imthedoctortobiasfreaky

[imthedoctortobiasfreaky]

To Yearn Is But To Know The Ache

Summary: Ever since his childhood, Aegon knows you to be reliable. You are his maid and you have helped him hide his love affairs for as long as he can remember. You are always there, until one day you aren’t anymore.

Pairing: Aegon II Targaryen x Maid!Reader

Word count: 5177 words

Warnings: no description for the reader except she’s female, longing, yearning, infidelity, brief abuse from alicent, forbidden love, friends to lovers, soft!miserable!aegon, bittersweet ending, open ending, no mention of Y/N

Notes: This is based on this request. I hope you like it, even though I changed some things about the ending. Likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated. Enjoy 💛

The first time you helped him hide his love affairs was when he was fifteen.

You, a young maid of the castle, personally dedicated to him because you were his age, came unannounced to his room one morning, believing he was still asleep.

Instead, you found him in bed with a woman considerably older than him. She was naked, and so was he.

You had accidentally dropped the tray containing his wine and breakfast, and the loud sound of a plate breaking on the hard stone floor of the castle had immediately jolted him and the whore awake.

His eyes had widened when he saw you standing in the doorway, so confused and innocent.

"Apologies, I—I did not mean to disturb you," you stammered uncertainly, already stumbling back a step.

"No, stop, wait!" the young prince quickly called after you, while the woman was already getting up, putting on her thin dress, and counting the gold coins the prince had drunkenly pressed into her hand the night before.

You stood there, confused, looking down at the floor with flushed cheeks, as he was still naked and you could see almost everything of him.

"I—" he began, but then stopped again. What could he possibly say in this situation? You saw it.

"She has to get out of here," he finally said pleadingly.

You stood in the doorway for another moment, wiping your clammy hands on your already dirty apron. He did not want to know how much work you had already had to do while he was still lying in bed, sleeping peacefully next to the woman who had taken his virginity the night before. It was the first time he had ever slept with a woman.

The prince's gaze was pleading, and you could not help but quickly rush to the chest where the laundry was kept. You pressed several dirty sheets into the woman's hands before heading straight to His Grace‘s wardrobe.

You pulled out a rather unassuming brown cloak and draped it over the woman's shoulders, concealing the thinness of her dress. The front was concealed by the amount of linen she was carrying.

Aegon admired, wide-eyed, how quickly you acted and how quickly you seemed to know what to do.

It was still clear that this woman did not belong to the castle, but since it was early morning, you simply hoped that the people milling around would not pay any special attention to the two of you.

No one paid any attention to the servants.

"You follow me, keep your head down, and do not say a word, understand?" you asked the strange woman, who was almost two heads taller than you.

She scoffed: "Why should anyone listen to you, little one? It seems to me you only recently started working here if you think this will actually work."

Your gaze lowered again, but Aegon sat up in his bed, the sheets wrapped around his waist so his lower half would be covered.

"And you are a whore I paid to follow me into my chambers. She is in my service. You will listen to her and you will ask no questions," he commanded in a firm voice he hardly recognized himself as using.

The woman bowed slightly. "Of course, my prince."

A small smile played at the corners of your mouth, and you curtsied as well. "Thank you, my prince."

With these words, you finally turned around and hurried out of the chambers with the woman in tow, hoping you would not be approached.

And you were lucky.

No one noticed you smuggling the prince's whore out of his chambers.

They did not notice the second time, nor the third, nor the fourth. The fifth time, you thought you were invisible, because how could it be that no one noticed the two giggling ladies who were still drunkenly following you around before you released them onto one of the secret passageways?

The years passed, and you continued to serve the eldest prince. You brought him breakfast and wine, laid out his clothes, made his bed, and smuggled the women he paid to sleep with him out of the castle.

It made him happy, and you enjoyed his gratitude.

However, something also changed as time passed.

You were no longer just his maid, but also his friend. The only one he had.

You were like the only shining star in a dark night sky. Like the single ray of moonlight that fell through the clouds at night.

He was your prince. The man to whom you were subordinate and to whom you had to show obedience, otherwise you would lose your work. You truly liked him, with all your heart and soul, but you knew you could not allow yourself to dream. You were merely a servant, and if you were gone, he would probably simply replace you.

A knock on the wooden door to your small chamber awoke you, still in bed, startled because for a moment you thought you had accidentally overslept and left your prince waiting.

But to your surprise, it was still the middle of the night.

Sleepily, still wearing only your thin nightgown, your hair loose and messy, you trudged to the door and opened it, only to find Aegon standing before you, a grin on his lips.

"Good morning, my little mouse," he greeted you in a mischievous tone. The one you knew all too well.

You were both grown up by now. He was married with two children, and you were still his favorite handmaiden. His only friend and the only person he trusted wholeheartedly.

"My prince? It is the middle of the night," you said sleepily, even stifling a yawn.

"True, yes. And please, call me Aegon. I have been telling you that for years," he replied with a sigh as he leaned against the doorframe, his amethyst-colored eyes looking you up and down.

He so rarely saw you without your uniform. He thought you were much prettier without it.

"And I keep telling you that I cannot."

A theatrical sigh escaped him and he hung his head. Why did you have to be so stubborn?

"Why not? We are alone right now, are we not?" he asked you, shaking his head, which made his already uncombed strands of hair even more tangled.

"That is true, but someone could come by at any time, and if they hear me call you by name, I risk losing my job," you explained seriously, folding your arms across your chest.

"But no one is coming right now!" the prince argued.

Now you were the one who sighed. "Why are you here, Aegon?"

When he heard his name roll off your tongue, he immediately looked back up at you, his eyes shining as if you had just breathed new life into them.

"I came because I wanted to ask you, my dear, if you would accompany me to the city?"

You looked at him as if he had lost his mind.

"Are you mad?" you asked him, your eyes widening, your fingers tightening on the handle of your door. You could slam the door in his face at any time, because you knew he would not report it. He needed you so you could hide all his affairs.

But you did not know that he did not need you just for that. He needed you like a flower needs the sun.

"Possibly," he replied with a chuckle. "So, what is your answer?"

"No!" you said immediately, perhaps a little louder than necessary.

"Shhh, little mouse, not so loud," he quickly countered, placing a hand over your mouth, which you quickly removed.

"Do not call me that," you said quickly, feeling a blush spread across your cheeks.

"What? You mean mouse? But that is what you are. My quiet little mouse," he replied instead, a smile forming on his lips and a playful gleam in his eyes.

"You are awful," you said instead, which made him chuckle in turn.

"So is that a yes or a no?" he asked again, leaning a little closer, causing your breathing to quicken.

"A no," you answered, and he nodded.

He had known you would not come with him. You would not make it that easy.

"Are you sure?" he asked with a mischievous grin.

Oh, you hated that grin.

"Go away, you fool," you giggled, closing the door with rosy cheeks.

The prince sighed, turned, and disappeared into the entrance to the secret passages known to few in the castle.

He hoped he would be able to show them to you thoroughly one day.

The next time Prince Aegon knocked on your door in the middle of the night, it was neither quiet nor discreet. It was panicked and loud, and you jumped out of bed the moment you heard it.

You rushed to the door, your nightgown wrinkled and not quite right in places, and your hair a disaster, and opened it, and what you saw broke your heart.

Aegon stood at your door, tears streaming down his porcelain cheeks like waterfalls and a fear in his eyes that made you tremble.

"My prince?" you asked cautiously, and just as you were about to lean toward him and place a gentle hand on his arm, he practically threw himself into your arms.

His face was buried in the crook of your neck and his arms wrapped around your waist as if you were the only thing keeping him alive.

You were overwhelmed. What was happening?

"Please, please, I do not want to—I cannot—" he cried desperately.

Your hands wandered into your hair and you tried to calm him by running your fingers through his mane.

"What do you not want, my prince?" you asked him in a gentle voice, even though you were more confused than ever.

"I do not want to be king, please, please—I cannot," he sobbed, his whole body shaking.

His crying grew louder, and you took slow steps backward, pulling him with you, until you were finally able to close the door and you stood alone with him in your dark, small room.

He had only been in here once or twice before, but he would stay here forever if it meant he would not have to wear the crown.

"What happened?"

He did not answer, just shook his head and watered your thin nightgown with his desperate tears. Meanwhile, he held on tight. The warmth of your body mingled with his and your scent filled his nostrils.

You were so warm and soft and all he wanted was to lose himself in you.

"Aegon?" you begged as you began to stroke his back tenderly, choosing to call him by his name this time.

Another sob escaped him before he finally managed to take a deep breath: "My father is dead."

Your eyes widened and his shoulders tensed, your hands no longer roaming his back.

You were holding the soon-to-be King of the Seven Kingdoms in your arms. You. A simple servant.

Since the moment the queen chose you as his maid, since the moment you first helped him hide his love affairs, you were his friend.

A good friend. Probably his only one.

And, by the gods, he needed you. When you were not there to brighten his days, he did not know what to do.

"They will crown me king, but I... I do not want that," he whimpered through tears that still wet his cheeks and made his face shine in the soft moonlight.

You nodded understandingly, because you have had this conversation before. The last time a few weeks ago, the first time three years ago.

"I want to be free, I want to live my life," he finally said, leaning back slowly so he could look into your eyes.

Your beautiful eyes, in which he could lose himself day after day and which he dreamed of at night. Over and over again, as if he were cursed.

But even if you were a witch, he would still run after you. Even if you had him under a curse, he would still come back to you again and again.

"Why are you here?" you asked him gently, tilting your head. You probably understood him better than anyone else, but you did not know why he had come to you tonight.

Deep down, you probably did know, but you did not want to admit it.

"I need help. I want to get away from here. I want to live a different life somewhere, a better one, and I wanted to ask you for help."

You shook your head, but he was not finished.

"Help me escape, darling."

"No, I—" you immediately tried to contradict him, but he was once again faster than you.

"Please, I beg you. I need to get out of here. This life… it is killing me."

"But your family?" you asked him cautiously. He would miss his mother, his brother, and his sister-wife, not to mention his little twins, whom you thought were so adorable.

Sometimes, when he was playing alone with them, he would ask you to come over. He was always happy with them, and you had never seen him smile so radiantly as the time little Jaehaerys wanted to be held by you.

"Mother will be furious, Aemond probably even happy, and Helaena... she will be better off without me. She deserves rest," he explained, a small, rueful smile creeping onto his lips. It held no humor at all.

"And your children?" you asked him, tenderly taking his hand in yours.

A year ago, you would never have taken his hand just like that, but, like everything in the world, it developed slowly.

Like the sun slowly rising over a hill. Only yours had not risen yet, but was just peeking over the hill.

"I love them. They are everything to me, but my sister is a wonderful mother. She can handle it," he said with a nod, and it almost seemed as if he would want to convince himself.

"Aegon—" you tried again, but he interrupted you again.

"Please," he begged. "I am desperate. I am afraid."

Another single tear rolled down his cheek, and in that moment you knew you would do anything he said.

Not because you had to, because he was your prince, but because you wanted to.

Because he was your friend.

You let go of him and hurried to your wardrobe. You pulled out two cloaks. A brown one for you so you could accompany him to one of the exits, and a light blue one for him so he could hide his silver hair under a hood out there.

He took it and wrapped it around his shoulders, buttoning up the cloak, and pulled the hood over his head while you did the same.

Silver strands of hair stood out, and a gentle smile spread across your lips.

You walked over to him and carefully tucked the strands into his hood, so that it would not be obvious that he was a Targaryen at first glance.

He smiled, and you smiled back.

And for a moment, Aegon's world made sense again.

"Come with me," the prince suggested as you stood together before one of the many entrances to the secret passages.

He held out a hand, one foot in the doorway and the other in the hallway where you still stood, your cloak wrapped tightly around your narrow shoulders. The expression on his handsome face was hopeful, and his eyes shone.

"I do not think that is possible," you sighed, clasping your hands together.

"Why?" he asked, always persistent.

"I work here. This is my life," you said, because that was what you truly believed. You did not consider that he could give you a new life. One by his side.

A shadow fell over his face, but still he nodded and took another step into the dark corridor.

"Good luck, Aegon," you said in a tender, loving voice.

"Good luck, little mouse," he replied, and you closed the door.

Aegon straightened his shoulders and took a deep breath before turning and running.

He did not hear one of the guards suddenly grab your arm, how you argued, how you pleaded.

He ran and you cried.

They found him drunk under the altar of the Mother in the Great Sept.

The White Worm had promised to hide him, but instead, Arryk and Erryk found him, followed by Ser Criston and Aemond.

He begged Aemond to let him go, to let him find a ship so he could sail away, but instead, they dragged him back to the castle against his will.

His mother had been disappointed; she hit him, told him he should eat something, and that a servant would be here shortly to help him wash and dress for his coronation ceremony.

The door to his chambers opened, and he did not even turn around. He was used to this. He knew you would probably come now, put a hand on his shoulder, and tell him everything would be all right.

But none of that happened.

"How would you like your bath, Your Grace?" a strange voice asked him.

He immediately turned to the person, his eyebrows furrowing as he realized you were not there.

Another maid stood at the door. Young, pretty, but she was not you.

No one was like you.

"My maid. Where is she?" he asked in the most authoritative tone he could muster.

The servant shook her head and looked down at the floor. "She is gone, Your Grace."

"Gone?" he asked immediately, standing up so quickly that his chair creaked across the floor and the girl jumped.

"Where is she?" he persisted, clenching his hands into fists.

"In the dungeons, Your Grace," the new servant answered him honestly.

"And what in the Seven Hells is my maid doing in the dungeons?" he asked, his voice becoming increasingly harsh.

"She was seen helping you escape. The queen had her banished to the dungeons as punishment."

Aegon could not believe what his ears were hearing. You, his little mouse, the light of his life, were rotting like a common criminal down there in that dark, cold, rat-infested hole, all because you helped him escape, which, to his dismay, ultimately failed.

"What?" His voice was quiet, full of disbelief, and his breath was coming in short gasps.

You did not deserve this.

You deserved all the happiness in the world, and now you were locked up.

Because of him.

"Your bath?" the girl reminded him, and he nodded, but his mind was far away.

He thought of you and of how disappointed you must be for him. How frightened you must have been right now.

His coronation had been a complete disaster. For the first time in his life, he felt seen and loved by people, and then suddenly a dragon emerged from the ground and almost killed him and his entire family.

He now stood alone and lost in his new chambers—his father's. The stench of the Milk of the Poppy still polluted the air, and the large model of Old Valyria, which his father had spent years building instead of playing with him or his siblings, still stood proudly in the center of the room.

The Conqueror's Crown heavy on his head.

He hated it. He hated everything about it.

But most of all, he hated that he could not help you.

In the carriage, he had asked his mother what her plan was for you. She said that the dungeon was a just punishment for treason against the crown. She had not listened to reason. He had tried so hard.

Suddenly, an idea came to him. He was the king. His word was law. He could do whatever he wanted.

Without thinking about anything, he hurried out of his father's chambers and headed toward the dungeons. Ser Arryk shouted something in his direction, but he did not hear.

He simply wanted to see you.

The dungeon was cold, wet, and dark, and your cell was no exception. You huddled in the corner, arms wrapped around your knees, which you held against your chest to give yourself some warmth and comfort.

You had been stripped of your handmaid's clothing, so you sat there in only your thin undergarment, which was now soiled.

You were told that the dungeon was only a temporary punishment and that Lord Larys Strong was still thinking about what to do with you.

Perhaps he would cut out your tongue? Have you whipped? Deny you food and drink so that you would wither like a flower? All of these things were possible, and you believed the man was capable of all of them.

He was frightening.

Suddenly, you heard footsteps in the distance, and you were already worried that your punishment awaited you. It would probably be even harsher than you could have imagined.

You had only wanted to help Aegon, and yet in the end, it had not achieved anything. Yet in the end, he had been crowned.

Your sacrifice had achieved absolutely nothing.

"Darling?" you suddenly heard a worried voice speak, and your eyes immediately widened.

"Aegon..." you whispered in disbelief.

He stood outside your cell, his hands clasped around the iron bars and the crown on his head. He looked beautiful, regal. But also sad.

"This is my fault," he said, shaking his head, causing a few strands of his silver hair to fall across his forehead.

"No," you replied immediately, sitting up slightly so that the light from the torches in the corridor cast shadows across your face. "You could not have known. I did not even know myself until the guards grabbed me."

