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falsegodcore · 2 months ago

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CUTLERY; viktor x gn reader, very very sappy and corny, two czech petnames, set before canon events and possibly non canon compliant. rated mature for vague sexual shenanigans at the end + profanity. 9k words. crossposted on ao3

Frequently, he wants to call your name for no real reason – maybe just hum, he knows you’ll look up for him anyways – if not to see your face soften.

The delicate frown between your eyebrows smoothen out, your eyelids flutter shut for a second as your brain processes his voice and the usually immediate turn or tilt of your head towards him, sometimes followed by a hum of your own as a response.

Viktor takes notes about everything. You know he takes notes about you because he joked to once, and since you got flustered at the idea he decided to actually do it. Scribbles about what you say, mundane or not, can be found on various corners of his notebook, but his handwriting is too messy for you to read the details. You don't know how he's able to go through pages and pages of his notes when writing an essay or lab reports. Or maybe he does it on purpose, to hide some thoughts from you and blame it on his hands.

You're used to finding him staring. It came as a surprise, because you were sick the first two weeks of class and they had described Viktor as someone cold and even detached, at times. ‘They’ being high-school classmates promoted to university classmates that you weren’t fond of, but civility was required in academic grounds. When Viktor’s name became a common word in the daily retellings your roommate would give at a safe distance from your sickly self, it was clear to you that he was sticking around your circle to avoid complete loneliness. You were equally curious and bothered by the new addition.

You had been discretely kept at arm's length at the very beginning, or whenever something in his brain pushed him to close up, be distant for his own sake, but as time passed said distance never truly felt cold: solitary Viktor still made sure to keep an eye on you. Maybe he couldn't bear not to. When you confided this to someone while revising notes, they made a face and giggled that Aw, he must really like you. You remember making a face in return because it sounded like a taunt.

When you drag your eyes away from your book, they take their time to travel over the fabric of his pants, the jacket he’s using as a blanket and then they reach his face, only to get distracted by the auburn locks falling messily on his forehead. He has one arm propped on one of the many pillows, a hand hovering over his head as if ready to mess his hair further. Your own head is pressed against his calf, akin to a cat lingering around its owner’s leg. With your heels pressed against your bed’s headframe, Viktor has settled on scratching the sensitive skin behind your knee to show his affection (unconventional and somewhat selfish, if you were to ask him) and use your displeased sounds as a distraction whenever the complex words of the physics textbook in his lap turn into gibberish.

“You are–” Comes his soft murmur, voice carrying a playful edge as sharp as a butter knife, “–Overthinking.” Viktor’s fingers let go of his pen to wrap blindly around your ankle, and they are cold even in the comfort of your room. He squeezes just a little when you frown just barely, because: “I'm not.”

Viktor hums. Viktor likes to speak in hums and little noises and the frequency of this one lets on that he’s anything but convinced. His thumb moves over the curve of your malleolus, presses on the bone for a moment, and then reaches the small artery next to it. The traitorous thing reveales your rapid heartbeat, albeit faintly. “Restless, still.”

A breathy laugh pushes past your lips. Of course Viktor would check your pulse like that. “I'm not,” You insist. “I– Maybe I am overthinking. I just... you know how my brain gets.”

He likes your brain. Likes how your thoughts scatter away one after the other; or better yet: how they grow one after the other, like leaves on a stem, on a branch. Viktor enjoys hearing your rambles and the way you sometimes jump from one thing to another, from one development, one opinion, one phrase to another, growing even the simplest of conversations into the prettiest of trees. Almond trees, maybe. He likes them almost as much.

Viktor’s fingers caress the skin of your ankle for a moment before offending the back of your knee again, wiggling even when your leg bends on instinct and traps them in place. “You ridiculous thing. Such a brilliant mind, and you let it push you to wallow in self pity.” You know he's trying to keep the mood light, looking for discomfort in your eyes in case humor and distractions are not what you need. But tonight you're not sure why you're restless either, so it doesn't really sting: you don’t mistake the jest for a taunt. “We could take a walk.” Viktor watches your eyes drift to the window and the night sky beyond the glass and the moon as it stares back at you. “I'll tell you all about the stars, lásko.”

Viktor already knows you'll say no, but doesn't like you upset and silent. He doesn’t need to wiggle his fingers again to prompt your answer and shrug. “No, no. It's so late, and we're already here. And it's cold.”

“Better if it is,” Viktor watches you stretch your legs against the wall again. His hand wanders down the path of your thigh, touch tender over where he knows it's bruised. “You always retreat in my arms if it’s cold, even just chilly. And you should know that’s my favorite place to find you hiding in.”

You do not take the bait. Maybe it was more akin to a request. “No. Let me look at you, please. And we won’t get anything done if we start cuddling.”

It all had started with a kiss to your cheek, an act of jealousy. You had dozed off while studying with him and other few classmates; not friends, as what had brought you together was exactly in the name: class.

In a maybe selfish and even mean way, you had hoped to get rid of them after graduation and limit your relationship to pleasantries exchanged in hallways between lessons. Of course, you couldn’t be that lucky. The name written in the letter carrying details about your dorm arrangements had taunted you upon reading.

