place. So instead of just asking you to stay, he adjusts, laying out another path. An emergency escape.

“This… doesn’t have to go anywhere,” he says, voice quieter, careful. “But trust me when I tell you, you will be very sad if you go home alone now.” His thumb strokes absentmindedly over your wrist. “Stay. I promise I will wake you. Francis Crick is close to South Bank—”

“Okay.” It slips from your lips before you can stop it, before your mind can twist itself into another reason to leave.

Viktor exhales and nods, taking the coat away from you and hanging it around the chair. Then he takes your hand and leads you to the bed and you feel momentarily guilty that he had to walk this distance without the cane.

He lets you in first and you push yourself all the way to the edge, feeling like you are invading his space in a way that is too much. This sudden neediness, this sensation of dependency—it’s a perfect stranger. Making you fragile in a way that you haven’t felt in the longest time. End even though it carries a warmth with it, it comes unbidden, and you want to deal with it on your own, as you always do.

But Viktor doesn’t let you. He enters your space as if he knows you are too confused to ask. He slides himself clumsily next to you, squeezes his arm under your neck to cradle your head under his chin. Wraps another over your waist and traps you, hooking his leg over your hip. Then hums, knowing, all balmy against your skin and you feel like crying.

The sound of your name, spoken with patience, reaches you through the fog. It drifts through the quiet, settling beside you like a warm weight. He says it again, and again, until you shift and finally look at him. Your noses brush as he tilts his head, voice soft.

“You can tell me how you feel, you know that?”

“I don’t,” you blurt out before you can stop yourself. “I barely know anything about you.”

For a moment, there’s silence. Then Viktor exhales a quiet chuckle, his fingers coming to brush at your temple. “Well,” he muses, “my name is Viktor.” His knuckles trace lightly down the side of your face, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “I’m a scientist. Jayce’s friend and colleague.” His lips quirk, his voice low and steady. “I like documentaries and books.”

The way he speaks has your eyes rolling dismissively, but deep down you know what he’s doing. Each piece of himself he offers, no matter how obvious, grounds you back into reality.

“And I know exactly what is happening to you,” he murmurs. “And it’s alright. It’s supposed to happen.”

You swallow. “How do you know that?”

Viktor yawns, entirely unfitting to the scene, but he can’t help it. Lazily, as if it’s a fact known to all humanity, he offers you the biggest piece so far. “Because I’m feeling the exact opposite.”

You consider for a moment and furrow your brows. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Nothing.” His fingers slip into your hair, absentmindedly playing with the strands. “Just feel it. It’s… nice. You are safe.” His voice drops lower, like a secret meant only for you. “It’s nice to be empty of everything for a bit.”

Your breath shakes as a question propelled by a child-like logic follows. “Does this mean you feel full?”

“Eh, something like that.” There’s a pause. Viktor’s fingers continue their slow movements in your hair, a soothing touch. Then, his voice lifts again, gentler still. “Does anything hurt?” You shake your head.

“Anything you didn’t like?” He hesitates, then curses himself for asking. He tells himself it’s ego-driven, or maybe just his scientific mind searching for data, for some answer he shouldn’t be seeking in the first place. This was meant to be a single night, wasn’t it? Again, you shake your head.

Encouraged—by what, he’s not sure, his brain or his heart—Viktor presses on. His thumb skims the edge of your jaw. “Did it feel… right?” The question so timid, yet falls with a loud thump, pulled by gravity equal to that inside a black hole, because he has no idea what he’s tempering with.

Yes, you imagine yourself saying without hesitation. Yes, your body screams as you nuzzle into him, making yourself small, trying to crawl into his chest. Yes, say your arms wrapping around his waist and your feet pressing to his calves. “Yes,” you whisper shyly into his neck and it’s enough. Nothing follows, only Viktor’s pulse, loud and heavy in your ear. Sleep takes you with a few long exhales and you can make out his arm leaving you once to reach to his bed stand, setting the alarm. Then nothing, as you float, tethered.

[le-fruit-de-la-passion]

Press One for Love, Two for Regret

Chapter 3

Summary: Proper confessions should never happen over the phone. Viktor knows that. So how did he get here?

Pairing: Viktor x Reader

Word Count: 5.3K

Warning: Mature (mentions of explicit content, explicit in last chapter)

Notes: Yup, this started from a silly lil 1K prompt, don't ask me what happened, I wouldn't be able to say either. This chapter is pretty heavy on feelings, self-reflection and angst, but I think y'all will find it enjoyable ❤️. There's one more chapter left (the SMUT yeehawww), but I've written chapter 3 in a way where you could technically stop reading the story here if you didn't want to read the smut, and it would still be a satisfying conclusion. I know most of you are in it for the smut too, so don't worry my beloveds, it will come 😛💕

(Chapter 1) (Chapter 2) (Chapter 4/End)

The humanities faculty room always smells horrible.

It's hard to tell where the pungent scent even comes from; it feels like it's in the air, in all the furniture, in the walls themselves. There's no window to even attempt to vent it out either; it’s in the oldest wing of the university, built at least sixty years prior to the construction of every other unit. Most teachers avoid it like the plague, preferring to work in any other available space on campus, so it's almost always empty.

But it isn't today.

“Melllll,” you moan, shoving your face into the leather couch’s pillows. The smell is somehow worse, imbued into the fabric. If you had to describe it, you would just call it old. Like rancid coffee forgotten on the kitchen counter for too long, or ancient damp books abandoned in an attic. Old. “Why do I always mess up everything I do?”

Mel looks up from the paper she's grading with a sigh, adjusting the small reading glasses on her nose.

“You don't mess up everything you do,” she argues softly. “You wear your heart on your sleeve, and you say what you think without feeling ashamed. That's not something for everyone, but it's not a flaw, either.”

You can only groan into the odorous leather as an answer.

Viktor had been your very first friend at work, but he had been a lot more. Without him, you would have never met Jayce, and without Jayce, you would have never met Mel. And you would have no one to cry your woes to on a Friday evening, a whole two weeks after the most disastrous phone call of your life.

“And I believe Viktor is equally at fault here. He knows better than to play hide and seek with you forever,” Mel hums pensively, crossing her legs. Her olive eyes narrow, her nose scrunching up slightly in thought.