Aegon let his forehead sink against the iron bars. "You should have come with me."

A soft laugh escaped you and you nodded. "Perhaps I should have, yes."

"We could have escaped together. We would probably be across the Narrow Sea by now. Imagine it. The two of us together in Essos or Yi Ti."

For a moment, you allowed yourself to dream. You imagined you two sailing across the sea together on a ship, reaching the shore of a city, finding a home, and starting a new life.

Together.

You rose from the dirty ground and walked slowly toward your prince—your king. His gaze softened, and you could see that he longed to hold you in his arms.

"What would we have been?" you asked him cautiously, and you too wrapped your hands around the cold bars of your cell. Your little finger almost touched his.

A smile played at the corners of his mouth. "What would you have wanted us to be?"

For a moment, you fought the urge to roll your eyes, but he was still the king. You had to show him respect, even if you were behind bars.

"We would have been friends... and maybe one day more than that," you confessed honestly.

He placed his little finger on yours, and you could feel warmth spreading across your cheeks. Blush. You blushed for him.

"I can imagine. We could have had a drink together one evening in a tavern or maybe a brothel—"

"I would not have gone to a brothel with you," you replied quickly, raising an eyebrow playfully. You knew of his lascivious nature and you would not have stopped him, but you certainly would not have gone to such a place with him.

"Fine, then to a tavern," he sighed. "We would have drunk wine together, and at one point I would have taken your hand. Of course, you would not have been able to resist my charms."

You just shook your head again and continued listening to him detail his fantasy.

"I would have leaned toward you, very slowly."

You had to swallow the lump in your throat as you pictured it in detail: "I would have put a finger on your lips and told you you were an idiot."

He laughed, and you saw that it came from his heart. For the first time since he came to you, his eyes sparkled again, and your heart leaped.

"I would have taken your hand and pressed a kiss to your fingers and told you you were the most annoying, beautiful woman in the world."

You leaned your head next to his and could feel your heart shattering into a thousand pieces. If only you had come with him. If only you had fled together.

"I am so sorry, Aegon," you said softly, but you meant it.

"Do not apologize to me, sweetling. Apparently this life was not meant for us," he said, turning so he could press a gentle kiss to your temple. He had never kissed you before, and he could only dream of what your lips would feel like.

"Aegon, I—"

Before you could utter the words that had been burning in your soul for years, a sudden clearing of the throat sounded not far from the two of you.

The king turned and stood across from Lord Larys Strong, the lord of Harrenhal. The man leaned on his crutch and regarded you with a knowing gaze. A shiver ran down your spine, and Aegon was not sure how to speak to him.

"Forgive me, Your Grace, but I came to speak with the prisoner," Larys said calmly.

Aegon had to bite back a scathing comment that would have insulted the man: "And I came to restore her to her previous role as a handmaiden."

Larys stepped closer to you, the echo of his heavy foot on the dungeon floor making it hard for you to breathe. "My king, she committed treason by helping you escape in the night."

"But I am back. I am the king. I decide the fate of my prisoners," he replied to the older man, who smiled in a way that made him instinctively stand up straighter.

"Just imagine the image this decision would paint. It could give villains the courage to break into the castle without fear of punishment. Servants might reconsider their loyalties. Do you really want to be seen as weak?" Lord Larys asked him in the same calm voice as before.

"No, certainly not," said the king. He needed you around him and he could not bear to see you in this cell, but perhaps the castle was no longer a place for you.

Perhaps you finally deserved better than this.

He looked into your eyes—into those beautiful, pure eyes—and he knew he had made a decision, even if you would not ike it.

"Can you be discreet?"

"Very discreet, Your Grace."

"Take her away from here. As far as possible, so she will be safe. She will live in a house, be treated like a lady. She will want for nothing," he said firmly.

Your eyes widened and you grabbed his hand. You could not believe it. You did not want to leave. All you wanted was to stay with him and continue to be his servant.

"No, please—"

"I will have her taken to Essos. I know a place. She will be fine there," Strong assured his king with a nod.

The cell keys jingled loudly as he pulled them from his cloak. You watched as he opened the cell door and placed a hand on your arm. You obeyed without a word and stepped out of the cell.

The cell door slammed shut behind you, and without wasting a second, Aegon wrapped his arms around you, holding you tightly against his chest.

"I will leave you alone for a moment," the lord said, hobbling a few steps toward the dungeon exit where he would be waiting for you.

Your king's face was buried in your hair, and he held you so tightly it almost hurt. Your arms were also wrapped around him, and all he could think about was that he could not let you go.

You were one of the only things keeping him alive.

"You cannot go. You cannot," he murmured into your curls.

The mere thought that you would not be there to shoo him out of bed in the morning, to choose the right clothes for him, spending hours looking for him and talking to him about everything and nothing was frightening.

He did not want to imagine it.

"He is right, you know? I do not want people to see you as weak. You will be a good king, even without my services," you whispered gently.

You did not want to leave him either. Especially not now, but Lord Strong was right. It might be a way to shed real light on him if he reinstated you as his servant. After all, you committed treason against the crown when you helped him escape.

"I do not know how I am going to manage this."

A smile formed on your lips and you stroked his back. "You have an experienced council that will support you. You just have to lean into them."

The young king shook his head: "I do not know how to act."

"You just did it. You took action, and your decision is good. It is the right one," you answered him calmly and as gently as you could.

He hugged you even tighter. "But it does not feel right."

You leaned back and looked into his eyes, placing a hand on his cheek. His skin was warm and soft, and you wished you had had the courage to talk to him before.

"I love you," you finally said, your words honest and long overdue. You loved him when you were just a young girl and he was still the prince who woke up drunk and in bed with a new woman every day.

You saw the exact moment his eyes filled with tears and he realized he should have dragged you along against your will so you could now be together forever.

"Seven Hells, I love you too. I love you more than anything," he said, leaning his forehead against yours.

Even though you were dirty, cold, and would rather be anywhere but the dungeon, you were happy in his arms.

He leaned down to press his lips against yours in a gentle kiss, but you placed a finger on his lips.

"Kiss me when we meet again," you whispered, and he took your hand in his and pressed a kiss to your fingertips instead.

This was not a tavern, and you had not had anything to drink, but the moment was the same one you had talked about.

"I promise you, little mouse."

He watched you leave, and he could practically hear his heart breaking and feel his smile fade.

You had never been happier than you were in Essos, on a small estate as the lady of the house.

And Aegon?

He promised himself that one day he would see you again, so he could finally steal the kiss you had promised him.

Even if he was half-burned and full of shame.

The Divider is from the wonderful @zaldritzosrose !

Taglist: @bey0nd-1he-stars @sassypain @hisfavegirl @dahaenatargaryen @sylasthegrim @danytar

[imthedoctortobiasfreaky]

okay random question

[imthedoctortobiasfreaky]

really enjoyed alien romulus and have had xenomorphs on the brain ever since

[imthedoctortobiasfreaky]

umm fucking sniffsniffsniffsniffsniff ??? ? (x)

[imthedoctortobiasfreaky]

READ MORE HERE: Summary | Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | TBA

CHAPTER ONE

His name was James—something, something.

You tried to recall. Mrs. McCarthney told you fleetingly about a new tenant besides yours some days ago, (or was it a week ago) but paid no mind to it at the time. Few of her tenants barely last a month on your floor anyway, so you weren't eager to meet new acquaintances only for them to leave too soon.

Despite your disinterest, the older woman continued to gossip about this new tenant to you, remarking how adamant he was about occupying one of the rooms on the sixth floor despite her warnings about the recurring... strange noises. Mrs. McCarthney also mentioned his pleasant features and soothing voice before she told you to be cordial and wary.

"It's gonna be the two of you up there, sweets. Be nice and make him feel welcome." Mrs. McCarthney reminded sweetly. "But not too welcoming. James is still a man. He might take it the wrong way."

You didn't expect him to be here now, standing at the front door of the apartment building with Mrs. McCarthney beckoning you closer. You hadn't even prepared an introduction or something similar, not when you were too surprised at his arrival and busy unraveling yourself from Haddock's leash tangled around your legs. You went to them anyway, spinning yourself loose before lightly tugging the leash and leading the dog toward the front.

When you came face-to-face, you somehow read him like a cover. James seemed older than you, but not too far. The exhaustion seemed to age him and when you peered into his eyes, there wasn't anything in them but vacancy. You would've given him credit for appearing well-kept and presentable for first impressions despite the clear despondency, but his endeavors merely felt halfway. His wrinkled shirt, rough-dried jeans and coat, and his attempts to gel his blond hair back failed as they fell back on his forehead again.

However, you were quite conflicted about admitting that Mrs. McCarthney may have been right when she said he was pleasant-looking, especially at first glance. You didn't give a damn when the landlady mentioned it beforehand... and you probably still shouldn't. You wagered he won't last long like the rest of them. Just here for a quick stop-and-go.

"Ehem," Mrs. McCarthney cleared her throat, interrupting your quiet perusal. When you turned to her, Mrs. McCarthney looked at you with a raised eyebrow while her lips turned cheekily lopsided.

You returned a confused look and held onto Haddock's leash when you felt it nearly slipping from your grip. The canine began to writhe behind you, tugging you in his desired direction, and whining lowly when you resisted.

Mrs. McCarthney said nothing to you but went on to introduce you to James, telling him, as she always tells her prior tenants; your name, which floor and room you were staying in, and the 'if you can't get a hold of Lucas or me, knock on her door if you ever need anything, she can help' oration.

James' once glassy eyes briefly scanned you from head to toe before he flashed you a closed yet somewhat reticent smile and a short nod of acknowledgment.

You smiled in return, suddenly feeling a bit sheepish.

You were aware you didn't look your best that day compared to him, but then again, you didn't expect to meet anyone important either. Before leaving Tina's house for Haddock's walk, you hadn't bothered to primp yourself or glance at the mirror. But surely; the impetuous ponytail, your colorless face, a bit of dough and buttercream that might have smirched your uniform, and Haddock's hair at the hem of your pants won't give anyone a sore eye, right? Right?

"She's also a baker down at Stanley's," Mrs. McCarthney added in her lengthy enumeration that you've decided to deafen out of diffidence. "You could give James your complimentary pie, sweets."

James immediately shook his head. "Oh, no, that's—I don't wanna—"

"That meringue pie! I like your lemon one the most! I wish you'd make them more often." The older woman turned to James and whispered conspiratorially. "The last two she made were terrible!"

Your eyes widened. "Excuse me?"

"Bland filling, burnt cream, soggy crust, it was horrible! And she made us eat it like we were some kind of guinea pigs! Bill and Lucas had diarrhea for two days!"

"An exaggeration, I promise!" You retorted. "It was just a day."

You heard James' faint chuckle before Mrs. McCarthney demanded. "The lemon one, sweets, for James! Not the other two."

With a light scoff, you replied. "Fine."

"And please, sweets, control that dog," said Mrs. McCarthney, eyeing Haddock with a little displeasure. "Careful, it's looping around you."

James approached you with his head low and whispered. "You really don't have to, you know. It's already too much."

"Well, I'm not gonna hear the end of this if I won't, so..." you told him matter-of-factly at first, but when the disquietness abided James' face, most likely disinclined by the hospitality, you tried to placate him with a closed and assured smile. "It's fine, really. It's been a while since I made one, anyway. It might be a better time to start again."

He smiled, his head bopping a little sheepishly, and said in a slight stammer. "I'm James, by the way... James Sunderland. But I figured Mrs. McCarthney already told you that."

So he wasn't James—something, something.

"Yeah, she did mention you. Like, an embarrassing lot, actually. I'm kind of contemplating whether I should say something or not."

With a quiet chuckle, he lowered his gaze and replied. "Sorry about that."

"Oh, no, don't be." You waved a hand. "Although you wouldn't mind a little harmless gossip between us little women, right? There's not a lot going on here, so..."

Mrs. McCarthney's face flushed. "Oh, sweets, don't—"

"Yeah... that slipped."

But the look Mrs. McCarthney caught on your face told her otherwise. She snorted, annoyed. "Well, next time, keep it in your tongue. It was supposed to be between us, you know?"

"And about the pie," You mused. "It might take a while. I won't be back until next week. I'm watching over this guy until my friend comes back." You pointed at the whining dog scampering around.

James' eyes followed Haddock as the canine scurried behind him and barked riotously. He looked back up at you, still with that slight smile. "Take your time. I don't really mind—"

The leash suddenly tightened around your legs. Your eyes grew wide when James staggered forward until you collided with each other. Mrs. McCarthney stridently chastised the dog, but to no avail as Haddock kept his unruly behavior, barking and dragging you and James to his desired destination. The leash began to brace deeply on your skin, probably leaving a scrape or a harsh print later if this persisted.

James had his hand on your back while he held on the brick wall for dear life with the other. Instincts kicked in, and you quickly placed a hand on his chest, wanting to distance yourself from him when his breath brushed against your face.

His eyes were locked on yours, green and focused. You almost wanted to melt or hide at how piercing his gaze was. His lips were pursed, and he breathed heavily through his flared nostrils. His face mirrored your struggles. Then he grunted, "Let him go."

You hastily complied, and the leash loosened slightly. But with Haddock's brute strength, his tugging stayed the course. With a hand then holding onto James' coat while he was slipping from his grip, the two of you were swept off your feet and onto the ground as a grand finale.

"You little shit!" Mrs. McCarthney shrieked.

On the ground, where the world seemed to turn upside down, you watched as the canine dashed down the sidewalk, his leash dragging behind him before he was gone.

"Ha—" Words were stuck at the tip of your tongue while the wind seemed to get knocked out of you. A sting rippled through your head, and specks of black and white bounced when your eyes closed. When you felt an awkward wriggle on top, you opened them again and found him. Widened eyes and red-faced.

"I am so, so sorry!" James stuttered, and his weight hastily eased from you. "I tried to hold on, and, uh, are you okay?"

You winced as you raised a thumb in response. A pair of hands helped you off the ground, but you briskly sprung on your feet, which you realized was a stupid decision as the rush made you woozy in the head and wobbly on your ground.

"Easy! Not too fast!" James softly chided. He stood close by, hands out and ready, yet he hesitated. He wanted to hold you securely when your steps teetered but stopped himself again. Somehow, he braced for the impact of your shove or the castigate to be spat.

He waited.

And waited.

And waited.

But somehow it never came.

Instead, when you staggered another step forward, you were instantly in James' strong yet assiduous hold, rescued from the inevitable fall. Sirens in your head rang. Your instincts told you to brush him off and spew a segment of reassurances, but your hands on his arms tightened as if defying yourself unexpectedly. His soft and soothing mumbles battled against Mrs. McCarthney's admonishment.

"This is why I don't allow pets here, sweets." Mrs. McCarthney said. "They're too rambunctious! Imagine how many more it could've run through without care!"

"Yeah," You finally managed to reply, your eyes still clammed shut. "Figured it."

Mrs. McCarthney then turned to James. "I used to allow them back years ago, but one of them left their doors open, and their dogs ran loose. Went berserk on everyone they saw, and my poor Seth fell down the stairs and broke his hip trying to stop them and—" She paused, a slight apprehension dawned. "Are you alright, sweets? Did you hit your head? Is your hip alright? Is anything alright?"

You simply wave a hand, eyes blinking the specks away as you scan the sidewalk for any sign of Haddock. None. Someone's going to get murdered. Most definitely you.

"If she hit her head, she'll need ice, Mrs. McCarthney, or maybe get it checked as soon as possible," James said.

"I'm serious, sweets, did it hurt? Is anything hurt?"

"I'm fine," You told her sincerely. "I think ice would do."

"Right. I'll tell Lucas to find the dog for you. And you better tell that friend of yours to control that thing, otherwise, I'll have someone take care of it for her. Don't think I'm joking around here, sweets." The landlady warned before she beckoned the two of you inside.

James helped without delay. Slowly and steadily, he ushered you into the lobby and sat you on a nearby couch. Throughout the time, when James' smooth and encouraging mumbles carried on, you debated whether his succor was necessary since you felt able enough as the ache and throbbing had slightly waned as time passed.

You should've objected.

You should have.

However, through his ministrations, you somehow got a glimpse into James. You saw his sudden care and aid. The gesture felt natural for him, like a second nature.

His stance was firm and sturdy, determined to keep you upright as if your knees would yield at any moment. His tread was slow and careful, attentive to your steps and surroundings. His touch was soft and cautious as if your skin was so fragile that it would bleed under his touch.

