#the librarians screencap | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

nyotasaimiri · 1 year

Text

Remembering How To Write

Y’all already saw me reblog that one post about the StimuWrite program (twice), but I’ve been having some fun thoughts about it (and introspective discoveries) so it’s time for a bit of a ramble!

If you want to check it out personally, I’ve linked it above, or you can click this link if things break. You never know with Tumblr.

https://eveharms.itch.io/stimuwrite

Also, for courtesy’s sake, I’m going to put a “read more” here so the average dash-scroller doesn’t have to suffer the full long post. But please pass it along! This is a story about learning to work with a different brain, and accommodating myself. I hope it helps you, too.

So part of the reason I’ve been so excited about getting to work again is my misconception that I can only write when I’m “supposed to be doing something else”. Like my actual job, or schoolwork, for example. The vast majority of As Long as We Remember was written during my last year in undergrad, in the margins of my class notes (or sometimes as my class notes, with the actual note-taking happening in the margins). I’d also tuck myself away in a corner in the Student Union between classes and either play Starbound for more screencaps, or type a scene based on those screenaps. Some of you have been here long enough to remember: the days when I could bang out 700-1000 word scenes three times a week. It was glorious, the words never stopped.

Come summer or winter break, every year, my brain dried up. That was transcription time, when I’d assemble all the handwritten stuff. But I could never really get a solid idea rolling when I was home. They tended to hit when I was out on walks (rarely) or driving somewhere (pretty common), to the point that I started carrying a voice recorder with me at all times because there’s nothing worse than having a brilliant idea or poem smack you when you’re on the interstate and you can’t pull over to scribble it down.

So it went for years, and I’d get some writing done when I was supposed to be editing, because the old ADHD likes nothing more than procrastinating from something that makes me nervous. And let’s be real, there’s nothing more nerve-wracking than sending your work off to an editor, even (or especially) a really good editor. Loving shout-out to both my editor and my main contact at Fantastic Books Publishing, you’ve all heard me sing the praises but they really did a wonderful job taming the anxiety beast. Anyway, it was alright. That’s where Arc Two happened mostly, though the burnout was biting already. I’d get writing done during the rare in-person class too, while working on that Master’s.

Then my job got automated.

Now this wasn’t awful from a practical standpoint. I was able to devote myself to the degree more fully, and I would have needed to leave at some point anyway to do the teaching practicals (this is something we really need to fix, requiring teachers to do unpaid practical internships, but that’s a side rant for another day). But though I did have a fantastic month as school librarian for summer school, it wasn’t enough. Once that dried up, I sank into a routine of being at home, doing homework, rinse and repeat.

You might notice the lack of writing in this situation. Because writing became painful around this time. It wasn’t depression, or anxiety... Heck, my book got published then! I was over the moon for that!

But I still couldn’t write like I used to, and I was so scared that I’d somehow used it all up, that I would lose it if I didn’t use it. Or that I’d somehow sold it to public approval, when comments started drying up... something like that. Fear is rarely nice enough to put it into words. I was able to figure out enough to listen to music or an ASMR video in the background sometimes and get words out that way, but... Yeah. You saw things dry up too. You know how it went.

It’s worth noting that until two months ago, I lived for 17 years in a quiet suburban neighborhood where there aren’t any young kids playing outside anymore (we all grew up). No major sound, almost no traffic.

In June, I finally moved out of my parents’ house and into a lovely little condo of my very own. We’re in the middle of everything here. It’s actually walkable, there’s traffic sounds, there’s construction, there’s even a train once or twice a day. I hear my neighbors coming and going by the bang and rattle of the heavy steel-and-glass door downstairs.

And I’ve been writing again. I’ve been drawing again. It’s slow still, because I’m so busy. New kitten to look after, older cat to tend, household to set in order (who knew how many things we take for granted at our parents’ houses, like buckets and dustpans). New job starting next week.

At some point in all this newness and activity, I saw that post about StimuWrite, and it reminded me that I wanted, I needed to create again. So... I pulled up an old story I started long before I ever heard of Starbound or dreamed of publishing, opened the app, and gave it a try. And it bloomed.

Characters I haven’t touched in years are back and alive under my hands. And I’m alive with them. It’s magic, but the kind of magic I can make happen, not the kind I have to wish and wait for. I can understand now, where it all comes from.

