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hivemuthur · 13 hours ago

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Favours Between Friends - Ch.2.

viktorxfem!reader mature: Modern AU, omegaverse, alpha Viktor x omega Reader, rom-com, fake dating, author has a very vague understanding of omegaverse but there's some terminology, dubious science. Cringe and clawing to be free.

Ch.1. | Ch.3. | Ch.4.

word count: 6K

author’s note: Hello my dearest racoons. I, the flute playing racoon, return with chapter 2. If you happen to know any real-life Dans or Claires please do not come to tell me because I started using a random name generator. This chapter has no real warnings, but it does contain near-lethal amounts of awkwardness. I begged @doggrowth to check this for nonsense and she did, thank you :3 Happy Freakday.

AO3

—

You're up an hour earlier than necessary, already dressed, hair damp from the shower, half a banana untouched on the counter. Every item in your overnight bag has been checked and rechecked—suppressant patches, scent-blockers, charger, printed programme, spare clothes, evening clothes. Your notes have been rearranged so many times the staples are loosening.

The week passed faster than expected. Viktor texted a handful of times—mostly brief, dry tips on blocker formulations and suppression timing, none of them especially helpful. Start two days before departure, unless your cycle is irregular, in which case—monitor for onset and proceed accordingly. You’d read it three times before muttering “thank you, Doctor,” and deleting it out of spite.

Only on Thursday night had he dipped into anything resembling warmth. All ready? I hope you are excited.

More like eaten alive by nerves, but yes—that would equal ready, you texted, taken aback by the sudden shift of tone. The reply read: No need for that. You are going to be brilliant. Sleep well, I’ll see you in the morning. This one you didn’t delete.

You pull up just after nine and realise that he lives only a few blocks from you. He's already on the kerb when you arrive, dressed in grey jumper and black pants, a single travel bag slung over his shoulder and a suit zipped into one of those garment protectors that means business.

“Hi,” he says, poking his head through the back door to hang the suit up right next to your dress. Then he circles round and slips into the passenger seat. He adjusts the seat lever with a mechanical click and slots his cane carefully by the door.

"How are you?" he asks finally, glancing your way.

It hits you then—what it means, having him here, in your car, this close. Two hours of confined space, quiet road hum, nothing to hide behind. He looks freshly pressed, shaved, hair neatly parted, everything about him tucked in and exact. Whatever scent might exist beneath the surface is scrubbed raw—just sterile soap and then nothing, an almost uncanny echo of blockers. You can’t feel him at all. No ripple of presence, no pheromonal weight. It's disorienting, like sitting next to a ghost in the shape of a man. Still, his being here makes the weekend suddenly, fully real.

“All scent-blocked and suppressed,” you reply.

He chuckles, brief and warm. “That’s not what I’m asking. But thank you for respecting the safety measures. Now—how are you feeling?”

You wince, turn the key in the ignition. “Like I’m about to defend a thesis and meet an executioner in the same room.”

“Ah. So: hydrated, alert, and wildly overprepared.”

“That about sums it up.” You tap the playlist open and hit shuffle. The Tales of Brave Ulysses drapes itself over the dashboard. “And you? Did you set seven alarms and wake up before all of them, or is that just me?”

“I slept exactly six hours and eighteen minutes,” he says with the calmness of a man reporting the temperature. “Standard pre-event routine. No dreams, thankfully.”

You pull into traffic, the morning sun bleaching out the colours of the street. He sits straight despite the low seat, hands folded neatly over one knee.

“Do you want music, or silence, or some awkward combination of the two?” you ask, flicking on the indicator. Viktor leans forward, curiosity twitching at the corner of his mouth. He taps the screen to glance at what’s next—Dylan, Donovan, The Zombies, Fleetwood Mac live at the Boston Tea Party. “You’ve the music taste of my father,” he says, sinking back and letting out a soft, sardonic laugh.

“Well, your dad must be cool, then,” you reply, half-smile creeping in.

“Was,” Viktor deadpans.

Your mouth snaps shut; the next words tumble out in a jittered rush. “Oh—God—sorry, I didn’t—”

He lifts a palm, gentle but firm. “It’s fine. Please don’t worry. A long time has passed—you’re good, I insist.”

“Clearly I’m doing spectacularly.” You attempt a chuckle, eyebrows knotted. “Maybe supply me with a list of deceased relatives so I don’t put my foot clear through the floor?”

“Or,” he suggests, tapping a thumb on his knee, “we could simply change the topic.”

“Shit, Viktor.” You shake your head at the windscreen. “I am an idiot. I promise I improve with closer acquaintance.”

“Hopefully, so far you've been terrible,” he teases, flicking a glance your way while drumming two fingers on the cane’s silver collar. “But you are right, maybe I should provide you with a list of forbidden topics. You see, I'm disabled, so no cripple jokes. I'm also—”

“Will you please stop, I'm embarrassed as it is,” you cut in, heat flaring across your cheeks while he laughs under his breath.

“At least you’re smiling,” he murmurs, fond.

“Yeah, well. At this point it’s that or steer us into a ditch.”

“I’d prefer not to die en route to a networking event,” he says dryly. “Too undignified.”

You glance sideways at him. “You think that’s how you’d go? In a Fiat, with Cream blaring and an emotionally unstable omega at the wheel?”

He lifts a brow. “Statistically speaking, it’s less likely than a lab fire. Though more poetic.”

You snort. “Oh, so now it’s poetic? I thought you didn’t like sentimentality.”

“I don’t,” he says, then adds, “but if one must perish, being driven off a motorway by a woman quoting song lyrics and apologising for your dead relatives seems memorable.”

“That’s going on your headstone.”

“Please. I’ve already written my epitaph.”

“Oh?”

“He met deadlines.”

You laugh, loud enough that it bounces off the windows. “God, that’s bleak.”

He shrugs. “What can I say. I aim for accuracy.”

“Speaking of deadlines,” you say, trying to steer the attention away from your glaring inability to make small talk, “tell me about your thing? Distract me, please.”

Viktor hums, eyes drifting toward the window. “It’s a development extension for a sensory relay device. You’d probably find it dull—it’s mostly about motor response fidelity and predictive correction.”

“Try me.”

He glances over, brow lifting a little, then nods. “We’re building an external module for patients with degenerative conditions—something that learns from their movement patterns and helps anticipate what they meant to do. Most of the current prosthetics or supports react to input. We want this one to predict intention. If it works, it’ll reduce fatigue, tremors, accidental strain. Maybe give people back a bit of agency when their body starts slipping out from under them.”

You blink, genuinely impressed. “That doesn’t sound dull. That sounds like neural engineering on hard mode.”

A small smile tugs at his mouth. “That’s generous. Mostly it’s frustration with libraries that don’t cooperate and test rigs that short out at the worst possible time.”

“Deadline?”

