#my writing

[super-ion]

Concept: cursed blade rehabilitation center. Destroying a sentient weapon is expensive and highly unethical, so adventurers bring them to the center where highly trained staff can care for them and eventually find them forever homes. It turns out most cursed weapons are products of trauma and are not strictly evil themselves. Some blades turn out to be fiercely protective companions. Others don't even want to be weapons at all, finding joy in simple work like blacksmithing or farming. Most blades just need to be loved.

[littlcdarlin]

Who Will Love A Little Sparrow?

summary: Joel turns sixty.

warnings: girthy age gap (60 & mid 20s), Joel feels guilty about age gap, I cried while writing this, emotional fluff

note: it took one ask to convince me to actually write this lol hope you like it, anon! Title is from the Simon & Garfunkel song

Joel hasn't quite realized he's turning sixty – sure, he knows he looks it, feels it in his cracking joints, aching back and wheezing lungs, sees it in the stares the two of you get walking through Jackson hand in hand, but your company keeps him young. Three and a half decades between you will do that to a man.

He's never liked a big fuss on his birthday; even when he was half his age all the singing and balloons embarrassed him more than anything, so he didn't mention it was coming up during the weeks beforehand. You knew, of course, and so did Tommy, but he figured patrols would keep the two of you busy enough to prevent anything more than an extra kiss from you and a teasing comment from his brother – maybe birthday sex when you were done with your work for the day.

When he wakes up, it's his first thought, though not in excitement, but resignation. Sixty. The number feels like a chasm between the two of you. It makes him feel dirty for having touched you the night before, and he wishes humanity hadn't decided on the decimal numeral system.

You're scheduled for the morning patrol, so he doesn't expect you home before noon, which for the first time in his life feels like a relief. It gives him a couple of hours to bury the guilt about your age somewhere deep and secure, under vague childhood memories and the first thirteen decimals of Pi, where it won't come bubbling up while you're laughing your sunshine-laugh. He doesn't want to dim your spark, not when you seem to just have found it again.

He scuffles downstairs, dragging his feet as if he's turning ninety instead of sixty, just to wallow in his self-pity while nobody is around to see it. If he's lucky, he'll have two more decades, maybe even three, though that kind of hope is practically brazen.

He sighs, making his way over to the kitchen, thinking that if he makes his coffee strong enough, it might make him feel fifty again.

"Happy Birthday."

His head snaps up, and he's staring at you instead of his toes, your youthful face a little blotchy from the excitement.

"Here," you say, and thrust a cupcake in his direction. There is a single purple candle on it, and the frosting isn't draped across the dough in artful swirls the way they did it before the outbreak – still, it's the best cupcake he has ever seen.

"I couldn't fit sixty candles on this thing, so you get one."

Your smile is a little lopsided, a little too understanding, and Joel swallows.

"Thanks," he mutters quietly, staring at the blue part of the flame. "Geez."

"Blow it out," you say, "and make a wish."

He doesn't believe in that, but he obliges because you somehow found him a cupcake in the middle of the apocalypse at the crack of dawn.

"Now," you say, almost business-like, as if the first bullet point of one of your little lists has been crossed off, "I got Tommy and Maria to cover us on patrols today. What do you wanna do first, drink outrageously bitter coffee, or carve a wooden sparrow?"

He stares at you. You must have found the little bird he made during his many sleepless hours – he put it on the very top shelf in the living room where it wouldn't attract attention. It's not that he's embarrassed about it, he's just not sure it's a part of himself he wants to share with the world.

You put the cupcake on the kitchen counter and turn back around, that same knowing smile on your lips.

"I got you something," you say, and Joel frowns.

"You shouldn't trade for–"

"I didn't."

You hand him a small package, wrapped in some old newspaper you decorated with tiny, drawn-on hearts.

"Tommy said you used to wrap presents in colorful paper just to throw it away," you explain, that sense of wonder in your voice, as always when you talk about the before, "I didn't have paint, but I found a pen that works."

Joel stares at the package. He remembers the last birthday present he unwrapped perfectly, can see it catch the morning sunlight on his wrist.

"I–Geez," he just says, again, and starts to carefully peel away the newspaper without creasing your little artwork too much. His thumb traces one of the hearts. There is a hint of red inside the paper, and then he's holding something small.

"Where did you get this?", he asks, voice quiet with awe and something else that seems to thicken his throat.

"I found it in an abandoned raider's lair," you say softly, "I know I should have handed it to Maria, but I thought you could use it for your sparrow. Give him a face, you know, some feathers."

Joel traces the little cross on the Swiss army knife, and feels his chest tighten.

"Don't tell on me," you say teasingly, but with a hint of self-consciousness at his lack of a response. Joel swallows, and drags his eyes away from his present and to your face.

"Thank you," he says quietly, unsure of how to voice the thoughts rushing through his head, "I– thank you."

"Yeah," you say gently, "'course."

You accept his gratitude, understand what he means by it. You don't make a fuss with your un-swirly cupcake and single candle and no singing. All of a sudden, Joel feels his eyes prick and burn, and he rubs them quickly, wipes away the wetness. You touch his shoulder, make him look at you, and he clenches his jaw in embarrassment.

"Sorry," he mutters, "you just...know me so well."

There it is, your sunshine-smile, and you press a kiss to his naked chest, as high as you can reach.

"Sixty isn't that old, Joel. Don't even think about using it as an excuse to stop chopping firewood."

He chuckles and cups your face in one of his massive palms.

"No ma'am."

[bloodyknucklesforme]

Pomegranate | Nikolai x F!Reader

Chapter 8

You're back at the start

cw: dark fic, dubcon/noncon, reader is being trafficked, human trafficking, physical assault, drug use

Masterpost

You punched and kicked at the boot door till your fists and legs ached. Screamed until your throat was sore. You dug around in the dark for an emergency release and found nothing. It felt like the whole boot was getting smaller and smaller till it the walls dug into you and compressed the air out of your lungs.

You were too angry to cry. Angry at Arno, at Marcus, at John, at Nikolai. At yourself most of all. You used to tell yourself that you didn’t deserve any of this because you were a good person. You volunteered, you gave to charity, you held doors open for little old ladies. You quickly learned that it didn’t matter. Men like these didn’t care if you were a good person or not. You and others had just been in the wrong places at the wrong time with not enough money and too much trust. 

That’s why you were going to die. You trusted Nikolai too much. Let yourself be surprised by his true nature and attack him for it. He was always going to hurt you. That’s all he ever did, despite deluding yourself otherwise. Tricked yourself into believing that because he never tried to strangle you during sex it wasn’t a violation. He paid Arno for the pleasure of assaulting you. Then he even stopped paying, his ego making him believe that he owned you.  

You closed your eyes and imagined killing him. You’d knock on his door and plead to be let in, only to shoot him the moment he opened the door. It would be like in the movies where just one bullet kills someone instantly, no matter where you hit. You couldn’t imagine violence further than that. Even though it’s not what he deserved. He deserved what happened to Marcus or worse. Just not by your hand.

