thelastofhope

[thelastofhope]

trash that is also on fire and gay

“I could have made you stop.”

Yuuri adjusts his grip on Viktor so that he can set him down on the floor, on top of the pile of his torn clothing. Viktor lets him lay him down, sprawls out boneless with Yuuri atop him. His pulse is quick under Yuuri’s fingers.

“I could have put you in a van at gunpoint and kidnapped you to a sex dungeon in Siberia,” Yuuri says. He touches Viktor’s face with reverent hands; the lines of tension in his forehead have smoothed. Yuuri slips a hand under his head to lift it off the concrete floor.

“Why Siberia? It’s a miserable place, you know.”

“A hostile environment keeps the prisoner from escaping.”

“Oh?” For a moment Yuuri thinks he’s gone too far, but then Viktor tips his head back and smiles. Yuuri kisses the arch of his exposed throat. “And what would you do with me, once you had me?”

“Well…first, I’d have to restrain you.”

“You’d tie me up?”

“I was thinking a leash and collar.”

Viktor’s fingers dance up Yuuri’s bicep, over his shoulder. His hand settles on the back of Yuuri’s neck. “And then?”

“I’d keep you in bed.”

“I’d get a bed? I was imagining myself in a cell in the basement.”

“Of course you’d have a bed. A nice bed. I’d spoil you.”

He feels Viktor’s mind brush against his, and Yuuri knows what he must be seeing—Yuuri’s imagination, red velvet hangings on a four poster bed, Viktor held with golden chains, his head in Yuuri’s lap like a good little pet. Viktor’s hips are under his, and Yuuri, feeling blood rush south, grinds down against him; Viktor squirms, still oversensitive, but Yuuri doesn’t stop.

Viktor will tell him if he can’t take it.

“Already?” Viktor’s other hand slips between them to feel Yuuri’s half-hard cock. “You know there’s no way I can get it up again this quickly, right?”

“You don’t need to.” Yuuri puts his lips against Viktor’s ear. “You’re still wet, aren’t you?”

Viktor puts both arms around in him in lieu of answering.

“Hold on tight,” Yuuri says, and he slides his hands under Viktor’s hips and lifts. He feels one of Viktor’s heels dig into his back as Viktor’s ankles cross, his legs wrapped around Yuuri.

Viktor’s ass is still slick with lube and with the seed Yuuri spilled in him earlier. He’s tight, a little tense, but Yuuri caresses him, licks at his jaw, murmurs into his ear how good he is, and Viktor takes him in with barely a sigh. Their bodies lock together; Viktor’s mind touches Yuuri’s, and for a moment he inhabits Yuuri, gives him a sense of how intensely he feels, pain and pleasure all melded together inside him.

Yuuri digs his nails in and thrusts.

Viktor could kill him with his mind, but he lets Yuuri use him instead. Viktor could bend him to his will like a pip cleaner, but instead he clings to Yuuri weakly and gasps while Yuuri fucks him for the second time, Viktor’s soft overstimulated cock trapped between them. So Yuuri doesn’t hold back. Viktor feels impossibly hot, squeezing Yuuri’s cock, like he was made just for this.

“Yuuri—Yuuri, kiss me.”

“Ask nicely.”

“Please.” Viktor’s eyes are dark with desire. “Please.”

“I love you,” Yuuri says, and he steals Viktor’s answer with his mouth.

He buries himself deep in Viktor, every muscle tight with pleasure, and comes, trembling. He fills Viktor up. He kisses away all of Viktor’s attempts to speak.

For once, Yuuri doesn’t need to hear it. He knows.

Viktor is dripping when Yuuri pulls out—his thighs are wet, his ass red—and when Yuuri flips him over, he sees the bruises on Viktor’s back. They’re still forming, but Yuuri can already tell he’s left a map of their love on Viktor’s skin, a black and blue abstract of how badly Yuuri wanted him. Viktor will have finger marks left on his hips and thighs, love bites over his shoulders.

“I’m going to have to explain these marks,” Viktor says. “They strip search me every time I go out.”

Yuuri swallows down the rage he feels at anyone looking or touching Viktor in a way he doesn’t like, because if Viktor wanted him to storm in and kill everyone, he’d have asked.

