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mysticalmindedmaiden · 28 days ago

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ah- my bedtime store is here 🫦

To Be Known - Ch.11.

viktorxfemale!reader very explicit as usual, Modern AU, set in London, current era but not very specific. It's just a love story.

<- previous chapter MASTERLIST next chapter ->

word count: 9,5K (I'm so, so sorry)

warnings, or rather this chapter contains: timeline moves forward, Reader's POV, sensory deprivation oral sex (blindfold), light bondage, deepthroating with extra steps (full asphyxiation and yes, MORE BLOWJOBS), face-sitting, penetrative sex in good and bad version, Reader's anxiety and also: introducing angst that DOESN’T resolve within one chapter. Please don’t jail me ok? I’m doing a thing. Also, sadly, I'm explaining my own joke at the bottom.

author’s note: As usual, playlist here and artist is @petitesieste ♡

Cross-posted on AO3

—

In the hush of Viktor’s bedroom permissions are being asked in a tender brush of knuckles on your cheek and granted by a breath fanning the heel of his palm. You kneel on the bed with your hands bound in your front as he tightens the knot on the back of your head. The silk of his tie stretches across your eyes, nose, hugs your cheeks and the tips of your ears.

Then, hands come to cup your face and lips come to kiss yours. He lingers, mouth parted, thumbs sinking into skin. Your head follows when he parts you and he dares to chuckle when you whine at the loss. You reach out for him blindly, fingers curling behind his waistband and Viktor lets you, because at least you can’t see the look on his face. The goony, lovestruck, idiotic face he wears more often than not around you. The one he’s afraid will give him away sooner than any constipated confession.

He's too busy blinking it away to notice your mouth parting and coming to kiss him through his jeans. You rub your face on his groin, hands sliding beneath the shirt, cradling his waist and Viktor gets hard from this only. He groans and lets his head loll back on his shoulders. Just stands there cradling the base of your skull.

Greedy, your fingers find the front of his pants, knuckles brushing denim, the button too stubborn beneath your bound hands. You huff in frustration and Viktor laughs, low in his chest, like he can’t help it. “Did you miss me?” he teases, risking it.

“Insurmountably,” you murmur, and kiss the base of his cock through the fabric—right where the heat pulses strongest. The chuckle dies in his throat, softens into a moan as his hand tightens reflexively in your hair.

He breaks, right there. “I missed you so fucking much,” he mutters, voice catching on the edge of dignity. His thumb sweeps over your cheek as he loosens the trousers through shallow breaths. “Remember to—”

“To tap,” you interrupt gently, tipping your chin up even though you can’t see him; your smile like a secret passed between teeth. “Yes.” And then your tongue is on him, broad and sure, licking a long, torturous stripe from the base to the tip. Viktor’s breath stumbles and his hips push forward. Above you, he curses softly, hold tightening, his palms covering your ears.

And you wonder, briefly—so briefly—a thought unbidden and soft-edged: if this were your endgame, your ultimate kismet, would you have anything against it. The answer rises quick and sure. It comes shaped like Viktor’s cock nudging at your mouth, heat pulsing at your lips, weight pressing into the centre of you where your hunger lives. What was empty gets filled. Concepts fall into order. Gravity returns. You are back in your rightful place.

He enters slowly, groaning as you open for him. It begins with restraint—he feeds himself into your mouth in shallow, cautious thrusts, like he can’t hold back enough to not spill too soon. You feel him tremble and his knees lock. The sounds he makes are devotion incarnate.

Your blindfold heightens everything: the scent of him, the velvet drag across your tongue, the way your jaw stretches and your throat readies. You grip his thighs, hold tight, anchored by the flex of muscle under skin and the tremor in his stance.

Then, it deepens. His hands cradle your jaw, careful but persevering. One thumb strokes along your cheekbone, the other shifts to your neck. Fingers wrap around the column of it like he’s learning its weight, its warmth. You feel the tip of him push past your soft palate, deeper, deeper—and you relax into it, surrender, open and willing. There’s a noise from him, rough and broken, like prayer meeting ruin. “Fuck,” he breathes, thumb brushing your throat where he’s checking he hasn’t shattered you. “Look at you. Just—”

But you can’t. Not at yourself, nor at anything else. And maybe that’s what gives him permission say it. “I don’t deserve this,” Viktor whispers, hips rocking forward, the stretch of him becoming steady and starved. “I don’t deserve you.”

You hum around him, and he chokes on a praise. He begins to fuck your mouth in earnest now, the rhythm built on grief and gratitude and every word he hasn’t found a way to say. You take it all. You give him a place to come apart.

And still, somewhere beneath the slick and the heat and the obscene, there’s a tenderness so bone-deep it makes your ribs ache. Because he isn’t using you. He’s worshipping.

“Take a deep breath for me,” Viktor murmurs. His thumb strokes along your jaw, a soft touch. “Good girl.”

You inhale slowly, obedient, your chest rising against the binding of your arms. Then—he pushes in, deep, all the way, until the soft press of your nose meets the hard plane of his stomach. You feel his hand slide up, fingers brushing your cheek before he pinches your nose shut.

And then there is nothing.

No air. No sight. No sound—just your own pulse in your ears. The stretch of him fills you, roots into you, as your throat tightens gloriously around him. Wetness gathers in your eyes—first a shimmer, then tears slipping hot and helpless down your cheeks, dampening the silk. Your cunt aches from clenching around nothing. You are full and empty, and still you want more of both.

Because this—this must be the place. The one he made for you—where there is no world but Viktor. Blind and deaf to everything but the dictation of his body, his will. A space of surrender so complete it tastes like peace. You give in. You let go. You float.

He holds you there, trembling. You feel the twitch of his cock against your tongue, erratic and on the edge, like he’s fighting himself not to come. The pleasure rolls off him in waves and you drink it down, throat fluttering around him. You lose track of time. Seconds pass like heartbeats, loud and slow.

Just before the ache in your lungs becomes too much, he pulls back. Air rushes in. Spit wells from the corners of your mouth, trails down your chin as your head falls forward. You’re gasping, blinking behind the tie. Tears slide freely now, a mingling of release and craving and something naked you have no name for.