Violence had never been a language you spoke. You’d refused to learn at every chance. You had so little of yourself left, you needed to keep some small part safe.  So much good your pacifism has done for you so far. 

You could barely let out a whimper when the boot opened and Abel wrenched you up, dragging you inside on your knees. Glass and gravel cut your skin in chunks. Other girls peaked their heads out into the hall as the three of you came in.

“Get the fuck back to work!” Arno barked. There was something frantic about him. Something that couldn’t just be blamed on drugs. His eyes were red and the skin under them was dark. He was sweating so much it made his hair and skin look greasy. He disgusted you even more than normal.

You were shoved into a metal folding chair in the corner of his office. Your hands were tied behind your back with cheap nylon rope. 

“Leave,” He said to Abel before turning towards you,“ We have some things to work on, don’t we.”

You couldn’t bring yourself to be afraid. Arno had lost any power over you. He could hurt you but he always did that. You could see that he was jittery, scared even. As soon as Abel left he redirected his attention to the baggie of coke in his pocket. He cut uneven lines on his desk and snorted them like they were going to run away the same as you did. 

“You’re pathetic.” You said, shaking your head.

“What?” He looked up, white powder stuck in the stubble under his nose. His eyes were watery. “Fuck did you say to me?”

“I said you’re pathetic.” You stretched out the last word mockingly. “Look at you. Did Abel have to dress you today?”

He grabbed a pen off the desk and threw it at you, missing your head by half a meter. You laughed as it bounced off the wall. 

“Nikolai was right. You’re a fucking pussy.”

That got him to his feet. He started yelling in German, even without speaking it you could tell it was incoherent. The near constant smell of alcohol on his breath made it hard to concentrate on anything else. 

He looked like a child throwing a tantrum, stomping his way over to you. You couldn’t find it in you to be afraid of him anymore. For the past year you’d been afraid and timid, bending to the will of any man you’d thought would raise a hand at your insubordination. None of the humiliation or groveling seemed worth it anymore. If you were going to die today, it would be on your feet with your chin held high. He’d have to look you in the eyes while he did it.

Arno’s hand hit your cheek with a loud smack. Your teeth cut the inside of your mouth so you spit the blood onto his shoes. He hit you again and this time you spit onto his shirt. Bubbled up blood and spit quickly stained the cheap polyester. He hit you a third time and it made your ears ring and before you could react he slapped you again and again till your vision went blurry.

You fell sideways out of the chair, hands still caught behind the chair. You rubbed your wrists against each other, feeling the rope come looser and looser. 

“After I kill you I’m going to dump your body on Nikolai’s doorstep. Fucking cunt!” He kicked his desk, snapping one of the legs off. “Try to fucking cheat me! Arrogant bastard! I’m going to cut his cock off and choke him with it!”

The desk collapsed in a flurry of loose cash and cocaine. You started laughing softly. Reminded you of long gone babysitting days where you’d watch a young boy lose his mind over not getting dessert before dinner. You wanted to see him try to kill Nik. You could see Nik lifting him by the throat and tossing him to the ground like nothing. 

A decade plus ago you used to read all the urban legends  

“He’d skin you alive.” You laughed. “And I’d pay to watch.”

“He’s an old man!” Arno breathed hotly. His eyes flicked around till he saw the tool box sitting by the wall. He tripped over his own mess to grab it and drag back over towards you. “We’re going to make a little movie for him.” 

He dug around the box, pulling out a hammer, pliers and a box cutter. Your stomach churned. You knew it was going to hurt. It was always going to hurt. You promised yourself that you wouldn’t beg. It would all be over soon. It would just end. Arno clumsily set up his phone against the box, the automatic flash turning on. You blinked against the light. 

Arno knelt beside you, hammer in hand. His hands were shaking. A child in a candy store, in too over his head to make a choice. He raised the hammer and brought it down hard against your ribs. You screamed. You heard the crack from inside your chest. It hurt to catch your breath. 

You looked at the camera. If Nik was watching somewhere in the future he needed to know this was his fault. At least partially. In a just world he’d somehow feel everything Arno did to you. He’d feel his own ribs break, bone splintering into muscle. He needed to watch you die, to know what it was like. 

Arno hit you again, this time lower, hitting the side of your stomach. You groaned out a sob. He hit you again. His hits were sloppy and uncoordinated, always just off their mark. He hit your sternum, knocking the air from your lungs. You gasped like a fish, each inhale making your vision go red. 

There was a popping sound. It was far away, deeper into the club. It would have been unnoticed if screams didn’t follow. 

Another pop, more screams and thunderous footsteps as girls fled the club floor and into the back rooms. Arno dropped the hammer onto your chest and ran to the door.

“What the fuck is going on?” He yelled outside. You fought against your bindings despite the pain in your torso. If you could get one hit on him it would all be worth it. Abel was yelling back at him in german. 

More pops. Louder this time. Gunshots. One of your wrists slipped free. You pushed yourself up onto your hands and knees. 

The hammer was cold and heavy in your hand. A gunshot echoed from the hall. Arno slammed the door shut. He started to dig through the remnants of the desk.

“Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.” He dug a handgun out of the rubble, turning the safety off and heading back towards the door. He stood beside it, waiting for anyone who’d try to enter. Whomever he pissed off this time would kill you both. Most likely try to rape you before that. Not again. 

You stood up on shaky legs, tears streaming down your face as your body screamed in pain.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Arno snarled, turning the gun on you. “Sit down!”

You raised the hammer. 

“I will fucking kill you. Sit down!”

He was already going to kill you. This would only be quicker. 

You threw all your energy into rushing your feet forward. He pulled the trigger, the gun clicked - he never checked if the damn thing was loaded.

You put all your energy into connecting the hammer with the side of his skull. He collapsed onto the ground convulsing with you following close behind. 

There were more gunshots outside in the hall, Abel was yelling for Arno. One of his words was cut off mid sentence and there was a thud outside in the hallway. Arno was across from you, eyes twitching. You coughed and blood splattered against his face. 

You smiled at him. He didn’t win. You’d both die here, looking at each other in the hell he made for you. 

The door was kicked open, your hair flying back in the brush of air. Torch light searched the room before settling on the two of you. A man entered hurriedly. He had full body armor and a ballistic mask.

“I found her.” A familiar accented voice said into his radio. He pulled off a glove and touched your cheek. “Oh Kotenok, what did he do to you?”

Nik’s hand was warm against your skin. You leaned against it. There was no shame in comfort when dying. You were dying right? It felt like you were. It was getting harder to breathe. Hurt so much. 

He took off the mask, tossing it to the side. His stubble had grown out in the past two days. He looked tired. You reached out and pushed back a loose strand of hair from his face. 

“You’re okay. I’m here.” He took your hand and kissed your knuckles. “You’re safe now.”

You shook your head weakly, “Kolya…something… broken.”

His brow furrowed, he lifted up your shirt, frown turning to a snarl. You cried when his fingers brushed against your bruises. Blood was pooling under your skin, swelling up in great lumps around broken bone. 

“Captain, get a medevac for her.” He said to the radio before turning back to you. “You’re going to be okay, Kotenok.”

