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a-babe-without-a-name · 3 days ago

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*muah* love you tooooo

Sit Next To Me

Chapter 9: You're Time to Shine, Catholic Boy.

You had created two rules for yourself.

Rule One: You could do whatever you wanted. Get the degree you want, party when you want, cancel plans when you want, love who you want. Whatever you really wanted to do, you were going to do, anxiety and guilt free.

Rule Two: You could do whatever you wanted, except for have relationships with classmates. No sex, no dating. If they were on the same course roster as you, they were off limits.

Easy enough, right?

…Right?

Viktor x Female!Reader - 18+

A.N. Okay, so it's been...2 and a half months. Sorry about that. If it were up to me, this thing would be posted every week, but oh well. It's been a busy time, new roommates, new job, I'm not a lesbian anymore. Ya know, the whole deal. Anyways, I'm happy to finally post this! Huge shout out to everyone in Freaktor Nation discord server, lmao and extra huge shout out @seaweedbumblebee for beta reading the monster of a chapter. It's a long one, sorry y'all. Also... you might want to have google translate at the ready.

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When Viktor woke up in the morning, he realized he had several problems, ranging from the fact that his house was trashed to an ache just under his shoulder blade. There were two problems in particular that were particularly pressing: Problem one. Waking up to you next to him - breathing gently, looking perfectly content and beautiful - Viktor realized that he had unknowingly waded past the point of return. He was nearing the edge, now. A current at his back relentlessly pushing him towards the drop off, nothing but dark unknowable water waiting for the fall.

Problem two. He was incredibly hard. Painfully so.

Cringing, Viktor decided his physical problem was more urgent than his emotional one. He rolled over slowly until he was facing the edge of the bed and awkwardly tucked himself into the waistband of his sweats. Hoping that it would keep him hidden enough in case, by some cosmic trick of the universe, you decided to wake up before he could lock himself away in his bathroom. In his hurry to create distance, he stood without giving the rest of his body a second thought.

His hip gave a muffled pop and he could feel the strain of his tendons as they stretched out. He hissed, balling his fist up and biting the side of his hand to keep from making too much noise. He placed a hand on the wall next to him, taking a few steady breaths and trying to let the ache subside enough to move. Luckily, yesterday's version of him had made an assumption that chasing down drunk kids all night might take a toll on his body and his crutch was already close by. He slipped his arm into the cuff, testing his weight before stepping completely away from the wall.

A sigh of relief left him as he shut the bathroom door. He looked at himself in the mirror and groaned, dragging a hand down his face. He was a mess. Hair pulled in every direction by your hands, dark makeup still clinging to his waterline, hard dick trapped in the waistband of his pants, and a red and purple bouquet of hickeys you gifted him just under the collar of his shirt.

A mess curated perfectly by you. That was the only reason he accepted it. He let you do this to him. He let you do this to him.

He turned the shower on. A cold shower would help him in one particularly stiff respect, but the ache it would bring to his joints wasn’t worth it. He cranked the water as hot as the old pipes could go, then stripped and stepped in.

Despite the heat of the water, the tiles of the bench were uncomfortably cold against his skin when he sat down. He dug the heels of his hands into his eyes, attempting to will away his hard on. Instead of black behind his eyelids all he could picture was you. The arch of your back, the perfect curve of your ass, the soft sighs that passed your lips as you slept. He tried for a moment, only a moment, to banish the sinful thoughts out of his mind. Instead, they began to run wild.

He imagined pinning you down, how his hands would look holding your waist, how you would look up at him over your shoulder. He could see the way his clothes you were wearing would move out of his way. T-shirt pushed all the way up under your arms, tits pressed bare against the blanket below you. Borrowed boxers bunched around your knees to give him access to all of you. Skin flushed as you arched your back just a little more, showing off your perfect ass and just a little of your cunt, already wet for him.

In the real world, Viktor scrambled for a bottle of soap and poured what was probably an excessive amount into his palm. He returned to you in his mind, wrapping his hand around himself as in his mind he pushed into your imaginary cunt. He suppressed a groan as he pictured fucking into you, the gasps that would hitch in your throat every time he bottomed out, the feeling of his severe hip bones pressed against the plush of your ass. The retreat just as good, your body clenching around him, involuntarily doing what it could to keep him inside. The image of his cock soaked in you instead of a handful of mint and cedar body wash. In his mind, he pushed in again, hands firmly on the back of your waist, holding you still as he buried into you over and over again. He imagined the sounds that would slip past your lips, panting and moaning and begging for him to fuck you harder.

He tipped his head back against the cold tile, breath coming heavier as the tension in his body grew tighter. He chased away the voice in the back of his head telling him how much nicer it would feel to actually be inside you. Of course he knew it would feel better… warmer, wetter, softer. Fucking you like this, fucking you right, would be the highlight of his goddamned life, but you were his friend. The two of you were just friends. And friends can either fuck or share a bed. One or the other, not both. And right now you were asleep and hungover, warming his sheets and he was here. Fucking himself like his life depended on it, wondering if he could get you to squirt, if you would let him come inside of you, if you’d beg for a second round or settle on him eating you out while he recovered.

In his mind he came inside you, his chest pressed to your back as he sunk his teeth into your shoulder, soothing the skin with his tongue a beat after. Your walls clenching around him as you came with him, mouth full of his name and body full of him. In reality he came on himself, thick ropes of cum painting his abdomen as he worked himself through it. Chin dropped to his chest, jaw hanging open as his orgasm wracked across his muscles. He couldn’t keep his eyes open, he let himself picture the remnants of you as it faded away.

When he was finally able to blink open his eyes and inhale a real breath, he cringed down at himself. He cursed, pushing off of the bench and moving to stand under the water, steam washing away the evidence of his perversion. Several forms of guilt wrapped around his throat. He closed his eyes, tilting his face towards the showerhead, letting it run over his face as he told himself that what he did wasn’t wrong. That this was normal and healthy and he had no reason to make himself sick over it. Jayce had once drunkenly mentioned that he had done the same thing before he officially started dating Mel, getting off to the idea of her because nothing else would do. He even let slip that Mel had admitted to doing it as well. Viktor wondered if you did. It made him feel better, to think about you with your hand between your thighs picturing him. Made whatever damage he could be doing not so damaging. He made a deal with himself to ask you sometime after the semester ended, if he even got that far.

You had shifted while he was in the shower, curled up on your side with the blankets tugged up to your chin. He resisted the urge to climb back into bed with you. He had no reason to, he was up, he was showered, there was nothing for him to play it off with. Instead he left a note for you - printed handwriting instead of the usual script - and reluctantly dragged himself to the door.

It wasn’t exactly the break of dawn, but it was certainly early enough that Viktor was surprised to see anyone else awake. But really, he could only be so surprised to see Miss Mel Medarda wide awake and properly made up. Even in a plain t-shirt and jeans she looked like the picture of sophistication. Clothes fitting her just right, hair perfect, posture straight as she sipped at a cup of coffee and scrolled on her phone, looking completely out of place amongst the party wreckage. She was one of the most lovely and terrifying women Viktor ever had the pleasure of meeting.

“Good morning Viktor,” She spoke without turning to look at him, voice telling him that she was going to be more terrifying than lovely today.

“Morning Mel,” Viktor said carefully, stepping around a bag of cans as he reached the kitchen, “How did you sleep?”

“Good, considering I was sharing a bed with the clingiest six-four drunk man on the planet,” She shrugged, playfully rolling her eyes, “How did you fare with your own bedfellow?”

Her tone made him flinch, drips of coffee sliding down the side of his mug as he missed the lip, “Fine, I barely even noticed she was there,”

That was a lie.

“Oh really?” Mel quirked her head to the side, frowning at him, “In my experience, she tends to be a lot like Jayce, very clingy when she drinks. I’m shocked she gave you your space.”

“Well, it seems she must have been in a different mood last night, no?” He said casually as if he hadn’t spent at least an hour last night tasting exactly how clingy you could be.

“Hm, must have,” She said with a smile that threw a thousand accusations.

-----

That was a week ago, and slowly the memory faded away like your perfume from his sheets. Neither of you talked about it much. He wasn’t sure exactly how much you remembered. You had asked for reassurance that you hadn’t done anything embarrassing (“Of course not, milá.”) and apologized for needing to be taken care of ("it's not a problem, milá.”) and that was about it. No discussion aside from that. Luckily, he was sure Jayce didn’t have a single memory from that night and it seemed like Mel didn’t mention anything to remind him. Viktor could feel Mel’s attention throughout the week though. Every interaction he had with you felt like it was being scrutinized.

At first he tried to create distance. Sitting an inch further away, seeking out someone else for help first, responding to your texts fifteen minutes after receiving them, instead of two. That lasted about a day and a half. Monday after class you had asked if he wanted to study together. He had tried to come up with an excuse for why the two of you should study separately. He claimed that together you would get too distracted, immediately taking his words back and giving in when you pouted about it.

So you studied together. He insisted on sitting at the dining table instead of in his room. Semi-public, very unsuspicious. He even tried to sit on the other side of the table, retrieving his own text book instead of sharing one like normal. You weren't having it. Word and thoughtlessly you closed your own book, stood, sat in the chair next to him, and leaned in to look at his book. By the end of the night you were practically in his lap and Mel was staring him down from the kitchen.

Today had been the first day all week he hadn’t seen you yet. Thursdays you didn’t share a class, but usually had coffee together before you needed to run to Oceanic EnviSci at ten and him to Calculus at ten thirty. Today, though, you had an advising meeting that took up that time slot. So he woke up too early, drank coffee leftover in the pot from Jayce, and lingered awkwardly in his own home before he had to leave for class.

It wasn’t until much later in the day that he even realized that he hadn’t seen you. It felt like the day hadn’t even started yet in your absence.

Unfortunately for him, as a transfer student, even a third year one, Viktor was given the last pick of classes. That’s how he ended up in intro to Mycology. Did he have an interest in the study of fungi? Absolutely not. Did the course count as an elective towards his degree plan? Yes it did. Thus resulting in him pouring fifteen agar plates in preparation for his upcoming final project. The agar plates themselves were redundant and tedious. In any other class, students would use the stacks of premade and presterilized ones. The professor insisted they be done by hand to ensure an understanding of the process and were due on Monday. It wasn’t until then that he realized that he hadn’t seen you.

As he stood in the lab, heating chemicals in a microwave oven, he found himself more and more distracted. Thoughts of you seeped into the spaces between everything else. He leaned his chin on his palm, thinking of the way you kissed him and watching the agar spin. He nearly ruined the chemicals more than once as his mind drifted. He was used to thinking about you. He enjoyed thinking about you. But today was different, stronger, more frustrating than normal. His skin felt too tight, the whir of the lab vents felt too loud, his hands felt too shaky. Everything was off, and it was your fault.