“He's stalling, trying to figure a way out without confronting his feelings or yours. He's smart enough to know there isn't one, but he's stubborn,” she points out, tapping her manicured nails on the wooden table. Tic, tic. Like **the sound of seconds passing on the clock, never-ending and all-consuming.

At first, both Jayce Talis, mechanical engineering PhD and researcher, and Mel Medarda, political science PhD with five peer-reviewed books published under her name, had been two extremely imposing people to interact with. You already felt unworthy enough talking to Viktor, but after learning of the kind of people he usually hung out with, you felt like an absolute loser. Jayce and Mel are both unreasonably attractive and accomplished, and when Viktor joins them, there's no denying he belongs to their world, and not yours.

In those moments, the differences between the two of you seem much more glaring: the university professor with a collection of awards and a PhD in biomechanical engineering, who is dedicating his life to creating life-altering prosthetic limbs and transmitting his knowledge to a whole new generation of scientists… and you.

The guidance councillor who can't shut up.

It’s not that you're ashamed of your job; you love what you do. You love being able to help people figure themselves out, and orient them toward what will make them happiest.

But when you stand in the same space as Viktor, it's hard to see anything other than how much greater of a person he is than you will ever be. He's like a star in the sky, shining brighter and brighter every day, and you get the privilege of watching him through the lens of a telescope. That should already be enough for you to be satisfied.

But it isn’t, not anymore. It hasn't been for a long time. And you want to do so much more than look at him. You want to touch him. You want to kiss him. You want to be someone worthy of shining alongside him; but you never believed that would ever happen.

And for so long, it felt so much easier to just date people whose very existence didn't make you feel like you would never be enough to reach their ankle. People who just wanted something casual and meaningless, some sex, maybe the semblance of a romance. And that's how you ended up with a string of disastrous relationships with men you barely even liked.

You contort your body uncomfortably on the couch to face Mel; it squeaks awkwardly under you, like it's threatening to break.

“Did you know? Did everyone but me know?”

She rests her head on her hand, the hint of a smile on her lips, seemingly slightly amused by the question:

“Depends on who you mean by everyone. No one outside his circle of close friends, for sure. He's not the type to scream about his love life over the phone,” she adds with a teasing glim in her eyes. “No offence.”

You groan, shoving your face back into the roughed-up leather. God, it still smells.

“But Jayce did know,” she confirms, and you hear her straighten her chair to return to work. The comforting sound of her fountain pen starts up again, but you know she's still giving her conversation with your full attention. Mel is like that, able to carry on a hundred tasks at once without breaking a sweat; you wish you had an ounce of her composure.

“Viktor told him after he got drunk last year at the faculty cookout. I believe his exact words were…”

She pauses to do a dramatic imitation of Viktor's voice and tone, “‘Jayce, she is wearing that dress just to put me into an early grave’.”

Not only is it pretty accurate, but God, you know exactly what dress.

The skimpy little sunflower dress that you knew showed way too much chest for a work-related event. You had worn it in the hopes of eliciting any sort of reaction from Viktor; but he had barely spoken to you that afternoon, constantly vanishing every time you entered a room. You assumed you made him uncomfortable with something you said, like you always ended up doing with everyone else.

So you had left the party on the arm of some nameless T.A. from the law department, hoping it would help you forget Viktor, just for a while.

It hadn't.

“And I knew,” Mel continues smoothly in her regular voice, “because I know what it's like to want someone to notice you so badly. To want someone to love you back.”

You detect something very personal in the way she pronounces the word ‘love’, almost like it's painful to even say.

Mel rarely talks about herself, preferring to listen to the stories of everyone around her. Everything about her gives an air of mature confidence and independence, and if she ever has any issues in her personal life, she never shares them with you, or anyone that you know of.

She's not cold by any means, and she helps everyone with genuine care, that, you are absolutely certain of. But you can feel there's a side of her she desperately wants to keep to herself. She's only ever mentioned her mother once, in a drunken haze, muttering something under her breath about never being enough for her.

You wonder if that's the person who’s love she’s longing for.

When she speaks again, there is something akin to nostalgia lingering in her voice:

“You get that special look in your eyes. You both looked at each other just like that, but neither of you ever noticed.”

You open your mouth to say something, but nothing comes. Fucking ironic. You can never seem to stop talking, but now, the words you want to tell her just won't come.

Mel doesn't seem to mind, though, and the sound of pen scrapping paper picks up again. You force yourself out of your leather cavern, sitting up on the couch to look at her directly.

“…Why didn't you say anything?” you ultimately settle with, but it rings much more fragile and hurt than you wanted it to.

She gives a small shrug without looking away from her documents:

“Not my place to. Viktor needed to confront his feelings head-on, and you needed to realize you were never not enough or too much for him,” she states matter-of-factly, “It's that simple.”

Everything always seems so easy when it comes from Mel's lips. But in your mind, thoughts are jumbled, emotions are running wild, and everything you thought you knew about the last four years is falling apart.

Maybe, that time on New Year’s Eve when he told you there was no other place he'd rather be, he hadn't meant at the party. He had meant with you.

Maybe, when he had taken your hand, it wasn't just because you were excitedly counting down the last seconds until midnight. It was because he wanted to touch you just as much as you wanted to touch him.

Maybe, at the end of that night and in those early morning hours, when he had said you would make someone really happy one day…he was asking if it could be him.

“Maybe,” you **exhale bitterly, enunciating the world like a curse, “it would actually be simple if he just answered my texts, or my calls. Or anything I do to try and reach him.”

Yeah, you're to blame for being so blind for so long. For noticing the smallest things about everyone else, but missing all the signs when it came to him.

But so is he for refusing to talk about it now that you finally see it.

“At this point, I’m seriously starting to consider lock-picking their apartment,” you grumble, more in tiredness than anger; you can't even manage to stay mad at him for longer than a minute. “He’s the one who showed me how to do that, did I ever tell you that?”

She lets out a soft laugh at that; but when she glances over to you, there's a hint of something new in her eyes.

