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thehistoriangirl · 7 months

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If You Hadn't Left (Me) [Chapter 1]

I thought I would start posting in the first of February but oh well better now than never lol

I'm gonna post the other fic's masterlist tomorrow I think :3

Viktor x Fem! Reader-----2.9K----SFW*

// M A S T E R L I S T

Next ->

Synopsis:Viktor was never supposed to see you again, just like you had promised that evening when you both ended up heartbroken and bitter toward destiny and all its twisted ways. So twisted as to put you back into his life not only as a temporal working partner to cover Jayce’s absences, but also as the maid of honor in the wedding where he’ll be the best man. Hypothetically, it doesn’t have to be that difficult to find a way around the river of memories flowing between you both. Though, of course, hypotheses are flawed. Just like that part of him that still craves another ending to this story.

Taglist c: @ihopeinevergetsoberr @blissfulip

That goodbye became a broken promise, cracked over the sound of your voice ever since he heard it at the Council assembly.

Sure, you had spat out the words fueled by betrayal and hatred, but Viktor took them like an oath to put in peace his stormy mind.

First coated in a lie so fragile Viktor was surprised it hadn’t fragmented before, and now this—he was sure he shouldn’t take another glass of wine from the walking waiters zigzagging across the opulent hall—but he had avoided you all night, and he knew Jayce wouldn’t let him go before arranging the “formal meeting” between both of you.

If only he knew...

We congratulate Miss Favred for winning the design contest for the new hall construction inside the Museum of Sciences and Technologies. Graduated from Piltover’s Academy with honors, you're the proof that progress and art are held hand in hand in this city.

Almost the same speech Heimerdinger delivered during your graduation ceremony, only that this time you were all alone on the stage, Viktor's hand grabbing his cane to not feel the growing sensation of emptiness.

Part of him thought it was mere shock. After all, you haven't seen each other in almost ten years; and a petty part of him was surprised he even remembered you, how the image of you was locked in the depths of his subconsciousness that only needed the ring of your greeting to resurface.

But now? Hours after the reencounter? He was so, so weak…

With a sigh, Viktor finally admitted it: stealing glimpses of your purple dress flowing against the gentle breeze was a weakness, though if the excuse lay in masochist interest or avid curiosity, Viktor wasn’t ready to clear his mind. Why would he, anyway? It was a couple of wine glasses too late.

Funny how some things defied the City of Progress where everyone was eagerly grasping the tomorrow.

Viktor just felt stuck in the past, down a path he wasn’t so sure how to slip through.

Your hair was the same, richly stylized and decorated with a geometrical headpiece that looked like a crown from Viktor’s angle. Your time in Shurima had replaced the Piltovan style built by several layers of clothes like vests and corsets for simple, airy fabrics that played with transparencies. The deep shade of violet pooled in continuous drapes ironed in the long skirt falling freely around your hips and down your legs, a gold-threaded corset hugged your waist and framed your bosom, the fabric slowly fading into a lavender tone held like loose sleeves with golden bracelets.

You were covering your mouth while your eyes closed in amused crinkles for whatever the young merchant Mauriel Garfen was telling you as his expert hand twirled you around the ballroom. It didn’t matter much, as Viktor could paint it just fine: with the vivid dark pink adorning your lips, though he knew your favorite color was more of a burnt brown, or maybe even red—

"That's enough for today," Viktor mumbled, eyes looking intently at the crimson liquid as he swirled the stem around his fingers before settling it down against the nearby windowsill.

Suddenly, he heard your happy squeal as you went to hug another young woman dressed in a vivid teal, halter dress. Her curly black hair bounced as you two swayed. Viktor didn’t remember her vividly, but she had been one of your friends ever since your undergraduate years.

If only… Though he knew he didn’t have any right to be greeted as warmly. If even he had any right to be greeted at all. Only because you had returned. Because of course, you did. Once you had told him that despite the high number of students inside the Academy, you'd find each other in one way or another.

“No, not like fate,” you have told him, voice groggy with slumber as you laid against his chest, hands pointing at his dorm's ceiling where she had stuck luminescence cut-outs of stars. "Entropy."

You were right, from all his perfectly calculated plans tumbling into a state of chaos, one he surprisingly wasn’t against.

Until he was.

Garfen twirled the both of you, giggles bubbling like the nearby tray of drinks a waiter was carrying toward the Councilors discussing on a corner of the hall.

You looked like that photograph he kept in the bottom drawer of his tattered closet, only that the sepia tones eating it away had been repaired with the tone of your skin, the void he left behind replaced with you looking like a fairy queen with your golden crown and dashing company.

Someone more fitting. But Viktor was now the co-creator of Hextech, wasn’t that enough?

His fingers tangled around the glass’ steam, barely feeling the hot sensation of the alcohol down his throat as he gulped it all.

You’re so pathetic, Viktor. Get over it. Why haven’t you done that already?

“Vik! There you are!” He almost dropped the glass with the impromptu voice of Jayce chiming in his roaming thoughts. “I’ve been looking for you all night.”

"You know I'm not… eh, akin to this kind of party," he said, only half a lie. He'd been hiding inside a balcony and then, when Jayce passed by, Viktor slipped between a corner and a column. Now, he'd been too distracted to notice. "I've been unwinding."

“For a moment I thought you were already gone!” He patted his shoulder. “I’ve wanted to introduce you to Miss Favred since morning, but I suppose you had duties to take care of after the meeting.” He had bolted out of there as soon as Councilor Medarda called the session off.

His jar tightened, just as the grasp on his formal cane, naked metal replaced by a coat of black marble and polished wood on its handle. “Jayce, I don’t think this idea about the Hextech Wing would be… good,” he started, pouring in all the thoughts that had flown inside his head ever since the morning meeting. “This isn’t what I imagined when you told me we would celebrate the first decade of Hextech’s creation.”

“Viktor—”

“No, listen to me,” he replied, almost through gritted teeth. How pitiless of him he couldn’t even manage his feelings in public. “We want to help people in need, not to gloat about a fancy exhibit at the Science and Technology Museum. This is just another excuse for the Council to gloat about their grandness. What would the exhibit do for the people who believe in us, hmm? For us as scientists, even? Are you listening to me?” His friend had shifted to his embarrassed posture, where his tall body was trying to shrink into a ball, with hands tightly grabbed against his stomach, gazing at the floor. "Jayce—?"

“We’ve arranged that part of the Museum’s entrance fee is going to be destined to fund upcoming Hextech projects. That way you won’t need as many sponsorships,” Mel interjected behind him. Viktor turned to look at the Councilor, frozen to see the figure tailing close behind. “I believe we talked about it in the past meeting.”

Surely. Not that he would admit he had been too distracted by the nervous movements of your hands gesturing away to explain your design to oblige his mind to follow the Councilor’s debate sprinkled in between.

“Perhaps what he’s referring to is about how much time will it take to seize a positive quantity to fund a project,” you said to save his embarrassing stunned silence, poking your head from behind Jayce’s wide back. Your eyebrows arched slightly, head tilted toward Viktor.

The movement is so familiar from when you helped him through the boring, long seminars with haughty professors and even mouthier classmates. A head tilt and a slow gaze once you had laid the counterargument, ready for him to lock the possibility of a reply with his conclusion.

“I… That wasn’t what I meant,” he said, surprised by his cold tone.

You blinked at him for a moment, a frown slightly forming between your beautiful eyes. He didn’t dare to back out from it, he didn’t have a reason why.

Jayce cleared his throat. “Um… well, Vik, this is Miss Favred, she’s going to be the designer of the Museum ampliation…” He said, and you stepped next to Jayce, lips in a neutral yet mocking smile, with the curves of your lips turned up.

“It’s been quite some time, Miss Favred,” Viktor mustered, a smile plastering on his mouth that was too wide and toothy to be considered polite.

“Likewise, Viktor,” you said, tone sweetly as you extended your hand toward him.

Viktor almost wanted to yank it away once he felt a surge of electricity tingling up his arm once your long and elegant fingers wrapped the reverse of his palm. You giggled, nails digging into his skin with discreet violence.

His lips pressed in a thin line that couldn’t be faked as a smile even as he continued shaking your hand for a minute too long, wanting your eyes to decode the hidden message in his. What are you doing here?

“Oh, do you know each other?” Mel said after calling your name, which made you yank your hand away from his grasp.

“We were acquaintances at the Academy,” you said, gesturing away.

Classmates, the word slipped with an acid aftertaste when Viktor tried to back you up. "Very close classmates." Because of course, this was the perfect time for his brain to break under pressure. Yes, so close you slept against his chest every other night, so, so close that he even burrowed inside of you—

Mel turned to you, with an almost accusatory air. “What a surprise!”

“That was many years ago.” Your gaze swept from Mel’s to his, if only for a second. “I had forgotten about it.”

Oh, so that’s how you wanted to play?

"Well, I'm glad you two can reconnect after so many years!" Jayce said a big grin on his face. The sweet oblivious Jayce. “It’ll be good for Vik to have another friend! It’s… slightly difficult for him to open up and get new ones.”

Viktor glared at him. “Why are you talking about me as if I weren’t here?” he replied, while you mumbled:

“I wonder why that is.”

His head turned toward you in a movement so quick that some of his pushed backward-styled hair fell over his forehead. "Pardon?"

You smiled at him. “I didn’t say anything.”

Oh, you—

"Why don't we leave you two to talk?" Mel said, ignoring the pleading look you sent her when Jayce nodded, saying that there must be a lot to tell between the both of you. “Councilor Talis, let’s go for another drink. There’s something I need to talk about with you.” Probably about the wedding. Not that Viktor was interested in the matter when he had you in front of him.

From all the stolen glances, he had pieced you whole like a puzzle, filling in the missing pieces eaten away by time with the new image, though he knew some things wouldn't change. Like the way you smelled like hyacinth and mangoes, your favorite fruit. All that freckles and moles and scars dotted around your body like those two small ones peeking over the square neckline on the left of your collarbone, which he knew balanced out with the two tiny moles under your right breast.

Surely your skin was just as heavenly soft as back then despite the occasional roughness of your fingers from working so much. Your palms were always warm against his cold fingers during winter.

“Viktor," you called him. And he frowned to conceal what he had been thinking all the damn night.

“What?”

“Why don’t we strike a deal?” you said, arms crossed, disrupting what would have been his doom if he continued.

“Do I look like someone that would strike a deal with a devil, Miss Favred?” Viktor said, arching an eyebrow almost in a flirty way. Just amused enough to push you to the edge of your years-trained composure. You certainly played the part, with all the allure and the deep gaze of your eyes.

“I suppose this must be awkward for you, too.”

“It isn’t awkward for me,” he lied. “You should worry about your work instead.”

“So ready for me to leave?” You chuckled. “I think you should know that I applied to this contest because I need the spotless curriculum if I want to be the new Interior Design teacher at the Architecture Faculty.”

“You’re just trying to annoy me. You said you would leave and never return.” Better put, Viktor cornered you to say so, but he wasn’t going to let his mouth run free.

"And you said we were going to get married," you replied, and Viktor felt himself trip backward if it weren’t for the support of his cane. “So I guess we’re even.”

Viktor stood there, stunned golden eyes wide open. He started calling your name, but you had your hand raised.

“You’re right, my bad. That was unnecessary.” Your hand arranged a loose lock of hair poking your cheek. “Anyhow, I’m not going to mention anything about the… past. So you don’t have to worry about me running out my tongue—despite how close classmates we’ve been.”

“Now you’re just being…” improperly brash, dangerously cheeky. Almost as if you’d been pushing him over the edge of his decorum to see if he’d cornered you against a wall to seal your endless rebukes with a kiss. Or many. “…insufferable.”

"Don't worry." You waved away. "I'll finish my job as fast as humanely possible, and then we won't have to see each other again. Because I know you aren't fond of assisting the Progress Day's party."

He crossed his arms, letting the handle of his cane hook on the curve of his elbow. "I'm not sorry to disappoint you—but I'm very fond of Progress Days. I've changed," Viktor said, but it was only a half-truth. He wasn't sure how he could change a feeling that lay hidden deep inside, frozen in time instead of giving them a real burial. You only had to dig to start seeing the uneven silhouette of the memory boxes where nothing should be more than black earth.

“Anyway,” you replied, your tone bleeding with sarcasm. “That’s my peace treaty. I know Mel and Jayce will feel awkward if they ever discover that they’ve arranged old flames as partners, so let’s just forget it. I assure you it’s nothing that could endanger the quality of this project.”

Let’s just forget it. You were right, as you had always been, and yet…

I've already forgotten you, Viktor, you said inside his mind, a smile that once had left him breathless now hurting him in the unspoken truth that now you were better without him.

Of course, you were better without him.

Yet, Viktor couldn’t help but seek your left hand accommodating the deep V line of your dress for the poignant sight of a band on your finger.

“I’m not a passionate teenager, Miss Favred," he said, his tone devoid of any warmth. "I assure you I'm not interested in dwelling in the past. So rest assured, I won't embarrass you." It was totally unconscious that his voice dripped with contempt.

You curled your upper lip. “You’re such a fusspot, always the victim.”

Viktor inhaled sharply. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” you spat, taking your skirt with your fists as you were ready to stalk away.

The parallels made his heart squeeze in a painful grip. Was history about to repeat itself?

Before his brain could recollect the action, Viktor had called your name, hand extended open as if wanting to touch you. “Wait—” As if he had something to tell you.

You ignored him, stopping when Jayce approached you both from the complete opposite direction Mel and he had gone at first. Also, you couldn't point out if the dark marks of brown smeared on his face were just a plaything of the lightning or marks of kisses.

“Are you leaving so soon?” Jayce told you, hand over your shoulder.

“Yes,” you told him with a smile, completely ignoring Viktor. “My feet hurt and I’m afraid I haven’t recovered my sleep schedule since my return.”

"Well, maybe Viktor can walk you home?" he offered. "For what Mel told me, you live near his apartment." Not that he had moved a lot since you left, but seeing the surprise in your eyes felt like a little victory.

“No,” Viktor and you said at the same time.

“I mean—,” you started.