He was having withdrawals. An embarrassing thing to come to terms with. The fact that he had become so used to your presence, that going without it for a day felt like torture. And no matter how many times he told himself to get a grip, it just wouldn’t happen. He’d catch phantom drifts of your perfume, an impossibility in the sterile lab. Or he’d hear your laugh for a moment out in the hall, despite knowing you were in a class two buildings over. Viktor was sure his lack of sleep the prior night might also have had something to do with his state.

He did his best to refocus. Slowly pouring hot agar and fighting his shaky hands. He had just regained some sense of control when the first interruption occurred. Heimerdinger peaked his head into the lab, face brightening when he spotted Viktor.

“Viktor!” He called as he strode into the room, carrying his usual upbeat energy, “How are you, my boy?”

“Afternoon, professor,” Viktor nodded, carefully pouring another bottle of hot agar into a plate, “I’m well, and you?”

“Good to hear,” He stopped somewhere a little too close to Viktor’s fragile comfort zone, “I’ve been looking for you.”

“Ah, well you have found me,” Viktor said, half absent as he focused on pouring the liquid into petri dishes, “Is there something I can help you with?:”

“Well, I just wanted to approach and see how you were finding Piltover thus far,” Heimerdinger was a kind man, it would be unsurprising for him to truly just check up on a student, especially one like Viktor who transferred from such a distance. But today's question was leading.

“Honestly, I’ve found myself enjoying it here a little more than I originally anticipated,” he admitted. He enjoyed the University of Piltover for all it had to offer, but he was sure he’d enjoy any place as long as it offered you.

“That's wonderful to hear,” He beamed from under his mustache, “So it’s safe to say you’ll be finishing out your degree here with us next academic year?”

“Yes, I was planning on it,” Viktor told him, letting out a confused laugh, “Unless I’m being kicked out?”

“Viktor, if there was a way to keep a mind like yours here at Piltover forever,” He sighed, “We would.”

“That’s very kind of you professor,” Viktor cleared his throat, shifting awkwardly at the attention.

“It’s true, but I didn’t just come here to flatter you, my boy,” Heimerdinger reached into his bag, pulling out a crisp University of Piltover branded folder. He held it out toward Viktor, “I was hoping, if you were interested in such a position, that you would be my main lab and teaching assistant during next school year?”

Viktor blinked down at the surprise offering. He knew he was a good student, a good scientist. He worked well with Heimerdinger in class, still this was a bit of a shock. An opportunity. The first real opportunity.

“I know it’s quite early to be making this kind of offer,” Heimerdinger admitted, “but, you’re a very sought after young man, Mr. Sykora. I would be amiss to wait around thinking no other professors would approach you with the same offer.”

“I… Thank you professor,” Viktor shook himself out of his thoughts, struggling for words, “Thank you for this.”

“No need to thank me,” He said, holding the folder a little closer, “You’ve earned this. I don’t expect you to accept the role immediately, take some time to look over the offer and get back to me when you’ve made a decision.”

“Yes, of course,” He took the folder from Heimerdinger, holding back the urge to tell him yes immediately. Desperation was not a good look in the science world, “Thank you professor. I truly appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome,” He stepped away, “Have a good rest of your afternoon, I’ll see you in class tomorrow.”

“You as well, professor,” He nodded, hands twitching as he waited for Heimerdinger to leave the room.

As soon as the old scientist was out of the room Viktor yanked open the folder, reading through the offer letter and skimming the rest of the contents. There was no doubt in his mind he would accept. He’d wait until Monday to do it officially and spend the weekend drafting an email. He’d have to adjust his planned schedule slightly, but he was sure it would be worth it. Being Heimerdinger’s student opened plenty of doors, but working with him? That could open every damn door and window in the world.

He was reading through a page with information about how his student Visa affected his ability to work on campus when a sharp pop shocked him out of the reading. He jerked back, head whipping around to the still spinning microwave and the bottle of agar that had just exploded inside it.

“Kurva,” He hissed, stopping the microwave and yanking open the door. Without thinking he reached in for the bottle, fingertips stinging as soon as they came in contact with the glass. In his hands retreat from the heat, he smacked his knuckles against the side of the door, “Oh, fuck. Fuck!”

He squeezed his hand with the other, suppressing panic as he watched the glass bottle tip and spill melted agar onto the table, “Jesus fucking Christ,” He shook his head, taking a limping step backwards and trying to recenter himself.

“Viktor! Are you okay?” He looked up to see Sky standing in the doorway, wide eyed as she looked between the mess on the table and Viktor’s hand cradled to his chest.

“Ah, Sky, sorry, yes I’m fine,” He tried to brush her off, “Just go distracted, I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?” She walked over to him, reaching out for his hand, “Let me see.”

Viktor flinched away, “I’m fine, Sky.”

She frowned up at him, huffing, “You just grabbed a hundred and seventy five degree glass bottle. You are not fine.”

He opened his mouth to defend himself, then looked down at the pink burns on the pads of his fingers. He let out a reluctant sigh and held his hand out for Sky. Her hands were warm where they touched the back of his pale hand, gingerly pulling his finger open to look at the damage.

“I don’t know why you’re so resistant to… just everything.” Sky said, turning on the sink at the lab station, holding her hand under the tap as she adjusted the temperature.

“What are you talking about?” Viktor flinched back, narrowing his eyes down at Sky, “I am not resistant to things.”

“Sure you aren't.” Sky scoffed, guiding his hand under the cool water.

“Name one other instance of me being resistant,” He rolled his eyes around the word resistant.

“Fine, how about the very weird situationship you’re currently in,” She raised her eyebrows at him expectantly, “Why are you resistant to being in a relationship with her?”

“You think I’m the resistant one?” He dropped his jaw, gaping at Sky.

“Are you telling me you aren’t?” She countered.

“Of course, I’m not!”

“How come you refuse to talk about her then?”

“Well, excuse me for not wanting to talk about my relationship status with everyone I know,” Viktor snapped.

“Have you talked about it with anyone?” She asked, mouth in a flat line as she waited for an answer, “Have you even talked to Jayce about her?”

Viktor opened his mouth to speak. Face tightened in irritation before, sighing and looking away from Sky.

“That’s what I thought.” She stopped the tap, purposefully laying the back of Viktor's hand down on the table. She walked away to get the first aid kit.

He frowned after her. Defensive words that he knew would fall flat swirling around his mind. He tried to push it to the side. Sky didn’t know what she was talking about. She only knew what Lest told her. And Lest only knew what you told her. He started to worry about exactly how much that might be. It didn’t really matter. You could talk about whatever was going on with whoever you wanted. He wasn't going to stop you. But the idea of not knowing who knows what about him made him unreasonably nervous.

Sky returned, a small packet of burn cream from the first aid kit in her hand. Wordlessly she opened it and began to dab the medicine where his skin was red. He stared at her downturned head, wishing he could see into her brain. Wanting to know everything without asking.

“Has…she?” He asked slowly, trying to sound casual.

“Has she what?” Sky asked, absent as she focused on his hand.

“Has she talked about… it,” Us felt like the wrong thing to say in the moment.

“Well, not really,” Sky said, grabbing a paper towel and cleaning up the edges of the burn cream.

“Oh.” He didn’t know how to feel about that. He didn’t even know what he had been expecting. He hoped he didn’t sound disappointed.

“I mean, like, she doesn’t talk about your relationship,” Viktor opened his mouth to correct her, but she already put her hand up, cutting him off and rolling her eyes, “Your friend relationship. She talks about you, though. All the time,” Then in a half mocking version of your voice she said, “Viktor and I did this! Viktor told me that! Me and Viktor. Viktor, Viktor, Viktor, blah blah blah.”

He felt heat creep up his neck. Childishly proud that he seemed to be on your mind as much as you were on his. He nodded, humming in acknowledgment. She glanced back up at him, eyebrow raised before sighing and shaking her head. Whatever thought she had deemed not necessary to say. She left for another moment, coming back with a nitrile glove, handing it over to him.

“Put this on if you’re going to keep working in here,” She told him as she swept the trash into her hand.

“Thank you,” He said, pulling the glove on, then gave a short laugh, “Sorry for being resistant.”

“You’re welcome,” She said, picking her bag up from the floor, “I actually was just swinging by to ask if you were going to the game tonight.”

“Jayce’s game?” It was the first of the season, but Viktor wasn't even sure it counted as anything more than a scrimmage “Isn’t it away?”

“Yeah, but only like an hour and a half,” Sky shrugged, "We usually only go to closer away games, but It’s the first one of the year. We’re leaving at five, games at seven.”

“Eh, probably not,” Viktor gestured to the mess on the table, “I need to finish this and clean everything up. Thank you for the invite, though.”

“Yeah, totally,” She retreated towards the door, “We’re meeting in the Red Lot at four if you change your mind.”

“Thanks,” He appreciated the offer, but really had more important things to do, as much as he wanted to support Jayce, “Have fun.”

She gave a wave and was off down the hall. Viktor turned to the mess of a blacktop table. The agar had gelled inside the microwave and on the table, the bottle also a sticky mess. He sighed and began the process of cleaning up and restarting. He was supposed to take notes on all of his attempts to pour the plates. He wondered if he’d get caught if he left out this particular attempt. Luckily his laptop and lab book were spared the wet agar stains, as well as the offer folder from Heimerdinger. How ironic that the brilliant man had just been here praising Viktor’s skill, only for him to make a complete mess minutes after. He scoffed, slipping his things into his backpack and out of the way.

He had just managed to scrape the gelled chemicals out of the back of the microwave when his phone buzzed against the countertop. His heart twitched when he saw it was a message from you.

What r u up to?

He was struck by an odd surge of panic. Typing and retyping what should have been a simple message over and over again. Worried about how any words he typed would sound to you he landed on:

Lab work for class.

He instantly regretted it. It was too short, too blunt. He should have left out the period. He should have elaborated, or just lied. Luckily an answer from you came almost instantly, ebbing his anxiety.

Nice, you feel like taking a break? Do you wanna come to the game with me?

*us

Viktor cursed to himself. Of course he wanted to go to the game with you. He’d go to the bottom of the fucking ocean for you. He could already picture the look on Sky’s face when he showed up, her invite turned down only for yours to be accepted half an hour later. He sighed and looked over the table, everything set up to restart his plates. Half were done, and if he did them right the rest shouldn’t take longer than an hour or two to finish. There was no way he’d get it done before four, but it wouldn’t be impossible to get it done after. He chewed on the edge of his nail, foot tapping against the ground as he debated with himself. In the end a debate he lost.

Ya, I’m down to go

Rubbing the heel of his palms into his eyes, he groaned at his lack of restraint. Before waiting for a response he began to clean up the lab, stowing away glassware and closing up chemicals. He was knelt down on the floor, trying to get flasks to stack correctly under the sink, when an enthusiastic ‘Hello’ came from behind him.