Was it resentment? Viktor had asked you soon, unfiltered, prompted by the dry answers he’d hear from your lips and ‘fuck off’ stares and the public ‘classmate’ titling. You had shrugged. Resenting people who wouldn’t decide between friend or foe would take too much time off your to-do list. And it wasn’t even that long to begin with.

It took half of your first semester for the two of you to break the ice, shatter and stomp on it and start softening when the other entered the room; because in September, Viktor was careful with his words and actions since he didn’t know what to expect from Piltover and its customs, and you had no intention of looking interested when he didn’t. But as December approached you had long stopped blinking at one another from a distance and accompanying him to drop some documents to Heimerdinger was much more pleasant than the forced conversation with said classmates during coffee break.

Coffee break– You always bought hot cocoa and Viktor tea. The coffee machine in the study room had awful coffee and your drinks were even worse. Viktor made faces, awful at being discreet, liked to pat your thigh to comfort himself as he took slow sips whenever you happened to sit next to him ever since you had said touching was okay, Vik’, I really don’t mind after your first winter break together – and his hands were surprisingly itching to feel your skin. All of that was a rite he indulged in before dumping the drink and standing up, prompting you with another pat (this one playfully patronising on your head) to follow him to the ridiculously expensive cafeteria on the other side of the building because at least the drinks there were worth the price.

The first time, you joked it wasn't like him to abandon his work for something as trivial as a drink. Viktor had humoured you, rolling his eyes and joking back that he actually meant to steal you away, his voice that comfortable butter knife that dragged its blade over your chest, right over your heart, carving his name with no need to draw blood.

You hadn't thought much of it; probably oblivious, possibly in denial. Someone had already caught up, unlike you, seeing the way Viktor would guide you out of the study room with him as what truly was, an answer to the question awakened in everyone by the way he would arch an eyebrow at anyone's touch, but welcomed yours. Encouraged yours, if anything, offering his hand for you to grasp during walks because he knew you wouldn't let go.

(You had asked if it was okay when it stopped being an acquaintance born from casualty and was turning into a friendship — wanted to turn in a friendship, the metamorphosis proceeding more steadily than anticipated. You asked because you knew you'd want to feel him close once he gained that precious title. Luckily for you, Viktor was already endeared. And much more aware than you of where your hearts were headed; tracing the path for you to follow, maybe.)

The one person of your small group that Viktor disliked just slightly decided to buy you hot cocoa. Had arrived at the always dreaded study session with a cup for you and only you, from a cafe just outside the Academy District. “Since you despise the stuff here so much,” They had grinned, then spared Viktor a glance in the acid and childish way rivals do. “I'm not sure how you drink your tea. Didn't want to risk it.”

A lie, of course. He always went for black tea with a stain of milk and his cup had been perched next to his books every afternoon for a whole year. Viktor bit back an equally bitter answer, holding onto his pride but quietly. Decided not to give them the reaction they surely seeked. You had offered him a sip, because you were the gentlest thing for him, hoping to soothe his glare. Viktor declined with a squeeze to your knee.

Then you had dozed off. Cheek pressed against your notebook. You knew the fresh equations would've no doubt left traces of ink on your skin. You had laid down on the hard desk out of resignation, grumbling curses for the Yordle you were unlucky enough to have as a Professor and then, knowing you, Viktor thought as his gaze softened at the sight, had started thinking and thinking, tracing thoughts like they were the numbers on your pages (and cheek, too) until they had soothed you to sleep.

Viktor didn't know what came to him, except he did. He excused himself for his tea, stopped by your chair to lean down and brush his lips on the spot of your cheek you liked to press against his shoulder when he guided you against his side. Had lingered, making the gesture two proper pecks under the comically wide eyes of your classmates and whispered something sweet under his breath, all while smiling fondly. Your poor excuse of a suitor had made the mistake of telling you of Viktor's kisses the following day in an awful attempt at trying to know if they had a chance, as if you weren’t attached to his hip and Viktor to yours. “Weird, wasn't it?” They had said. You were more surprised than weirded out by the kiss; confused and uncomfortable at their pushy tone, if anything. So you had settled for a shrug and a “No, not at all."

When Viktor had walked to the dorms with you as he always did, you kissed him at his door. On his cheekbone, trying to replicate the two kisses you could now feel on your skin, could have since you were told about them. Viktor had caught up on it, expected you to know. Wanted you to know, knew they would have told you. It was a predictable move that he hoped they’d make to fall in the trap of their demise.

(Let the man indulge in his theatrics.)

“Is this an act of vengeance or retaliation?” He had asked, no knife this time, not even the butter one. Of course, you knew he was expecting it, but his eyes didn't hold the devious and self-satisfied glint they had when someone acted as he predicted. It was always nice to be reminded he saw you as more than an experiment of action-reaction events.

“Well, Viktor. Define ‘retaliation’?”

“You know what I mean, miláčku,” The familiar term made you smile, “Is this to strike me twice as hard or set the record straight?”

So dramatic. If it wasn't for the slight tilt of his lips you might have fallen for his serious tone. You echoed it to piss him off. “Oh, drop the act, please. And if I wanted to hit twice as hard, I would've kissed you four times.”

A proper smile, gentle, lovely and maybe even beaming with excitement. Viktor was smoking and you knew by the look in his eyes that he would’ve reached for your face in affection had his hands been free. The way you never had to struggle to read him was always comforting. “I barely felt it, speaking of. You should be more rough.”