“Six weeks to have a prototype ready. Hence all the scent-blockers and risk mitigation. I can’t afford to lose control of anything right now.”

You nod, tapping the steering wheel with your fingers. “Makes sense.”

He looks over. “What about you? What got you into your project? It’s not a very… glamorous niche.”

You exhale slowly, the question touching something still a little raw. “My mum. She was in palliative care for six months.”

Viktor’s posture stills, his gaze sharpening with quiet attention.

“She couldn’t really talk by the end,” you continue, “but she was conscious—aware. Some days were worse than others. But even when it was bad, I remember thinking… it didn’t have to be awful. That maybe the end could be more than pain and panic. That it could be… meaningful. Peaceful. If someone could just listen the right way.”

The song shifts to something slower as you pause. You’re not crying, but the ache of memory lingers. “I thought maybe… if we could give people tools to understand what their loved ones need in those final days, there’d be less fear. More goodbyes that aren’t rushed. More calm. Less guilt.”

Viktor sits silent, eyes on the passing road, some private thought tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“So your mother…?” he asks, voice gentler than before.

You nod, once. “Yeah. Gone a while now. So it seems we’ve got more in common than just the doom of funky genetics and a niche research obsession.”

That gets a huff of breath from him—something between amusement and recognition. “I suppose we do.”

There’s more you could say—another, quieter reason for the project that you didn’t offer him. For a hot minute there, during all the diagnostic spirals and hormonal shutdowns, you thought you might end up as one of those patients. Not at the very end, maybe, but drifting toward it. It feels like too much lore for a casual, already-too-personal thought exchange in a car.

It ended relatively well, all things considered. One ovary lighter, dignity somewhere six feet under. But the idea stayed. Lodged itself in your ribs and never left.

Viktor’s eyes rest on you. He studies you for a second longer than is strictly casual, then inhales carefully through his nose. His brow twitches. “You have a strong scent.”

Your hands tighten on the steering wheel. “Wha—uh, sorry about that,” you say quickly. “I’ll take more blockers when we get there. It gets like that when I’m nervous.” A sheepish smile follows. “Hope it’s not… annoying.”

“Not at all. It’s… nice,” Viktor says, and it sounds almost like a slip—like he didn’t mean to let the word out unpolished. You resist the sudden urge to ask what nice entails. Warm? Sweet? Distracting?

He adds, “I’m just surprised. The blockers I recommended are meant to be foolproof.”

You sigh. “Yeah, I’ve heard that about every new pill since I was nineteen. I’m really sorry—I’ll take care of it once we disembark.”

Viktor scratches his chin, fingers moving slowly over the line of his jaw. He looks like he’s debating something, and eventually lands on a question so vague you almost laugh. “You mentioned Dan… yes? That he’s a beta. Have you ever…?”

“Been with an alpha?” you finish for him, shooting him a sidelong glance. “Yes. She was like Mel, if Mel was evil and threatened by Jayce’s big brain.”

His eyebrows lift. “I see. That explains quite a lot.”

You snort. “What do you mean by that?”

“Well,” he says, tone carefully light, “I had a feeling you weren’t terribly fond of Mel at the beginning.”

“Ah, that.” You nod. “Yeah, she… sparked all the wrong feelings in me. But turns out there’s absolutely nothing that threatens Mel Medarda’s ego, and that she has quite a big heart too.”

You hesitate, fingers drumming a rhythm on the wheel. “It’s hard to explain. It’s… good, being around a secure alpha. Even if they’re with someone else. It’s calming. Safe, even. Like they’re holding up the ceiling.”

“I know what you mean,” Viktor says softly, cutting in before you lose the thread.

You glance at him, surprised by the gentleness in his voice.

“Well, have you?” you ask, careful to keep it light. “Ever? I mean I suppose you have, given all the safety measures—”

“Yes,” he replies, a breath of dry laughter leaving his nose. The sound is neither bashful nor proud—just a fact, delivered plainly. He doesn’t elaborate.

He knows exactly what you meant: about safety, control, the shape intimacy takes when it's laced with fear of consequence. Omegas speak of calm, of security in the presence of a grounded alpha. But for alphas—at least for him—omegas represent a storm. Not in the poetic, lust-laced way most would mean it, but a literal unravelling. Scent alone can shred his regiment to ribbons. Once, he’d tested that—let himself near someone, back before he knew the cost of proximity. Not a relationship or love. Just a necessary surrender, in a time when being alone might have cracked him open. It helped, for a moment. It made things worse, after.

He never claimed anyone. Never even considered it. He doesn’t get the luxury of instinct. Not when he’s running on natural suppression, low-grade immunity, and the haunting knowledge that whatever his body might want, it has nothing reliable to offer. His condition, his build, his blood—it’s a genetic gamble he lost before he ever opened his eyes. Lank, fragile, unsteady on bad days. What omega in their right mind would want to anchor themselves to that?

He stares out at the road, the blur of trees slipping past like thoughts he’d rather ignore. His voice is quiet when he speaks again. “It was a long time ago. It didn’t end badly, just… reaffirmed that I prefer not to tempt chaos.” He looks at you. “Control suits me better.”

Your brow furrows, not in confusion but in the soft sort of empathy he’s come to expect from you. You don’t press. He’s grateful for that.

Instead, you tap the steering wheel with your finger and ask, with the hint of a smirk, “So, should I add omegas to the list of forbidden car ride topics?”

“I thought we already established that everything is a forbidden topic,” he deadpans.

You laugh. “Right. I’m doing great.”

“You are,” he says, almost too softly to hear. But you do.

If one takes it without all the biological jargon, it’s rather romantic, really. Nature chooses its strong and beautiful, mashes them together for life, so they can produce more of the strong and beautiful, and the planet keeps spinning.

The production phase—what others might call the storm, the pull, the falling—also partly makes up for all the pain that comes in between. It did for Viktor. Because even though with his last omega partner it had been fleeting, with no collapse, no heartbreak, no dramatic parting—nothing after ever quite measured up.

It was the closest he ever came to silence. To stillness, even. Like the static of pain and effort went quiet for a breath. Sex was near to earth shattering. It just came at a cost.

Afterwards, when he made a reasonable choice, everything else was manageable. Controlled. Safer. But sterile, in its own way.

He told himself, that’s what he preferred and still does. But when he sits beside you in this enclosed space, with your scent trailing faintly under the mix of shampoo and old car leather, he realises how long it’s been since he’s let anything truly affect him. How tightly the lid is sealed.

And how alive his skin feels, now that he’s so close to you.

Your fingers hover near the volume dial, fiddling absently as your curiosity gnaws at its leash. You want to ask—something, anything. Why he doesn't suppress, if he's got such an important deadline looming. But your own reasons are stamped in medical ink, stitched through surgical scars and invasive tests, and you suspect his might be, too. You add it to the forbidden car ride topics list, for a good measure, and let it go.