Viktor groans, his hands shaking as he catches you. “You didn’t tap.”

You smile. “Didn’t need to.” Your fingers find his waist again, reaching—needing—but he grabs your wrists before they find home.

“No.” His voice is wrecked, a soft tremor within it. “I’m almost there.”

Then he leans down, one hand cradling your damp face, guiding it up. It’s a calm, controlled mess-making, the kiss he gives you—all tongue and breathlessness, spit shared between parted mouths. It’s like you’ve come back from the dead and the first gulp of air hails from his lungs. Then, his forehead rests against yours. “And I really,” he murmurs, “really need to fuck you.”

I need to fuck you might be one of your favourite phrases to ever leave Viktor’s mouth. The honesty of it, always so uninhibited. And it’s not so much about the need or the fuck within it, it’s the you that usually gets you. Like it has to be you, or nothing.

His touch is gentle as it comes to the knot binding your wrists. “I want your hands on me,” he says, fingers working carefully, cotton slipping loose. The blood rushes back into your palms, tingling.

You flex your fingers once, joints making the softest sound of protest, then he’s guiding you back, lowering you onto the bed. The mattress shifts beneath you, the fabric cool against your skin. Viktor leans, head dipping down as he hooks his fingers into your waistband and tugs your trousers and underwear down together, slowly, scrupulously, revealing you by degrees.

When the last scrap of cloth falls away, he runs two fingers through the slick mess between your legs, catching the wetness and humming from the depths of his chest. “Would you look at that,” he mutters. “You really did miss me.”

You’re still panting, blinking under the blindfold, but you nod—it’s all you can do. Then his hands find yours again—this time to pull you upright. “Come,” he says, lips brushing your knuckles. “Stand.”

Confused, but trusting, you rise to your feet. Another kiss, deep, as he’s tasting the salt of tears and the warm echo of himself present in your mouth. His hand drifts down to your hip, then lower, and his voice drops to a whisper. “I want you to sit on my face.”

You inhale sharply. “Viktor?”

He smiles against your skin, teeth grazing your jaw. “You heard me.” A pause. “Unless you’d rather not.”

You shake your head, breath trapped. “No—I… I do. I want to, that is.”

Your knees feel strange as you climb back onto the bed. Viktor lies back without fanfare, tugging off his shirt as he goes, settling against the pillows. One hand reaches up for you, steadying as you straddle his chest and crawl forward, uncertain, muscles trembling.

You still can't see him. That's the part that breaks you open. All you have is the rasp of his breath, the groan he tries to swallow when your thighs frame his face, and the way his hands come to grip your hips. His voice is far gone, lost to want. Just a hum now. Just heat.

“God, yes,” he breathes, all muffled beneath you. “Come here. Come here.”

And then he’s on you, or rather, under. Tongue splitting you open, licking as if you keep the future between your thighs and he’s starved for premonition. He consumes you, and there’s no grace in it. It’s the absolution-chasing, home-seeking, affection-starved work—dedicated where you are tender, brutal where you are resistant. Unwavering, because it’s a ritual—obliteration, then resurrection—your body learning itself again under the weight of his hunger.

Your mouth parts on a moan that doesn’t even sound like you. His nose nudges your clit, tongue drags up through everything slick and wanting, and it’s beyond vulgar how wet you are for him. You don't even know when you’ve began to grind down—just that his grip tightens every time you roll your hips, that he’s groaning now, mouth open wide to catch more.

“Viktor—” you sob, but you’re not sure what the rest of the sentence was supposed to be. Everything is too much. It’s too fucking much.

And Viktor moans like he’s the one being fucked. Hands sliding up your back, then down again, pulling you closer, keeping you locked in—a man drowning and clinging to the weight that’s killing him. His tongue moves in delirious, godless circles, your clit pulsing against the firm press of his mouth. Every time you flinch, he does it again. It’s all he wants—your need, your ache, your tender undoing.

“Oh—fuck—Viktor—”

The space of forgetting is within reach—announced by the bite of nails on skin and relentless tongue. You think you feel him muttering against your cunt—something slavish and trembling—but the words are lost to your womb. There’s a shudder and coiling tension that makes the muscles burn. You could end him right now and he’d thank you for it, you are certain. Is he still breathing? Irrelevant.

Then, a new sound: a desperate, wrecked whimper—his—and your hips stutter. A punch of unfiltered lust lands in your gut, making your skin ooze sweat and your eyes weep. You have no memory of when your hands found his hair—only that they’re there now, fisted tight at the roots, uselessly anchoring yourself as your body moves with a will of its own. The tie is soaked at the edges where your tears have leaked and dried and leaked again. You can only feel him—the effort of it, the dedication focused on breaking and mending.

He’s moaning again—loudly now—into you, like the sound itself might get you there. Like he’s chasing your orgasm with everything he’s got. “Viktor,” you gasp, barely hanging on. “Don’t stop—I beg you, don’t stop—”

And then—no pretty sound, no buildup—just your entire body bowing forward like your ribs are collapsing inward from the force of it. Your legs go stiff, then loose. Your cry breaks in the middle, hips still twitching, mouth slack with shock. It rolls through you like heat lightning—shuddering, seizing, then gone—and still he doesn’t stop, licking you through it, humming like he’s coming too just from tasting you fall apart.

Only when your breath turns ragged, and your hands lose their grip does he slow. He kisses your cunt now. Just kisses. Little open-mouthed things, loving and sloppy. He eases you down, hands warm and sure, guiding you with more care than you expect from someone still panting like that.

You feel him shift—then suddenly your body’s moving, being guided down the line of his chest. The scratch of his hair, the thud of his heart under your palm.

Then—

Mouth.

A deep, weeping mess, tasting of sweat and want and you. You sigh into it, stunned at the blunt honesty of it—your very essence on his lips, the thick fever of his tongue. His breath is uneven, his hands cradle your face again like something dearest.

“Fuck,” he whispers, mouth catching on mouth. “I might want to make this a regular occurrence.”