Instead he presses his thumb into a mark on the back of Viktor’s neck.

“It’s not my fault you bruise like an overripe peach.”

“I like it.” Viktor presses his forehead against the floor. I miss you so much. With this thing on… Yuuri gets a mental image of the power limiter on Viktor’s arm, and realizes it’s bolted into the bones of Viktor’s forearm. I can’t hear you. I can’t find you. It’s like you’re dead.

If he starts thinking about the limiter being screwed into Viktor’s flesh, if he starts thinking about how much it must hurt, he’ll lose it. Viktor hasn’t mentioned it, so Yuuri can’t. Not yet.

“I’ll just have to keep marking you, then,” he whispers. “As a reminder.”

Of what? Viktor’s thoughts are smug. He already knows.

That you’re mine, Yuuri thinks. That I’m yours.

“Would you really steal me away, Yuuri?”

“Should I?”

Viktor shakes his head. Yuuri wishes he could see his expression, which is probably why Viktor’s chosen to hide it.

“Not yet,” he says. “I don’t intend to spend the rest of my life running.”

There it is. Yuuri shivers as Viktor’s voice takes on the confidence he’s been missing, as he loses the edge of desperation he’s had since Yuuri caught him and pinned him against the wall to wreck him. Just as Viktor’s fear makes Yuuri angry, his determination makes him strong.

Yuuri’s always wanted to be Viktor’s shield and his sword, his riot armor and his gun. He’s never craved power for its own sake, for all that he enjoys what they do. He just wants to be able to do things.

He wants to be everything Viktor needs. He’s not a telepath; it’s only way he has of making Viktor love him.

“You don’t need telepathy for that, my Yuuri,” Viktor says. He lifts his head, looks at Yuuri over his shoulder. His smile is soft, private, Yuuri’s alone. “You make me love you just by existing.”

Yuuri rests his face against Viktor’s broad back. He can only circumvent the security in this facility for so long, and he still has to get Viktor cleaned up and dressed, and the blonde kid Viktor’s toting around with him, the baby telepath, is still tied up somewhere and Viktor will probably want him back. They can’t stay, Yuuri knows.

And yet. Viktor’s skin is warm, his breath even, his body familiar. Yuuri closes his eyes and lets himself have him for a little while longer, storing up memories for what’s coming.

#nsfw

[thelastofhope]

Yuuri’s undereye bags are so large that he’s surprised the airline didn’t charge him extra for them, and in his frantic attempt to dig his concealer out of his bag as he despairs at the unflattering bathroom lighting, he almost doesn’t notice Viktor Nikiforov doing his makeup at the sink beside him.

Almost.

Just stay calm, Yuuri thinks as he finally produces a tube of drugstore concealer Phichit bought for him and swore by. He’s obviously not going to be paying attention to you. He’s too busy being beautiful. Just put on your concealer and leave —

“What are you doing?” Viktor asks. He sounds scandalized.

Yuuri freezes, concealer inches from his face.

“W-what?”

“Are you putting that concealer under your eyes?” Viktor asks. He frowns. He’s got concealer under one eye and not under the other; the asymmetry has no effect on how good he looks.

“…yes?”

Yuuri spent two hours at Target discreetly holding tubes of concealer up to his face, using his phone’s camera as a mirror, fending off worried employees, in order to buy makeup that matched.

“With cheekbones like yours? Why aren’t you highlighting?”

“Highlighting what?” Yuuri’s makeup knowledge is limited. And ‘highlighting’ sounds alarmingly flashy.

“The concealer under your eye is supposed to be lighter. It lifts the face.” Viktor gestures expansively.

Yuuri peers at him. His glasses are sitting folded on the edge of the sink, but Viktor is only a foot or so away.

“…your concealer isn’t lighter than your skin, though?”

Viktor snorts.

“If this concealer was any lighter it’d be white.” He leans down, way too close, and stares at Yuuri for several terrifying seconds. His eyes narrow. “Hold still, I think I can fix this.”

“Wait,” Yuuri begins.

Viktor ignores him in favor of producing a a clean glass palette from his bag, He puts some of his own concealer on it, and then snatches the tube out of Yuuri’s hands and squeezes some onto the palette as well. He mixes the two using a small metal spatula. Then he takes out a small black brush, dips it in the mixture, and begins dotting it precisely under Yuuri’s eye.