“I want to stay a little longer,” Viktor said. "As I should be open to enjoying these celebrations more. Hextech anniversary only arrives once a year!" He tried to laugh, but Jayce looked at him with such a concerned frown it was hard to keep his act. Your contained snort wasn't helping.

“Vik… I think you’ve had far too many drinks.”

He glared at Jayce for what felt like the thousandth time. "I'm fine, Jayce—”

"Well, goodbye!" you chirped, getting on your tippy toes to kiss Jayce's cheek, and then, forcefully, approach Viktor and give him a goodbye kiss, too. More like a rude smack, with how forceful you were.

"Tomorrow, eight sharp," Jayce told you, poking your side with his elbow. "Viktor doesn't like it when I arrive late."

“I can’t wait,” you beamed, eyes boring into Viktor’s. As if daring him to say something.

"Me either," Viktor lied.

If you wanna get into the taglist lemme a comment below! 🤗

#viktor x reader #arcane viktor x reader #viktor arcane x reader #viktor fanfic #arcane fanfic #arcane viktor #viktor arcane #arcane viktor x you #viktor arcane x you #arcane x female reader

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mangoshorthand · 1 year

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Thing of the Past- [Five Hargreeves x F Reader]. Ch2 (Hard Feelings Part 4)

SUMMARY: You can't avoid it any longer: Five has to meet your parents. It goes more wrong than you could possibly imagine, spiralling to bring up secrets he'd rather stay buried.

⚠️TRIGGER WARNINGS⚠️ Chapter One - Chapter Two - Chapter Three - Chapter Four - Chapter Five - Chapter Six - Chapter Seven - Chapter Eight - Chapter Nine - Chapter Ten - Chapter Eleven/Epilogue

You and Five discuss the disastrous visit and the upcoming wedding.

Fluff, smut and fingers up Five's - (sorry not sorry).

⚠️Please heed content warning⚠️

Chapter Two: Custody Battles

“There’s nothing to say you have to invite them.”

“They’re my parents.”

You’re sitting together, blanket-covered legs dangling off the side of the fire-escape. He puts his arm around you and surveys you with sympathy.

“I get it. Family is a huge-ass ball of obligation. Nobody knows that better than me.”

“Hey!” you say, offended.

“Not my chosen family,” He kisses your forehead.

You sigh.

“They’re not even that bad. They’re just…not good.”

“That they ain’t. The Mother-of-the-bride trying to hump the groom isn’t a great look.”

You give a humourless laugh, "Don't worry. There will be other men at the wedding. You'll have safety in numbers. She'll probably try to pick off one of the smaller, weaker ones."

He laughs at this.

“There I was thinking it was my raw sexual energy.”

“Can’t we just elope instead?” you continue, a whine entering your voice.

Now Five sighs.

“We could. But I think I’d be a little sorry. I want to marry you most of all but I’ll admit that I’ve been picturing the big white dress and the reading room and whatnot.”

When organizing your wedding, Five had been both predictable and unpredictable. When he talked about Luther and Sloane’s wedding, you got the impression he’d hated the sentimentality: you’d expected to have to persuade him into anything grander than a trip to the courthouse. To your surprise, however, this couldn’t be further from the truth. You’d actually had to talk him down.

He approached wedding planning as if he were Bonaparte approaching Waterloo: the bedroom dry erase was currently devoted to seating plans and guest lists, budgets and contractors. When venue shopping, he’d taken you on an exhaustive tour of the city. After dragging Aoife around a thirteenth extravagant venue, you’d pulled him into an outwardly unassuming hotel and bar to get a damn coffee and discovered a beautiful reading room with floor to ceiling bookcases, rolling ladders and Palladian pillars holding up a gallery. With one exchanged look, you’d decided right then and there.

Now, on the fire escape, he pulls you closer to him.

“I could just kill your Mom, if it helps? I could make it painless...or not.”

You laugh again, “Hey, it would be free entertainment. Save money on contractors.”

He holds out a hand in front of you both.

“Picture this: in a month from now, you and I will be sipping champagne on a balcony in Marseille, looking out over the vineyards and lavender fields after a day in the spa. The wedding will be over and you’ll be my wife.”

“Hmm. Sounds nice...but I thought you hated lavender?"

“Only when it’s artificial: in detergents and…perfumes. Fresh lavender growing under the Mediterranean sun? That’s a whole different ballpark.”

You close your eyes and enjoy his warmth for a while.

“Have you picked your best man yet?”

He makes a non-committal noise. He’s been pretending to be indifferent about this but you know he’s hiding slight anxiousness.

“You don’t have to have a best man. Diego and Lila didn’t bother with bridesmaids or groomsmen.”

His feet swing a little over the side of the fire escape.

“It's hard to choose. I was closest to Viktor when we were kids but he was Luther's best man and it seems...unfair somehow. I don't want the others to feel... I’d naturally go for Klaus but Klaus can’t officiate and be best man, Diego would be the worst best man and Luther would probably cry all through his speech.”

"You definitely can't have Klaus. I want him with me while I'm getting ready."

"He's my brother!"

"But he says I'm more fun!"

He laughs and pulls you tighter to him.

"This is a bad start. How are we going to decide who gets custody of him in the divorce?"

“You get Aoife if I get Klaus. At least it’s fun when he keeps you up all night.”

You both laugh at this, finishing with your heads leaned against each other. When your laughter subsides, you look into his eyes. A familiar look creeps into them.

“You’re going to be my wife.”

The sentence is innocent, but the way he says it is anything but. One of his hands comes to grip your chin, squeezing just a bit,

“My. Wife.”

He leans in, keeping imperious eyes on yours. You try to close the gap between you and kiss him, but he pulls back, smirking and eyes flashing. Clearly, he provoked the reaction he wanted. His thumb traces the curve of your lower lip, sending tingles in its wake. Unconsciously, you part your lips and his thumb invades your mouth. He pins your tongue down, stroking his thumb in as far as it will go. His smile broadens perceptibly at your willingness to accept him, at your eyes fixed on his, ready to take whatever he chooses to give you. As he slides his thumb out, you purse your lips slightly. His eyes leave yours and dart to your mouth, watching his thumb protrude, dragging plumped lips in its wake.

With his thumb still hooked around your mouth, he pulls gently, watching your lower lip pout downwards. He uses this grip to pull you to him and kiss you. The kiss isn’t tender. His tongue works like his thumb. You know better than to kiss him back just now. He’s enjoying your passivity. His other hand abruptly grips your left breast through your blouse and squeezes hard, digging his fingers into the sensitive flesh. You gasp in surprise, and now he kisses you more fully, like a starving man. You allow yourself to kiss back, to run your tongue against his. As you kiss like this, his hand creeps to your blouse buttons.

Luther’s heading home after a pleasant evening spent with his niece and nephew. It’s a fine early summer evening so he enjoys his walk to the subway. The setting sun casts a sweet light over everything. As he passes the alley, a movement there catches his eye. There’s Five, legs dangling over the fire escape and kissing his fiancée.

It warms his heart. They’d come so far. The brother he thought he’d lost forever, his brother who’d saved them all again and again. In a few weeks, he’s going to marry the woman he loves- the woman who’d revealed and unlocked facets of Five’s heart that were unsuspected even by his siblings. He sighs a little and smiles. The world can be a cruel place, but Luther knows, deep down, that there’s justice; some divine energy that restores balance.

As his eyes grow misty, the sunlight falls just right and he notices that Five’s hand is down her blouse, underneath her clearly exposed bra.

As Five’s none-too-gentle fingers skim your areola, you hear an indignant shout that causes you to break apart.

“Christ, you’re an animal, Five!”

You both look down to see Luther stomping past the alley’s entrance, gesticulating angrily.

“What was that about?” you ask Five.

“No idea. But I want you inside.”

You both extricate yourselves from the fire escape. Five clambers back through the window and turns to assist you. When you have your legs in the room, he lifts you into his arms and carries you bodily over to the bed, where he drops you.

“Strip.”

He stands over you, looking down and biting his lip as you obey. His eyes rove each new area of flesh as they're exposed, stripping off his own clothes too.

When you’re both naked, he comes to stand by the edge of the bed.

“Get me fully hard.”

You immediately get to it, taking his cock gently in both of your hands, stroking down each side of his shaft. You look up at him, holding his eyes. This, you know, will get him harder quicker than anything; he loves the feeling of your eyes upon him while you service him. He lets out a single ‘huh’ of laughter. He knows what you’re doing.

He closes his eyes and tips his head back, blocking out the sight.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to work harder than that.”

Well…if that’s what he wants. If he doesn’t want to see anything, then you’ll have to give him something to hear as well as feel.

You stroke the velvet head of his dick with your thumbs. You let out a small “hm” as if in surprised pleasure. His dick responds, so you lean forward and tickle the swelling glans with the tip of your tongue, moving it loudly and wetly.

“Mmpph”

You laugh softly.

“This is too easy.”

His eyes fly open. You see the flash of triumph there. You’ve given him the excuse he was looking for. A blink and then his weight bearing down upon you, body pinning yours.

“I beg your pardon?” his whisper is faux-dangerous.

“I said you’re too easy.”

He actually growls as one of his hands flies again to your chin, fingers massaging your neck with just enough pressure to be deliciously threatening.

“I should slap the shit out of you for that.”

“But you wouldn’t dare.”

You’ve called his bluff and he knows it: face-slapping has always been off the table between you. Unwilling to be seen to back down, the hand on your neck comes to your face. He pats your cheek slightly harder than gently. It makes a tiny thwack.

“I guess I’ll just have to fuck you until that little pussy can’t take it anymore.”

You snort.

“Like you could last that long.”

He likes this particular game. Giving it back to him until the moment you finally submit fully. He likes to feel that he’s beat you- likes overcoming a worthy adversary.

The hand on your face slides down your body and between your legs. He laughs slowly at what he finds there.

“When you’re already this wet? Sure.”

“Lick me.” you try to command, but it ends up being a plea.

His laughter becomes derisive, “No.”

He lowers himself so his mouth is against your ear. When he speaks again, it’s the growling tone.

“Tonight, I don’t give a shit if you come. I’m going to use you like the come-dumpster you are. You’ll get my dick hard as many times as I want and I will come in any hole I want. Got it?”

“Mmm." Heat floods you from the vulva outwards. If he keeps talking like this, he won’t need to worry about you coming.

His hips shift and he places himself at your entrance. You open your legs obediently to accept him. He snaps his hips forward viciously, entering you wholly on the first stroke. He gives a laughing gasp at your surprise, starting to fuck you with a firm, deliberate rhythm.

“By the time I’m done with you, there’ll be come dribbling out of every- fucking- hole,” he thrusts his hips to punctuate the final three words. “If not for that vasectomy, I’d absolutely be putting another baby in you.”

You begin to laugh at his mixture of filth and practicality, but it turns abruptly into a moan as the head of his cock massages your deepest sweet spot.

He groans at the feeling, “You’re going to feel my come running out of you for a fucking week.”

He’s turning himself on with his dirty talk. You begin to rock your hips up towards his, making him speed up.

“You dirty-fucking-come rag.”

Again, his hips slam into you with every word. When he’s not speaking, his mouth works furiously at your neck and ear lobe.

It’s good. You feel your pleasure building as he goes to town on your pussy. You can tell that, for him, this is purely about his pleasure- it wasn’t just talk. The idea of him using you like his fleshlight is enough to get you there…or nearly there.

You feel his dick twitching inside you as he comes with more growls. He rides it out furiously before rolling off you, slightly out of breath. He inspects between your legs, scooping a trail of dribbling come with two fingers and inserting them into your pussy, pushing it back inside.

“Gotta put this back where it belongs.”

He removes his fingers slowly, keeping eye contact as he withdraws. He watches your reaction with a small, gloating smile on his face. He knows you want him to finger you, so he draws out the moment of removing them as long as possible. When his come-covered fingertips finally withdraw, he lifts them to your mouth.

“Eat that, and then tease my cock with your mouth until I’m hard again. I think I’m just gonna lay here while you service my dick.”

“Mm. Yes Sir.”

You suck his fingers deeply, not breaking eye contact. When they're clean to his satisfaction, you get on your knees beside him, cheek against his stomach with head between his legs. He strokes your ass as you press a trail of feather-light kisses to his thighs, avoiding his soft and sticky cock until it’s hard enough not to be overly sensitive.

Breathing in his pleasant smell, you take one of his balls into your mouth and suckle on it oh-so-gently.

He tenses, always instinctively wary here, but gradually relaxes as he lets pleasure overtake his natural reluctance to have this vulnerable part of him between teeth.

“Mmm... that’s right. You suck on my balls. You know where you belong.”

When you look up again after minutes of licking and sucking them, his dick is semi-hard, persuaded back to life by your gentle ministrations. You lick up its length, provoking a hum of pleasure from Five. When you’ve worked him to full hardness, you take the head into your mouth and envelop in his inches one by one. You contract your lips so as to roll his foreskin down too, exposing more sensitive flesh directly to the warm wetness of your mouth. As you start to bob up and down on him, one of your hands cups his still-wet balls gently, stroking lower occasionally, massaging the base of his dick at his perineum.

When your middle finger strokes his asshole with a gentle tickling motion, his hips twitch upwards. You snigger around his dick.

“I know what you’re doing.”

You withdraw from his dick, spitting generously on your finger and returning it to his hole, just circling the clenched muscle.

“I don’t know what you mean,” you say, tickling him again, asking for admittance.

“It won’t work,” he says, sternly.

But you think it probably will. With your finger up his ass, Five turns into as submissive a slut as he’s ever accused you of being. It’s his one weak spot.

“You too chicken?” you mock, finger still teasing his asshole. You return your tongue to his dick, matching the movement of your saliva-lubed finger with the tip of your tongue on his cockhead.

Five sighs out a moan with the edge of a growl.

“Fine: lube me up. We’ll see who comes out on top. I guess it’s about time you gave your man a prostate massage.”

“Sure,” you say, a knowing smile on your face as you reach for the lube in the bedside cabinet, "that makes it sound a whole lot more macho than getting finger fucked like a little bitch."

In retribution, he grabs your throat, forcing your chin back and fixing you with an imperious look. It quite clearly asks: Are you going to behave?