I think this is something people don’t realize, when handling neurodivergence. I’m both ADHD and autistic, so I don’t know if it’s one, the other, or both causing my problems. But in the silence and stillness, it was too quiet to think. My brain was somehow too loud for itself, in that silence. I wonder how many other creators suffered this, in the sudden stillness of lockdown, or when they’re isolated in other ways. How many stories are stifled by silence.

I didn’t grow up with my diagnoses, partially because my parents didn’t know better and partially because the stigma was too huge to test me back then. So I barely know about things like stimming. We didn’t have that word when I was growing up. But I’m so, so glad that there are creators out there who understand ourselves well enough to make apps like StimuWrite, and share them so that we realize we aren’t alone in this. Because even if I did somehow stumble into my magic on my own again, finding another noisy classroom to write in, I wouldn’t have understood why, and I would have stayed afraid of losing it.

My words and worlds are part of me, just as the little quirks are. And my community, those with disabilities like mine, they gave that to me. I’m not afraid anymore. I think that’s the core of what I’m trying to say here: that we need to speak with each other, to share what helps and what hurts. Someone, somewhere, needs to feel what you have felt. Community is the single best thing we have.

I wanted to share this courage, this story, in hopes that I can help someone else out of their fears too. Maybe your brain works at least a little like mine: too loud in the silence. Try a little noise. Find something soft or crinkly or nice to touch while you work. Rest, and don’t punish yourself for not making. There will always be ways to get your magic back. It’s part of you, too.

#kae rambles #long post #adhd #autism #my life #neurodivergence

6 notes · View notes

astudyincontrasts · 3 years

Text

The Inventor and the Archivist Chapter 5

Viktor x Fem!Reader (NSFW)

Synopsis: Lore faithful, reader insert as an OC university archivist Viktor becomes close with. Set in a time frame between before he meets Jayce and hopefully wrapping up somewhere just before he starts experimenting with shimmer. Sexy times HAVE ARRIVED.

Warnings: Angst, fluff, tossing a little more random Czech in here, consent is sexy, oral, nipple play, and sexy times at LAST ya’ll have been real patient, thanks. Look we’ve all seen that one screencap of what Viktor’s packing that’s going around, the boy is hung and this IS lore faithful so...

Author’s Note: Working up to when Viktor and Jayce meet in the next chapter or two. This one’s mostly a touch of angst with a happy ending. Thanks to all for their kind words, reblogs and notes. The Viktor fandom’s just a really lovely place to be bc of all of you.

Chapter 5 That's a Fine Looking High Horse

I'm sorry, I forgot about something.

You'd stared at it for what felt like forever now. Truly, it was only two and a half days. Sunday had come and gone with no word from Viktor, then Monday too.

I'm sorry, I forgot about something.

Your attention kept straying to the little scrap of paper in his messy scrawl. Not that you had anything to compare it to, you'd never seen his handwriting before after all, but it looked as if he had been in a mad rush to get away with the way he'd scribbled his letters. Forgot about what? The fact that you two barely knew each other and he realized he was making a huge mistake spending a second night with a woman he'd simply been trying to show a bit of kindness to after she'd gotten the wind knocked out of her? Forgot he'd finally came to his senses and had to get the hell out of there like his hair was on fire? What in the hell could he have forgotten?

Carrying it around with you in your pocket didn't make things any better. It felt like a hot little ember burning a hole in you, and too often you caught yourself with your hand stuck in your pocket, fingers touching it, or even just found you had it out in your hand, that you'd been staring at it blankly for god know how long now while the world kept turning around you.

It was frustrating. Irritating. And you couldn't tell if it was his hasty retreat you were pissed about or this absolutely suffocating reaction of yours to it. Why in the hell did people get crushes on other people? This was bloody miserable. Who wanted to feel this way? Not you.

Work should have been a welcome distraction but your focus was lacking. It didn't help that word had gotten round to the librarians that you'd left early Friday night in the company of that lanky young assistant to the Dean. Holding hands no less. The curious glances and knowing, sly grins every time you encountered two or more of the library staff together was insufferable, had your cheeks feeling permanently hot. You very much did not appreciate being the newest topic of conversation. So you hid down in your archives, tucked away in safe solitude.

So you tried heaping all those awful, hot emotions onto Viktor. Tried to bury the sinking sense of loss you had no right to feel under simmering anger. That was an emotion you were far more comfortable with, one you could sit and roast in all day without breaking a sweat. It didn't work. You'd get a real good rage going and then you'd remember the color of his eyes when he was amused, or the taste of his mouth. His breath blowing soft over your raw knee and up your thigh. And you were right back to where you started.