He stood too quickly, smacking the back of his head against the underside of the table. He cursed, hand flying to the back of his head as he whipped around to the door. Maddie was standing in the doorway decked in her “U of P Ambassador” gear, a gaggle of teenagers and their parents behind her.

“Hey there, Viktor,” She said, biting back a laugh, “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Hello Maddie,” He returned, standing and doing his best to be pleasant in front of the prospective students, “Can I help you with something?”

“This group had a particular interest in Pitlover’s incredible science department,” She said, turning to gesture to the awkward group of kids. Viktor resisted the urge to roll his eyes at her dumb ponytail, “I was going to let them have a peek at the lab, but since you’re here, would you mind answering a few questions?”

‘Fuck you Maddie,’ Viktor thought, steeling his expression into something mildly pleasant, ‘fuck you.’ He checked his watch, twenty-five till five. It’d take him at least ten to get across campus to the red lot. Being a dick to incoming students was not a good look, though. Maddie knew this, and that's exactly why she asked.

“Yes of course,” Viktor said, settling his cane in front of him, both hands laid on the handle, “Ask away.”

The kids were nervous at first, looking between each other until one of the parents spoke up. Asking him about the connection to the business department. Viktor's stuttering answer at the odd and tone deaf question, at the very least, made some of the highschoolers feel less awkward.

Viktor answered the high schoolers questions as best as he could. He remembered what it was like before starting university; all bright eyed and ready to change the world. He still had hopes for making change, his eyes certainly weren't as bright. He wasn’t going to tell them that, and he was glad no one had told him. He talked up the university’s science department, leaving out the parts where Piltover fell short - funding for certain pursuits tended to be minimal and broken equipment didn’t always get replaced at the speed it should - and gushed about the professors as much as an Eastern European man could gush. All while trying to hide his impatient glances towards his watch. Every time there was a lull where Viktor felt like he could escape Maddie would say something to bring the conversation back up. It was like she could tell he was in a rush and was doing her best to delay him. Eventually he had to decide that there was an end to the Q&A session that Maddie was holding him captive in. It was either politely and awkwardly tell these kids to get fucked or miss out on spending time with you.

…Yeah, these kids could get fucked.

“I’m really sorry,” Viktor said, cringing as he held up his hand to stop the next question, “I’d love to keep talking, but I am running late for something,” He quickly gathered his things as he excused himself, slinging his bag over his shoulder, “Maddie has my email, you are all welcome to reach out with any further questions.”

He squeezed past the group and into the hallway. Awkwardly trying to avoid a pair of starry eyed girls that had asked most of the non-science related questions. What year are you? Will you be here next year? Where is your accent from? Do you have a girlfriend? (3rd. Hopefully. Illinois. No comment.)

He booked it across campus, doing his best to make the ten minute trip in six. Luckily he managed to avoid running into anyone else who’d demand his time.When he reached the red lot Mel’s oversized Escalade was still parked in her reserved spot, pop music audible through the closed windows. He could see you in the front seat, sneakers up on the dash and shrugged into your hoodie as you scrolled on your phone. Mel was in the driver's seat, the vanity mirror flipped down as she touched up her makeup. She spotted Viktor when she flipped it up, eyebrows raising for a second before reaching over and tapping you on the leg.

Your eyes glanced up over the top of your phone, immediately perking up as you sat up in the seat and waved enthusiastically at him from afar. He could practically picture a pair of dog ears flipping forward, tail wagging as he approached you. It made sense why you were such good friends with Jayce.

When he reached the car, you rolled the windows down, music becoming clear and quieting as Mel turned the radio down. You leaned your arms on the door.

“Sorry I’m late,” He said, glancing down at his watch, 5:02.

“Two minutes is nothing,” You laughed, “Sky is still trying to drag Lest out of our dorm.”

“Ah, the standard is low I see,” Viktor laughed, hooking his can over his arm and leaning his palms against the windowsill.

“Very,” You rolled your eyes, laughing softly, you leaned closer, “I’m glad you made it, though. Thanks for coming.”

“Thanks for inviting me,” Viktor swallowed hard, trying to remind himself that the world existed outside of the space between the two of you, “I was going crazy in that lab, and Maddie trapped me. I would've been stuck there all night if I didn’t have a carpool to catch.”

“Maddie? What was she doing?” No one liked Maddie, but the extra bite in your voice made him feel good, “Why was she even in the lab?”

He resisted the urge to call you a pet name in front of Mel, instead just using your name, “Easy, she was giving a tour. Offered me up to highschoolers as a human search engine.”

“I wish they’d let someone else give tours of the science building,” You scoffed, “That bitch couldn’t tell an Erlenmeyer from a Florence.”

“Eh, probably not,” He laughed, even in the cold winter air he felt instantly warmer in your presence. You melted all the ice he tended to carry in his chest, turning him into a puddle waiting for you to walk through. Instead of telling you this, of course, he just asked, “How was your meeting this morning.”

“Could've been an email,” You snorted, waving your hand around, “Like, really, there was no reason to meet at eight in the fucking morning. It’s fine, though, I’m totally not bitter about it.”

“You? Bitter?” Viktor scoffed, raising an eyebrow at you, “Never.”

You chattered on about the meeting and your classes from today, catching him up on whatever he had missed. He let you, more than willing to be talked at if you were the one talking. He nodded along, added affirmations when you expected them, all the while admiring the structure of your face, the way your lips formed around syllables, the crease between your eyebrows when you’d scrunch your nose at a thought. He watched you until a quick hand clapped him on the back, breaking his focus on you.

“About time,” Mel called from the driver's seat, looking up from her phone and peeking over your shoulder to look at Lest, “Fifteen minutes late, we should have left you.”

“Hey, first of all, it was only thirteen minutes,” Lest corrected, “And second, despite the fact that I am indeed perfect, looks like this still take time.” She gestured to her outfit, interesting and impractical for the weather, but very much Lest.

“Girl, it’s a D3 basketball game?” You scoffed, “I think jeans and a t-shirt would have sufficed. It’s not even a conference game!”

“Listen,” Lest pouted, “Every outing is an opportunity, okay? You may be fine with looking all plain-Jane, but I prefer to make the most out of public appearances.”

“Public appearance?” You dropped your jaw, “Are you for real? How are we even friends?”

“Because, the Piltover Housing Gods shoved us into a miniature dorm room against our will,” Lest told you, leaning past Viktor to give you wide eyes and a dramatic accent, “And, you love me. You’d be lost without me. And I, without you my darling - despite your lack of fashion sense.”

“Okay, can we put a pin in the poetic waxing?” Sky asked from behind Lest, crossing her arms over her chest, “I’m freezing and we’re gonna be late for the game.”

She pulled open the door without waiting for an answer, climbing through until she was set next to the other door. Lest followed suit, hands holding her skirt in place as she scooted over. Viktor followed next, sliding his cane into the space between his knee and the door. You turned to look over the back of the seat, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Are you good back there?” You asked, “We can switch if you want, I don’t mind.”

“I’m okay here,” He assured you, nodding, “Thank you, though.”

“Okay, tell me if you wanna switch later though,” Your voice was low under the bass of the music, only for him as Mel reversed out of the expensive parking spot.

“Will do, milá , thank you.” He said quietly to you. You both hesitated for a moment, still stuck in the space where it was just the two of you. You opened your mouth to speak again, deciding against whatever it was and just smiling at him instead before retreating back to your seat.

Viktor quickly realized that he had never been the only man in the group until now. Usually Jayce was present when they all spent time together, or Ekko sometimes even. For the next hour and a half he was trapped in a speeding Cadillac with a group of girls who had known each other for three whole years. It was like watching a nature documentary. Within the group, in this setting, rolls were assigned. Mel drove, you navigated and warned Mel of speed traps, Lest was in charge of queueing music, taking suggestions as she went, and Sky checked in periodically with everyone, offering ibuprofen and Dramamine and gum to the rest of the group. Viktor got the feeling this was normally how it was, he was grateful to be a guest amongst the four of you.

He was pleased that his presence didn’t seem to have an effect on how any of you acted either. Jokes weren’t held back, stories and anecdotes that he wasn’t sure he’d hear had the other boys been here. Lest had said that he had joined a girls trip, therefore making him “one of the girls”. Maybe Jayce was in on it just as much as he was right now. Perhaps it was the 4 to 1 ratio that let you all be comfortable enough to act freely. Whatever it was, he was grateful for it. The opportunity to see you laugh and sing and be happy was something he’d never turn down. The image of you dramatically backing up Mel in a rap song would stay in his head the rest of his life. The feeling of looking at each other knowingly when Sky and Lest both darted for the restroom when Mel had stopped for gas made him feel closer to you. He liked being in on something with you. He watched you jokingly mouth ‘gay’ and jabbing a finger at them as you followed them into the convenience store. You returned alone, holding something behind your back.

“Who’s your favorite American?” You had asked, smirking up at him, swaying side to side playfully.

“Hm, Bernie Sanders?” He had joked, making you gasp.

“Try again.” You narrowed your eyes at him, biting back a smile.

“Apologies, I thought you said politician,” He said, trying not to laugh, “You are my favorite American, of course, who else?”

“That’s what I thought,” You huffed a self satisfied little noise, chin lifting, “Your reward, sir.” Dramatically you had presented him with a flavored Red Bull.

“Thank you very much, ma’am,” He returned your tone, accepting the offer.

“Of course,” Dramatic again, then dropped the flourish, “They had regular, but I thought we could try the new one. Hopefully it’s not horrible.”

It was fine. You both agreed that you’d probably never buy it again, but it wasn’t an entire waste of six dollars. It gave you twice as much energy as you had to begin with, and it gave him enough energy to keep up with you. You convinced him to add more of his music in Czech to the queue. He pulled stuff from his high school years, half stuff he only listened to in order to piss off his mother, half music he actually enjoyed. He was pleased that the four of you seemed to eat it up, and proud that some of the songs were even added to Lest's playlist titled “Girl Gang”. He wondered if that was something worth bragging about to Jayce.

He completely forgot about the stress of the lab he had been working on and didn’t even think about having to finish it when all of this was over. For now, he was content in being welcomed into a space that had always seemed unknown to him. He had never been part of a “group”. He had friends in school, individuals he’d spend time with. It never felt like this. It had never felt like family like this. He was grateful Jayce had brought him into this world, into your world.

He knew that meant pushing past what he was used to, talking about things he normally wouldn’t. That was clear the first time you rolled down the window at a red light and whistled at a group of guys on motorbikes. Mel laughed about mask kinks as she drove away. You and Sky had claimed that it was Star War’s fault for making masks sexy. Lest said superheroes were the reason, Mel insisted it was Zorro. Viktor held his opinion that Ghostface is the sexiest masked character. He was surprised at how openly a group of girls talked about sex. He assumed it wasn’t a topic that was shared often, he rarely even spoke to anyone but Jayce about sex. And even then he tended to be vague on details. He wasn’t sure if that was a gender thing, a catholic thing, or just a him thing. Whatever it was, he’d have to get over it.