You smirk in response; you certainly don't intend to behave.

Nevertheless, when he lets you go, he allows you to rub the lube all over him and slip your index finger into him slowly. He’s tight, walls gripping your finger, so you go gently. You're now knelt facing him between his legs, eyes locked on his and waiting for the reaction you know must come; the moment where he gives up being in charge and bottoms for you like a pro.

The deeper you get, the more slack his jaw goes. There’s a strangled moan from under his breath as you reach the deepest your finger will go.

“Goddamn,” he whispers, eyebrows raised in almost-pained bliss.

You raise one of yours at him:

"You look so cute when you're desperate."

He is desperate but stubbornness alone carries him through. Your finger still inside him, he grabs your hair in his fist and pulls your head towards his crotch again. You take his full-standing dick back into your mouth.

“What are you waiting for? Suck me. I’m going to fuck that face while you pleasure my asshole like the. Good. Fucking. Future. Wife. You. A-Are.”

Again, he thrusts to emphasize every word, his cock hitting the back of your throat. You bring your free hand to the outside of his thigh, ready to tap out if you need to breathe.

You slide your finger in and out of him. He’s already contracting around you as you suck his dick in tandem; his asshole yielding beautifully. He lets you control the rhythm but thrusts his hips up and pushes your head down to get as deep as possible. You up your game on his ass- finding his prostate and firmly rolling the pad of your finger around it. This produces a tiny spike of needy, high-pitched vocalization amidst his otherwise deep moans; surely a step in the right direction.

Five feels his brain wanting to turn off, wanting to submit; throw his legs over his head and beg you to finger him harder. But he can’t let you win; he doesn’t think he could stand your shit eating expression afterwards. Instead, he thrusts his dick in and out of your mouth mercilessly. When you gag and tap his thigh, he notes it with satisfaction.

In the few seconds of break while you catch your breath, he looks up at you, tilting his head insolently.

“You call that a prostate massage? Kinda pathetic. I’d have thought a nasty little skank like you could do better.”

You meet his eyes, yours still streaming after the head of his cock tried to push its way down your throat. He raises an eyebrow at you:

Ready to take what’s coming to you?

You’re ready and willing, happy to be his nasty little skank. You feel your own wetness flowing out from between your labia and running stickily down your thighs.

You bend your head, open your mouth and take his dick again, switching your index to your middle finger in his ass. You find his prostate again and really pummel it this time, stroking it firmly up and down with the in-out movement of your finger. He grunts and speeds his pelvic thrusts into your mouth, going hard. You can tell this is him trying to come, but the second orgasm is harder to wrest from him. When he gets there, he grunts, growls and whines his way through.

By the end, he managed to come four times. The last time, (in your ass), his shouts were pained, almost as if he were being electrocuted.

“NYAH…shit. AAAHHHH”

He had slumped forward, having truly exhausted himself. Now he lies back on the bed, massaging his lower stomach.

“Shit- did I wake the baby?”

You both fall quiet, listening. Aoife sleeps in one of the attic storage rooms, cleaned of junk and renovated into a nursery. There are no sounds of stirring from the baby monitor so he pulls you to him, breathing as if he’s just run a race. He goes into aftercare mode: nuzzling your neck, kissing you and whispering loving affirmations.

“All ok? Not too intense?"

"No. You know I like it."

"I love you, I hope you know that. Did I go too far on the name-calling?"

"That was about my limit, but it was okay. I love you too."

Seemingly with effort, he stops sleepily nuzzling you and prepares to stand, "You need a washcloth?”

“Yeah, I could do with one.”

He heaves himself to his feet and shrugs on his robe, but when he tries to blink to the bathroom, the power fizzles weakly in his fists.

“Awwh. You all tuckered out?” you ask, mocking him gently.

“It’s fair to say I’m out of juice, yes.”

You smirk. “But my pussy could absolutely take more fucking.”

“Oh I hate that tone.” he mumbles, passing you a pack of baby wipes from the diaper bag and getting back into bed as you clean up.

“I’m just saying…I think I won that one.”

He scoffs at this.

“Sure. How many times did you come from that?”

“Hey- I’m not the one bitching out here. You said you’d fuck me until my pussy couldn’t take any more. And I could take much more than your little dick can give me.”

He pulls you close, closing his eyes. “I hate you.”

“And that’s why you’re marrying me, right?”

“Mm. Why else?”

His voice drags from exhaustion. Soon, he’s asleep and snoring softly into your ear.

Tag list: (please comment to be added or removed.) @dilfjohhny , @sunsunhe, @w4stedtr4sh, @nevbrooke-555, @theredvelvetbitch, @td-miley01, @five-hxrgreeves, @rorygi1more, @jamiebower88

Masterpost

Alternatively, join me on A03. Here is a link to the whole series

Comments would be appreciated here or on ao3 because I'm a needy ho.

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thedustybunny · 11 months

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Chamomile kisses - Chapter 13

Viktor (Arcane) x Fem!Reader

As the days passed, (Y/n) continued her attempts to greet Viktor warmly, but his response remained consistent – a concerned look, as if he was ready to check her temperature at any moment. Despite his aloofness, there was a newfound camaraderie between her and Jayce. They would occasionally exchange knowing glances, and smiles that hinted at secrets between them.

Lunchtime arrived, and (Y/n) was joined by Jayce at her favorite spot. They exchanged smiles and pleasantries before diving into a conversation that had been on her mind.

Jayce, with a mischievous glint in his eyes, leaned in slightly and said, "So, you've got a ‘secret’ admirer, huh?”

(Y/n) chuckled and nodded, leaning in closer as well. "Oh, ever since the chocolates I’ve just been over the moon!."

Jayce's eyes sparkled with curiosity. "Did you get anything else~?"

Grinning, (Y/n) continued, "He left me flowers – roses, chamomile, and lavender. Such a sweet combination."

Jayce raised an eyebrow, clearly entertained. "Flowers and chocolates, classic moves."

As (Y/n) recounted the gifts she had received, her cheeks grew warmer with each mention. "There were crystals, Jayce, a labradorite to remind me of my own eyes and a tigers eye to remind me of his."

Jayce chuckled at her blushing, clearly delighted by the situation. "That's pretty poetic, don't you think?"

Trying to hide her embarrassment, (Y/n) nodded and finally revealed the most recent gift. "And just yesterday, a silver bracelet adorned with tiny opals. It's... overwhelming."

Jayce couldn't contain his laughter any longer and gave her an affectionate pat on the back. "Well, it sounds like someone is quite taken with you. I've never seen you blush this much!"

(Y/n) playfully rolled her eyes, but deep down, she couldn't deny the warmth these mysterious gifts brought to her heart.

Their laughter echoed through the cozy cafe as (Y/n) and Jayce sat across from each other, sharing a light-hearted moment amidst their busy lives at the academy. Jayce leaned in, his voice barely above a whisper, "So, you're still convinced it's Viktor?"

(Y/n) chuckled, sipping her tea before replying, "Well, who else could it be? The tigers eye matched his eye color, and we did spend that unforgettable night locked in with the hex crystals."

Jayce nodded in agreement, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "True, true. It's got Viktor written all over it. He's just too stubborn to admit his feelings."

(Y/n) leaned back in her chair, her cheeks slightly flushed at the thought. "You might be onto something, Jayce. A secret admirer in the form of our grumpy colleague."

As they shared theories and playful banter about Viktor's hidden affections, (Y/n) and Jayce reveled in the ongoing mystery, their camaraderie growing stronger over the shared belief that their enigmatic secret admirer was none other than Viktor himself.

The anticipation in (Y/n)'s heart built as the evening drew closer. She put the finishing touches on her work, excitement bubbling beneath her calm exterior. At precisely 7:30, Jayce walked into her lab, and she couldn't contain her joy. She practically leaped into his arms, hugging him tightly as she shared her latest discovery.

"Jayce, you won't believe it! Another gift, and this time with a note inviting me to meet them outside the abandoned lab near the western woods at 8!" Her words tumbled out in a rush, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm.

Jayce grinned, genuinely happy for her. "That's amazing, (Y/n)! I'm so glad for you. You better get going if you don't want to be late."

With a final squeeze of reassurance, Jayce walked her outside the academy. As she headed towards the rendezvous point, (Y/n) couldn't help but wonder if this mysterious secret admirer would finally reveal themselves tonight.

#arcane viktor x reader #viktor arcane x reader #viktor arcane x you #viktor x reader #viktor x you #chamomilekisses #arcane x female reader #arcane x reader #enemies to friends to lovers #arcane x you

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thedreamlessnights · 2 years

Text

Anything You Want

Viktor x f!reader || NSFW ||

Summary: As an anniversary gift, Viktor lets you do whatever you want with him. You blindfold him, cover him in kisses and warm wax that makes him shiver, and straddle his lap. You give him a single rule to follow: he’s not allowed to touch you, or you’ll stop.

Warnings: Wax play - no pain, only sensations, fingering, temperature play, sort of dom!reader, praise kink, one (1) use of good boy, begging, body worship, marking(love bites), bantering, Viktor gets blindfolded, mentions of restraints, general NSFW content.

A/N: Happy Kinktober first everyone! Enjoy this fic which was absolutely not released on October 12th, no sir!

Word Count: 4k

If there’s anything consistent about the past few months of your life, it’s window shopping.

Stress melts away in blurred aisles, in almost-empty carts. If you spend too much, then it’ll be a bad habit, and you have quite enough of those to last you a lifetime. You buy trinkets, mostly. Little things that you’re forced to actually use, because you can’t stand the thought of them going to waste.

Which is how, at nine in the morning on the eve of your anniversary, you find yourself in the candle aisle. The last thirty minutes have been a blur of stress that won’t quite shed from you the way it normally does.

Everything you have planned for tomorrow doesn’t feel like enough. Granted, Viktor isn’t picky, and he definitely isn��t expecting anything big. The two of you have been together for four years now, and you’ve always done largely the same things. He takes you out to dinner at your favorite restaurant, the two of you exchange gifts, and you fall asleep in each other’s arms.

All of that applies to this year, too, but it’s different.

You’re married now.

Over the last few months, you’ve gotten him a dozen little gifts as expressions of your love. A new leather notebook, because his current one is falling apart at the seams and only has a few pages left. New books for him to read. A winter coat. Some favorite childhood snacks that are hard to find here. Shoes that will alleviate some of the pressure on his foot and knee.

None of that feels good enough.

It’s your own fault, because what you’re really trying to do is live up to the standards you’ve set for previous anniversaries - because in addition to regular gifts, you’ve always had something extra for him, too.

The first year, it was lingerie.

After that, boudoir photos. He still keeps one of those pictures in his wallet - and you’re always reminded of it by the slight, mischievous smile he gives you when he opens it.

Then, last year - your wedding night - he’d bound you up with soft, silk ties, and the two of you had experimented with various things all honeymoon long.

But what on earth can you do this year?

You’ve searched and searched, but things either seem too far out or not enough. Either you’ll be uncomfortable, or you know Viktor will be.

So here you are, roaming a grocery store, as if it will strike some divine inspiration to answer the problem you’ve had for months.

Here you are, eyeing wax melts and candles and remembering that your current candle of choice is running low.

There are almost too many options to choose from. Pine and vetiver, salt spray, poppy fields, apple and cinnamon, lemon-lavender. A rainbow selection, but the one that sticks out to you is a dark orange-red, ruby blended with rust.

Sweet ginger and spice, it says. Sturdy in your hand, and not too expensive.

The smell of it when it hits your nose is so astonishingly Viktor that it almost makes your knees buckle.

Cardamom, a slight hint of coffee, warm cinnamon, sharp pepper.

Viktor.

And a coincidence like that makes you think - even as you quickly set the candle in your cart and continue your mindless strolling.

It makes you think of a year ago, on your honeymoon, when you and Viktor had gone into a sex shop. When rows and rows of padded handcuffs and silk ties and blindfolds and harnesses and sex toys had all blended together into one adrenaline-fueled moment.

But most of all, it makes you think of something you’d forgotten - when skin-safe wax had caught your eye, crimson red. Deep in your mind, an idea sparks.

Because you can picture it now, Viktor blindfolded under you, gasping as warm wax drapes over his abdomen. Heaving breaths that contract his stomach.

Porcelain skin, covered in scarlet.

You know what you’re going to do for your anniversary.

***

Every time you’ve asked Viktor about his limits, he’s had the same response to give.

“Anything you want.”

Those three words have been drilled into you, and they were the same when you’d asked him what he was comfortable with a month or two ago - just to be sure nothing had changed. He was clever enough to know that you were planning something - or trying to. And he’d just looked at you with a soft, fond sort of gaze, and said, “Anything.”

Anything you want.

Being in a shop like this is much more intimidating now, being here alone and with a plan. The wax seems to scream at you from where it sits in your cart.

But you pay no mind to it, because if Viktor really had a limit in mind, he’d have told you. You already know what he doesn’t like, and you don’t like those things, either. Hence, his usual response. Anything you want - an indicator of his trust for you.

Trust you don’t intend to disappoint.

A blindfold is quickly added to the cart, but you halt at the restraints. You could tie him up. He’d like it, but you’ve already done it before. Besides, you’ve got something better in mind.

Something he finds out after the anniversary dinner - once you’ve painted your lips in pink and put on a new dress. Once he’s opened his gifts and you’ve opened yours, and the two of you have settled onto the bed, full and more than content.

“I have something else for you,” you tell him, and the edge of his lip quirks. A smile - and a smug one, at that. He’d known you’d have more.

“Oh?” he asks, gaze immediately pinning on the small, rectangular box in your hands.

You lean forward, brushing your lips against his cheek, leaving the ghost of a mark against his skin. Then you hand him the box, leaning back to mull over his expression.

He’s curious - of course he is. He’s probably spent the last few months trying to guess what you’d be doing, which only makes this better. Because, as much as he excels at reading you, he can’t guess an idea you hadn’t even come up with until yesterday.

Or, at least, you don’t think he can.

When he opens the box and finds what’s inside - the black satin of the blindfold - his expression flickers quizzically.