You'd quickly come to the sinking realization on Sunday when you'd first woke up alone that you had literally no idea where he lived. Well. You knew where, but the University was a huge place. It'd be next to impossible to just seek out the room of some random boy, sole name of Viktor, and besides which you didn't like that color of desperation on yourself.

Come a sleepless Monday night however you were entertaining finding the Dean's offices. Of course that somehow seemed even more desperate. Oh yes, excuse me Dean is your assistant here? I have a huge, horrible crush on him and I'd just like to sock him straight in his pretty face. Wait no, you don't have to call security. So instead you entertained the notion of kicking the door to the University labs in one by one, terrifying students lost in their experiments and tinkering. Any of you nerds seen a tall handsome fucker with impossibly wonderful fluffy hair and a limp? I gotta question for him.

For the third time that Tuesday afternoon you'd caught yourself staring at the little note, like you were willing it to give up some secret it held. Why won't you tell me where he is? What the hell he's thinking? What in everloving heck is wrong with me?? You threw it to the desk in front of you in disgust when it wouldn't answer, and hunched shoulders as you dug the heels of your palms so hard into tired eyes that you saw stars. Giving it up for lost you let hands and arms drop with a painful sigh, going limp in an exhausted slump.

Attention strayed to a small assortment of packages and boxes left by you desk; new deliveries of archive items requested by students or deans for their specific studies, to be catalogued by you, notated or preserved or cleaned and then coded for their pickup later. Sweet distraction. You pulled the cap off one long tube and slid out the rolled parchments within, murmuring in disappointment over the state of them. Yellowed and crumbling, delicate things. They ought to have been pressed under protective glass, and you made a note to see the artificers to get some cut to fit. Sliding on thin white cotton gloves you got to work, gently, gently separating out the pages, laying them out on nonacidic tissue paper and weighting down the edges. Four scraps in total. You dampened the tip of a swab with distilled water and tested a swipe at one edge, waiting to be sure there was no reaction, no dissolving of the delicate paper or discoloration before you dabbed clean smudges of dirt and age, endlessly careful of the ink, pausing every so often to make notes in a ledger open off to your right.

You set the swab aside to pick up a soft little brush and tenderly, ever so carefully sweep every little inch of the parchment like a tiny broom to dislodge foreign particles, exacting, slow over the stubborn bits. A warm hand rested fingertips between your shoulder blades.

"Am I interrupting?"

You jumped about three feet directly up into the air, soul practically leaving your levitating body, heart clenching a hard stop and simply refusing to start again. You whirled on the interloper, that soft little brush in your hand held out like a weapon. Only to find it was under Viktor's nose that you were brandishing it. Amber eyes wide, a shocked smile toying with one edge of his mouth, his hand up like you were holding a gun on him, not that silly little brush. If the brush had been loaded he'd be a dead man.

The torrent of emotions that swept down on you were crushing, deafening, impossible to sort one out from the other and know which one to settle on. The initial feral grit of your teeth in surprise flattened out into a tight line of closed lips as you settled on icy coldness, turning back to your work. He'd never have the satisfaction of seeing you bleed.

"Yes." Came your terse reply. The whole time the back of your brain screaming No!! Screaming to reach out, touch him, look at him, pull him in.

"Oh." How such a little sound could hold such heartbreaking disappointment was beyond reason. You shut your eyes, steeled yourself, went back to cleaning the parchment before you. Viktor hovered over your shoulder, obviously confused by your chill rebuff. A second's hesitation and he reached over you, placed a finger upon his now slightly wrinkled little note and slid it to the center of the desk, just above the documents you were working on. You stared at the treacherous little note. How dare it betray your confidences this way when it had refused to give up any of his? You could feel your shoulders creep an inch toward your ears.

"I thought I might explain." He ventured, that gentle clipped tone of his so terribly hard to hate. "Friday night, when you had your....ah, fall? The professor had left me in charge of several prototypes he had running stress tests on at the lab. They were only supposed to run for one night."

And he'd left them to swing by the library to pick up a book he'd been waitlisted for. Then the incident, as you had come to think of it, had happened. And he'd forgotten all about his obligations at Heimerdinger's lab.

"I woke up on Sunday and..." You glanced up at him as he trailed off, he was staring at the floor with a sheepish smile, hand rubbing at the back of his neck. "One of them was on fire." He admitted. Your eyes widened. He chanced a look at you and then went right back to the floor. It was satisfying to see him be the embarrassed one for once, even if he managed to make it look charming, whereas you were sure you only looked like a train wreck when it happened to you.