You laughed and couldn’t resist teasing. “Oh, ‘should’? Not could?”

Viktor had ignored you and the warmth on his cheeks, tapped his fingers on the handle of his cane. Barely tilted his head, the way reserved for the tone he'd speak to you with when he wanted to be intimate and sincere, without needing to openly admit it or hope you'd catch the implication.

“Did you mind it?”

And again, but through a smile: “No, not at all.” When you hugged him, Viktor almost stubbed his cigarette on the wooden door to hug you back. He caught himself and his already crumbling self-restraint just barely.

Viktor started to kiss you when he deemed it fitting, surprisingly uncaring of prying eyes and probably eager to indulge in some possessive displays, weak as every man. A peck between your eyebrows when you lamented sleepiness, against your hair when you pressed in the safety of his chest while standing next to each other, or on the back of your hands if he wanted to steal a smile. Selfish and awful and asshole as he was, Viktor always tilted his head back when you tried to reciprocate, grinning like an idiot at your complaints and insults. You had to settle for kissing his shoulder, feeling the harsh fabric threading his clothes against your lips, or the back of his neck the rare occasions he was sitting down and the precious spot was in your reach. The way he squirmed and hissed your name with flushed cheeks paid off the wait.

For a while, you didn't want to ask if it, the kissing, was really okay. Didn't want to know what ‘not okay’ would have meant for your dynamic, still clinging to the concept of normalcy. You took what you could get, until you couldn't and it wasn't enough, and caved in, somewhat terrified.

You remember scolding yourself. Sophomores do not lose their minds over men. Viktor had almost treated it as the many times he had soothed your loudest thoughts away: “What else could it mean?” Had made it simple. And had kissed you on the lips, murmuring sweet words to hush the tears away. Even threatened to pepper kisses all over your face whenever you retreated in your head, the one place he could not reach.

So when he calls your name once and hints at the small space between his hips and yours and you obey – or rather your body does, his words a spell for your nerves – and drag yourself next to him, the gentle press of his lips against your forehead is anticipated; equally anticipated are one hand cradling your jaw and another reaching up to brush your hair away, making space for his kisses.

You’ve learnt to simply remain quiet during these moments. Stopped trying to fill the silence in fear he’d mistake you as selfish, taking his kisses greedily without even offering a word back. And greedy you were, in the end – but so was he. Viktor was greedy in taking, you were in receiving, however thin the line might be. He leans on an elbow to sit up just slightly, other hand tangling in your hair as his lips trace the spot that frowns when you’re upset and up to your temple.

Still, Viktor hums to himself in what you recognize is self-satisfaction and probably doesn’t let his mouth walk the path of your jaw because you requested to look at him. Obedient (as much as the black cat that he is can be, of course), he rolls on his side and his chin falls back against the palm of his hand, face tilted to watch you. You pick up where the conversation had halted, mesmerised by his half lidded eyes. “You said we could go for a walk, but shouldn’t you be at that event? As the Dean’s Assistant and all.”

“So you do want to go for a walk,” Viktor tries again, but relents when you shake your head. “Professor usually specifies when it's necessary. This kind of event requires a partner, he’s there as the head of the Council. Unless my position requires me to dance with Heimerdinger, too.” The mental image you come up with makes it hard to stifle a giggle. It’s Viktor’s eyes turn to soften, now. “But. I could have asked you to be my saviour for the night. Would you have said yes?”

“Of course.”

“No hesitation, didn’t even require a ‘please’. Is this loyalty, or mere pity?”

You huff, but the smile doesn't leave your face just yet. It can't, when it comes to Viktor. You lay down next to him and a pleased hum vibrates in his chest. “I love you enough to ease the gala induced headache, should you ask. Also, the food and music were nice, at the last Academy event. Thankfully, they always put some effort into the celebrations after summer break.”

He hums again, only to give you a response – because you both stare at each other when one goes silent, and he knows it’d be hard not to melt should you give him that look. Viktor recalls the music, the pleasant combination of violin and flute that you had described as unfitting: "Doesn’t it remind you of spring?"

He had said it did, now that you mention it. The upbeat melody had made you giddy, blossoming like a flower. Yes, spring, indeed. Viktor remembers thinking they should’ve saved it for Progress Day, but the Academy is triple crowded during the occasion: it would’ve been harder to find somewhere private yet a spot the music could reach, somewhere he could prompt you to spin with one arm for his eyes only, to idly lean back on a balcony’s railing, tug you closer, guide you into twirling again with little effort. You had laughed the same way you do when he torments your sides and ribs in the privacy of your rooms: loud, bubbly, soft and terribly you, had laughed before retreating in the safety of his arms in the aftermath of your giggling fit. He has the sudden urge to have you like that again even if the winter chill would make it impossible to take you hostage in the corner of a balcony. “We could still attend, then.”

You mistake the irrationally blurted out words as a simple joke, because Viktor despises such events and you still don’t fully understand how much of a lovesick fool you make him. You're the one actually holding the knife and all. “No, we can’t.” Not with heavy eyes and a heavy heart, and certainly not three hours late.