He turned and grabbed the shoulder of Arno’s shirt. 

“She fucked you up, didn’t she.” He chuckled as he dragged him out of view. “Do you still feel pain?”

Arno groaned.

“Good. I’m going to break your jaw now.” There was a snapping sound followed by Arno’s crying out. You closed your eyes. There was a squelching sound matched with more cries of pain from Arno. Nik worked quietly on his torture. His cries turned into gurgling. You kept your eyes closed. 

“Fuck my old boots, Nik.” You opened your eyes to look up at John. He had a disgusted look on his face. “Is that his..? Fuck- don’t answer that.”

“You have a gurney? She needs a doctor.” Nik was by your side again, wiping bloodied hands on his pants before stroking your cheek with his knuckles. 

“We’ll move her together.” You screamed when they lifted you. 

Nik was at your head as they carried you out. Arno’s men laid dead across the club. All the men who raped and abused you over the past year dead because of Nikolai. Other armed men were helping the girls pick up their things and escorting them outside. 

There were ambulances and swat vehicles lining the street. 

Nik sat with you on the way to the hospital. He stroked your hair as the EMTs worked. 

You were given morphine to help with the pain. You whimpered as the world grew dark and blurry.

“I’m right here,” Nik cooed. “I’ll take care of you.”

[cynicalclassicist]

Well, it really depends on who you ask!

fic planning be like:

[heaven-fever]

Character Prompt

I love characters who have done horrible things, yet were supposed to be good.

Like, you can't redeem them. Maybe forgive, probably can't even do that. The things they've done, especially if they were conscious doing it, shouldn't be forgotten.

Yet you saw their past. You saw how kind they were, or who they could have become.

But something happened and they doomed themselves. Ruined their life for a future of suffering. Both for those around them, and for their same self.

[tanktopdiaz]

sometimes when bucks bouncing on it eddie uses his phat ass like springboards and they double bounce like a trampoline

[misila]

(Written for the Neuvithesley Bang, with art by Phantoma)

After bidding Clorinde farewell, Wriothesley took the lift down to the deepest part of the Fortress. Jurieu and Lourvine were there, testing the state of the capsule and doing some maintenance work; they kept wincing, however, every time Neuvillette’s tail slammed against the glass. “You should’ve got used to it by now,” Wriothesley snorted, despite being only marginally better than Jurieu at keeping his flinches to himself. “You come down here every day.” “Yes, but Monsieur Neuvillette usually doesn’t try to escape unless we speak or get too close,” Lourvine replied. Wriothesley paused. “What?”

Read chapter 2 on AO3

[erikraven]

I actually have a wip for this, I wanted to get Tessa away from her pack so I can do some character work with her relatively alone instead of attached to her brother or father. She's a countersniper protecting the 4077th, and they don't know she's there until she gets shot and radios for help. Things go... well.

Quick! The first OC you think of is dropped in the world of the last movie/show you watched. How are they faring?

[sigrid-of-solstheim]

How did you come up with the size/distances for the layout of Cyrodiil in you fanfic? Also how far is a league? Is it like a Nautical league?

Hi!

Well, obviously the scale for things in-game is really small compared to an irl country, or even the way Cyrodiil is described in lore. So to upscale I tried to base it off of a real life example. There was a post going around awhile back where people discussed the size of Skyrim, and the general consensus seemed to be that it was close to the size Poland. Going off of that I decided to make Cyrodiil, which is a bit bigger than Skyrim, based roughly off the size of modern Germany -both because of size and also because Germany is a convenient shape to overlay with Cyrodiil. I took maps of both Cyrodiil and Germany, sized them appropriately, and established a distance key that corresponds equally/accurately as I could to both.

So for example, using my upscaled version, I determined that the distance from Chorrol to Kvatch (cutting cross country, not following the road) is about 290km.

None of the measurements are 100% exact to real life, the leagues I decided are about 3 miles (I think that is actually the modern standard, though Roman and Medieval leagues were often shorter) and rounded that up to 5km for easier calculations. So a cross-country trip from Chorrol to Kvatch is 290km or 58 leagues.

Thanks for the ask!

[cardinalarts]

Sealed Colosseum: Intermission — Battling 101

This week's Sealed Colosseum update is a bit of a shorter one. This is the first of a sub series of chapters we're calling "Intermissions". Basically, they're shorter chapters that don't fully fit into the main chapters and give a bit more lore and characterization. This first one takes place in the middle of Chapter 7.

Funny thing: IcarusDrop (brother and co-author for those seeing this fic for the first time) wrote this one as a sort of writing exercise, but ended up liking it so much we came up with the Intermission idea so we could have an excuse to use it. We'll return next week with Pyrite Town.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/63997315/chapters/167118067

[shhhsecretsideblog]

Awards Show 

This isn’t a prompt or request (they’re still closed for now). This is just a self indulgent little scene that turned into a 3k fic. Bit more intimacy/sensual themes than my usual, but still has all my fav tropes :) Hope people enjoy this one x

I couldn’t resist the opportunity to show you off to my friends and colleagues at the company awards dinner. This may have been the biggest you’d ever gotten during any of your pregnancies; your tight firm belly was a beach ball beneath your maroon silk dress, hanging low and heavy on your hips. My hand wrapped around your waist and squeezed your hip affectionately as we mingled through the crowd. With a champagne glass in hand you smiled and laughed at the joke my boss made. 

“You look ready to pop my dear. You better not steal the show tonight by going into labour” The CEO had said with a grin, looking in awe at your incredible size. 

We both laughed, my hand moving up and down your lower back. If only he knew.

Your contractions had started this afternoon, the slow gentle tightening of your womb signalling our baby’s readiness to come into the world. But even with your contractions, we still put our black tie outfits on and went out this evening to the company awards show. You knew it was important to me and my career. Plus, neither of us could deny the thrill of having to ride out your contractions in such a public setting. 

“How are you doing darling?” I whispered in your ear after my boss and CEO walked away. 

“Mmmm… okay…. They’re getting a little stronger now though.” You said with a breathy moan, your hand naturally moving across the underside of your belly, rubbing the taut skin through the silk fabric of your dress. 

“Let’s quickly pop into the bathroom before we take our seats. I can check to see how you’re progressing.”  

With my hand around your waist I felt how much more you were waddling, a sign of how low the baby was sitting in the bowl of your pelvis. I squeezed your hip and took a long breath to try and control myself. 

In the single occupancy bathroom I quickly locked the door behind us. You found your way to the sink and braced against the bathroom counter, swaying your hips through another contraction. I growled at the sight, seeing you so gravid and fertile, your body doing something so powerful and natural. 

“You look incredible, my love.” I stood behind you, pressing my body against your backside and wrapping my arms around you to feel the firm and hard skin of your belly as it contracted. A low moan came from your lips as the wave reached its peak and I bent forward, my chest to your back, whispering in your ear to breathe. 

When the contraction had passed, I pulled up the fabric of your maroon silk dress, slowly up your thighs until I reached my destination. You moaned as I slipped my fingers inside, deep but gentle, knowing how sensitive you were during labour. 