Before you know it, the playlist loops back to the beginning—Cream, again—and the motorway thins into two-lined lanes that sway gently beneath the weight of late summer. The road curves, then dips, then rises into a gravel shoulder marked by a carved wood sign: The Southern Pines.

The resort is larger than you expected. A mix of exposed beams and modern glass, it stretches across a gentle hill like something from a magazine spread—sleek, expensive, too tasteful to be showy. Lavender spills over the borders of the drive, the blooms catching light in soft purple-grey patches as you pull up to the main drop-off. The air smells cleaner here. Green, maybe. You’re not sure what green smells like, but this must be it.

Viktor straightens in his seat beside you, glancing at the building’s long verandas, the polished flagstone path, the bellhop waiting at the entrance with white gloves and a little name tag. You exhale, still gripping the wheel like it’s the last thing tethering you to sanity.

“Ready?” he asks.

“Absolutely not,” you reply, and kill the engine.

You step out of the car into the soft crunch of gravel, sun pressing warm against your back. Viktor moves slower, easing out with practiced caution. He loops the cane over his wrist and reaches for the garment bag first, then the travel case. You grab your own things and meet him at the boot, where the air smells like lavender and money.

The lobby is cool in contrast to the summer outside—stone floors, glossy wood beams, and a fireplace that feels like set dressing more than necessity. A concierge greets you both with a warm, clipped welcome and gestures toward the reception desk.

“Name, please?”

You give it, still shifting the weight of your bag on your shoulder.

“Ah yes, your rooms are ready.” The worker types something into the computer, then smiles. “Double suite, conjoined bath. Room keys are digital—you should’ve received them by email, but we have physical cards as well, if you prefer.”

You blink. “Sorry—conjoined?”

The worker doesn’t flinch. “Yes. Two bedrooms, private connecting bathroom. It’s one of the last suites available in your block. You RSVPed a bit later than most, so unfortunately that was all we could offer.”

Your hesitation lingers, words caught mid-form. “I thought the rooms would be entirely separate,” you murmur.

“I am very sorry,” the worker says, all smiles and apology. “We’re fully booked for the weekend.”

Before you can formulate an objection, Viktor shifts beside you. “It’s fine,” he says calmly, voice just firm enough to break the air. “We’ll work around it. Don’t worry.”

You glance at him. He nods once, just enough to tell you it’s settled.

The worker brightens. “Lovely. The welcome mixer is already underway in the main lounge. It’ll run for a few hours, so feel free to freshen up and head down whenever you’re ready. Luggage assistance?”

“No, we’ve got it,” you say quickly, your things already gathered. You head toward the lift, keycards in hand, the quiet click of Viktor’s cane tapping beside you.

Upstairs, both of you pause in front of your respective doors, the tension of the day catching on the soft-clicking hallway silence. You shift your weight, trying not to fumble your keycard, and glance at him.

“Text me when ready?” you say, aiming for casual. The words come out lighter than your chest feels.

“Wait,” Viktor says, and you turn.

He takes a small step closer. His brows pinch, as if the words are misbehaving inside his mouth. “One last thing,” he manages, voice lower now. “How would you like me to… act?”

You blink. “Act?”

He huffs a breath—more abashed than anxious, but just barely. “At the mixer. And overall. I mean… I assume you don’t want me to pretend we’re…” He gestures vaguely between you.

“Oh.” You feel your heart punch once against your ribs, then slide down into something like mortified understanding. “Right. Uh—I mean, I’m not expecting you to, you know…” You gesture vaguely back. “Maybe just not make it really obvious that you’re not? You don’t have to pretend you’re in love with me or anything, just... maybe don’t let everyone know we barely know each other.”

Viktor’s mouth twitches. He raises his keycard in quiet agreement, as if saluting the awkward terms of your contract. “That should work.”

You nod, then disappear into your room before the floor can swallow you out of first-hand embarrassment.

The door shuts behind you with a soft mechanical clank. Alone, at last, you let the groan crawl out of your throat like a trapped animal. It’s long, heartfelt, and entirely ungraceful.

The room, thankfully, is distraction enough. Neutral tones, crisp linens, one giant bed so wide you could stage a symposium on it, and floor-to-ceiling windows framing a joined balcony with a postcard view of the nearby hills. You leave your bags by the desk and stand there a moment, just breathing in the air-conditioning and solitude.

Your phone buzzes.

Viktor: Feel free to take the first shift at the bathroom.

You grab your toiletries and a change of clothes. The shared bathroom is pristine, all marble accents and soft lights. You shower quickly, rinse away the car sweat and awkward tension. Towelling off, you run through your checklist—patch secure, pill swallowed—scent-blockers reapplied. You leave your toothbrush, perfume, and products tucked into a corner of the sink in a zip bag and hang your towel on the bar.

Locking your side of the door behind you, you send off a quick text: All free. Ten minutes later, your phone buzzes. One word: Ready.

You freshen your hair with a quick brush, check your clothes for creases, and slip on your blazer. When you step out to the hallway, Viktor’s already there—black shirt, pressed jacket, hair slightly damp. You nod to each other, say nothing. In the lift, you stand side by side, quiet, until the doors open onto the lobby.

At the bar, you order a drink—something cold and crisp—and thank Viktor when he picks it up for you. You turn to scan the room, glass just touching your lips.

“Hello there! You look—” Dan’s eyes sweep over you with casual dissection. “—tired?”

He appears out of fucking nowhere. Your face tightens, just slightly, but you manage to smooth it out. No point starting a scene. “Uh, hi Dan. I’m good, thank you for asking.”

He nods, as if that was all just politeness to tick off. Then he gestures to your right. “And this is?”

“Viktor,” says Viktor, stepping forward with a brief, unassuming smile and offering his hand. You see it—the pause in Dan’s blink as they shake, the microscopic flicker of appraisal. It’s the same half-second scan you’ve watched Mel perform like an art form.

“I see,” Dan says, throat working. “Well. I’m Dan Wilby. And this is Claire.” His hand settles on the hollow of her back in a gesture so practiced it makes your skin crawl.

She is immaculate. Not a single strand out of place in the tight updo, her makeup matte and undisturbed by time or sweat. Her nails are manicured to a shine, clothes so crisply ironed they might as well be painted on. Every piece of her outfit matches in tone—dusty rose, soft ivory, a whisper of gold—everything calculated to enhance her softness. There’s no hint of nerve or edge. Just calm, delicate poise.

And then you smell it. Just faintly. A trace of something sweet and perfumed that doesn’t belong to hotel shampoo or designer fragrance. Something biological. Your heart stutters—no. Can’t be, right? Before you can even formulate the thought, Viktor beats you to it.

He inclines his head, polite but not overly familiar, ignoring the hand Claire offers. “No blockers?” he says, tone light but unmistakably pointed. “Bold, for such a big event.”

You feel your stomach drop. A cold swell rises under your ribs.

