#i only work 2 or 3 days a week but i never feel like i have enough time for anything

[hivemuthur]

Nothing's New - Ch.6.

viktorxfemale!reader explicit!

AU modern era, lovers to enemies to lovers, getting back together, angst & smut present

Ch.1. | Ch.2. | Ch.3. | Ch.4. | Ch.5.

word count: 8,8K (sorry!)

warnings: angst, unsafe sex, dacryphilia, spanking, d/s undertones

tag: #nothings new

author's note: It's Sunday where I am lol. No real notes, just thank you for coming with me on this journey, it's very weird to bear your soul like this and people reacting well, never happened to me before. Moments like this, I love internet. @rennethen beta read 🖤

Cross-posted on AO3

—

It took a long time for you to part on Sunday evening. You stood in the hallway, arms wrapped around Viktor, his arms wrapped around you, and only the sound of breathing surrounded you both. He pulled away first, placed a hand on your cheek, and said, “Think about everything. And let me know.”

You nodded, and a question—the answer to which you so desperately needed—was resolved before you even mustered the courage to ask.

“Come on Friday. I’ll text in the meantime? Or call?”

“I would like that,” you admitted with a relieved sigh, and Viktor offered you a kiss on the forehead. When you finally stepped out through his door, he lingered in the frame until the lift swallowed you.

The week passed in a diluted blur of working, eating, and sleeping, interrupted by little earthquakes in the form of Viktor’s messages and brief calls. Nothing with significant push or pressure—just simple, casual chats that let you know he hadn’t forgotten you, and made sure you wouldn’t forget either. And each one made your face beam in a way that earned you silly and curious “Who is that?” questions, until you were red-faced with a juvenile blush.

It happened every time your phone buzzed. You’d be in the middle of scanning through data, only half-listening to a coworker’s offhand remark, when you’d catch a glimpse of his name on the screen, and suddenly, the rest of the world blurred at the edges.

I am convinced my students are attempting to end me. I asked one of them to justify their methodology, and they said, “I just had a feeling.”

A barely suppressed laugh slipped out before you could stop it. You masked it with a cough, ignoring the glance your colleague shot you from across the table.

Another time, you’d been elbow-deep in paperwork, eyes dry from staring at the screen too long, when your phone lit up with another text:

I hope your day is going well. Eat something before you get grumpy.

You scoffed but still reached for the protein bar you’d left untouched beside your laptop.

And then there were the messages that made your stomach turn weightless, that left you pressing your lips together to fight off a giddy, ridiculous smile.

I dreamt of you last night. It was... pleasant.

It was impossible to focus after that. You stared at your screen for a full five minutes, rereading the words like they might change or disappear. Your mind whirred with possibilities, until the sound of your name snapped you back to reality and you scrambled to act as if your brain hadn’t just short-circuited.

Not once had he asked what you were thinking. Not once had he pushed beyond a sweet Goodnight call in the evening and a Good morning text when you woke up. It made the days more bearable, but it also made new questions rise. Is this trust already? Or just caution?

You faltered on Wednesday, when there was no message to greet you. And then no message to remind you to drink water.

You told yourself it was fine. That he was probably just busy. That this wasn’t some sort of test. But by lunchtime, the silence had settled too deep, turning over thoughts you didn’t want to examine. What if he’d changed his mind? What if he was waiting for you to make the next move? Or worse—what if this was a quiet way of pulling away? Your sanity was wearing thin.

You weighed your options, over and over. If you texted and he didn’t answer, would calling be too much? If you called first and he didn’t pick up, at least you could still send a text after. But would that make you seem desperate?

It took another ten minutes of pacing before you finally pressed the call button, cringing at the way your heart was thundering in your chest. The dial tone felt impossibly loud. One ring. Two. Three—

“Hello?”

And just like that, the breath you hadn’t realised you were holding slipped out of you. “Hi! Oh, um… why are you whispering?” You blurted out the words in a rush, voice pitched higher than you intended.

There was a pause, followed by Viktor’s voice, low and steady, tinged with quiet amusement. “I’m in the middle of a lecture—”

“Oh shit, Viktor, I’m so sorry!” you gasped and started to whisper yourself, as if the class could hear you. You winced, clasped your hand to your forehead and hoped that Viktor didn’t hear the sound of the slap.

“—but I am happy to hear you,” he continued smoothly, the warmth in his tone easing some of the tension gripping your chest. “Let me call you after?”

And he did. And you talked about nonsense until Jayce caught Viktor twirling his hair, hunched over his desk like he was trying to hide.

This was your week—full of insignificant, annoying events that conglomerated into something called life, interrupted by small Viktor moments. And for Viktor, it was small you moments.

And even though a massive weight had been lifted off your chest during that session of helpless sobbing on the couch, nuzzled into Viktor’s neck, you still feel a pang of guilt each time you replay the events of last weekend in your head. It’s hard to pinpoint where it comes from, but it’s ever-present.

Now that it’s Friday, finally, you write it down on a piece of paper filled with bullet points for later this evening. Absolutely convinced you won’t use it, you still write every single invasive thought down—just in case you gather the courage to tell him.

Before leaving, you make a few critical last-minute decisions—hair up or down, skirt or trousers, or a dress? Makeup or none? Take extra underwear, or not tempt fate to make a joke out of you?

You end up in a dress, with no makeup, your hair gathered into a loose updo, and a wishful-thinking extra pair of knickers stuffed into your purse.

You walk to make yourself less giddy. You stop to buy some food for later, glancing nervously at your watch, only to see that you are, in fact, too early. Sitting on a bench to read is futile—you just end up staring at your phone, willing the time to pass.

And when you finally, finally buzz his door, it’s like last time—you are immediately let in, without him checking the intercom. But this time, you almost run to the elevator, jabbing the button over and over for the doors to close and carry you upward. When you step out, Viktor is already waiting by the entrance to his flat, greeting you with a quiet, sweet, “Hi,” as soon as he sees you.

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out at first, not even the breathless hi yourself you’ve prepared. The week of waiting, of uncertainty, of second-guessing every moment—was it real? Was he real? Or was this just a fragile illusion, something too good to hold? The part of you that has spent too long in doubt tugs at your resolve, asking if you’re just imagining the warmth in his voice, the way he’s looking at you like he wants you here.

But then his fingers brush against yours as he plucks the bag from your hand, and the heat of his touch travels up your arm, quieting the noise in your head. The doubts don’t stand a chance once his hands slide up your thighs, wrapping around your waist, anchoring you to him. Your back thuds lightly against the door as he kisses you. You don’t even get a proper look at him before his mouth is on yours, his hand pulling your updo apart, fingers tangling into your hair.

Your palms clutch at his shirt and slide up his neck, pulling him closer. He muffles a quiet ah against your lips when you tug his hair and nip at his lower lip. His hips press into you, your chests flush together, and he breathes in deeply, catching up with your scent—the one he’s been missing for five days.

When he finally pulls away, he says again, “I said hi.”

“Hi yourself,” you reply, smiling sheepishly against him. You brush your thumbs over his beauty marks, and his eyes flutter closed. Your foreheads touch. Viktor looks relieved.

“I missed you,” he says, feeling stupid for admitting it—five days is nothing compared to the six months you spent apart, yet it still felt like agony. “You smell nice,” he adds, nosing at your neck, his lips curling up at the sensation of goosebumps rising under his touch.

“Thank you,” you whisper, dumbfounded by this unfiltered flood of affection. Viktor chuckles, realizing he’s overwhelming you. He moves away, and you would protest—if not for the fact that he’s still holding your hand. You squeeze it tightly, letting him lead you into the kitchen, where you watch him make tea.

“So,” Viktor starts, setting a cup in front of you before taking the seat opposite. “How was your week?”

“I—” Horrible. A blur. A very long blur. Long. Painful. “Painfully long,” you finally huff out with a chuckle, feeling the warmth of a blush creeping up your neck. You lower your gaze to your fidgeting fingers, and soon, in the periphery of your vision, Viktor’s hands creep in, cradling yours across the table.

“And why would that be?” he asks quietly. You don’t have to look up to know his eyes will be hooded and his mouth quirked into a sweet smile.

With a pained sigh, you pull your hands back, stand up, and in a heartbeat, you’re kneeling between his legs, resting your head on his lap, arms wrapping around his hips.