It was an intriguing combination.

The bustling noise inside the receptionist's office broke your quick rumination when Mrs. McCarthney barked at Lucas to fetch Haddock for you... and an ice pack and medicine before he goes. And make it fast.

"You know there's nothing wrong with having it checked, just to be sure," James crouched in front of you, and the worried look lingered. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yeah." Your lips pursed. You tried to be reassuring, but the assuring smile remade into chagrin. "It's... not exactly the first meeting I had in mind."

"That's—" He paused, somewhat surprised. A smile nearly crept up his face, but then was promptly rueful when he asked. "What did you have in mind?"

You shook your head slowly. "No fucking clue, actually. But the dog wasn't part of it, I promise. I could've gotten some people around, though."

"Is... Is everyone always friendly around here?"

"Nope. It's just Mrs. McCarthney. I think she's just intrinsically nice... and warm to everyone. There are a handful of others I know, but not everyone."

"That's nice." He smiled placidly, then thought about expounding a bit. "New people. New... place. Well... I was also kinda hoping there'd be a welcome banner."

"Oh!" You chirped. "You want that?"

"I—No, I didn't mean, I'm just... joking."

"Would you object if I gave you one?"

James paused again to consider before he quietly chuckled. "Yes."

"Shame. I know a very cute girl who'll make an equally cute banner for you."

"I don't wanna waste your time on me, Miss."

"I'm sure she won't mind." You beamed.

James' eyebrows furrowed, and like double vision, remembrance flickered in his eyes. Your smile this time was unabashedly wide, full of teeth, cheeks round, and eyes narrowed; there was something comely and soothing about it that was difficult to construe.

But James was transported back in time, to many years ago. Familiarity struck, and he found himself reliving the incandescence of her smile. How her face would light up and leave him saturated in her glow.

Mary, he said, lower than a whisper, but it rattled him like thunder.

"What?" You asked him, your voice was washed away from his busy thoughts.

Oh, Mary. How you were missed so dearly. Day and night since she passed, James thought of nothing but her—the love that budded and blossomed, the moments spent and shared, the memories recalled and recorded, the things she loved and hated, vital to trivial. Despite the illness that befell her, Mary's memory remained tattooed in his mind—the good, the bad, and the worst. His heart still called and yearned for her like a sad howl of an abandoned mutt left waiting and wondering.

Mary... Mary...

I missed you.

I'm so, so sorry.

You stared at him, a little worried. The rousing glow and the faint sparkle in his eyes quickly dissipated, donning the vacancy that pervaded him earlier. You reached out to tap his shoulder, but he briskly avoided your touch and got to his feet.

Your arms instinctively tensed at your sides, and your heart raced. However, despite his looming and towering figure against yours, he looked almost frail, like he was about to fold or crumble to his knees. And his benign display made your wariness seem misplaced. You swallowed slowly. "James? Is everything alright?"

When he met your intent gaze, his eyes were nearly blank but also almost teary, as he backed away, shaking his head. "I'm sorry—This was a mistake—you're- you're not—I-I can't—I can't do this."

With nothing else to say, and the single, teetering brick in his massive wall was cemented back again, James marched toward the stairs and disappeared from your sight.

You were left alone and the rush of apprehension slowly quelled. Confusion then replaced it, and you were somewhat disheartened at the turn of events.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Meet-cute? No. Let's meet-awkward! Anyway, bon appetit, folks!

[imthedoctortobiasfreaky]

Good Facial Structure

<< PREV Master List NEXT >>

Pairing: Viktor x Fem!Artist!Reader

Series Synopsis: Heimerdinger wants a commemorative painting done of Viktor, who is not fond of the idea.

Chapter Synopsis: Viktor tries one more time to convince Heimerdinger out of the portrait.

Word Count: 2.3K

Author’s Note: I'm going to try and update with one chapter a week!

Don’t forget to like, comment, and reblog your favorite fics ❤️

~*~*~*~

The morning came with blaring sun through the lab windows. Viktor blinked against it as he stirred from his slumber. The room was chilled with the night. Leeching from the floor up through his skin into his bones. His spined ached with it. His leg ached with it. His hip protested as he stretched. He’d slept slumped on his workstation. Though it was nothing unusual, he still cast a glance over his shoulder. The emergency couch sat vacant. Why hadn’t he slept there? It would’ve been worlds more comfortable.

All at the once, the previous day returned to him. Heimerdinger’s request. The portrait. You. And all at once annoyance slammed back into him, simmering in his chest. The bell overhead tolled seven. Would the professor be in yet? Viktor needed to find a way out of this. For the sake of his research was what he kept telling himself. Although you seemed perfectly nice, he was making great headway and didn’t want to risk the momentum.

In the night, his papers had made their way across the desk and onto the floor. He scrambled to cobble them together. Which ones went together, again? What was this drawing for? How distracted had he been when he’d done these? Half of his notes were incoherent. A couple of papers had to be spun to decipher which way was up. There were ink smudges from his fingers, which he found to be stained. Viktor rifled through the mess on his desk, searching for a rag to wipe his hands.

That was when a word caught his eye - ochre.

It was written plain as day in the middle of a page. There was a decided divide between the word and the rest of the notes on the page. Had he written that? He must’ve, that was his scrawl. But when had he done that - and why? He was quick to blot it out before Jayce made an appearance. Then he found himself wondering just why he’d done it.

Jayce came with food and hot drinks not long after. Viktor had not found anymore out-of-place words. The refreshments were accompanied by a smug grin. As if Jayce was glad to see Viktor covered in ink and bleary eyed from the uncomfortable resting place. He didn’t say anything as he set down a pastry and a covered cup on Viktor’s station. But the look on his face spoke louder than anything.

Viktor stood, his joints protesting after sitting still so long. “I’m going to see Heimerdinger.”

He scooped up the pastry, ignoring Jayce’s watchful gaze as he left. He straightened out his sleep rumpled clothes the best he could between bites. This time of morning, the academy was quiet. Everyone settled into their morning classes. He found the professor in his office, already sitting with someone.

Heimerdinger didn’t look at him, but held up a finger. So Viktor tucked himself patiently into the corner and finished off his meager meal. Stuffing the wrapper in his pocket. He wasn’t really paying attention to what was being said. Mostly due to the hushed tones of the conversation. But also because he was distracted by the yordle’s likeness where it stared out from behind the desk. The portrait you had done.

It truly was expertly crafted - at least from the little Viktor knew of art. The light was hitting the painting just so. Illuminating all the brushstrokes immortalized in the lacquer. The way the Heimerdinger in the painting looked almost as alive as the Heimerdinger it hung above. Eyes sharp, discerning. The fact the professor’s fur looked as though it would be soft if you touched the canvas.

“Very good!” the professor announced, back to speaking normally. Viktor flinched. “Then we’ll meet again next month.”

The person stood, nodding to the professor and then Viktor as they made their exit. He thought he saw the word Treasury on the front of their folio. Heimerdinger turned to Viktor and greeted him warmly, gesturing to the now unoccupied chair in front of the desk.

“Good morning, sir,” Viktor said, suppressing a yawn. He lowered himself into the seat. A bit disgusted to find it warm.

“What can I do for you this fine morning?” The professor shuffled mindlessly through the papers on his desk. Briefly picking one up and seeming to skim it before moving onto another. “I see you’ve slept in the lab again. - Did anyone tell you there’s ink on your face?”

Viktor rubbed at his cheek with his shirt sleeve, but quickly gave up the effort. Frowning instead at his stained hands. “Yes, sir.”

Heimerdinger tsked. “That really isn’t a healthy practice. You don’t live far, why don’t you ever stay the night at home?”

“I do, often.” Viktor wasn’t even convinced by his own words.

“You should be sleeping in a proper bed. Honestly, you should really be making sure to take time for yourself. Even as important as your research is - you can’t do anything if your body isn’t taken care of.”

“I - yes - I will, sir -” Viktor shook his head, realizing the diversion. “That is not why I’m here -”

“You’ve come to talk about the portrait.” The professor sighed, tapping the edge of a stack of papers on his desk, then setting them aside. His gaze was sharp as he met Viktor���s. “I figured as much.”

Heat built under Viktor’s collar. He was not a fan of the look Heimerdinger was giving him. “Well, I -”

To his relief, the professor’s gaze quickly shifted back to the papers on his desk. “I was glad to hear you sat well for the artist yesterday, I expect that to continue. I’ve seen the sketches so far, there is no doubt this project will be a huge success.”

Viktor muttered, “I wish I shared the enthusiasm.”

“She had nothing but good things to say about you, you know?”

This caught Viktor off guard, he was not expecting a good review. He shifted in his seat. “What things?”

Heimerdinger cleared his throat, making a show of thinking on the conversation. “That you were a very nice subject. Something about having a good facial structure and admirable cheek bones.”

Stunning eyes, whispered your voice. Viktor catapulted it from his mind immediately. The annoyance at Heimerdinger turned inward. Why did that one comment stick to him? Then his brain replayed what the professor said, and heat crept up from his collar and burned in his ears.

“There’s no need to be embarrased,” Heimerdinger chuckled.

“I -” It came out as more of a choking sound. “I am not embarrassed.”

“Now, I’m no great judge of art myself, I must admit. But I do believe she’s correct.” The professor’s eyes gleamed now. “The portrait is going to look very noble when it’s finished.”

Viktor scrabbled to come back around to the point. He held up his stained fingers. “Surely, sir, I could just have a new pen? - Or a new chair for the lab? Even a nice meal would be sufficent commemoration. I assure you, I do not need a painting. I’m just your assistant.”

Heimerdinger shook his head. “Those things will fade, Viktor.”

“And the painting will not?” Viktor asked, brows furrowed.

“The portrait can be restored when its colors dull. - Trust me when I say you aren’t going to find a used pen in any museum. Even if it had the greatest scientist to ever live's teeth marks in it. People remember art, Viktor, not chairs or fine meals.”

Viktor leaned forward in his seat. “But I would remember those things.”

The professor waved him off. “You’re doing far greater work than just being my assistant. That research you’re doing will revolutionize the world as we know it.”

“Jayce is The Man of Progress, why not have his portrait done? He is the one who represents us to the council.”

“Being a noble and proclaimed Man of Progress, I’m sure Jayce has had more than enough portraits painted of himself.” Heimerdinger looked at Viktor evenly. “What you’re contributing to Hextech is just as important as any speech Jayce gives.”

“Which is why I should be doing that instead of wasting an hour each day -” Viktor began to argue.

“Think of it as a mandated break in your day. Just an hour -”

“But sir -”

'“I could make it two, or even three,” the professor warned. “Do not make me push my authority on you, boy.”

Viktor cringed at the thought. He opened his mouth to rebuttal, but no further argument formed. So he closed it again, reclining back against the cushion with a heavy sigh.

“Try to get to know her,” Professor Heimerdinger pushed. “You don’t have to be friends. But, if you’re going to be spending the next few months together, it would be best to meet in the middle. I know she won’t be here today, so perhaps take the time to consider what you might like to know about her.”

Viktor frowned, hanging onto the word months. “How long will this take?”

“How ever long she needs. I expect you will treat her kindly and respectfully.”

“Of course, sir.” Viktor sighed. He thought for a moment. “Tell me, what do you know of her?”

“As you know,” the professor started, he seemed pleased Viktor was playing along. “She graduated last year. Since then, she’s been doing commission paintings for some of the highest ranking families here in Piltover. - I’m surprised Jayce isn’t familiar with her, in fact I believe his mother sat for her quite recently. Beyond that, I know pity little, I’m afraid. Our sessions were done in short sittings over the course of her time at the academy.”

Viktor hummed, filing away that information for later. “Do you know where she is today? Will this be a…reoccuring absence?”

Heimerdinger’s eyes were sharp for just a moment before they swept down to his desk. “A pressing family matter. She’ll be back tomorrow, worry not. – She's very dedicated to her craft. You may not appreciate it yet. But art records things we may forget. I’ve seen many things, and sometimes the works of art from that era hold more truths than documents.”

Viktor hummed, acknowledging but not accepting. Then he stood. “I shall take today to get things in order for my time away from the lab.”

Heimerdinger nodded, glancing up at him as he made for the door. “Make sure to think about what I said, m’boy. There’s no harm in getting to know her better.”

“I will, good day, sir.”

Viktor made sure the door had shut all the way before he groaned in frustration. He was not at all pleased with this outcome. He thumped his way across campus and back to the lab. Jayce was already tinkering away with something and didn’t acknowledge his entrance. Which he found he was thankful for. Repressing another sigh, he fell into his chair. A migraine was starting to worm in behind his eyes. He tried his best to ignore it while he sorted out his notes.

“Your visit with Heimerdinger didn’t go well?” Jayce asked after a few minutes of silence.

“What makes you say that?” Viktor muttered, staring at where his hand had been hovering for far too long without writing.

“Just a hunch.” Then Jayce added, “Did you bargain for a new pen?”

“I tried.” Viktor rolled his eyes, swiveling his chair towards him. Jayce was already half turned to him with an arm slung over the back of his seat. “I was unable to convince Heimerdinger to abandon the portrait. He instead wants me to befriend the artist -”

“Really?” This seemed to pique Jayce’s interest. He smirked at Viktor. “I think you should.”

Viktor frowned at him in turn. “And where would be the value? We’re in completely separate fields.”

“Always value in a new connection.” Jayce sighed, pushing himself out of his chair. He went over and clapped his hand on Viktor’s shoulder. “You kept me from literally jumping off a building. So let me help keep from socially jumping off a building.”

Viktor grimaced. “I -”

“Just make some small talk,” suggested Jayce, shrugging. “Ask if she prefers tea or coffee, flirt a little - she’s not going to bite. It’ll be good for you.”

“Flirt,” Viktor scoffed. He brushed Jayce’s hand off his shoulder. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“I’m just saying you should give it a try.” Jayce gave him a meaningful look.

“I believe that is more your area of expertise.” Viktor recalled his conversation with Heimerdinger, and gladly reached for a separate conversation thread. “Heimerdinger tells me your mother has sat for this artist of late. Do you know anything about that?”

“Not much.” Jayce thought for a moment. “I bet she’s that woman I saw.”

“I have to imagine it should be obvious if there was an easel or something.”

“I remember she was attractive. - I’ll see what I can find out.”

Humming, Viktor nodded and turned back to his work station. Of course that would be something Jayce noticed. He, on the other hand, hadn’t paid enough attention to notice one way or the other. He flung the thought from his mind that he’d have to make the judgment tomorrow when he saw you.

He spent the day collecting as many notes as he could and laying out a plan for Jayce. Experiments to do, blue prints and schematics to review - it was only an hour a day. A handful per week. But that could be the difference between success and failure. Jayce didn’t bring you up again, and Viktor tried very very hard not to replay the conversation with Heimerdinger.

Get to know you.

Make small talk.

Viktor could do that.

Flirt?

Well – that would be a whole other playing field.

______________________________________________________________

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The First Sketch

Master List NEXT >>

Pairing: Viktor x Fem!Artist!Reader

Synopsis: Heimerdinger wants a commemorative painting done of Viktor, who is not fond of the idea.

Word Count: 2.6K

Author's Note: This is the first in the canon I'm building for my fic For Your Pleasure. I'm working on making a whole series that will lead up to those events and after!

Don’t forget to like, comment, and reblog your favorite fics ❤️

~*~*~*~

Viktor had never been to the art wing of the university before. It was all the way across campus from the engineering wing. He never had any reason to trouble with the journey. Even during his student days. So, he couldn’t even begin to fathom why Professor Heimerdinger wanted to meet there.

It was much the same as other parts of the school. High arches, vaulted ceilings, and long polished hallways. The most noticeable differences were the art installations scattered throughout. Student and alumni collections were displayed from the moment you set foot through the archway. They ranged from grand paintings that ate up a large portion of the wall, down to hand carved statues, folded paper displays, and multimedia pieces with swatches of fabric roughly hewn to canvas.

Viktor didn’t really get art. Or more, he didn’t really have the time for it. Sure, it was pretty to look at. But he wasn’t the type to stand around and ponder a painting, wondering what the girl was staring at out in the blank distance. He could draw enough to make his blueprints and observations, and he was satisfied enough with that.