“I prefer to go au naturel,” she chirps, smile bright as cut glass. “Better for your skin.”

“Wait…” It just slips out. You’re still staring, gears turning. That bastard. You thought seeing Dan again would dredge up old feelings—grief, maybe regret. But instead, it’s something else entirely. Because he didn’t lie to protect you. He didn’t leave because it was hard being with an omega. He left because being with you was hard. You, specifically.

Claire is the version of you he wanted. Composed. Quiet. Readable. An omega whose scent is so dainty it could pass for luxury body spray. Of course. It was never about biology. It was about you.

“Dangerous, given the cohort here,” Viktor’s voice yanks you out of the spiral. It’s still warm, but the corners of his mouth are tight. “Inconsiderate, even.”

Claire only tilts her head, pleased. “I see why you might think that. But I’m freshly out of my fertility window, and it was handled professionally. Not that it’s any of your business, Viktor.”

You barely hear them now, blood thundering in your ears. You’re flushed and hot and confused. The pressure builds like steam in a locked pot. “I’m sorry, but—” Your voice shakes, and you have to breathe to stop it. “I can’t believe this.”

“There’s really nothing to see here,” Dan says, with all the emotional acuity of a damp napkin. “We identified the issue and worked around it.”

You stare at him, stunned. The issue?

“Modern world offers a lot of options,” Claire says, turning her smile to Viktor. “You should check them out.”

Viktor’s nostrils flare ever so slightly. You don’t know if he’s furious or simply shocked, but you recognise the tension in his jaw.

And you? You want to scream. Or laugh. Or leave. Maybe all three.

You can’t stop your tongue before it unspools. “I’m sorry, I know this is private, but—Dan, are you… serious?”

He raises an eyebrow, feigning confusion. “I thought you’d be happy for me. You seem to have found yourself a willing… specimen.”

“And you’re still hung up on something that clearly wasn’t for you? Letting someone else handle your girlfriend’s heat so you don’t have to get your hands dirty?”

Dan says your name like you’ve blasphemed in a cathedral. “That is deeply inappropriate. I thought this would be an opportunity to reconnect on neutral ground. Civilised. But it appears you still lack the repertoire.”

“You really are a bookcase of a beta, aren’t you?” you snap. Beside you, Viktor chokes out a laugh that’s more breath than sound.

Before Dan can spit back a retort, Viktor shifts closer and slides an arm across your shoulders. His touch is light, but there’s no mistaking the message. He leans in and murmurs, “Leave it. Come with me.”

Then, with impeccable calm, he turns to Dan and Claire. “Apologies for the intrusion. I’m afraid I’ll need to report this to staff. I myself am unable to take advantage of modern solutions, you see—and your scent is, to put it mildly, disruptive. Two days of blockers shouldn’t compromise your skincare routine, Miss.”

Claire blinks, her smile faltering. Dan looks ready to combust.

But Viktor is already tugging you away, steering you out of the mixer and toward the terrace. As soon as you’re outside, he releases you with a quiet exhale and takes a long breath in through his nose, as if resetting something inside himself.

Your hands are shaking. The adrenaline hasn’t faded—only pooled differently, diffused under your collar. You curl your fingers into your palms, willing them to still. “I’m sorry,” you blurt, your voice too fast, too loud. “God, that was—”

Viktor lifts a hand, sharp and calm. “Leave it. It’s fine.”

He straightens slowly, rolling one shoulder back as if to discard the tension clinging to it. When he meets your eyes again, his expression is unreadable, carefully restored to neutral. “So that’s your guy, hm? Interesting.”

“Was. And never mine,” you mutter. Heat flashes again under your skin, different from before—shame this time, not anger. “I’m really sorry. I feel like an idiot. I’ll talk to the staff, explain—”

“There’s no need,” he cuts in, voice level. “She’ll take the blockers.”

You blink at him, confused. “How do you know?”

He shifts his cane, nodding once toward the glass doors. “Someone that ashamed of being an omega would rather pop a pill than have hotel staff call her out in public. She’s going back to her room as we speak.”

You follow the line of his gesture. Claire is slipping back through the crowd, alone, her poise still intact but her steps a fraction too fast.

“Guess you’re not the only one who knows how to read people,” you say, brittle, unknowingly giving yourself another blow: Claire knows how to be what Dan wants. I didn’t.

Viktor doesn’t respond right away. Just watches the retreating figure through the pane, mouth drawn tight. Then, quietly, “I don’t read people. I just pay attention.”

The terrace helps, a little. Afternoon air unwinds the heat, and for a time, you and Viktor just stand there, breathing it in. The hush between you isn’t awkward—just temporary silence, shared and not strained. You sip your drink, feel your heart rate settle back into something tolerable.

Eventually, you both return inside. The room is even fuller than before. Faces blur into one another, all teeth and praise and tailored suits. Someone shakes your hand and congratulates you with such conviction you momentarily wonder if they’re mistaking you for someone else. A woman insists she once guest-lectured on your floor; a man claims he’s followed your work since its ‘inception.’ You thank them both with the kind of smile that leaves your jaw sore.

Someone claps Viktor on the back. “Well done.” He says nothing. Doesn’t nod. Doesn’t blink.

His eyes skim the crowd, tracking movement. Assessing patterns, possible exits, the degree of scent control in the air. He stands beside you but doesn’t really feel there.

It should be comical. That a man like that—bland, middling, politely dressed mediocrity incarnate—could take up so much space in your mind. That he could twist your insides so thoroughly you're still flinching at the echo of him. Viktor cannot fathom it. Dan is the human equivalent of a lukewarm handshake and a glass of tepid water. Inspiring nothing. Provoking nothing.

And yet. Viktor has seen the shape grief leaves in a person. He’s studied it—neurologically, chemically, socially. But witnessing it ghost across your features, fold into your posture, dull the light behind your eyes—he hadn't expected the visceral ache of it. He’d been too quiet, too withdrawn, pretending it didn’t matter that much.

The mixer blurs. He doesn’t taste his drink. Doesn’t hear half the names tossed in your direction. Just watches you begin to fold into yourself like paper gone soft at the edges. The proud spine of you, crumpling inch by inch.

Then you spill water on your sleeve. A meaningless accident, really. But it’s the sigh you let out that makes him feel uneasy—deep, resigned, like an old door swinging shut. “All right, I think I’ve had enough for one day. I should practice the speech for tomorrow. I’ll see you in the morning?”

“Do you need help with it?” he asks.

“Only if you want. I’m fine otherwise.” Your voice wavers. You walk off without looking back. “I’ll be on the balcony,” you throw over your shoulder, quiet.

So, Viktor meets you there, on a strip of concrete connecting your rooms. The sun's long gone now, the sky outside pressed flat and dark against the glass. You unfold your notes, start to rehearse, voice steady at first. But he isn’t looking at you. His eyes remain fixed on some point far in the distance, as though you’re a mild interruption.