“Wow darling…. You’re already at 7cm.” My words were thick with desire in your ear. “Do you think you can hold on for the rest of the evening?” 

You smiled at me through the reflection of the mirror, grinning with excitement. 

We made our way out the bathroom and found our seats for the dinner and awards ceremony. I could feel your breathing was heavier, your movements were slower, and I beamed with pride at how well you were doing. Everyone was in awe of your attendance this evening, being so advanced in your pregnancy, and yet nobody knew just how close you were to not being pregnant anymore. 

Our seats were in the middle of the hall, on a large round table with nearly a dozen other people. Some colleagues I knew, others I didn’t, all with their partners or spouses. Music was playing, waiters were bringing food to tables, drinks were flowing, the room was soon filled with conversation and laughter as people got progressively more drunk. All the while you sat beautifully beside me, joining in discussions and smiling brightly. My gorgeous wife, heavily pregnant, and secretly in active labour. 

Two courses into our meal you started to hum quietly beside me, shifting in your seat. My hand found your thigh, my thumb rubbing soothing motions across your leg over the thin fabric of your dress. “You’re doing great darling, just breathe through them. Not long now.” I purred in your ear, knowing that wasn’t true. The awards had just commenced, my boss and CEO taking the stage to begin proceedings, and like all previous company dinners I knew it would be a long evening. 

Contraction after contraction wracked your body, but you showed no obvious signs of discomfort. You’d gone a little quieter perhaps but your smile remained bright to everyone around us. Every now and then throughout the evening the room would erupt in obligatory applause as someone was granted an award or achievement from the company. During one of these moments my ears pricked, attuned to your sounds, and I heard a low moan slip from your parted lips. 

My arm wrapped around your shoulders, leaning in close, my breath caressing your neck. “Darling…. You okay?” I asked, concerned but unbelievably aroused. 

“Nngh… baby feels so low…” you whispered, spreading your legs a little under the table. 

I shivered, stuttering slightly with a husky voice “D-Do you need to push?” 

“N-no…. I’m okay just…. A lot of pressure—oooof” 

I kissed the side of your cheek affectionately, my hand still wrapped around your shoulders while the other squeezed your thigh. “You’re doing brilliantly, my love. Just keep breathing through them.” I shifted in my seat to hide my obvious arousal. The idea that you might start pushing right here in this venue was almost too much to bear. I took a long sip of my drink and focused back on the stage to distract myself. 

Half way through the awards, after all the food had been consumed leaving dessert plates and empty wine bottles littering the table, you suddenly reached out and gripped my thigh squeezing tight. I looked over to you with a mix of concern and excitement. You had slumped slightly in your seat, spreading your legs wider under the table and tilting your hips up, your breasts and belly rising and falling with your rapid breathing. 

“Breathe…. Breathe through it darling, we’re almost there.” I encouraged softly, my hand moving to rest upon your heavy belly sitting between your spread thighs, feeling the rock hard muscles beneath my fingers. You grunted a little, a sound I recognised, and my eyes nearly came out their sockets. 

“Don’t push darling… you need to hold it a little longer okay.” I tried to soothe you, but my heart was thumping in my chest and my insides were coiling with unbridled excitement. 

“M-my— waters—” you croaked, relaxing after the intense contraction. 

I looked down; from above your dress looked completely dry but when I felt underneath the top layer I felt the liquid that was now dripping down your inner thighs and onto the floor. Quickly grabbing my fabric napkin and yours, I dropped them under the table, putting one between your legs and the other on the floor to soak up the worst of it. 

“Shhhh… you’re okay my love. Looks like it’s nearly time, baby wants to meet us.” My hand moved possessively over your belly, my smile wide and beaming with pride. You smiled, your cheeks flushed a little, leaning closer to kiss me softly. 

“Can we go now?” You asked quietly, and I noticed the light sheen of sweat on your forehead. 

“Yes darling, you’ve done wonderfully. Let’s go and meet our new baby—”

Then my name very loudly echoed across the hall and all eyes were focused in our direction. The award. Shit. My boss was standing on stage, crystal award in hand, and everyone began to clap. 

“Damn— I erm— do I go—” my words fumbled from my mouth as I looked between you and the stage. You were absolutely full to the brim with our baby, so close to delivering…. But staying would mean you would have to hold on a little bit longer, and that thought sent a shiver up my spine. 

“Go sweetheart, go get your award.” You said affectionately, putting a hand on my cheek. 

“Are you sure? You’re incredible.” I kissed your lips, both of us basqued under a spotlight from the venue, and then I walked quickly up to the stage to receive my award. 

Looking out across the crowd my eyes were focused only on you. Sitting proudly at our table, your eyes beamed with joy as you clapped along with the rest of the room. Clearing my throat, trying to regain professional composure, I began my speech. Your eyes glistened with affection and pride, hanging onto my every word even though you had heard me practice this over and over again. 

Then I noticed a change in you, barely perceptible to anyone else but I knew your body better than my own. You tensed, your smiling expression now forced, and you had one hand gripping the edge of the table while the other moved to the underside of your belly. Fumbling my words I was utterly distracted watching you in the middle of the crowd, secretly riding out what looked like an intense contraction. I was in awe of you, still smiling and beaming with pride, while your body squeezed and contracted and opened for our baby. You’d never looked more beautiful. 

I regurgitated my well rehearsed speech, looking only at you, as if the rest of the room no longer existed. Your full and swollen bosom was rising and falling rapidly atop your large, firm belly, and you seemed to be panting silently through the wave. Minutes passed and contraction wasn’t letting you go, I was still talking and you were still squirming in your chair. I watched as you grit your teeth, gripping the sides of your chair and spreading your legs wider under the table. Your demeanor shifted, something had changed. I could see your jaw clamped, teeth almost bared, and your face was contorted with effort— 

Holy shit you were pushing!!! 

I gripped the podium in front of me, my hips twitching, the sight of you pushing nearly throwing me over the edge of ecstasy. Clearing my throat, I managed to continue my speech, all the while I watched you instinctively push right there in the middle of this formal event. I smirked as I got towards the end, where I very publicly thanked my beautiful pregnant wife. All eyes across the venue suddenly turned in your direction. I didn’t know what you’d do, whether you’d admit defeat and acknowledge your labour, or if you’d continued to hide the fact you were uncontrollably pushing…. 

To my surprise, your face broke into a wide gleeful grin as you waved at me on stage and blew a kiss across the room, amazingly keeping up appearances. But your legs were wide under the table, I could see from this position up on the stage just how far apart they’d spread. Was our baby crowning underneath that silk dress of yours? How close were they to coming out? How long could you keep up pretences before nature took full control?… 

I practically skipped off the stage back towards our table, the room clapping with obligatory applause. 

“You’re pushing.” I whispered in your ear as I bent down to kiss your cheek. 

“Mmmmh— couldn’t help it—” you growled a reply, equally as quiet but heavy with effort. 

“We can’t leave right now, everyone will be watching us.” I sat down in my chair beside you, slipping my arm around you and pulling you closer into an embrace. 