Your fingers thread into his damp curls. You offer a weak smile and a kiss of what’s left in you. Let him have it, all of it. Let him drink you down and pull you close and fuck the air from your lungs if he wants. He’s earned it. Apologized enough. You’ve both earned it.

You end up curled on your sides, still tangled in sweat and spit and the smell of each other. His thigh slots between yours, cock thick and flushed where it presses against your hip, twitching now and then with leftover hunger.

He reaches up slowly, fingers finding the knot at the back of your head. “Let me see that pretty face,” he murmurs, voice spent and wanting all the same.

The silk loosens. Light returns in a blur—the soft and hushed gold of the nightlamp. His eyes drink you in, and then another kiss—your cheeks first, where your tears have dried into salt, then the corners of your eyes, your temple, the swell of your mouth. All of them, many thanks.

“Brave girl,” he whispers into your lips. “So good for me, letting go like that. Letting me take care of you.”

You don’t say anything, just exhale a sound that isn’t quite a laugh or a sob. Your fingers clutch at his forearm where it wraps around your waist. He noses at your cheek, finds your mouth and it’s deeper this time, needier, so when he pulls back, he’s panting.

“Do you have one more in you?” he asks. His voice is a petition held at bay, full of quiet plea. He nudges forward just enough for you to feel him—hard and insistent between you, leaving a smear of precum on your belly. “Can I have you?”

You hum against his mouth, lips brushing lazily as you tilt your hips forward, the length of him catching perfectly between your thighs. “One more?” you echo, voice syrup-thick. “Greedy.”

Viktor grins, eyes half-lidded, hair damp against his forehead. “Insatiable,” he corrects, the barest push of his hips proving the point.

You smile, then rock forward just enough to make him hiss. “Are you asking or begging?”

He exhales, then kisses you like he’s trying to bite the question from your mouth. “Begging, if that’s what gets me inside you.”

“Thought so.” You reach between you, fingers curling around him—hot, flushed with wanting, and suddenly you know why he was whimpering like a dog beneath you. He shudders when you guide him to your entrance, the wet slide so easy it should be outlawed.

Looking you square in the eye, he sinks in—a slow, torturous stretch of muscles still wound up tight from all his effort. Through a long, dragging glide of his cock, he claims the space he’s already ruined and worshipped, and you have to take a deep breath to welcome the stretch.

“I’ll go slow,” he whispers, as if it’s ever different. It’s always slow, always thorough, because Viktor wouldn’t be himself if he didn’t fuck you at a funeral pace, just to study your expressions frame by frame. He rolls through your core in short thrusts, falling deeper and deeper until he’s buried to the hilt, and you are joined by everything possible—foreheads, arms, chests, stomachs, pubic mounds, thighs, knees, and feet. One body again, only like this entertaining the concept of becoming perfect.

Your fingers tangle in the hair at the back of his neck, holding him while his hips work in steady waves. He keeps his face close to yours, eyes shut, breath hitching every time your body clenches around him.

It’s not just the molten warmth, not just the friction—it’s the proximity, the distance between you shrunken into nothing and still he tries to crawl deeper, seeking the hidden bottom. More of your breath in his mouth. More of the soft gasps to swallow like wine. His name falling off your tongue in the dark.

And you do your best to meet him, to match the challenging rhythm that puts you to a test not through pace, but through natural rawness that makes all things nude ashamed. “My girl,” he croons, the word barely a sound, all wet vowels trying to convey much more than the bare claim. He kisses your mouth, your chin, the hinge of your jaw, and it’s all tender and keen like a fresh lover would be.

It’s then when he fractures—his voice splintering like brittle timber. “Will you fuck me?” he whispers, a beg so exposed, the words tremble in the tiny universe between your lips. “Please—just—fuck me, I need you—”

You still for a moment, stunned by the surrender his voice carries. Unable to deny him, you initiate another gentle collision of mouths and tongues to soothe him through the wildness.

It takes only one roll of your hips for him to shudder. Do it again, and he moans like he’s dying. You set the rhythm now, steady and grinding, every press of your body against his—a drip of permission to make himself gone. His hands slide to your hips to hold onto something, and his gaze fixes on your face, like he’s watching salvation unfold.

“F-fuck,” he breathes, head falling against the pillow. The thought remains unfinished.

You keep moving through shallow breaths, arms wrapping around Viktor’s neck. Bodies locked in, bathed in the heat of one another, his cock buried deep in you with every full grind. He’s so hard inside you, you almost pity him. Cock pressed up into the place where everything folds open, each time you drag yourself on him, the stretch burns just right.

Ever the giver, Viktor squeezes a hand into where you are grown together, just barely. Fingers slipping between your wet and his, he circles your clit with precision that borders on cruel. Wrapped all over you, holding you in the crook of him, he works only by memory, and it’s frightening how well he remembers you by now.

“You are so lovely,” he whispers, voice breaking on a moan. “Taking me so well, ah fuck—”

And you’re going in blind yourself, dizzy on how intense it’s getting. No blindfold needed, you feel him in the dark and the quiet—getting close, closer, always so close. All you can do is move, let him whisper filth and worship into your skin while you pulse tight around his cock, the friction sharper, wetter, as your hips begin to slap against his with a vulgar echo.

“God, yes, just like that—fuck me, fuck me till you break—”

What Viktor says, you do. It rises like a tide, sweet and devastating, building at the base of your spine until your breath is gone and your body seizes with your face pressed to his neck. A strangled cry announces the orgasm slowly tearing you in half, and he holds you through it, cock twitching, as if your body summoned his ruin.

He follows you with a deep groan, loud in your ear, filling you up with his cum. You feel it flood you in thick, hot pulses, spilling out where you’re joined. Too much to hold—it trickles down your thighs, dripping onto the sheets and you mourn each and every drop of Viktor that didn’t make it.

There, you both still, with hearts racing and chests heaving. You become an unmovable object that swells where Viktor softens to compensate the threatening loss of fullness. Needy, God knows for what, your limbs hold him tight, and he finds whatever strength is needed to wake his body back up. He kisses your temple, your jaw and cheek—every place a blessing.

Finally, you exhale through your mouth, lips forming an o as you settle, your breath brushing across his throat. Viktor watches you through hooded eyelids, the corners of his mouth lifting into something soft and real.