Your voice trails off. “You know what,” you say, tucking the papers back into your folder, “I think I’m actually good. Let’s just rest.”

“Why? I was listening.”

“You look positively beaten up, Viktor. I don’t want to force you to play nice if you don’t want to. I know earlier was… upsetting, so maybe let’s just reset.”

“I am sorry that my services don’t meet your standards,” he says flatly, coldly.

What a nerve, he thinks. All of this—the emotional tailspin, the theatrics—over a man like Dan? He’s about to say so, to tell you this is all a needless spiral. That you're exaggerating like a girl instead of being proud of something not many people your age could claim. Then he looks at you.

The glassy eyes. The crumpled papers. Your jaw clamped tight like it’s holding back more than words. Your throat moves as if trying to swallow the whole evening down.

“It’s not that they don’t meet my standards. Clearly, I don’t have any,” you say, barely above a whisper. “This day has just been a lot, and I would like it to end.”

He exhales. “Forgive me, I—I do not understand why you are so concerned about him. He’s the most mediocre man I’ve seen in my life.”

“Well, not everyone aims high, Viktor. And he might look mediocre, but he really hurt me. And I wish I didn’t have to see him again, but here we are. So I thought…” You press your lips together, then shake your head. “Oh, just forget it. I’m good, I’m fine. It’s great. I get the award, accept it, get off the stage and it’s over. It’s just one day. It’s an honour. I’m super lucky. Let’s go to sleep.”

“Wait.” He reaches for your hand, just brushing his fingers against it. “Wait. I am sorry. What I meant is that—” You turn slightly, surprised.

“You are quite remarkable. And someone like Dan should be lucky to be granted an ounce of your attention. I think that you have every right to be proud, reward or no reward, is what I meant.”

And he really means it. He always thought well of you—sharp-eyed and competent, with a pleasant way of carrying yourself in the background of gatherings. A mind he respected. But something’s shifted over the past week, and today cracked it open further.

It’s not just the ambition—though that in itself is a rare thing to witness up close, in someone so stubbornly humane. You care, genuinely, and it leaks into your work in a way he envies. Where his meticulousness is forged out of control, yours stems from wanting others to feel safe. And still, somehow, you’re funny. Not in a way that pulls attention, but in the way of someone who’d rather laugh first before the world has the chance to—he recognises that defence mechanism, because he’s used it too. Kinship, he thinks, where he didn’t expect to find any.

Before he can pause to censor himself, a breeze shifts the air and brings your scent to him. It’s faint—still buffered by blockers, but they are thinning at the edges. Powdery-sweet with a hint of bitterness balancing it out. His hand closes gently around your wrist, unthinking at first—a reinforcement of what he just said, he rationalises. But it’s not just that.

He hesitates. This—this is not neutral. This is intimate, reserved for courtship and flirting, and he knows it. He shouldn’t. But you haven’t moved away. So he lifts your wrist a little closer, careful not to brush his nose against your skin. He breathes in, shallow, cautious.

And then you make the next move—press forward, just a little. Eyes fluttering shut. Something in his chest stutters. He brings his other hand up, holding your palm and forearm delicately. You lean in—not fully, just an inch—and exhale, like you're letting go of something you’ve been keeping all day.

He stays still, memorising. The essence of you settles in his lungs, and for a moment, nothing hurts. Then, your hand comes to rest on the side of his neck—thumb brushing his Adam’s apple. Viktor lets out an audible breath that warms your skin up.

“You should take blockers before bedtime,” he says, trying to sober the moment before it carries you somewhere it shouldn't.

“Of course,” you reply, arms retreating slowly. You gape at him, blinking a few times too many. Viktor can’t bring himself to meet your eyes—your expression registers only as movement in the corner of his vision.

He’s about to turn, to sink himself into the safety of solitude and the mattress waiting back in his room, when your voice stops him. “What do I smell like to you?” you ask, quiet and shy. He doesn’t mean to answer. But the words come anyway. “Orange blossom. And jasmine. The bitter skin of a citrus fruit, when you tear it open with your nails.” A beat. “Like summer.”

#my writing #viktor arcane #viktor fanfic #viktor x reader #viktor x reader smut #viktor smut #viktor x f!reader #arcane #arcane fanfic #ao3 #ao3 fanfic #viktor nation #favours between friends

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hivemuthur · 2 days ago

Text

And it was all Yellow

Gif by yoshikuniasu

viktorxfem!reader

Note: Since it kind of takes place in Deep Water series universe (it's honestly such a cool series!!) — The merfolk are called Undines, and they have two set’s of everything... Fish hater to fish lover TRUST.

Word Count: 4,9k

CH. 1 | CH. ?

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Your nerve-twisted stomach let out a angry gurgle, and you were sure the others heard it loud and clear. The hollow feeling inside threatened to bubble up and splatter across the glass of the transport pod that was taking you to your new home. You sank deeper into your seat. It was cold and metal and made your butt ache. You felt raw, annoyed and oh, you hated the sea.

It made the tiny hairs on your arms stand up, your insides coil like an octopus around a rock, and your pulse thud against your skull. The vast emptiness of it, the promise of a hidden presence, and the fish… Cold, slimy, and the only source of protein out here, eaten over and over for years. In porridge. In soups. In stews. Fried and fucking filleted—it didn’t matter much. Because it was all that there was, and all there ever would be for the likes of you.

So you jumped ships. Or cities, since you’d never seen land and pirates were just another story of the past you were fed as a kid.

Like the rest of the group being hauled through the depths, you were headed to the village Mira and the others had built. A place you'd only heard about. The so-called new world capital where Undines and humans were supposed to live together.

Since the Undine attacks on the cities, Beta had become overcrowded. Food was scarce. Whoever was in charge tried their best to make things liveable, but it would take years to build any kind of rhythm that even vaguely resembled normal life.

And the worst part? The village was off-limits to regular people. Only the most skilled engineers, scientists, and specialists were allowed in to help turn it into a real city. So far, only about thirty humans lived there, along with a group of Undines who followed Arges—an Undine who had mated with Mira and started it all.

You looked around at the others in the pod. Jayce was there. The golden boy of Beta City. A scientist bursting with so many ideas he would’ve swum there himself, if not for the deadly water pressure at this depth. There was Sky, a woman around your age, with enough botanical knowledge to make her essential for the underwater garden initiative. And then there was you.

An artist.

Laughable, really. In a city full of builders, fixers, and droid-makers, there was you. People told you your profession was obscene. Everyone had to work for a bowl of fish porridge, and everyone had to be useful. And you? According to many, totally useless. But you couldn’t—wouldn’t—bring yourself to piece together gears and weld things for a living. Which made it all the more surprising when they chose you to go.

You. With the best of Beta.

A webbed hand slid across the glass outside the transportation pod, and you jumped, ripped from your thoughts. Jayce pressed his face closer, mesmerized by the large blue Undine guiding your vehicle toward the village.