“I— I know—” you were panting, legs spread under the table, your hand gripping my thigh and digging your nails in. 

“How much longer can you hold on darling? How close is the baby?” My words were thick with excitement. 

“Baby… is low… but I don’t think… they’re crowning yet…. But-unhhhhhhhhhh-I can’t stop pushing—”

“Shhhhh… you’re doing brilliantly my love. If you can, try little pushes for now. We don’t know if you’re fully dilated and we don’t want you to tear.” I cooed, stroking your thigh that was spread open right against mine. 

As the next award was announced, I heard you grunting during the applause. You said the baby wasn’t crowning but those sounds you were making, your subtle movements, were all too familiar to me. We certainly weren’t going to make it home for this birth, and I doubted if we’d even make it to the car. And yet you gave me no signs of wanting to move, staring blankly up at the stage as your chest heaved and your belly contracted, silently pushing our baby closer to this world. 

“You’re doing wonderful darling, so incredible. Keep doing what your body tells you—”

“— I can feel the head—” you suddenly blurted out, twitching on your seat and pulling your legs together with an obvious grimace. 

“Let’s go, now while everyone’s distracted.” I put my arms around you, helping you out of your chair. You were trembling. 

“Mmmmmgh— it feels like the baby is gonna fall out—” you moaned under your breath, cradling your belly as you rose to your feet. 

I laughed a little, supporting your hips. “It’s not going to fall out sweetheart, you’ve got a lot more pushing to go yet.” I purred in your ear as I led you out the dinner hall, your legs were unsteady and your gait was obscenely wide. I had no idea what was going on under your clothing, how close the baby was to being born, which only made this whole situation all the more thrilling. 

Beyond the doors of the formal company dinner, the moan that came from your mouth was deep and guttural as you stopped to brace against a nearby wall. Palms to the flat surface your hips jerked backwards against me as you bore down uncontrollably. 

“Nnnnnghhh— ohhhhhh I can feel the head— starting to come out—”

I rubbed your back and hips, squeezing and providing counter pressure that I knew you’d need. “Try not to push too hard babe… we need to get you back to the car…” 

Realising the corridor was empty, all guests inside the dinner hall, I slipped a hand under the silk fabric of your dress climbing up your inner thigh to feel your progress. I didn’t even make it to your entrance as I felt the distinct bulge of your underwear, the head nestled so low it was pushing against your lower lips. 

“Oh fuck babe…. The head is right there…” I groaned, fingers running across the damp fabric of your cotton underwear. 

“Nnnnnghh— I know— I can feel it— trying to come out—” you huffed, your fingers curling against the wall as your body continued to bear down without your permission. 

“Hold on a bit longer— we need to get you to the car.” I tried to plead with you but I knew you were not the one in control here. We were at the mercy of Mother Nature. We played a dangerous game and I just hoped I could get you somewhere private. 

“I don’t know if I can make it—”

“What do you need darling? What do you want to do?” I groaned into your ear, my body flushed behind you, my hands still under your dress between your legs. 

“Nnnnghh— hold it in— while I push—” you spluttered as you widened your stance, preparing for another push.

My hand moved, cupping your womanhood with my palm. “I’ve got you baby— do what you need to do—” I could barely contain my excitement at what was happening. My body tensed in time with yours and I felt the bulge against my palm grow as you pushed, the first sliver of our baby starting to part you from within. 

“Keep going, my love, I won’t let them come out too fast.” 

Your sounds were deep and gravelled and primal, but not loud enough to draw the attention of anyone inside the venue. One… two… three grunting pushes against my palm and the baby hadn’t made much progress. Thankfully. 

“Ohhhh— okay— it’s passed—” you croaked, pushing yourself away from the wall and catching your breath. 

“Are you ready to try walking to the car again?” My hand moved up and down your lower back affectionately, keeping you supported. 

You nodded, running a hand over the full swell of your belly. “Yes, let’s keep moving. But we need to go slow… the head is right there, just inside of me.” 

Growling at your statement, I wrapped my arm around your waist to support you as we both walked slowly down the corridor. “I know darling, it’s really close. Our little one is very eager to meet us.” I couldn’t wipe the grin off my face, looking down at you with that full belly, your bow-legged walk, on the cusp of giving birth at any moment. 

We made it out of the venue but on the steps out the front of the building you abruptly stopped and grabbed the railing, bending your knees and grunting with an uncontrollable push. 

“Oh darling…” I quickly moved my hands to your hips to support you as your body bore down instinctively. “This one really is in a hurry. Just go with it, but we need to get you to the car soon.” 

You shuddered and almost mooed with the effort of your push, your body taking full control in this moment in a desperate bid to expel our baby from your womb. Over and over again you pushed. I couldn’t move my hands to check your progress, they were supporting all your weight at this moment. We were halfway down the steps outside the venue and nowhere near our car, a far cry from the privacy I wanted for our child’s birth. 

You grunted with each push, the sound sending all the blood in my body to my crotch. I knew from our previous births just how hard you were pushing, knowing the baby was probably slipping forward and back under your dress with each push. “Sweetheart…. Are we going to make it back to the car?” I asked nervously, feeling your knees bend a little more, your hips lowering slightly. 

“Nnnnnghhh—don’t know— it’s definitely— starting to c-c-c-crown—!” You groaned between pushes. 

When the contraction finished you were gasping for air as you twisted from the railing and sagged into my arms. “My…. My knickers… seem to be keeping the baby… from coming out….” Your voice was a caressed whisper against my chest. 

“You’re doing amazing, my love. You’re an incredible goddess.” I said, kissing the top of your head and holding you and your swollen belly against me. “Do you want to keep going? Or are we having this baby right here?” 

The look you gave me was filled with both pleasure and pain, your eyes glistening with dark enjoyment. “Let’s— keep going— I can hold them in….” 

I took this moment between contractions to feel your progress, my hands running from you hip down your leg and up under your dress. Your body shivered when I reached the apex of your thighs. 

“Are you sure about that, my love?” I asked with a teasing arch of my eyebrows as my fingers brushed over your underwear. “That’s not just you I can feel…. The baby’s head is really starting to crown.” 

“I- I know—” your words were breathy and husky, and I could tell you were feeling extremely full right now. 

“And you think you can walk all the way across the car park with a baby between your legs?” My fingers gently stroked circles on the soft flesh of your inner thigh. 

You nodded, but your face grimaced with another contraction and you started to pant against my chest, squeezing my shoulders. 

“You want to push again, don’t you sweetheart?” 

You nodded against me. 

“But you don’t want to give birth right here?” 

You shook your head. 

My hand then moved back over the partially crowned head in your underwear, cupping the sphere and holding it in place.

“Shhh… it’s okay I got you. Push baby…. You can push now….” I growled into your ear as I wrapped my arm around your waist while the other was cupped between your legs. “Push right against my hand— that’s it— I’ll keep you from crowning fully…” 

It felt like your entire body was quaking against me as you submitted to your body’s instincts and bore down right against my palm. The sounds you made were animalistic and feral, it was music to my ears. You pushed for another minute and a half, with each one I could feel the pressure from the baby’s head pressing more and more against my palm. Eventually you were released from the contraction, breathing heavily and barely able to stand. 