Silence comes after that. Viktor lets you stare at him solely because he wants to stare back, and this once you don’t squirm under his always warm but sharp gaze. Viktor is all sharp edges, in many ways. Sharp cheekbones, sharp jaw. His words can be sharp, rather than ‘are’. Most of the time you'd deny his cocky sarcasm, used to the soft curve of the words he'd reserve for you even when jesting and arguing. That until he'd deliver a line that left you agape. Viktor likes outwitting others, and that includes you. Were you to ask him, he’d admit cornering you in particular was much more amusing. Ask when he’s feeling devious, he’ll pretend to say ‘arousing’ instead of ‘amusing’, blatantly faux apology for the slip up worsened by his shameless grin. A look you like on him, even when he flirts like a corny teen.

There is no space for it right now. Maybe there could be, you’ve learnt how to bring it out even during lectures, but riling him up is not what you need, or want, right now. If only you could notice the way his eyes linger on the curve of your jaw, then down your neck. Suddenly overwhelmed with something as ridiculous as neediness, Viktor tangles his fingers with yours. You are not cruel, so you don’t tease him over the gesture. You rarely do, anyways: you feel no need to test a heart reserved just for you; or worse, to risk and insinuate the curl of his fingers around yours is wrong or unappreciated. A cat is not as blinded by love as much as a dog is and there’s only so much it can take.

“You look so pretty, you know?” You blurt out in a clumsy whisper. Rather yet, the words write themselves in your throat and push through your mouth before you fully realize it. If vocal chords worked like guitar strings, you could call them notes and Viktor your song. Awfully saccharine and yet you can’t stop yourself nor the fingers brushing and playing with the wisps of hair that curl around his forehead and graze the hidden mole near his eyebrow. “The moonlight looks lovely on you.”

Viktor offers you a small smile. Embarrassed, flustered, shy. Lips press in a thin line that curls down at the edges. The line is thin because he sucks his lower lip in to chew on it like a nervous teen rather than the grown man he insists he is. The hand stroking a strand of his hair dips lower to cup his cheek and you can’t help but mirror his expression as if just realizing the sweetness of your words. You didn’t know love would’ve made your tongue impulsive and ridiculous.

Viktor lets the moment stretch as you stroke his face and the mole you use as a target for cheek kisses. “Can I come closer now, you pest?” He then asks in a somewhat hoarse voice and you half-wonder how long you’ve been cornering him with your gaze. The other half doesn’t really care. His request receives a few absent nods from your head as his body moves before you completely process his words. You were sure you’d remain the clingy one. Viktor surprised you once more. He crawls over your stomach, drapes one leg over yours in a careful gesture as his cheek claims the familiar spot above your chest. Your nose rubs at his forehead affectionately and Viktor scrunches his with a smile.

It’s not enough. You coil an arm around his waist to press him more against you and let your fingers idly stroke his side. Viktor makes a face and a sound, displeased and sensitive, but you hear him huff a chuckle again when you giggle at his dramatics.

His ear presses down and Viktor focuses on the thrum of your heart for a moment, taking the hand closest to his in a secure hold. You know he doesn't purposefully mean to ground you, but he does anyway. Rock and anchor, moon and tidal wave: the two of you might be running out of analogies to explain the chain locked around your hearts.

“Your heartbeat calmed down,” Viktor murmurs, angling his head to nose your throat and guiding yours to tilt back. “What were you thinking about, mhm?”

You shrug. And throw a look at your discarded textbooks at the edge of the bed.

“Eh. Thermodynamics, I suppose.”

“I meant before coming home, sweetness. You were quiet on the way back.”

Instead of shrugging again, you press your cheek against his head with a hum. Viktor hums back and nuzzles more into your neck to soak in the affection. “I don't know. We… kind of argued over the assignment earlier, didn't we?”

“Us? No, we didn't.”

“Not we as ‘us’, I mean us and the others.” Viktor huffs as your words trigger recallings of your unpleasant afternoon and you tut in a soft coo. “Don’t sulk. You looked like you wanted to kill them.”

Viktor grunts like a child and you know his lips are pouting because he doesn’t like being scolded. “You took it personally, didn't you? I don’t think anyone meant to make you feel attacked. It’s– I know it’s frustrating and they lack tact. I don’t like when we stall on unnecessary banter, either. Or, err, when we disagree. We as ‘us’, this time.”

He huffs again, reaching blindly to mush your face to shut you up: “Talking and discussing and bantering over materials is part of the experience. And it wasn't your fault, in case you’re even remotely thinking that.” He didn't like how the hot-cocoa bastard had backed you up immediately, that's for sure, but it wasn't nearly enough to make him mad at you. When they made an absurd proposal, both ridiculously expensive and unrealistic just to keep going against him, Viktor had gone quiet.

“...I could write my thesis on how much nonsense they talk sometimes, seriously. You shouldn’t have humored them.”

“Viktor. I didn’t humor anyone. I brainstormed from what they suggested– And yes, their idea was bullshit, but someone had to propose anything else and move on. You were too busy glaring to listen, weren’t you?”

The way your voice comes muffled by his palm is amusing and it soothes the hint of jealousy still lingering in his heart. Viktor tilts his head again to kiss right under your chin. “I got just a half of what you said,” Lie, “Next time make sure I have a pen in hand. And go slower. You’d make an awful lecturer.”