“Are you alright?” he murmurs, fingers tracing lazy shapes on the slope of your hip where it traps him.

“Yes,” you say, nuzzling into his collarbone, nose brushing the line of his neck. “I feel more like myself. You?”

“Same,” he says. “Have I atoned?”

“Oh, God yes,” you breathe, eyes falling shut. But your brows pull together the next moment. “Still, I want no more of that. Why wouldn’t you even respond to my texts?”

“I… don’t know,” he says, jaw tightening. His fingers go still.

“Viktor,” you press, lifting your head just enough to look at him. “You said something about honesty a while back?”

He huffs through his nose, a faint smirk curling one corner of his mouth. “Are you going to use everything against me, officer?”

“If you force me to,” you reply, nose wrinkling as you mimic his accent just a little.

“I—” he hesitates, eyes flicking away. “Eh, perhaps you’ve figured this out already,” he adds dryly, “but I don’t like weaknesses.”

“You think this is a weakness?” you ask quietly, thumbing at the crutch rested by the bedside table.

“Is it not?” His voice is careful, devoid of drama, as though he’s said it to himself a hundred times before.

“Viktor.” You brush his hair back, fingertips pausing at his temple. “It’s only a weakness if you let it.”

He scoffs under his breath. “I think you are much too kind. I am more self-aware than you think.”

“No, this is nonsense,” you mutter. “Viktor, you are—” Frustration rises, since what you want to say, you cannot. You hesitate. “I—”

“You are doing very well,” he mocks lightly, dragging out in a tone of fond sarcasm.

“Shut up, I’m not best at this,” you grumble, swatting at his chest as heat creeps up your neck. You exhale sharply, squinting at the ceiling like it might help. Then, with great effort and zero ceremony, you settle on a very costly and thoughtful: “You are very good.”

Viktor outright laughs. It bursts out of him, honest and loud, and his face buries against your neck, shoulders shaking with mirth.

“What?” you demand, swatting again, though your tone betrays your grin. “Stop laughing at me, you bastard.”

“Nothing,” he wheezes. “Ah, I’m sorry.” He kisses your shoulder. “You are so sweet.” Another kiss. “Thank you. You are very good too.”

“I will take it,” you mutter, cheeks still warm.

A pause. His thumb strokes along the back of your hand. “Are you busy tomorrow?”

“I have to meet Mel, she’s been on my ass the entire week,” you say with a sigh. “But that’s in the afternoon.”

“I will take it,” he echoes, with a quiet contentment that glows behind words.

It’s tangled sleeping after that, Viktor wrapped around you like a vice, his neck already moulded to the shape of your head. In the morning, he makes the coffee. It grows cold while he lovingly spanks you and fucks you again, gets reheated, and there’s a real threat it’ll cool once more when he pulls you into the kitchen chair and lets his fingers roam between your ass cheeks until you squeal and bite his neck in self-defence.

It’s all patched up loosely, the weird, fragile space between you—exposed now more than ever, vulnerable to collapse under silence. And there’s plenty you could do to reinforce it, but that would require words. So it brings you back to square one, where every emotion is expressed through the body alone. A slow walk through the purgatory of affection.

When you leave, Viktor kisses you like you’re sailing off for another decade—his hands lingering on your cheeks, his mouth hesitant, greedy. It feels good. Real. And still, the moment the lift doors slide shut, something presses down on your chest like a sandbag. You’d left once before under the same spell, warm with the promise of soon, and he vanished. So the seam holding you together now—it’s not watertight. It’s stuck with chewing gum and good intentions.

You meet Mel in Fitzrovia, at Kaffeine on Great Titchfield Street—an achingly sleek spot, all matte black walls, and the hum of restrained ambition. You're dressed in something easy: wide trousers, soft jacket, hair pulled back without much strategy. Mel, of course, is immaculate. Oversized sunglasses despite the cloudy sky, nails like lacquered glass, a coat tailored to make a statement even when hung on a chair. She watches you approach from behind the veil of lenses, lips pursed around the straw of a green juice.

“Well, well, well,” she greets you like a cartoon villain, row of whites flashing and disappearing when her lips form a pout. Coffee already waits for you.

“Three holes in the ground,” you reply, setting your bag down beside the table, beyond pleased with your joke.

Mel laughs and shakes her head, extending out a hand to grab yours. “Oh, you know where you can put that bullshit.”

You quirk a brow, innocent smile playing on your lips. “Up the Elephant and Castle?”

“Cor blimey,” she exhales, absolutely butchering Cockney accent, and you laugh. She slides her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose. “You seem to be in a brilliant mood today. Has Viktor fucked you so well?”

Your throat catches around the sip of flat white you’ve just taken. “W–what?”

“You heard me,” she says, entirely unbothered. “I told you—I’d find out sooner or later. Now is later. Spill.”

“You don’t take prisoners, do you,” you mutter, looking anywhere but at her. Oh God.

“Honey,” she leans in, catching your gaze, “two minutes in the room with that man and you were drooling. I knew as soon as you walked into the parlour. And well,” she drags, hand waving around self-explanatory, “then Jayce saw you practicing some full frontal snogging by the loo.”

“For fuck’s sake.” You bury your face in your hands. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“I tried! You were working like an idiot last week.” She flips open the menu with one hand. “How long?”

“Uh… since your birthday?”

She makes a sound that’s somehow both your name and a reprimand.

“What?”

“That’s… three months? You’ve been dating Viktor—Jayce’s best friend—for three months and didn’t tell me?”

“Dating is a big word, okay?” you say, already feeling the defensive edge creeping into your voice. “We’re just… hanging out.”

Mel snorts, waving the server over. “Oh no, you are not. What are you, twenty?”

You order without looking up. Your pulse hammers despite the casual front. She’s too close to the truth and your brain is already spiralling to every vulnerable thing you’ve said, done, felt in the past twelve hours. “Mel,” you say, trying to level your tone. “It works, alright? He offered. We tried it, and it works. It’s all good, I promise.”

She points the waiter to positions on the menu, and then looks at you as if she’s seeing what’s inside. “What if it stops working?” She asks, honest, not a trace of judgement.