A conversation about the ethics of attractive horror movie villains (where Viktor still kept his Ghostface opinion quiet) had just died down, when you barked a laugh from the front seat, drawing the attention of the rest of the car.

“Shackled by lust?” You asked dramatically, reading from a church sponsored billboard.

“God I wish,” Lest returned, holding her wrists together in front of her.

“Jesus sets free,” Mel read off the other half of the billboard, “Huh, I wonder what his safe word is.”

“Oh my god,” Sky cringed, covering her eyes.

“You think he’s saying his dads name?” You asked, turning around and raising an eyebrow at her.

“No, that’s not-” Sky tried, fumbling for words, “Never mind, you know that’s not what I meant.”

“Hm, maybe he uses the traffic light system,” Viktor added casually, snorting a laugh, “Would Jesus know what a traffic light is? I suppose if he knows about the concept of handcuffs, he must also know about traffic lights, no?”

“Ha, maybe!” You barked a laugh, “Or, maybe it’s like a heaven slash hell system?”

“How would that even work?” Sky asked you, tilting her head.

“Wait, you know what the stoplight system is?” Lest asked, turning to Viktor, “Are you secretly kinky underneath those sweaters and lab coats?”

“Lest,” Mel warned, looking in the rearview mirror at her.

“What?” Lest gasped, holding her hands up in defense, “If he’s gonna hang with the girls, he’s gonna be part of the girl talk.”

“Here we go,” You laughed, craning your neck to look at him in the seat behind you, “Sorry for whatever is about to happen, I should have warned you.”

The look on your face showed you clearly were not very sorry.

“It’s alright. I’m certainly not as prudish as Lest here thinks me to be,” He said, shrugging, “Besides, the stoplight system is incredibly basic, anyone with access to the internet and a body should know it.”

“Can of worms, Viktor,” Mel said, shaking her head, “Can of worms.”

“Okay, well, what are you into, then?” Lest asked, looking at him expectantly, “What gets you going?”

“And you need to know why?” Viktor scoffed at her, leaning closer to the window.

“Because! Friends tell each other that stuff, it’s fun Viktor,” Lest insisted, “Don’t you know how to have fun?”

“Yes, I tell my friends who are…” He thought for a second, thinking about the over dramatic misogynist accusation he’d surely get if he said ‘men’, “I'll tell some friends, but not everyone.”

“Because we’re girls.” Lest said, narrowing her eyes at him, catching on immediately and making Viktor cringe.

“That’s not what I-” Viktor tried to defend himself, Lest cut him off.

“Here, I’ll tell you ours first!” Lest said, then gestured to herself, “Sometimes I wear cat ears and a collar with a bell during sex, I think it’s cute.”

“I really don’t need to kno-” Viktor tried, eyebrows furrowed as he waved his hand in front of him. Lest cut him off again.

“Viktor, I’m sharing, don't be rude,” Lest scolded, clearly finding heaps of amusement in teasing him, “I also love choking. Sky’s into overstimulation and is incredibly good at sexting. We have proof in the group chat, but we’ll keep that to ourselves.”

“Lest!” Sky gasped, staring wide eyed at her.

“Oh come one, you’re so proud of your sexting. You’ve even told Jayce about it,” Lest pointed out, confirming Viktor’s suspicion that Jayce had been in his position before.

“And Mel is into bondage! She’s, like, incredible at all that rope stuff!” Lest said, patting her hand on Mel’s shoulder, “I let her tie me up all crazy at a party once, it was fun.”

“It’s called shibari,” Mel corrected, glancing up in the mirror, “Do not tell Jayce you know about that.”

“And she’s into, like, fairly public sex,” Lest said, gesturing to where you were watching, clearly not expecting Lest to loop you into this, “And marking, like hickeys and bite marks on herself and whoever she’s hooking up with.”

You yelped, sliding down in your seat and covering your face. He couldn’t see, but he was sure you were scarlet red right now. You’re muffled voice came from under your arms, “Not cool, Lest, not fucking cool.”

“Oh, come on!” She laughed, “When did you get all prudish? You used to let people sign the inside of your thighs and would point out all the people with your teeth marks under their clothes.”

“Lest, look for a new roommate, because I’m killing myself.” You tried to sound sarcastic, but he could hear the shake beneath your voice.

“So dramatic,” Lest rolled her eyes, “I'm sorry, I did what needed to be done. Now Viktor has to tell us. He’s all caught up.”

Viktor sighed, backed into an awkward corner. He wasn’t shocked at what Lest had said about you. Both times you’d fucked him at been at least somewhat public and he had walked around with the evidence on his skin for at least a week after. The signing was new, but fairly tame in his eyes. Still, he understood why you wouldn’t want Lest telling him.

He groaned, finally giving in to what Lest wanted. Hoping that if he spilled his guts, you’d feel better about your own secrets being told.

“Fine, I like when someone wears heels and lingerie,” He admitted, a rather tame preference, it could barely even be called a kink, before she could call him out on it he continued, “And I like when someone begs me to tell them what to do. I like when they aren't afraid to let me tell them what to do.”

A tense silence falling across the car as whatever song had been playing faded out. Lest blinked at him owlishly, gears turning in her brain for a moment before she raised an eyebrow at him.

“Oh my god, you are so boring.” Lest complained, squinting at him. “A lingerie kink and a power kink? Really, that’s all? And I thought you were different. Apparently you are like every man on the planet.”

“No way I’m being kink shamed by the bitch that wears fucking cat ears when she gets fucked,” Viktor scoffed, literally tugging at his own hair,

“It’s not kink shaming!” Lest shouted back, “It’s kink humbling.”

“Fuck you, Lest!”

“Hey, children, calm down,” Mel scolded, glaring quickly over her shoulder. She turned the music down, “You two are going to make me crash this damn car if you don’t shut up.”

“Sorry mom,” Lest rolled her eyes, then turned to Viktor, pointing at him and mouthing, ‘boring’

“Take a left at this next light,” You spoke up, voice rough and weak as you directed Mel.

Lest’s eyes went wide at the realization that you had been crying, Viktor turned on her glaring daggers at her perfect face. Her eyebrows knit together, regret instantly crossing her features as she shook her head, mouth open.

“Hey, are you okay?” Lest asked, leaning forward and reaching out for your elbow where it rested in the center console.

You flinched away, pulling your arm out of her reach, “I’m fine. Mel, turn right at the stop sign into the lot.”

Lest spoke your name, “Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t think-”

“I said I’m fine!” You snapped, turning to look at her over your shoulder, “Just fucking drop it okay?”

An awkward silence fell over the car as Mel searched for a parking spot. Viktor panicked, staring at the back of your shoulder, unsure what to do. He wanted to reach out, to check on you, but he didn’t think that would go over well. He could feel Lest’s anxiety next to him as she probably felt the same thing.

“I used to make guys dress up like my 10th grade history teacher,” Sky said, breaking the silence as Mel turned the car off, “Like, if that makes anyone feel better.”

You snorted an involuntary laugh, trying to fight it. Eventually a solid laugh slipped out, then another, until you dissolved into a fit of giggles that spread around the car. The five of you laughed harder than you had the whole car ride.

“I’m sorry Sky,” Mel said, gasping as she tried to compose herself, wiping a tear from her eye, “That’s ridiculous.”

“No, I know!” Sky giggled, “I made them wear glasses and a cardigan. I only stopped when I ran into him during spring break last year. He was still wearing the cardigan but he had not aged well…”

“Sky, I love you, truly the bravest woman in the world. Waterboarding wouldn't even get me to admit that,” Mel said, cracking open her door and letting in a gold gush of wind, “Now let’s go, we’re gonna miss tip-off.”

Outside, Viktor stretched his hands over his head, muscles stiff from the drive. You narrowed your eyes at him, tugging the hem of his shirt, fingers brushing against his skin.

“What’s this?” You asked, pinching the hem of his shirt, fingers glancing against his skin he tried not to flinch at the feathery contact.

“What?” He asked, voice strained as he stretch,

“You’re wearing blue,” You scoffed, gesturing to your own maroon hoodie, “You can’t wear blue. The other team is blue.”

“I wasn’t exactly planning on being very school spirited today,” He shrugged, steading his cane on the ground.

“You should always be ready to be school spirited,” You told him, jabbing a finger at his chest.

“That so?” He tilted his head down at you, raising an eyebrow.

“Yep, luckily for you,” You drawled, grabbing the hem of your hoodie and wiggling out of it, laughing as you freed yourself. Underneath you were wearing a University of Piltover t-shirt, the same color as the hoodie, “I was double ready.”

You held the hoodie out to him, he took it gingerly, “You want me to wear your hoodie?”

“What? Worried it won’t fit?” You scoffed, “This isn’t a dig, it’s just the truth. Your beanpole ass could fit in my hoodie from middle school.”

“First of all, rude,” He said, blinking at you, “Second, I was going to ask won't you be cold without your hoodie?”

“Well, I would be,” You shrugged, then stepped closer, hands coming up to grab at the collar of his own jacket, “if you didn’t trade me for this.”

“I should've known,” Viktor scoffed, rolling his eyes but shrugging it off anyways, “Always after my jacket.”

“Hey, It’s a good jacket!” You defended, looking at him innocently as you pulled it on, “You don’t have to let me wear it.”

He knew that wasn’t an option. Besides, he wanted you to wear his jacket. He’d give you all of his clothes if you asked. He also knew that you’d be bored if he gave in too easily.

“You’re right,” He nodded, then held your own hoodie back out to you.

You gasped, looking down at the returned item of clothing like he was trying to give you a dead animal. You glanced back up at him, eyebrows pulled together, eyes scanning his face. His false seriousness broke, “I’m kidding, milá,” He laughed softly, face splitting into a smile as he gave in and tugged the hoodie on, “Thank you for the school spirit.”

It fit him, like you said it would, and was still warm from the car ride. Your smell all over it. He resisted the urge to press his nose to the collar in front of you.

“You’re welcome,” You said pointedly, shoving your hands into the pockets of his stolen jacket, you nodded towards the others already ahead of you “Let’s go.”

You caught up with the others, walking close to his side as you weaved through the crowd at the front door. You trailed behind Mel, letting her lead the way into the gym. It was clearly the B gym. Outdated fixtures and rocky wooden bleachers. The scoreboard worked, counting down the warm-ups in big red numbers.

Viktor traversed the bleachers with as much grace as he could. Grateful when Sky asked to sit at the first open seats. They had to split up, Viktor sitting with you one bench below where Mel, Lest, and Sky were sitting.