“How do you feel about surprises?” you murmur, scooting closer and tucking a strand of his hair behind his ear. He leans into the motion, briefly closing his eyes before reaching out for you.

“I enjoy them,” he says with a coy smile, settling a hand on your lower back. It sits there a moment, then slides up to your waist. “Particularly when they come from you.”

“Well then,” you practically purr, settling yourself on his lap. “Put it on. I’ll set it up.”

Your mouth hovers over his for a moment before he kisses you. A short, sweet thing - the slightest brush of tongues before you pull away, admiring your view.

Left behind from where your lips had met, Viktor’s mouth is now pink - vibrant, smudged from your lipstick. When he puts on the blindfold and waits for you, it’s a pretty enough sight that you’re tempted to rush your work.

Only, you also want to stretch it out. You want to make him desperate. Begging for you. Whimpering. Marked, worshipped, and throbbing. That result won’t come without some patience on your part - Viktor is many things, and being stubborn is at the top of the list. He won’t give in easily.

You drag out the heating of the wax as much as you can, but he sits obediently on the bed, head tilting toward the sounds you’re making - no doubt trying to analyze every action. Every rustle of fabric, every opening of a drawer, every soft clink and click of the lighter seems amplified in the silence, and you’ve no doubt that he’s registering all of it.

Even when you’re finally ready to start, his resolve barely seems weakened. If anything, he seems more excited about whatever it is he thinks you’re doing.

When you come to straddle him, setting the candle on the nightstand, his hands automatically go up to your waist, head tilting up toward you.

You tsk, removing them even as you miss the loss of them. The confusion plays on his face as clear as day, and it makes a strange satisfaction rumble in your chest. The rare occurrence of being one step ahead of his thinking.

“This surprise comes with a rule,” you say, leaning in close to his ear. “If you break it, I’ll stop what I’m doing and go to bed. Understand?”

“Yes,” he breathes. “What’s the rule?”

“You’re not allowed to touch me.”

He inhales sharply.

“Your hands stay on those sheets,” you continue. “On the bed or on your legs, but not touching me, and not touching yourself.”

“Cruel,” he mutters, but there’s a subtle enthrallment in his words. “Alright, then.”

His hands go flat to the sheets.

“Good boy,” you murmur.

His reaction is almost imperceptible, but you catch it nonetheless. The slightest squirming. The flick of his lips into a smile. Surprise, but not distaste.

He sits still for you as you reach over to the nightstand and grab the wax, testing it with a dip of your finger to make sure it’s not too hot. It’s warm, but not scalding - it won’t hurt him, but it will most likely startle. When it dries, it peels away from your finger easily.

Now you need to expose some of his skin, which means unbuttoning his white shirt and trailing your fingers over his abdomen - making him writhe in anticipation again.

“What are you up to?” he asks, sounding slightly breathless. His hand twitches on the sheets, as if tempted to reach up and grip the back of your thigh - the way he usually does when you sit like this.

“If I told you that,” you say, stabilizing the candle in your grip, “then it wouldn’t be a surprise, now would it?”

Before he can respond, you tilt the candle forward and the warm wax spills out - streaming down his sternum.

Viktor’s reaction is instant. A quick, sharp breath. An instinctive movement of his hand, shooting up to grab at your wrist. His grip is tight, but not painful. Lips parted in shock, but no anger in his expression.

You go still just as fast as he moves, holding the candle close to your chest, waiting. Waiting as he breathes in heavily, tilting his head back against the headboard. Waiting as he curses under his breath, thumb stroking your wrist.

The longer you wait, the more dread pools in your stomach. Slimy. Thick. Coiling into a knot.

Have you gone too far? Was the wax too hot?

Another dip of your fingers says otherwise. A pleasant warmth, but nothing more.

Maybe he’d hated it. Maybe you’ve betrayed the trust he so adamantly put in you. Maybe you’ve just ruined your anniversary. But how were you to know?

“Vik?” you whisper. “Too much? Should I stop?”

“No,” he says, shaking his head, gently squeezing your wrist. “No, please don’t. I - I liked it. I liked it more than… more than I’d have expected to.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

The doubt bleeds out of you, spilling into the air against his strained breathing until it’s gone. It’s replaced by a new sense of boldness. You’d found something he hadn’t even known he liked.

“Then tell me,” you hum, pressing a kiss to his cheek. It leaves a red mark this time - his favorite color of lipstick on you - another surprise for him to discover. “What was the rule I gave you?”

As if he hadn’t noticed the way he’s still holding you, Viktor’s brow quirks in confusion. His grip on your hand relaxes, and he drops his hand.

“N- not to touch you,” he says, swallowing hard.

“Good. Consider that your warning.”

When his hands return to the sheets, you continue your work - pressing a gentle kiss to his shoulder. He shivers at the brush of your lips, but sighs when you trail over the same area with the wax. The warmth of it must be nice - his body slackens rather than going tense.

Little by little, you adorn him. Kiss every inch of him that you have access to, from jaw to clavicle to abdomen. Decorate him with ruby presses of your lips, soft trails of wax, gentle nuzzling against his skin.

Delicate nibbling at his neck that turns into something fiercer, sharper - jeweled bruises that will soon crown his throat. He sits obediently for you, stubbornly patient, but you can read his desperation like a book.

The way he squirms under you, though he tries to subdue it. Hands buried in the sheets, squeezing tight enough to whiten the knuckles. Hard underneath you, kept still, but you know what he wants. What he’s currently fighting. He wants to grind his hips into you, in time with the gentle rhythm of your movements. Wants to reach up and touch you. Wants to be inside you.

When you fan your breath on his cheek, he turns toward you - leans in, wanting to kiss you. But even this, you deny him - choosing to bite at his shoulder, waiting for him to beg.

“Are you ever going to- to allow me to touch you?” Viktor asks, sounding winded. His hands tug on the sheets, as if to show you the extent of his desperation.

“Maybe,” you tease. “If you keep being good.”

He curses under his breath. Curses again when you lean forward, putting the force of your weight on his hips.

His hips roll instinctively into yours. Stopping only when you halt, raising a brow that he can’t even see.

“I thought you wanted to touch me,” you tell him. He can hear the smugness of your voice - you can tell by the downward twist of his lips, the twist that becomes a scowl.

“I do,” he says. It’s almost desperate, but not quite. Not enough.

“Then behave.”

He lets out a soft, pleading sound in response to that. You simply hum, setting the candle down beside the nightstand and admiring your work.

Viktor is covered - torso and abdomen decorated in various shades of red - your lipstick meshed with the wax. His skin is a beautiful canvas for your work, and when you’re satisfied that you've taken all of him in, you reach to the nightstand for one of the other things you’d set aside - a camera.

“I want to remember this,” you say softly, aligning him in the camera’s frame. “Remember how you look right now.”

Viktor pauses, taking in your words. Then he smiles.

“You’re taking a picture.”

The clean click of the shutter is your response.

“You look so pretty for me,” you praise. “How could I not?”

“Take more,” he murmurs. “To match the pictures of you I’ll be taking later.”

Heat courses down your abdomen, searing and very, very distracting.

“Bold words from someone blindfolded,” you tease, pushing your arousal aside and snapping two more. “Who says you’ll be able to see me?”

Christ, he’s beautiful. You add in a fourth. Then a fifth.

“I have hope,” he says plainly. Click. “I think you’ll have mercy on me. I’ll get those pictures.” Click.

“Promise?” you ask, taking one final picture.

“I promise.”

Finally satisfied, you set the camera down on the nightstand again, leaning in and pressing a kiss to his neck. Your fingers trail low, but not where he wants them - not where will give him relief. Only over his thighs, making him shudder. Over his belt, before pulling it free. Undoing his knee brace, and pulling his pants off, leaving him in his boxers.

Viktor is practically panting for you now, waiting for your inevitable upcoming action. Which, perhaps a bit cruelly, is to grab an ice cube from the melting tray on the nightstand and brush it against the soft skin of his stomach.

He swears loudly, hands fiercely gripping at the sheets.

A moment is spent waiting for him - seeing if he’ll say it’s too much, if he’ll tap out. When he doesn’t, you continue. Trail it up his ribs, over his sternum, down his abdomen. Watch the glossy trail it leaves on his skin.

Viktor shivers under it, breaths coming deep under your touch, heart fluttering in his ribs when you rest ice-cold fingers above it.

“You - you’ll be the death of me,” he whimpers, tilting his head back. You imagine that he’s closing his eyes, but aren’t sure. “Please.”

And there it is. The word you’ve been waiting for.

The desperation, written on every inch of him. It lies in the dampened hair, in the lipstick and wax, in the wrinkles of his unbuttoned shirt. The pleading expression you can only partially see, marred by the blindfold. His plea echoes in every part of his desperate, pretty little face with traces of you smudged all over it.

Gently, you reach out and place two fingers under his chin. Tilt it up toward you, ghosting your mouth over his. With your other hand, you do a final swipe of the ice up his chest - sending him shuddering - before you kiss him, and he melts into your touch.

He keeps his hands on the bed, though, just like you’d asked him to.

Maybe he deserves a little reprieve.

“Touch me,” you whisper.

His hands immediately flash up to you - first to your waist, before gliding up to your arms, thumbing over the ring on your left hand, then moving up and clutching gently at your jaw. Pulling you in, as if you aren’t already on top of him. Wanting you as close as he can possibly get.

Then his hands pull away from you, and travel upward - just like you’d anticipated. They go up to the blindfold, starting to tug, and only stop when you halt his action.

“Who said you could take it off?”

For a moment, Viktor freezes in place. Your words slowly register, and he lets out a huff.

“But I want to see you,” he pleads.

Leaning in to nuzzle his neck, you tuck a loose strand of his hair behind his ear.

“Feel me,” you whisper, drawing him into a kiss. “You’ll see me later.”

He grumbles something under his breath, soft words mouthed against your lips, then reaches for you - caresses his fingers against your jaw. Kisses the area he’d touched, then moves onward.

A callused thumb traces over your lips, over your cheek. Kisses follow in those areas, too. His movements are slow and teasing, because Viktor knows you just as well as you know him - knows you want him just as badly as he wants you. Knows that you’ll eventually cave, and how to break you down.

What he doesn’t know is that there’s a new piece of lingerie under the robe you’re wearing.

His lips trail down your neck, feather-light, warm and gentle. They flutter over your pulse, kiss at your clavicle, nibble down to your chest - where he finds the satin robe.

He pulls it aside without hesitation, but when his hands find soft lace underneath, he stalls - using his hands to take it in. The sheer top, where lace adorns the apex. If he could see it, how much it reveals, he’d be flushed from the ears down. From the way he breathes in when he traces his fingers over your nipples, there’s a good chance that he’s just found that detail out by himself.

The bralette is dotted with burgundy velvet hearts, which he runs his fingers over before sliding down. Just inches under where the top of the set ends, he finds the corset - black, fastened together in gold clips that he can’t see. His fingers trace the silhouette downward, where he finds the soft skin of your hips before he reaches the bottom of the set, which shows more skin than it covers.

“Is this new?” he asks, sounding winded. “I don’t remember anything like this.”

“It’s new,” you croon, kissing at his neck again. He leans into the feeling of your lips before you pull away, bringing his hands back up to your ribs. “Just for you.”

“Describe it to me,” he requests. “What color is it?”

“Burgundy,” you hum. “Your favorite. A two piece - sheer - with a black corset in between. The top and the bottom are lined with lace and velvet hearts.”

His grip tightens ever so slightly, and he releases a soft moan.

“For me, and you won’t let me see it?”

“You’ll see it later. Trust me.”

At the sound of that, his fingers proceed - trailing up to your abdomen.

“How can someone so beautiful torture me like this?” he grumbles. “You have no- no idea. How much I want to take this off and look at you.”

His words - his hands - are setting you on fire, little by little. You won’t tell him, but your composure is weakening, crumbling as this goes on. You’re soaked for him, desperate for some relief, and, most of all, you miss the sight of his eyes.

But you still want to hold out - mostly, to see if he’ll beg again, but also just for the sake of it.

Which is why you lean in and simply say,

“Oh. I forgot to tell you.”

It’s followed by a soft laugh, winding your hands over his where they sit on your hips.

“I’m wearing red lipstick, too.”

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You’re being cruel. Let me see you.”

“You haven’t even properly felt me yet,” you protest. “Patience.”

His hands move, then - pulling at the bottom piece of lingerie, tugging it down to your thighs so your ass is left bare.

He leaves the top and the corset on - running his hands over them before he rolls a nipple between his fingers, humming as it goes hard through the fabric. Then he kisses you and moves his hands down again.

Down to your thighs, nipping at your neck before his thumb moves to your clit and you let out an embarrassingly desperate whine.

“You’re soaked,” he whispers, breath hot against your cheek. Cardamom. Pepper. Cinnamon. “You’ve been torturing yourself, too.”

“Is it torture if I enjoyed it?”

His mouth quirks - almost a smile, but not quite.

“Well,” he says, “I can’t say that I didn’t enjoy it, too.”

The pace of his hand increases - thumb rubbing circles around you, middle and ring finger sliding ever-so-slowly inside you. Then he goes faster, harder, relentless. Rendering you a trembling mess in seconds. Even blindfolded, he knows how to ruin you.

You want him inside you, but most of all -

You want to see him.

“Fuck it,” you murmur. “Take this stupid thing off.”

You lift the blindfold away from his eyes, and it’s like the flick of a switch - a flash of golden eyes before he kisses you hard, presses close to you, speeds up his rhythm and the force of his thrusts.

When you’re on the edge, he curls his fingers - hitting the spot inside you that feels like lightning, makes your vision black out, turns your bones weak as you clench again and again around his fingers, clutching his shirt and panting out his name. Your ears ring into complete silence before you can think again.

Left in the aftermath is the sound of your breathing, labored and thick, and the feel of him underneath you. When you’re just beginning to be able to see again, Viktor removes his hand from you - leaning back as you whine, taking in the sight of you.

“Look at you,” he breathes, tracing a finger over your lips. “Beautiful. You should see yourself.”

“Look who’s talking,” you mutter, spent. “You’re really handsome, you know.”

“So I’m told.”