“I'm sure he would enjoy seeing you put your training to use, but there might be another way to see him. I think he's had more than enough time playing hide and seek.”

You know that glint in her forest-green stare; she knows something you don't, and she’s chosen to reveal it to you. You almost jump off the couch with your eyes wide, so quickly you almost lose your balance:

“Mel, what do I do?”

She snorts as she motions for you to sit back down with a calming wave of her hand, amusement clear on her face.

“Calm down. I wouldn't tell anyone about this normally,” she begins, lowering her voice in secrecy, as if you’re not the only two in the room, “and I want to make it very clear you did not receive this information from me.”

You nod eagerly in agreement, hanging on to her every word.

“Go to their apartment,” she declares with certainty. “If you keep going after their door and to the end of the corridor, there's a big potted plant on the window sill. An orchid.”

You frown in confusion.

You've only been to Viktor and Jayce's apartment a few times in the couple of years you've known them. Usually for relaxed group hangouts, or an occasional game night. You remember very little about it other than the all-consuming childish excitement of being in Viktor’s home, and the absolutely not innocent thought of his bedroom being barely a few feet away.

Why don't you ever remember the important things?

You try to muster every memory you have of the apartment complex itself instead; they live on the third floor, and their door is the second one on the right after the elevator. The hallway is a straight, narrow line, and you've noticed how dark it always is every time you’ve visited.

Dark, yes, that's right, because aside from a cheap light fixture, there’s only one window that lets any light into the hallway, at the very end of the corridor. One window, that is almost entirely blocked by the world's most decrepit potted plant.

“The… really ugly one?” you ask with uncertainty.

Mel snaps her fingers in confirmation, a hint of perfect pearly white teeth shining between her lips.

“I think you may find something of interest under it. Jayce told me about it for whenever I want to…” she hesitates on her next word, uncharacteristically a little bashful, “visit.”

Oh, you fucking knew it.

“I totally-” you start triumphantly.

“Yes, I know, you knew it for months,” she interrupts, waving her hand in dismissal. Her lower lip sticks out slightly, almost like she's pouting. You've never seen her this embarrassed. “It's incredible how you notice everything about everyone else, but when it's about you, you suddenly forget how to use your own eyes.”

Touché.

You've sensed it for at least a year now, the unspoken electricity between the two of them. How her arm sometimes lingers just a second too long on his shoulder, how his hands seem to always accidentally brush her waist. For as subtle as they were being, there was no mistaking the fire when they looked at each other.

Did Viktor ever look at you like that, too?

Why hadn't you ever noticed?

“Wait, wait,” you interrupt your own train of thought. “The orchid. Why is the orchid…”

You pause when the realization hits you like a bucket of cold water.

Oh.

Oh.

“Do… do they have a set of keys under the orchid?” you ask slowly.

“I didn't say that,” Mel says, bringing her two hands up in self-defence; but the smile lingering on her lips tells another story. “And if you say I did, I will deny it and throw you under the bus with every inch of my power as the advisor for the debate club. Are we clear?”

You could kiss her.

You settle with a tight hug, holding her with as much force as you can muster. The scent of her perfume, bitter and floral, masks the decrepit smell of the room for just a moment. Is there any problem Mel can’t solve?

“Mel, you're the best,” you grin against her ear.

“So I'm told,” she hums. She gently detaches herself from the hug, giving you an encouraging pat on the shoulder. “Now go. I don't like seeing you mop around my teacher's lounge, and I can't stand when Viktor performs his little disappearing act instead of talking things out.”

She picks her pen back up, giving you one last genuine look of support, voice soft, sincere: “You two are really meant for each other. Give him hell.”

—

Viktor is much less attentive than people give him credit for.

That’s not to say he’s oblivious or careless. In fact, when it comes to his work, he could instantly notice a tenth of a millimeter discrepancy from a mile away. He could hear the slightest abnormal murmur in the heart of any machine, and pinpoint its exact origin within seconds. Throw a blindfold on top, and he'd still know exactly where to place each and every single component of his prosthetic models.

But when it comes to the world outside his lab, his attention to detail just plummets.

If a bomb went off right outside his apartment, he probably wouldn't even look up from his notes. Jayce usually has to call his name thrice to pull him out of the trance-like state he gets into when he's sketching up a new idea, and that's only because he's used to Jayce's voice; for someone else, he might not hear it at all.

Even walking home from campus, he pays no attention to his surroundings, lost in his thoughts of valves, hydraulic cylinders, and flexion plates. He mechanically follows the same path he's walked thousands of times, a habit so ingrained in him it allows him to fully disconnect and think of nothing but work.

He's glad he has such a strong grip on his own mind, because if he didn't, he would let his practical ideations slowly morph into thoughts of nothing but you. You, who he hasn't seen in two weeks, because he likes to pretend change can't happen if he simply refuses to acknowledge it. It's much better to focus on what he actually has control over, to lose himself entirely in the things that make sense to him. To forget the world burning around him.

And that's exactly why he doesn't realize you’re in his apartment, sitting on his couch about ten feet away from him, until you make a pointed cough to signal your presence.

“Ah,” is the only thing he manages to get out.

He wishes he'd be surprised, but then again, he knew you would find your way to him eventually. He could keep trying to bury himself in work and avoid you with every inch of his power, you would not stop until you got answers to your questions. You’re just as stubborn as he is. That's part of why he fell for you.

So, there's nothing he can do, but let out a defeated sigh.

“I would ask how you got in here,” he starts flatly, taking off his coat robotically to place it on the hanger, “but I have a feeling it doesn't really matter.”

You don't react to his distant, tired tone, your expressive face unusually devoid of emotion when you speak.

“I didn't use your lockpicking lessons, if you're wondering.”

He can't help but snort at that:

“Disappointing.”

You both stay silent as he slowly takes off his boots and removes his wool scarf. The atmosphere isn't exactly awkward, but it's not comfortable either. Like a cheap, stiff version of the warm intimacy you usually share.

You've always been so easy to read, and anything that didn't show on your face always came from your lips. He always knows how you feel: he's observed every single expression on your face, from the slightest pout to the biggest grin, and committed it to memory with the dedication he only ever puts into his projects.