“And whatever is that for?” Viktor giggles, startled by your clinginess, unaware of the quiet, pathetic truth that you feel safest like this—between his legs, wrapped in his warmth. You breathe in the scent of his clothes and whisper, “You smell nice too. I missed you too.”

He places a hand on your head, fingers threading gently through your hair, and you inch your hands toward his belt. Slowly, his palm comes to rest over yours, halting your movement. When you lift your gaze to meet his, Viktor almost melts into a puddle at the sight of you—kneeling at his feet, eyes pleading—but he has to ask, “What is this about?”

“I just really missed you,” you say quietly, fingers twitching at his fly. “May I?”

He studies you for a moment, swipes his thumb over your lips and says a breathless, “Yes,” reinforced with a nod. And then his eyes glue to your fingers undoing his belt and tugging at his pants to slide them down all the way to his ankles, to finally discard them. And then—

Viktor’s breath hitches, but you cannot help yourself. You press your face to his boxers, breathing in his scent and it’s a gesture so full of adoration, he whimpers despite himself. You unroll his waistband and kiss him softly with your mouth open, leaving a slick trail all the way up from his base to the tip. He is still soft, his skin is warm and silky, and he shudders at each and every one of your pecks.

You slide his underwear down and make your way up, starting by kissing his knee, up his inner thigh, to finally take his balls into your mouth and hum at the contact. Viktor’s fingers curl in your hair, his legs straighten out in front of him, head falls back, and he gives out a deep, long moan.

It’s almost crushing to feel so worshipped. You’re being so gentle with him—it reminds him of your first time together. Back when things were easy, full of possibilities. Now, things are a little harder, but the possibilities keep slipping back in, one by one, with each passing minute.

He sags in the chair, eyes glazed, and cheeks reddened when he looks down to you—rubbing your face against his cock with reverence that makes him want to pull you up and kiss you until you can’t breathe. And you hum, and kiss and lick off his pre-cum for the longest time before you give him as much as an actual proper lick to his underside, tracing the prominent vein with the tip of your tongue. And Viktor twitches and writhes under your touch, his cock resting heavily across your face.

When you finally take him into your mouth he shudders, his legs jolt and he scolds himself for acting like he’s being touched for the first time. But after a second, he decides he feels safe enough—to let you touch him like this, to give you this power over him. And as if you catch that split-second hesitation in the way he tastes, you release him with a quiet pop and ask gently, “Is this alright?”

“More than alright,” Viktor slurs, his thumb sweeping over your lip again. The string of drool connecting his cock to your mouth now clings to his hand. He leaves it. “Please, don’t stop,” he adds, a blush creeping beneath his shirt.

With a smile, and God help him, another hum, you take him back in, placing your hand on whatever you can’t fit into your mouth. Viktor sighs, the sensation of being enveloped in warmth flooding over him, when you do something that nearly makes him come on the spot­—your hand flattens at the base of his cock and you push him past your throat, releasing a fresh wave of spit to drip down his length, while you gag, and the sound makes him go insane. He looks down, and oh, there it is—the first tear you shed today as you disconnect from him to catch a breath and stroke him with a slow movement of your wrist.

It’s a small tear that dries out somewhere in the middle of its journey between the corner of your eye and your chin, but it’s there nevertheless and Viktor commits it to memory. So when you kiss his tip again and open your mouth for him, he cradles your face and gives you one, languid roll of his hips. He stops to ask, “Can I?”

Your eyes flutter open, then closed, then open again. You nod, mumbling a sound as close to yes as you can manage with your mouth full, and you hope Viktor won’t retreat because you don’t want to lose the feeling of his hands cradling you and the feeling of his cock pulsing between your lips.

And, oh God, he takes it as it is. And he gives it back to you, with another thrust, careful and slow, his mouth falls open and eyes are fixed on yours. You see the vein in his neck pulsing, and you take your quick breaths through your nose each time he retreats to push back again. His cock keeps hitting the back of your throat, gently, just a touch, just enough to make your thighs clench and your knuckles go white on his thighs.

And you watch him becoming progressively prettier and prettier as sweat pearls up on his forehead and his mouth loses restraint with all the sounds he is giving you. “My good girl,” he keeps whispering. “Fuck, you are so good,” falls out next. “I love you so much, I missed this so much,” is your favourite one and makes your heart jump all the way up to meet the head of his cock in your throat.

He pants out your name, his grip tightening and the last thing that tips him over is when he sweeps your hair away from your neck to gather it in his fist. And he sees them, his own fingertips already yellowing on your skin, a faint memoir of bruises that were once there, from when he had forced you to look him in the eye while you admitted to still loving him.

“Oh, fuck,” is all Viktor can say as he spasms between your lips and spills himself inside and over, even though he wants to tell you how amazing it feels. How amazing you are, how amazing it is to fuck your mouth. How amazing it is that you shed another tear for him and that you swallowed almost all of his cum, and to convey it, he pulls you up just as he wanted earlier.

And you sit across his lap where he is still warm from your touch. And his mouth is on yours, and oh, it’s almost like the first time. The taste of him still lingers heavily on your tongue and he sucks on it with love and care and gratitude, humming and licking into you, caressing your hair and your shoulders. He kisses you like you are worthy of redemption. Finally his head falls into the crook of your neck, skin clings to skin, as he mutters, “Thank you.”

"You taste just as I remember," you say absently, the words bouncing off the shell of Viktor’s ear. Just when he thinks he cannot possibly come undone any further, you take him apart.

"What have I done to deserve this?" Viktor asks weakly, and you huff a quiet laugh at how dramatic he’s being over a blowjob. You take his face in your hands, guiding his gaze to meet yours.

"There are things I have no idea how to tell you. But you deserve this every day," you whisper, resting your forehead against his.

Viktor sits there, dumbfounded, with you perched over his naked lap, foreheads touching, his pants and underwear crumpled in the middle of the kitchen. And as if your thoughts have seeped from your mind into his, understanding dawns.

"Is this your way of repenting?" he asks, trying to catch your gaze.

You say nothing, only scrunch your nose.

"Hey, look at me, please," Viktor says firmly, his fingers tilting your chin up. The warmth of his touch is steady, grounding, but not forceful. His eyes search yours, full of something unknown. "What are you trying to atone for?"

"For… everything," you sigh, pressing yourself down until you sag against him, your body moulding into his like you could dissolve there. The warmth of his skin on yours should be comforting, but it only makes the ache deeper, and you wince at your inability to express yourself.

"And yet, there is nothing," Viktor replies without hesitation. His fingers remain at your chin, keeping your gaze locked to his, as if he won’t allow you to look away, won’t allow you to slip into this spiral.

"Viktor—"

"I do mean it," he interrupts, his voice unwavering. "I do not want any of this. We start anew, sins not forgotten but cleansed. We learn, and we start over. Nothing to repent for."

"But—"

His other hand tightens around your waist, a small squeeze that grounds. "What do you feel?" he asks, softer now, but still insistent. "You have to tell me."

You hesitate. The words feel thick in your throat, soaked in self-doubt. "I—" You inhale sharply, then admit, "I feel shame. Or guilt. Or both, all the same."

"And whatever for?" Viktor presses, patient, his thumb brushing idly over your skin, a subconscious motion of reassurance.

"For how this went before, Viktor," you say, voice strained. "I see it now, and I just can’t—"

His brows pull together in concern, but he doesn’t let you trail off into silence. "What do you need to get over this?" Ever the problem-solver.

You huff out a mirthless chuckle, the sound brittle. "I don’t know. Punishment?" you say, half-joking, half-serious, but the weight in your chest doesn’t lighten. A punishment seems fitting. The insistent heat of tears pricks at your eyes, and you try to blink them away.

"I don’t think you deserve that," Viktor says immediately, voice firm, as if the thought alone is ridiculous. His hand moves to swipe the tear from beneath your eye while he does his best to remain unaffected.

"Hey—" He moves in by an inch, your stuttering breath fanning over his face. "I really don’t," he murmurs, quieter now, more to himself than to you. His grip tightens, like he needs to keep you close to not break. "We’ve changed, and it’s alright. Oh, God," he exhales, as his thumb swipes the tear from your cheek and his expression shifts from worry to adoration in an instant.

Your brows furrow, confused. "What?"

A flicker of hesitation crosses his face. He swallows. "I have my share of shame in me as well, love."

Your stomach twists at the admission. "What? Why?"