You had chosen to sit in the back. On purpose. Nothing about the Undines made you feel safe. Their clawed, webbed hands. Their solid black eyes with no sclera. That alone was enough. Add sharp, pointed teeth and it was a hard no from you.

Most of them were about thirteen feet long, though you’d heard rumours of ones nearly nineteen feet, with eel-like tails that curled around themselves and fins and not one, but two sets of gills: one on the neck and one along the ribs.

Nothing about them felt human. And you didn’t want to imagine what it would be like to be in the water with them.

On the other hand — you wanted to work with them.

You liked the idea of the free city, of Undines and humans living together. You just couldn’t help that they also represented everything you were afraid of. It was a truly difficult situation to be in, especially when the sole reason you’d been chosen was to serve as an ambassador to the Waveriders—Undines who lived closer to the surface and had never seen a human before, but were known as an art-loving nation.

The more you thought about it, the faster your heart beat. Were you really an ambassador… or a sacrifice?

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"It's pretty easy. We need you to woo them with some art and convince them that humans are nice, and that they can join the commune," said a red-haired woman. Mira.

You were in a large glass-and-metal bubble, with an opening below for the Undines to enter. It was one of many such bubbles, all connected by twisting corridors, floating just close enough to the surface for the constant rumble of storms above to be heard. Storms that still made it impossible for humans to live topside. At least for now.

But Mira had a plan: to build a city partially above the surface, inside a protective bubble that could withstand the unpredictable forces of nature. Tornados the size of cities, hail like metal balls—this place would endure it all. It would crawl across the surface, merge land and sea, and offer a new beginning for everyone.

But—and there was a big but—they needed the help of the Waveriders.

There were many species of Undine. The Deepstriders, who lurked in the crushing depths. The regular Undines, who populated the village in a variety of shapes and colours. And then there were the Waveriders—Undines who lived near the shore, where the humans planned to build. By default, they hadn’t seen many humans in years, simply because they couldn’t dive as deep as the others.

They lived in cave systems, on white sand beaches, collecting shells and forgotten trinkets humans had left behind before retreating to the depths. They loved to hoard, to decorate their spaces. They were unpredictable and fickle, like the weather above. They leapt through waves like dolphins and were the fastest swimmers of their kind.

Winning them over wouldn’t be easy. Arges had suggested they put forward their best shot right away.

The initial plan was to shower the Waveriders with trinkets—human-made things they might find beautiful. But that proved difficult, especially after the fall of Alpha. There were no artists left to repair the broken pieces in a way that didn’t scream “a welder fixed this.”

So, after much thought, they chose a different approach. They would send an artist instead. A living, breathing human who could create with their own hands. Something the webbed fingers of the Undines struggled with. Painting, sculpting, delicate detail—these were things they could only admire, not replicate.

Simple, right?

Except you'd be sent alone. You didn’t know how to do any of it underwater. And you were scared shitless of the Undines. It was one thing to see them from afar. It was something else entirely to stand before them. Up close.

Now, in the bubble where you spoke with Mira, her mate poked his head in, observing. His face was somewhat human-like, but larger. Everything about him was larger, really. Wider, and scaled, except parts of his face and torso. He had fins that fluttered whenever Mira touched him, and long black hair that curled in the water.

Each Undine seemed to have a tentacle of sorts at the back of their head, something that could connect to a human and allow them to breathe underwater. It was a deeply personal matter for many, and while you recoiled from Undines, plenty of Undines also thought humans were weird, gross and wouldn’t dream of touching one with their breathing tentacle, thank you very much.

And vice versa, you thought.

From what you observed, only mated couples or close friends did it. Most preferred to use the rebreathers Mira had designed, which filtered the air in the water.

You hadn’t tested yours yet. You were supposed to try it soon, take it for a spin, and begin visiting the Undine parts of the village to get familiar enough to carry out your mission.

You could have said no when Mira explained the task. You could have said no when they zipped you into a wetsuit and strapped the rebreather onto your head.

But that would’ve meant going back to Beta. Back to a life where being an artist was seen as selfish, useless, even obscene. And you’d much rather be around things that unsettled you than be the person who unsettled everyone else.

So you went in. Slowly. The water was thankfully clearer than what you were used to. A school of fish swam lazily around the bubble’s exit and scattered when you dipped your head below the surface. The big blue Undine was waiting for you, ready to help guide you down to the village.

And you nearly jumped out again.

It was easy to forget how massive they were. On land, they were strange. But in the water, they were immense. He could’ve wrapped his entire tail around you like a snake, and all you wanted in that moment was to run—run—run.

“Easy there,” he said, his gills flaring as he took a deep breath. “I can smell your fear.”

Before you could reply, Jayce splashed in behind you. He was so excited to see the underwater part of the village that he almost kicked you in the shoulder. He looked awkward in the wetsuit, and you tried very hard not to look down.

Sky followed right after, and soon all four of you were diving toward the spiral stone buildings crafted by the people of the water.

“Oh, I love the yellow ones!” Sky squealed into her mask, her eyes tracking a golden Undine passing by. Oh course you do, you thought. But she was right. He really did reflect the light beautifully, but he was still far too fish-like for your liking. You weren’t ready. In fact, you terrified. But you were going to do it anyway.

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Viktor was never a great swimmer, not with his malformed caudal fin.

One side of his tail was shorter, making it impossible for him to move like the rest of the Undines. It also meant he tired easily and was never particularly fast. He lived in the shallow caves near the surface, like others of his kind, but even they could dive deeper than he ever could.

Still, he dove. Searching for scraps and underwater treasure, digging through the things humans had left behind: metal ships, flooded dwellings, meatless carcasses with coral for brains. The only kind of humans he’d ever seen were small, white skeletons with useless double fins that did nothing for swimming.

No one from his people had seen one alive in a very long time. And that, honestly, was for the best.

They had their underwater bubbles now, and he had his modest cave—where he was currently hauling in a slightly clunky metal box. His newest fascination were those mechanical animals made by humans. He liked taking them apart, teaching himself how to disassemble and reassemble the strange, rusting machines. Sometimes he traded for parts from the deeper waters he couldn’t reach. And after years of trying, he had finally managed to turn one of the creatures on.

It screeched, letting out a horrible noise that made the fins on his head flatten. But he was pretty sure it had been speaking human language. Either that, or it was broken. Still, he was confident he’d fixed it properly. He always fixed things properly.

Now it roamed his cave—past weaved baskets filled with parts, a tangle of kelp ropes used for hanging storage, and piles of rocks and shells not chosen for their beauty, but for their usefulness. He wasn’t like the others. He didn’t collect pretty things. He collected tools.

Things to build with, things to trade.