From the day you literally crashed in his life four years ago, utterly drunk and analyzing him with astonishing accuracy, he's felt the need to analyze you, too. To decipher every part of you, understand each component, each reaction. He craved the idea of knowing you like a cartographer knows the maps of the world, like an astronomer knows the place of every star. To understand you as you had understood him, with a single glance.

Right now, he has no idea what you're thinking.

In typical fashion, you're the one who ultimately breaks the ice first:

“You could kick me out,” you declare, staring him down almost challengingly. “I'll leave if you really want me to.”

There's clear apprehension and hurt in your voice, a bitterness you're trying your best to hide, but failing. He despises being the one to make you feel that way. He's become no better than any of your exes.

“We both know I won't do that,” he exhales. He's still standing in the entryway, just a few steps away from the threshold of the living room. There's no hiding anymore, no backing out. You're here, and he has to face you. Even if it breaks him.

“In the kitchen, second drawer on the left,” he says, making his way inside resignedly. “There's a rather large bread knife inside it. It hasn't been sharpened in a while, but it should do.”

Your passive expression falls for a second and you stare at him in confusion.

“Do for what?” you ask, eyebrow raised.

“Killing me to spare us both the embarrassment of this conversation,” he answers unenthusiastically.

You're the one who snorts, this time. If he could forget why you're here, he could almost pretend this is just a regular talk between close friends. Almost.

You get off the couch without hurry, stretching your limbs lazily; he wonders if you've been waiting for him for a while. You're still in your usual work clothes, but your hair is dishevelled, and your makeup is a bit smudged. Had these been different circumstances, this would be the kind of look he would imagine you in when he's alone in bed, but that's exactly the kind of treacherous impulse that's led him to this situation in the first place.

There's a strange shimmer in your eyes when you look at him again:

“You got any booze in that kitchen ?”

He’s starting to realize no matter how many years you give him, he’ll probably never be able to completely figure out what's going on in that brain of yours.

“You want to drink. Right now,” he states in disbelief.

You shrug:

“Seems like you listened to me when I was drunk last time. Maybe that'll get your attention again.”

There's an undeniable bitterness under the light sarcasm. It's deserved, frankly. And maybe a drink would make what's inevitably coming less difficult.

“First cabinet to the right. You can take the clear unlabeled bottle,” he offers.

You hum in approval, making your way to the kitchen without looking back at him. He makes his way to the couch, sitting at the opposite end of where you had been.

You come back with the bottle in one hand, and two mismatched shot glasses in the other. One is his, a souvenir from an academic conference in Marseilles; the silver lettering simply states ‘Ainsi va la vie’, ‘such is life’. He has to wonder if you chose it on purpose, to taunt him.

Although, the other one is Jayce's, and it's shaped like the torso of a woman with huge breasts in a bikini top with the colours of his old college. So it's equally as likely you just grabbed the first ones you found.

He always overthinks when he's anxious.

You put the three items down on the rectangular table in front of him, before sinking into the couch next to him. Your bodies aren't touching, shoulders an adequate distance from each other, but the proximity is still unnerving. The smell of your perfume, usually so comforting, makes him feel slightly ill.

You pour the alcohol into the shot glasses unhurriedly, progressively filling them both to the brim.

“Did you know Mel and Jayce are together?” you ask, not looking up from your task.

“Unfortunately so,” he mutters sourly.

You pause at that, perplexed.

“No, that is not what I meant, I am very happy for them,” he clarifies quickly. “But their decision to keep it a secret has been rather… precarious for me.”

You slide a glass towards him and give him a smile; the first one of the day, the first one in two weeks.

“You walked in on them fucking, didn't you?”

He groans, and you laugh. God, he missed that sound.

“I have never been more embarrassed in my entire life,” he complains, wrapping his hand around the shot glass. He notices with gratitude it's the plain one and not its heavily endowed sibling. “Being able to run had never seemed more appealing.”

You grab your own glass, the smile on your lips genuine, but fragile. The words still left unsaid hang above you both, and he's forced to remember this is but a moment of respite before everything falls apart.

“Maybe a drink will help you forget,” you joke, holding up the glass in his direction.

How he wishes it would.

“Maybe, maybe not,” he simply answers, bringing his glass to yours until they hit with a light clink. “Cheers.”

Your gaze holds his captive as you speak, like you're reaching into the depths of his very being.

“Na zdravià.”

You throw your head back and down the shot before he has time to voice his surprise, so he does the same, not wanting to break the unspoken rules of the toast; his ancestors would roll in their graves.

The liquid burns his throat almost instantly, the familiar warmth of alcohol settling into his body. It’s strong, powerful, but there’s a recognizable hint of plum and almonds that's comforting to him.

He can’t help a discreet, fond smile as your face scrunches from the sharp taste.

“I-I don't think I've ever had that before,” you cough out, your eyes slightly watery. It's endearing that no matter how much you drink, you never seem to build a tolerance to the sting of strong spirits.

“Slivovice. Plum brandy. The homemade ones are noticeably sharper than what they sell in stores here. Although… perhaps not as legal.”

You let out an amused cough, wiping away any tears before they get the chance to fall, smudging your mascara even more. But you're still smiling at him, decided, bold, never letting yourself be defeated by anything. It's like he's falling for you all over again in that single moment, outside of time and space.

Even in his darkest moments, when all else crumbles, you remain the unwavering light he can always find in the sky.

“I am a little surprised you remembered how to say that,” he admits softly.

What he had meant as a compliment seems to come off as a reproach in your eyes, and the smile falls, ending the magic of the instant.

“It may not always look like it, but I listen to you, Viktor,” you mumble, hurt. “I'm not an idiot, either.”

“I did not mean to imply-” he protests, but the words die in his throat. He opens his mouth by reflex, before closing it again; the sentence lingers incomplete in the air.

“…Why did you hang up?”

Here it is.

“Ah, so we're jumping into the questioning already. Alright,” he sighs. He chooses to stare at the bottom of his empty glass to avoid seeing your reaction. It's pitiful, but it'll spare him some of the pain and embarrassment. “I did not want to listen to what you would say, this once. I was scared if I heard your answer, it would all be real. Unchangeable.”