He exhales sharply, pressing his forehead to yours. His voice drops lower, as if he is giving away his best-guarded secret. "I… seem to enjoy it when you cry," he admits. "Not in the sense of enjoying your suffering," he clarifies quickly, "but somehow, being cried for, or in front of, makes me feel… loved."

"Oh, Viktor," you whisper and pull away, your hands moving instinctively to cup his face. His skin is warm beneath your touch, the sharp angles of his cheekbones softening under your fingers. "I am doing a terrible job with love confessions if you have to seek confirmation like this," you mumble, a self-deprecating huff of a laugh dancing under your nose.

Viktor shakes his head, pressing his forehead against yours again, unwilling to let you part. "I disagree. I felt just as loved a minute ago." Then he exhales, long and slow. "I think… it’s just a byproduct of everything," he says carefully. "A change." He pauses, then asks, voice softer, "Does it repulse you?"

"Of course not," you answer instantly, faster than a blink. Your thumbs brush over his cheekbones, gentle, reverent. "You could never repulse me."

His eyes flutter shut for a moment, like he’s soaking in your words, like they’re something sacred. When he opens them again, there’s a softness in his gaze that crushes you completely. "The feeling is mutual," he murmurs.

He studies you for a moment longer before speaking again. "So tell me—what do you need to overcome your shame?"

And you hesitate again. It still lingers. Creeps up to coil somewhere around your throat and you can’t possibly bring yourself to say this, can you? The most obvious stupid cliché. Not because of the act itself, but because of the nature of it. Because of the reason for it. You crave to shed it, to start anew, to get all dressed up in your fresh new skin, old one feeling to tight around your bones. But this is Viktor. And of all people, he’s the one you would ask.

So you lean in to whisper your undisclosed desire straight into his ear. "Spank me."

Viktor stills, his mouth falls open, and he covers it with his hand. Not in shock—just to think. He doesn’t let the moment linger, as his brain works fast. He cups your cheeks and sweeps his thumbs under your eyes. Takes a deep breath.

"This is your wish?"

You nod, lowering your gaze and fixing it on the space between you, but Viktor tsks at you. "I will need you to use your words for this and all the way through. Is this what you want, for sure?"

"Yes," you answer, quietly, but audibly enough for Viktor to accept.

"Alright," he says firmly, then smiles and places a kiss on the corner of your mouth, sweet and lingering. "Will you pass me my pants?"

You huff out a laugh but scramble up from his lap, helping him get roughly dressed—underwear left in the kitchen—when he leads you back to the bedroom. And it’s all so very sweet. He leans on you, just like last time. Kisses your cheek and neck all the way through. You manage not to look at the empty spaces this time.

He leads you to the bed, where he sits down, and you don’t know what to do with yourself. Holding your hand, he guides you to sit beside him. Without question, you do, heart all the way up in your throat.

"Alright, let’s go over this, yes?" Viktor states, as if this is a project. Safety rules, roadmap, scientific approach. He gives your thigh a gentle squeeze and smiles softly. "I will check how you are doing constantly. If you tell me to stop, I stop immediately. If, for whatever reason, you don’t feel like you can tell me, you tap my thigh three times. If you don’t like it, we never do this again. If you do, we will explore. What do you think?"

"You don’t think it’s weird?" Do you think I’m weird is truly what gnaws at you, but you can’t bring yourself to ask it. You just look at him, waiting, excited and scared.

"Of course not. Peculiar, at best," Viktor smiles again and places a flurry of kisses on your face. "Do you wish to continue?"

"Yes," you answer with more confidence now.

"Then lay across my lap, please," he says, leaning back, hands still on you—grounding and reassuring.

Air gets momentarily knocked out of your lungs when your belly presses across Viktor’s thighs. He runs a hand down your spine, finding himself strangely excited about this. The trust he asked you for last week now lay splayed across his knees—he couldn’t help but think. All he has to do is indulge you.

His hand slides down, cradling your ass. He lifts the skirt of your dress, draping it over your lower back, and runs his fingers under the hem of your underwear. Gently, soothing you with soft sounds as he does, he pulls your knickers down to your knees. Your face burns, heat prickling across your skin in goosebumps with every touch—nails grazing over the inside of your knee, up your thighs, stopping at your core. He palms your naked skin and hums once he realises you are wet.

“Good,” he murmurs, playing between your legs for a while. Your mouth parts and eyes close, while you give him quiet gasps. He spreads the wetness onto your ass cheeks and cradles your bum one last time before starting. And then, without warning, the first slap lands—firm, of medium strength—but still, you yelp in surprise.

The sensation is alien—it both hurts and doesn’t. With the mild pain comes something else, something fleeting, but you can’t quite grasp what it is. Warmth spreads across your skin, and you dig your fingers into Viktor’s thigh.

Viktor, however, receives something entirely different. Nothing flees him—something grows. Both between his legs and in his chest. He has to take a second before he asks, “How was that?”

“Good,” you reply immediately.

So he continues. Another slap echoes through the room, and Viktor watches as the imprint of his hand whitens against your skin before dissolving into pink a second later. How pretty it looks. He checks in with you again. And again, you encourage him.

Slowly, slap after slap, each one interrupted by Viktor’s questions, you feel lighter, warmer. A strange feeling of relief washes over you. At some point, your skin begins to sting, and even that is welcome. Your mouth loses restraint, and you moan each time Viktor’s palm connects with your ass. Your back arches, ribs pressing into his legs, and you feel a drop of slick rolling down your inner thigh.

So debauched. So pretty, Viktor thinks.

He can’t help himself and runs his fingers down between your legs. Gasps at the wetness pooling there. “More?” He asks, voice breathy, eyes completely transfixed on your reddened skin and he almost drools at the sight. All his doing. His hand did this. This, and the drenched state of your cunt, it’s all him.

“More,” you say weakly. The burn feels good. You feel the doubt seeping out with the warmth radiating from your skin. With each touch, something inside you feels lighter. Bigger. Like there is more of you and less of whatever had been gnawing at you.

Viktor gives you three more slaps, and when your thighs quiver with the last one, his hand comes to rest at the base of your spine. “How is that?” he asks, admiration seeping into his voice.

“I think it’s enough,” you reply in a small voice. His hand returns to your bum, a gentle caress spreading from the tops of your thighs to your hips. Slowly, you rise from his lap, only to straddle him and wrap your arms around his neck.

“Thank you,” you breathe into his skin. Viktor pulls you close, inhaling deeply through his nose.

“Thank you,” he murmurs in return. “Please, lie down on your stomach. I’ll be right back.”

You blink in quiet question but obey. Crawling onto the bed, you curl up on your side, fingers ghosting over the heat still lingering beneath your dress. When Viktor returns, the soft tap of his cane against the floor announces him, and you wonder how he got all the way to the kitchen without it.

“I said on your stomach,” he says gently, placing a hand at the small of your back. You roll over, propping your head on your crossed arms.

“Good girl,” he coos before exposing your reddened ass. The mattress dips on each side of your knees and once again you feel Viktor’s hands on you. Soft, gentle. Callouses gliding over your tired skin with care and love. He presses his face against your cheeks, holding them firmly, hums in appreciation, making your toes curl and your back arch, belly pressing into the bed. Then his mouth joins, as he licks you with a flat tongue. Lips grazing over you, the trail of open mouth kisses spreading all the way from the crease of your ass to the small of your back. You press yourself into him and bury your nose in the sheets, trying to muffle your whimpers.

 And then comes the coolness pressing against you, making you wince at the first touch. A cold compress.

“Shh, it’s alright,” Viktor whispers. His free hand comes to thread gently through your hair. You feel safe. Whole. That sense of belonging blooms within you again—stronger this time—and you are so, so glad it’s with Viktor. You sigh and close your eyes.

He lies beside you, his hand running up and down your spine. When you blink, your eyes meet. “How are you feeling?” he asks, and he looks so in love your heart is about to burst.

“Very good,” you say quietly, offering him an honest smile. You turn onto your side to face him, the compress slipping off. “Better. Empty and whole at the same time,” you murmur against his mouth, kissing him with reverence. “You?”

Viktor thinks for a second before answering. "Knowing you trust me enough to let go like this makes me feel irreplaceable," he says finally, and you are left speechless. Because he is. And it feels great that he knows.

“It’s all very new, isn’t it?” you ask finally, and Viktor gazes at you, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

“No,” he murmurs, pulling you closer, your name falling softly from his mouth. “Nothing’s new. It’s still love.”

You nuzzle against his neck and sigh, your eyelashes tickling his skin. The last question gnawing at you slips past your lips before you can catch it.