“Um…”

“Don’t move your face.” Viktor blends out the concealer gently. The brush is soft against Yuuri’s skin; he flicks his eyes towards the mirror and admires the steady movement of Viktor’s arm. Viktor applies the concealer differently than Yuuri does, dragging it into an upside down triangle under Yuuri’s eyes. When he’s finished, though, he makes a pleased noise and then puts a finger on Yuuri’s chin and turns his face to the mirror.

It…looks good. It’s not obvious at all, which is what Yuuri was afraid of. He looks like himself, only more awake.

“Thanks,” Yuuri says, dazed. Viktor Nikiforov, giving him make up advice in the bathroom right before the Grand Prix Final. In all Yuuri’s fantasies about meeting Viktor, he never imagine it would be like this.

He wets his knock-off beauty sponge and begins applying a light layer of foundation. Sure, it’s supposed to be sweat and oil proof, and last all day, but in Yuuri’s experience having your foundation drip off in high definition on international television because you were too heavyhanded is no joke. Besides, Yuuri gets his skin from his mother, so he doesn’t really have anything to cover. Mostly he wears foundation because no one’s real skin looks good on TV.

Including, apparently, Viktor’s.

Yuuri turns away from Viktor, who is applying foundation to his face with an actual Beauty Blender, and busies himself with his powder. He cleans up the foundation around his lips with a q-tip. He tries very hard not to listen to Viktor’s clothing rustling beside him; he definitely does not keep being distracted by the flash of red of Viktor’s sleeve in the corner of his eye.

Beside him, Viktor is contouring. He’s making a weird face in the mirror as he does, and Yuuri can’t help himself. He laughs. Then he claps his hand over his mouth because shit, he just laughed at his idol.

Viktor doesn’t look offended, though. He smiles.

“Do you want to try?” Viktor holds out the pan of contour powder. “The rink lights make everyone look flat.”

Yuuri has never actually contoured. Yuuri’s make up skills basically encompass foundation, concealer (which he’s apparently been doing wrong the whole time), and eyeliner. He sort of understands the point, because Phichit went through a Kardashian phase, but it would never occur to him to actually try it. Yuuri always feels like a fraud when he pretties himself up.

“I don’t know how.”

“I’ll do it.” Viktor rummages in his bag and produces another clean brush. Does he have duplicates of everything, Yuuri wonders. Viktor picks up some of the powder on his brush and then leans in again; this time he steadies Yuuri’s face with his free hand.

At least the foundation hides his blush.

When Viktor is finished, Yuuri eyes himself in the mirror again, and is forced to admit that Viktor is right: there’s dimension to his face that wasn’t there before. Yuuri normally focuses, when he’s applying his makeup, on covering all his skin and on hiding his perpetual tiredness. But he watches Viktor finish off his face with some sparkly liquid on his cheekbones and powder on his brows and a coat of metallic silver mascara. Viktor’s worn flashier makeup before, during routines of years past, but Yuuri never thought of him actually applying it. He always assumed…well, he doesn’t know, really. Not this. Not Viktor hunched over the sink in a bathroom, filling in his brows with a tiny pointy brush.

“Disappointed?” Viktor glances at him, mouth turned up at the corners. He’s putting on lip gloss now, and Yuuri is actively trying and failing to not stare at his mouth, his lips, the tip of his pink tongue between his teeth.

“No!” Yuuri’s not even sure what Viktor means; he just knows he could never be disappointed in anything Viktor did. “I like you. Your makeup! I like your makeup — not that I don’t like you —”

Viktor snorts. It’s a shockingly ugly noise.

“What color is your costume?”

“Blue.”

“Hmm.” Viktor digs around in his frankly ridiculous makeup bag. He produces a tube of mascara, still sealed in clear plastic. “Try this.”

“Mascara?”

“It’s gold.”

Yuuri swallows. His first instinct is to refuse, because he’s sure he can’t pull something like that off. But Viktor is smiling at him. Yuuri doesn’t want him to stop. He doesn’t want this strange, magical moment to end.

“Okay.”