“Oh, there he is!” Mel gasped, pointing down to the court. They all followed her outstretched arm, spotting Jayce at the end. He stood on the court, decked out in his maroon and grey warm-up gear, waiting in line for his turn to practice a lay-up. Mel waved her hand towards him, unashamedly shouting down to the court, “Jayce!”

It only took Mel calling out to him once before he looked up, her voice reaching him even over the din of the gym. His face lit up when he spotted the group. He waved up at you, scrambled to catch the ball when he realized it was his turn.

“Is he starting?” Viktor asked, looking over his shoulder at Mel.

“Yeah, he’s supposed to.” She said, with a nervous excitement in her voice, “This is his first time starting.”

“He’s gonna do great, Mel,” You assured her, reaching back and squeezing her bouncing knee, “He’s had tons of playing time before this.”

“I know,” She sighed, “he just gets so in his head.”

“He always does, then he blows everyone away anyways,” Sky jumped in, voice comforting.

Out of the corner of his eye, Viktor could see Lest lean forward, mouth close to your ear. He saw you pick at the edge of your nails, dangerously close to drawing blood from the torn cuticle. Without saying anything or looking your way he pulled your hand over, lacing his fingers with yours and hiding it between your joined bodies. The gym was crowded enough to not raise suspicion by strung so close together. You relaxed, squeezing his hand as you and Lest conversed quietly.

“I’m sorry,” was all he caught from Lest. Good. She should be apologizing.

“It’s okay,” He heard you whisper back, “Just don’t do it again, yeah?”

“Never,” She assured you, wrapping her arms around your neck, cheek pressed to yours, “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” You said, bumping your temple against hers.

Viktor loosened his grip on your hand, letting you pull away if you wanted. You held on a second longer, squeezing tightly and bumping your knee against his before releasing.

The buzzer went off, making the five of you straighten up, attention turned to the court. You watched the men’s team hustle to the bench, stripping off warm up gear and hyping themselves up. Pitlover’s starting lineup ran out onto the court as they were announced. Your group cheered for all of them, but loudest when Jayce was called. He waved up to you all, any nerves he held hidden well.

“He’s jumping?” Lest gasped as Jayce stood in the center of the court, shaking the opposing team members hand across from him. He executed a perfect tip off, getting the ball to his teammates easily. Mel cheered for her boyfriend, making it clear to anyone close by that he was hers.

As the game settled into a rhythm, Viktor could feel you practically buzzing beside him. Excitement radiating off your skin as you watched, elbows on your knees and hands clasped as you leaned forward, eyes following the ball.

“I didn’t know you liked basketball so much,” Viktor commented, bumping your knee with his to get your attention.

“I actually don’t know much about it,” You admitted, “I’ve gathered enough to follow what's happening during a game from watching Jayce play, but I don’t know the technical details.”

“Really?” he raised an eyebrow at you, “I would have assumed you had played the way you’re watching.”

You laughed, shaking your head and sitting up to talk to him, “I like competition. I don’t really care about the sport itself, I just care that my school is playing.”

“Ah, I see,” Viktor was competitive himself, he had to be to get where he was now, but allegiance wasn’t something he necessarily felt.

“Besides, I ran track in high school,” You shrugged, “Ball sports weren't really my thing.”

“I didn’t know that,” Viktor tilted his head. You had never mentioned playing organized sports before, “How long did you do that for?”

“Eight and a half years,” You said, a sadness hidden beneath your voice. You shrugged, “I don’t really talk about it.”

That was probably your way of telling him you didn’t want to talk about it, even with him. Curiosity and the urge to hear you talk about yourself got the better of him, “That’s a long time to do something. Why’d you stop?”

“Injury,” Was all you said, turning back to the game and taking a heavy breath through your nose.

He felt a hit against his back. He turned his head to catch Lest, Sky, and Mel all looking down at him like he was crazy. Lest gestured to you and mouthed ‘Shut Up’ at him. He flinched, realizing this was apparently not the thing to push you on. He cringed, thinking of a way to backtrack and change the topic.

“You know, less than ten percent of high school students go on to compete in that same sport in college,” Viktor said, remembering the statistic he had seen off-handedly while searching for something else. He wasn’t sure why he thought this was the right thing to say, because - based on the way Mel kneed him in the shoulder again - it was clearly not.

“Oh my god,” Lest huffed, hiding her face in her hands.

You huffed a small laugh, turning to him, “Did you see it might snow tonight?”

He blinked at you, watching your eyes and taking a moment to realize you were saving him. You blinked back, waiting for a response.

“I didn’t,” He said slowly, then, “Do you like snow?”

“I love snow.” You said, an expectant smile gracing your lips.

‘You perfect, gorgeous, patient girl,’ Viktor thought, he wanted to kiss you. To thank you for pulling him out of the hole he dug himself. Instead he just said, “I hope it snows.”

“I hope it sticks,” You said, excitement creeping into your voice, “I hope class gets canceled.”

“Ugh, me too!” Sky said from behind you, “I have a huge test tomorrow.”

“Who’s religious here?” Lest gasped, grabbing you by the shoulder, “Pray for us.”

You grabbed him by the arm, looking at him with wide eyes and fighting back a smile, “Your time to shine, Catholic Boy.”

Viktor barked a laugh, then held his palms together in front of himself, “Dear God, please let it snow so much that we can get high and build and igloo instead of going to class. In the name of the father, the spirit-”

“Wait! Ask for Piltover to win the game, too.” You cut in, a hand on his shoulder.

“Dear God, please let it snow so much that we can get high and build an igloo instead of going to class and please let Piltover win this game so that there's a rager tomorrow night. In the name of The Father, The Son, and The Holy Spirit, Amen.”

“Amen.” The four girls echoed, bursting into laughter a second after.

You leaned into him, trying to stifle your laughter in your hand. He put his hand over your head, trying not to laugh himself as he cradled you. Catching irritated looks from the opposing teams fans. He tried not to react when he caught the look Mel was giving him.

Sky shushed you all, glancing around at the rest of the crowd, her giggles dying out as she tried to refocus the group. For the second time that day laughter dispelled the uncomfortable energy.

-----

After the game, Mel stayed inside to wait for Jayce and the rest of the group wandered outside to find that it in fact had started snowing. You and Lest bounced around, excited gasps and giggles as you tried to catch snow on your tongue.

“Snow day. Snow Day. Snow Day!” Sky was chanting, voice hopeful as she looked up at the flurries.

You bounded up to him, beaming, “It’s not sticking yet, but it has potential!” Snowflakes landed in your hair and eyelashes, perfect structures melting into you. He could watch you like this forever.

“Hopefully after we make it home,” He pointed out, absentmindedly reaching up and zipping the borrowed jacket up to your chin.

“True,” You nodded, lifting your chin and letting him zip you up, “Don’t want to be stuck in enemy territory.”

“Enemy territory?” Viktor scoffed at you, tapping the bottom of your chin with his fingertips, “So dramatic.”

You shrugged, and offered, “I could be more dramatic if you want?”

“Please don’t.” He cringed, holding his hands out and looking around nervously at the throngs of rival fans.

Luckily, you didn’t get the chance to make a scene about the ‘enemies’. The Piltover basketball team came shuffling out of the doors, happy and exhausted. You skipped over towards them.

“Jayce!” You clapped him on the back as he walked out of the building with Mel, ends of his wet hair freezing in the cold air, “Good fucking game, man! That tip off was incredible.”

“Hey,” Jayce said, flashing a perfect smile and, as usual, brushing off the compliment, “It was fine, I could've had more control.”

“Oh come on,” You scoffed, “You fucking killed it.”

“It was a close game, could have been anyone's,” Jayce shrugged.

“But it wasn’t anyone's, it was ours,” You pointed out, “We fucking won, and I’m telling you right now it’s because of you, man.”

“Okay, Okay, I get it, I’m the best,” Jayce said, holding his hands up in defeat. It was an odd sight, a man as large as him looking so bashful, “Now can we please get something to eat.”

-----

They ended up at the only place open this late at night. A dingy diner that hadn’t seen an equipment or decor update since 1973. The six of you were crammed into a corner booth, linoleum creaking underneath you. Jayce and Sky were in the end seats, their respective partners next to them, then you and Viktor crammed into the middle.

You didn’t seem to mind. Your knee knocked against his as you leaned over and chatted with Lest over the menu. It was nice, you being so comfortable next to him. He wished he could feel the same. He would have, had Mel and Sky not been looking at him so intensely. He could feel their eyes on him, watching, any movement, any breath towards you earned a reaction from them. Mel even took it upon herself to give Jayce some more room on the bench by sliding into Viktor. Nudging him closer and closer to you.

Again, you still didn’t seem to mind. Not even when he was pressed against you, knee to hip. You turned to him, tapping the menu he hadn’t touched on the table.

“You know what you’re getting?”

He looked down at it, humming, “I’m not sure, not really hungry.”

“Me either,” You admitted, “But I was gonna get fries and a shake if you wanted to share?”

He felt Mel shift next to him, her face turned towards Jayce but her attention fully on Viktor. He gave the answer he would have given had you two been alone, “Sure, sounds great.”

“Cool,” You smiled, grabbing the menu from in front of him and stacking it at the end of the table with yours.

It wasn’t long before a tired looking waitress came over to take orders. She gave her required script with as much energy as a middle aged woman working the night shift at a shitty diner could give. She was patient, though, even when Lest couldn’t figure out what she wanted and eventually asked to go last before the waitress continued on to Sky, then to you.

“We’re just gonna do a plate of fries and a large shake, please,” You told her, leaning your shoulder lightly against Viktor, signaling exactly who ‘we’ included.

“Chocolate, strawberry, or vanilla?” The waitress asked, writing on her notepad as she spoke.

“Oh, uh,” You turned to Viktor, silently asking his preference.

He didn’t really care, but knew what you’d like, “Strawberry is good, and can I get a water without ice, as well? Thank you.”

The waitress hummed in acknowledgement as she scribbled on the pad, then moved on to Mel. You were still leaning against him, shoulder pressed to his, as you scrolled through your phone. Reading an article as far as Viktor could tell, maybe an assignment for class that had been forgotten. He watched over your shoulder as you copied the link, opened your messages, and clicked on his contact. Two things stood out to him, the first being his number being saved as Vik <3 in your phone, the second being the message that was waiting in the message bar. : Ur still coming yeah?

You must have typed it out just before he reached the car. Just another confirmation of what Sky had said to him earlier. You seemingly wanted him around as much as he did you. You deleted the unsent text and sent the article link instead. When you turned to look up at him, he looked away. Pretending to hold an interest in the grimy lights overhead.

“I sent you a link,” You said, waiting for him to make eye contact with you, “It’s an article, you should read it later.”

“Oh?” He said like he didn’t already know, “What about?”

