Not tiny Steve. Not big Steve. Regular Steve.

You know, I am GENUINELY unsure that I understood the Pining While Fucking trope before Heated Rivalry. I'm convinced that it's 80% of the absolute crack cocaine infused into Hollanov. The other 20% is the rivalry and the language barrier and the forbidden eroticism of it all but mostly it's the pining. A fucking masterclass of the trope. Rachel Reid really sat down to write the sequel to her coffee shop AU and cooked the literary equivalent of crystal meth.

every fleetwood mac documentary i've ever watched is like "the band was at the height of their success, enjoying the fame rolling in from their #1 hit 'i know about the other woman, lindsey'. however, nobody could have sensed the tension brewing between members."

"the group initially disbanded immediately after the release of the single 'well get the fuck out if you're going to be like that', leaving thousands of fans shocked."

okay but ilya and cliff being besties but ilya rooming with connors during the club episode makes me laugh because i'm just imagining him being such a demon to everyone that they had to put being his roomie on ROTATION

Okay but are we gonna talk about Harry on the ground with a gun his hand. Pointed at a white man. Are we gonna talk about Buck shouting "don't shoot don't shoot he's with me, the guy with the gun is with me" and running to cover Harry with his body just in case. Are we gonna talk about Harry dropping the gun and putting his hands behind his head immediately, even though SWAT was still on the other end of the hallway and the shooter was right next to him. Are we gonna talk about little Harry in the back of his dad's car, waking up to a gun pointed at him. Are we gonna talk about that.

come to my cottage where there’s no slamming doors and we don’t walk on eggshells and you don’t have to think about how as a child you memorized the sounds of footsteps on the hardwood and who they belonged to and how much to shrink yourself depending on the answer. don’t go back to russia because you always come back to me in pieces and pretend you don’t need to be put back together. i know a place that won’t break you. come to my house. we’ll have so much fun. i want to watch tv with you. i want to knock elbows with you while we brush our teeth. i want to taste your mouth while its still warm from your coffee; to suck syrup off your fingers at the table. i want every mundane luxury we’ve never allowed ourselves to have. it’s so private, no one will know. because they can’t. and for now it’s okay; i’m not ready for the world to have us when there’s so many ways i’ve yet to have you. we’d have a week, or even two, and it still won’t be enough. how do you make up for almost ten years of never seeing a sunrise together. never kissing with morning breath. all the things i might already know if i never left that time you asked me to stay. we’ll be completely alone, together, with our clothes in the same laundry basket and your hair on my pillowcase and the enormity of everything i want touching every corner of every room.

you guys need to open your heart to the world where ilya is handwashing those pants. i know realistically hes sending them to the dry cleaners but lets play in this space. whole apartment smells like hot tuna and cheese. hes handwashing his rick owens. hes crying. dance with me here

ever since the costume designer revealed that ilya is wearing rick owens in the tuna melt scene its all i can think about while im watching it. let me put my rick owens on for this. hand down the front of my rick owens cradling my half chub. frotting in my rick owens. cum cooling on my rick owens while the love of my life rejects me. dejectedly sitting on the couch covered in cum. in my rick owens

i found out those pants are handwash only btw. as if it all wasnt humiliating enough