You shift in your seat, folding your hands beneath the table. “Are you worried about the group?”

“Vaguely.” She slips her thumb under one of her rings and twists, idle and graceful. “It took us some time to get you guys to meet, I’m sure it would be possible to reverse. I’m mostly worried about you. And well, about Viktor too, I suppose.”

That part you weren’t expecting. You blink at her, brow pulling in. “If anything happens, I’ll be fine.” You pause, test the weight of the question before letting it out. “Why are you worried about Viktor?”

Mel stills, thumb freezing against gold. It’s almost nothing, but you see it—how she recalibrates in an instant. When she lifts her head, it’s without artifice. The sunglasses come off entirely and are placed next to her water glass. “Oh, darling,” she says, quiet, like a sigh brushing the surface of a wound, “you really don’t see it, do you?” It’s a side of her she shows seldom. No polish. No posturing. Just her, plain and luminous. There’s something terrifying about being seen so clearly.

“What don’t I see?” you ask, the question coming out sharper than intended. You squint at her, as if narrowing your eyes will guard your chest.

She only exhales through her nose, lips twitching into a lopsided smile that isn’t smug—just sad. Then, with rare tenderness, she reaches across the table and covers your hand with hers. “Just be careful not to hurt him, alright?”

“Mel, don’t be like that with me,” you say, a note of pleading buried under exasperation.

“Hon,” she begins, almost gleefully, “let me tell you something. You wouldn’t spot a good guy if he sat on your face.”

You glare. “I know he’s good, Mel. It’s not about that. None of us has time to get fully engaged, I—”

She leans back, giving you room but not retreating. “As long as you’re both happy, I’m no one to judge.”

“And you will judge if I’m not happy?”

“No,” she says firmly. “I’ll be there to pick you up. I’d rather not, though. I think you make a cute couple.”

“Are you even listening to me?” You are whining now.

“I will if you spill me some tea,” she grins. “Is Viktor as freaky as I suspect him to be?”

You groan and reach for your coffee, hiding your face behind the cup. “Sod. Off.”

Mel leans back, pleased with herself, twirling her straw. “I knew it,” she sings, biting into her food with all the satisfaction of someone who’s just won a bet.

You laugh helplessly, the sound spilling out of you before you can contain it. It bends you at the waist, warm and shaking, and for a moment you’re not thinking about Viktor or your own nerves; you're just laughing.

Mel watches you with something between amusement and relief. She takes a sip of her coffee, merciful now, choosing not to dig further. “Alright,” she says, lifting her sunglasses back onto the bridge of her nose like lowering a curtain. “No more cross-examination. Tell me about Baal. Are your actors still determined to out-weird each other?”

You lean back in your chair, shoulders finally beginning to unknot. “They’ve started doing warm-ups in character. Full shouting matches. There was fake blood on a chair last week, but no one claimed it.”

“Delicious,” Mel purrs, as if it were gossip about Parliament and not a deranged theatre production. “Who’s sleeping with who?”

You pretend to hesitate, then lower your voice. “Oh, everyone with everyone I believe. Except the lighting tech and the lead. Apparently they made a pact not to hook up until after opening night.”

Mel’s eyebrow arches above her glasses. “Professionalism is so passé.”

You talk like that for another hour, until your coffee turns cold, and the streetlights start to blink on outside. When you part ways near Goodge Street, Mel hugs you lightly and says, “Take care of yourself, alright?” You nod, pretending that her voice doesn’t sound too much like a warning.

Sunday returns you to the theatre—notes, scenarios, and planning on everything you haven’t done last week. And the theatre, as usual, returns you to chaos.

Rehearsals for Scottsboro Boys are deep in the unhinged stage—final blocking meets creative panic. You spend the week stitching together bits of ego and confusion, fixing things that should’ve been sorted a month ago. No crisis, just a hundred small ones.

Until Wednesday. The first sign of trouble is the way Charlie leans against the office doorframe, one arm crossed over his chest, the other holding his tablet like it’s committed a personal offence. “You’ve seen the tap shoes?” he asks.

You look up from your screen, already wary. “They were supposed to be back yesterday. Rehearsal wardrobe inventory was cleared last night—are you sure?”

Charlie doesn’t say anything. Just slowly shakes his head.

You pull up the prop and costume ledger and scan the notes, frown deepening. Delivered to J Rogers & Sons, cobbler’s note said to expect them Thursday. Confirmed dispatch. You pick up your phone.

It takes two redirects before someone at the repair house picks up. You rattle off the show name and the order number, brisk and increasingly sharp. They make all the right noises at first—"Yes, that was sent off last week" and "Should have arrived already"—until a pause stretches. A longer rustle on the line. Then a muffled curse not meant for your ears.

“…Right,” the voice returns, sheepish now. “Found them. Looks like they never left the main storage. I'm so sorry about that.”

You close your eyes, steady your voice, knuckles cracking against the desk. “Okay. When can you drop them off?”

“Er—” There’s hesitation. “We’d need to organise a courier, might be Friday? At the earliest?”

“That’s too late,” you say flatly. “We’ve got rehearsal tonight. They’re needed.”

“Well,” the voice hedges, “we’re still open for another two hours if someone can collect?”

You press the heel of your hand into your eye socket—of course. “Fine. I’ll be there.”

You hang up and glance over at Charlie. “Can you sort a driver? Or a cab?”

“Already trying,” he says, tapping at his phone. His mouth pulls tight. “No one’s free. Every driver’s already on a run and the apps are choking—rush hour.” Of course they are.

“Do you want me to go there on city bike?” Charlie offers, only half-joking.

“Christ, don’t be ridiculous,” you scoff, but smile despite yourself. “Also—I need you here, light setup. Let me think.” You eye the clock. There’s no way a courier will make it in time, and you’re not about to send ten pairs of hand-stitched period shoes across half of London in the back of some random delivery scooter. But the idea of weaving through afternoon traffic on a city bike with a duffel full of irreplaceable footwear is... deranged. Your fingers hover over your phone. It’s either make a stupid call or ruin tonight’s rehearsal. You sigh and tap in Jayce’s number.