When you tug at his hair to force his head up the weak glare you give him must be not even weak and just ridiculous, because Viktor absently taps your cheek while looking at you with one of his smitten smiles. You have grown to recognize them because he never even realizes he's smiling, mouth parted, his grinning teeth peeking just slightly and the crow’s feet around his eyes showing. Still not cute enough for your glare to soften. “You are stubborn, though. Using both copper and aluminium for the components would be better, but you’re fixated on brass. Brass, baby.”

“Heimerdinger will understand,” You both know he won’t. Viktor echoes words from your stressed speech with a tilt of his fingers and that same smile because, again, he annotates everything you say, even in his brain. “Efficiency does precede expenses even for our ‘stupid assignments,’ dearest. It won’t kill him to go a little over his budget for once.”

“We asked him that last time. This stupid thing isn’t even worth a quarter of the grade, mind you.”

“He always says that, and then changes his mind a week before the deadline.”

“Shouldn't we save the request for Progress Day, then? Or the Young Idiots Competition?”

Viktor can't help a chuckle and his stomach presses against yours as he does. “I always forget how much you dislike it.”

“It's rigged,” You reply. “I'm sure it is. Notice how last year you barely made it to fifth place, beaten by rich kids. Their work was ass– and I’m not singing your praise. It was nothing we hadn't seen before; nothing Heimerdinger hadn’t seen before. ‘City of Progress’ and then they don’t let something new and progressive win.”

His fingers litter small pinches on your cheek for the whole length of your mumble. Viktor, ambitious and prone to grumbling and holding grudges when mistreated because of classism Viktor, looked back at the three months of hustle and bustle with fondness rather than bitterness: all his memories focused on you. Still walking that blurred line between wanting to kiss your lips red and opting for squeezing your shoulder in a half hug as good morning, he was; and more enamoured than ever, right out of two weeks spent as somewhat roommates as you nursed him through a high fever that left his lungs (already weak, but he didn't know that yet) so stressed that it made him stop smoking altogether. He called it the prologue of his lovesick trimester.

You had gotten sick right after that – a classic – and couldn't finalise your own blueprints for the competition, which effectively shut you out from taking part in it. Then came a cruel week of forced distance (you had banned everyone from visiting, especially him lest the two of you fell into a feverish circle, and struggled to ignore the ominous notes slipped under your door in that messy handwriting of his), followed by a duel for your assistance the second you were free from your self imposed exile. Viktor won it, effortlessly. You became his somewhat roommate again and the two of you learnt to share a one size bed without either monopolising blankets and that sleep comes easy when close to someone else, especially if they are your favorite person in the entire city. This all made your reaction at the kissing ordeal that would happen a few months later even more ridiculous, because Viktor had held you in your rest long before small kisses became a daily occurence. Reverse slow burn or whatever the Literature Majors would say.

A delicate tug at his stress-curled strands interrupts his blissful reminiscence. Your nail drags over his scalp to hurt and Viktor almost grins. “You’re not taking me seriously, are you.”

Viktor enjoys when the two of you switch roles. Not that you’re an actual pest; not most of the time, anyways. He calls you variations of ‘sweet’ for a reason. But he supposes you feel this same giddiness to bother him, make him grumble and fluster and you’re simply too good to act upon it. Viktor loves to deem himself a cunt even if you disagree, and wants to both torment you until you find a way to shut him up, no matter how, and simultaneously have you all over him, waiting for you to give him a reason to pin you down and dig his teeth in your flesh. All is fair in love and war, and war, for him, is foreplay. And foreplay is too fun to restrict it as a prelude to sex. Here comes that smile of his again. “Absolutely not, love.”

You tug at his hair again, harder, and his breath hitches. Playing dumb to his growing needs, you turn the tugging into pleasant scratching at his scalp again and the tenderness of it almost has the same effect on his groin. Almost.

“Remember when we both used to wear half-ups?” You ask. The first of many cheesy choices made when you both weren't sure if you were in love, but definitely wanted everyone to know you were associated. As close friends, at least. Viktor was glad you revealed yourself a sweetheart and thrifted matching pins for your jackets and ties and cheap charms for your bags, glad that he didn't have to beg for you to show that you actually and really cared, that you were eager to show your place at his side. It soothed the ugly part of him that crawled in his insides when someone stared a little too long, looking at him up and down: it made him nauseous, especially when it happened in your presence.

Viktor thinks of one hot, early morning on the Engineering department's stairs, hiding from annoying classmates in the nook of the oldest building. Thinks of the coffee he had drank for once, the bitter taste still in his mouth softened by your presence alone, and the adrenaline, caffeine induced and rushed 'Would you mind doing my hair like that?' that he blurted out while staring at the rebellious strands escaping your half-up and the spare hairtie you were playing with while blabbing something about Calculus. Remembers sitting between your legs, a step below yours, and how when he had to look up at you, hair style finished, it felt good to crane his head for someone for once. Wondered if you would also find it pleasant.

“Yes, I do. It was quite cheesy.”

“We matched. Then you cut your hair and ruined all the fun.”

Viktor barks a raspy laugh and thinks of all the trinkets you gave him, mostly halves that completed yours. Some are still hanging on his bag, others rest on the bedside table that he calls your sanctuary – and the way he has grown a habit of looking at it while falling asleep is akin to a prayer, in his eyes. “We already matched. Heimerdinger asked me about you almost immediately.”