Gently, his hand begins rubbing soothing circles into your thigh. He’s still rock-hard in his boxers - to a point that it must be painful. You intend to remedy that as soon as you’re able to fully function.

After Viktor’s had his fill taking you in - running his hand around your top, taking in the corset - he finally looks down at himself.

Wax, lipstick, marks that are quickly bruising. He’s covered in you, decorated in your kiss and touch and ideas.

“You’ve made quite a mess of me,” he says softly - almost entranced.

“I plan to make more,” you say, bolder than you feel.

He looks up at you and traces his thumb over your cheek, laughing a little.

“Soon,” he says. “First - where is that camera? I have a promise to keep.”

#viktor x reader #arcane viktor x you #arcane viktor x reader #viktor x reader arcane #arcane viktor #viktor #viktor arcane #mywriting #mdni #viktor/reader #viktor/you

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snotsloth · 5 months

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10 Characters/10 Fandoms/10 Tags

Tagged by @icehearts

Tagging, but don't feel pressured! (Also you do not have to make pretty pictures. Graphic Designer brain just took over and this happened.) @physicalvocalist, @sarenraegalpaladin, @vorpalbun, @captainqster, @leagor-majere, @sundered-souls, @ardberts, @hinganskies, @lilbittymonster, @janzoo

1. Harrowhark Nonagesimus - The Locked Tomb Trilogy

Harrow has true scrungly wet cat energy. I want to put her in one of those little backpacks with a window and carry her around in it for her enrichment. She's an absolute bitch. She is a pathetic little meow meow. She lobotomized herself to save the soul of the woman she refuses to admit she's in love with. She tried to kill a saint with soup made from her own bone marrow. She is a war crime. I like her so much!

2. Magneto - X-Men

He is the platonic ideal of my favorite trope, "Does all the wrong things for all the right reasons." Magneto has gone through the polar opposite of villain decay. The longer he exists, the longer the universe has to prove him increasingly correct on most things. All I can really say is, "Magneto was right."

3. Wei Wuxian - Mo Dao Zu Shi

Truly the most blorbo of all time. Are you also an ADHD burned out gifted and talented submissive brat with a praise kink? Boy howdy, do I have a character that you are going to imprint on like a baby goose! Wei Wuxian also has a hearty dose of, "Does all the wrong things for all the right reasons." Also like who multiclasses in wizard (specifically necromancer) and bard? This fucking guy apparently.

4. Hythlodaeus - Final Fantasy 14

I am so normal about Hythlodaeus, I made an entire AU around him. That is a reasonable thing to do about a character that you like a normal amount, right? The idealized lost love, trapped in amber, untouchable but also incorruptible by the sands of time that keep eroding the edges of your soul. And then they gave him lavender dead anime mom hair!

5. Varric Tethras - Dragon Age

I literally have a semi-viral post about how much this character has consumed my thoughts. Rule Number 1 of Dragon Age: Varric lies. He's a charming scoundrel. He's loyal to a fault. He knows everything worth knowing about Kirkwall. And he's a dirty fucking liar. The only reason Varric isn't romanceable in DA2 is that no other romantic interest would get any attention if Varric was on the table. I desire him carnally.

6. Temeraire - Temeraire

My most precious and smartest boy! I adore Temeraire so much. Swear to god, I did not read the Temeraire books before creating Orion as a character, but the parallels are so strong, you would think I had! He's a bookworm, a little awkward but full of opinions, and he has an unwavering moral compass. Temeraire will forever be one of my favorite dragon characters.

7. Jaina Solo - Star Wars Legends

I will never forget what Disney took from me. As a weird, nerdy girl who was also kind of a guy growing up, Jaina meant so much to me. She was an active participant in the stories she was in. She was an ace pilot, a skilled mechanic, and a Jedi to boot. She had her dad's sense of humor and her mom's moral certainty. I thought she was the coolest. Still do.

8. Ansur - Baldur's Gate 3

Ansur! My beloved! If you had told me that the character I would be most obsessed with from BG3 would be an undead bronze dragon who you don't even know about until the third act -- actually, no that checks out. He was so in love, and so loyal, and so bitter at Balduron for embracing his corruption! And that reveal! All the build-up, only to find his bones and then wham! the entire narrative of the Emperor gets turned on its head. I still get chills. Also, they were absolutely fucking.

9. Viktor - Arcane

Listen, as a disabled, obsessive nerd with too much to do and not enough time to do it all in, Viktor is my gender. I love just about everything about Arcane, but Viktor's storyline is my favorite part. I, for one, am very excited to watch his fall from grace and further corruption. I have already forgiven all of his atrocities. I do not care. He's babygirl.

10. Clark Kent - DC

You thought I was going to say Jason or Dick for a DC character didn't you? (Or even Roy!) Those would all have been very reasonable expectations. I am pretty obsessed with all of them. However, Clark Kent is a very special character to me, and yes I specifically am focusing on the Clark persona and not the Supes persona. Yeah, they are ultimately the same guy, but I much prefer Superman stories grounded in his Clark Kent identity. Superman is at his best when he is attached to the mundane world by things like his job, his family, and his love for Lois. (Lois/Clark is the ultimate het ship. I will not be taking questions on this. It just is.) Clark is essentially a demigod, and yet he chooses to spend his time loving people and living as one of them, and I think that's really fucking cool.

#PS: do not ask me how long this took to make #The brainworms took over

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ephemerensis · 2 years

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—

all works are x gn!reader unless listed otherwise, platonic and non-platonic alike

my kofi

—

Tim Drake

Economics — Tim comes home to find you crying over economics. fluff.

Scared — Losing you is the thing he fears most. angst. fluff.

Layers — How many layers could you possibly need. fluff.

Hatefire — Tim comforts you when you’re angry beyond words. angst. fluff.

Last Cup of Coffee — His last words to you. angst. fluff.

Immortal — If life is fleeting, let your memory last forever. fluff.

Enough — You must belong somewhere. fluff. comfort. slight angst.

Kalopsia — How much longer can a person beg to be seen? angst.

Cologne — Tim and Red Robin smell an awful lot alike! fluff. plot. Part 2: Lavender

Jason Todd

Oatmeal Raisin — Jason really wants oatmeal raisin cookies. fluff.

—

Arcane

Viktor

Aurora Borealis — He would gift you the world. fluff.

—

My Hero Academia

Bakugo Katsuki

To You; February — You have bewitched me. Body and soul. fluff.

—

The Last of Us

Joel Miller

It's Cold — You stole something you shouldn't have, but fathers should be forgiving, right? fluff. (ish)

Here You're Safe — He'll always love you, even when you're gone. angst. fluff.

—

please do not repost any of my works on other sites without consent. likes and reshares appreciated <3

#masterlist #tim drake #tim drake x reader #red robin x reader #jason todd x reader #jason todd #red hood x reader #viktor arcane #viktor arcane x reader #joel miller x reader #tlou

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lumosatnight · 11 months

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20 questions for fic writers!

Thanks for the tag @acnelli (x), @schmem14 (x), and @indigo-scarf (x)!

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

I just reached exactly 100 works! Low-key so happy that my Pansmione soulmates fic was #100.

2. What’s your total AO3 word count?

301,754!! I am actually shocked by how high this is.

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling (97)

First Kill (TV 2022) (1)

방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS (1)

Wednesday (TV 2022) (1)

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

What is this, fucking Jeopardy? [Drarry, E, 20.4k]

White, the colour of flowers [Drarry, M, 3.2k]

A Heart So Colourful ♡ [Viktor/Ron, E, 1.5k]

Impervius, Not [Drarry, T, 5.0k]

7 Days of Halloween: I Don't Feel Like Myself Anymore [Wolfstar, E, 29.7k]

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

Oh heck yeah! I love getting and responding to comments. I've met some wonderful people in the comments section of fics.

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Your Cigarette Smell [Sirius/Narcissa, E, 9.7k] with canon-compliant character death, so I think you know where this is going.

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Any of my fluffy fics? Maybe Lavmione in Lavender for Morning or Nottpott in Silver Surprise.

8. Do you get hate on fics?

Not yet (*crosses fingers*). I've had some mildly annoying comments (like saying how they disliked background Dramione in a Drarry fic I wrote), but nothing to make me wanna bash my head against the wall.

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

Umm... yes. I am currently in the middle of posting the smuttiest, most depraved series I have ever written for this year's Kinktober.... so check it out ig?

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written?

Not so much crossovers but heavily inspired by other stories. I wrote Dronarry in a Sandman AU and also Hermione/Daphne in a Twilight AU 😂

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I know of...

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Yes! My Nottpott fic was translated into Russian. How cool is that??

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

I have done art collabs but never co-written a fic. Definitely something I'd love to try. Maybe it'll happen next year!

14. What’s your all time favourite ship?

Idk there's too many to choose!! I probably read Drarry the most, but I think that's mostly because there's just SO MANY amazing Drarry authors. I can honestly be convinced to like any ship if I like the writing style and the story. I'm a huge rare pair and femslash shipper!!! The communities are just so wonderful 💖

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

Never say never! But I'm really lacking motivation to finish my Squid Games AU Drarry fic. I love the concept, but the plot is just not flowing.

16. What are your writing strengths?

Emotion. I like my fics to pack a punch. I think I'm getting pretty good at it.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

Longfic. It's hard for me to sustain motivation for one idea. I have too many running through my brain at once, and I always get distracted by the shiny new headcanon.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

I've seen it. I've done it. I'm ambivalent, mostly. I think it can be a great way to show cultural differences between characters. But I also think 90% of the time it unnecessarily confuses the reader because if you don't know the language, you're just going to skip over the dialogue. And if you do know the language, then you'll notice if it doesn't sound natural. Yeah... not a fan when it's just google translated and copy-pasted.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Harry Potter!

20. Favourite fic you’ve written?

Anything on my Author's Favorites list! From recently though, maybe my Perciver strip chess fic 😉

Tagging (no pressure): @crazybutgood, @anaxandria-writes, @sugareey-makes-stuff, @givereadersahug, @orange-peony

#tag game #asked and answered #20 questions

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cheeriecherrymain · 2 years

Text

The Bottom Of The Inkwell [Chapter 11]

Pairing: Viktor x fem!Reader Chapter Rating: T Chapter Warnings: none, just some smoochin’ Proofread: no beta we die like men Taglist: @envyspinebender Chapter Summary: You and Viktor wake up together, and talk a little more about the upcoming gala.

You’re startled awake by the soft click of a door closing. Distinct from the crackling and hissing of the waning fire that warms you, you slowly pry your eyes open to peer around the room.

Light flows in from the front hallway, though it’s not quite bright enough to prove annoying, and above the din surrounding you, you can hear the slightest rustle of clothes, and crunch of snow.

Your mother must have finally come home.

You’re not sure what time it is, but you’re positive it’s been at least a couple hours since you and Viktor stretched out and got comfy. The sky is dark and cloudy outside the frosted windows, and the streetlights are fully illuminated.

You listen for a couple moments, tracking your mother’s movements and she slowly makes her way around. She’s quiet as a mouse when she wants to be, and there are a handful of seconds where you lose her position - only to find her again when her wheelchair creaks or she sighs.

She pauses when she gets to the coat closet just off the hallway, and you figure she must have seen yours and Viktor’s jackets - yours in particular is hard to miss, with its soft lavender hue and fluffy collar.

You catch her shadow moving across the wall, then, and hastily shut your eyes, trying to make your breathing as even and believable as possible.

You feel a bit of an ass, pretending to be asleep like this. You know that any mature adult would face the discomfort and just have the conversation, but you’re not ready yet. You’re tired, and you’re still emotional from the day - you don’t want to do it right now.

If she didn’t understand your reasoning, which she very well might, then you’re not in the right mindset to cope.

You try not to shake when your mother comes to a halt in the wide archway leading to the sitting room. You can feel her eyes on you, as she studies the way you’re sprawled on your back, with Viktor reclining on your chest - the way your arm is loosely wrapped around him, the way you’ve affectionately settled your cheek to rest on his head.

Her chair creaks again, and you assume that she’s turned to venture further into the house.

But instead, her presence only floats closer.

Over the rug and towards the couch, inching between the coffee table to cast a shadow over your supposedly-sleeping form.

A few beats of tense silence.

And then, a delicate, cool hand on your cheek.

You know that you can’t feign unconsciousness any longer, as much as you want to. Whether she had figured out your bluff or not, there didn’t appear to be a way to avoid the inevitable conversation.

You stir slightly as she strokes her thumb over your temple, pretending to rouse from an uneasy slumber. You squeak the smallest sound you can muster, blinking blearily in the dim of the room - glancing around in false confusion until your gaze falls on her and focuses.

Unfortunately, all of your little movements end up startling Viktor, where he momentarily jolts in your lap, drawing in a quick gasp of air.

“It’s okay, Vik,” you tell him, voice hoarse from sleep. “We’re at my place, remember?”

He calms somewhat at the sound of your voice, and again when you slowly begin to card your fingers through his hair. He relaxes against you once again, and shuts his eyes to try and go back to sleep.

Your mother has other ideas.

“None of that, dear,” she tuts gently, laying a hand on the top of his head to ruffle his chocolate locks. “If you stay here all night, the two of you are going to be complaining of sore necks come morning.”

Both of you whine.

“What time is it,” you ask, trying in vain to locate the clock on the wall behind you.

“It’s a little past nine,” your mother informs you, rolling back a couple of inches to give you some room to breathe. “I just got back from the hospital. Your father says you visited him around lunchtime today - we must have just missed each other.”

“Yeah,” you sigh, somewhat bitterly. “Finally. I wouldn’t have been able to without Viktor.”

She reaches forward to take your hand, drawing you closer to tenderly knead her thumbs into your palm. “He also told me why you hadn’t visited,” she explains, fixing you with a pointed stare. “It mustn’t be easy to bear so much worry, all on your own.”

And then, the words that crack your heart into little pieces, “I’m sorry I haven’t been supporting you more.”

In a split second, tears begin to well up behind your lashes, and it takes all your concentration to keep them from falling. You’re immediately filled with a disdainful sort of anger, directed entirely at yourself and your uncanny ability to make other people feel responsible for you.