Change. Viktor had never been scared of the concept before. Change means something new, passing from one state to another, an evolution. It means progress. Nothing could ever be as gratifying, as glorious, as making the changes you want to see in the world.

But he didn't want you to change. He wanted you to stay just as you are, always excitedly talkative and brilliantly observant. Always shinning. A star brighter than any other, that could never fade no matter how the world treated her.

Revealing his feelings for you would have put that in harm’s way. You might think he had never truly been interested in your conversations, in all those ideas and words you feel so self-conscious about, and lose the trust you had in him as a friend.

He couldn't take that risk.

“So… you avoided me for two weeks ?” you scoff in disbelief.

He lets out a short, bitter laugh:

“I would have attempted longer if you did not break into my apartment.”

The poor attempt at a joke doesn't seem to land very well with either of you. The atmosphere feels still and heavy, the strange tension palpable.

“Ok,” you exhale, leaning your head back against the back of the couch. “You can ask me a question now.”

He glances at you in surprise:

“A question? Why?”

“So it's equal. I ask you one, you ask me one,” you explain simply, like it's the most basic rule of conversation in the world. “I haven't been attentive to what you were trying to tell me, for a long time. I need to change that.”

He hesitates for a second. There's a lot he wants to ask you. Had things been different, would you ever have considered him as someone you could fall for? If he could change the timing, the place, the words, would anything have made it so you could have loved him?

“You read people so easily,” he almost whispers. “I always assumed you knew how felt for you, but were too nice to tell me off. That you did not want to break what we had.”

It’s time. It's time for change. There is no other choice than to move forward. He continues:

“I am… sorry that I fell in love with you.”

Ah…

The weight seems slightly lighter on his chest. It's not a good feeling, exactly, but there's a certain peace that comes with finally having said it.

The expression on your face is yet again one he doesn't recognize.

“I'm not. I’m not sorry, Viktor,” you breathe out, hardly any louder than his respiration.

Your hand touches his, just barely, and he flinches, pulling away. But you refuse to back off. You reach for him again, your fingers timidly touching his own.

“Maybe I did know, in a way,” you reflect, a single digit moving across his knuckles, the ghost of a caress, “but I wouldn't let myself believe it. I didn't want to lose the only person I’ve ever felt wanted to listen to me. So… I stopped listening to my instincts, I guess.”

You let out a shaky laugh.

“I talk all the goddamn time and I don't even listen to myself.”

He turns his hand around, letting your index trace the lines of his palm instead.

“A fortune teller who can't read her own cards,” he teases gently. “Ironic.”

You scoff with a smile; your fingers intertwine, tentative.

“You're one to talk, asshole,” you huff playfully, “the big smart professor who can't figure out when someone is in love with him.”

His heart stops beating in his chest.

“Ah. You... you lo-” he stops himself before finishing his sentence, scared of pronouncing the word. He takes a shaky breath before he attempts again: “You feel the same way I…?”

He leaves the question open. He's still hesitant to make it real. Of saying the words that'll shift things. Because damn it, yes, Viktor is scared of change when it comes to you.

“I’m in love with you, Viktor,” you smile, like it's the most natural thing in the world. “Did the part where I broke into your apartment just to talk to you not give that away?”

What a strange feeling. He's dreamed of hearing those words from your mouth for so long, never believing they would, and yet it feels so right. As if you had told him a thousand times before this moment.

Maybe you had, in your own way.

He squeezes your hand, the sensation of your skin against his making it all feel impossibly real.

“I suppose we're both idiots,” he sighs gently, eyes locking into yours. “The blind oracle, and the clueless teacher. What a dynamic duo we make.”

Your forehead meets his, your nose just barely tickling his.

“I'd say we make a good duo. You and me,” you grin. You're so close he can feel the warmth of your breath on his lips. He smiles.

“I'd say so as well.”

Taglist Darlings ❤️ : @soniiyi , @mischievous-piltovan , @just1cefor4ll , @luv-urself-first, @girlidkthinkofsmth , @starflesh-moth , @raynoway, @vyshnevaka , @ash-84321 , @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx

[honeqq]

I think It would be funny if, even if Clifford isn’t a traditional scientist, he still ends up innovating. Like he makes a weird glaze he uses on his paintings that will cause someone’s computer to explode if they try and upload a picture of his work into an ai database. (Or take a picture without his consent in general, I feel like he would be very paranoid about people taking pictures of his work, you have to see it in person or special events ONLY. You gotta Appreciate it. The special events are for accessibility and are heavily monitored because techbro assholes like to send in people to scan his work illegally). He shatters the programming communities understanding of the universe every other Tuesday. He gets so fed up with ‘ai’ being a buzzword that he invents genuine artificial sentience ala sci fi tropes and unleashes it at a conference. Science and art are more connected than some people like to think, and Fords are nothing if not consistent in pulling a double middle finger to spite the world. -🦋

This is one of my friends suggestions , that he are this kind of Artist that really exploring every style and still trying to make it work, while I still think he need to make this piece Traditional cuz he need to prove he made it HIMSELF by sled recording every step. and YES he does get paranoid of his artwork get stolen or get photo so he never publish any in Social media . While he actually have a huge followers on social media of him posting of himself (he using his platform to spread awareness about AI at first but he get popular because his reaction to hate comments and ppl follow him cuz he just funny to mess up with)

[physalian]

Fuck Grammarly

Okay I need to rant about Grammarly. A program I never used before and never will now. Doubly pissed because their ads keep interrupting my peaceful 4-hour Minecraft music session with their fake-ass influencers.

Guys. Gals. Nonbinary pals.

“As a corporate girlie—” learn how to write a proper concise email.

“I used to spend hours proofreading—” enjoy the process, and then the product.

If you hate proofreading, to the point where you’ll consult a robot to do it all for you, then you hate writing. If all you care about is the end product, sorry to say but ‘writing’ is like, 30% of writing. The other 70% is editing, by design. You’re supposed to like it.

Of course I’d love to have beautiful artwork of whatever’s in my head, but I’m going to love whatever I make a whole lot more than whatever I type into some garbage generator. Because I love the process of creation.