“Let’s…go….before…the…next one…comes…” you whispered, exhausted but clearly aroused. 

Together we walked slowly across the carpark, our car seemed like a mirage in the distance, but you were determined and I was more than happy to comply. I wondered how many times we would have to stop on the way, how many times I would need to cup your bulging lips, so you could have the birth you wanted in the comfort of our car. 

[sio-writes]

Oh man, I'm having a breakdown, better catalogue and memorize these feelings for when I'm writing The Characters

[thewordsarestuckinmyhead]

[xaliaver]

planning of the whole story, character names & habits to remember, general facts of the story’s world, things to still work out are at the top of the document.

then the writing that’s already done (changes can be made)

for every chapter that’s not done there’s at the top of the page a more detailed description of the plot per chapter, i delete this once i’ve ticked all the boxes for what needs to happen but changes can still be made

hello writers.

[hivemuthur]

I’ve had a thought. You believe Viktor to be Experienced, right? What would his first time have looked like? This could be a request if you wanna write a one shot. Or just like share your thoughts. I’d be intrigued to see what you come up with if you wrote it out tho 🤔

You do like to throw me curveballs (I love that, thank you). Here is some virgin!Viktor take, he's not exactly super freaky but take it as the origin of Freaktor :')

Humble as I Go

viktorxfem!reader explicit! first time, a bit awkward, a bit sweet. Both Viktor and Reader are virgins! There is no specified age for the sake of legalities, but you can imagine them both young.

word count: 3,8K

author’s note: ok, so I've seen some angry post about condemnation of virgins through HC-ing Viktor as a non-virgin, and what I'm saying here is that I disagree with his infantilization in most virgin!Viktor fics. I was a late bloomer so I am literally nobody to tell people when it's cool to start having sex, it's absolutely irrelevant to your maturity. But having him unable to add 2+2 or being completely oblivious to sex in his 30s IS ableist. For the most part, disabled people know their bodies pretty well because they have to, and I can imagine Viktor being pretty well-read as well, him being curious about life. So no, it's not a punch toward people who didn't have sex yet, it's a punch toward those who see a disabled guy and think 'let's make him pathetic.' @rennethen beta read, thank you as usual! Happy (sort of) Freakday :')

—

Viktor stares at his thighs intently, grateful for a moment to regroup. The fabric around the knees is bulging and thinned out, threads threatening to pull—if not today, then tomorrow, or the day after. It’s also slightly damp, soft beneath his fingers where he’s wiped his sweaty palms while waiting for you to come back from the bathroom.

He’s afraid to get up from where you sat him on the bed—he’d slipped in the puddle that gathered on the pavement in The Fissures on your way home, after you’d muttered that your parents were away. And your house is nice. It’s warm and cozy. It’s full of love, with plenty of things that don’t match finding a place beside one another. A wet stain from his ass on your bedsheets wouldn’t bode well for what you’re both so excited for—and frightened of—all the same.

The door creaks, and then your head peeks out. A ghost of a smile lingers on your mouth, and you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear—and Viktor, oh, he can’t help but smile too. He actually laughs, breathy, nervous and quiet, but welcomes the weight of you settling beside him on the edge of the bed, as if your presence alone repels every doubt.

You don’t say anything at first. Just lean into his side, shoulder brushing his, your palm resting between you. His fingers twitch beneath it. “You okay?” you ask eventually, soft.

Viktor nods once. Then again, slower. “I think so.” A beat. “My hands are sweaty.”

You smile into your knees, arms looping around them. “Mine too.”

That gets a laugh out of both of you, hushed and crackling with nerves. You untangle your limbs first and stretch one leg over the edge of the bed, your knee knocking gently into his. His trousers shift as he moves to look at you more fully, and the suspenders tug awkwardly with the motion.

“I like these,” you say, your finger sliding under one of the straps and letting it snap back lightly against his chest.

“They’re necessary,” he replies. “My trousers are too big. They used to be my father’s.”

You hum like that makes perfect sense, which it does. His whole frame still has the look of someone who hasn’t quite finished growing into himself—elbows and knees a bit too sharp, shoulders a little unsure of their breadth. You reach out and brush his hair back from his forehead, and this time he doesn’t flinch, just watches you with wide, liquid eyes.

“I keep thinking I’ll mess this up somehow,” you admit, quiet.

“You won’t,” he says quickly. “Even if we do it all wrong, it��s still with you.”

That makes your throat ache. You kiss him—small and soft, mouths barely moving, just the warmth of it. When you pull back, Viktor’s eyes are closed, but he’s smiling. Your hands drift to the buttons of his shirt, but hesitate, hovering. “May I?”

He nods. “Yes. Please.”

You undo them slowly. One, then another. His skin is pale where it’s usually hidden, collarbones delicate, chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. When you glance up, his eyes are open again, fixed on your face like you’re the most intricate, important thing he’s ever seen.

His hands fumble next, trying to return the favour, but they shake a little and get caught in the hem of your sweater. You both laugh again, leaning forehead to forehead, nerves zinging in the air between you like lightning trapped in glass.

“Wait,” he says, reaching down awkwardly, and peels off his socks like they’ve betrayed him. “I don’t want to wear these for this.”

“They’re not that bad,” you say, but you’re already tugging off your own to match. “There. Even.”

The grin he gives you is crooked and overwhelmed, but he’s glowing with it. There’s no hurry, not really. Just a shared understanding that you’re moving toward something neither of you has ever done, and yet it feels inevitable in the best way.

Your hands find his suspenders and slide them down the slope of his shoulders. The tension in the elastic gives a soft snap, and he flinches, then laughs under his breath. He looks smaller without them, somehow—softer. Less held together.

His trousers sit loose on his hips now, waistband gaping far away from skin and it looks like a second Viktor could fit in them easily. When your fingers find the button, he nods, barely a breath. You undo it, and the fabric slides down, pooling around his ankles with a sigh. You both blink at the sound, then laugh again, quietly—he shrugs, self-conscious.

“See?” he mutters.

“Thank gods for those, huh?” you say, pulling at one of the suspender straps, and Viktor chuckles, air leaving his nose loudly as if he was holding it until now.

You guide him out of the trousers, then pause, eyeing the brace along his leg. “Would you like to—?”

He follows your gaze, then nods, sitting back to unbuckle the straps. “It’s easier like this,” he murmurs, focused on the clasps. “I don’t usually take it off unless I have to.”

“You don’t have to,” you say gently.

“I want to.” His voice is soft, but certain.

You watch as he undoes the last strap and lifts the brace carefully aside. Without it, his leg looks thinner, a little tense—but you only touch his knee, light and reassuring, and his shoulders drop. You lean in to kiss his cheek, and he smiles, just barely.

Then you reach for the hem of his shirt, and he lifts his arms to let you pull it off. It takes a moment to work it over his head—his hair sticks up after, and you smooth it back without thinking. He’s left in his undershirt, but the skin you can see is pale in the light, slender and unevenly freckled. When you run your palms down his arms, he inhales sharply, but doesn’t stop you.