"Just a little fire." He added, with an explanatory pinch of his fingers in the air. At least he hadn't burnt Heimerdinger's lab to the ground. "The others were not much better. I had to rebuild all of them and start the tests over."

It was some small comfort to know that he'd spent the past two days and nights in what sounded like a mad, desperate panic to undo his neglect of the task the dean had left him in charge of, and not in simply avoiding you. The ice around your heart was dripping away, cracking. He leaned against your desk and toyed with his cane, those soft eyes of his straying back to you, to the wary expression that had replaced haughty anger.

"I am sorry." Ugh, his words twisted the knife in your resolve, a killing blow.

You turned back to your work, brushed the paper absently, forgetting where you'd left off. You gave it two or three slow passes before reaching blindly in your open bag sat to your left to pull out a little package tied up in a scrap of floral fabric, and then reached back across yourself to set it on the desk next to where he was leaning. His forgotten almond cookies. Peace offering. You kept up your work in front of you, afraid of what you'd do if you set the brush down and actually focused on him.

He picked up the package and toyed with the knotted fabric at the top of it before setting it down again, uncomfortable in the silence you were leaving him in. He leaned to look at your work.

"What are these?"

"Old rune works." You explained, dragging the softness of bristles over ancient ink, "Remnants of old arcane notes."

"Oh." he peered closer at the indecipherable geometric shapes. "Its for, what? The linguistics department?"

"No, actually. One of your fellow techmaturgy students. Though I'm sure I don't know why."

"Fascinating." His finger came to hover over the scrawl at the top of one page, careful not to touch as he drew a line over it. "What does this mean?"

You gave the line he indicated a glance before letting eyes flick up to him, just once, just for a scant second.

"Fortune favors the bold." You translated, and the words stuck a little in your throat.

"Hm." He leaned back, and you could feel his weight shift off the desk as he drew himself back up, took his little parcel of cookies after a moment's hesitation. "I suppose."

You only lasted through one, maybe two clicks of his cane moving away before you spun in your chair.

"Viktor.”

He paused, half turned to glance back over his shoulder at you. You only had to look at him to know that he hadn't intentionally left you in the agony you'd crafted for yourself over the past few days.

"Please wake me up. Next time."

He blinked slow in surprise, heavy brows lifting slightly as his mouth parted wordlessly. It all dissolved into a pleasingly embarrassed little grin as he shifted attention from his feet to your face and back again. Next time. Yes.

He turned and took the two swaying steps back, set the cookies down again to reach for your wrist, draw you up, run the backs of fingers down the side of your face, and your eyelids closed involuntarily, as if they'd shut out everything but that little touch. Be bold. You could feel the light press of his forehead against yours as you lifted your chin, just a momentary thing. Prelude to the brush of his mouth against your upper lip.

There was a dull ache in your lungs, just a casual reminder that you'd forgotten to breathe. You drew forgotten air in slowly with a little shudder. His thumb drew across your lower lip and it took everything you had in you not to catch it between your teeth.

"Can I see you tonight?" His voice was low, just a quiet secret between the pair of you. "I missed you."

"Mmhm." So eloquent of you. But how were you supposed to talk when your mouth had gone so dry and tongue felt so incredibly heavy. Your heart beat in the back of your throat. Viktor simply smiled that disarming little tilt of his and released you, took his cookies again.

"Come by the lab? Around eleven thirty?"

It was all you could manage to nod and offer him a wan little smile in return, hands clenching and unclenching slowly at your sides in an effort not to just rush forward and pull him back, demand more kisses, deeper, demand he push you over one of the desks and just take you out of this miserable want.

You'd done this to yourself, after all. Wanting to take it slow. You could have had him already. Instead all you had was this ache between your thighs that was going to make getting through the remainder of the day a torment. At least it was a better torment than the one you'd been putting yourself through for the past two days. That's what you told yourself at least, as you turned back to your desk while Viktor climbed the stairs back up into the library. By the time evening had fallen you'd worked yourself into another fit state. At least this one felt far more pleasant than the last one; ripe with anticipation, your stomach no longer an empty pit but instead full of horrid flutters. By ten o'clock your fingers couldn't stop trembling and you had to stop doing any kind of delicate work, settling instead for cataloguing and organizing, but even the friendly, orderly system of numbers and letters wasn't any comfort. Time and again you caught yourself accidentally labeling something incorrectly, or filing it in a place that made absolutely no sense. Oh, this boy was bad for business. How had he invaded every little corner of your brain in such a short amount of time?