This time of day, the campus was nearly empty. Most people were in classes. Just a few stray lingered. A couple people called to Viktor as he passed them. He greeted them politely, but their names escaped him.

The clicking of his cane against the floor echoed far beyond him. Squinting at the door plaques, he sought for the room the professor had specified. Finally, after a long stretch of hall without any doors, the Alumni Studio came into view. It was titled with tall thin letters over a set of double doors. Opening one, Viktor popped his head in, tentatively scanning the space. The scent hit him first. Some notes were familiar to him - the slippery smell of oil mingling with the dryness of parchment. Others were foreign, a different kind of burn in his sinuses he didn’t know the source of. All of it was underlined with earthy clay.

The room was empty of people, but full of other things - mostly furniture. A massive canvas took up one wall, it was covered with a white sheet. Smears of bright paint and multicolored shoe prints stained the floor, despite the dozen beige drop cloths scattered about. Viktor carefully stepped over these, making sure not to get his cane caught up in one. There were gallon buckets of paint on the floor against one wall, a few were open with dribbles down their sides. A metal pail with some kind of murky solution overflowing with paint brushes stood beside a sink. A tall cabinet with papers stuck to its doors sat in the far corner next to a long counter equally covered in random items.

Right in the center of the room was a crimson chaise lounge. A single dark pillow nestled into the space where the high part of the back met the single arm. Before it sat an easel with a sizeable blank canvas. A small table had been set up beside it, the only thing on it a large drawing pad and a small bag.

Still, no Heimerdinger.

The professor’s voice came before Viktor actually saw him. Heimerdinger was chattering away around a corner where another door had closed. Whatever he was saying was too low for Viktor to hear. Then the professor emerged from a hallway beside a floor to ceiling mirror. Adorned in his usual blue coat and brown pin-stripe pants.His eyes lit up as soon as they saw Viktor standing there.

“Viktor, m’boy!” greeted Professor Heimerdinger. “Right on time, glad you could make it!”

“Good afternoon, sir.” Viktor nodded to him. “May I inquire - why are we in the art wing?”

“Ah, yes!” Heimerdinger turned away, calling a name he’d never heard into the room.

“Sorry!” called a voice in response, a bit muffled. “I’m a bit stuck. I’ll be there in a second.”

From the hallway next to the mirror emerged a young woman Viktor had never laid eyes on before - you. With your bright eyes, huffing and puffing as you carried a few large rolls of paper. There was a constant tink, tink, tink as you came towards them. Viktor looked down to find that another metal pail had its handle caught around your ankle.

“What is this?” Viktor asked, frowning. He was staring at Heimerdinger, who wasn’t paying a single bit of attention to him. Instead, trying to help get the pail off your foot.

“Viktor, right?” you asked, now looking at him expectantly. He didn’t answer right away. Taking in your paint covered clothes, and the sooty smear on your face. You were clearly an artist. “The professor has told me so much about you.”

“He’s told me told nothing of you,” Viktor murmured, mostly to himself. The smile on your face faltered a little, eyes flickering to the professor. Louder, he asked, “What are you planning, sir?“

“Yes!” Heimerdinger said, and introduced you to him properly. “Since you’re my assistant, I thought we should finally get around to properly commemorating it. It’s a very big deal, you know.”

Many emotions flickered through Viktor at once. His brain couldn’t pick one to act on, so his protests came out as incoherent half-sentences. But Heimerdinger just kept on talking. You paid no mind to his rejections. Just going to the easel and putting down the rolls. Heimerdinger paced around the room, and Viktor followed quickly after him.

“Professor, I have research to do,” Viktor protested loudly.

Heimerdinger waved him off. “That can wait. This is a tremendous promotion for you. I expect you to take an hour or two a day to pose until the painting is finished.”

Viktor choked on his own spit. “You can’t be serious - sir, please. I do not need to be painted.”

“This young lady is an excellent artist and will capture your likeness to the letter. For her senior thesis last year, she chose to paint me. I’m sure you’ve seen the portrait in my office. - I promise, she will do you justice.”

“I - that is not the problem here!”

“Viktor,” you started. He looked to you, annoyance coiling in his chest. “If you really don’t want to, I won’t be upset.”

“Nonsense,” Heimerdinger said with a note of finality. “Viktor will sit for you, and he will be an excellent subject. - Won’t you?”

Viktor knew he didn’t have a choice. There was a hard glint in the professor’s eye. An almost threatening one. It wasn’t a request as a mentor, this was an order as the Dean of the Academy. He didn’t want to find out the consequence of disobeying him. Finally, Viktor sighed. “Yes, sir.”

Heimerdinger, back to his usual self, exclaimed, “Excellent! Then starting today, you will start sit for your portrait! Now, I have a meeting to attend. But I’m putting my trust in you to be a respectable subject as assistant to the Dean of the Academy, Viktor.”

Viktor nodded, and the professor started moving towards the door. He was muttering to himself, briefly announcing that he’d be back later to check the progress. The pair of you - the artist and the engineer - watched him walk out the door. The only sound in the cavernous room its soft closing. Viktor continued to stare at the door, a part of him hoping Heimerdinger would come back in and say he was pulling his leg.

He didn’t.

“So,” you started, rocking back on your heels. “I - uh…”

Viktor’s gaze shifted to you. A sliver of guilt wedged in his chest when his annoyance spread to you. You were probably just commissioned. You had no idea he was being forced into it. He watched your eyes travel the room, then land back on him, eyebrows drawn together with an awkward smile. You gestured to the drawing pad in your hand. It was the large one from the table, now opened to a blank page. You shifted foot to foot under his gaze.

“Where should I be?” he asked.

You nodded towards the chaise. “I want to get a few sketches first. You can read or something while we do this. I figured that’s probably how you would want to be in the painting anyway.”

Viktor went to the couch, dropping his bag on the floor by one of the legs. It was a little firmer than he was expecting. He sat on the end with the high back, perched stiffly. Shoulders rigid. You sat on the other end, the pad in your lap and pencil in your hand. It was already moving across the page with quick, deft movements. He watched, but couldn’t see what you were sketching.

“So, assistant to the dean, eh?” you asked, not looking at him. “That’s a pretty prestigious spot.”

Viktor hummed, but chose not to say anything else. His annoyance with Heimerdinger burned at the back of his mind. Meanwhile, his conscious mind was flitting around a mental image of the lab. Making of a list of things he’d have to do to make up for lost time. He was going to have to sleep there until these sessions were finished. He frowned a touch at the thought. There was only so comfortable the emergency couch got. He may almost have to resort to sleeping here, even this couch was more comfortable than that one.

“Hhmmm…” you hummed.

His attention shifted back to you, alarmed to find that you were now closer to him. He shifted slightly away from you. Your unwavering gaze made his skin itch. Finally, you leaned back and scribbled a little note on the side.

“Your eyes,” you started, glancing up at him then back at the page. “They’re the most stunning shade of amber I’ve ever seen. - I hope I can mix the color right…”

Viktor felt hot at those words. He wasn’t sure anyone had ever said that to him. To hide the embarrassment, he went into his bag and scooped out a book. He didn’t pay attention to which one it was. Blindly thumbing through the pages. Great, this was one he’d already gone through and notated.

You didn’t say much else to him. Eyes intently flickering between his face and your page. Your hand movements were practiced, he could tell. But, in the back of his mind, a small voice nibbled at him. It asked why someone would bother wasting time with art? Why would Heimerdinger dedicate an entire section of the academy to it?

Viktor almost asked the question out loud, then thought better of it.

When the bell tolled the hour, you sat up. He could hear your spine crack. Viktor found himself quite stiff from staying still so long. You glanced back down at the pad, and dragged your pencil across it one last time.

“What do you think?” you asked, and turned the sketch book to him.

Viktor was alarmed to find himself staring back in striking detail. Thick lines and thin ones cutting out the hollows of his cheeks, the bags under his eyes, and fly away tufts of his hair. There were solo sketches of his eyes, his hands, his lips - his brace and the way the fabric of his pants folded under it. It felt far too intimate.

On the side was a quick note, he traced his name in your handwriting with his eyes. You’d scribbled down ochre and raw sienna. Making a note of how much white or ultramarine to mix for the proper color match. You even referenced a study you’d done with honey. And he had a brief thought of how much it almost looked like his own notes on the sides of his blueprints. Almost.

Clearing his throat, Viktor said, “I cannot deny you have a keen eye for observation. - May I take my leave? I have sat for the hour.”

The smile on your face flickered again. You flipped the pad upside down then discarded it on the open seat behind you, tucking the pencil behind your ear. “Right. Yeah - no - go right ahead. I’m sure you’re busy.”

Viktor put the book back in his bag and stood, stretching. “Thank you. - I will come tomorrow, the same time -”

“Actually,” you started, standing as well. You kept your back to him as you went to fiddle with the table by the easel. “I know the professor wants us to sit everyday. But I have something that will take all of tomorrow. So we’ll have to pick it up the day after.”

Viktor stared at where the straps of your overalls were twisted. “Very well. That gives me time to sort things with my colleague.”

You nodded. “Then I’ll see you the day after tomorrow. I’ll let Heimerdinger know when I go to see him. - It was nice to meet you, Viktor.”

“Likewise,” he muttered, and headed for the door.

Viktor grumbled as he made his way across the building. This walk was going to kill him (though he knew that was an exaggeration. He’d walked longer back to his dorm after a night out drinking in his student days). A painting, he scoffed in his mind. How utterly ridiculous.

Jayce chuckled when Viktor told him of Heimerdinger’s request. He hadn’t wanted to talk about it, but it finally managed to be pestered out of him. Jayce had been trying to figure out why he was so grumpy.

“Who’s the painter?” he asked, one arm slung over the back of his chair. He seemed totally engrossed.

Viktor shrugged, already your name had slipped from his mind. “A recent graduate.”

“And…what?”

“What what?” Viktor kept his turned to his papers, but could feel Jayce’s eyes on his back.

“Did they say something to you?”

“Only that she was impressed by my position.” And that I had lovely eyes. But he wasn’t going to tell Jayce that. He would never hear the end of it.

“And…that's it?”

“Yes, that is it.” Viktor’s glare was over his shoulder. “Why are you be exceptionally irritating today?”

“I think you’re just ‘exceptionally’ irritated.”

“Yes, of course. Because you are not at all annoying.”

“I’m glad you see it my way.” Jayce was silent for a moment, then continued, “So this artist, what’s she -”

Viktor rolled his eyes. “Why must you continue to press the subject?”

“I’m just wondering why you’re so pissed.”

Viktor turned to him then, and Jayce’s playful expression just dug into the well of annoyance Heimerdinger had started. “Because I do not wish to waste my time. I have better things to do than to be stared at for an hour.”

“Alright, alright…” Jayce finally held his hands up. He chuckled a little, spinning back to his desk. “I’ll drop it.”

“Thank you,” Viktor huffed, and turned back to his own workstation.

He worked hard throughout the afternoon. Attempting to make notes and collections for Jayce to follow up on in his absence. He almost expected the professor to pop in, but he didn’t. By the time night fell, Viktor had forgotten all about his irritation. About the portrait.

About you.

[imthedoctortobiasfreaky]

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊ ˚ ☁️🍓☁️ ₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚₊

Yes that's just a little bit of my gallery that is overflowing currently 👍🏻💀

☁️—At this point I should just stop being multifandom and devote my blog to horror game characters only..

I take requests, pervy ones if u don't know my blog yet.

˚˖𓍢ִ໋☁️✧˚.🍓༘⋆˚˖𓍢ִ໋☁️✧˚.🍓༘⋆˚˖𓍢ִ໋☁️✧˚.🍓༘⋆˚˖𓍢ִ໋☁️✧˚.🍓⋆˚˖𓍢ִ໋☁️✧˚.🍓༘

[imthedoctortobiasfreaky]

Restless

viktorxgn!reader explicit. This is a request for my lovely artist friend @notoakay! The premise: Viktor keeps a dream diary that you accidentally discover. Guess what kind of dreams he keeps having :') warnings: depravity and blow jobs.

word count: 3,1K

author’s note: Hello on this beautiful Freakday, grab a Freaktor while I go out to socialize! Also, this is my small contribution to a gn!reader smut category, finally getting there. @notoakay thank you for all the lovely art for my fics, I can't believe I'm so lucky :') pre-read by @rennethen!

—

He wakes up with a deep, long sigh, a hand coming up to rub across his face. His back is damp, skin tacky with sweat from a night of tossing and turning, and between his legs, the heavy insistence of a morning erection presses against the sheets. Eyes still closed, mind still buried half in dreamland, since it’s so, so hard to let you go from the place his brain has conjured you into overnight. A place between his feet, cheek resting against the tender inside of his thigh, his hand curled at the crown of your head, a slow, loving press of fingers.

Lucid and pliant, Viktor sits up and reaches for the notebook on his bedstand. Shaking the sleep from his stiff fingers, he picks up a pen and writes down every detail before it fades, so he doesn’t forget, so he can keep at least this version of you. Like a letter, he starts with your name, scribbled in shaky letters. Then—

You’ve plagued me again, my beautiful friend.

It started with your hands in mine, warm and kind. You traced the lines of my palm as if you’d meant to memorize. You spoke, though I cannot recall the words, only the way they stirred at the base of my spine, a current running upward, catching at my throat. You knelt between my legs like it was inevitable. Like gravity, like breath.

The heat of your mouth—Gods, it was ruinous. You took me in slow, lips parting around me in something longing and cruel. My fingers found your scalp to ground myself, as it’s so easy to slip with you. Your tongue undid me, made me useless to reason, to logic, to anything beyond the wet slide of you hollowing your cheeks, sucking me further into the dark.

I do not know if I warned you before I came, only that I woke with my lips parted, your name a whisper into the ceiling.

And now, as always, I commit you to these pages, lest the memory slip from my grasp like you so often do.

Then, Viktor reads through it, again and again, eyes skimming and stopping on words, as if reliving before he has to brace through the day, in which you will be infuriatingly present, maddeningly impossible to place anywhere near the scenarios his mind keeps conjuring night after night.

With slow hands, he gets dressed—a mundane action, utterly mechanical. He packs his bag for lectures, journal wedged at the very bottom beneath textbooks, notebooks, and pens. The notebooks are all the same, a dull shade of red, the vermillion lost somewhere between a thousand sun-licks stolen through the glass of his windows. The secret one marked with a single dot on the spine, barely visible, as it’s only for Viktor to know which notes are to be seen by others and which are not.

It’s hard enough to be around you in public spaces—lecture hall, library, cantina, lab classes. Worse if you get a project together—that has prompted dreams that make Viktor question his own sanity, if merely as much as a brush of your fingers on his forearm is enough to give his imagination a kickstart, presenting him with images of you on top of him, nuzzling into his neck, thighs heavy against his hips.

Even worse if the said project requires after-hours engagement in spaces that are less public, more cramped, like, say, his couch. There, your ankles splayed across his lap, purely unbearable. He would stare then at the balls of your feet and your toes flexing, wondering how your Achilles tendon would feel between his thumb and index finger, what it would feel like to press the heel of his palm into your arch. What sound you would make for him. How soft your skin is there—the one that never touches the shoe.

Night after this, he had the worst time. His own feet, toes curled painfully, hips thrusting into the mattress, hands fisting the sheet as he woke up long before dawn, bathed in his own sweat, cum staining his boxers. The journal entry from that night particularly hasty, written in the dark, ink smeared with the damp sheen of his hand.

You ruin me.

Your back on the sheets, hair on the pillow. I pressed my mouth to your ankle first, I remember that, a stupid indulgence. Kissed the fragile bone there, let my teeth scrape. Your foot twitched. You laughed, soft, breathless, then—

Then I hit the mattress hard, your hands fisted in my shirt, dragging me down. Your legs, God, your legs, warm and eager, wrapping around my waist, heel hooking into my hip, pressing me closer. I was there, flush against you, drowning in the heat of you, the way your body fit to mine like it had always meant to.

You told me something—I don't know what. The words are lost, just a whisper against my cheek. It didn’t matter. What mattered was the way you moved beneath me, the way your breath hitched when I rocked forward, the way your nails dragged over my shoulders as I pushed inside.

Tight, unbearable. You took me so well. I wanted to stop, to savour, but you wouldn’t let me, your hips meeting mine, guiding, demanding. My hands on your thighs, pushing them wider, my lips at your neck, your shoulder, your open mouth. You trembled. You clenched around me. I lost myself.