Do I think editing is tedious as hell? Absolutely, but it’s still a tedium that I enjoy. I like fixing my mistakes, I like improving my sentence flow. I like thinking about patterns and connections that I didn’t see before and revising and reworking until I’m satisfied.

For the humdrum day to day work emails that some of us have to write—if you’re sending out whole essays to your coworkers that you need a robot to write for you, you’re doing it wrong. Corporate emails are boring and trite, but I can type out a “hey please do this thing for me” faster than I can load up ChatGPT or Grammarly, type out my prompt, make sure the result is what I actually want to say, and then send it to my coworker. If you can’t, learn.

Apparently, Grammarly used to be a helpful way to check for spelling and grammar errors. I don’t have any issue with the AI that runs spellchecker whatsoever. I type so fast and miss typos constantly and when the spellchecker is absent, like on this website, it’s annoying af.

But that’s not what Grammarly is about anymore, and that’s not what the above ad was trying to sell you, either.

You won’t get better if you don’t practice. You won’t get better if you aren’t the one making, seeing, and fixing your mistakes. Especially if you write fiction where grammar rules are a suggestion at best. My published novel is littered with flagged words and sentence fragments that I know are technically improper English, but I sacrificed an MLA-proof paper for something fun and entertaining.

AI does not understand nuance and flavor text and aesthetic choices. It never will.

If you train yourself by using a crutch you don’t need, you will end up needing it because you’ll be too afraid to act without it.

Fuck up. Make a mess. Make mistakes. You won’t make them for long once you see them. You do not need a robot to do it for you. We’ve been writing books for hundreds of years and all the authors who came before did it just fine without a robot.

This isn’t even about writing novels, it’s about communicating in the written medium. Fucking. Learn. It’s not rocket science, it’s not coding in C++, it’s not brain surgery. It’s stringing words together in a comprehensible sentence.

And obligatory disclaimer: To anyone who has an impairment and needs these tools, this is not about you and you know it.

[transmutationisms]

do you feel like SSRIs are mostly pseudoscience? I'm not sure if I should be open to trying them or avoid them at all costs since I'm not sure if they even work or if they will mess me up permanently

a preliminary note that i don't find the category 'pseudoscience' to be useful & would classify SSRI research more as 'methodologically shoddy science' or 'ideologically slanted' or 'part of a centuries-long effort on the part of psychiatrists to secure themselves professional prestige by claiming neurobiological etiologies where none are shown to exist' &c &c. imo the notion of 'pseudoscience' is itself pretty positivistic, ahistorical, and ideologically noxious (particularly apparent in any analysis of epistemological imperialism).

that aside: you raise two major issues with SSRIs, namely whether they work and whether they will cause you harm.

efficacy of SSRIs is contested. a 2010 meta-analysis found that in patients with mild or moderate depressive symptoms, the efficacy of SSRIs "may be minimal or nonexistent", whilst "for patients with very severe depression, the benefit of medications over placebo is substantial". a 2008 meta-analysis found a similar distinction between mildly vs severely depressed patients, but noted that even in the latter population, drug–placebo differences were "relatively small" and argued that the differences between drug and placebo in severely depressed patients "seems to result from a poorer response to placebo amongst more depressed patients" rather than from a greater efficacy of SSRIs. a 2012 meta-analysis found some SSRIs consistently effective over placebo treatments, but several authors disclosed major relationships with pharmaceutical companies. a 2017 meta-analysis concluded that "SSRIs might have statistically significant effects on depressive symptoms, but all trials were at high risk of bias and the clinical significance seems questionable" (emphasis added) and that "potential small beneficial effects seem to be outweighed by harmful effects".

when evaluating any of this evidence, it is crucial to keep in mind that studies on antidepressant trials are selectively published—that is, they are less likely to be published if they show negative results!

A total of 37 studies viewed by the FDA as having positive results were published; 1 study viewed as positive was not published. Studies viewed by the FDA as having negative or questionable results were, with 3 exceptions, either not published (22 studies) or published in a way that, in our opinion, conveyed a positive outcome (11 studies). According to the published literature, it appeared that 94% of the trials conducted were positive. By contrast, the FDA analysis showed that 51% were positive.

meta-analyses are not immune to this issue, either. in addition to the problem that a meta-analysis of a bunch of bad studies cannot magically 'cancel out' the effects of poor study design, the authors of meta-analyses can and do also have financial interests and ties to pharmaceutical companies, and this affects their results just as it does the results of the studies they are studying. according to a 2016 analysis of antidepressant meta-analyses,

Fifty-four meta-analyses (29%) had authors who were employees of the assessed drug manufacturer, and 147 (79%) had some industry link (sponsorship or authors who were industry employees and/or had conflicts of interest). Only 58 meta-analyses (31%) had negative statements in the concluding statement of the abstract. Meta-analyses including an author who were employees of the manufacturer of the assessed drug were 22-fold less likely to have negative statements about the drug than other meta-analyses [1/54 (2%) vs. 57/131 (44%); P < 0.001]. [...] There is a massive production of meta-analyses of antidepressants for depression authored by or linked to the industry, and they almost never report any caveats about antidepressants in their abstracts. Our findings add a note of caution for meta-analyses with ties to the manufacturers of the assessed products.

so, do SSRIs work? they are certainly psychoactive substances, which is to say, they do something. whether that something reduces depressive symptoms is simply not known at this point, though it is always worth keeping in mind that the 'chemical imbalance' narrative of SSRIs (the idea that they work by 'curing' a 'serotonin deficiency' in the brain) has always been a profitable myth. look, any medical treatment throughout history has been vouched for by SOME patients who report that it helped them—no matter how wacky it sounds or how little evidence there was to support it. this can be for a lot of reasons: placebo effect, the remedy accidentally treating a different problem than it was intended for, the symptoms coincidentally resolving on their own. sometimes the human body is just weird and unpredictable. sometimes remedies work. i'm sorry i can't give you a more definitive answer about whether SSRIs would help you.