The kiss he presses to your cheek is barely noticed. You don’t particularly like Heimerdinger for a handful of reasons, as it usually happens with professors. On one hand, he’s so ridiculously stingy with assignments that you quietly await the day he’ll trip and roll down a flight of stairs, hopefully within your lifespan and without experiencing a concussion. On the other hand, you find his political choices and stance confusing and hard to agree with, but most of your insights come from Viktor’s delirious, late-night complaints about what he hears with his own ears and what he finds in the reports Heimerdinger writes and tasks him to review. In all honesty, you didn’t think the professor would notice someone as skittish as you, as good as your grades are.

Viktor picks on your surprise. “He noticed you tagging along. Your voice from outside, at first,” His breath fans over your face as he straddles your lap with a small grunt and resumes talking before you can ask if he’s okay. “You thought he wouldn’t? Said he was glad I had 'made friends'; always let me go more easily if he knew you were waiting outside. Then you helped me carry something inside – boxes, I believe – and when he saw you, the identical pins on our ties were hard to miss.”

It gets a little laugh out of you and Viktor turns it into a small giggle by fluttering his fingers on either side of your neck and you only now notice how needy for your voice he’s being, tonight. Your own fingers wrap around his wrists because your hands don’t know where to go if not against his skin. “What did you tell him?”

“Eh, the truth,” Viktor presses his thumbs into your cheeks until it almost hurts just to hear a sound. “When we were friends, that we were friends. When we weren’t, that we weren’t.”

You almost scold that he’s making it easy, but it actually was. Viktor had become a part of you very much easily, first of your school routine and then of your heart. You were glad it had been so effortless, in a way: you knew he loved you, he knew you loved him, all from the very beginning, save for the first months of his guarded aloofness and your seven feet of careful distance. You had discarded most doubts and fears long before the kissing began, and those that stayed couldn’t be helped: courtesy of your brain, as usual.

It wasn’t hard to realize why Viktor hadn’t kissed you earlier, either – or why he was ‘so comfortable being friends’, as your roommate put it when you were desperate enough to ask for relationship advice or just rant and then get upset when they treated you like a child and their playground crush. Again, you had frowned, because what others initially saw as lack of commitment you saw as the beginning of devotion. Maybe you self-projected (an awful habit) or were ridiculously smitten. Or both. And yet, you told yourself when Viktor made sure your shoulders were touching even when sitting in class, when he should’ve been focused on taking notes, was he really being that patient for the sake of a chase? As clingy as you were, you knew he was more than a body to hold, for your heart. You were willing to wait and find out if you were right in thinking he shared the vision.

That time you didn’t really expect others to understand nor wanted to fully explain yourself, reserved as you were with those confusing classmates of yours. “I mean, I could have kissed him sooner instead of trying to analyze him.” You preferred pointing that out, not fond of the annoying innocent lamb reputation that preceded you for some reason. You knew naïve is rarely meant as flattering and that most lambs are slaughtered with no concern. “And he could've grown tired and decide to move on before I could beat him to it. For what other possible reason would you think he lingered?”

There was an elephant in the room, because everyone exchanged gazes, uncomfortably, and that same person looked up from their book with something that made your insides churn, different from the butterflies Viktor’s loving gaze gave you and the anguish your anxious heart stirred in your stomach. The elephant sat on your lap, and you knew.

“Because you’re nice,” They had said. Suddenly in a mirror, you felt they didn’t really expect you to understand. Peeked at you from behind their textbook. “You are so nice.”

You had waited for them to elaborate. They didn’t. No one in the room did and you almost felt ridiculous for hoping they would. Viktor did, with a completely different insight. Your waiting paid off for once and the lamb wasn’t slaughtered, even if Viktor thought you were anything but innocent and maybe the butcher himself when you wanted to. Still, seeking refuge in someone else’s arms never felt right, less for pride and more for dignity: you didn’t need soothing nor a whole relationship built on it. So you kept enduring the stares that bordered glares out of nowhere even if you couldn’t pinpoint why the gun was at your temple in the first place. Assured it wasn’t jealousy because no one humored Viktor more than necessary (especially in your absence, when a suitor would have striked) you picked the role of the bigger person and kept mirroring smiles and words to keep a neutral ground.

Viktor had a much clearer picture of ‘what the fuck is up with them’, being an outsider of dynamics that had been growing for years and that you deemed normal in your daily life; even if you recognised that something was, in fact, up when he had pointed out a few details that inevitably escaped your fed-up eye. He wasn't surprised you couldn’t see outside the bell jar, only playful and mean enough to compare you to a spider trapped under a glass just to get himself frowns and your hands all over him until he finally spoke his sentence.

You earned his silent smiles and praises when you told him their envy was pointless and it didn’t really boost your ego. You knew you couldn't force someone to put you down the pedestal, nor could you step down by yourself if technically you didn’t know you were on it. And addressing it out loud would have made you presumptuous, knowing how confrontation with them usually ended. Sitting down on the stoll was easier. Viktor doesn’t think standing and sitting are that different.