Eleven o'clock came, the delicately ornamental mantel clock atop the highest shelf in the restricted section bonging the chimes softly. You'd already reached the decision that this last half hour would be better spent in a little self-care than in further ruining your usually impeccable work. So back to your room you went, gathering your bag on the way, clicking off lights behind you as you left the archive.

You had enough time to brush your teeth, do something with your hair. Just generally freshen up. Lucy wanted dinner as well, of course. She watched you judgmentally as you changed your underwear into something a bit prettier. It wasn't as if you had any kind of wide selection of frilly or inviting lingerie, most of it was simply comfortable, black, and soft. But every so often you treated yourself, on a silly whim. You pulled out a pair of lavender lace panties and held them up. Lucy crunched loudly at her bowl, green eyes full of the kind of sardonic silence only a cat could achieve.

"Shut up, they're cute." You admonished her and pulled them on up under your skirt. They felt like having nothing on, fabric thin, cut high in back to leave nearly your entire bottom uncovered. A miniscule little bow at the front of them with a tiny pearl at its center. You pulled your waistcoat and shirt open and dug about in the drawer, searching out the matching bra. Eyes widened as you found it and held it up. Oh god, this wasn't going to cover much at all. It almost looked a half size too small in the cups.

You sighed and shed your shirt and bra to pull it on, get it hooked behind your back. You glanced down and could feel a hot flush bloom under your cheeks. The lace upper edge of it cut nearly directly across the pink round of nipples, the cups pushing everything up on display. You turned to catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror and caught your breath. It was tits on toast but you looked good. The lace felt good too, and the way it was cut caused a tease of sensation across tender, hyper-sensitive skin. You pulled your shirt and waistcoat back on and rebuttoned. Decided to leave your tie behind, left one button...no, two open at your throat in invitation. It was late and no one was going to stop you for a uniform infraction off-duty.

You would have also decided against those silly opaque over the knee stockings if they didn't do such a good job of hiding your still healing wounds. Another glance in the mirror and the big clock outside in the hallway was chiming the half hour. You had to hustle, but decided not to hurry too much. No need to look out of breath and desperate. Locking your door behind you, you headed off toward Heimerdinger's labs at a reasonable walk.

The door to the lab had been left slightly ajar. Peering through the slim opening you knocked, but the sound of your knuckles rapping softly on the practically soundproof- thick door was minimal. Grasping the open edge of the heavy door you pulled, let yourself inside. A quick glance around at the hall behind you and you shut the door completely.

Heimerdinger's working rooms were spacious, beautifully appointed, with a lived in, cluttered-comfortable feel to them that of course came with the impossible age of their owner. Give anyone three hundred plus years and obviously they were going to master the art of shabbily handsome décor. Overgrown plants spilling long green tendrils of leaves, tucked in stuffed bookshelves with no discernable system of organization. Long broken in leather furniture, piles of student papers and more than one full chalkboard absolutely caked with the white scribbles of random genius. And since Heimerdinger was barely three feet tall, little ladders leaning randomly to help him navigate in this world populated by much taller creatures than himself.

There were at least four rooms from the look of things, maybe more. The main office area where he could work and receive students and display his many achievements, what looked to be a smaller office with its door open and a dim light on jutting off to one side, possibly Viktor's office, then straight ahead off the main little entryway where you stood were the labs, lights on brightly.

"Hello?" Your voice echoed a little off the marble tile floor and high ceiling as you crept toward the labs with slow steps.

"Come in." Viktor's clipped voice invited from the labs. You laced hands nervously behind you, half to avoid touching anything dangerous, half to still their damnable eager trembling. Sucking thoughtfully on your lower lip you poked your head through the door. Long, jet black tables absolutely littered with all manner of machinery you couldn't possibly place the use for stretched, one along each long wall and one in the center of the room, creating three rows of workspaces. Viktor was sat with his back to you at the far end of the far wall, hunched over his work, goggles on, sparks flying from the small welder he was using.

You lifted a hand to shield your eyes somewhat and wandered over, taking slow stock of all the incredibly intricate looking devices littered about, some looking terrifying in their complexity, others downright silly. Coming to a stop at Viktor's side, just far enough away to be safe from the sparks, you lingered, waiting patiently for him to finish his work. Apparently he was capable of losing himself in his work just as much as you were. There was a determined set to his shoulders as he tinkered.