“Hello! You are on speaker,” Jayce beams, like he’s halfway through a pint and enjoying himself immensely.

“Uh, okay? Hi Jayce, I’m sorry to call you like this—”

“Ah, what do you need?” he cuts in, too cheerful to be innocent.

“Am I that obvious?” you say, pinching the bridge of your nose. “I need a lift.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry but I don’t have my car today,” he says, sounding truly bummed. “Mel dropped me off.”

There’s a muffled shuffle, followed by Viktor’s voice calling out in the background, slightly distant but clear enough: “I could… drive you? Or you can just use my car if you promise to get it back in one piece?”

You hesitate. “Ah, you see… I can’t promise that. I—” You drop your voice to a mutter. “I can’t drive.”

A beat. “I’m sorry, you what?” Viktor’s voice now sharper, closer to the mic.

“I don’t have a driving licence,” you repeat, a little louder this time, eyes fixed on a crack in the laminate flooring like it might swallow you whole. Charlie mouths a what?

“Seriously? How did I not know this?” Jayce jumps in, theatrical with disbelief.

“Can’t drive is not something I put on my résumé, Jayce.”

There’s a quick puff of laughter from Viktor, then a pause before he says gently, “Well then. I’ll drive you. Where do you need me?”

Between my legs, preferably. “I think it’ll be faster if I just take the tube to the Institute. Less backtracking.”

“Alright,” Viktor replies without hesitation. “Meet in the parking lot in twenty?”

“Perfect. Thank you. And, uh, thanks, Jayce, I guess.”

“Anytime,” Jayce replies brightly, as if he actually helped. “Tell Viktor to drive safe. Fragile cargo and all that.”

You put your phone down and sigh to stop yourself from groaning. “Ah, would you look at that?” Charlie chirps. “Thank God for a chivalrous fuck buddy, am I right?”

“Charlie.”

“Here are your city shoes my captain,” he says with a grin, waving two ballet flats in each of his hands. You snatch them and shake your head but smile again.

On flat feet it’s easier to run toward the tube and step from one leg to the other, the too-thin soles of your shoes slapping against the pavement in uneven staccato. The wind is picking up, biting at your ankles, but the momentum keeps you warm. Still, your stomach twists as you approach the designated spot—what are you even supposed to do when you see him? Handshake? Hug? Wave like he’s your fucking landlord?

You spot him before he spots you. Of course he’s already here—of course he is. Leaning one hip against the car like a goddamn editorial spread, one hand curled loosely around the handle of his cane, the other tucked into the pocket of a wool coat that looks both well-worn and devastatingly expensive. The rest of him is just as maddening: dove-grey jumper stretched over the long frame of him, dark trousers that taper perfectly to a pair of boots sheened with the kind of shine that says I care, but not too much. He looks... effortless. Effortless and hot.

He catches your eye and lifts a hand to wave, cane tipping upward with it.

You walk up briskly and aim for safe ground—a kiss in the air beside his cheek—but he catches you with an arm around your waist, pulling you into him. His mouth finds yours like it’s been waiting all day, urgent and warm and demanding, and you melt before you can think better of it. Hands roam, steady and shameless, and you only manage to pull back enough to mumble your worry against his lips, “What if Jayce—”

“Jayce knows,” Viktor rasps, mouth trailing the corner of yours, lips dragging over skin. His breath is warm, uneven, and then he’s kissing you again—sloppy, open-mouthed and a little too eager, as if the mere idea of losing the chance is intolerable. “I’m sorry I forgot to tell you,” he murmurs straight into your throat, words slurring. “He saw us in Soho.”

You blink, dazed, trying to remember how to connect vowels with consonants as his hands crawl all over your waist and pull you flush. “Well, shit,” you manage, breath hitching when his teeth scrape your bottom lip. You clutch at his coat, trying to stabilise yourself—or maybe him. “Mel knows too.”

His brows knit, but he doesn’t stop. A hand cradles your cheek, tilting your head so he can have more, deeper, messier. Elegance all lost—just need and heat and the hint of a groan when you surrender into it. Then, finally, he pulls back just enough to search your face.

“Is that bad?” he asks, voice low, thumb ghosting your temple.

“A little,” you admit, quiet.

That’s when it stops. He really looks at you—one of those unnerving, surgical stares he gives when he’s trying to solve something. His hand lingers against your cheek, thumb swiping your jaw like he might coax the rest of the answer from your skin.

But before he can speak, you shake your head. “I don’t have much time.”

“Of course,” he murmurs, stepping back and opening the car door with a tilt of his cane. “After you.”

You slide into the passenger seat, momentarily confused about the sides, trying not to let your face betray the way your heart’s still tripping over itself. The door shuts with a weighty thunk, and the cabin is warm, quiet. Intimate.`

The car hums to life beneath you—a sleek, vintage Saab 900 Turbo, navy blue with a matte finish. Unassuming at a glance, but once it moves, you feel it: precise, responsive. Like him.

“Seatbelt,” Viktor says, one corner of his mouth twitching.

“Yes sir,” you mutter, clicking the belt into place with exaggerated obedience. “Is this car an antique?”

He hums, both hands resting lightly but surely on the wheel. “It was my father’s,” he says after a beat. “So, I suppose, yes.”

You look around the interior—leather worn to softness, details immaculately kept. “It suits you.”

He glances at you again, one brow faintly raised. “Are you saying I’m old-fashioned?”

“In a way, yes.”

“And where am I taking you?”

“30 Liverpool Street.”

Viktor nods and merges into the street’s slow-moving rhythm, one hand steadying the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift, long fingers flexing with each change. You look out the window at first, the city sliding by in shapes and colours—but then your gaze drifts. Inevitably.

His hands. His profile. The focused slant of his eyes. His posture, stupidly both good and hunched. And that ridiculous combination of wool jumper and coat, somehow professorial and not all at once.

He’s not just attractive. He came for you. He’s supposed to be working, and instead, here he is—his hand brushing your thigh, his presence quietly absorbing. You blink the thought away, catching yourself just as he speaks.

“What’s the emergency, then?” Viktor asks, glancing over without losing focus on the road.