He peels off the plastic and unscrews the tube. There’s a faint, chemical smell as he puts the brush up against his lash line. He combs the gold glitter through his lashes, top, then bottom, and blinks at himself in the mirror. It’s not subtle at all. But Viktor is looking appreciatively at him as he packs up his makeup beside him.

Yuuri does his other eye and then very carefully puts his glasses back on.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” Viktor closes his makeup bag and tucks it under his arm.

“Can I keep this?”

“Of course. It matches your eyes.” Viktor pats him on the shoulder. “I’ll see you later, Yuuri.”

Yuuri opens his mouth to respond, and nothing comes out. He can’t even think anything to say to that.

Viktor smiles at him, small and private, and goes past him out of the bathroom.

“Oh my god.”

He’ll be performing his short program third. Viktor is performing second. Probably Yuuri won’t get to see him; he’ll be warming up and he won’t want to be in the viewing room.

But Viktor will be done when Yuuri is on the ice. He’ll get to watch Yuuri, if he wants to.

This is his chance. He and Viktor are going to be on the same ice.

He takes a good look at himself in the mirror again. He looks…different. Sharper, maybe. Like he’s a pencil sketch that’s been inked in. The gold flecks on his lashes give the color of his eyes a depth that wasn’t there before.

Viktor might watch him skate. Yuuri shivers in anticipation.

[thelastofhope]

The thing is, Yuuri always assumed Viktor was kinky.

When Viktor was only a fantasy, Yuuri imagined that their tastes would be be in perfect alignment, because it didn’t matter what he thought in the privacy of his own head. When Viktor turned into a flesh and blood person — a beautiful person, who intimated he’d had plenty of past lovers — and then into a person who, incredibly, liked Yuuri or even loved Yuuri and definitely wanted to get down and dirty with him, Yuuri figured it would just be a matter of negotiation. 

But it’s been five months. Viktor is lovely in every other way (which is why Yuuri hasn’t said anything.) He only occasionally complains about Yuuri’s disturbing of the arrangement of his apartment, he brings Yuuri flowers and texts him whenever he sees a cute dog, and he doesn’t mind waiting with Yuuri in the evenings while he does compulsory figures to relax. He’s not even a bad lover.

It’s just…does Viktor not get bored with missionary every night? Doesn’t he want to spice things up? Is Yuuri being unreasonable? He’s pretty sure that if Viktor told him his performance in bed was unsatisfying his soul would flee his body for a more merciful plane of existence, but…Viktor is thicker-skinned than he is. 

And so here they are. Viktor’s bed is wide and soft, and Yuuri is lying there with wet hair and ratty boxers while Viktor absently trails kisses over his shoulder. It’s nice. It’s soft. It’s good. Viktor’s headboard is enormous and Yuuri keeps thinking about Viktor’s wrists bound to it, black rope over white skin. Fuck. He should say something. 

“Vitya?”

“Mm?”

“Can we talk?”

Viktor lifts his lips from Yuuri’s skin, and props himself up on one elbow. His hair is flat from lying down; this close Yuuri can see his pores. Someone once asked Yuuri, jokingly, if he was disappointed to find Viktor was less beautiful up close. Yuuri doesn’t know what what they mean; Viktor is perfection in every cell, every drop of blood and sweat.

He smiles at Yuuri. “Sure.”

Yuuri briefly considers repressing, as he has for the past five months — when has this strategy ever failed him before — but Viktor’s free hand wanders up his stomach and he steels himself. 

“Our sex life is kind of boring, isn’t it?”

Fuck. Abort mission, Yuuri thinks, eight words in and this conversation has already fallen out of orbit and is on a collision source with the Earth, where it will no doubt render his relationship with Viktor extinct.

“T-that came out wrong!”

“Apparently that’s not the only thing coming wrong in this apartment.”

“Oh my god.” Yuuri buries his face in his hands. He’s being punished for his sins. “Can I start over?”

“That would be best.” Viktor is smiling his fake smile. Yuuri used to love this smile, right until Viktor arrived in Hasetsu and started giving him real ones. 

“I just think we should…you know.” Yuuri waves a hand vaguely. “Take it to the next level.”

“…you want to get married?” Viktor’s eyes widen. “Oh, Yuuri!”