And then I woke up.

Again.

Zatraceně.

Tired, eyes weighed down by heavy bags, he rose at dawn and dragged himself to the library, hoping to steady his mind with engineering theory. Unaware of how bad it was going to get, he absentmindedly sketched the curve of your mouth into the corner of his notebook, drawn from memory.

Now, seated in the lecture hall, you three benches away, twirling a strand of hair around your finger, he taps his pen idly against his chin, trying to catch your gaze. A mistake. The moment he does, a daydream unspools, creeping in at the edges of his vision, so vivid that Heimerdinger’s voice announcing project pairs barely registers.

He writes it down, quick, hasty, barely a few words: I’d give anything to see your eyes roll while you moan out my name.

As if through osmosis, his brain absorbs the announcement, and oh—there are your eyes again, watching him, smiling, your head nodding in acknowledgment just as the information finally filters through his vacant ears and reaches his brain: you are doing a project together.

And there is his name—not moaned out, like he wishes, but spoken kindly when you approach his bench.

“So, Viktor,” you say, crouching by his seat, folding your arms on the study desk. “Ready to work together again?”

“Always,” he replies. “Start in the evening, as usual?” He hopes he doesn’t have to spell out the meeting point for you—the insistent blush on his cheeks is already hard enough to control.

“Perfect,” you hum. “I’ll swing by after dinner.”

It’s hard not to pace, even with the cane in his hand. He finds himself walking idly from one side of the room to the other, picking up random objects just to keep his hands busy. By the time you knock, he’s engrossed in a book on ship construction, of all things, standing halfway between the door and his bed. Tome wedged under his armpit, he walks up faster than he would like and swings the door open.

“Hi,” you say, giving him a small wave. “I’ve brought some notes.”

“Hi yourself.” His fingers tighten briefly around the edge of the doorframe before he steps aside to let you in. “And that’s perfect.”

The project is relatively simple—designing a spring-loaded prosthetic grip, a mechanism that mimics the natural flexion of fingers through tension cables and calibrated springs. It’s a study in biomechanics, balance, and precision, something Viktor has already taken notes on long before Heimerdinger’s assignment. His interest in assistive devices is not new, though he rarely shares the extent of it. The challenge isn’t in concept but in refinement: reducing mechanical lag, ensuring the grip has enough force to hold delicate objects without crushing them, making it adjustable for different users. Tonight’s task is to sketch a preliminary blueprint and compile research notes, but Viktor, always a step ahead, already has calculations scribbled in the margins of past lecture notes, waiting for a moment like this.

After a brief discussion, during which Viktor tries very hard not to stare at your lips too intently, you splay a large sheet of paper across his desk and begin jotting down major points. As you write, your waist brushes his shoulder, and you steal a long, secret inhale of his scent—mostly soap, but anything touched by his skin is worthy of such theft.

He shifts in his chair, eyes tracing the movement of your hand, his mind torn between the engineering task before him and your wrist. When the former wins—not without casualties, in the form of two lashes falling from his lids due to the effort of blinking the wrist away—Viktor picks up a pen and begins drafting.

At some point, he stops, staring at the page, sighing as he gathers his thoughts. Then, without looking, he gestures vaguely toward his bedside table. “Eh, grab that notebook, will you?”

“Can you read the marked page out loud?” he asks, unaware of the impending catastrophe.

“Of course,” you say, nodding, retrieving the notebook—only to freeze as you open it. Your name sits there, conjoined with beautiful in one sentence. Heat rises from your neck to the tips of your ears as you skim the passage, and you thank every force in the universe that Viktor is still looking down.

“Everything alright?” he asks, hunched over.

A lump lodges itself in your throat, one of the largest you’ve ever had to swallow, yet somehow, you manage to say, “Yes, just… are you sure?”

“Yes, I work better when dictated to,” Viktor replies, matter-of-fact.

You lick your lips. Blink. And then—“It started with your hands in mine, warm and kind—”

Be it his preoccupation with engineering or sheer denial of something so mortifying, Viktor doesn’t clock it at first when you say your name aloud. Gods, he doesn’t react fast enough when you read the phrase my beautiful friend.

It goes too far. Far enough that he’s suddenly on his feet, limping toward you, snapping the notebook shut in your hands. Panting, he stammers, “S-stop. Please.”

“Viktor—”

“How much have you read?” he cuts in, eyes hopeful in a way that’s almost foolish. Hope is all he has now.

“The marked page,” you murmur, not daring to meet his gaze.

“Oh, Gods,” he groans, sinking onto the bed, cradling his head in his hands. He doesn’t even bother to take the damning evidence of his depravity away from you.

“Wait,” you try, though you’re not sure what you’re stopping—his despair, his retreat? “Wait,” you say again, placing the notebook on your lap, mind scrambling for the right approach.

Throwing yourself at him is an option—one you entertain briefly—but it feels too blunt. Reading more is tempting, but you fear Viktor might dissolve into an irretrievable puddle of shame at your feet. Instead, you set the notebook aside and brush your knuckles against his.

“I dream of you too,” you say quietly, trying to coax his hands away from his ears. “I just can’t write about it as beautifully as you do.”

Viktor’s mouth parts as he finally looks at you. Eyes searching, brows drawn, he whispers, voice small, “Do not toy with me.”

You exhale, almost wounded by the accusation, but instead of reaching for words—already admitted to be not your strength—you take his hand, pressing his fingers to the pulse at your wrist. “I’m not lying,” you say, thumb brushing the heel of his palm.

And Viktor, your sweet friend, a poet apparently buried beneath layers of science, closes his eyes and feels out your heartbeat. You might call it treacherous, the way it flutters beneath his touch, but seeing his features smooth, relief softening the angles of his pretty face, you find yourself grateful instead.

Once he deems it the truth, his hand slides further, cradling the side of your neck as he presses his forehead to yours, sighing deep from the hollow of his chest. “Impossible,” he whispers. “So many nights I’ve spent wondering, restless.”

“Me too,” you breathe, cupping the hollows of his cheeks. “Maybe we’re not so smart after all.”

“Oh, I’m most definitely a fool,” Viktor says, rubbing his nose along your cheek. His breath comes hot, his stubble scraping your chin. Now you can smell him properly, and indeed, the soap-washed warmth of his skin drills itself into your memory as the finest scent ever to enter your airways.

“I’m certain none of my dreams have done you proper tribute,” he mutters, so close to your lips they brush against each other.

“Would you like to check,” you ask, voice barely there, hands slipping to his belt, “how far off you were?”

“I cannot say no to you, my dear. Ever,” he breathes, stomach hollowing under your touch as you press him onto his back.

Your hands are steady as you undo the buckle, fingers slipping the leather through the loop, the click of metal swallowed in the hush of the room. Viktor lies back, half-propped on his elbows, watching you with an expression that wavers between disbelief and the sharp edge of anticipation. His lips part, breath drawing slow and deep as if he's forcing himself not to rush, not to tremble, not to let this moment slip into some fevered imagining that will dissolve when he blinks.

You press your lips to the taut plane of his stomach, right above the waistband, and he shifts beneath you, muscles flexing, a shiver rippling outward. A slow drag of your fingers down his hips, then the fabric slides past his thighs, pooling uselessly at his knees. He’s flushed everywhere—his chest, his throat, the fine skin stretching across his cheekbones.

He swallows hard. “I—” He stops himself, breath catching, his knuckles whitening where they grip the sheets.

You don’t make him finish. Instead, you lower your head, pressing a kiss to the crease of his thigh, right where the heat of him pulses, where his skin is sensitive and soft, the kind of place untouched by anything but accident or necessity. He makes a sound—barely there, a choked thing trapped in his throat. His hips twitch, like he wants to move but doesn’t dare.

You let your tongue trace the line of muscle, tasting the salt of his skin, pressing your lips there until his breath turns uneven, his chest rising and falling like he’s run a long way. His thighs tense, his hands flex where they rest beside him, helpless with restraint.

Then your mouth moves, and he keens—head tipping back, eyes squeezing shut. A shudder rolls through him, his body caught between wanting to stay still and the instinct to chase more. His fingers dig into the sheets, gripping, like he’s afraid to touch, afraid to break something delicate and impossible.

His voice comes wrecked, roughened at the edges. “Oh—”

You hum against him, and he makes another sound, weak and breathless, one hand flying to his mouth to bite down on his own knuckle, trying to swallow whatever unguarded thing is threatening to spill free. His free hand finds your shoulder, fingertips ghosting there like he wants to pull you closer, anchor himself to something, someone. You.

His whole body is warm, fevered, getting too close to undone. You, real and here, not scrawled into the margins of his journal, not buried in the dark corners of his mind where want festers and never sees light. No, you are right here, with him, taking him apart piece by piece, and Viktor—brilliant, dreaming Viktor—does not know how to bear it.

He twitches in your mouth, hard and heavy, skin sliding slick through the corners of your lips until you reach the tip and pause, pressing your tongue against the prominent vein of his underside. “I’m a terrible writer,” he chuckles out a wet sound, lifting back onto his elbows. “I was never able to capture the reality of this, ah—” He tries again but falters when you hum at the praise.

Your hands travel up, up from the harsh angle of his hips to his stomach, to his ribs, and Viktor reaches out to meet the tips of your fingers with his. A spark flashes between your damp skin and his when your palms entwine on his belly. You lift your gaze to look at him, and he’s so gorgeous—lips reddened and parted, lids hooded, hiding the dark of his eyes, hair dishevelled. You can almost see the breath leaving his mouth, your name following, a warning, then—

“I’m so close,” he whispers, squeezing your hand tighter. You shut your eyes and take all of him in, trapping his cock until the spasm travels wide, spreading from his stomach down to his abdomen, finally spilling hot and salty on your tongue. A drop squeezes past the prison of your lips, and Viktor wipes it away with his thumb, dazed and blissed beyond anything he’s ever put into writing.

The soft sounds he makes—low and strangled—curl in the air around you, a mix of pleasure and disbelief, as if he can’t quite conceive the feeling overtaking him. His throat expands sharply, breath catching between each exhale, and for a moment, the world narrows to nothing but the sound of his voice and the pulse of his heartbeat.

It thunders in his ears when you kiss the skin around his base, leaving a burning trace of your lips upward along his body until you reach his chin and hesitate. Arms folded on his chest, you wait—not even for a second before Viktor pulls you closer, mouth sealing over yours in a long, languid kiss. Then he says, “No dream of mine was ever fair to you,” affection seeping from every word. “Stay with me.”

You stay, nuzzled into him, the notebook—the awkward catalyst of your connection—resting on the bedstand. And for Viktor, it’s the first dreamless night in ages.

[imthedoctortobiasfreaky]

Request:

fem!reader being OBSESSED with Viktor’s hands: the way they move, the way they hold things, the way they touch her.

I just need an ode to this man's hands ughhhh 😮‍💨

Oh Anon, you and me both. The Reader came out gn, because they are barely there :')

The Hollow of His Hand

Let's say viktorxgn!reader, mature. It really is just an ode to Viktor's hands; gif op, I apologize for using your brilliant work for something so depraved.

word count: 1,1K

author’s note: Freaktor this, Freaktor that, how about Reader is a freak for once? I'm not obsessed, you are obsessed.

—

It’s your favourite place—there, where his palm wrinkles, where fingers meet at the tips, extending whenever he passes something to you or reaches out, hand turned upward, letting you study the lines of the sole of his hand while he waits to receive something in it. Occasionally, your fingertips brush, sending a tingling sensation down to your elbow, making you linger.

It is either that Viktor knows or is entirely unaware of the shapes his hands take. When he writes, the pen rests strangely on his ring finger, with his index and middle keeping it in place, tendons flexing, wrist bending. You watch carefully, studying, memorizing for later—for when you are alone, so you can picture your own hand as his, were you ever so lucky.

You do not know which one it is in the workshop, when he adjusts the screws. If he knows, if he doesn’t. If he is aware of how the tendons in his hands pull taut, how the skin stretches over bone, how his knuckles bloom white when he tightens a bolt with precision. You watch the curl of his fingers, the way his nails, short and neat but never quite clean, catch the low light of the workshop’s lamps. The grease stains never quite leave, not entirely, dark crescents that sit beneath the nails like the shadowed banks of a river, tracing the paths of his labour. His hands bear no softness, no idle smoothness of a life untested. They are lined with the effort of creation, etched with the memory of every project he has built, repaired, torn apart, reassembled.

His forearms, dusted with hair that catches gold when he turns beneath the lamp, are a map of tension and movement. The veins rise to the surface when he grips the wrench, thick as the roots of an old tree pressing against damp soil. A freckle, then another, and another, scattered like a night sky inverted, the dark spots turned pale against the warmth of his skin. They sprawl up toward the hidden place where his sleeves remain stubbornly rolled, bunched at his elbows, the fabric wrinkled from long hours, from heat, from the constant shift of his limbs in motion. The muscle there is lean, work-honed, and when he leans into the machine, adjusting his stance, the curve of his bicep tightens, a flicker of strength beneath the skin.

But it is the place you have never seen that haunts you most. The place just beyond where the fabric ends, where his shoulder meets his neck, the juncture always concealed by layers of shirts, vests, coats, a guarded piece of him that only the mirror and the dark truly know. You imagine it warm beneath your lips, a hollow to rest your mouth against, to press into, to taste salt and heat and Viktor. The thought knots something low in your stomach, fingers twitching at your sides, the sheer want of it too much to swallow. You should not be watching. But how could you not?

What you do not know is whether it’s the labour-bared version of his hands or the relaxed one—the one resting on his cane, fingers curled idly; the one splayed across his thigh when he reads; or the one hovering close to yours on the desk as he writes—that haunts you most. It’s most likely the latter, the gentler version, the one that lingers in your mind unrestrained, creeping into the quiet hours of the evening when your chin rests on your knuckles, your gaze fixed, your thoughts drifting. To his thumb brushing your lower lip, then pressing inside.

Your mind fills with images of you taking him into your mouth, the way his fingers would press past your lips, the taste of salt and metal lingering on his skin, the faintest trace of ink at the pads. His knuckles would catch at the seam of your lips, but you’d open for him, let him slide in slow, let him feel the heat of your tongue, the soft press of it against the ridges of his fingerprints. You’d hollow your cheeks, suck him in deeper, and he—he would watch, breath uneven, eyes dark, lips parted as if he could feel the pull of it somewhere lower. His fingers would flex, testing the give of your mouth, the way your tongue curls around them, and you’d hum, a quiet, pleased sound, just to see how he reacts—to watch his throat bob with the effort of swallowing, his free hand gripping his thigh, his breath leaving in a sharp, unsteady exhale.

From that, you think of his fingers tracing down your spine, featherlight at first, then pressing, pressing, pressing until your skin dimples beneath the weight of his fingertips. His palm, broad and warm, spanning the small of your back, keeping you close, right where he wants you, God you wish. You think of the way his knuckles would drag over your ribs, slow, gentle, as if counting each one, mapping the cage that holds your breath, your heart—his now, if he asked.

His fingers, long and deft, would skim lower, curl under the hem of your shirt, just enough for his nails—sharp when they need to be—to scratch at your skin, raising gooseflesh in their wake. You imagine them undoing buttons with methodical ease, the same precision he gives to his work, until fabric slips from your shoulders, and you are left bare beneath his gaze. How he might pause, knuckles grazing your collarbone, his thumb finding the hollow at the base of your throat, pressing there just enough to make you swallow around it.

And then lower still, his hands bracketing your hips, thumbs digging into the soft flesh, fingers splaying, pulling, guiding. You can see it so clearly—his wrists flexing, his forearms tensing, the fine dusting of hair shifting as he moves. How he would grip, firm but never rough, his palms anchoring you to him as he drags you into his lap, until you are flush against him, breath mingling, the heat of his skin seeping into yours.

But it’s truly the hollow of his hand where you want to rest the most—to shrink yourself down and be cradled, warm and safe, there, where Viktor would pick you up and keep you in his chest pocket, close to his heart.

Suddenly, in the dim light of the workshop, he sighs deeply, and like through thick water, his voice reaches you: “Are you with me?”

The sound of your own name, spoken with quiet concern, breaks through the haze, and you finally look up. And oh—it’s his mouth, forming the syllables, shaping the sound. His lips, right there, moving, parting. His lips are, of course, an entirely different story.