“You’re beautiful,” you murmur, and he ducks his head like he doesn’t believe it, but his smile flickers small and bright.

“You’re not supposed to say that first,” he says. “I was going to say it.”

“You still can.”

He does. Quietly, but steady. “You’re beautiful.”

Then he touches your wrist, tentative, and waits. You nod.

He starts with your sweater, careful with the buttons even though his hands are shaking. You help him with the last one, and then the shirt beneath. His knuckles brush your ribs as he works the fabric off your shoulders. His gaze lingers—not just on your chest, but on all of you, awed.

His fingers trace the waistband of your trousers next, and he looks up again. “Alright?” he asks.

You hum an answer, too full to speak. The zip comes down smoothly. He tugs, slow and a little awkward, and you lift your hips so the fabric can slide off easier. When he gets them halfway down your legs, he stills for a second. Watching your thighs, your knees, your bare skin, as if it’s something rare and precious.

When he finally gets them off, you’re both just… there. Sitting in your underwear, knees bumping, hearts thudding so hard it’s almost funny. You reach for the duvet, tugging it over both of you. Not to hide—just to be close. Wrapped together in the warmth of this.

And then, when you’re ready, you reach again. Gentle. Curious.

“Hi,” you say, and smile.

“Hi,” he echoes, and his gaze never leaves yours.

The covers rest around your hips, pooling softly between you. Viktor’s knees knock against yours again, faint and accidental. Or maybe not. Your fingers graze his, and he turns his palm up, opening it for you.

“I’ve never done this before,” you admit, voice hushed. “Obviously.”

“Me neither.” He huffs a laugh, awkward and fond. “You can probably tell.”

You nudge your shoulder into his. “It’s okay. I think… I’d be scared with anyone else.”

His eyes flicker down, then back up, bright and unblinking. “You’re not scared now?”

You shake your head. “Not with you.”

He exhales like that means the world. Slowly, carefully, he brings a hand to your cheek, thumb barely brushing the skin. “Can I kiss you again?”

You nod, may times, and this kiss is different—shy at first, but it lingers, warmer, his mouth parting when yours does. His hand slides behind your neck. Yours settle over his ribs, thin beneath your palms. The duvet shifts with your closeness, and you both feel it: your bodies pressed together, clothed in breath and nerves.

It changes then—from careful lips to Viktor’s mouth opening a little more, and yours following. The world narrows to the slick, tentative press of tongues. It’s warm, unfamiliar, and clumsy in a way that makes you both stifle little laughs between kisses. His breath tastes like mint and you’re curious when he’s managed to refresh. Yours is all heat. A soft sound slips out of him when you suck gently on his lower lip, and he mirrors it, hesitant but eager.

The sounds are quiet, wet, a shared secret. A rhythm begins to build—just earnest, as if you're both learning at the same pace. His hand slides from the back of your neck to your waist, pulling you in, every touch like a plea for permission. You tip, gently, and both of you laugh as you fall sideways, mouths still pressed together.

Viktor braces himself on one elbow, looking down at you. His curls are a mess. His chest rises and falls in quick little stutters, and your fingers find the hem of his undershirt, then slip beneath. His skin is warm, smooth, and he twitches when you drag your hand along his ribs.

Your legs shift, one sliding against his. The covers slip lower. His free hand trails up your side. Hesitant, at first, but when he finds the curve of your breast and cups it, you gasp—soft and startled and entirely involuntary.

He freezes, then breathes, and you watch his throat move as he murmurs, “I like that sound.”

“Well,” you blush and swallow loudly. “I liked… that.”

His thumb brushes over your nipple through the thin fabric, and the breath that leaves you this time is closer to a moan. His eyes flick to your mouth and linger. Then, shyly, he bends to kiss you again.

You let your fingers drift lower, and wrap them around the hem of his undershirt. He breaks the kiss with a gasp, and lifts his arms in wordless permission. The fabric peels away easily, and when it's off, you pause to look—Viktor’s chest is narrow, ribs visible under pale skin. One of your hands grazes his sternum, and he makes a small, helpless sound in response.

“You’re…” you begin, but it gets lost in a breath. “Beautiful.” His ears go red, and he lowers his head, but he’s smiling.

He mirrors your movement, fingertips brushing the strap of your bra, a question in his eyes. You nod, and reach back to unhook it yourself. When it slips off, Viktor stares like he’s been handed something sacred. His hands hover before he rests one gently against your side, the other cupping you carefully. The sensation makes you shiver, and when his thumb brushes your nipple again—skin to skin this time—you bite your lip.

You tug him back in for a kiss, and while your mouths meet, you shift your hips just enough for your knickers to slide down. You shimmy them off beneath the covers, kicking them away with your toes. He notices. His eyes widen.

“You too,” you whisper, smiling, and he lets out a quiet, nervous laugh.

He pushes his briefs down with both hands, wriggling a little to get them past his hips. They’re snug, but they come off, down to his toes where they tangle, and he has to kick them off. Again, you both let out breathy laughs, pressed forehead to forehead. Now there’s nothing between you. Only skin and heat and everything unknown.

Your palm traces the curve of his shoulder, gliding down his chest, where his heart beats like a second one between you. He mirrors the path, fingers grazing your hip, then your waist, learning you in slow lines and soft breaths. And then, lower.

You hold each other’s gaze when his fingers slip down, brushing through the heat between your legs. The first touch is feather-light, but it makes you tense around the sound it nearly draws from you. His jaw clenches; he swallows, focusing, adjusting, trying again—gentler, more measured.

Your hand finds him in the same moment, wrapping around him with instinct more than knowledge. The sharp breath he lets out doesn’t sound like anything you’ve heard from him before. His hand pauses. He blinks fast, lips parted, stunned by the way your touch makes him falter.

“I—I didn’t know it would feel like that,” he says quietly, wonder bleeding into each word. Your thumb brushes over him and his hips jump. His forehead touches yours, and he whispers, "I might not last that long."

“I don’t mind,” you confess, breath caught.

You’re both still breathing each other in when Viktor shifts, propped on one elbow, looking down at you with flushed cheeks and hesitant eyes. “I… I’ve been reading,” he says, and his voice is so small you almost miss it.

You blink at him, trying not to smile. “Reading?”

He nods. “About this. About how—it might hurt. For you.”

The smile breaks through anyway, teasing, gentle. “Were there diagrams or something?”

The tips of his ears go crimson. “Maybe.”

You laugh under your breath, and it seems to give him courage. His gaze flickers across your face. “Will you let me try something?”

You nod, already breathless at the tenderness in his voice. “Yes.”

His hand glides down your belly, careful and warm, until he’s cupping you again. You’re already soft and slick, the trust between you easing the way, and when the tip of his finger begins to press inside, your body welcomes him with a gasp.

“You’re…” he murmurs, eyes wide in awe. “You’re so soft.”

His voice makes your toes curl. He moves slowly, watching your face the entire time, his brows drawing together in concentration as he slips in deeper, then adds another finger, and you arch at the stretch.