You sit up straighter, heat creeping into your cheeks. “Tap dance shoes,” you mumble.

He chuckles immediately, warm and low. “Of course.”

The pick-up is uneventful—the cobbler’s assistant offers an apologetic smile, and the boxes are light enough that Viktor insists on helping you, cane hooked on his arm. The drop-off is just as smooth: Charlie is already waiting by the stage door of the Young Vic with two lighting techs and one of the younger cast members in tow.

He jogs down to meet the car as Viktor idles by the kerb. Leans in through the open window, smirking. “You look a bit pale,” he says. “Do you want an evening off?”

“Are you my boss now or something?” you shoot back, brow arched, arms crossed on your chest.

Charlie only grins, maddeningly pleased with himself. “Yes, and a merciful one. We got this. Go home, seriously.”

You hesitate—glance toward the building, the techs unloading—but it’s clear he means it.

“Fine,” you exhale, letting it go with a little nod. “Thank you.”

He waves you off with a mock salute. “Go rest that theatre-damaged soul.”

Back in the car, Viktor settles without a word, hands resuming their position on the wheel. “To Hackney then?” he asks, already checking the mirrors.

You nod, quietly, and he pulls away from the kerb. He doesn’t ask if you want to come to Islington instead. Doesn’t angle the moment for more. And that somehow feels worse—because it’s kind. Because it’s easy.

You stare at the road ahead, then sideways at him—at the clean line of his jaw, the sleeve of his coat brushing the gearstick, his quiet breath in the cabin. This is the first time you’ve spent time together outside of his flat without pretending you don’t know each other. No pretext. No cover. No sex.

Just a ride. Just Viktor, offering help, being present. There’s a new kind of intimacy in that. Unspoken, unbidden. It presses against your ribs. You should be glad, but you’re not sure what to do with it, or with him. With how he’s suddenly threaded into your life, effortlessly, sincerely—beyond the walls you’ve so carefully kept.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Viktor says as he turns the engine off. He doesn't move to unbuckle. Just waits.

“I’m… knackered,” you sigh, rubbing a hand over your face. The pressure doesn’t help. Something rises anyway—panic, low and tight, rattling in your chest like a wind-up toy.

He reaches for you—just his little finger brushing your thigh, shyly, pleading. His head is bowed, gaze somewhere near your knees, and you wonder if he can see the edge of the eyelet running up from your heel.

“No attitude today, hm?” he murmurs, and there’s a kind of gentleness in it. Almost sad.

And you can’t bear it. So you do what you do best. Where words should be—Do you want to come in?—there’s nothing. You don’t have them. Instead, you shift. Take his hand and guide it between your legs.

Viktor smiles. Soft, sombre. Because he already knows he won’t be warming your bed tonight.

You lean over and undo his seatbelt with a click. He doesn’t ask, doesn’t smile. Just watches you like you’re something unfolding—inevitable yet fragile. His fate meets acceptance.

Your knee brushes the handbrake as you turn toward him. You move slowly, like sleepwalking into a decision you’ve already made, coat slipping open, skirt rucking up, spine popping at angles. He gets it. Slides his seat back in silence, the leather creaking under his weight. It’s all a wordless choreography. You rise from your seat and crawl into his lap without ceremony, thighs straddling him, hand braced against the fogged glass.

He tears your legs wider with a grip just shy of harsh. You can’t tell if the sound that leaves your throat is a gasp or a sob, doesn’t matter. There’s no room for language here, just breath and friction. Your hips start to roll—slow, testing the fit of his lap beneath you, the heat, the give. The steering wheel groans when his knee knocks it aside. His fingers bruise into the meat of your thighs.

Then mouths find each other. At last. And now no words feels justified.

It’s not a kiss so much as a crash. Your tongue slides into him, deep and unrelenting. He groans into it, low in his throat, and you swallow the sound. His hands are beneath your coat, beneath your skirt, one callused palm cupping your ass to rock you harder against him. You feel the strain of his cock beneath you, thick and growing, and your own body responds with a wet, desperate pulse.

Your whimper is muffled against his mouth. His hand tightens. For a second there you spot him from under hooded eyelids and he looks like he wants to speak, but doesn’t. Instead, he grips you like a man begging not to be left behind.

Your breaths fog the windows. The coat slips from your shoulders, the skirt hikes higher, and Viktor’s hand finds the seam of your tights. One sharp tug—violent and necessary—and the crotch gives way with a tear. The sound sits somewhere next to the scramble of breathing between you, as if it’s not coming from the inside of the car.

You don’t stop him, don’t speak either.

He works between your legs, fingers slicking through you just once before he groans, lifts his hips, and unfastens his belt with a roughness that makes the car shudder. You reach down without thinking, curl your fingers around the thick, hot weight of him. He’s already hard, leaking. It’s almost cruel, how ready you both are for something neither of you know how to carry.

There’s no room to adjust. No room to take a breath that pleases the lungs. You rise to your knees on the narrow strip of leather and angle yourself down, the head of his cock catching, slipping, before he grips your hips and pulls you down onto him in one sharp thrust.

The jolt punches the air out of you. It’s not graceful, nor tender.

You rock, hips shoving forward like a fight, grinding down hard to keep him inside. The angle’s awful—shallow, hot, brutal—but you don’t care. He’s in you. That’s all that matters. His mouth finds your neck, teeth dragging hard enough to bruise, the rule of leave no trace forgotten. One hand claws your back. The other fists the torn waistband of your tights. He wants more of you. He always wants more.

The windows steam over entirely. The seat squeaks. Your knees start to burn from the angle, but you don’t slow down. You chase the sharp edge of this thing, the way his eyes pinch closed, the sounds he makes when your cunt clamps around him.

It’s ugly and desperate. It’s a breath away from something real, and that’s what makes it bitter. Because the flat is a few steps away. A bed. Clean sheets. Warm light. His body in yours, soft and open. But you won’t cross that line.

So instead, you fuck like you’re punishing yourselves for wanting.