“You shouldn’t have to always be supporting me, Mama!” you argue, frustrated. “I’m nineteen, and an adult! I’m not a child who can just take and take and take in my relationships anymore!”

You sigh sharply and let your head fall back against the armrest, staring at the ceiling. “The fact of the matter is that I need to support you and Papa too, now. And I’ve done a lousy job of it.”

You sniffle softly, and Viktor takes the moment to hold your hand that still lays across him, knitting your fingers together. It brings you a small comfort, as awkward as it is to have him bearing witness to your conversation.

“You needed me, Mama,” your voice quivers, “You needed me, and I wasn’t there for you. I’m sorry.”

She lets your words sink in for a while, though she’s hasty to relay her forgiveness. Forgiving you for still being young, for still learning and experiencing the world. She understands your anxiety, she says - knows how it is to feel isolated and lonely.

“But we have each other, now, understood?” she resolves, bringing your hand up to press a kiss to your palm. “So no more hiding - no more pushing our feelings away, never to be seen again. There is nothing you could say that would ever make me leave you, or give up on you.”

You tearfully promise her that you’ll try, breaking into laughter when the relief finally washes over you.

You talk easier after that, updating her on the handful of chores you’d done around the house that day, and how you planned to do more over the next two weeks. Telling her how Viktor was going to be staying for the holidays so you could get some good work on your projects done, and because he wanted to help support you as best he could.

Your mother grins mischievously at the news.

You yawn.

“Really, dear, the two of you should head to bed,” she says, easily wheeling backwards towards the hallway. “It won’t take long to set up the guest room, provided you haven’t already.”

Warmth climbs up your neck and into the apples of your cheeks.

“We’re just going to share my room, actually,” you tell her, growing more embarrassed the wider her smirk spreads.

“You’re comfortable with that, Viktor?” she asks.

He fares no better, under her playful stare.

“I am,” he nods, the tips of his ears dusting pink. “It’s common to want to be close to the person you’re seeing.”

Your mother makes the most delighted laugh upon the revelation, cackling as she speeds out of the room and around the corner.

You and Viktor sit in silence for a few moments.

His shoulders start shaking.

A snort escapes your nose.

And the both of you devolve into a mess of mirthful giggles.

—

When you wake the next morning, you’re warm and comfortable. You’ve dearly missed your expensive satin sheets and puffy throw blankets, as well as all the necessary space you need to spread out like a starfish.

Viktor had been taken aback by the sheer number of pillows you slept with at home, but the moment he’s sunken onto the mattress beside you, he understood. The sheer plushness of all the fabrics, the ability to clutch at something soft during slumber, the added support beneath his bad knee - it was heavenly.

Of course, he’d still chosen to wrap his arms around you in the middle of the night, rather than a wayward pillow. Your warmth was a marvel to him, and you were equally as pleased to have his fingers dig gently into the soft fat of your tummy.

Even though his hands had been a tad chilly at first.

Now, though, he’s perfectly content: stroking the pad of his thumb over your hairline, tenderly pressing kisses to every part of your face that he can reach.

“Mm…”

At the pace of a snail, your eyelids flutter open, and you’re met with another kiss.

“I could get used to this,” you squeak, breaking away from him to dramatically stretch your arms above your head, until a series of satisfying pops crackle up your spine. Then, you roll back onto your side, burying your face in the warmth of your boyfriend’s chest.

His smile is tired, and his movements are lazy, just barely sliding his fingertips over any patch of bare skin he can reach.

Excitement prickles along each path he draws, shivering goosebumps left in his wake.

“We have the next two weeks to look forward to,” he promises, nuzzling into your hair. “But we do have things we need to accomplish today.”

You whine in protest, mashing your face so hard against him that you’re barely able to draw in breath.

“Come now,” he chides, without a hint of malice. “We’ll want to fetch our things from the dorms, sooner rather than later. Your father mentioned wanting to have lunch with us today, and it would be nice to at least bring everything over before we head out again.”

You know he’s right.

But still, you’re so comfortable and surrounded by love and peace, you don’t want to move. You could lay in bed with him all day, and you’d be perfectly content.

“I know you would love to laze around all day, zlatíčko,” he teases, sneaking a finger beneath your chin to tip your face up. “Perhaps I could entice you into getting up?”

Your eyes light up with interest, and he immediately draws you into a deep kiss. Hand sliding to cup your jaw, you’re pliant and soft under his touches, allowing him to pull you out of bed with ease.

Well, almost.

In the blink of an eye, his hands and lips leave you - whining, wanting - and he slips out of bed with ease.

You glare at him.

He smiles at you, unaffected by your cranky pouting.

“If you would like more kisses,” he chimes, “ then you have to get out of bed.”

—

Breakfast is nice, once the two of you get downstairs. Your mother reveals a heaping plate of sweet, ripe fruits, cut up into perfect bite sizes. Both you and Viktor pile as many delicious pieces into your bowls as you possibly can, almost in a competition to see who could make the most precarious stack.

The table is filled with lively banter, your mother teasing both of you in her typical loving way, and asking about the projects you’ve been working on. How school is going for both of you, what kinds of people you’ve met, what your classmates and professors are like: the same sorts of things she’d asked when Viktor had last come over, but you decide not to mention that to her.

You’ve no issues with reiterating your dislike of the students who sit in the back of your class, who always talk loudly between themselves and never seem to have any consideration for classroom etiquette.

Nonetheless, it leaves both of you in pleasant moods as you head off to the academy to pack your things for the coming weeks.

—

You go your separate ways once you arrive at the dorms, heading off to your respective rooms with the promise to meet up in an hour.

Your accommodations are exactly as you’d left them - tidy enough if anyone were to suddenly stop by, but not perfectly pristine. Your sheets were folded on a slight angle, and the shades of purple you’d brought with you were hardly a matching set. The pillows are crooked, and your favourite stuffed animal is slumped over like he’s been thrown against the wall.

You’re quick to grab him, and pack him into one of your empty trunks, alongside your beloved silver pen box.

You have an hour to get everything you need tucked away, so you’re not hasty when deciding what to bring.

You suppose you might only bring your favourite clothes with you - comfortable and put together, but nothing fancy like your mother tended to wear. You’d brought a couple of nicer garments with you when you’d initially arrived, but thus far they hadn’t been put to use.

Aside from Viktor, you hadn’t really made friends. There were a couple people in your other classes that you said hello to, and sometimes shared notes with, but none of them were close enough to consider hanging out with outside of class.

And they’d never invited you to any sort of function, though they had the tendency to gossip with each other about whatever party happened the previous night.

Which is fine, in your opinion. You’re not one for loud music and crowds, anyways.

But it raises the question in your mind: what about the gala?

You wouldn’t need any formal attire going home, though the winter gala was certainly fancier than anything you had in your closet. Your mother had initially said she was going to make both yours and Viktor’s attire for the evening, but…

You pause briefly, leafing through your closet.

Did you even still want to go?

You’d agreed in the beginning to appease your mother, and you’d again agreed when V said he wanted to meet you there. But what was the point, now? Viktor had revealed himself to you ahead of schedule, and neither of you were particularly inclined to such an event.

With all that’s been happening, you’re not sure it would be a good idea.

And you don’t want to pressure your beloved mother into something she might not have the capacity to deliver on anymore. She’s as stressed as you are about your father, and you understand the fact that she wants to spend as much time with him as she possibly can.

Viktor would understand, surely?

He’s about as inclined to dancing as I am, you think, as you toss the final garment into the suitcase, without bothering to fold anything. And if he’s so adamant about doing something that evening, we can choose another activity that we’re better suited to.

—

When your boyfriend comes to your agreed-upon meeting place, you’ve already been waiting for fifteen minutes. You’d been anxious about possibly being late, even though you know your timing wouldn’t bother him, so you’d come down earlier than you’d meant to.

He greets you with a chaste kiss, barely a peck to the corner of your mouth, and yet still enough to light his cheeks up with a pretty rosy hue. You suppose he’s flustered because of all the other students milling around: none of them pay you any mind, too caught up in their own worlds to even bother you with a glance.

You guess it’s the principle of the thing.

“No car yet?” he wonders, glancing back and forth in an attempt to locate the taxi.

You shake your head, and step closer to him, linking your arms together and pressing yourself against his side. It doesn’t take him long to catch onto what you’re doing, and he swiftly pulls your hand into his pocket, wrapping his warm digits around your chilly ones.

You stay like that for several minutes, quiet together, wincing in unison whenever a particularly brisk wind whips through you. Even with your coats buttoned up and your hoods tucked around your heads, the cold winter air still seeps into your bones.

“Hey, Viktor?” you shiver, subtly hopping back and forth from foot to foot. “Can I ask you something?”

He hums his affirmation, so you continue.

“The winter gala,” you wonder, “Is that still something you want to go to?”

You can feel him tense at your side.

“I know my mom wanted us to go so she could basically use us as dress-up dolls,” you explain, “But with everything that’s been going on, I don’t know if she’ll still have the energy. I just wanted to know if you still felt like going, or if you felt like doing something else that night.”

He takes several moments to think it over, pursing his lips in a way you’d definitely describe as adorable. Cute enough that you can’t help yourself: you mischievously lean up on your toes to lay a kiss right on his pout.

It startles him, as expected, and you giggle at the way he stares at you with comically wide eyes.

“Sorry,” you say, without a hint of remorse.

His posture relaxes after a second, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he shakes his head with a laugh.

“If I’m being honest,” he finally answers, “I’m not bothered by either option. Crowds have never really been my thing, especially not when I’m expected to put on a social performance. It could be interesting if we were to treat it like a date instead, but…”

He glances away from you, an expression akin to embarrassment drawing across his features.

“Without your mother making my attire, I won’t have anything suitable to wear,” he admits. “I don’t have the funds to afford something else - nothing that would make a good impression, at least.”

You lean your head against his shoulder in an attempt to comfort him.

“That’s kind of a relief, actually,” you tell him with a sigh.

“You didn’t want to go?”

“Not really,” you mumble. “I was excited to go because I was going to meet my best friend there, but now that I have you, there’s no reason to put myself through all that. Though…”

You chew the inside of your cheek, and peek up at him through your eyelashes.

“Maybe,” you suggest shyly, “We could still do something together? Nothing as fancy as the gala, but…dinner? Just the two of us?”

His expression softens then, as you stare up at him hopefully. You watch as his frost-chilled cheeks darken from a frigid pink to a warm, lovely shade of red. He pulls his other hand out of his pocket and reaches for you, cupping your jaw to draw you into yet another kiss.

Like he can’t manage to keep his hands off of you, his movements are tentative yet purposeful, even if his lips are chilly against your own.

“Dinner sounds like a much better idea,” he agrees when you part.

“Perfect,” you grin, breathless. “It’s a date.”

#viktor x reader #viktor arcane x reader #arcane x reader #The Bottom Of The Inkwell #okay i think some of my writing block is easing #i did some other stuff #worked on other art projects and did some painting #acquired a cat #as one does

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t1oui · 5 months

Text

my hcs for the sexualities of next gen characters (in my series rewrite wip)

side note: this is part 3 of these headcanons. part 1 is canon compliant au and part 2 is no voldemort as i change sexualities of characters depending on what ships i'm writing. the ships in this au will be after the cut

harry: bisexual

ron: pansexual

hermione: lesbian, demi aroace

ginny: bisexual, prefers women

neville: bisexual, prefers women

luna: queer

dean: bisexual

seamus: gay

draco: gay

pansy: pansexual, aromantic

blaise: omnisexual

parvati: lesbian

padma: aroace

lavender: bisexual, prefers men

cho: bisexual

cedric: bisexual, prefers men

percy: bisexual, prefers men

oliver: gay

penelope: straight, demiromantic

marcus: unlabeled

hannah: straight

viktor: bisexual, prefers men

ships in this au:

harry x cedric

hermione x cho

ron x viktor

luna x neville

draco x blaise

penelope x marcus

oliver x percy

parvati x lavender

dean x seamus

#this one is definitely my most headcanon-y wip #but i love it #hp fandom #harry potter fandom #hp #harry potter #hermione granger #pansy parkinson #blaise zabini #draco malfoy #just tagging mcs in every au and ron is def not an mc in this one #sorry ron :/

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berkchuu · 2 years

Text

The Agreement

Viktor x Fem. Reader

Chapter 2 Progress Day

I went through my abundance of clothes. I must find something to stand out that screams, “I’m from Toriana”! I laid many dresses out and ran my hand along the many silks and kinds of cotton. Scanning through the many colors, my eyes fell on the dress gifted by the queen. I got it when I got rewarded with the position of ambassador. The colors marked my special gift. My body shook. Right. Toriana is known for perfection. Perfection equals perfect people. Perfect people mean special talents. Talents that are only rumors. Magic users are just rumors. I am just a rumor. I won’t be one for long. One of our goals here is to stop Hextech and show them what magic really is.

The silver accents shimmered in the light pouring into my room. I guided my hand down the lavender silk that the dress was made out of. I struggled to put it on, but I got it on my body after a few minutes. I looked in the mirror and took in the dress. I hadn’t worn it since my inauguration into my position. Lavender poured down my body like a waterfall. Cream dripped down my arms and slightly down my dress. It hugged my neck tight with some help from the silver breast piece. On the back was a slight opening. It would be scandalous if a silver eye that hooked to the breast piece in front did not adorn the back. A symbol of my type of magic.

My hair would be the death of me. So many choices. Should I go bold or keep it tame? With a huff, I decided (Bold or tame). After spending some time on my hair, I turned my attention to my face. I was already behind schedule, so I decided to put on minimal makeup. I grabbed my silver boots and made my way out the door. To my surprise, Corporal Desmond and Captain Rhamus were waiting for me outside my door. They both wore matching all-black suits with pieces of silver armor beautifully placed on them.

“You look perfect, Ms!” Rhamus exclaimed.

“Good. It’s my birthright too.” I chuckled.

We all made our way to the main foyer, where a vigorous amount of nicely dressed people were gathered in their little groups. I scanned the room and tried to find some high-end people to mingle with. As I looked around I noted that outside were tons of booths and stalls lined with many interesting trinkets and food. I’d have to try a few of those out. We made our way through the crowds of people, noting the stares upon us.