"This mechanism." He mumbled in exasperation, "The axel drive has to be fine, but it keeps snapping under its own momentum, I cannot get it to hold up." He flicked the welding gun off and sighed, setting it down and pushing his goggles up to stare at the near clockwork-fine mechanical conglomeration that was giving him issues. You tipped forward to look at it over his shoulder, as if you could possibly have anything to add. Well, it did look like clockwork, and weren't there even finer ones in pocket watches?

"I have the complete works and private notes of Master Hucier in the restricted section." You offered helpfully, "He made gears so fine they were practically as thin as gilt, but none of his clocks have ever stopped working. Perhaps he might have some thoughts on how to make something like that strong enough to bear the strain."

Viktor's dark brows lifted high as eyes ticked around the room in searching thought before he looked up at you like you were a goddess among women, a blessed muse sent to kiss him with divine inspiration.

"Yes. Yes! Thank you. Brilliant." His joy felt like a glorious gift. A wave of unselfish, honest pleasure washed over you and all you could do was smile bashfully down at the worktable. Bashful? You? Since when? You couldn't remember, but you were pretty sure this was how you'd felt the first time you got a gold star in school.

Viktor suddenly seemed to remember he hadn't invited you here just to help him work. He pulled the goggles he wore off, leaving hair a lovely wild floof. Your fingers itched to sink into it, and you found you'd suddenly run out of excuses not to do so, not to do exactly as you pleased. Viktor was glancing around the lab, offering you some explanation as to the mechanisms surrounding you both that you weren't listening to in the least. Fingers found his hairline, swept back into the thick of it, shaped a long, slow drag through its softness.

He stopped talking mid-sentence, that brain of his stalling out like one of the gears in his little devices that wouldn't catch and turn. Stepping closer, you stood straddle over one long, lean knee and sunk your other hand in the coffee-rich brown of his hair. You could practically feel the invisible little shiver that swept through his lanky frame as he turned his head toward you, slightly bowed at first, then tilted back as you caught a gentle fist at the back of his head, tugging lightly, making that lovely cupid-bowed mouth of his drop open for you.

"Did you want to make it up to me?" You asked softly, feeling pleased with your own boldness. Fortune had better watch the hell out. His dark brows lifted as he blinked in silent question.

"For leaving?" You reminded him, "I'd had such nice plans for that morning, you know."

The wonderful heat that rose up under his pale cheeks and the way the pupils of gold eyes dilated as they gazed up at you told you that if he'd had any notion of what you'd had in mind for Sunday morning he would have let the lab you were standing in burn to the very ground instead of leaving.

You kept one hand gently fisted in his hair and tilted the sharp of his chin upward further with the fingertips of your other. His mouth opened under yours, let you claim his tongue, draw it slow against your own, let you linger in the taste of him, coffee and almond cookies and just the simple sweetness that was him. His fingers closed around the backs of your thighs and slid upward. There was no shy hesitation in this caress, it was dripping want, slid clear up to cradle each cheek of your bottom and squeeze, fingers finding themselves under the hem of lace that wasn't about to hinder his grasp.

You let the momentum of his grasp carry you forward, climbing into his lap where he sat on the lab stool, trying to situate the majority of your weight over his good leg as best you could, your skirt riding up accommodatingly. Hands cradled his jaw, stroked down the lean column of his throat. You wanted to bury your face in the hollow of his neck and never have to surface and face the world again, just breathe him in. Fingers tugged at his tie.

He drew a sharp little breath and you realized this position, lovely as it was to straddle him, wasn't going to work on the tenuous perch of the stool. Hurting him was not on the list of things you wanted to do. You eased upward, finding your feet and drawing him with you.

"I uhm... Let me...ahem. Show you the rest of the lab." Victor found his cane and, with some difficulty, rose, keeping your hand closed in his. He was flush, slightly flustered and all you could do was smile to yourself about it, feeling ever so slightly wicked. It was novel, to feel like the one leading someone else astray.

He led you back the way you came in, into Heimerdinger's main office space, dark here save for the blue light of the moon and city beyond large, lead-paned windows streaming in. You followed him through it back into the place you had suspected was his office space, about half the size of Heimerdinger's, and slightly more disheveled, slightly less artful and much more spartan. No time for accolades and artwork here. All business. Pushed against one wall was a brown leather sofa, long enough to accommodate the stretch of impossibly long legs. Judging by the battered look of the near flattened throw pillows upon it and the careless fling of a blanket over one armrest it was where Viktor spent more nights than not.