“Do you hate me less now?”

Viktor scoffs, outright appalled. He pulls you back by the neck, forcing you to look at him, his eyes full of intent as he replies simply, “No.”

Your heart beats only once before stopping entirely. Then Viktor’s expression softens, and he speaks again.

“I never hated you. If anything, I only love you more.”

And your heart resumes beating—hard and erratic. You wrap yourself around him, letting out a shuddering breath. “God, how can this be so good now when we’ve fucked up so badly?”

Viktor picks up what you’ve put down. “Change is inevitable. Sometimes abrupt. Maybe this is where we were supposed to be to get here, miláčku.”

Oh, God. There it is again—dragged up from the pit you were hoping to forget. The one thing that once felt most dear, a treasure Viktor gave freely, only to let it slip into someone else’s hands. Now it’s tarnished, dulled with grime. It doesn’t sound sweet anymore. It tastes bitter, feels wrong. Feels like it doesn’t belong to you.

Your heart drops again. Your voice shrinks to almost nothing as you push him away and plead weakly, “Please, don’t call me that again.” Tears are already pricking at your eyes, and you wonder when you became so quick to cry.

“Wha—Why?” Viktor chuckles, trying to wrap his arms back around you, but you keep your distance, splaying your palms flat against his chest in quiet defiance. And then he sees it.

“Oh, darling. It never happened, I promise you. The note, I—”

“What do you mean?” you ask, as if you don’t already know. Your brows knit together, a tear clinging to your lashes. “It was on the note,” you try again, your voice frail with disbelief. Your lips press into a tight line, and Viktor looks so remorseful that you fear what’s coming next.

“It was on the note,” he says carefully, “because I was fully lying to you.”

It’s so quiet you almost don’t hear him. Your eyes flick between his eyes and his lips, your mouth parting—but nothing comes out. A couple of imaginary pins drop on the floor, the sound echoes in your head.

And then a sob slips through as you blink rapidly, trying to hold back the tears. “No. Viktor, I thought—”

“I’m so sorry.” He tries to cradle you, but you resist. “I knew it was horribly wrong as soon as I saw you that day. I regretted it in an instant, and oh,” he murmurs, pulling you against his chest. He holds you tight through this last, stupid display of jealousy, doing his best to reassure you.

“I would never. I would never call anyone else that. You are the only one, I promise. It’s all yours. Please forgive me. Miláčku, please forgive me,” he pleads, pressing his face into your hair, into the crook of your neck.

You don’t respond—not with words, not yet. Your breath is shaky against his collarbone, your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt like you need something solid to hold onto. His heart hammers against your ear. You know he’s afraid.

Viktor shifts, pressing a kiss to your temple, lingering like he’s willing you to believe him through touch alone. His hand cradles the back of your head, his thumb brushing small, rhythmic circles at your nape.

“Please,” he whispers again, softer now, like he’s running out of words, running out of ways to reach you. “I promise it’s yours. Forever.”

“How do you know it’s forever?” you ask, voice hollowed out. That would be a gift too good to be true. Yet. You dare to have your hopes up.

Viktor winces. Your body grows pliant against him. He hooks his leg over your hip bone and nestles you close, his arm wrapping under your waist, his palm resting between your shoulder blades. His other hand cradles your cheek, his face inching closer. Your noses press together, and when Viktor speaks his quiet truth, your lips brush.

“Because loving you isn’t a feeling that fleets,” he murmurs, pouring the words into you. “It’s a condition. And I will carry it with me always, no matter what happens between us.”

Your breath hitches, and you shudder. You squeeze your eyes shut, searching for something—anything—to say. But instead, you press your salty lips to his, not in a kiss, just a press. Just to steal a breath from him.

“Come back to me,” he coaxes, his knuckles paling against your skin. “Miláčku, come back to me.”

And Viktor doesn’t really believe in any higher form of consciousness controlling the universe. The only thing he believes in is the void, that we scream into like an echo chamber, questions bouncing back to anyone who’s asking. That we only get one life and have to make the very best of it. He doesn’t believe in God, that he has called upon too many times already in the spirit of figurative speech. But if there was one thing he would pray for, it would be this.

To tether himself to you, bind himself to something real, something beyond the desperate loneliness he’s learned to live with before he’s met you. He’s been waiting and waiting for this love to fleet, and it never fucking did, no matter how hard he’s been trying to squeeze it out of himself. So, instead of praying, he offers himself to you, tries to prove in the only way he knows how that he is yours, that he will always be yours—with his needy hands that chased away your shame, with his loving eyes so honest they pierce right through you, with his hot mouth that needs, needs, needs to suck on you so his lungs could expand, and his heart could beat.

And as if gears slowly begin grinding against each other in your head, you give it all back. You kiss him—deep and messy, snot mingling with drool. Viktor sighs in relief, the taste of your tears on his tongue sealing something unspoken between you. He murmurs sweet things between breaths, hands tangling in your hair, legs hooking you closer. And he needs, needs, needs to show you how much he wants you to come back. How nothing else could ever compare. How the thought of anything else is harrowing and empty.

“So we start over,” you slice through his thoughts, stating more to yourself than to him, as if the matter has nestled in your head securely only just now.

Viktor nods brushing his nose against yours and whispers a quiet, “Yes.”

“Yes,” he says again as his shaky fingers begin to unbutton your dress. “Yes,” he breathes when his thumbs brush under your breasts and palms twitch to cup them. “Yes,” comes another murmur when his tongue meets your skin, tits squeezed together so he can lick between them, and then a moan escapes him as you slide your hands to the nape of his neck and tug at the short hair there.

Your back arches, excited and willing when the sensation of his tongue on you mingles with the sounds he makes echoing in your mind, and you breathe out a needy plea, “Do it again.”

Viktor cocks a brow, hums into your skin as he takes one of your nipples into his mouth, and asks a playful muffled, “Which one?"

“Oh, God, both,” you whine, squeezing your eyes shut and buck your hips against thin air, Viktor’s knee too far for you to reach. Your fingers pull at the base of his skull, and Viktor chuckles, a flush creeping up his body underneath the layers of clothing when he sinks his mouth into your breast and obeys—letting out a quiet, wrecked, “Oh, fuck,” somewhere around your heart.

His thigh finally, finally, comes to your salvation, sneaking between your legs and pressing on your core with a quiet obscene squelch. The thought of a wet stain he will get to see there makes his cock twitch painfully against the half-assed job you did of buttoning up his trousers earlier on. You breath grows short as you rub yourself on him and when a stuttered whimper escapes your mouth, Viktor huffs, “Please, do it again,” through a sharp exhale.

You tug at his hair, forcing him to look at you. "Give me a reason," you whisper in a strangled breath.

Clearly, you have no idea what you’re asking for. The cry that escapes you when his knee retreats is, to say the least, embarrassing. The sound transforms into a quiet gasp, when his hands leave your chest, one finger slides through your slit and Viktor hums, so, so pleased with you, “Baby, look how wet you are.”

“So wet for me, my girl,” he coos, and he sounds almost too grateful as his lips come back to kiss you, and a gush of cold air fans over your nipples. He palms your sickly heat, grinding the heel of his hand against your clit and you blink rapidly as your eyes roll back in your skull. Your hands fumble blindly to unbutton his shirt in a need press yourself flush against him.

And you do a very poor job, jolting and pulling at his buttons whenever Viktor’s hand parts you and his fingers tease your entrance, so his other hand comes to help you, undoing what you can’t with an ease that has you huffing. It’s annoying that he can do two things at once, while you clearly cannot. Your sulking doesn’t last very long, because as soon as his naked chest is free to be roamed, you leech yourself to his collarbone and suck a red glaring love mark into it.

Yours. All yours.

And Viktor slips, figuratively and literally, as his head instinctively falls back to grant you full access to his neck and his two fingers push inside you, where you are so, so hot it almost burns him. As if the mark on his neck wasn’t red enough, you bite on it, trying to muffle a groan. Viktor has nothing to muffle his groan on, so you can feel it crawling up his throat and vibrating under your lips.

When his fingers push in further, the only gesture you can muster is to hook your hands over the waistband of his trousers, mouth choking on his neck. You pull his pants down and he hisses as the material hooks over his cock before it springs back to slap heavily against his lower abdomen. You try to distract yourself by sliding your palms flat up and down the slope of his sharp hips, but it’s futile once Viktor buries his fingers knuckle deep and curls them brushing the sensitive spot within you. He twitches as you moan. Precum leaks out of his slit. No thoughts cross your head, only impressions. Only want and need.