Shallow waters didn’t offer much in the way of food, and he was a terrible hunter. Too slow for large fish. For a long time, he barely scraped by, at least until he began trading with Silco. He constructed odd devices, repurposed scrap, and in return, Silco gave him fish and salvage from the deep. It was a comfortable life—for him. A pitiful one, according to his blue-finned daughter. But he managed.

He was doing fine.

"You sure look lonely in here, mister” said said blue-finned daughter, swimming into his hideout. He’d have preferred if she didn’t. But it wasn’t like he lived in the well-guarded cave systems with the others. He lived here, alone. An underwater cave far from the warm currents, with little air and only enough space for his tinkering.

It was fine. Truly.

“Is there anything you need, Powder?” he asked.

She huffed, releasing a stream of angry bubbles from her gills. “I told you already. It’s Jinx. J-I-N-X. Really, for someone so smart, you’d think you’d remember. Or maybe all those years fiddling with stinky human junk turned you into a blobfish.”

Despite her words, she swam closer, breaking the surface and eyeing the metal animal as it rolled along the rocks, sorting things.

“Don’t touch him,” Viktor said calmly as her webbed hand reached out. “Water damages them.” He added, watching her from where he was trying to pry open his newest find. No luck. He sighned.

She pouted, then pushed off a nearby stone, sending a splash right at him. A dick move, he thought. But he didn’t react.

“The old man wants you to run an errand”

He furrowed his brows. They were thick and faded into amber-coloured fins at the ends. “Ehh… I don’t think so.”

“And I don’t think that’s negotiable,” she croaked, grabbing a small rock and chucking it at the machine. It chirped in alarm and snapped its top shut.

“I don’t do errands. You forgot?” He raised his tail from the water, displaying his deformed fin.

“Yeah, well. This time you do,” she said, circling him. Her long, blue braids wrapped around his torso.

He hummed. “The answer is still no.”

He dove before she could mess with more of his things. It worked, she followed.

He swam towards a particularly interesting coral formation, scanning it for sea urchins. Their dried needles were useful for detail work; his hands were far too large and clawed for anything delicate.

She swam above him in slow loops.

“And what if I told you we could fix that fin of yours?”

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The low hum of the transportation pod made you nervous. A hard pat on the rounded tin and you nearly whined. Here you went again.

"Good luck out there, we’re counting on you!" Mira shouted so you'd hear her before the pod was lowered. The coordinates were already typed in, and for half the journey, you'd be accompanied by the blue Undine. He was… alright. You didn’t exactly like him, but he was polite and committed to the cause.

The first thing they did when you climbed inside the village was fit you with a translation chip so you could understand the Undines. A matching chip was handed to you to offer the Undine who was supposed to speak with you. Her name was Mel. You’d been warned: although Waveriders were smaller than the village Undines, she was still a female—and those were usually twice the size of males.

You were meant to negotiate a deal and sculpt a head of the ambassador to demonstrate your work. You’d be granted a small workspace in the cave and some clay. That should’ve been enough to impress them.

One problem. Arges wouldn’t be going with you. His extra-long fins wouldn’t fit inside the delicate cave systems and might damage the coral they considered sacred. A human would have to do.

He knocked on the glass to get your attention and pointed toward a bloom of jellyfish ahead. Their translucent bodies jiggled with each movement. They didn’t move out of the way, and a few of them slimed themselves across the glass like lazy cats refusing to be nudged off. When you finally cleared the cloud, beams of light filtered through the water.

You were closer to the surface than ever before.

“I’ll be leaving you here,” his voice boomed. “What? Already? I thought it was further,” you argued, pressing your hands to the glass. “I don’t even see the caves yet.”

“The pod will take you the rest of the way. I can’t go further,” he said, pointing down with his massive tail. The long, lacy fins brushed the edge of a coral reef. The colours shimmered blue, tinged with red and pink. Tiny yellow, silver, and blue fish darted between kelp that reached its long arms up toward the sun, high—so impossibly high—above.

You had never been this close to sunlight.

Your heart clenched. Maybe the ocean wasn’t so bad after all. “I wish you luck, human,” he said. “The Waveriders are fickle, but they are honourable. They shouldn’t harm you, if you give them no reason to.”

Shouldn’t. Not wouldn’t. Noted.

And then he left.

As the pod hummed and whirred again, you realized—it was the first time in your life you were truly alone. The cities were packed like sardines. You could hardly shower without someone on the other side of the curtain. But here… here, surrounded by nothing but water, everything had a purpose. Each fish swam like it knew exactly where to go. It was a dance, and you had a front-row seat.

It wasn’t that bad. Even if the Waveriders found you lacking and sent you back—or worse, killed you—you could at least say you’d saw this. And if the pod sank? At least your grave would be visited. Maybe a crab would move into your skull. It wasn’t that bad.

That’s what you told yourself, taking a few slow breaths.

Your eyes followed a turtle drifting past the pod and you seemed to calm down.

Tud.

“What?”

Another loud bang.

“Fuck.” You sat up, checking the controller. Everything seemed fine. The pod was on track. You still had at least an hour before arrival.

Then what was that?

A flash of yellow. Gold? Amber?

A bright color, a mockery of the sun you’d never seen.

Then a louder crash. A claw scraped against the metal. A flash of translucent fin.

Not the familiar blue.

Before your brain could name the colour of your assailant, the glass cracked like an egg. The sound was… pleasant, almost.

Then came the cold.

And then, you were drowning.

Maybe this was your resting place, after all.

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He yanked the human out of the shattered shell. He’d seen those pods before, always filled with strange white skeletons. Never attached to flesh.

But this one had. Slumped and weak in his grasp.

He shook her. Her head lolled to the side. A few bubbles escaped her mouth. Then he remembered—humans don’t have gills.

He needed her alive. At least until Silco came, so he did what seemed right. He pinched her nose and pressed his lips to hers.

The scent of fear hit his gills—the final thing the human had felt.

Another breath, hoping it would stay. He didn’t know how often humans needed air, but he hoped this was enough. He swam fast toward his cave. Even with his damaged fin, the currents were familiar here.

He had to stop a few times though, to breathe life back into her.

She was strange. No gills. No scales. No tail. Her hands were small and soft. Fingers not webbed. Her skin had no texture and he though it was almost slimy. He hated the way it felt under his fingers.

He held her by the waist. His hand nearly wrapped all the way around. He kept her close enough not to drop, but far enough not to feel too much of the softness.

Once inside of his cave, he dragged the human out of the water and laid her down on the cold rock. There was not much dry space, and he had to be careful not to wet his treasures.

No movement.

Now what?

She didn’t smell dead.

But what did a dead human smell like?

He couldn’t be sure.

First, he had to get the water out of his own lungs and that was unpleasant. He leaned to the side, retching out seawater in waves. The shift from gills to lungs always made his chest ache. The dry air burned.

Breathing like this, land breathing — never came easy. He wasn’t sure if that was normal or not, and he had no one to ask.

He slithered out of the water and to the human and gave her a gentle nudge. Her head rolled.