[imthedoctortobiasfreaky]

I was wondering if I could request michael dating hcs where reader and Michael have been dating pre distortion but then he dies or whatever and is the distortion now and comes back to them

Of course! Sorry for the late response.

Thank you for the request :)

I think pre-distortion Michael would be incredibly sweet towards you.

Like, worships the ground you walk on kind of sweet.

If you work at the Institute, especially if you work in the Archives, he'd check up on you whenever he gets the chance :)

He'd bring you tea and make sure you're doing well

Even if you don't work at the Institute, he'd be the kind of person to double-check that you're doing okay when he gets the chance to see you.

He would show his love for you mostly through words (though it might take him a couple tries) and through things like holding your hand or leaning on you when you're sitting together

He'd be less outright, less like he needs you to know that he loves you, and more like he trusts that you already do

I don't think he'd tell you about going to Sannikov Land with Gertrude before he left, if you didn't work in the Archives

I think he'd do his best generally to keep you out of the things that happen there

Once the Spiral takes over, I think it'd wait to come back to you

He would eventually, but it wouldn't be right away

Distortion Michael doesn't like to be viewed as human in general, so I don't think that would be any different with you

I think he'd still appear to you as "human" at first -- it plays this off as a tactic to get closer to you and allow the Spiral to consume you, but it's really just because Michael's pre-distortion emotions still interfere

You'd notice small things, like how it's hands feel... strange. And how he rarely lets you touch him.

If you work at the Archives, it probably wouldn't take long to connect the dots

He took a mysterious trip with Gertrude, disappeared, and came back acting weird -- in that line of work, it's not that difficult to realise what's going on.

If you react well (as in you don't immediately try to kill him) he'll stop disguising himself as human around you

It's not like he enjoys it anyway

I think the main difference in how he treats you would be that he's much more obvious about letting you know that he loves you, like he's trying to convince you

Like telling you he loves you more often than is needed, making a point of keeping physical contact whenever he can, etc.

He still wouldn't tell you exactly what happened at Sannikov Land

Either he flat-out wouldn't tell you anything, or he would, but he'd change little details about the story each time, just enough that things don't add up

Otherwise he'd still generally act with you like he did before; just more cryptic, and less head-over-heels devoted

[imthedoctortobiasfreaky]

Hi Anons! Happy Freakday! Taking this amazing opportunity to mingle two into one:

Lips Where Lips Were

viktorxfemale!reader explicit. What's in here? Perverted yearning, panty theft and face sitting :v I'm sure the day was stressful for him :< Never lose sight of your laundry, folks!

word count: 3K

author’s note: I listened to Smoke City Underwater Love. @rennethen beta-read and she was sick doing it so double thank-yous! And as per schedule, I name Fridays Freakdays, and on most of those you can expect some Freaktor action.

—

It wasn’t planned at all when you stepped into the laundry room with a basket full of clothes. Pure coincidence—or call it fate, if Viktor dared to entertain such grand notions when it came to something so utterly embarrassing.

He had just been loading the washing machine, half full with his meagre three white shirts and a few undershirts, when the door swung open. You entered backwards, nudging it open with your ass, your face obscured by the tall basket cradled in your arms. But he recognised you instantly—by the back of your head, the curve of your neck, your ankles. Again, utterly embarrassing.

“Oh my God, are you washing whites? Please tell me you are washing whites,” you asked, not bothering with a hello.

Viktor eyed the laundry in your arms, picking up what you were putting down, but simply replied, “Yes, I’m washing whites.”

"Mind if I invade?" you asked, already shifting your weight forward, basket pressing into your stomach. "I’ve mostly got darks, but I’m running out of underwear."

Viktor swallowed, considering. Having your underwear washed with his­—pretty good. You having no underwear to wear? Significantly better. Being unable to come up with explanation to denying you, he forced a nod, stepping back from his machine as if giving you space might help untangle the sudden knot in his throat.

"Be my guest," he said, voice steady despite the way his pulse stuttered.

You wasted no time, setting your basket down and beginning to sort through your clothes. Viktor watched as you moved, as your hands fished out a bundle of whites and dropped them in beside his. Then, with the ease of someone used to efficiency, you loaded a second machine with your darker clothes.

It should have been a nothing moment—mundane, forgettable. But when you leaned forward, he caught sight of a bra slipping from the heap in your arms, a delicate thing edged with lace, straps tangled. His mouth went dry.

A thought, insistent and utterly filthy, flashed across his mind—quick, scorching, and impossible to ignore. He almost turned away, almost shut the machine door to spare himself from his own treacherous imagination. But then, right there, in the tangle of fabric, were your knickers.

White as snow. Thin as paper. A tiny, pretty bow crowning the hem.

His fingers twitched. Good with his hands as he was, before he could think better of it, before his brain could catch up to his body, he snagged them—swift, seamless, a movement so smooth it almost convinced him it hadn’t happened at all. But the fabric in his pocket was real as day whenever he reached to check if it’s still there.

And now, Viktor has a problem.

He’s thought about returning them—washing them by hand and slipping them in with the rest of your white clothes. He’s also considered getting rid of them: throwing them away, tossing them out the window, burning them—anything that might make him stop. But whenever he comes close, he falters.

At first, just the thought of having a piece of fabric that was so intimately close to you is enough. Clutching onto the last ounces of self-respect he has, Viktor does nothing beyond tucking the knickers into his chest pocket, carrying them close to his heart whenever he feels like it.

The idea nearly backfires when Jayce asks him for a pen—the little metal loop catches on the fabric, almost pulling them out and exposing him for the depraved pervert he is.

From that point forward, Viktor says goodbye to your underwear every time he leaves his dorm. They lay splayed flat on his bed when he returns, and his mind instantly drifts to which parts of you they clung to. The curve of your ass, hugged tightly as you pulled them on. The waistband, with its little bow resting just beneath your belly button. And his favourite part—the delicate pouch fabric kissed by your sweet lips.

Then it happens again that his body overrides his mind’s restraint, compulsive in its betrayal. It’s a compulsion, yes, when his fingers unbuckle the belt, his hand palming his aching cock. It’s compulsive yet again when he undoes his fly, rubbing himself through his boxers, thinking of you. It’s compulsive when he pulls himself out and smears the precum pearling at the tip, pretending it’s your gentle fingers touching his heated skin.

And it’s utterly deranged when he reaches for your panties and brings them to his face. If he could snort it all up, he would. Instead, he holds it against his nose, inhaling deeply, greedily. It’s dizzying—the smell of you, sweet and intimate, proof that this was yours.

His fingers tease the head first, gliding over the aching spot just beneath, and he twitches in his own hand. His mind, corrupt and rotten, throws him the worst of images for this occasion—or the best, depending on how he looks at it. You, bending over, the seam of your underwear glaring at him from beneath your skirt. Your mouth, speaking his name. Then moaning his name as his hand is buried between your thighs.

His grip tightens around his cock. At first, slow, as he breathes in the remnants of you. He strokes himself languidly, knees bent over the bed’s edge, feet pressing hard into the floor. His hips thrust up, chasing more—more of anything to quell the ache inside him, the iron grip that coils low in his belly.

Your name spills from his mouth, ragged and desperate. He imagines you here, above him, thighs caging his head as you press down onto his waiting tongue. The thought alone has his cock twitching in his hand again, and he lets out a filthy groan, gripping himself harder.

And even though shame still lingers somewhere in the periphery of his thoughts, he cannot help himself. He splays the fabric over his face and licks where your lips have been cradled. And kisses there. And takes it into his mouth, sucking on it—the poor substitute for your soft pussy.

“Ah—fuck—” His breath stutters, muscles winding tight as he fucks into his own hand now. Fast and hard. His imagination runs wild—your taste on his tongue, your fingers tugging his hair, the way you’d roll your hips to use his mouth like you need it. He lets himself drown in the fantasy, slutty moans spilling from his mouth so loud he doesn’t hear the knocking. Or the door to his dorm room creaking open. Or the soft sound of feet shuffling on the floor.

You do knock. And you do call out, until you mistake a noise coming from his bedroom for one of pain. You rush in, clutching a shirt he mistakenly gave you with your batch of white laundry to your chest. And then you freeze by the door, when you hear the sound of your own name stumbling from Viktor’s lips in the filthiest, most sultry tone you’ve ever heard from him. Oh—the door is ajar.

Not that you haven’t imagined him doing it. Many times, possibly too many to count. But to imagine it and to hear it—raw and real, seeping into your ears so sweetly—is a completely different thing.

For a moment, you squeeze your eyes shut before holding your breath and stepping in carefully. Viktor is writhing on the bed, unaware, unseeing, his trousers slipped down his thighs, and his face covered with—oh. One hand pushes the fabric into his nose and mouth, and the mere sight has your thighs clenching under your skirt as you step closer, transfixed.

Heat floods your cheeks when your gaze drops to his other hand, to his cock—hard and flushed at the tip, sliding in and out of his grip as his hips thrust helplessly. He looks so absolutely, utterly hot like this, you almost want to let him finish—just to see the vulgar act of him cumming all over his stomach. Until, again—oh. You notice it—the panties are yours.

"Viktor," you whisper, bewildered.

He freezes. "Fuck!" The curse rips from him, loud and raw as he throws the underwear away from him like it burned, rolling onto his stomach with light speed. "Fuck." Again, muffled against the mattress. Then your name, a plea. "I'm so... so sorry."

You step closer, gaze flicking to where the discarded fabric landed. Slowly, you bend down and pick it up between two fingers, holding it up as you muse, "I thought I was missing a pair."

Viktor drops his forehead to the mattress and groans, frustration and shame bleeding into the sound. "I can't believe this is happening, I—"

"For how long have you had them?" you ask. There’s no accusation, only curiosity.

He says nothing. You bite your lower lip, eyes drawn helplessly to the curve of his bare ass, the tension in his shoulders, the way his entire body seems locked in mortification.

"Viktor," you try again, softer this time. "Look at me. Turn over."

"I beg you, spare me," he rasps. "I promise I will apologize properly, but please, please, leave."

But you don’t. You see it now—clearly, undeniably. Viktor has been pining for you as much as you’ve pined for him. And so you dare, your mind stunted with the sight conjuring ideas beyond the realm of reason, as you crawl onto the bed. The mattress dips beneath your weight and you settle beside him, sitting on the balls of your feet. Viktor presses his face harder into the sheets, as if willing either himself or you to disappear. "Please," he mutters, your name a breathless sigh, "this is mortifying."

You reach out, running a hand up his leg, fingertips tracing along the muscle, up to the swell of his ass in a gentle caress. Where you touch goosebumps prickle on his skin and you really, really have to resist the urge to bite on his pale cheek. "Viktor," you murmur, voice coaxing, "please look at me. I beg you."

He sighs into the bed, then slowly turns his head to face you, though he avoids your eyes. His face flushed all the way up to his cheeks, shame bleeding into skin. Swallowing hard, he says, “I am so sorry. I wasn’t… This is not—”

"Hey," you say softly, brushing the hair off his forehead. His eyes squeeze shut at the touch. You shift closer, lying on your belly beside him, and blow gently on his face. A breathy chuckle forces its way out of him, and finally—finally—he opens his eyes.

"Hi," you whisper.

"Hi yourself," Viktor murmurs, calmer now.

"I, uh—" you start, then bite your lip. "Can I… see you?" The words come out shyly, your breath held as you wait for his reaction.

"W-what?" Viktor turns, startled—only his torso, though. His hips remain stubbornly pressed to the mattress, much to your disappointment. His brows knit together as he waits for an explanation.

But you have no idea what to say, so you let your body speak for you. You exhale, closing the last bit of distance between you, wrapping your arms around his waist and pressing your forehead to his. "Please," you whisper, "you looked so… hot."

Your cheeks scald as you wait for his reaction, but disappointment and fear flee the moment Viktor's tongue swipes over his lips and—oh—he rolls over, revealing his pretty cock to you. It had been trapped in the crease of his thigh, held there by the dampness of his skin, still achingly hard.

You reach for him slowly, and he moans—his brows knitting—before you even touch him. Your fingers, palm facing down, trace over his balls before gliding up, the heel of your hand pressing along his length, your thumb circling beneath the head.

“Your cock is so pretty,” you whisper a quiet praise, and he shudders, pressing his nose into your cheek, his lips brushing yours, mouths hanging open. As your hand moves in tender strokes, Viktor can’t help himself, it’s invitation enough. His fingers tangle into your hair, and he presses his tongue between your lips, kissing you sloppily, desperately. "Oh God, yes," he mutters into your mouth.

The sound alone makes you moan, spurring you to move with more intent. In no time, you have him so worked up that the neglected dampness between your legs almost doesn’t bother you—but then Viktor’s tongue grows more insistent, his hands roam your body, and your hips buck involuntarily. He clocks it immediately, rasping into your mouth, “Sit on my face. Please.”

You choke on a sound between a gasp and a moan, barely having time to process his words before Viktor’s hands find your hips, guiding you forward. He shifts beneath you, pressing his back flat against the mattress, and tugs at you again, insistent and needy. His breath is hot against your skin as he urges, “Come here, please.”

Your legs tremble as you move, suddenly all shy and hesitant. You come to straddle his chest first, but oh, Viktor’s shame has melted into impatience once encouraged—his hands slide up, gripping your thighs to pull you the rest of the way until you hover above his face. His parted lips are so close that you can feel the ghost of his breath and it’s so unbearably warm you barely resist the urge to sink into him.

What’s in front of you, is his cock, still flushed and leaking, laying thick on his navel. Swallowing your nerves, you lean forward, bracing your hands on his sharp hips as you lower your mouth to him, wrapping your fingers around the base. Viktor groans beneath you, the vibration rippling against your skin and you can feel yourself leaking obscenely when he whines out his famous last words—“Fuck, you are so wet,” and his hot mouth meets your sex.

It's a sinful swipe, that first one. Has you gasping and gripping his cock tighter, before you remember what is it that you are holding. Your eyes widen, mouth huffing warm air over his length as you try to regain your bearings. But Viktor is relentless, thorough, as if he’s intent on devouring the very essence of you, memorising every crevice. His hands tighten on your thighs, pulling you down, grinding you against his mouth, burying himself in you.

It’s a thousand times better than a mouthful of your underwear—no comparison, really. Not that Viktor can think straight enough to measure the difference, not when his tongue finds its rhythm, plunging in and out of your hole. His head wrenches back into the mattress, chin teasing your clit, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thighs. And then—he groans, a loud, wrecked sound, because your mouth has just wrapped itself around his cock.

Your lips part around the head, tongue flicking over the slit as your hand works the base, thumb pressing along the thick vein running underneath. He twitches so beautifully under your touch that you pause, pulling off with a quiet pop. Watching him glisten in your palm, this time it’s you who can’t help yourself—you glue your torso to his stomach, bury your face against his cock, and inhale long and deep through your mouth and nose.

Viktor shudders beneath you, a deep, broken groan muffled against your cunt. As if this were a conversation, you moan back, the vibration sending a shudder rolling through his muscles. Emboldened, he buries himself deeper, rubbing his chin against your sweet spot, fucking you with his tongue until your hips begin to move on their own, grinding down onto his face. And you—oh, you take him back into the warmth of your mouth, sinking down past the barrier of your throat. Drool spills down his length, slicking the ridges with every bob of your head.

What was merely an ember when you walked in on him now burns bright and hot in his loins. He snorts up whatever air you grant him between your movements, bracing himself for the blinding twist in his stomach that he knows is imminent. His muscles flex under your hands, and for a moment, he loses rhythm, parts his lips from you—and then he cums with a throat-wrenching moan, hard and heavy, spilling thick white into your mouth. You lick it all up, gulp on it, letting him make as many sounds as he likes, lifting your hips just enough so that your clit stays pressed against his chin.

When his cock begins to border on overstimulated, his hand finds your hair, and he tugs you gently, guiding you back to where you were—pressing you down onto his tongue. And you are so, so close. You straighten, brace yourself on his chest, and rut against him without restraint, dragging yourself over the flat of his tongue.

Viktor groans into you, his fingers digging into your thighs, keeping you where he wants you, letting you use him, consume him. Heat gathers and pools over in waves, tipping you beyond that edge—your body seizing as a raw, broken moan tears from your throat. With the sight of his pretty softening cock in front of you, his name spills from your lips, over and over, as you tremble and grind against his mouth. He holds you through it, drinking in every last shudder and cry until you finally collapse against him, spent and trembling.