“Ms. (Y/N)! Over here!”

I jumped at my name, suddenly being called. I frantically looked for the culprit. Then I looked eyes with him. Jayce. The star himself. I gingerly made my way toward him. He smiled, and greeted me once again with a kiss on the hand, and a small little bow. I couldn’t help but giggle.

“Jayce, I am an ambassador,” I grabbed his arm to straighten him out a bit, “not royalty. There’s is no need for your display.”

“Aw, come on! I was just trying to show some chivalry, m’lady.” He laughed.

How annoying. Before I could respond, someone moved from behind him. A woman with gold kissing her face and perfect black twisted hair. She wore a white dress with more gold on it. This must be someone important. I didn’t need my magic to tell me that.

“Hello, you must be the ambassador from Toriana. I’m Mel Medarda. I’m part of the council.” She extended her hand toward me. In Torianan fashion, I kissed it. She smiled with curiosity.

“A pleasure Ms. Medarda. I am looking forward to working with such a beauty as yourself. We Torians pride ourselves on perfection. You’d fit right in.” I charmed.

“Well, that's certainly flattering. Why don’t you sit with me during Jayce's speech? I think we’ll get along just fine.” She motioned me to follow her.

We made out way into a big auditorium. I sat next to Mel while my two guards sat to my left. While waiting for the speech to start, I took in my surroundings. While I examined the stage, I noticed a flash of maroon. Upon further inspection, I saw a man peek at the crowd. He wore a maroon button-up with a white vest on top. His hair was long and brown. It looked as smooth as the silk that adorned my body. His face is what caught my attention the most. His face was jagged and hollow. He had beautiful cupid-shaped lips that were slightly cracked. Two birthmarks dotted his face like stars in the sky. His eyes were the color of the gold that spilled from the lowering sun outside. He was a sight to behold. I couldn’t take in any more of him as we made eye contact, and he jumped back behind the stage.

I had to stay awake as I listened to Jayce give his awful speech. I did not care about Hextechs future. If things go well and to plan, there will be no future for Hextech. I kept letting my eyes linger on the spot I saw that man. I needed to see him more. It was like looking at a painting. Something snapped me to my senses. It was Mel getting up in a huff. I was going to go after but saw Heimerdinger shake his head. Jayce finished, and I watched as he searched the crowd. His smile faded as his eyes met Mel's empty seat. I looked smugly at him. I can see this plot from a mile away. Young love. Something I’ll keep in mind for later.

“Ms. (Y/N), would you like to accompany me to the private dinner.” Heimerdinger smiled.

“Oh yes, what a nice speech. It’s nice to see you guys thrive.” I followed him as we talked about the small things in the speech.

Heimerdinger opened a door that led to a huge ballroom. I spotted expensive dresses and suits. This must be a room full of important people. I made my way inside and felt all eyes on me. Before I walked further in, Heimerdinger began to speak.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to introduce you to Ms. (Y/n) (L/n) from Toriana! She’s an ambassador and will stay with us for a few months. Let’s give her a warm welcome.”

I felt my face heat up as everyone clapped. Jayce was the first to approach me.

“Well, what an entrance, m’lady.” He laughed as he handed me a glass of wine.

“You know how royalty is.” I rolled my eyes and laughed.

“Let’s have you meet everyone, shall we?” Jayce led me around the room as I meant council members and other important figures. The night was filled with drunken laughter and charming advances. No one stuck out to me. Until, of course, Jayce introduced me to his partner.

“Viktor! I want you to meet someone!” He gestured towards me. My heart skipped a beat. It was him. The man behind the stage. The name Viktor suited him well. I was even more flustered when he spoke.

“Hello Ms. (Y/n), I’m Viktor. It’s a pleasure to meet someone of your caliber. I’ve done a lot of studying about your country and culture. You’re as perfect as the books say.” He smiled, and I almost fainted. It took me a moment to even notice the crutch that was quite obviously there. He was injured? I couldn’t even fathom such a perfect man would be injured in such away.

“You’re not too bad yourself. Please, call me (Y/n). I know it’s unprofessional, but I’ll make an exception for you.” I winked and mused at the faint pink that started to form on his cheeks.

I went on, “I look forward to….” I stopped.

My vision blurred, and my head felt fuzzy. I closed my eyes, seeing flashes of blue and pink smoke everywhere. Fire danced around a big tent. In the smoke was a girl. She had blue braids. I tried to see more, but my eyes unfogged. I was on the floor with Jayce and Viktor kneeling by me. Suddenly an explosion shook the room. I gasped.

#viktor arcane x reader #viktor arcane #viktor x reader #viktor #viktor arcane x you #jayce #jayce talis #jayce arcane #arcane #fanfic

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mangoshorthand · 1 year

Text

Thing of the Past- [Five Hargreeves x F Reader]. Ch7 (Hard Feelings Part 4)

SUMMARY: You can't avoid it any longer: Five has to meet your parents. It goes more wrong than you could possibly imagine, spiralling to bring up secrets he'd rather stay buried.

Can the French countryside and good wine offer Five some respite?

Chapter contains some era appropriate deadnaming of Viktor.

⚠️Please heed content warning⚠️

Chapter 7: Therapy

You had checked in utilizing your very broken French. While Five is a polygot, French is, surprisingly, not in his repertoire beyond the basics. The check-in clerk had taken pity on you and switched to English as soon as the conversation became too advanced for your paltry (though valiantly applied) vocabulary.

Five wears a cleanly styled linen suit over a t-shirt yet is already too hot. You fare slightly better in a kaftan sundress. Back in New York, after Lila brought him back, him putting on this outfit had been the thing to convince you that he really was coming. You hadn't needed his apologies: you'd forgiven him even as you stared into the empty shower.

Now, you’re sitting together on the honeymoon suite’s terrace, looking out on the kitchen-garden nearest to you and fields of lavender, vine and olive-tree stretching off into the hills. The air is balmy and the herbal smell of the surrounding country seems to drift and play on the breeze, carrying sweet lark song along with it.

Turning his face to the sun and stretching out like a cat, he fans himself with a new panama hat.

“I gotta say, if I’m going to have a breakdown, I really couldn’t choose a better place.”

You squeeze his hand and pour him another glass of champagne.

“Well, here we are. We take things at your pace.”

He pulls his sunglasses down.

“How’s this for a plan,” he says, crossing his legs and reclining further in the sun lounger, “First, we go to the spa. Maybe go for a schvitz, then cool off in the Kneipp basins, then we get you a facial or a massage and I’ll have a jet shower, (think I’ll leave anything that involves being touched by a stranger for a few days), then we have dinner, maybe order some wine, then some more wine. And then I’ll get fucked up beyond all recognition, take you to bed and see if I can't throw a quick fuck into you without crying.”

He's trying to style it out with self-deprecation, downing the whole glass of champagne in one.

“You had me until the last part,” you smile. This is a little worrying. His hand feels fragile under yours, old somehow.

“That was just a rough sketch. We’ll iron out the kinks as we go.”

“No massage or facial for me today. Maybe we’ll get a couples one later if you feel up to it. But everything we do, we do together. If you’re getting fucked up, I’m getting fucked up. If you fuck me and cry, I fuck you and we cry together. You get me?”

He grins shakily, lifting your hand to his lips and kissing it with the gratitude he can't speak.

The resort is beautiful, nestled between mountain ranges in the countryside of Southern France. The buildings are rustic and airy; exposed beams running between traditional cobble-stone walls. Inside the floors are wood or stone-tile; the inner walls are covered in simple, light plaster and occasional half-wainscoting. Thin curtains flank the windows within and wooden shutters without. Inside stays blessedly cool, while the sun almost cracks the flags on the terraces and beats down on the vines, sweetening the growing fruit.

As the afternoon wore on, Five had relaxed, even kissing you in the steam room once it was deserted. He’d scooted along the wooden ledge like a boy edging towards his crush, smiling sheepishly. Slowly, he moved his tilted face towards yours. You’d stayed still, letting him test his own boundaries. His eyes flicked from yours to your lips and back again, only closing his eyes when the sides of your noses touched. He’d stayed like that for a moment before, fraction-inch by fraction-inch, he closed the gap between your mouths.

His first touch was gentle: a tender but close-mouthed press to the corner of your lips. The second was the same but to your cupid’s bow. His breath had quivered across your lips and his hands gripped the bench beneath him as he opened his mouth slightly. When he had taken your lower lip between both of his, you could feel him tremble.

Eventually, haltingly, he’d deepened the kiss and you’d allowed your lips to match his tender siege. When you’d broken apart, (quickly, for fear of discovery), there had been a familiar glint in his eye that you were happy, if surprised, to see. He looked on the verge of suggesting you head back to your suite right away but something had shifted inside him and he’d looked away instead, smiling guiltily and rubbing his neck a little.

At dinner, you get through a bottle of wine between you before the appetizers even arrive. By the time they do, you’re both extremely giggly. Five's laughter verges on the unhinged at times but you're glad to see him acting this close to happy

“They are never going to accept American bookings ever again.”

He snickers, “Well we gotta keep up our international reputation as obnoxious assholes. GARCON?!” he raises his hand and voice to a passing waiter.

“FIVE!” you hiss, embarrassed but amused.

He orders you another bottle of the wine from the unamused waiter.

"Désolé monsieur, mon mari..." you search for the appropriate phrase and the waiter smiles.

"C'est bon, madame. He is having too much..." he eyes the empty wine bottle, "fun?"

"Oui," you grin and Five nods emphatically at this description.

By the time the main courses arrive, you’re on bottle three.

“Can I try your steak?”

“Nope.” he says, through a mouthful.

“What, asshole, not going to let your wife try a bit of your dinner?”

“Nope.”

“You tried mine!”

“You offered. I didn’t.”

“What happened to ‘what’s mine is yours’?”

“Don’t remember vowing that one.”

“Fine. Be like that.”

You reach across the table and stab your fork at his beef, successfully spearing a bit. His fork attacks yours, knocking the meat back onto his plate.

“I’ve killed with a fork and I can do it again!” he threatens, laughingly. A woman at the next table gives you a disapproving look.

“I think we should skip dessert." you say, laughing guiltily, "We’re embarrassing ourselves.”

That’s what you end up doing, taking the last third of the final bottle of wine up to your suite.

You flop down on one of the couches by the artistically distressed fireplace and light the huge candle in place of a fire. On the other side of the chimney breast is your pristine bed, spread with crisp white sheets.

Five pours you both another generous glass of wine.

“Salud, dearest.”

You clink and return the salutation. He drinks deeply. He’s had more than you and your head is already swimming.

“I could asp-bolutely go for a massage tomorrow,” he slurs.

“Eh. Don’t push yourself too hard.”

“I’m coming all the way here and not taking advantage of it all. My back’s tight as all shit.”

“Well…there’s no rush. We can stay as long as we want.”

He waves the hand holding his glass airily, sloshing the wine onto his pants.

“Ah shit.”

You cross to the bathroom unsteadily and return with a hand towel, kneeling beside him and dabbing at his thigh. As you feel the wine soak through the towel, you sense him trying to draw your eye. As you meet his gaze, he grabs your wrist, leans towards you and kisses you fiercely. When you respond, he tugs your wrist towards his crotch, encouraging you to palm the growing erection between his legs.

You turn away, moving your hand away from him by an inch or so. He kisses your neck feverishly.

“Five, are you sure this is a good idea?”

“Yes,” his voice is breathy, his nose nuzzles you a little too hard, a little too desperate, “Call it therapy.”

“Five."

His kisses are getting sloppy. He breathes you in, one hand still on yours, manipulating your hand again to knead his crotch. His other arm pulls you forward.

"No."

“Mmmphh?” he’s not paying attention, grinding his hips into your palm.

“I said No!”

First you push him and then he pulls himself away like he’s just received an electric shock. All the colour drains from his face and then floods back. The shame and fear flare in his eyes- he looks on the point of, blinking, running, hurting himself or who knows what, so you grab his upper arms.

“No. No. Don’t worry. It’s fine. You’re drunk. We’re both drunk. I don’t think this is right for you. That’s why I said no. Not because you were doing anything bad. Ok?”

His eyes dart around the floor. He doesn’t seem to be listening.

“Tell me you get it?” you say, shaking him, “You just didn’t hear me. Don’t fall into blaming yourself. It’s not your fault.”

You pull him down so he lies against your stomach, his wet pants sticking to his legs. He resists at first but then accedes, letting you hold him as you continue to whisper:

“Not your fault. It's Ok. Not your fault.”

You rock him gently, stroking his hair. After a few minutes of silence on his end, you think you’re finally getting through to him. Soon, he whispers:

“Can I…tell you about it?”

“Of course. I might not always know what to say, but I can listen.”

He doesn’t say anything for a long few minutes. You don’t prompt him. It’s like you can feel the whirring in the head beneath your fingers. Finally, he speaks.

“I liked it.”

“Ok.” You keep your voice neutral. He needs to lead this.

“After the first time, whenever she’d touch me, I’d get hard. Like my dick was Pavlov’s fucking dogs.”

He falls into silence as you flounder, out of your depth.

“That must have been-"

“-I feel like a fraud using the word ‘rape’ about it. Because…No, I didn’t like it, but I undressed myself and then I’d let her...and every time, I’d get hard and I’d come and it felt good.”

You stroke his head, massaging your fingers into his scalp. You hope your touch is enough to reassure him of your acceptance and empathy.

“My whole life I’ve been at the mercy of whatever my body wants. Eating cockroaches when the hunger got so bad it hurt, coming whenever The Handler told me I could, craving sugar and jerking off 24/7 when I was going through puberty- both times.

“Like your body keeps betraying you?”

“Exactly.”

“But that’s what bodies do, right?”

“Huh?”

You fucked up already trying to just listen and you’re too smashed to convey ideas eloquently.

“Never mind. I just mean, bodies are ph-physio-logical, right?" You're not sure the six-syllable word came out okay but he hangs on your words nevertheless.