Your hand tightens instinctively around his cock—still warm and heavy in your palm—and the reaction is immediate. Viktor gasps, hips twitching toward you, and then he whimpers, “I beg you, don’t distract me.”

You giggle, trying to find your composure. “Forgive my manners,” you manage, mock-polite, but your voice cracks as his fingers curl just so. “Oh—”

His expression softens into something closer to wonder. “Is that alright?”

You nod, panting. “Yeah. Better than alright.”

“Good,” he says, with so much focus it almost makes you laugh again—if you weren’t so full of feeling. “You’re doing so well.”

“You too,” you whisper, and you mean it. Every moment is something you didn’t know you’d treasure. Every breath from him, every careful touch, feels like something precious.

Viktor’s fingers move again, slowly, curling as if he’s trying to memorise you by feel alone. Your hips twitch, and your head falls back against the pillow, lips parted. It isn’t overwhelming, not yet—but it’s building. Warming. Like a fire catching at the edges.

“I like how you feel,” he says suddenly, shyly, as though he’s admitting something shameful. “Inside. Around me.” Your throat tightens. There’s something about his voice—equal parts reverent and surprised, like he can’t believe you’re letting him do this.

“You can—keep going,” you breathe. “It feels really good.”

His lips brush the ball of your shoulder. “Tell me if it stops feeling good. Please.”

“I will.” You smile, lifting your hand to brush his fringe aside, fingers sweeping through soft hair. “You’re already being perfect.”

That makes him fluster, his fingers faltering for just a moment before resuming. He adds a tiny twist to the motion, and the sound that leaves you is unguarded. “Viktor—”

“I like that sound too,” he says, grinning, and then ducks his head to hide it against your shoulder.

You both giggle quietly, your bodies trembling with nerves and affection and something deeper that you’re only beginning to name. Then, he kisses your neck. “Can I try something else?”

You hum and nod, nearly absent and his thumb shifts to stroke you in slow, tentative circles while his fingers stay deep, coaxing the pleasure higher. You cling to his shoulders, skin hot under your palms. It feels good—careful, considered. It’s not polished or practised, but it’s full of kindness, full of him.

And when your hips roll up without thinking, chasing the rhythm, Viktor breathes a shaky “Yes,” into the hollow beneath your ear, like your response gives him permission to keep going. You feel yourself starting to tighten around him, fluttering.

“Gods,” you whisper. “You’re so good.”

“You too,” he says, kissing your cheek, breath ragged now. “You feel… you feel amazing.” His hand has you, fingers deep, careful, as his thumb circles around you slowly. You can feel yourself tipping—your legs tense, your thighs pressing closer around his palm. It's all so much: the warmth of his body against yours, the way he keeps watching your face like he’s afraid to miss even a flicker of feeling.

Your breath catches. “Viktor—”

“I’ve got you,” he whispers. “Let go if you want to.”

One permission is enough for you, and with a soft gasp, you do let go. It rolls through you slowly at first—warmth blooming outward, your muscles clenching around his fingers as your hips jerk. Your breath forms a sound that might be a moan, might be his name. He holds still inside you, except for the slow strokes of his thumb, drawing it out, waiting until your body begins to tremble and soften again. Only then does he carefully slip his hand free.

You’re blinking up at him through the haze, breathless, glowing from within. “You—”

“Did I hurt you?” His brow is furrowed. “Was that alright?”

“It was—” You laugh, dazed. “It was incredible. I think I forgot my name.”

He blushes, his chest rising and falling with shallow breath. You pull him closer, pressing your mouth to his, lazy and grateful. When your hand finds him again, he shudders violently. “You’re so hard,” you murmur against his lips.

He nods, almost sheepish. “Since the beginning.”

Your fingers close around him, and he gasps, hips twitching forward despite himself. He hides his face in the crook of your neck, panting.

“Do you want—?” you begin, but he interrupts with a desperate little sound.

“Gods, yes.” He lifts his head, eyes wide and earnest, “I really, really want to.”

You kiss him again. “Then come here.”

You watch as Viktor reaches behind him, fumbling for where his trousers lay crumpled near the edge of the bed. His hand disappears into the pocket and comes back holding a small, square packet. He blushes when he sees you looking, sheepish. “I, um… thought maybe.”

You smile. “I’m glad you did.” You help him tear it open, hands brushing. There’s a stutter in his breath as he rolls it on, careful and methodical, brows drawn in focus like he’s solving a delicate matter. His fingers tremble.

When he’s done, he looks at you—truly looks. His hair is messy from your hands, lips swollen from your kisses, his whole expression open and tender. “Are you ready?”

You nod, guiding him forward with your hands on his hips, your legs parting to welcome him in. He steadies himself on his forearms, nose brushing yours. “Tell me if I do anything wrong,” he whispers. “I’ve never—”

“You’re perfect,” you whisper back. “I want you.”

He lines himself up, the tip brushing where you're soft and slick. The sensation draws a sharp breath from both of you. And then, slowly, he begins to press inside.

It’s careful, hesitant, and overwhelming—tight and unfamiliar and so incredibly intimate. He gasps, pausing halfway with his eyes fluttering shut. “Oh—God.”

Your hands are on his back, one tracing the line of his spine. “You’re okay,” you whisper. “You’re doing so well.”

He presses the rest of the way in, shallow and shaking, his body curled over yours like he’s trying to disappear into the moment, or maybe into you. For a few seconds, he doesn’t move. He just breathes, and you are grateful for this time to adjust. You feel the warmth of his chest against yours, his heart racing in time with your own.

“It’s—” he starts, then breaks off with a soft, overwhelmed laugh. “You are so good.” You cup his face, unable to say anything. When he finally starts to move, it’s slow and stuttering. He’s trying so hard to hold on, eyes glazed, mouth parted. You kiss his cheek, his jaw, his temple—anchoring him.

“I certainly won’t last,” he confesses, voice breaking. “You feel so—”

“It’s okay.” Your hand slides to the nape of his neck, thumb brushing his hair. “I don’t mind.”

His hips rock a little faster, the rhythm unsteady but full of feeling. Each thrust draws a soft whimper from him, a breathy moan from you. He buries his face against your shoulder, breath heavy. When he comes, it’s with a quiet gasp, his whole body tensing and then melting against you. He clings, arms tight around you like he’s afraid to let go.

You lie there, tangled together in the hush that follows. Eventually, he lifts his head, eyes searching yours. “Did I…?”

You smile and kiss him. “You were wonderful.”

He exhales, dazed and a little teary. “You make me feel like I could do anything.”

“You can,” you say suddenly all serious and Viktor blushes differently this time. His face blushes and his ears, but you are certain his heart does too. He rolls of you, limbs lose and boneless, and pulls you close, arms wrapping snugly around your shoulders until there is space big enough only for you to breathe each other in. Legs tangled and fingers twisted in another’s hair you lay sunken in the sheets. The room quiets around you, and neither of you knows if this was so big only because you don’t know any bigger—but you choose to take it as it is: humbling.