You ride him into the seat, frantic and shallow, the rhythm all friction and ache. It's almost like the first night—tights torn, shoes still on, no time for undressing. Just the throb between your legs and his cock buried deep, anchoring you. It’s just that then, it held a promise of something new to be built—now it threatens to break it.

You brace a hand on the window handle, the other fisting in his hair, tugging hard enough to hurt. He hisses, sharp teeth grazing your jaw. But then, his fingers curl around your wrists—tight. With one swift pull, he wrenches both arms behind your back and holds them there in one hand. Your balance shifts. Your chest hits his, and he licks a line up your neck, slow and filthy.

Then his mouth finds yours. His tongue pushes deep, and his teeth catch your bottom lip. He bites—hard enough to sting—and you gasp into him. "Do you want me to touch you?" he rasps, voice low and rough, his mouth dragging along your cheek.

You nod, and breathe out a quick, "Please."

Something flickers across his face—an old woe or a darker sorrow. You can’t read it, no time. "Beg me," he says.

Your thighs twitch where they straddle him. You rub your face against his, wanting something you have no name for, breath catching on your own need. "Please, Viktor. Please, touch me—need it, I need you—"

He says nothing, but his free hand slips between your legs, thumb finding your clit like he’s done it a thousand times before, and it’s not short of the truth. He circles it, firm, and unforgiving, and your whole body shudders.

Where good girl should be, there’s only the sound of your breath falling apart.

The worst thing is—a week ago, you would’ve been ready. Back when his silence didn’t trigger a massive influx of anxiety. Back when your last memory of Viktor was him taking care of you in a sodden restaurant bathroom and then bringing you home like you were his. Back when he said I like you, and you believed him.

Now, all you have is a seedy fuck with no děvče moje in sight, and the naïve hope that none of your neighbours will recognise you stumbling through your front door, thighs clenched to hold in his cum until you reach the bathroom.

His fingers circle tighter, meaner, the rhythm relentless. You grind down on him like you’re trying to rub the ache out, like you’re trying to find something he’s not giving. It’s too much friction, too messy, too fast. The car shakes. He watches your face like he’s waiting for something, but gives you nothing in return. No kiss. No name. Just his cock buried deeper and his hand cruelly patient between your legs. It builds in spite of him. In spite of you. Shame hot in your throat, the climax drags itself up from your spine like a sob.

And when it comes, it’s like it’s taken from you—wrenched out brutally, no praise to encompass it, no soft words to carry you over. Just the tightening of your body around him and a cry that sounds almost angry in your throat, like your pleasure has betrayed you.

Viktor groans, teeth bared as he follows, hand tightening on your wrists, hips stuttering against yours with a final, aching push.

He comes with a sharp breath against your throat. Heat spills in and over, thick, pulsing, and he holds you there—keeps you locked against him like he can force it to mean something. His cock twitches as the last of it leaves him, breath hoarse, jaw clenched. One of his hands slips, cradles your nape instead, trembling faintly. He doesn't speak. The air reeks of sweat and sex.

“I suppose we can cross car sex off the list?” Viktor offers finally, forcing a smile that splits you in half.

You let out a hollow laugh, too quick, too thin, and nod as you push the damp hair from your forehead. His hands hover—unsure, unlike him. Normally, he'd hold you until your pulse settled. Gently kick you out to the bathroom and then drag you back, greedy with touch, curling you into the heat of him until breath and sweat and sleep blurred together.

Now he just looks. Still inside, softening. Like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. "How are you?" he asks, tone alien. "Do you need anything?"

You shake your head, slow. “You?” You glance down between your bodies. “Your leg—was that—?”

He waves a hand, brushing the thought aside. “It’s fine.” A pause. “I think I’ve got some tissues…” he mutters, half-turning toward the glove box.

But you shake your head again. “It’s fine, I live right here.” Silence drapes over the car like condensation on the windows—cloying, and suffocating. His hands move to your hips again, but this time not with hunger. With reluctance. Mercy.

“You should go rest,” he says, quieter now. “Catch up on sleep.”

You scramble off his lap, legs trembling as you adjust your skirt. The sudden loss of him hits harder than the sharp scent clinging to the car. A flicker of heat rises behind your eyes. You press it down. Swallow it.

“I guess… goodnight then?”

“Goodnight,” he says quietly. No kiss. No brushing of your wrist. Just that one word, clipped neat.

You open the car door. The night air stings like a slap, and you don’t have it in you to look back. The fogged windows blur any trace of him anyway. Up the steps, fingers numb around your keys, you let yourself into your flat. The door clicks shut behind you. Shoes off. Straight to the bathroom.

There, under the too-white light, you lift your shirt—nothing.

No mark, no claim, no outline of Viktor on your skin. Only the angry bite on the side of your neck and a faint reddened dent left by the waistband of your tights. You run your palms over your belly like you’re searching for some imprint, some proof, but it’s smooth beneath your fingers. Ordinary.

Your throat clicks shut. You slump onto the toilet lid, hands splayed over your stomach.

And sob. Not a pretty cry. Not cinematic. Just a full-bodied collapse that leaks from your mouth in silence, shoulders shaking like you’re trying to contain something much too big. You feel scraped out. Cold in places you didn’t know could get cold. Touched, but not held. Known, but not kept. And it’s by your hand only that you’ve made yourself cold, untouched, and unkept—because Viktor’s hands were there, ready to cradle, ready to hold, when, in your panic, you slipped through his fingers.

—

So, for the exchange between Reader and Mel: it’s a classic, Cockney banter. When someone starts the conversation with “Well, well, well,” a way to respond is “Three holes in the ground,” because it’s three wells. And wells are holes in the ground. Get it? Following in, Mel responds with “Cor blimey,” which is a Cockney-d version of “God, blind me,” – and exclamation one would make to express something like, “Oh my God.” And she does it poorly, because she is posh. And finally, “Up the Elephant and Castle,” – Elephant and Castle is a centre area of Southwark (a borough of south London) which in Cockney slang means “ass.” Reader is not Cockney by any means, but through years of living in Hackney, she’s adapted some of the slang. And if you remember, in the last chapter, Jayce had greeted Viktor with the same phrase, to which Viktor replied: “Well, well, well, what?” There, jokes also have lore apparently.

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