Surely he had a dorm room, the University provided them to all staff and students. He just couldn't tear himself away. It was a work ethic, no, an obsession you could respect. Viktor fell heavily into the center of the couch and used the tether of your hand to pull you toward him, between the spread of knees. A single tiffany lamp upon the desk filled the room with a golden glow that complimented those eyes that turned up toward you as you stood over him.

"What, " He asked, gaze ticking between your own irises, "Are you wearing?"

Heart hammered hard, warning war drums in your ears, but you still reached back and unzipped the back of your skirt, slid it off your hips and stepped free. It was worth it for the way his eyes widened, the way he didn't know whether to stare at the lavender lace or up at you. He looked so lost it gave you courage. Let you toe off shoes and step out of the puddle of the skirt and in between his legs. You watched the way his chest rose and fell a little ragged, and held out a hand. Took his fingers and slid them over your hip. Then his face was buried in the tender skin of your stomach just above that lace and below your navel, both his hands back where they started, cupping a cradle to each ass cheek, his breath a warm wash across bare skin. You felt fit to curl comma over him, hands back in his hair, raking, tugging him closer, more.

You were absolutely sodden through that thin fabric for him, you could feel it between the inner touch of thighs, felt a slight stab of embarrassment at how eager you were. His hands slid upward further and a sharp breath escaped you as lace caught over his hands and rode up slightly, tightening over the ache between your legs and climbing up between the cleft of your ass.

Once more those luminous eyes lifted upward, silent question swimming their depths under the tide of want. You could see it licking beneath the waves and there was something heartrending about the deep seated doubt living in the dark there, as if for some reason you'd ever find him wanting, ever find anything more fascinating than him. Fuck the undercity; fuck all the things that held you both back, from the world, from others, from each other.

"Viktor." Your voice sounded unfamiliar in your ears, a little hoarse, a little heavy.

He pulled you into his lap as he slid back against the couch and hands found the close of your waistcoat, your shirt, opening bottom on up. He freed you from them and, oh. If you thought he'd been agape at your underwear...

That bra had either not upheld its promises, or fulfilled them completely, you weren't sure which. As nipples had stiffened they'd rose over the edge of fabric that had cut across them, little pink nubs bare over the slanting cups of lace that pushed your breasts up in invitation. Viktor let out a breath like he might have just drawn his last. Hands slid down your arms, clearing your shirt away. Freed, you wound bare arms around his shoulders and slid closer, hips protesting ever so slightly at the spread. His fingers were drawing up your sides, leaving small, trailing curls of aching tenderness in their wake.

All you could want was him.

"Are you su-" you cut him off with a kiss, a demanding voiceless yes. He bent you backward, arms wrapped around you tight and his teeth caught your lower lip in a lovely tug. You slid a hand between you both and felt him tense as you cupped his cock, palmed him through the terrible constriction of pants. He was so hard in your hand, moaned so painfully against your throat where he was sucking a tenuous line of kisses. Both hands slid in, pulled trousers open clumsily. You were determined to slip off his lap and have him in your mouth.

Viktor had other ideas, and the world tilted, turned as he bore you to the side and down onto the couch.

"Mmmn, no, wait..." You were tying to explain, trying to tell him what you wanted to offer him. He paused, one thumb in a slow drag across the rise of a nipple he was steadfastly on his way to get his mouth upon. He was breathing hard, the inner corners of brows uptilt as he glanced up at you. No?

"Yes." You exhaled. He waited a half a beat, let you be sure, then dipped his head, caught one of those tender little buds up and sucked slow.

You arced like your body had become electric current, seeking grounding. His mouth warm, tongue slick, soft tease of a flick, slow pulling draw that had you writhing.

"Viktor!" His name strangled in your throat, a begging little whine. Please, please, please.

He was so patient, so methodical and sweet. Let your rosy little nipple slide from between his lips and then that lovely, sweet boy you'd brought home flicked his gaze up at you and blew across the wet of it. Blew like he'd known the whole damn time what he'd done to you that night when he'd mended your knees. Cool wash across wet skin to make already primed skin sing.

You'd have half a mind to be mad if you weren't half out of your mind already. His fingers tugged the unhelpful lace cup under your other breast down further and you writhed as his tongue slid warm over your other nipple, small suck, small suck...oh no. Teeth. Tug.

You dug nails into his shoulders, and too late realized you hadn't ever freed him from his shirt. Realized the dig and grab slid off starched linen with no damage at all. You couldn't bear to look down at him, at that golden gaze, far too gone to meet that implacable, earnest look of his again just this minute. Eyes up, eyes closed, anywhere but the lodestone draw of those gold irises. Get your breath. Gather the pieces. No, they fell through your fingers again.