More air, then? He lowered his head to listen

One heartbeat. Just one.

Wait.

Weren’t there supposed to be two?

Was she dying?

He shook her again—carefully. For a creature his size, even “gentle” could break her.

Then, the eyes opened.

The mouth followed.

A high-pitched, horrible sound escaped her.

The human squirmed away.

He pressed his webbed hand over her mouth in an attempt to silence the noise.

If she screamed now, everyone would know he’d gotten to her before the ambassador did. It was a stupid plan—Silco insisting no one would suspect him, of all people, of kidnapping a human.

Now he had to keep her quiet. Keep her alive and wait for the handoff.

The human bit down. Flat, dull teeth against the soft webbing of his hand.

He hissed and flinched back, tail slapping as he pulled himself into the water. More from surprise than fear, but he could never be sure. The females of his kind were aggressive, and for all he knew, humans could be the same. He was ready for a fight if he had to be.

Although—he looked up at her.

Wet. Terrified. No claws, no spikes. Nothing to attack with.

He bit the inside of his cheek not to laugh.

And then— she hissed back?

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Achoo!

You couldn’t hold the sneeze any longer.

And then, this motherfucker hissed at you.

A fucking fish-man with an attitude.

You swatted your hands at him and flipped him off, and he responded by flattening his face fins like a pissed-off cat. He awkwardly mimicked your gesture with his webbed fingers, then thrashed his tail once, sending a splash of cold water straight at you.

“Fuck off!” you shouted, grabbing a nearby rock and hurling it in his direction. It missed.

How the hell did you even end up here?

You remembered the pod cracking. A flash of gold. And then… that fucker had kidnapped you.

This definitely wasn’t the ambassador. Even you could tell the difference between male and female Undines. Their torsos were mostly human-like, and this one? He was small. Scrawny. Definitely not the big boss lady you'd been promised.

“Shoo! Shoo!” you yelled, trying to scare him off, though you were probably more scared yourself.

When he swam closer again, you gasped and scrambled backward, pressing yourself against the back wall of the cave, flattening over baskets stuffed full of mechanical junk.

A moment passed, when he was not moving, and your eyes were adjusting and then…

It was all yellow.

His tail shimmered in a warm shade of sunflower petals, like the ones you’d only ever seen in books. But the scales were iridescent; they caught the light, captured the shadows, rendering the colour deeper. Amber like, with hints of crimson-red and coral-pink.

The colour melted off him.

Off the long tail and snaked along his torso, off the translucent fins laced with tiny lilac-blue veins, and back onto the water.

It travelled, reflected in the ripples he made, carried by the glow of the fluorescent plants lining the cave. Droplets slipped from his pale, dotted arms and struck the stone you stood on. The light reached you, spilled onto your skin and tinted it in yellow freckles.

It was how you imagined the sun might feel, if you ever got to see it.

The cave was small. There was nowhere to hide.

And for just a second, you thought he was beautiful.

Maybe, if you ignored the tail. If you looked past the pitch-black, otherworldly eyes, you could almost see a man. His warm brown hair clung to his neck and shoulders, curling at the ends. Not as long as the other Undines, you noticed that. And then you wondered why you noticed it at all.

Maybe, before you died, your brain just wanted to remember something clearly. Maybe it wanted to believe that the sun had finally come for you in disguise.

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There was no point in talking to her, he thought. She wouldn’t understand a thing.

He watched as she started to screech, it sounded just like the metal animal he had dragged into the cave. He couldn’t decide which was worse, but the longer he listened, the more his head throbbed with pain. He had to leave. He needed to find Silco and let him know the human was alive.

He swam back, eyes still locked on her, as she stumbled into a basket of his belongings, messing up his organizational system. He wasn’t a neat freak by any means, but in his chaos, he knew where everything was.

Then his eyes fell to her webless hands, and his brows furrowed. Those hands… they could open some of the metal shells he couldn’t. He could make her do it—so he could examine them later. But how?

He slowly lifted his hand from the water. She flinched.

Right. He was still bigger than her. That was unusual.

He was a small undine, the perfect size for mating…if not for his tail and his colour. Even if his fin were intact, no one would choose him. Yellow undines—lucky undines—signalled the end of a generation. A good omen for the family, but a curse for the one who bore the scales. His tail would always be visible in the water, marking him as a poor choice.

He disliked his own coloration. Even in the dim cave, he reflected every bit of light.

Not that he cared much for mating, anyway. In his kind, mates were taken for breeding, and females were larger, strong enough to tear their partners apart during the act, as per custom. He, at his size, likely wouldn’t survive it.

So looking at a human female was strange.

She was smaller than the undine females. Achromatic compared to the vibrant colours of his people. Clawless, finless, tailless. Even more helpless than him.

At least he could hunt. At least he could breathe underwater. But her? Slim chance.

She seemed calmer now, as he snapped out of his thoughts. She was staring at the light dancing off his scales. He tilted his head. Was this interesting to her? Were his iridescent scales… captivating?

He shifted slightly, casting more colours on the cave walls. Her eyes sparkled.

His gills twitched. His eyes widened.

What was that? Why did I—?

He forced the feeling down and shook his head. Strange thought. He didn’t care.

What he did care about were her fingers. Those fingers could open the metal shells and he wanted to see what was inside.

He slowly pulled himself onto the rock, watching her reactions. She didn’t move. Her eyes were still on the lights.

For a fleeting second, he felt proud. A warmth spread from his cheek to his chest. He reached out his hand again, slowly, making sure she saw every motion. Then, gently, he took her wrist.

Her arm was so small, he could wrap his fingers and thumb around it easily. He brought it close to his face—

She yanked it back.

Alright. Not that close, then.

Maybe his teeth startled her? They were sharp, sure, but not unusual. Unless—wait. Humans couldn’t be toothless… right?

He winced at the thought. This was getting worse by the second.

Still, he opened her hand and pressed one of the metal boxes into it. Then he pointed to it with his chin and retreated back into the water.

She made a sound again. He scrunched his nose.

He mimed opening an imaginary box with his hands. It took her a moment, but then—finally—she understood. It was harder than he thought, even for her nimble fingers, but he hummed approvingly.

“Smart girl” he said aloud, knowing she wouldn’t understand.

Then she dropped the metal box.

He inhaled sharply, eyes snapping to her. Her own were wide, mouth open, cheeks flushed with a color he didn’t recognize. But he wondered—

Did she… understand him?

Horror twisted in his gut. He turned and… fled. slipping into the water and swimming far from that cursed cave, far from those startled eyes.

He must’ve imagined it. Right?

Right?

He had to find Silco. Fast. Then he could be rid of her. Opened boxes or not, he didn’t want to see that expression again.

His gills fluttered shyly at his neck, and he smoothed them flat with his hand.

#reblogs #fic rec #another Viktor unlocked #things getting freakier in Freaktor Nation and I love it

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