You can’t decide which one it is—want or need—when your fingers wrap around his length and rub whatever weeps at the tip all over the head. He’s silky and heavy in your hand as you trace your favourite vein with the tip of your finger.

“Oh, God,” Viktor whimpers to the imaginary being again, pumping you with a stuttering rhythm of his wrist. Feeling every crevice of your cunt, he pulls you in for a kiss and you no longer know where he ends, and you begin. Attached by the mouth, his hand deep inside you, your needy wanting hands on him, just drawing gasps and moans from each other.

He has to retreat to pull his pants further down and has an audacity to chuckle when you whine in protest. His hand leaves you drawing a wet sound and your thighs fall back together with a sticky smack. “So impatient,” he hums, while doing a shitty job of undressing himself, kicking off one leg of his pants, while the other still entangles around his calf. He hooks his freed leg over your hip, takes his cock from you and aligns it at your entrance. You are completely wrapped around each other—leg pressing on leg, arms hooked around necks, fingers adding to already damp hair.

“Do you want me?” he asks, pressing his cock against your clit, hard. You tie up into thousands of knots, trying to suck him in by the force of your sheer will when you see the question is honest. He really wants to know. Eyes pensive, hooded, mouth parted. So you kiss this mouth, bite his lips until he hisses and breathe into him, “I want you, fuck, I want you.”

A silent moan rips through him, as he enters you, inch after painful inch until you can feel every ridge, every vein, every pulse of his cock against your walls. At this point you are just clashing mouths and teeth in something that once was a kiss. He fills more of you than was empty as you lose control of the clenching and unclenching of your own muscles. A quiet ah falling from him dies in the sound of a slap as your hips slot together.

He stills for a moment, buried deep, and you swear you can feel his pulse inside you, thrumming in time with your own. Chest to chest, forehead to forehead, he exhales heavily through his nose, his grip on you tightening. And then he moves.

Your mouth falls open so wide your jaw aches, breaths intermingle, brows knit together. Viktor's hands anchor around your ass as he thrusts into you, slow and deep, each movement pounding the shape of his cock into your core. You arch against him, offering yourself, giving him everything you have. Your fingers twist in his hair, and the moment you tug, he groans—a low, breathy sound that coils something filthy at the base of your spine as your skin slaps against his.

And Viktor feels himself melting against your lips, inside you, as your walls squeeze tighter and tighter around him. He loses control of his hands—they just roam, fisting at your dress, kneading the soft flesh of your thighs as he sinks deeper, hitting a spot that has you gasping hiccupped breaths straight into his mouth. He pants, struggling not to be the one who falls first, trying not to look, not to think about your clumped eyelashes, the tears that he is fucking out of you. He tries not to think about how every slap of his hips against yours must echo across your poor ass, how pleasure and pain must be bleeding together inside you.

But it just feels so fucking good for you. Every roll of his hips is a reminder of how his fingers sank into your skin not long ago, heat pouring out of you in waves. You don’t move anymore—it’s only Viktor’s sloppy, determined thrusts guiding you toward the edge. You cross your eyes to focus on his parted lips, the beauty marks dusting his cheek and lip, and when his breath fans over your face, you let your lashes flutter closed, surrendering to it. Letting it build, slow and aching, every deep stroke tightening the coil inside you until you’re cramping around him.

“Fuck,” Viktor pants as you curl into him, whining his name into the crook of his neck, fighting the urge to bite down on his tendon. Your thighs squeeze tight around him, and your cunt grips him like a vice, milking him as you finally break apart. You spasm and clench around him, neck wrenched and jaw tight as you try to catch a breath through your silent shout and it’s almost impossible for Viktor to move in the tightness you’ve created. His sweat drips onto your cheeks, and, at last, he can stop holding back.

He curls his arms around you and rolls you over, pressing you down with his weight. Adding gravity to every snap of his hips, his stomach cramps more and more with each desperate thrust as he fucks you through the aftershocks, chasing his own undoing. His mouth hangs open against yours when he holds you tight enough for his fingertips to whiten, bruises already threatening to bloom where he grips. “I’m so close,” he whispers on a breath, and you thought it impossible, but you clench even tighter at the sound of his strained voice. And when he cums, it’s with a wrenched-out grunt, his head buried in your neck, his body trembling against you.

A few stuttering jolts of his hips, spilling his seed deep inside you, and the sensation of being filled, of being utterly his, has you moaning one last time, spent and breathless. Eyes unseeing, mouth touching mouth when he falls on top of you and just stays.

And then, nothing, for a moment, only your damp stomachs rising and falling against each other.

Until Viktor is the one to move first. He pulls out, his cum spilling from you onto the sheets with a wet spurt, and rolls onto his back, hiding his face in the crook of his elbow. A shuddery breath escapes him as he presses a hand to his chest.

“Viktor?” you say softly, gliding an open palm over his stomach.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what—” he croaks, then pulls you in, guiding your head to rest against his chest. His heart pounds beneath your ear, his breath uneven, and when you lift your chin to look at him, you catch the glistening trail of a tear slipping down his cheek, barely visible.

And Viktor has no idea what came over him. He has no idea whether this is a stupid way of paying back his debt to you or is it just a surge of affection that he cannot hold in, but it feels strangely freeing to pour all this fear into a wet breath. Or maybe his fucked out brain just can’t keep up with the bliss, he doesn’t know.

Gently, you tug his arm away from his face, nuzzling into him as you whisper, “It’s okay. You’re okay.” You press a soft kiss to his lips, and he exhales shakily, like he’s been holding something in for far too long. And to come undone like this is completely unlike for Viktor. You are fairly sure you’ve never seen him cry before, though you’ve heard the legends. And now they all come true, before your very eyes and even though you feel nothing close to arousal watching him spill his emotions over, the feeling you do have in your chest is about to make it burst, nevertheless.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, kissing you back through an embarrassed chuckle. “I guess something is new after all.”

“Don’t apologize, please,” you whisper, nuzzling your nose into the hollow of his cheek. “I love this.”

Viktor offers a smile and a squeeze to your neck. Wordlessly, you fall into each other, arms tightening, bodies entwining. The roam of your hands slowly dying to settle on each other’s hollows. The scent of sweat and warmth heavy between you, intermingling, blending—just as you do.

And even though all of this looks hurried and disorganised—your dress half undone, his pants tangled around one leg, brace slid down from his knee, shirt twisted around him, cold compress melting away, dampening his sheets—it feels right. And as you rest against him, your heart slowing in tandem with his, you think of how this is both familiar and new. How you’ve shed the bad and kept the good. How it’s all very fucking new and exciting and frightening, but it’s good, because it’s with Viktor.

At some point, the sun has set as you both drift into sleep. Heavy breaths, calm, bodies still half-clothed. Your dress has rolled all the way up, exposing your lower half, and Viktor, with sleep-ridden hands, pulls it down before throwing a blanket over you both. No dreams interrupt you, only the damp cloister of your shared aftermath.

He’s closed his eyes a second ago, and when he opens them again, the night has turned into a blue morning. No sun yet, but the dark already pales. Carefully, he shuffles from between your legs, pressing the soles of his feet to the wooden floor, blindly reaching for his cane. Then, takes a long breath. His knee is aching—a faint, but present feeling. Slightly annoying. Managable.

He discards his pants to the floor, the outline of the fly buttons pressed into the skin of his calf after clinging to it the whole night. He glances over his shoulder—you, fast asleep, hair clumped into a tangled mess spilling over his pillow. Mouth open, soft breaths coming in and out, the faintest sound nestling in his mind. His hand hovers over your cheek as he dusts away a stray eyelash. Moments pass as he just looks.

Quietly, he stands and expands himself into a slow stretch. Breathes out long and heavy. Then, half-naked, walks toward the kitchen. And there—his underwear on the floor. Two cups resting on the table. He puts his cup in the sink and reaches for yours—half-drunk tea, a once-wet, now dried-out ring left behind. He smiles.

Nothing’s new, comes the thought.

He drinks your cold tea and puts the kettle on.