“Some new research on prosthetic organs,” You told him, “I figured you’d find it interesting given the whole biomechanical engineering thing.”

“You figured right,” He said, looking forward to the chance to read the article, “Tell me about it?”

Your eyes lit up as you gave him an abstract of the research. He tried not to hold his breath when you placed your hand on his thigh, the other hand waving around as you spoke. The concepts were intriguing, He was proud you had thought of him. He wondered if you read the article out of your own volition, or because you thought it was something that he would like. It didn’t matter much, you were thinking of him either way.

He listened carefully to you, explaining terminology you asked him for context on and making note to talk to you more after reading the article. He listened until the tired waitress came back with food and drinks. She distributed the simple meals, leaving two straws with the pink milkshake between you and Viktor. With a quick check that everything looked right, she was off. Probably not to be seen until the check was brought.

Viktor picked up his water, laughing as you relinquished a fry to Lest, who had ordered herself a salad. He paused when the water reached his lips and he caught the sound of ice knocking around in the glass. He scrunched his nose, setting the glass back down and resigning to wait for the ice to melt.

“You okay?” You asked quietly, giving a quick glance between him and the glass, a fry halfway to your mouth.

“Oh, yeah,” He shook his head, brushing you off, “Just the ice. I don’t like it.”

“Oh, like the cold hurts?” You asked, tilting your head.

“No, eh, I don’t like when it touches my teeth,” He laughed awkwardly, feeling childish, “It’s not a big deal, I usually just wait for it to melt.”

You blinked at him for a moment, not judging, just thinking. Then reached for his glass, sliding it closer to your own water.

“Well, I really like ice,” You said, unrolling a set of silverware. You pulled the fork out and hovered it over the lip of his glass, pausing to ask, “Can I?”

He nodded and you dipped the fork into his drink, catching a couple ice chips and dropping them into your own drink. He watched you focus as you repeated the action a few more times until his water was free of ice. You handed him the glass and picked up your own.

“Better?” You asked, holding the lip of your glass out to him.

He tapped the edge of his to yours with a satisfying clink, “Thank you.”

-----

By the time they began to shuffle out of the diner, a good inch or so had begun to stick to the ground.

“Mel has the keys,” Lest whined, yanking on the car door.

You hardly noticed, already busy balling up a fistful of snow and lobbing it at Jayce’s shoulder. He whipped around to glare at you as you hid behind the side of the car, another snowball smacked him in the chest from the other direction. Sky pretended to be very interested in her nails when he turned to look.

“Hell no,” Lest shook her head, swiftly turning on her heel and striding back towards the diner, “I’m going back inside.”

“Aw boo, Lest,” You half complained, half laughed as you threw a snowball her way. Viktor could tell you missed on purpose, “It’s just snow!”

“Yeah, and this jacket is just suede,” she shouted over her shoulder as she opened the diner door and stepped inside.

A snowball landed at Viktor’s feet, making him flinch. He looked up to see you, holding two already made snowballs in your hands, one held out as an offering to him.

“Sorry, milá,” He shrugged, taking a step back and holding a hand up, “My hands are cold enough as is.”

He was grateful you didn’t push him, instead you shrugged and threw one of the balls at Sky and the other at Jayce. Viktor retreated inside as the snowball fight turned into a snowball war. He watched the three of you running around the empty parking lot, using Mel’s car as cover from each other. He couldn’t help but to focus on you. Face absolutely lit up in joy. You were laughing, cheeks beautifully red from the cold and hair swirling around your face in the wind. A spot of snow was clinging to the back of your shoulder where Jayce had nailed you. His jacket, Viktor realized, scoffing to himself. You scolded Jayce, shouting and laughing at the same time as he wound back to pitch the snowball like a baseball. You screamed and ducked as he pitched it at half speed.

“God, why don’t you take a picture?” Lest scoffed from where she sat on a bench behind him, “It’ll last longer.”

Viktor pulled out his phone and took a photo. A couple actually, some focused on you, but mostly capturing all three of your running around. He sent them off to the group chat for you all to find later.

“Lest, you confuse me,” He said, slipping his phone into his pocket and settling into the bench opposite her, “Do you hate me or not? Because sometimes I really can’t tell.”

“I don’t hate you Viktor,” Lest said, narrowing her eyes at him, “I just don’t trust you.”

“And why is that?” He watched a clump of snow melt off the foot of his cane.

“Because, your actions directly affect the emotions of my best friend,” She said, voice flat like she was saying some other known fact, “I can’t help but be wary of that.”

“Well trust me,” He said, mouth in a flat line as he stared her down, “I have no intention of harming her. Ever.”

“Intention vs Impact.” Lest shrugged, crossing her legs, “Do you know how you’ll impact her?”

Viktor opened his mouth to argue, irritated at Lest’s smug accusations. Before he could say anything their waitress popped around the corner. A sigh of relief left her mouth when she saw them sitting there.

“Oh, I’m glad I caught ya,” She held a cellphone out to Viktor, “Your girlfriend left her phone.”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Viktor huffed, taking your phone from her, then took a slow breath and slipped your phone into his pocket, “But, thank you.”

The waitress let out a short laugh, “Does she know that?” She raised an eyebrow at Viktor before walking away.

“This is so fucked up,” He shook his head in disbelief, turning back to Lest, “I’m the one being turned down by her. If it were up to me we’d be…”

“You’d be what, Viktor?” Mel asked as she rounded the corner, eyes narrowed as she analyzed him.

“Nothing, fucking nothing. Let’s just go,” He huffed, pushing himself up with his cane, then muttering under his breath as they walked out, "Frustrating women, the both of you. So nosy, can't leave anything be.”

Up ahead the Escalade beeped, lights flashing yellow as Mel unlocked it.

“Sorry,” She said from behind Viktor, “I thought I unlocked it.”

Lest yelped as Sky ran up to her, cold hands outstretched towards the other girl, “Sky don’t you dare!” She dodged her secret girlfriend, giggling as she raced her to the car.

Jayce took the keys from Mel and opened up the passenger door for her, a silent chivalrous offer to drive the rest of the way home. She kissed him on the cheek before climbing in.

You were waiting next to the open back door as Lest and Sky climbed into the third row. Smiling up at him as he reached the car. Looking at you up close, in the light, was even better than before. Cheeks and nose and ears all red cold, bits of snow wetting your hair, slightly out of breath from running around. Your breathing came in short puffs of fog in the cold air.

“Have fun being warm and lame?” You joked, climbing into the car, you slid over so he could follow after.

“Yes I did,” He replied matter-of-factly, getting into his seat and shutting out the cold, “You have fun freezing?”

“Freezing? Barely,” You scoffed, then reached out and placed your cold hands around his neck, “See? Practically burning hot.”

“I think you have nerve damage,” He cringed, trying to get away from you, you followed, giggling as you slipped one hand down the back of his shirt, the other on the side of his neck, “Ah, Ježíš! Your hands are like ice,” He yelped, half heartedly pushing you away.

He caught Mel watching in the rearview mirror, a spark of self-conscious panic shot through his chest. Gently he grabbed your wrists, actually prying your hands away from him.

“Settle, milá,” He hushed, hyper aware that every move he made was being observed.

“Sorry, sorry,” You giggled, sliding back to your side of the car and snapping your seatbelt into place.

As Jayce pulled out of the parking lot, the car fell silent aside from the blasting heaters. You held your hands up in front of the ones closest to you, warming your cold skin. He watched you settle against the door, arms crossing and burrowing into his stolen jacket.

He didn’t realize how much he looked at you until he actively tried not to. He caught himself staring at your hands, your knees, even your boots in an effort to not look at your face. In the end he resorted to fully facing the window, elbow leaning on the edge and mouth pressed against his face as he watched the slowly whitening landscape streak by.

It was a while into the drive before he heard you gasp softly, the sound of your rustling around in your seat reaching him. He frowned, glancing over to see you shoving your hands into your pockets, and feeling around underneath you. Panic was all over your face as you looked up at him. It only took a beat for him to realize what you were looking for.

You opened your mouth, but before you could say anything he slipped your phone out of his pocket and handed it over.

“Sorry,” He whispered, as you took it with a sigh of relief, “The waitress handed it to me, I forgot.”

“Thank you,” You whispered back, leaning back into your seat.

He nodded, retreating to his own window. Again, only another few seconds passed before his own phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out to find a text from you.

Are you ok?

He frowned, looking over at you. You were looking out your own window, the only sign you had texted him being your phone open on your lap. He typed out a reply.

Yes. Why do you ask?

Out of the corner of his eye he saw you read his response and begin typing out a new message.

Why are you so far away? I’m sorry about the hands thing.

He glanced back up at you. You were looking at him now, not pretending to be disinterested. He frowned and shook his head, opening his mouth to speak before turning back to his phone.

I’m not upset with you milá

Are you sure

I promise.

He glanced around the car. Lest and Sky were dead asleep, half on top of each other, Mel was silently reading a book on her phone and Jayce was nodding along to the quiet music on the radio. He debated for a moment, then gave in like always. He held his arm out to you, beckoning you closer.

You didn’t hesitate to unclip your seatbelt and slide over to him, slotting yourself against his side, head against his shoulder. Even with your screen in view you sent another text.

What's bothering you?

He sighed, pressing his forehead against the top of your head and squeezing his eyes shut. What was he supposed to say? That he was obsessed with you and it was simultaneously ruining and perfecting his life. That everyone around him was beginning to catch on. That there wasn’t anything he could do but wait for you. He couldn’t do that of course, so instead he gave you a half truth.

Nothing really, I just have some work to finish when we get back.

You hummed, only half believing, then typed again.

Can I help?

You’re very sweet, but it’s okay. I can handle it.

You looked up at him. Searching his face for the truth. He refused to give it away, instead he pressed a chaste kiss to your temple and mouthed ‘I promise.’ You huffed, but took his word for what it was. He did his best to enjoy your closeness without wallowing in the fact that he had no fucking clue what was going on.

-----

Viktor didn’t forget things. He could use equations he hadn’t used in years. He could name every cousin Jayce would tell stories about. He remembered the shape of his grandmother's wedding ring. He could list the due dates of the rest of his assignments for the rest of the semester. He could recall every time you called him baby.

But for some fucking reason, the project he had been working on that was worth a significant portion of his grade had entirely slipped his mind.

He braced his hands against the edge of the black top table. Staring at the mess of his ruined project. In his rush to meet you at the Red Lot, he had completely forgotten to move the agar plates to the cold room. Each one was desecrated. The heat in the lab kicked on at some point, rendering each unprotected plate bone dry and unusable. When Viktor returned past midnight, already exhausted, to discover that making five agar plates had turned into making fifteen. He started to lose it a little.