"Bodies just react to stuff. Your dick got hard because that’s what dicks do. You got hungry because your body was trying to keep you alive. You wanted candy during puberty because all the hormones and jerking off and whatnot uses a lot of energy or...whatever.”

He turns his head, watching the candle flame flicker.

“I guess. I just hate being out of control of it.”

“But aren’t we all out of control of it?”

He doesn’t answer, lost in a memory.

“One time she was touching me," he brings his hands up to face in demonstration, one of his fingers parting his lips. “I told her I didn’t want to. But then she grabbed me through my pants. And she...felt how hard I was.”

He puts on a higher, silkier voice that sends a chill up your spine:

"Part of you wants it Number Five. It's not a big part, but a part nevertheless."

He’s clearly experiencing it again- flashing back in that really-real way that only someone who suffers as he does can. You ease his fingers away from his face, interlacing yours with his. You squeeze his fingers a little harder than would be comfortable; acting as a counter weight to keep his consciousness anchored in the present. It takes him a few moments to throw off the vision.

He takes a deep, deep breath, “I let her do it. And it felt good...and bad."

And then he laughs suddenly. His face twists into its most derisive lines. Directed at you, it would be enraging; directed at himself, it's heart-breaking:

"Ever wonder how I found out that I hate any more than one finger up my ass," the laughter intensifies, slightly hysterical, "who knew it could bleed for days, right?"

"Oh Five."

You blink away tears and he scoffs: clearly he doesn't believe he deserves your pity.

"I could have blinked away at any point, but I didn't. I was too..."

Halfway through the thought, the hot anger fades.

"And even now, sometimes when I think about it...I get hard.”

He whispers this last part, flushing deep with shame.

You wince in sympathy. You can’t let him explore this idea any more without comment lest he fall further into the well of self-blame. You try to keep the slight slur out of your voice.

"Would you say the same to me?”

“Huh?”

“So, say I’m holding a gun and a guy touches me: I say no but then he puts a hand down my panties and feels that I’m wet. If he fucks me without consent, would you say I let him do that if I didn’t shoot him? Even if I came from what he did to me?”

He rolls to look up at you. He seems to be really considering this.

“Killing someone is different from injuring them or blinking away.”

“Okay, fine. What about...Aoife."

"Don't."

Your voice trembles as you push back your own instinctive repulsion at invoking your baby's name in this context. Five holds out a hand in an instinctive warding-off gesture, eyes closed against the thought.

"She can blink. Or will when she's older-"

"Don't!"

"-in your position, would she be letting it happen if she didn’t blink away?”

“No!" he says, horrified, "of course not!”

“Then what makes you different? Because you're man?"

"No." he says, though by his tone you know it factored unconsciously into his thinking. He opens his eyes and takes a second before settling on another way to blame himself.

“I kept going back.”

“Ok. Why was that?”

“She was my boss. The Handler- that’s what it means. She handled the Temporal Assassins.” He laughs darkly, “I guess with me she took her title more literally.”

“Because she had power over you?”

“Yeah. I guess. I couldn’t not go back. Without the Commission it was back to cockroaches and freezing winters.”

You give him a small shrug and jerk of the head, face saying: Well, what could you do about it, then?

And, in his answering look, he takes the point.

You both take a few moments to collect yourselves. You think you've got through. You continue to stroke his hair, swirling dark locks between your fingers.

“Do you think it was just you?” you ask, finally.

His brow contracts in thought.

“I... guess so...I never thought about that.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if there were others. People who leverage positions of power in that way tend to make a habit of it."

He hems, so you push him ever so slightly.

“How does that idea make you feel?”

“I don’t know…” and then, with a return to his usual irony, “are you trying to therapize me?”

“Yes. $140 please,”

He laughs softly and you lean over to kiss his head.

“I think there’s more to say…but maybe that’s enough for tonight.”

You stroke his forelock out of his eyes.

“Bed?”

“Yeah.”

As you snuggle under the sweet-smelling sheets, you pretend not to notice his erection when you put your arm around his waist. You feel it even though he shifts away quickly.

It takes a long time for you to fall asleep but, once you do, he cries softly; biting down on his clenched fist to contain the sobs. He's glad his shaking breath and body doesn't wake you.

For this time of year in Dallas, it had turned out a fine day. November sunlight reflected off the bottles behind the bar, flashing occasionally as the bartender walked from one end to the other.

The Guinness was rich, fortifying. His chin rested on his closed fist and the briefcase sat at his feet, pressed tightly against the bar with his shins. Waiting was ninety percent of his role. Soon, it would be time for him to take his position, time to assemble the gun, time for the bewitching quiet before the storm.

He was nearly there; he could sense it. Decades of planning were nearly coming to fruition. He was missing…something…but he knew he was close; a single flash of inspiration and he’d know. He'd be able to do what his entire life has been leading up to: avert the apocalypse, save his family and go home.

He took out Vanya’s book and flicked to his latest lines of proof for the existence of a bound for the number of limit cycles. It seemed…okay…but the faint needling in the back of his mind wouldn’t fade.

He jumped as something was placed down in front of him with a thunk. The bartender stood on the other side, one hand still on the cannister. Five met his grim eye contact and gave a confirmatory nod; his master’s voice.

Resting his book face down and open on the bar, he unscrewed the tube and pulled out the scroll within:

All the hairs stood up on the back of his neck. She knew? How deep in his head was she? Shit, he couldn’t even think now without her knowing about it? He felt panic rise as he screwed the memo into a ball and thrust it into his pocket. The barman eyed him with a raised eyebrow. Did he know? Did all the Commission know? About his plans? …. Maybe even about what he kept letting her do to him?

He mentally shook himself. There was no use in thinking of it, not right then. Maybe not ever. To calm himself, he picked up his book again and read between his own scrawled equations, trying to relax. To focus.

‘Though prone to arrogance and outbursts, even more than the average preteen, Five was my sole confidante in the years before he disappeared. It almost seemed fitting that of all the siblings to leave us, it would him, who I fully trusted and who fully trusted me. Five wasn’t always one to comfort me but he was the least susceptible to Dad’s manipulations. He felt he could be more open with me as I didn’t have abilities like my other siblings, I was non-threatening.'

Sweet, quiet little Vanya. She was his sole confidante too. Who knew she was a simmering ball of rage, just like the rest of them?

…He hadn’t found her in the wreckage, in the brick dust that got into his lungs and developed into the hacking cough that still plagued him. Alone. So alone but for Dolores.

Wasted landscape, the smell of rotting corpses. Falling ash. Fires burning and burning and burning and burning and-

When he wakes up with one of his regular nightmares, he’s clammy with sweat. It’s one of the bad ones after which he takes a short time to remember where he is.

“We’re in France, Five. You’re safe.”

His breathing traps in his throat; barking there. He wipes his forearm over his face, scrubbing at ash he’s convinced is there.

“Family!”

“They’re safe. You saved them, remember?"

“Vanya!" he calls, fevered and unhearing, “Luther?”

“Viktor, Five. He’s fine. They’re all fine; you did it. Klaus just got some of his art into a gallery. Viktor’s still first chair. Remember we went to his concert last month? He played Mozart's violin concertos? Luther and Sloane are happy and-”

"Viktor..." the name begins to contextualize it for him- it brings him closer to the present, “...Aoife?”

“She’s safe. Can you remember who she's with?”

You hold his head to your chest and kiss his hairline.

“She’s…she’s…” his wide eyes dart wildly, as if searching the recesses of his mind for the recollection, “she’s with…Diego. Diego and Lila…and Santi.”

“That's it: she's back at home.”

You hold him as his breathing, though still hard, begins to sound less constricted.

“I miss her.” he manages.

“Me too sweetie.”

You help him slow and deepen his breathing with the counting exercise you always use. When he's breathing better, you sing him Dusty Springfield again. It helps.

Tag list: (please comment to be added or removed.) @dilfjohhny , @sunsunhe, @w4stedtr4sh, @nevbrooke-555, @theredvelvetbitch, @td-miley01, @five-hxrgreeves, @rorygi1more, @jamiebower88

Masterpost

Alternatively, join me on A03. Here is a link to the whole series

If you enjoyed, chuck me a comment or reblog. Likes are nice but they're not quite the same as interaction. xx

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thedustybunny · 1 year

Text

Chamomile kisses - Chapter 2

Viktor X Fem!Reader (1200+ words)

Enemies to friends to lovers

The following morning, you gathered your courage and headed back to the clinic, hoping to catch Viktor before he disappeared into his lab. As you walked down the corridor, your heart raced, unsure of how he would react to your presence this time.

Spotting him up ahead, you quickened your pace to catch up. "Viktor!" you called out, your voice a mix of eagerness and caution.

He turned to face you, his expression colder than you could have anticipated. The icy stare he gave you was a stark contrast to the warmth he had initially displayed. Silence hung heavy in the air as you struggled to find the right words to bridge the gap.

"Good morning," you finally managed, the words coming out more awkwardly than you intended.

Viktor's response was a disdainful glance, his lips curling into a sardonic smile.

"I wanted to talk about yesterday," you ventured, your voice slightly shaky.

Viktor's chuckle was laced with a hint of mockery. "Ah, the herbologist returns. What could you possibly have to say that would interest me?"

You pressed on, determined to understand. "I'm genuinely confused about what changed between our initial conversation and the end. I’d like to clear the air."

Viktor's tone dripped with condescension. "Clear the air? How quaint. Tell me, (y/n), do you genuinely believe in those herbs of yours? Or is it simply an amusing exercise in delusion?"

You took a deep breath, your frustration simmering beneath the surface. "I‘ve seen the positive effects of natural remedies. They work and they can complement conventional medicine."

His laughter was sharp, devoid of any real amusement. "Complement? Your 'remedies' are nothing more than a weak placebo. A distraction for those who are unwilling to embrace proven methods."

You tried to hold his gaze, your patience waning. "There's scientific evidence that supports the efficacy of herbal treatments."

Viktor's eyes bore into yours, his expression unyielding. "Evidence? Spare me the pseudoscience, (y/n). Don't mistake anecdotal stories for real progress."

With those final, hurtful words, Viktor turned and walked away, leaving you standing there, a mix of hurt, frustration, and a fiery determination to prove him wrong coursing through your veins. As he disappeared from view once again, you couldn't shake the cold feeling left by his snarky remarks. Determined to rise above his skepticism, you would let your work speak for itself, determined to prove that there was value in the path you had chosen.

Shaking off the remnants of the cold exchange, you embraced the promise of a new day in the clinic. The once vast laboratory had been transformed to incorporate a cozy room, with a counter positioned up front. This was where your clinic would welcome customers, a haven of shelves laden with an assortment of natural remedies, including an array of medicinal herbs like teas, oils, sprays, and various concoctions. The day was a whirlwind of interactions with a steady stream of customers seeking advice and purchasing your meticulously crafted medicines.

In the midst of the busy day, a well-dressed customer approached, intrigued by a particular oil blend. "Excuse me, could you recommend something for stress relief? I've heard great things about your remedies."

You smiled warmly, happy to share your expertise. "Certainly. Our Lavender Harmony Oil is a popular choice for relaxation. Its soothing scent can help ease stress and promote a sense of calm."

As the conversation continued, you couldn't help but be gratified by the positive impact your remedies were having on people's lives. This fulfilling endeavor was quickly shaping into a passion you hadn't foreseen.

The evening sun dipped below the horizon, prompting you to start winding down for the day. Packing up your belongings, you glanced at the clock, realizing it was nearly 10:30. You were determined to leave before encountering Viktor, whose presence had become a source of discomfort.

Just as you were about to exit, the door swung open, revealing Jayce. A brief smile graced your lips as you greeted him.

"Hey there, y/n)" Jayce said, returning the smile. "How was your first day?"

You recounted the encounter with Viktor, the surprise evident on Jayce's face. He tried to offer excuses, defending Viktor's character. "He really is a good person at heart, you know… Sometimes he can be a bit grumpy due to his leg pain” he gave you a hopeful smile, seeing you unconvinced he continued, ”… or maybe from overworking himself again, it’s not unusual for him to disregard everything to keep working. Please don't take his words too much to heart. I don’t know what could’ve got him to be like that but that’s not what he’s really like"

You sighed, appreciating Jayce's attempt to defend his friend. "Thank you, Jayce. I'll keep that in mind."

After a moment of conversation, you said goodbye to Jayce and headed home, the weight of the day's events still lingering.

As you walked through the university halls, your footsteps echoing, you suddenly heard the distinct click of a cane behind you. Your heart skipped a beat as you realized it was Viktor, once again making his exit. The rhythmic sound seemed to echo in the corridor, a reminder of the enigmatic figure who continued to both intrigue and unsettle you.

Summoning your courage, you turned around, "Viktor," you called out, your voice carrying a genuine attempt at friendliness.

He stopped and faced you, his expression a mixture of irritation and impatience. "What is it now?" he asked.

You pressed on, undeterred by his tone. "I just wanted to say that I hope we can move past our previous misunderstanding. I’m hoping we can get along in the future, and maybe even become friends."

Viktor's response was a sarcastic chuckle. "Ah, the herbologist with a heart of gold, trying to bridge the gap between science and nonsense."

You were taken aback by his bitterness, but you refused to let it deter you. "It's not nonsense, Viktor. Natural remedies have been used for centuries to treat various ailments. There's a reason they persist."

He rolled his eyes, his patience clearly wearing thin. "If you believe in that drivel, be my guest. But don't expect me to see it any differently. I don’t see us becoming friends."

Before you could respond, he turned away, his footsteps echoing down the hallway. You watched him go, feeling further frustrated by his actions.

As you observed him walking ahead, something caught your attention. Today, unlike yesterday, you noticed a subtle discomfort in his movements – a slight hitch in his step that hadn't been there before. Despite the frustration he stirred within you, a pang of empathy washed over you. But you held your tongue, allowing him to exit before you.

The exchange left you with a whirlwind of emotions, a volatile mix of disdain and an unexpected spark of something deeper. It was as if your feelings toward him had taken on a duality – a complex blend of both hate and an inexplicable attraction. As you made your way home, you couldn't help but acknowledge the paradoxical nature of your emotions, wondering how this enigmatic man had managed to evoke such conflicting sentiments within you.

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