as to potential risks: these are significant. SSRIs can precipitate suicidal ideation, a risk that has been consistently downplayed by pharmaceutical companies and studies. SSRIs are also known to contribute to sexual dysfunction and dissatisfaction, again a risk that is minimised and downplayed in much of the literature and in physician communication with patients. further (known) side effects range through emotional blunting, glaucoma, QT interval prolongation, abnormal bleeding & interaction with anti-coagulents, platelet dysfunction, decreases in bone mineral density leading to increased risk of osteopenia and osteoporosis, jaw clenching / TMJ pain, risk of serotonin syndrome when used in conjunction with other serotonergic substances, dizziness, insomnia, headaches, the list goes on.

i don't mean to sound alarmist; all drugs have side effects, some of the ones above occur rarely, and you may very well decide the risk is acceptable to you to take on. i would, though, always encourage you to do thorough research into potential side effects before starting any drug, including an SSRI. more on SSRI side effects in david healy's books 'pharmageddon', 'let them eat prozac', 'the antidepressant era', and 'the creation of psychopharmacology'; 'pillaged' by ronald w maris; and 'the myth of the chemical cure' by joanna moncrieff.

in addition to the above, SSRIs are known to come with a risk of 'discontinuation syndrome'—that is, chemical withdrawal when stopping the drug. this, too, is often downplayed by physicians; many still deny that it can even happen. some patients don't experience it at all, though i can tell you purely anecdotally that SSRI withdrawal was so miserable for me i simply gave up on quitting for over a year, despite the fact that at that point i was already thoroughly experienced with chemical withdrawals from other, 'harder' drugs. again, i am not telling you not to go on SSRIs if you decide these risks are worth it to you! i simply think this is a decision that should always be made with full knowledge (indeed, this is a core, though routinely violated, principle of medical 'informed consent').

ultimately this is not a decision anyone should make for you; it's your body and mind that are at stake here. as always i think that anyone considering any kind of medical treatment should have full knowledge about it and should be making all decisions freely and autonomously. i am genuinely not pushing any agenda 'for' or 'against' SSRIs, only against prescription of them that is done carelessly, coercively, or without fully informing patients of what risks they're taking on and what benefits they can hope to see.

[a-dinosaur-a-day]

Wait so what is happening with Spinos now? I thought we recently had a huge breakthrough about them being very aquatic?

Yeaaaaaaah that hypothesis was full of holes. The short version is scientists keep publishing papers that just disprove the last one published. It’s a mess and everyone is fighting.

Spinosaurus was either semi aquatic (like a crocodilian) or a wader (like a heron) or maybe something in between

The biggest part of the drama is the the two scientists who first proposed the aquatic thing broke up bc the Lead guy (Sereno) decided to, ya know, follow the science, and realized there was more evidence for hell heron than hell croc; but his mentee (Ibrahim) still supported the aquatic hypothesis. They had a huge fight, “broke up”, and now the fight continues in the papers

Think of science as the world’s biggest Talmud and this is a particularly angry section

[fiddles-ifs]

[ID: a banner-style image with smudged, grungy text. The banner says "blog update" in bold, capital letters. The background is textured green and white with a film border around it. The upper left corner says "official photograph not to be released for publication." /end ID]

Happy update day!

Greenwarden, Eryinys, and TKP's chapter 1 updates are all coming along very smoothly. (Except for Greenwarden. Firstborn problem indeed. I ended up losing a ton of work -- including the whole library update -- and I got so mad I started working on a whole other route. Coming back to the library route soon, though. I have enough salvageable material, I just need to be Not Mad about it.) Here's some snippets!

CONTENT WARNING: Gore

GREENWARDEN

Adrenaline is a hell of a drug. Sprinting down the street doesn't even hurt, even if you do leave a long blood trail behind you. Your one hope is that the coyote is too preoccupied tearing chunks out of Eddie to pay attention to you. Hope is dangerous -- makes you cocky. Makes you make mistakes. You keep running toward what you think is safety, and you end up right at the edge of Warden Forest. Definitely not safety. You stop just before the mouth of the woods, breathing so hard you gag, your stomach half-open like a yawning mouth. Deep breaths hurt too much -- you can't bring yourself back to baseline. You risk losing your adrenaline rush if you do that anyway. Looking around looks the same. Woods and parking lot, woods and parking lot. There's a trail right ahead of you, tempting you inside. The click of nails against asphalt makes you whirl around. The damn coyote is right behind you, still licking gristle from its teeth.

ERINYS

Marik leads you to a corner covered in paper thin monitors. Cords feed into the biggest computer you may have ever seen, protected from the water and soap by thick rubber casing and a raised platform surrounded by guardrails painted yellow and black. The ramp vibrates under heel. You realize, with a start, that the computer and monitors are much lower to the floor than you'd expect, just as the engineer wheels around to face you both. "Sorenson," Marik says. The engineer grins with a mouthful of pearly white teeth and leans back in his chair, arms folded over his stomach. He's all hard planes. Built with lean muscle, broad-shouldered like DANIEL is, but with a shock of curly red hair and a mess of dark freckles. He has a dimple on his nose. "Marik," Sorenson says, wheeling his chair back to make room for you both. "All systems good. I'm running tune-up software now, just to make sure. Everything is brand new, but still. Can't be too careful." He glances at you. Nothing escapes Marik's notice, even bent across the desk to glare into screens running codes and diagnostics and other things that make you dizzy. Absently, he introduces you to each other. The engineer's name is Doctor Matthew Sorenson. He looks awfully young to be a doctor. "Fury, huh?" Dr. Sorenson raises his eyebrows. You flex your hands. "Whatever keeps you alive, I guess."

THE KING'S PHYSICIAN

The Maw is a jagged white chalkscape. You have to march in single file, careful to avoid the razor sharp juts of rock. The horses are nervous -- the wolf packs and cave lions living in the Teeth have perfected the art of the ambush. Not just that -- the endless bone white expanse can cause the distracted to become easily lost. You keep close count of everyone -- you, Sibir, and Leniza -- their aunt. She gives the whole company water blessings on the way in. Salt water from the Archipelago, to fine their ways home. -> Not that you believe in blessings. You are a person of science. -> You give your own blessings when you can. You can never have too many gods at your disposal. -> You don't have an opinion on religion -- it's something that exists. Annoyingly prevalent, but what can you do?