The poetics are always a little awkward on two scientists’ tongues, even the lust induced ones, usually excluded from criticism. Still, Viktor wishes you'd notice the glow you had, inside and out, no matter how part of him longs to keep it all for himself. If he was the prideful Undercity scum some had called him, a part of him wished you’d pick that up, even if you were content with your humble amount of confidence.

You grab Viktor’s face and kiss him to apologise for zoning out even if you know he doesn’t mind, likes watching your expressions change as your mind walks through your thoughts as if in an art gallery. Or the automatons exhibition your course was dragged to once. All failed prototypes, yet Viktor remembers how your eyes glinted and how standing still didn’t bore him at all, if it meant bearing witness to your dazzled stare.

The press of his lips against yours is nowhere robotic, the sequence of pecks so tender and messy that you’re not sure who’s kissing who, for a moment, only aware of tilting your head up, leaning in every moment the pressure is gone. Then Viktor licks the seam of your lips with a hum, his own version of a plea, and when your mouth opens it’s hard to deny him your tongue, not when he sounds so sweet. It feels slightly weird when he licks the roof of your mouth, and he rewards your patience to his antics with another suck on your tongue and drinks the saliva clinging to it like a dying man.

Viktor breaks for air first. “Change. For bed,” He mumbles. For bed, yes, of course, stay the night, don’t make me ask. Fingers you hadn’t even noticed cupping your face move to trace your jaw, then press against the familiar line of your neck, linger on your collarbones and stop over your chest, where you habitually murmur he belongs. The quickened beats of your heart must be strong under his palm: you feel them echo in your own ears. They are no longer caused by your anxious subconscious.

The tip of your nose rubs against his cheek while you absently nod. “Of course,” You murmur as you blindly palm his chest, less worried about undoing the buttons of your shirt and more keen on just touching him through his. Viktor breathes against your parted lips when your thumb flicks where you know it’s sensitive but his body jerks towards your palm.

“Behave,” He huffs against your mouth before you peck his lips again. “Patience is a virtue, miláčku.”

“Oh, my deepest apologies,” You’re too busy rubbing against him like a cat to notice the way his Adam's apple bobs. Your thumb plays with him again and his guts knot tight and he can only let out a choked whimper, going as far as removing the one hand feeling your heartbeat to cover his mouth. As always, you take mercy. Lean back enough to lay your loving gaze on him. “Can you help me undress?”

Viktor blinks at you like cats do to say I love you. Eyes the side of your throat and it's enough for you to tilt your head, baring the skin to him, for him. You're not sure who's playing who anymore and it’s never been in you to care. His tongue licks a strip of your neck as his hands fiddle with the buttons of your shirt, making an opening for his fingers to touch the center of your chest directly, and Viktor initially keeps his hand there instead of mimicking your teasing touch from earlier because he knows the pressure of his palm soothes you, no matter where. But when your own fingers undo the rest of the buttons, saving him the trouble, Viktor immediately neglects your heart to claim the sensitive skin of your chest, and you laugh your bashfulness out at his eagerness. Needy, again. You didn’t realize he was starving.

“Would you mind rolling over so I can take care of you?” You ask against the shell of his ear. You had spoken variants of that same sentence over and over, from the start, and oh, how it made his insides turn in the worst way, at the very beginning. How he thought you saw him as a fragile thing in need of assistance, and maybe even as good fucking karma. And how he pushed you away lest he said something mean in response – because Viktor knew how you’d react, a witness to cruel words disguised as playful jabs. And maybe they really were, but you shifted uncomfortably all the same, fuming in your silence.

It would’ve been easy to shoo you away that exact way: Viktor had immediately realized you didn’t linger when something, someone stung. Physically, you had to, but he noticed if you started talking less and the care you put in what you said. That’s why you openly called your classmates that instead of ‘friends’ for the sake of peace. But he wasn’t sure if he wanted you to grow distant from him just yet, let you bear the guilt of your failed acquaintance. He told himself it felt wrong to give you that much control, still fresh from the playground of the undercity and his old connections, nothing but chess matches he never liked losing. Yet you didn’t look like you wanted to play chess. If anything, he suspected you wanted to save yourself the trouble. There must have been a reason you preferred growing quiet and distant when it hurt. Talking it out it was, then, he decided.

Viktor had been blessed with a cancelled study meeting, but you hadn’t attended the morning lecture and missed said cancellation, showing up in the library at the designated time. The very first time he was all alone with your presence. Viktor remembers wishing he had stayed in his room, but the thought of you waiting only for no one to show up made his insides turn, in a different way. Was he the one treating you as fragile, now?

You had hummed when Viktor said everyone planned to ditch. Peeked over his shoulder to the equations he scribbled and crossed out, probably fighting against some theorem. And losing. Viktor had turned to you at the silence, cocked eyebrow and all.

“Do you intend to stay?”

His tone was still plain out of habit. You mistook it for intentional. “No. I’ll go back to my room,” But you had no real reason to be a dick yet. “Do you need something before I go?”

There it was. “Like what?” Viktor had mumbled, sparing you a roll of his amber eyes out of mere courtesy as he turned back to his numbers. “No, I don’t, thank you. You don’t have to ask every time.”