Your ass slides off his face, splayed in front of his very eyes and Viktor suddenly realises something—all this time you’ve had no knickers on. “Why are you not wearing any underwear?” he asks, voice hoarse.

“Hmm, I thought I miscalculated, but turns out you took my last pair,” you smirk against his hip where your cheek is cradled. You place a soft kiss there to the peak of his bone and whisper, “You can keep it.”

[imthedoctortobiasfreaky]

Slipping through my Fingers - Viktor x Reader

Pairing: Viktor (Arcane) x Reader (can be read as any gender, no pronouns used) Genre: angst/fluff Word Count: 7 449 Warnings: no use of (y/n), Viktor behaves like an ass in the beginning, self-doubts Summary: Your routine of checking up on Viktor, who fell asleep in the lab takes an unexpected turn Prompts: enemies (not really) to lovers A/N: For @spongelll (let me know if you want to be tagged in any future Bucky and or/Viktor stuff) Before writing: I have so many long ideas, but I know I can’t finish them, so I’m trying to write something short and sweet here.

You feel like an intruder in your own laboratory, as you quietly crank open the heavy, double winged door, peeking inside. The lights are turned off, safe for the one on the wide desk at the far end of the room. And there, in the halo of a lamp that bravely beats on against the oppressive push of the darkness of the late hour, sits Viktor. His back is to the door, his cane leaning against the table next to him, and his head? hanging so low over his notes that you know he must be asleep.

The smile on your lips is accompanied by a tucking in your chest, that is not entirely positive. Another night he spends in the lab, another night he misses out on his soft bed, doubtlessly the same academy-sponsored bed sheets in his dorm room staying cool for another night, just like the ones in your own dorm room.

The thought, that it probably isn’t good for him to never take off that chest brace, or the one for his knee, pushes into your mind, and for a short, delirious moment you consider waking him, walking over, shaking his shoulder, telling him to go to his room and rest properly. Sitting like that can’t be good for his neck either. It isn’t. You’ve seen him enough times, after nights like this one, how he spends the next day rolling his head from left to right, shrugging his shoulders, hoping to get rid of the painful tensions in them.

But before you even step into the room fully, you already know that you will not wake him, less for his sake than for yours. You’re selfish, maybe, not wanting to be met with the harsh and unforgiving stare and a scoff that tells you not to bother him while he is working. You have enough of these reactions memorized as it is, and each one feels like the sting of a needle in your soul, needles that get pushed in a little further each time another one gets added, another scoff, a dismissive wave of his hand, a gaze averted too quickly, as if he couldn’t stand looking at someone he so clearly deems below himself by so much.

And it hurts. You wish it didn’t, that you could be indifferent to his jabs and degradations, but you aren’t. Maybe, because you don’t understand why he is like this towards you. Everyone else he treats with the respect any living being inherently deserves, everyone, without exceptions. Sure, he rolls his eyes at the naive questions of first year students, but he answers them patiently. He sometimes assumes too much experience from his assistants and shakes his head at them when he has to explain again. But you, who is not his assistant but his equal in the laboratory, you he treats as if you should know every one of his complex thoughts and understand them without him having to explain.

Maybe it was a compliment, and you really try to see it as such, but somewhere along the line his reactions to your questions become a painful sting, an experience you try to avoid. Where he is kind a gentle with others, he is harsh and prickly with you, his patience thinning into anger as if you were intentionally not understanding his leaps in thoughts. You have gotten better at finding the thin lines that connect one idea to the next inside his mind, but sometimes you still have to ask, lest the situation become dangerous while working with something as powerful as HexTech, and each of his annoyed reactions is another needle added to your heart, which feels like a pincushion by now.

It irritates you, his insistence to keep you at arm’s length, ensuring you can never become more than a co-worker, even though you try, try becoming something like a friend, the way you became friends with Jayce and Sky so easily. Even when friendship isn’t what you wish for, deep down in your heart, not when you look at his whiskey-golden eyes or his tousled hair that refuses to obey the restrictions of any product he ever might have tried using to flatten it down, not when you see the adorably delighted grin on his lips whenever an experiment ended up working out the way he had planned it. His distance irritates you all the more, seeing how he tries to engage with everyone else, trying to find a place to fit in, with his science and HexTech-experiments, a place that accepts him for him, and not a crooked, perverted version of himself, made to fit into the tight frame of societal expectations. You wonder what it is about you that makes him push you away, if it is a misunderstanding, or just you as a person. You wish he wouldn’t look down on you, shush you harshly, ignore you, make you feel like you are worth less than you are, but whatever it is about you that makes him act this way, even if you knew, you would not change it. You like the way you are, and even if he hurts you, maybe more than he is aware of, maybe even more than he could forgive himself for, you would rather stay true to yourself than let him bend you into a person you do not wish to be. 

Which leads you here, standing in the dimly lit lab holding a thin blanket, instead of waking him and sending him to his room to sleep. A thin blanket, which you have gotten used to keeping around for moments like this, moments when Viktor falls asleep in the lab as if it were the only place that offers him the peace to shut his eyes. Quietly you walk over to him, careful to keep the clicking of your hard-soled shoes to a minimum, vigilant not to disturb him. 

His head is sunken to his chest, chocolate-brown strands of hair having fallen into his face, and your fingers tingle with the urge to brush them away, out of his eyes, tuck them behind his ear, or maybe just to feel them against your skin. Of course you don’t reach out, instead take a moment longer to admire his sleeping form. For once the crease between his brows has smoothed out, the problems in his experiments and equations forgotten momentarily while he has escaped to the realm of dreams, and you wonder which pictures paint themselves behind his eyelids. You catch yourself wishing your portrait is hung in his mind, not even big, you know it wouldn’t be, but maybe a small acknowledgment, a footnote in his memory of the work you accomplished together.

You shoo the thought away, reaching past him, and move the cup next to his notebook a safe distance away from his hand and the edge of the desk. You have seen Viktor fall asleep at his desk often enough to know that sometimes he flinches in his sleep, and you don’t want to risk him pouring the remaining contents of his cup over his notes.

For a moment you linger, hesitate as you look at the pen in his hand. It’s still touched to the paper, already having left some lines that don’t belong between the neatly written calculations. A glance at his face, and you make your decision, very slowly reaching out. You almost hold your breath as your fingers close around the back end of the pen, and- you’re lucky, Viktor’s hold on the pen isn’t tight. Carefully you pull the pen out of his hand, his fingers only twitching once, trying to grasp at what is no longer there, but then his hand relaxes and falls to the desk, more relaxed than before.

Quickly you check to see if the intrusion into his space has woken him up, but Viktor’s eyes are still closed, his breath still deep and even, blissfully unaware of the care he receives by the very same hands he so often refuses to acknowledge. His long lashes rest against his faintly freckled cheeks, and for a moment you can’t help but think that the ladies of Piltover would certainly kill for lashes as full and long as Viktor’s. Maybe it’s for the best that he hides away behind books and lab equipment; you’re certain he could throw the high society of the city into love-drunk chaos if he used the charms, you know he possesses, for evil.

You know he has charms because you have been unfortunate to have witness him weaponize it during a meeting discussing the funding for future HexTech funding, and in equal parts shock and amusement you found his charms had worked. So, he can be charming, you concluded afterwards, and simply consciously decides not to be with you.

Jerk.

The word pushes so close to your lips, tinted with unjustified admiration, that it almost spills over, before you swallow it back down into a hidden place in your chest, the deepest part of your heart, where you never have to acknowledge it again.

Taking a deep breath, you turn away, unfolding the thin blanket next to Viktor. This is the most difficult part - covering him with it, without him noticing. But not once in the many times you have done him this favour has he ever woken, so your nerves are not nearly as on edge as the first few times. Indeed, this time too, he doesn’t even stir, just keeps breathing, keeps dreaming of you-don’t-know-what. And maybe you don’t even want to know. 

For a moment you stand and look at him, wondering why after all this dismissive behaviour towards you, you still care, still try to melt the ice he has piled up in blocks between you.

Maybe it’s because you feel attracted to his brilliance, you think. But then again, Jayce is brilliant too, and what you feel towards him is so different from the gravity Viktor’s character exerts on you. Maybe it’s because he is beautiful, not like a fairy tale prince, but more like the brilliant scientist who struggled his whole life to be allowed to conduct the studies his heart aches to perform with the goal to acquire the knowledge to help the people. Well, he is that scientist, isn’t he. Or maybe it’s his kindness, the one he shows everyone but you, the one you almost enviously watch him hand out to the people in his life, while you hide in the corner with a smile on your face, like the child that snuck in to see a play, hiding under the seats while watching their favourite fairy tale unfold before their very eyes, maybe the one about the kind scientist. 

In the end, you conclude, it doesn’t matter why you ended up with your feelings so entangled in non-sense, the answer to the why wouldn’t change the fact, which is that you care for Viktor and he not for you. But you are not yet ready to let go of that care, even when you long have given up hope.

Instead, you adjust the blanket a little to cover him fully, and step back. Tomorrow morning, when you come in to resume your work, your own equations and calculations, the blanket will sit neatly folded on the corner of Viktor’s table, while he is leaning over his notebooks, pen in one hand, a steaming cup of hot tea in the other. He will not mention the blanket, not even when you grab it on your way to your lunch break. If he will acknowledge your presence beyond the discussion of his latest findings, it will be to tell you to close the door, or to demand you should breathe more quietly.

An inaudible sigh frees itself from your throat without your permission, and then you reach to his desk lamp, dimming the light. It’s too dark now to work, but just right for napping. Should Viktor wake up before the sunlight of a new day floods the laboratory high above the city, he will neither wake to darkness nor to blinding light.

With a last glance you check the still peacefully sleeping Viktor and his desk. The cup is safe from being pushed over, the pen no longer drawing lines over his notebook, the blanket covering Victor to keep him warm though the night. Everything is as it should be. Well, should be beyond the fact that Viktor is sleeping here, instead of his bed.

You turn to leave, are halfway across the room, when suddenly the sound of your name being spoken breaks the silence and makes you freeze.

~*~

It’s the distinct feeling of something slipping through his fingers, something intangible, something he cannot put into words. Maybe it’s not even something physical, never was, just a feeling, but Viktor’s fingers try to keep holding on, try to keep this something in his palm, but it slips, slips away beyond where he can reach it.

No, he realises with the panic setting in of a realisation that comes too late, not something. It’s you, he’s losing. He knows it. Isn’t this what you wanted, a part of his mind mocks him. He isn’t sure why he would ever treat you with anything but the purest affection, the gentlest words, the most heartfelt reassurances, but he does. He never lets the warmth in his heart bleed into his words, much less his actions.

You irritate him, with your sweetness, how you never treat him like someone who needs help, but rather someone you care for. It’s dangerous, why can’t you see that? You wouldn’t want him, not really. He knows this much. Why do you keep being so kind to him, when all you do, knowingly or not, is bind his heart to you, each understanding word, every question about his work, even the smallest gestures of holding open a door, not to mention the big ones, the blankets you cover him with when he fell asleep at his desk, and the lunchboxes you put next to his notes, are one sling of the rope after the other binding his heart to you, a tangle of his soul to your very being.

He tried to keep you away, a wordless warning that you wouldn’t want him, not with his unrelenting focus on his work, not with his broken body and his distracted mind, not with how much less he is of what you deserve. But you stay around, and it kills him inside every time he forces himself not to react to how sweet you are to him, instead of taking your face between his hands, which - he is sure - could cover your whole face.

He wishes he could be delicate with you, as soft and caring as you are with him, but to keep you safe he grows thorns and sharp edges, and even when he scratches you, you still push through.

Things get even more difficult, infinitely more torturous when you stop being sweet. When the caring, human side of you melts away into the cool, analytical side that juggles formulas and theories and numbers and ideas through the room as if you had never done anything else. Underneath your hands working chalk against blackboard walls, brilliance takes shape in the form of equations. The way you write them down is like light, refracting in a drop of water, making what seemed dull and well known suddenly like an explosion of colour and possibilities, and Viktor hates himself every time he doesn’t tell you that without your approaches to HexTech he never could have made progress in his own work.

But between the sweetness of your character and the brilliance fall a million other things that make him want to wrap his heart around you and never let you go. The way you laugh, especially when you feel like you don’t have to hide it for reasons of politeness. The way you jump up stairs or storm down corridors when you have an idea you need to write down. The way you explain, gesticulating, voice tight with excitement. The way you respect and admire the people you work with, encouraging, supporting, ever curious for new insights, new approaches. And there is so much more of you, things Viktor can’t even begin to understand while he keeps himself at arm’s length.

Last week you brushed his arm by accident, and the short contact, really just the sensation of his shirt being pressed to his skin for a split second has made him strangely aware of your physicality- you are real. You are human. Your skin is soft, even though he may never touch it. Your hands might be warm, like his, or maybe they’re cool. They might be cool, considering you often wear a layer more than him, as if you’re cold. He suspects the clean smell of simple soap to cling to you, even though he has never allowed himself to lean in far enough to inhale it. Beneath your skin there is blood rushing, breath filling your lungs, a heart beating in your chest, and it hurts knowing those are parts of you he will never feel. Even if you were to let him, he can’t let himself. For your sake. For your safety. 

Then why- then why is there panic now in the way his fingers tighten around nothing, grasping for you, the thing he has sworn himself to never reach for? Why is his heart racing, why does the warmth that suddenly engulfs him feel like it’s the last time he will ever feel its comfort?

Panic surged through him, and rises, rises, constricts his breath, claws at his throat, makes him gag and thrash against the darkness that swallows him. It’s dark and warm, but soon enough the warmth will fade, and you will be gone.

And then?

Then what?

What is he without you but a heart unravelled, torn to pieces by his own cowardice? Why does he have to be the strong one, he wonders, his head light as he drowns in dark warmth. Why does he have to protect you? Can’t he let himself fall into your arms, which you have been holding out so willingly for so long? You offer him your arm, offer yourself as a crutch, so when you offer, why does he insist on refusing to lay his weight on you?

He sputters at the despair filling his lungs, reaches and reaches for what has slipped through his fingers.

Why can he not allow himself to accept your offer? Because he thinks there is nothing he can give you in return. But can he not support you, too? You help him walk, and he catches you, should you ever stumble. He will carry his weight, not put more on you than he must, but he can accept your help, can he not? Can he not put his heart into your hands? Would you let him hold yours in return? He would hold it carefully, the way one holds a baby bird in the hollow of their hands. He would hold your heart, and if you let him, he would hold you, too.

All of you.

Not just the parts he sees now, not just the parts he likes, the parts that fit him.

All of you.

But you’re slipping through his fingers, just as he allows himself to feel, just as he allows himself to tear down the walls he tried to build. And his fingers close around nothing, his chest fills with warmth he knows will evaporate soon enough into the darkness beyond his eyelids, and in one last, desperate plea, your name falls from his lips.

~*~

It’s just a whisper, your name spoken in the silence of the dimly lit laboratory, and for a moment you think you just imagined Viktor’s familiar voice sounding out your name. He hardly ever uses it, the times he does, so rare and few between, you sometimes wonder if he even remembers it. But now it bridges the short distance between where he sits, and where you are on your way towards the door. It reaches out, brushes against you and then evaporates into nothingness, but is enough to make you halt your steps, wondering if maybe you yourself have fallen asleep and are dreaming up a world in which he cared enough to know your name. 

Just as you come to the conclusion that your own, sleep-deprived mind played a trick on you, there is the faint sound of fabric rustling, before your name is spoken again, clearer this time, more than a whisper, almost desperate, Viktor’s accent wrapping thickly into the vowels and consonants, as if making it his own, something only he gets to call you. 

You want to stand your ground, refuse turning around and tell him “You shouldn’t sleep in the lab, Viktor. Go to bed.” But you don’t. Maybe you can’t. You can’t ever be strict or curt with him, even when he deserves it. So instead, you turn around, your heart hammering hard in your chest.

Why?

Because you have been caught in the act of caring for someone who discards every service as irrelevant, worse, less than that? Or because his voice sounds so frail, so scared, but is still enough to make the air around you vibrate, fill the high-ceiling room with the sudden awareness that it is just you and him here, him wrapped into the blanket you put over him, your name wrapped in his gentle voice. Gentle… something he has never been with you. It makes alarm bells ring in your mind, and your racing heart is over-written by sudden concern. 