By the time he had everything set and ready to start working, another half an hour had passed. He was starting to feel the consequences of waking up at five the morning before. He felt slow, sluggish in his movements and limbs heavier than normal. The stress headache that set in made it hard to focus under the aggressive fluorescent lights.

Nothing was going right. The agar wouldn’t heat to the right temperature. Each time it came out of the microwave it was either far too hot or barely above room temperature. When he occasionally did get the consistency right, his hands shook like a leaf as he poured. He managed to get about half of the substance where it needed to be, the rest spilled onto the table. At some point, with only two of the fifteen plates completed and the third getting more and more difficult with each tired attempt. Viktor had his first real breakdown of junior year.

This was a simple fucking lab. Heat. Pour. Close. Store. Heat. Pour. Close. Store. Heat. Pour. Close. Store. That’s all he had to do. Heat. Pour. Close. Store. Yet he couldn’t fucking do it. The labeled plates in the cold room told him he was the last person in class to finish it. Almost everyone else had finished theirs within a day. He was supposed to be good at this. He couldn’t fucking walk right. His words went misunderstood. His lungs struggled to take in air. But his brain? His understanding of science? That’s what he was good at. Fucking great at.

He couldn’t help it when his lungs started to stutter in short gasping breaths. Or when his vision began to narrow and hot tears pricked at his eyes. He managed to fall onto a stool, sitting on the edge with his hands braced against the table as he spiraled. He could be home right now. He could be back in Černošice. Back with his mother. Back in the bookstore he worked summers in. Warm and safe and stable. Not worried about a visa or money or speaking English.

“Viktor?” Your careful voice came from behind him, fingers brushing against his shoulder.

He flinched with a gasp, turning further away and stumbling off the stool so quickly it began to tip over, taking his cane with it. Behind him you were quick enough to catch the stool, grabbing the edge before it could crash to the ground. His cane wasn’t so lucky, it hit the ground with a sharp clatter, skidding away.

“Sorry, sorry,” He muttered, still refusing to let you see his face. Without his cane he was forced to use the table to stay standing, exhaustion weighing him down

“Don’t apologize,” You said, voice still cautious. You took a few steps, scooped up his cane, and held the handle out for him to take. He balanced himself on it, stepping away from the table slightly, “Viktor do you know what time it is? What are you doing here?”

“It’s late, I know, but,” He sighed, looking away and wiping at his eyes as you tried to step around to look at him, “I have to finish this lab. I should have done it before the game, I just…I don’t know. I came back here to do the last of them and…I fucked it up. I didn’t put the plates in the cold room, and it had been a couple hours. They were ruined. I had to start from scratch.

He could feel the panic resurfacing, his voice shaking. At the end of his words he covered his eyes with his hand, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose in an effort to keep tears at bay.

“Woah, hey, it’s fine. It’s fine. It’ll be fine,” You reached out for him, rubbing your hands over the tops of his arms, he finally relented to looking you in the eyes, “Vik, did you sleep at all today? You said you were up early. You’ve been awake for almost twenty-four hours,”

“I know,” His voice shook, trailing off, “But I have to get this done. It needs to be done.”

“Is it due tomorrow?” You gently pulled his hand away from his face, “I’ll help you finish it before class.

“You shouldn’t have to help me with my-”

“Are you saying you wouldn’t help me if I was in the same situation?” You cut him off, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Of course I’d help you, but-” He tried to argue.

“But nothing, Viktor,” You laid your palm against his flushed cheek, for once your skin was colder than his, “When is it due? Let me help you.”

He stared at you, trying to decide if he wanted to brush you off or fall into your arms. He didn’t know which would cause more damage in the long run.

“It’s due on Monday,” he told you, “I know I shouldn’t have waited so long to work on it. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

A sharp laugh from you surprised him. He looked up at you, your face in a look of disbelief and your hand on your forehead. You shook your head, then reached out, grabbed him by the face and kissed him chastely on the lips. So quick Viktor didn’t have time to respond, to retaliate, to ask for more. Instead his face flamed red, watching you with wide eyes as he floundered for words.

Your hands were still on his cheeks, face leaning towards his. You looked him square in the eyes, “I adore you, you anxious, brilliant, insane man.” He blinked at you, mouth agape, as you stepped around him and began to fuss with the items on the table, “Come on, let’s clean this up and go to bed. I’ll help you finish the lab tomorrow, okay?”

You didn’t wait for a response. You got to work breaking down the lab, instead, discarding ruined materials, running glassware to the sink, and gathering his notes in a neat pile.

He tried his best to help, moving as quickly as his tired and aching body allowed. By the time he had rinsed and dried the few pieces of glassware, you had done everything else. He turned to find you holding his coat out to him and his backpack slung over your own shoulder. He took the coat from you and slipped it on.

“Let me just make sure I have my keys,” He said off handedly, searching the pockets.

“What for?” You raised an eyebrow at him, “Vik, it’s almost four am, it’s been snowing for hours, the plows aren't out yet, and you’re exhausted. No way am I letting you drive right now. You can crash in my room.”

You were already walking away when he tried to protest, “But Lest-”

“Is in Sky’s room, remember?” You pointed out, pushing up the lab door and holding it for him, “Now come on, I’m tired too.”

He obliged silently. The spark that raced up his spine and settled in his throat making it hard to speak. You waited for him at the door, letting him out first and hitting the lights behind him. The building was eerie at this time of night. Dark and empty and somehow louder than during the day. Every piece of equipment whirred idly, the vents thrummed, and without the ambience of the chatter of students and muffled sounds of lectures and labs.

Outside the air was cold and wet, but the snow had finally stopped falling. The entirety of campus was coated in a thick layer of snow. He hadn’t thought about snow when leaving the house this morning, he would have worn a thicker coat. Silently you trudged across campus, hand in his as the pair of you followed your solo footprints back to your dorm building.

Viktor had never been in your room before. All the times he had met up with you in the lobby of the building or walked you back, he had never once made it inside. As you bustled around, he observed. Taking it all in, cataloging details. He didn’t know what he expected. He had never particularly imagined your room. When he thought about you in a bed, it was always his, never the half-lofted twin he was looking at now. A plain quilt, with random throw blankets piled on top and a well-loved stuffed bear tucked into the corner. Above your bed were posters and photos and flyers were plastered to the wall, enough that most overlapped with each other. A windchime made of shells was illegally hung from the ceiling, the air from the heater making clinking them together lightly. The sound of you shoving your chair back under your desk broke him from his observation. He looked up to catch you moving a textbook from your bed to your desk.

“Did you finish your reading?” He asked, awkwardly stepping further into the room. Lest’s side of the space looked like a tornado swept through a fabric store. No wonder she had opted to sleep at Sky’s, the bed was buried beneath half bolts of linen and lace.

“No,” You scoffed, “I started it but fell asleep.”

“Sorry for keeping you up,” He said, shifting nervously.

“Viktor, stop apologizing to me,” You said, looking at him sadly, “It’s fine, I want you to be okay, okay?”

You didn't wait for a response, instead you walked past him. From your closet you pulled out your shower bag, a fresh toothbrush, a folded towel, and a bundle of clothes. “Bathroom is down the hall to the left,” You told him, taking his coat from his hands, “Toothpaste is in the side pocket and feel free to use whatever else you want in there.”

He nodded slowly and left without saying anything, exhaustion pulling down his shoulders.

When he came back - not showered but face washed and teeth brushed and changed into a high school t-shirt of yours and sweatpants you said you stole from your father - he didn’t bother knocking. He expected to find you in your own bed, but instead turned to see you cozied up in Lest’s, the fabrics all dumped into a cardboard box. You had your textbook open on your lap and were scribbling notes into the margins. He looked back to your bed, tidied up and the stuffed turtle hidden away. Made up for him to sleep in.

He turned back to you and frowned, “So you hate me?”

“It’s a small bed,” You shrugged.

“I don’t need the space,” He insisted, blinking at you.

You sighed, but closed your book and set it to the side as you stood. He noticed you had changed into boxers and a familiar shirt.

“Is that my shirt?” He asked, voice still rough from earlier emotions.

“What? Oh, uh, yeah,” You glanced down at the shirt he had let you borrow months ago, then looked up at him sheepishly, quickly offering, “I can wash it and give it back to you this weekend.”

“No, no,” He shook his head, answering quickly, “It looks, um, you can keep it, I barely wore it anyways.”

That was a lie. The old camp shirt was a staple on his days off. He hadn’t noticed its absence, though, and liked knowing you were wearing his last name,

“Okay, good, because I didn’t really want to give it back,” You said honestly, then sat on the edge of the bed and looked up at him, “Inside or outside?”

“Either,” It was your bed after all.

“Fine, you get inside then.” You moved over, nodding for him to get into bed first.

He leaned his cane against your closet door and settled onto the edge of the bed, leaning over and unstrapping his brace. He winced as he flexed his now unconstricted limb. He could feel you watching him silently. He placed the brace next to his cane, climbed into your bed.

He moved around until he was laying down, placing himself between your body and the wall. You tugged the blanket over the both of you as he settled in.

You laid on your sides, facing each other. He let out a slow breath, feeling exposed to you in a way he hadn’t before. You reached up, gently brushing hair off of his warm forehead.

You sighed, smoothing your fingers over his cheek, “Viktor,” You said gently, “Are you okay?”

Like anyone, this was enough to open the flood gates. He blinked at you, eyebrows pulling in and swallowing hard as his eyes welled up. He could feel how hot his own face was already. You ignored it and brushed your thumb over his trembling lower lip, before dragging your hand to the back of his neck, your nails scratching gently at the hair on his nape.

“I’m,” He tried, a half sob cutting him off. He turned, pressing his face into the pillow, “I’m sorry.”

“What for?” You watched him patiently.

“This is, uh, this is not very cool,” He admitted, voice muffled by the pillow. He could hear his own accent thicken as he worked himself up. He jerked with a weak laugh, “nor attractive.”

“Vik, really, what’s wrong?” You asked, brushing off his joke and sweeping his hair away from his temple.

He turned his face back to you, watching you watch him. You didn’t say anything, just waited. His eyes flickered across your face, searching for anything that made sense. Distaste? Irritation? A normal reaction to a weak man. Instead he found everything he gave to you, patience and adoration, returned in equal measure.

He sighed, rolled onto his back and stared up at your ceiling, “I’m just…tired.”

It was like there was a stone in his chest. He felt heavy, every cell in his body weighed down. It didn't take more than a few seconds for his throat to become tight and hot tears to well in his eyes for the second time that night. This time they spilled over, racing down the sides of his face and wetting his temples. You placed your hand on his chest, rubbing soft circles against his sternum in time with your own breathing.

You waited a moment before urging him to go on, “Because of finals?”

“Yes and… I don’t know, I just,” He frowned, nose scrunching up as he fought for the right words, “Never mind.”