[sirazaroff]

Hey :)! Just asking but how does Glinda hide her scars on the visible parts of her body(like hands or the one on her face). And if anyone ever noticed did Morrible say that Glinda got attacked by the Wicked Witch?(you don’t have to respond with a drawing :), hope you have a good day/night)

Hey there! Thank you for the inquiry, I know yall are waiting on me to say SOMETHING since first posting the two ideas. Such a tease I am~

I will make a disclaimer that my ignorant ass has yet to know what goes down in act 2. I have plans to change that soon enough. Here’s my current take on things but I’ll make an update if they no longer have any merit in the timeline.

And speaking of a timeline, just keep in mind that after she’s struck on the back, the final beats of act 2 start to play out: Glinda going to Kiamo Ko and witnessing Elphaba’s ‘death’. The Wizard leaving and Morrible tries to grab power before Glinda can, and then failing. Glinda takes over as ruler and changes Oz in Elphaba’s vision.

——————

So, why does Glinda cover her scars?

It’s cause of her image as hope to the masses. The Good Witch can’t be appearing all busted up like that, people will ask questions. They’ll be afraid that the Wizard can’t actually help them, or at the least that Glinda can’t. Truthfully she’d rather people believe the truth but between the threat of more punishments from Morrible, and the fact that she’s putting her own public image and safety at risk, it’s better to just hide the scars. No one ever really sees them and so they never question it.

——————

Now let’s talk about how she covers them.

My thought process is that with her hands she would hide those with gloves during the frequency of the beatings. Gauze underneath, hoping they won’t bleed thru while she’s away from the palace. When Morrible eased up on this, Glinda switched over to covering them with makeup since they could finally heal over.

For her lip, Morrible gave her 3 days to figure out how to deal with the fresh wound before throwing her back into the spotlight. The pain of this caused Glinda to resent smiling. This scar would also be hidden with makeup once healed.

Now once she’s struck by lighting, all of this goes out the window. Glinda is quite literally bedridden for a few weeks and her absence is dully felt. Ozians are aware something happened at the palace, but they’re not sure what and who did it. In that instance it was easier to just blame everything on the Witch and rile up the public. (This narrative falls apart after Morrible tries to make for a power grab. Ozians will learn that it was she who hurt Glinda).

When Glinda can finally stand again, she’s in no shape to work. Of course that doesn’t stop the Wizard from having Glinda stand out on her balcony and address the worried masses.

From here on out Glinda doesn’t cover up any of her scars, only her demeanor. Even if she wanted to cover her back, it’s too large and touching the entry point sends a jolt that feels as sharp as when she was first stricken. She’s riddled with constant pain and walks with a limp, but when in public she acts like everything is peachy and is full of smiles. Glinda does this mostly because the people need a leader and if she shows her true ailments, there’s bound to be a threat for power by those taking advantage. Years down the line she’ll eventually retreat within the palace, unable to physically do much anymore but drink in an effort to numb the pain.

[strangerthingsfanworkrecs]

Would love to nominate an artist: hearsegrrl Rachel is one of the friendliest artists I know. She is so supportive of other artists and writers, and although she's extremely busy irl, she still makes time for fandom and always drops the most iconic works. She's incredibly humble, and deserves all the love and recognition in the world.

This week, we're highlighting @hearsegrrl as an artist! All recs this week will be her art.

see the original here She answered some questions about her work under the cut

Why Stranger Things?

Honestly I had never seen it before season 4, but when it dropped I started getting a bunch of Eddie edits on my TikTok and was like “WOAH, I gotta know more about that guy right now.” I binged the whole season over a couple days, fell in love with his character, remade a Tumblr account for the first time since my early teens, and started drawing him pretty much immediately.

What's your favorite ship (platonic or romantic) to create for?

I love how much people love Steddie. I love a two himbos in love dynamic and I love their interactions in the show, even if they were brief they obviously stuck with people.

What's your typical drawing process like?

Oh jeez. Long. Once I have an idea I’m pretty eager to start on it asap, I collect a lot of references for what I’m thinking googling model poses, random band member candids, or taking weird self timer pics of myself posing in my kitchen and then cut and paste and collage them into something close enough to what I want and then kind of draw a “skeleton” over all of that just to save a couple hours, but that process still usually takes me about 2-3 hours to get it perfect. The piece I’m working on right now has a lot of little pieces in it and that part of the process took ten hours alone. Then I have a line drawing that I block base colors into, lock all of those, and then kind of fully render out each part at a time- skin, hair, shirt, pants, accessories, whatever else. I spend a good 75% of that process going “AHHHHH I DON’T KNOW IF THIS IS WORKING,” and then somehow it all comes together in the end. Sometimes depending on the piece, I’ve liked finding random stock images to kind of overlay in the background, it makes him feel so much more real and lifelike to me. Lately, the fully rendered stuff I’ve been posting takes anywhere from 12-20 hours of drawing. I tattoo full time 11-7 or later 5 days a week on top of drawing for appointments outside of work and usually only have time to draw for a couple hours at a time, or a little on the weekends so I try to be as efficient as possible.

Do you have a favorite tool for drawing?

I used to do a lot of painting for work and pastel pencil drawings for fun but I switched over to an iPad Pro a few years ago and it’s so much easier to be able to just draw on the couch and not drag out a bunch of materials and make a mess. I use Procreate for work and for fandom art.

Do you have any tips for drawing clothes?

Using references or making your own references to take pictures of! They’re a relief to get to because they don’t need to be perfect, unlike a face that is very anxiety inducing so don’t overthink it.

What has been your favorite project so far?

I really, really love the one I’m working on right now, I don’t know if I’ll post it (and if you’re reading this after Valentine’s Day you may have already seen it) because it’s a gift but it’s been the most fun and silly and therapeutic. But I love any “Eddie with an occupation” or AU moment, doing the baseball AU drawings for @brock-eddie was so much fun and I love how they turned out.

What has been your hardest project so far?

The Christmas Steddie one was kind of a pain in the ass because it took so long and had so many more little parts than just drawing one character, but I was happy with how it turned out. There’s a couple WIPs in my iPad that I would love to finish but they just weren’t turning out how I wanted them, I want to revisit them but I might have to scrap them and start over. Everyone is so nice I’m sure I could post them now and people would be stoked but things have to be perfect or I lay in bed at night and regret posting them for literally weeks.

Have you ever had a creative block?

Not really for coming up with ideas, but finding the energy to sit down and draw after working all day is hard sometimes. I have a weird thing where I don't want to draw for a little bit, I have to be in the headspace to work for at least 2-3 hours at a time or I just won't do it.

Is there a big source of inspiration for you? Books? Art? Games?

UGH, BEIN IN LOVE. Being a weird alt girl in Indiana. Eddie is so my type and for the first time I had a huge crush on a character that I felt like I could be his type too. I’m a tattooer going to metal shows in my free time in 🤠Waynedale, Indiana🤠, it is so easy to picture him living in my town and going the same places I do and through art I can make him real. There are so many talented writers on here who have brought him to life and I love and am inspired to draw by the fics that really flesh out the fact that he’s so earnest and has all these deeper feelings but he’s still a ding dong twentyish year old boy doing ding dong twentyish year old boy things. @jo-harrington's store manager verse, @wheels-of-despair's Evil Woman fics, and @courtingchaos's writings all fill me with DEEP, ACHING YEARNING for a boy like him, and no matter how sucky and unimpressive dudes in real life are, they make him so nice and funny, and I can dress him up however I want and draw him from the viewer’s perspective and there is something so therapeutic and comforting about that. I’ve been through a lot of dumb and mildly traumatizing stuff the last couple of years and reading fanfic again and drawing fanart has brought me so much peace and happiness in all of it.

What's your favorite way to get comments or interactions on your art?

I’m always really excited to finish a piece and get to post it here ASAP just to see everyone’s reactions. I’m so proud of the work that gets put into them but I’m never going to post them on a more public forum like my Instagram, I do them for myself and for the little group of people here I know it’ll bring joy to and it’s really fun to share that joy with everyone. When I’m sad, I go through the tags in the reblogs because people are so funny and sweet about them.

Is there an upcoming project you're particularly excited about?

Nothing specific right now, I’m about to get really busy with real work so I may have to slow down a little. I get a lot of ideas around the holidays/seasons changing because I love the more themed drawings, so after Valentine’s Day hopefully I’ll have some cute spring ideas to work on! I always like getting requests to see what people are wanting to see. I can’t always get to them because of work but sometimes they spark ideas for bigger projects.

Is there anything we forgot to ask?