“Viktor,” you breath the quiet reply as you twist, turning to look back at him. 

He has sat up in his chair, turned enough to look at you over his shoulder, his face shrouded in shadow, his expression unreadable. The blanket you so carefully pulled over his shoulders has slipped down to where it catches in his elbows that remain propped up on the table.

For a moment you just look at each other, hesitant, neither of you sure where this is going, a confrontation you had attempted to avoid, one Viktor couldn’t deny having anticipated. But you don’t know that, don’t know of the panic that surged in his chest at the thought you might slip from between his fingers, not even aware that was where you had been, thinking you were separated by oceans he had filled with buckets upon buckets of indifference.

You expect a scolding, a scoff, a “you’re too loud” or “why’d you wake me”, at least a roll of his eyes and him to turn away, so when he lifts his hand of the table and reaches out, a feeble attempt to bridge the meters between you, you are not sure what to make of it. All you do is stare at his hand for a moment, stare at the way he stretches, reaches for you, a silent, unvoiced plea that you almost swear you just imagine in the gesture.

Hesitating another moment, you finally turn around fully, slowly walking back over, but when you reach him, his eyes never leaving your face, you don’t take his hand, just consider it for a moment before abandoning the idea. He makes the decision for you, wrapping his fingers, long and warm and blotted with ink stains, around yours, pulling you closer. There is a tension in his shoulders, that begins to fall away as soon as his skin is against yours, a tension that loosens with every inch you close.

“You’re still here,” he observes, looking up at you from where he sits, his head finally turned enough towards the light to have his face lit up.

His eyes shine golden, but they lack the sharp edge he usually considers you with. Instead, they are open, like he forgot to lock the gates to his soul this time before looking at you. Behind them, there is vulnerability you are not used to seeing from him, and even after years of knowing him, you are not sure you have ever seen him like this, laid bare, every feeling in the open. But you don’t know how to read him. You know the closed version of him, and the carefully friendly version he shares with the others close to him, but this Viktor is a book written in a language you have never seen before. It is all right there, right before your eyes, pleading you to understand, and you lack the experience with him to do so. It’s painful and frustrating, because you are certain, in this moment, that you will never get another chance, will never get the time to decode the signs that put together the emotions he shows you now. 

A flicker of understanding brushes over his face, his lips lift in a small smile, as if he had heard your thoughts, your internal scolding of not holding a dictionary for his most inner motions ready at hand.

“You’re still here,” he repeats, and you don’t know what to answer.

It doesn’t seem like he expects an answer though, because he gets up from his chair, his hand still closed around yours, and stands before you. The blanket you so carefully had wrapped him in unravelled itself, slipped from his lap, caught against his trousers in something that made it almost seem reluctant to follow the physics of gravity, before piling at his feet.

Now that he stands, Viktor is taller than you, and you almost have to tilt your head a little to look into his face. His expression is still open, still unguarded maybe for the first time since you met him, and his mouth opens as if to say something, maybe explain himself.

And then he falls forwards. 

At first you think he lost his balance, or collapsed, but the moment his body comes to meet yours, you realise it’s none of that. He still stands, carries his own weight, but is leaning against you, his arms, thin but surprisingly strong, come around you, pulling you into him. Not harsh, not oppressive, not in a way that wouldn’t allow you immediate escape, but steady, present, intentional.

He knows what he’s doing and he’s doing nothing he didn’t mean to, and he lets you know, let’s you take in the shock for a moment, before his arms wrap tighter around you, his feet move him closer, and one of his hands travels to the spot between your shoulder blades, holding you against him, his hands warm enough to bleed unfamiliar comfort through your jacket, right into your skin.

You’re still hesitating, completely overwhelmed and so confused. What is this, what does this mean? Why does he let you in, searches your touch?

You give in without meaning to, let your own arms circle around him, not as tight as he holds you, but with just enough strength to signal him you want this, want him. Slowly, almost hesitantly, you let your head fall against him, let your temple rest against his vest.

He’s warm, you realise the longer the contact gets drawn out. Even the parts of his body where you feel the rigid brace over his torso are warm, hard metal digging into your stomach, and doubtlessly into his as well.

You can’t help but allow yourself to be overwhelmed by the sensations attacking your senses, the shape of his chest against yours, uneven and interrupted by metal hidden underneath the silky fabric of his shirt, adorned with hard, metal buttons, the weight of his arms around you, the caress of his hands, holding you, confident in a way you hadn’t expected him to be. The fabric of his vest is smooth under your fingertips, the buttons on the back stretching the fabric around his slim waist, a waist that now, that you got your arms around it, you realise isn’t really that slim, only in comparison to the rest of the body. Something to hold on to, someone to sink into. Somehow you had always imagined Viktor to be more fragile than he is, now, that his arms are holding you to him. But there is nothing fragile about his body, only lean muscle and soft skin and warmth that engulfs you in way you hadn’t even dared dreaming about.

Then you feel his lips against your forehead, plush and soft, the brush of his nose against your hair, the tickle of beard stubble he ignored for a day too long on the skin underneath. His lips linger, make your breath hitch, and then stop as your hold your breath, waiting, not capable of imagining what could possibly have tempted him enough to do that. But his lips stay pressed to your skin, soft, caressing, his breath fanning over your face, reminding you to take a breath of your own before your lungs ache for oxygen.

You could swear you feel a soundless chuckle in his chest, as if it amuses him that you cannot fathom what is happening, that he holds you as if he intended to never let go, but what you don’t know is the pain that makes his chest ache along with his amusement, pain over having made you believe he could ever want anything other than being this close to you. 

You stand like this for a long time, his body steady and warm against yours, while you are stiff from surprise and disbelief. But he waits, waits for the tension to fall away, waits until you relax enough to let your body melt against him. And finally, finally it feels like he is complete. Your touch, the way you mould yourself against him, fills every creak and crevance in his torn, little heart and he holds you a little tighter, breaths a little deeper, and closes his eyes so tight he thinks he might never get them open again. He wouldn’t mind if he didn’t, as long as it meant you never had to step away from him.

But you do eventually. Not before not a long while has passed, not before not your hearts have gotten so used to feeling each other’s rhythms against ribs and metal braces that they calmed down to a calm duet of affection that doesn’t need words to make the other body understand.

You do understand, at least that’s what Viktor hopes, because he isn’t strong enough to find a verbal language to express the fear he holds so tight in his chest. The fear that he is too much trouble for a free soul like yours, or maybe not enough of everything you desire. And he most certainly doesn’t know how to tell you that despite every word and every gesture, every action and rejection he used to make you believe he wouldn’t care, he loves you.

He will figure out that it takes just three words, but sometimes the simplest solutions seem the most difficult to find under the rubble of grand declarations and impossibly tight-wound feelings.

So, he doesn’t have the words to answer the questions that swim in your eyes when you pull away to look at him. Your hands are on his waist, pushing yourself away from him, like he once pushed himself away from you, but now the stuffy air that separates you from him, even if it’s just a few inches, feels like a cruel abyss, cold and insurmountable.

He knows you deserve better, deserve to know why he was once so distant and what made this distance turn into a burning fire of need to feel you by his side, but he doesn’t know how to do better, and you don’t demand him to be better either. You search his face, for something he wishes he could phrase, but you don’t need words it seems, finding your answers in his eyes, because you reach up, cupping his cheek in your palm, just a short contact of your fingers against his skin and- you smile. Viktor swears the sun just rose right in front of him, warm and gentle and so absolutely necessary for life as he knows it, beautiful enough for him to be able to push aside the fear of getting burned. 

Your fingers drop away again, a chill replacing their brushed caress, and finally Viktor can speak, even if it’s not what you deserve to be told, only what he selfishly wants to take. 

“Stay with me,” he breathes, and a shiver runs down your spine as you look up into those golden irises that have burned themselves so deep into your mind you can even see them when you close your eyes. “Stay with me.”

You blink, slowly regaining a sense of your surroundings, which had melted away the moment Viktor’s hand had met yours, and you remember where you are, why you are here, the blanket pooling around Viktor’s ankles. 

“Not here,” you tell him, and he almost startles, you feel the shock ripple through his body as if coming to the same realisation as you: You’re still standing at his desk in his lab. He looks like he has been torn out of a dream, blinking at you before suddenly looking away, his eyes scanning the walls of books and windows and blackboards. “Not tonight.”

When he looks back at you, his gaze has changed, and you brace for what you had been waiting for the whole time: him pushing you away again, reeling back in the vulnerability and shutting the gates to his soul, never to open them for you again. 

When he reaches back out to you, mirroring the way you hold him by the waist, you can tell he relishes in your surprise. 

“Not here,” he repeats your words back at you, his eyes still soft, and he leans in a little closer. “Not tonight. Not here tonight. Where then?”

You understand what he’s going for, even if it’s not what you had meant. At the same time, you cannot deny that what he’s asking is what you want to ask but haven’t allowed yourself. Instead, you had tried making it sound like it’s about the time rather the place. But Viktor sees through you, even through the mask you put on so that what’s inside your soul doesn’t scare him away. Either he has sharper eyes than you had realised until now or he simply knows no fear. While for now you assume the latter, the truth lies in the former.

His question still hangs between you, his “th” more a “d” due to his accent, and even though the familiar sound of it tries coaxing you to speak your mind, you cannot admit that right now all you want is to curl up against him, or around him, on your bed, so you remain silent.

He looks at you, as if your reply is written in your eyes, and maybe it is, because he nods, as if to agree, or maybe he decided for himself what he wants to do, because he pulls away and reaches for the button of the desk lamp, switching it off.

In the darkness that engulfs you instantly your ears feel like their hearing has improved a hundred-fold, hearing him move as he picks up the blanket from the floor and throws it on his chair, even when all you can think about is how cold you feel where his hands had rested moments ago.

In the absolute dark Viktor’s hand finds yours, not unlike the first touch he shared with you tonight - no, not just tonight, but ever. You hear the clicking of his cane, as it hits the floor and then he tucks at your hand, guiding you towards the door you slipped through like a thief in the night. The only thing you have stolen though is Viktor’s heart, but that was long before tonight. Although perhaps it could be said that tonight’s loot is nobody other than the brilliant scientist himself, stolen away from his desk by the realization gained in a nightmare that he must not let love slip through his fingers. 

As Viktor leads you through the corridors of the Academy, you barely pay attention to anything but his hand in yours, larger, with long fingers that close around yours in a certainty and confidence you find yourself admiring. Perhaps it’s simply the fact that you admire him. You don’t pay much mind where he brings you, trusting him, knowing he wouldn’t harm you or do anything you object. 

When he stops in front of his dorm room door, you’re calm, almost as if the way he had held you before had drained all the nerves from your body, and so you let him lead you inside, kick your shoes off next to the door, and follow him to the bed, onto which he pulls you down on top of him. His arms come back around you, holding you in place when you try shifting off him, worried you might hurt him with your weight. 

“Stay,” he whispers, his lips brushing against your ear, his breath like an intoxicating mist on your skin.

“I’m heavy,” you attempt to argue weakly, “I’ll hurt you.”

His arms tighten on you, pulling you closer, and you can hear more than see him shake his head.

“Stay.” A single word, a command, a plea.

“Your braces-”

Viktor sighs, and for a moment you wonder if this is where he kicks you back out of his life as his arms loosen around you, and you push up to lean over him.

“You care-” 

too much, is what you’re certain he wanted to say, but he just stares at you, as you’re propped up over him, and if you weren’t waiting for rejection, you might have closed the gap and kissed him. 

But the last two words never come, swallowed up in affection and disbelieving bliss as his aureate eyes read the concern in yours. Concern that shifts as you get distracted by the specks of bronze in his irises, the light freckles that dot over his nose and cheeks all the way down to his neck, where they disappear under the collar of his shirt. They’re so faint you never noticed them until you almost had your nose pressed to them, and you find you love every single one of them, wish you could lean down to show them - show Viktor - your affection with the brush of your lips.

“You care.” Viktor’s mind feels like a scratched record, unable to come up with any new words, only repeating the ones his throat had already fought to rasp out, and he regrets the way your eyes jump from where they were running over the skin of his neck back to his eyes. Their caress was soft and appreciative, and he vows to himself to ask you to do it again, just not tonight. Maybe under bright sunlight where he can see your eyes shine and make out the baby hair that grows where your face ends and your hair begins. 

It is as if his words have torn you out of your stupor, and quickly you sit up.

“You have to change out of the braces,” you tell him, and Viktor shakes his head in defeat, before obeying your order, limping to the bathroom to change.

You watch him disappear, and suddenly you feel too awkward to move. Your body suddenly is heavy with sleep, but you resist the temptation of his soft looking pillow, the one that is sure to wrap you in his scent, and instead stay seated, waiting for him to come back.

When he does, his hair is tousled from pulling his shirt over his head, the clothes he is wearing now looking soft and comfortable, not unlike the ones you had thrown on before sneaking into the laboratory to take care of him.

The memory of how the evening started makes a smile tuck at your lips, and Viktor raises an eyebrow at you, in equal parts amused and curious.

“Won’t you share your thoughts,” he asks, glad to finally have access to his vocabulary again. Most of it anyways.

“Just-” You watch as he sits down next to you, before laying down and reaching his hands out for you; an invitation to come back into his arms. You don’t hesitate. “When I came into the lab, I wanted to make sure you would sleep at least a little more comfortably.”

Viktor pulls you against his chest, now a lot softer than a few minutes ago with the brace. His chest expands and deflates evenly as he shifts you to lay half on top of him. It is the first time you are so close to him, so intimate in his bed even before having tasted his kiss or spoken words of confessions. Still, it feels natural, like you belong, like you are meant to be in his arms. He feels the same.

“I’m sure I’ll sleep more comfortably tonight than any night before,” he admits, an affectionate glint in his eyes that makes your knees weak. “And…” he hesitates, his eyes flickering away, his tongue coming out to wet his lips, “I do hope it’s just the first night of many.”

Your heart jumps and your cheeks heat up, so you drop your head to his shoulder, hiding the embarrassment of hearing words you had dreamt about hearing for so long. His hands rub your back in slow, firm circles, but the quiet laugh that rumbles in his chest gives away not just his amusement at your reaction but also his melting anxiety about your answer.

“Fine,” you agree, your words muffled against his shirt. “Only the first.”

A shimmer of fear remains as you bid your good night to him, curled against his warm body, that things will be different in the morning, that his resentment will have returned, that he might kick you out or have disappeared by the time you wake. But Viktor still holds you tight when you wake up, brushing his nose against your cheek and smiling at you as if there’s a secret only the two of you know.

Brushes of his nose against your cheek that morning turn to brushes of his hands against yours throughout the day and the next weeks, then to brushes against your elbow, brushes of his nose against your hair, his lips against your cheeks and finally an explanation of what had changed so suddenly before you take the leap and press your lips to his in a kiss that neither of you would have dared hoping for three months ago.

It’s easy to take your time, to slowly work up from one display of affection to the next, because you know you’re in the right place, and there is no haste.

And life goes on.

Different, and yet the same. Still equations and formulas paint themselves against the blackboards in the laboratory, directed by your hand, and still Viktor watches you, watches the brilliant colours of unlocking nature’s secrets coming to life through you, but he no longer turns his gaze away, when you look over to him. He no longer sends you away when you offer him lunchboxes, but invites you to sit with him, or even joins you for lunch outside in the gardens.

He lets himself lean on you, even if it’s not much, it eases the weight he sometimes feels on his shoulders, and he catches you, when you stumble through nights of little sleep or low moods. And even though it is perhaps the one thing nobody else notices, it's the one thing that makes the biggest difference to him, and to you: he no longer sleeps in the lab. Even when he stays late, there is always a point in which his body aches for sleep, sleep in the arms of the one person he trusts most, the one person he loves with more of his heart than he ever thought was possible to give.

So, he sneaks down the corridors on those nights when he hasn’t pulled you back into his own room, tries to mute the sound of his cane against the tiles as he moves towards your door and slips in, like an intruder. But he isn’t. Not when it’s your arms he falls into, not when it’s your body that presses to him and tells him he is home.

A/N: This turned out not short (for me) and only sweet towards the end. Also, I feel like I was on drugs while writing this (I promise, I wasn't).

[imthedoctortobiasfreaky]

Panty sniffers unite 💪‼️

I fell down the rabbit hole of panty sniffer Viktor fics by @hexwhore and @hivemuthur and felt…inspired