His hand was flat on your stomach, sliding lower, soft press, down over the rise of your cunt and then between your legs. Damp lace came aside with no fight. There was that little freckle under his eye as his face pressed to the inside of your thigh in a kiss, his eyes shut tight like he'd memorize you from feel alone, your fingers brushing his temple, thighs spreading for him.

Careful fingers slid in your slippery folds, spread gently. All you wanted to do was watch but you rocked backward, felt the catch of the back of your neck over one of those battered pillows. Soft, warm, so terribly slow. His tongue found your clit and you pushed into the pressure of it like a mad little thing. Yes, there. Yes. It was agonizing how studious he was with it, had you in puddles, every joint gone to water, practically gasping for relief.

"Please. Please. Vikt... oh, please...." What a lovely mess. His fingertips slid slow across the flutter of your entrance as he lifted his head, sharp chin glossed, looking curious. He was so earnest in everything, so nakedly honest you couldn't fault him even if he had you close to sweet death.

"I need you, please. Please."

You were squirming, lifting hips to hook thumbs into the edge of panties, determined to have them off. He obliged, taking over the job you were fumbling to draw them down and off. He'd no sooner turned to toss them aside than you had scrambled back up, climbed into his lap and was freeing him from his open pants, hands trembling. You got him free and slid closer, used your hand to let him slide slick along how wet you were. His hands were splayed up your back, fingertips digging in at your heartless tease. You shifted weight, let thighs splay a little further and ignored the protesting burn of still healing knees to situate the head of his cock right at your entrance. God he felt thick and he wasn't even inside you yet. You were shuddering with each breath and under you Viktor wasn't doing much better. Your hands came to rest on broad shoulders.

"Ano?" You rasped.

"Ano." He sounded strangled, hands falling to your hips to help drag you down, desperate.

In spite of how dripping wet you were it was still a stretch, had you working hips slow trying to accommodate him, taking every ounce of you to struggle against the tidal wave of impatient want. When at last you had him fully in you your bent legs were trembling hard, his hands a taut grip on your hips that you were certain would leave the marks of his fingerprints splayed against your skin. His forehead was damp against the press of your own, and small mercy those lovely eyes of his were shut, like it was taking all he had not to roll the pair of you over and fuck the absolute life out of you both.

You squeezed and he jerked a hard little shudder under you, small groan escaping him.

It took a minute to find your rhythm, till the pair of you were moving together, you bouncing, picking up speed toward summit, him lifting hips every so often to meet you, leaving you gasping moans. Your hands finding purchase wherever they could; shoulders, his arms, splayed against his chest, cradling the sharp cut of his jaw. He watched you breathlessly as you rode him and rode him. The caress of his hands warm up your ribs.

When you came at last you folded up against him and he caught you up, arms tight around you and your little bounces, liquid bliss coursing through your veins like gold fire, Fluttered little clenches around the thickness of his cock buried in you had his breath ragged in your ear, his hips pushing up hard as he strained against his own release, every line of him taut against you, and then that delicious pulsing heat as he came in you.

You lived together in that boneless afterglow, long shivering breaths drawing in together, mouths finding scraps of each other's skin to drag slow kisses, folded up together like two marionettes with your strings cut. Joints ached wonderfully when you both finally toppled over and stretched long together on the couch. Viktor reached to grab the blanket tossed over one leather armrest and drug it over you both, bundling you up against him in the slightly scratchy cocoon.

It was only then that you realized you were next to naked and Viktor had managed to keep all his clothes on. It felt a little delightfully dirty in afterthought, but also had you chiding yourself for being so heatedly eager that you'd failed to take your time, offer him as good as he gave. He didn't seem up for complaining though as your fingers stroked the hollows of his cheeks, those amber eyes of his sleep-heavy, high on that delightful wash of warm release.

You tucked yourself up under his chin, let yourself get slowly drunk on the scent of his skin as his hand stroked the back of your hair. Later there would be clothes to recover and climb back into, shoes to find. And a slightly sore, deeply satisfied walk back to your room. But not right now.

Right now there was just the skip and beat of his heart against your cheek.

Chapter 6

#viktor #viktor x reader arcane #viktor arcane #viktor arcane x reader #arcane viktor x reader #viktor fic #viktor x you #viktor x y/n #arcane #arcane fic #viktor fanfiction #viktor fanfic #arcane fanfic

169 notes · View notes