I don’t think so! Love you all so much, for real. Time to write and draw more Eddie stomping out fascist weirdos. The world really sucks right now but everyone contributing to this fandom is creating a positive space and helping us get away from it all, I am so grateful for all of the talented people here for making life more bearable right now.

[bonniepop]

title: of rumors & wrong assumptions parts: 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 (apparently) character: iwaizumi hajime warnings: i leave oikawa alone in this one. for the most part.

-

you manage to avoid drama for a good few weeks.

a welcome relief, seeing as you and oikawa were the center of attention for a more-than-uncomfortable amount of time. but as high school was wont to do, you became old news quick, with some other couple receiving the brunt of the gossip.

you did, however, have a sneaking suspicion that iwaizumi was behind the damage control. and while you three, along with oikawa, got along more and grew closer, you never really got a chance to ask.

the general student body was more or less updated with the fact that you weren't together, but murmurings of, but they looked so cute! (gross) or they sure act like a couple (worse) floated around your classmates before ultimately being silenced.

thank god, you think, because if you'd been caught watching volleyball practice from the mezzanine balcony of the gym at the same time those rumors went around, you'd be well and fully screwed.

now, though, you were afforded peace. oikawa and iwaizumi invited you to watch practice once and it became a sort of routine, joining them in the gym and going to your corner on the balcony, unpacking your things to finish your schoolwork. there were some noisy oikawa fans, but they never really stayed for long, and often left after one or two games.

some volleyballs ended up in your vicinity, though, which was technically unavoidable, but you would always hear iwaizumi's sorry! and throw the ball back.

the routine was nice. after practice, oikawa or iwaizumi would call you down and you'd stay a good few feet away (boy sweat) as you leave the school premises. turns out, you and iwaizumi head home in the same direction, so each time oikawa separates from your little trio, he leaves with a wink and waggle of his fingers.

this time, though, he throws in a, "you know what to do, iwa-chan!", which you can only assume is about homework, so you roll your eyes and wave goodbye.

your routine silence with iwaizumi settles between you as you walk home. you feel that iwaizumi wants to say something, but maybe you're imagining it.

when your turn comes, you turn to look up at him and smile. "i'll see you tomorrow."

you nearly jump back at the very severe glare he's sending in your direction.

"yeah," he grunts, his jaw flexing. "see you tomorrow."

you squeak out a, "take care," and scurry away in fear.

-

since you and oikawa were friends now (small barf), you ask for his advice in chem lecture. thankfully, it was audiovisual day, so you were seated at the back of the dark room while a movie played on the screen.

he listens intently as you recount the series of events to him, and he groans. "he really needs to do something about that face of his," he sighs. "he's not mad. i told you, that's just his face. he just has the guy equivalent of resting bitch face."

"he looked like he wanted to spike a volleyball to my head."

"that's how he looks at me," oikawa deadpans.

you sniff. "anyway."

oikawa purses his lips a bit. "if it bothers you so much, do you want me to talk to him about it?"

"will it make a difference?"

"honestly?" he says, thinking a little. "maybe not."

"i suggest you both pay attention before i do a pop quiz for this," your teacher says from behind you, scaring you into sitting up straight.

"sorry, sir," you and oikawa say in unison, and the teacher passes between your seats.

oikawa looks at you. later, he mouths, and you nod.

-

later turns out to be at lunch with iwaizumi.

"iwa-chan!" oikawa whines. "you really need to work on your expressions."

iwaizumi looks absolutely livid. "what are you talking about?"

oikawa gestures to his friend's face. "that! i keep telling you this. you look so... unfriendly!"

iwaizumi looks like he's ready to start a fight. but then he and relaxes his brow. "how about now?"

"loosen up on the chin."

iwaizumi follows suit. "now?"

you watch the exchange between the two of them as you eat your lunch, oikawa making the effort to rid iwaizumi of his resting bitch face. you had to agree with oikawa on this one—when iwaizumi sat down for lunch and looked like he wanted to murder his bento.

"better!" oikawa says cheerfully. he takes iwaizumi's chin and turns his face in your direction. "doesn't that look better, _____-chan?"

the relaxed look morphed into a murderous one. "if you want to keep that hand, i suggest you stop touching me."

oikawa simply laughs and pats iwaizumi's cheek. "you're funny, iwa-chan—OW! that hurt!"

lunch was now a (well, mostly) peaceful affair. the first time you three had lunch together—or when oikawa both dragged you kicking and (very quietly) screaming to his and iwaizumi's class room to have lunch with them—there was chatter, but now that it's been going on for a few weeks, people stopped caring.

iwaizumi uncovers his lunch. "i heard something funny the other day."

you pluck a grape from your lunch bag. "hmm?"

"apparently some people thought i was gay."

he says it as soon as you pop the grape in your mouth, and you nearly choke to death. oikawa rushes next to you to whack you in the back, after some desperate coughs, the grape dislodges. you chew and swallow quickly to avoid another mishap.

you take some breaths before turning to oikawa and smacking him in the arm. hard.

"that's my back, you idiot! you don't hit me like you're serving a volleyball!"

he looks offended beyond belief. "you ungrateful little—i just saved your life!"

"you nearly gave me a spinal fracture!"

iwaizumi fixes his glare on oikawa. "you're trying to stop her from choking, not dislocate her vertebrae."

oikawa sits back down and pouts. "you two are so unappreciative of me! you deserve each other." he dramatically stands up and, taking his lunch, marches out of the classroom.

iwaizumi scoffs in oikawa's direction. "drama queen." he looks back at you. "you okay?"

you stretch your back on your seat. "yeah, i think. he hit me pretty hard."

"you want a painkiller or something? i think i have some—"

"oh, no—i'm okay, really."

iwaizumi shrugs. "if you're sure."

awkward silence settles between you two as iwaizumi eats his food and you fidget. "so, um," you clear your throat. "you were saying? sorry. i interrupted you."

"oh, yeah, some—"

you nearly jump back when oikawa shows up suddenly. "i forgot my milk," he mumbles, sitting back down with his lunch.

iwaizumi rolls his eyes. "embarrassing for you."

"shut up," the volleyball captain says, grabbing his carton and taking a huge sip from the straw.

"anyway," iwaizumi goes on. "some people thought i was gay."

oikawa, who clearly has no regard for your personal wellbeing, perks up. he looks absolutely delighted. "you don't say?"

"shut up or i'll punch you again."

oikawa's mouth clamps shut, but he still can't help his smile.

iwaizumi shakes his head. "and what if i was?"

your eyes nearly pop out of your skull. is he serious? "are you?"

he rolls his eyes. "no. but if i was, i would not be with oikawa. gross."

the joy in oikawa's face was quickly replaced by offense. "hey! i'd be a good boyfriend!"

"your last girlfriend dumped you." iwaizumi picks up some of his lunch.

"wh—stop bringing that up!"

"so... you're not?" you ask tentatively.

iwaizumi is surprisingly calm about this. "no. or, well, i don't think i am." he thoughtfully chews his food. "i know someone who's like... what's the one that likes both? my cousin is that."

"bisexual?" oikawa supplies, apparently not too hurt from iwaizumi's last quip to listen to the story.

"yeah, that. he was bisexual, but when he moved to... i think australia? he found out he was gay. so, i don't know. maybe i'm not gay now, but who knows?"

"you're surprisingly relaxed about this." oikawa leans back, a little apprehensive. "i thought you'd be mad."

iwaizumi rolls his eyes. "being called gay is not an insult."

"that's very mature of you," you tell him, and he looks down at his food. it strikes you that he may be shy about that.

you and oikawa share a look as the bell rings. you start packing up your lunch. "i'll see you guys later?"

"oh," oikawa starts, "we don't have practice later. coach has a thing with his kid, so we have a free afternoon."

"oh, okay."

"i can pass by your room after school," iwaizumi offers.

you look at him. "um... why?"

he cocks his head, confused. "so we can walk home together."

there's a beat before oikawa goes, "since you walk in the same direction, might as well go together! good thinking, iwa-chan!"

something occurs to iwaizumi before he glares at oikawa. he looks a little red in the face, so you don't know if it's from rage or embarrassment. probably rage.

you finish packing up your lunch amongst a mild scuffle between the two and you stand. when you look up from your bento, you find one of iwaizumi's fists curled around the lapel of oikawa's jacket and the other fist in the air, ready to land a punch.

they freeze and look at you.

"sure," you say.

iwaizumi's hold slackens. "huh?"

"sure, we can walk home together after class," you clarify.

oikawa's jaw slackens and iwaizumi lets go of his friend.