I'm hoping at least one of these guys will be ready to publish by next month -- but I'm also writing another book! Because I'm crazy. So we'll see!

[vintagerpg]

Welcome to the first meeting of our new Manly Wade Wellman appreciation society. After the golden age of the pulps, there are two authors who, for my money, tower head and shoulders above everyone else spilling ink — Fritz Leiber and Wellman. I don’t think either get enough credit and Wellman perhaps doubly so, especially the Silver John stories, which have, infuriatingly, been out of print most of my lifetime. Nonsense. Madness. The short stories at least have been recently reprinted by Valancourt Books (though with a terrible cover — sorry, John’s not a beardo), so this week I want to raise the profile of the novels. There were five, written for Doubleday and published expressly for the Science Fiction Book Club (I believe). There were paperbacks of some (Most? All?I’m not sure) in the mid-‘80s, but they’ve not been reprinted until the 2023 Complete John the Balladeer from Haffner, a pricey two-volume set.

This is the first, The Old Gods Waken (1979), which sees John get involved in a squabble between neighbors that winds up masking a sinister agenda involving druids, messing with ancient powers and, if John’s too late to the rescue, human sacrifice. The Raven Mockers, evil spirits from Cherokee folklore, play a memorable part.

The details, fun though they may be, are secondary to the feel of the thing. John is just so damn likable and pleasant, even with folks who don’t deserve the consideration, like the pair of druid brothers. There isn’t ever a real sense that John can fail, its his very nature to pick out a song on his silver-stringed guitar and find a solution, or a friend who can help out (in this case, a Cherokee medicine man/social scientist). John’s inner goodness just sees him through and that makes these stories both delightful and odd. You get a real sense of Appalachia, of the rhythm of the speech. These aren’t really horror stories, or fantasy (though John is 100% the template for the D&D Bard) but more warm-hearted adventure stories. I can’t even complain about the druids being such comical, one-note villains.

Michael Flanagan did the cover. Spooky!

[smoothriverrocksrock]

That one scene in Bfdia where Tennis Ball is talking about the research paper he published is awesome because it implies that alongside the crazy challenge shit, Golfball and Tennisball are still actively involved in the scientific community

Imagine being at a science convention and you have a really in depth talk with this guy about his Yoyleite research, and you really respect this guy because he’s been so involved for years. The guy is a genius, has a track record a mile long, and is a genuinely nice person to talk to… and then your kid turns on the tv over dinner and you see him messing with the timeline on live television

[casedclosedbye]

Scenario: Spencer Reid Gaslights Derek Morgan with Made-up Facts

The BAU office, late afternoon. The team is gathered around the table, debriefing after a case. Spencer Reid, ever the master of obscure facts and trivia, notices that Derek Morgan is making a bold claim about something trivial. Spencer, with his usual deadpan humor, decides to playfully gaslight him with "facts" he's made up on the spot.*

---

Derek Morgan:(grinning) “I’m telling you, man, I know I’m right. The best way to stay awake during a long stakeout is to eat a banana. You get the potassium boost, plus it gives you energy without that crash.”

Spencer Reid: (without missing a beat, feigning deep thought) “Actually, Derek, that’s not true. In fact, bananas have a very low concentration of the kind of potassium that would actually help you stay awake. It’s more of a myth. What you really need is a fruit with higher levels of magnesium—like a papaya.”

Derek Morgan: (laughs, shaking his head) “Papaya? Man, you’re trippin’. I’ve been eating bananas my whole life, and they’ve been keeping me awake just fine. You’re gonna sit here and tell me I’m wrong?”

Spencer Reid: (smiling like he’s about to drop some major knowledge)* “Well, see, that’s the thing. You’re probably confusing it with the fact that bananas are actually known for inducing a mild state of sleepiness due to the high levels of tryptophan. It’s the same thing in turkey. They just don’t advertise it because it would ruin the snack food market.”

Derek Morgan: (laughs loudly, rolling his eyes)* “You’re pulling my leg, man. Everyone knows bananas keep you awake. I read it in *Men’s Health* last month.”

Spencer Reid:(nonchalantly) “Funny you mention Men’s Health. In the latest study published there, they found that bananas only affect energy levels if consumed at precisely 3:17 PM. Any other time of day, it has the opposite effect. You must’ve been reading the wrong issue.”

Derek Morgan: (staring at him, narrowing his eyes) “Spencer, I swear you’re messing with me now. There’s no way you’ve got some Men’s Health issue with ‘banana science’ like that. What are you, a walking encyclopedia?”

Spencer Reid: (shrugging, deadpan) “Actually, it’s more like a walking hypertext database. I remember reading about this exact phenomenon. Also, just so you know, bananas are classified as berries in botanical terms. Did you know that?”

Derek Morgan: (pauses, looking completely confused)* “Wait… they’re what?!”

Spencer Reid: (smiling slightly) “Yep. You’d think a banana would be a fruit. But in the scientific world, it’s technically a berry. I’d be careful if I were you. If you keep calling them fruits, you might get kicked out of botany class.”

Derek Morgan: (staring at him in disbelief) “Man, you’re full of it today.”

Spencer Reid:(with a shrug) “I mean, I could go on. Did you know that, in 1832, a French botanist successfully crossbred a banana with a cactus? That’s why modern bananas are so resilient in extreme temperatures.”

Derek Morgan:(holding his head in his hands) “Spence, I’m about to lose it on you. I don’t know what’s worse—that you’re making this up or that you might actually be right about some of it.”

Spencer Reid:(grinning) “I think you’ll find that most of what I say is based on factual accuracy, Derek. You just have to learn to distinguish between truth and, well… my interpretation of it.”

Derek Morgan:(laughs, shaking his head) “I swear, man, you could convince someone that the sky’s green if you said it with enough confidence.”

Spencer Reid: (eyes widening dramatically) “Actually, the sky is green, but only at very specific latitudes, right around the equator. But that’s a whole other conversation for another day.”

Derek Morgan: (groaning in exasperation) “I’m done. You’ve officially broken me, Reid. I’m going home. I’m never looking at a banana the same way again.”

The rest of the team, watching from the sidelines, shares a knowing look as Derek walks out, muttering about bananas and cacti.

---