“Well, I’m here already. And I just care,” You had replied as if it was obvious. Viktor could hear the shuffling of clothes. You probably had flapped your arms against your torso like you always did when saying something you deemed painfully obvious. “Maybe you were in the mood for tea? I only wanted to be nice. Helpful?”

“You don’t have to help.”

“I know, I said ‘wanted’ for a reason.” You paused for a second and tilted your whole body as if that could let you see his face at least a little. “Are you upset?”

He had paused too, surprised you cut right to the chase. Considered turning around and face the frown surely on your expresssion, or maybe you had raised an eyebrow, and would’ve looked down at him as if he was saying nonsense. Viktor wrote down a few random numbers to keep his fingers busy. “Simply curious, really. I don’t see you ask our classmates these many questions. Or this one specific question more than once.”

The knife he held was still the sharpest. Not because it was you: Viktor was simply unsure if he could risk wearing out the more precious ones. Polishing them was always a bother, and he had better use of his time than mending his heart after results he should’ve expected.

Maybe you were anything but predictable. Entropy itself. Or maybe he was just desperate under those clumsy layers of seriousness he sewed on himself like an armor before stepping on foreign grounds. “I’ve known them longer, we went to school together. You are the new kid around, and–”

“And you’re aiming for a good impression?”

“And it’s common sense to be polite to people you aren’t familiar with. I asked them, in the past. I still do when I feel like it. If you’ve been observing me as much as you imply, it’s not hard to understand I care because I want to. I’ll offer help when I want to help, and won’t when I don’t.”

Viktor turned around at that and yes, you were frowning. You had crossed your arms, clearly offended. “You don’t think I'm just a little goody two shoes, do you? We’re grown adults."

He did think that you were something akin to that and much less sincere than what you, apparently, meant to be. So used to not being treated as an equal – save for a childhood friend he’s long since last seen around, a mentor with screwed ideals, brief flings in his teens and his current patron (was Heimerdinger to be included? He wasn’t human, after all), Viktor immediately supposed you were less genuine and more… performative, he settled on that word. A mistake on his part, he realized. Guilt pooled in his throat when he noticed a spit of hurt in your eyes, unable to not feel bad. He might have proved himself one and the same as your classmates.

Mean, as he deserved you to be, you had blinked as if to push away tears and pouted to yourself, rubbed salt in the wound. “Scientists shouldn’t jump to conclusions, you know.”

That hurt. You really knew which buttons to press. To hell with his guilt, Viktor huffed, almost grumbled: “Yes, I know. You’re being very frustrating.” But he was avoiding your gaze and the way his arms were crossed was not intimidating in the slightest. When you noticed it was the first time he wasn’t trying to hold himself uptight in the two months you had been knowing him, your expression softened. “And you are stubborn. Full offence, Viktor.”

He always found your voice a lovely, comforting tone; it was the first thing he noticed. Sometimes you murmured your words instead of saying them clearly, and he still wondered if it was because of remnants of shyness and awkwardness or just an unintentional, sweet quirk of yours. He’ll ask in a close future and you’ll just shrug.

Viktor looked at you and you let him stare, either because you had nothing to hide or were confident it was hidden well enough. He preferred the former, pushed the latter away lest more doubts about your intentions bubbled in his mind and he upset you again. And why was he so worried about upsetting you?

“You said something about tea, didn’t you?” Silence rarely solves things, Viktor knew that even if his throat has a bad habit of closing up when furious. You might have accused him of jumping to conclusions again, so letting you close to gather data was okay. Worst case scenario it'd hurt and he'd be proven right. Viktor gestured to the chair next to his. “Do you still want to be helpful? I could use some company. And a helping hand. Have you been told what we’ve done in class, in the morning?”

Whether you saw through his words or not, you didn’t comment on it. Maybe you stayed out of spite, that warm afternoon of two falls ago. But Viktor knows why you’re staying now, and why you try to coax him to lay on his back. You don’t ask him again, not expecting an immediate answer because he takes kissing your neck very seriously. You settle for pressing your face against the side of his and rubbing the tip of your nose against his skin like the clingest of pets. Viktor grumbles what you take as a very hard no.

“Viktor. Be nice.”

I am nice, Viktor wants to say, and he doesn’t try to because it’d come out as muffled and mumbled (moaned, should your fingers happen to play with his nipples again) and you’d let out one of those endeared chuckles of yours, pepper kisses on his shoulder and ask him to say that again, please? and he doesn’t want to risk and let the tables turn. You've learnt to be as mean as he can be, just to get him to squirm. It’s lovely. Viktor wonders if he’s rubbing off on you or there’s actually some malice in that precious heart of yours and you reserve it to let him see stars – and only when he lets you, giving him the choice every time, much less worried about control than he is.

Viktor sinks his teeth in the side of your neck hard enough for you to hiss his name and the jolt that runs up his spine as you try to buck your hips under his weight is too good to rush things, to indulge in your gentle voice and come apart under your fingers and the affection that drips from them. He could just ask you to let him take care of you, but Viktor has learnt what the poets mean with the unspokeness of love. His hand tugs at the hem of your pants and Viktor discards the butter knife, picking a blade sharp enough to leave goosebumps in its wake. You’re familiar with it by now. Still- if it’ll cut, Viktor knows you’ll let him lick the wound clean.

#viktor x reader #viktor x you #posts this and disappears Again

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