“No! I mean — yes! We should get married! But that’s not what I mean now.”

“Oh.” Viktor pouts and flops onto his back, knees bent. He reminds Yuuri of Makkachin on a hot day; all he needs is a lolling tongue. “What is it, then?”

“Our sex life…” Yuuri blushes. He is twenty-four and he gets embarrassed saying the word ‘sex’ to his fiance, like Viktor hasn’t seen Yuuri naked, like Yuuri didn’t once spontaneously have a threesome on the dance floor because it was two am and he was riding the post-finals high. Ridiculous. “You don’t have to hold back.”

“I’m not holding back.”

“I mean, whatever you did with…everyone else, you can do with me!” 

“Like what?”

“You know.” When Viktor doesn’t respond, Yuuri takes a deep breaths and manages to elaborate. “Like…BDSM?”

“What is that?”

“You’re kidding.” 

“No, I’m not.”

Yuuri stares at him. Viktor must be joking. There’s no way he’s serious — unless maybe they call it something else in Russian — but oh god, if he is serious, did Yuuri just out himself as a freak? 

“Uh…”

“Hmm, it must stand for something, right? Should I guess?”

“Well —” Yuuri needs to stop him, somehow, but of course this is the moment when words fail him.

Viktor taps his fingertip against his mouth. “Hmm…does the ‘d’ stand for ‘dog’? I guess than the ‘m’ would be for ‘Makkachin’.”

Yuuri’s entire life is flashing before his eyes. Either he has to explain to his fiance — his apparently pure fiance — what BDSM is, which, no — or else he has to find a way to escape this conversation. Can he run screaming out of the room? He hasn’t tried that in a while, it’s a classic.

“So then…big…dogs…something…Makkachin? But you said it had something to do with our sex life. Should I look it up?”

Viktor reaches for his phone, which is lying on the nightstand, and Yuuri panics. He is absolutely sure Viktor does not have SafeSearch on and literally nothing is less sexy than the first page of Google results for ‘BDSM’.

“NO!” He does the first thing that comes to mind and tackles Viktor, catching his arm before he can pick up his phone. 

Now Yuuri is lying on Viktor, his chest on his chest, their faces close, his hand locked around Viktor’s forearm. He was wrong; there is something less sexy than googling BDSM, and it’s being attacked by your anxious fiance in the middle of a conversation about your sex life. Viktor’s fine, straight brows are raised, disappearing under his bangs, as he waits for Yuuri to…do something.

Yuuri chooses, in lieu of explaining himself, to put his face against Viktor’s neck and pretend none of this is happening. At this rate he’ll be lucky if Viktor condescends to have missionary sex with him ever again. 

Viktor’s hands settle on his back. Yuuri can feel him tracing out errant patterns on his skin, up and down, left and right, in slow spirals. Viktor smells comforting; before Yuuri met Viktor, he never understood how a person’s scent could be soothing, how their skin on his skin could be a safe harbor. Viktor smells like a person, nothing more and nothing less. And yet. 

“But you know, Yuuri,” Viktor says softly. His breath brushes over Yuuri’s ear. “If you wanted to try bondage in bed, you could have just said so.”

A moment of dead silence rings as Yuuri processes this. He feels relief, then joy, then a sudden, violent irritation as Viktor snorts.

“Wait a minute — you knew!” Yuuri gropes around on the bed for a pillow, sits up, and starts hitting Viktor with it. Viktor breaks down laughing, ugly goose noises, as he bats the pillow away from his face. “You saw me panicking and you still fucked with me!”

“Your face,” Viktor says, trying to failing to push the pillow away. “I’m sorry! You looked so — “

Yuuri smacks the pillow against his smug face one last time before throwing it aside and collapsing on top of him again.

“You’re the worst.”

“Mm, I know.” Viktor’s fingers brush across the back of Yuuri’s head. “Did you believe me? I’ve been Chris’s friend for almost ten years.”

“Tch.”

I’m so bad at this, he thinks. Viktor is both the easiest and the hardest person in the world to talk to. Yuuri wants to give him everything, to gut himself and let Viktor cradle all the ugly viscera inside him, and yet there is that constant fear: what if opening up is as painful as being cut open? He’s trying as hard as he can. 