"see you," you say, before waving and leaving.

behind you, you can hear oikawa cry, "OW! what was that for?!"

iwaizumi snaps, "for being annoying. now go back to your seat before i punch you again."

you bite back a laugh and walk out of the room.

[rypnami]

Valentine's Day - Leander

leander's first valentine's day with sebastian - and his first valentine's day since his transition. this is just him getting ready for his date, i might write the actual date later hehe.

not beta-read, limited editing

word count: 667

warnings: mild gender dysphoria

@espressoristretto-patronum since you've asked to be tagged in trans!leander stuff <3 <3 <3 <3

let's ignore that this is 2 days late!

“Phillip… I don’t know about this.” Leander mutters. He’s in the 6th year Gryffindor boys’ dorms, standing in front of a full-length bronze mirror. He inspects his outfit, a set of very fancy black dress robes that are quite well fitting, despite being his brother’s hand-me-downs.

Phillip, sprawled across his bed, looks up from the book he’s been reading. “Oh, please. You look great.” 

Leander turns in front of the mirror, going over his robes again. “I feel somewhat overdressed. It’s just tea in Hogsmeade, not the bloody Yule Ball.”

“Yes, but it’s your first date, and your first Valentine’s together! It’s a massive deal!”

That, notably, does not help Leander’s nerves in the slightest. “Well… I suppose… but… won’t he think it’s a bit much?” He shrugs. “I don’t want to look… I dunno, stupid.”

Phillip gets up and comes to stand behind him, clapping a hand on Leander’s shoulder. “He’s already agreed to go out with you, hasn’t he? Doesn’t matter what else you do.”

“Is that how this works? I don’t think that’s how this works.”

“It’s not like he’s going to change his mind or something.”

Leander whips around, brown eyes wide. “Do you think he would?!”

“What? No. No! Ah, cripes, I shouldn’t have said that, should I?” Phillip sighs as Leander starts pacing back and forth. He almost trips over his robe a few times as he does, running his fingers through his hair. 

“But he might. I would, if I was him. I mean, he could surely do better!” Leander is almost hyperventilating now. “He could at the very least be with someone who’s a real boy!”

Phillip grabs him by the shoulders, stopping his pacing. “Now that is absolute nonsense, Leander. You’re just as much a boy as any other.”

“But-”

“No buts.”

Leander tries to take his brother’s words to heart. Really, he does, but for the past handful of weeks- since the date was planned, in fact- he’s had the same nagging doubts about not being good enough. It’s not just because he has a date with the Sebastian Sallow, who is most certainly the most attractive boy in their year, but he’s never been on a date as a boy. Well, he’s never been on a date, full stop, but even so. 

As he looks over himself again, he can’t help but feel strange. Surely, he doesn’t look like a ‘real’ boy… he must just look like he’s awkwardly playing dress-up, trying to be something he’s not.

“If… I dunno, if you were to see me around… and you didn’t know… would you assume I’m-?”

“What? An absolute nerd? Yes, actually.”

In spite of himself, Leander giggles. It’s not even funny, exactly, yet it takes some of the edge off. “You know what I mean.”

“Honestly? No. But even if I could, who cares? You have a date with Sebastian. A random judgmental bint can’t take that away from you.”

Leander nods. “I suppose.”

Phillip pats his head. “See? Nothing to worry about. Except, well… about your hair…”

Leander frowns. “What’s wrong with it?”

“You always wear it like that. Don’t you want to try something new?” Phillip starts messing with Leander’s hair, but Leander quickly swats his hands away.

“Quit it! I like it like this!”

“I’m only saying-”

“Phillip.”

He puts his hands up and backs off. “Fine, fine. Have it your way.”

Leander re-styles his hair, turning back to the mirror one last time. “Perhaps I should just tell him I’m ill and can’t go.”

“C’mon, you don’t really want to do that, do you?”

“...No.”

“Exactly.” Phillip turns Leander around to fix his tie for him. “You’ve been waiting for this for ages. So go, have fun. Don’t do anything I would do.  And if anyone gives you a hard time, I’ll sicc Lily on them.”

“... I wish she were here right now.”

“Hey, so do I, but unlike the pair of us, she’s got a job. And a life. Now go.”

[sysig]

Guess who :3c (Patreon)

[ceramicbeetle]

it's actually so fascinating to me that Brennan has created a character that maintains a pretty relaxed and mild-mannered demeanor and has said multiple times that the absolute Core of her is "FEAR" and how often we see this Fear manifest specifically in Avoidance; it really nails a relationship to that mentality where your brain fully Stops recognizing the emotion properly out of like, sheer self-defense from the stress of having to carry it all the time

I think this is also perfectly showcased in the way we tend to see Tula swing so suddenly from 'level and steady' to 'snarling Panic' and then back again - Just because your brain has detached itself from the Conscious Recognition of the emotion doesn't mean it can Actually stop itself from experiencing it. So the Fear is always there and always acting as a stressor, but because of that inability to Identify it there's no way to recognize or address it before that final straw hits and your bodymind jumps Straight into Full Meltdown Mode; but then once again, once you drop even a Little bit below that Peak Terror your brain ceases to process the emotion; it's like the most exhausting form of Poor Object Permanence in the world

And even if Tula is aware of this happening to her, that doesn't really make it any easier to deal with / address. Even if you're able to spot the symptoms Around the emotion -- chest pain, irritation, nausea, whatever -- because the Emotion Itself is basically impossible to find, you can't really Successfully Pin Down what the problem is OR a way to cope with it. If you can't figure out That You Are Anxious, then figuring out What Is Making You Anxious is impossible, which makes Find A Way To Make Peace With That incomprehensible. That's where the Avoidance comes in: you can no longer identify what might be a Dangerous Situation, which means that Anything New has a big potential to be Really Bad in a variety of ways (ranging "I don't Feel Good" to "Fully Lashing Out bc you've entered Fight/Flight and can't get out of it" to "Actual Outside Danger This Time") and that means the Only Way you know how to be Safe is to just Avoid Doing Anything New and Only stick to Familiar Situations, because anything unfamiliar is a monster of a gamble you don't know how to prepare for or cope with

[anotherpapercut]

smth that I've found difficult in navigating life as an autistic adult is that I don't want to be infantilized, like I want/need to be viewed as a full adult, but sometimes my needs seem childish to people. so like I fight to be taken seriously but then when I do actually need help I can't get it because only a child would need it and I should be able to handle if I really want to be viewed as an adult

[altruistic-meme]

OUGHHH I FOROGR

[adore-gregor]

my football team is so hopeless

[opens-up-4-nobody]

...

[segernatural]

hmm

[helianskies]

finished our work week with our usual pow-wow of 'here's what our focuses were and what we've achieved' and bearing in mind i wasnt in on tuesday when these focuses are set and never committed myself to a task, ive managed to leave work feeling shit for not doing something i was meant to do. because apparently we admins were going to focus on chasing up information by phone since it's the school break and no calls have been made this week. well. if i had known that was what someone wanted me to do that's what i would have done. but instead, i was busy correcting other people's mistakes, fixing my own mistakes, juggling email queries, emailing people for info in between my usual tasks because i can't always make a phone call because that takes time away from my daily checks, checking data reports, being trained on new systems, liaising with another team to help them sort out interviews, and so on. and guess who was at work during that tuesday meeting and clearly said 'oh yeah we'll carry on with email failure chasing' and didn't make a single call this week. i dont care if he is part time. he still works 3 days. i have been fixing HIS little errors. HIS 'i didnt listen during our training a month ago and am not following procedure' moments. it's been a really shit week. i was not making calls yesterday because i was in such a foul mood and couldnt snap out of it and did not want to come across as rude on the phone, and they all know that - i made that quite clear. but i feel thrown under the bus. i've now set aside 2 hours on monday to do all the calls that we should have done in the last few days. we'll see if it's just me making them. and we'll see if my managers still think ive still 'disappointed' them. fuck.

[1ncandescentrage]

I'm happy that my chronic pain and I have been living more in harmony as of late

[itsalwaysdark]

and also it doesnt even matter if i miraculously get a job tmrw bc we don't have a car . and im too out of shape to walk anywhere bc everything is far away . so i genuinely dont jnow what to do

[youremyonlyhope]

I really should know better than to watch dumb romcoms while I'm 90% sure I'm ovulating.

This time it was Netflix's Love in the Villa trying to make me cry.