Viktor fidgets underneath him. Yuuri can see his free hand, long fingers worrying a fold in the duvet, rings gleaming because Viktor polishes it every morning. Viktor doesn’t have a lot of tells when he’s anxious, having trained himself out of them so he could appear composed on camera years ago, but sometimes when they’re alone, Yuuri will catch him slipping.

Yuuri’s probably the only person to ever criticize Viktor’s performance in bed. A dubious honor, and one Yuuri didn’t want, but now he has to see it through.

[thelastofhope]

nounself pronouns ignore the fundamental point of pronouns as they are used in the english language. pronouns aren't supposed to be personalised. they are placeholder words for nouns, and in fact in English only our third person singular pronouns are gendered. the purpose of non binary pronouns is that they increase the precision of our language by letting us discuss people who can't be accurately described by gendered pronouns and by letting us discuss people without identifying their gender. Having nounself pronouns defeats the whole purpose of pronouns, because they can't be used unless you know who the pronoun is referring to. And pronouns in English don't generally identify any info about the antecedent noun that would be equivalent to what nounself pronouns convey.

[thelastofhope]

time to hand out the african violet again, i guess. i need a break from this. it doesn't make me happy anymore, and i owe to myself to distance myself from what causes me misery.

just liking someone isn't enough to offset the cost of admission.

[thelastofhope]

im not strong enough to help myself and i will probably live a miserable life or end up killing myself before i hit 25

[thelastofhope]

i hate myself. i hate myself.

[thelastofhope]

sighs deeply. i feel like sometimes in fandoms there's this sense of superiority on the side of people who multiship or don't have specific headcanons/interactions they like and a lot of 'well your interpretation isn't the only interpretation'. like, if you have specific stuff you like or accept some theories and not others (especially if it's because of your otp!) then you're close-minded or something and i'm just.

yes, some theories and headcanons and stuff i don't like. even if the text supports them. sometimes i just disagree with you about what canon actually meant there and it had nothing to do with my otp. sometimes it's entirely about my otp and that's ok!

i'm in this because i enjoy and i want everyone else to enjoy it too. let me do my thing over here, unless i'm doing something offensive/oppressive/bigoted, in which case call me out please.

[thelastofhope]

there's nothing harder than being unable to help someone else bc i've pretty much accepted that i will always be shit at helping myself and i just

[thelastofhope]

i hATE not knowing i HATE wtf is wrong with me why am i so

so despondent everything is fine i'm just sitting here writing a mediocre chapter and being lonely

even though i am not alone and my friend is in the room with me

[thelastofhope]

the worst thing about depression is that it strikes even when by all rights i ought to be happy. it moves into your brain and it leaves its shit everywhere and it refuses to do its chores or make its own food, it just mooches off your happiness until your hands are empty and it's all over your brain, bloated and full.

why am i unhappy? why now, when things could be so much worse?

[thelastofhope]

i wish i were less sexually confused it would make my life a lot easier

[thelastofhope]

today has been very strange. it has been terrible and draining and filled me with anxiety and dread, about things that i don't understand.

and yet it's been wonderful, really lovely, full of moments that made me really really happy.

lots of feelings right now.

[thelastofhope]

i'm a miserable piece of shit as usual and i'm crying and i'm upset and i ahte being home. i hate it. i make myself sick every time i come back and i just. i need my parents to stop. stop trying to have Talks with me. leave me the fuck alone.

[thelastofhope]

the problem is, there's no nice, kind, polite way to tell someone 'i care about you, i want what's best for you, i'm happy to help, but i think u seriously need to seek professional help for this'

like, obviously u should do what u feel comfortable and can safely do. but sometimes i just don't understand why people refuse help, even when it seems to me there is no other way they are ever going to get better in the way they want.

i say this as i've been avoiding therapy for the better part of a year. maybe i'm just projecting because i sure as hell need to see someone before i do something stupid again.

#mental health

[thelastofhope]

i'm so tired of not knowing what to do. it feels like i don't ever have the right words. it feels like i'm going in circles, reaching, listening, typing, erasing, coming out on the other side with nothing. i want so badly to know, what is the right thing to do? the thing that won't make it worse?

i'm just bad at making people feel better in the end.