“Viktor,” You scolded gently, “Since when can’t you tell me something?”

He glanced over at you, eyebrows pulled together, and in the smallest voice you had ever heard from him he told you, “I miss my mother.”

The admission surprised even himself.

“Which is ridiculous,” He added with a hard scoff, “I’m an adult. I don’t need my mother. I should be fine without her.”

“That’s not true, Vik,” You shook your head, “There isn’t an age limit on missing your parent.”

“I feel so childish,” He said, eyes still wet, “Crying over wanting my mother. I chose to come here. This is where I want to be, but sometimes… I just feel so lost without her.”

You reached up, guiding his chin to look over at you. He could see perfect empathetic tears welling in your own eyes, “Baby, that’s normal. You’re four thousand miles away from your home. It would be crazy if you were just…okay with that.”

He couldn’t come up with something to say, fully overwhelmed by his own emotions. Instead he moved closer, looping an arm over your waist and pressing his face into the crook of your neck to hide his face as he truly began to cry. You held him close, fingers moving up and down his spine as you let him. Eventually, the soft sobs turned to tired breaths and he had soaked the collar of your shirt. He felt heavier and lighter at the same time, relaxing as he calmed down.

“Viktor,” You asked softly, “When was the last time you called home?”

“It’s been…a while,” He admitted, readjusting slightly and pulling you closer.

“Do you want to call your mom now?” You offered, voice hopeful, “I think it might make you feel better.”

“I don’t know…” He hesitated, craning his neck to look up at your face, “I don’t want to bother her.”

“Viktor, her kid is four thousand miles away from her,” You pointed out, raising an eyebrow “She would love to hear from you, I’m sure.”

You reached above your head to grab his phone off the counter, handing it over to him, You handed it over, “Call your mom, Viktor.”

He swallowed hard, sniffing back another round of tears then did as you told him to do. His mothers number was one of three favorited contacts and in no time his phone was ringing for her. While he listened to the trilling, he settled further into your bed and arms. He hooked his leg over yours and you held onto him, fingers brushing idly through his hair.

“Ahoj, tady Sophie,” His mother answered, not looking at the caller id as usual.

“Dobré ráno, mami,” He hoped the crackle of her old cell covered the shake in his voice.

“Ach! Viktor?” She gasped, voice softening instantly, “Dobré ráno zlato moje. Proč jsi vzhůru tak brzy?"

Viktor sighed, “Nemohl jsem spát...jen jsem myslel na domov. Nevzbudil jsem tě, že?"

“Proboha, ne,” Sophie scoffed, “Je deset hodin ráno, kdo si myslíš, že jsem?"

“Nevím,” Viktor shrugged despite the fact that she couldn’t see him, “možná jsi zlenivěl, protože tam nejsem."

“Ach ano,” She laughed, he could hear her walking down the stairs, “rána byla mnohem klidnější, aniž bys rachotil kolem mého domu..”

“Jak se máš?” He already felt better, he regretted not calling her sooner, “Jak se má babička a děda?”

“Mám se dobře. Zaneprázdněný kostelem, je tu nový kněz, je to idiot,” In the background Viktor caught the sound of the kitchen radio and the coffee brewer that was older than him, he could picture her moving around doing a thousand things at once like she always did, “Zajet tu zatracenou věc do země. A ta kočka, kterou jsi krmil minulé léto, mě nenechá na pokoji. Následuje každý den celou cestu na autobusovou zastávku, mňoukám a mňoukám a mňoukám..”

“Miluješ ji, nelži” He laughed thinking about the scrawny calico stray he had taken care of. More than once he had caught his mom talking to her while she gardened.

“Ne, nenávidím ji. Tvůj dědeček ji miluje,” She insisted, he could tell she was smiling, “Krmí tu zatracenou věc každý den. Mimochodem, taky se jim daří dobře. Babička trochu upadla, ale už se dobře zotavila. Naštěstí jen s modřinou. Chybíš jim! Dnes jsou venku s kamarády, ale zavolej později a můžeš si s nimi promluvit.”

“Můžeš mi taky zavolat, víš,” He reminded her. Her lack of contact with him wasn’t out of malice or neglect, it was just who she was.

“Jsem si jistý, že jsi hodně zaneprázdněn studiem, nechci tě rušit,” She said, he heard the slide of a chair on the floor. In his head he could see her sitting in her usual spot, a black cup of coffee and the paper splayed out in front of her, glasses down the bridge of her nose, and phone pressed to her ear with her shoulder, “"Raději se soustřeď na studium. Ne večírkům a tak.”

“Nikdy matka” Viktor rolled his eyes, catching your free hand and idly playing with your fingers, “Všechno, co dělám, je učit se a chodit do třídy. Nic jiného.”

“Doufám, že lžeš, abys mě potěšil,” She deadpanned, “Nevychoval jsem nudného syna. Doufám, že těm Američanům děláš trochu problémy.”

“Ano, samozřejmě, už jsem byl zatčen třikrát,” He returned the serious tone.

“Dobře,” She huffed, then added, “a doufám, že i ty lámeš srdce.”

“Matka,” he scolded.

“Myslím to vážně, můj syn je hezký,” She insisted, “Ty americké dívky mají štěstí, že tě vůbec vidí.”

“Mami, přestaň,” He felt his face go red, embarrassed in a way only she could embarrass him.

“Proč? Máš přítelkyni?” She asked, he could see the look on her face.

“Ehm,” was the only way to respond.

“Jak se jmenuje?” Sophie asked with familiar enthusiasm, “Je hezká?”

Viktor debated for a moment, unsure how much he wanted to give away to his mother about something not set in stone, “Je nádherná,” He admitted, glancing up at you, eyes closed breathing slow, movement of your hands laced with his and fingers in his hair giving away that you were still awake, “Ještě není moje přítelkyně.”

“Ještě ne?” She scoffed, he heard the clunk of her coffee cup being set down, “Co to znamená?”

“Je to zodpovědná dívka,” He insisted, pressing his cheek back against your chest.

“Hm, a doufám, že jsi zodpovědný muž?” Her voice was wary, accusatory.

“Co tím myslíš?” He frowned, eyebrows pulling together.

“Jsem příliš mladý na to, abych byl babičkou, to myslím, Viktor,” She scolded.

“Matka!” He gasped.

She continued, “Poslouchej, já vím, že jsi chytrý kluk, ale-”

“Matka, přestaň prosím,” He was fully red now, nervously chuckling as he begged her to stop.

“Jen tě žádám, abys neotěhotněl s Američankou,” She insisted innocently.

“Mami, prosím,” He begged, hiding his face against you, he could feel you laughing at his reaction underneath him, fully unaware of what was being said, “Neplánuji nikoho v nejbližší době otěhotnět.”

More like ever, but she didn’t need to know that.

“No, plány ne vždy vyjdou tak, jak byste chtěli,” She defended, he heard the chair scrape against the floor as she stood.

“Já znám mami,” He scoffed, a yawn interrupting the sentence, “Já vím.”

“Věřím ti,” Sophie sighed, “Ale co bych to byla za matku, kdybych ti alespoň občas nenadávala.”

“Za co mi můžeš vynadat, mami?” He fought back another yawn, the feeling of your fingers at his temple pulling him under.

“Za to, že jsi během školní noci vzhůru do čtyř do rána,” She pointed out, “Teď jdi spát, dobře? Musím jít do práce..”

“Hm, dobře,” He nodded, “Dobrou noc mami, miluji tě.”

“Dobrou noc, můj dokonalý zodpovědný chlapče,” She cooed, “Miluji tě, slibuji, že zavolám víc.”

“Ty radši.”

After a reluctant beat the line went dead. He clicked his phone closed, the black screen reflected his tired face and your fingers moving idly above his year.

“Your voice is so pretty,” You hummed, voice soft with sleep, “I like it when you speak Czech.”

“Hm, that so?” He laughed, glancing up at you as he placed his phone back on the counter above your head.

“Yes, keep talking to me.” You told him, lip curled up in a smile, eyes still closed.

“Hm, jsi velmi zábavná dívka,” He told you, dragging a hand up over your waist, “Nevěděl jsem, že si můžu tak užít americkou holku.”

“American sounds so lovely in your mouth,” You sighed

“Ha, rád bych měl v puse Američana,” He joked, resisting the urge to bite at your soft flesh under his cheek.

“Keep going,” You urged.

“Zbývá třicet osm dní, než tě můžu pozvat na rande,” He wouldn’t admit to you that he checked that number every couple of days, “Jsem šokován, že se mi někdo tak líbí a... jsem si jistý, že se do tebe zamiluji..”

“Hm…what are you saying?” You muttered, he could tell you were fighting to stay awake at this point.

“Just facts.” He assured you, reaching up again to click off your lamp.

“Like?” You asked in the dark, voice barely audible.

Viktor laughed softly at your persistence, letting out a sigh as he felt sleep begin to overtake his body.

“Like, the sky is blue.”

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a-babe-without-a-name · 3 days ago

Text

Favours Between Friends - Ch.4.

viktorxfem!reader explicit: Modern AU, omegaverse, alpha Viktor x omega Reader, rom-com, fake dating, author has a very vague understanding of omegaverse but there's a lot of terminology. Finally arrived at cringe but free.

Ch.1. | Ch.2. | Ch.3.

word count: 12,2K (they boink a lot, sorry)

warnings: slight angst, talk of cancer and infertility, otherwise: scenting, dry humping, blowjobs (I have to stay true to myself ok), alpha/omega dynamics in full bloom with Viktor on the dominant side of course, rough (-er than usual) sex, a tiny smidge of degradation if you squint, nesting, as Krys said: breeding kink but Nat wrote it, knotting.

author’s note: As I mentioned I have stuff happening this weekend, so instead of Freakday we are celebrating Thirstday. @doggrowth thank you for beta reading and steering me back into the classic omegaverse tropes trenches. Ah, and of course, he purrs :3

AO3

—

Fuck, Viktor thinks as a wave of nausea rattles his bones. He wakes drenched in sweat. Shit.

He knows at once. There—on the rumpled sheet—the little white square, peeled and curled like a dead moth. His damp clothes lie scattered on the floor, still reeking of last night’s panic. And in memory, vivid as a bruise: your neck, bared, breathing slow against his mouth.

Instinct moves faster than thought. He’s dressed, packed, and out the door before his brain can form a sentence. Each step down the corridor feels like walking on broken glass. The note he leaves on the pillow is courteous, but the panic coiled beneath the ink is anything but.

At reception he forces signatures, keeps his spine straight while every muscle screams run. Minutes later he’s on the move, the resort smearing past.

In the cab, a blaze of anger overtakes him—at the sheer naïveté, the stupidity, the indescribable idiocy of the whole endeavour. A plus-one, he scowls inwardly. But when the last shards of clarity slice through the fever, Viktor realises it’s he who stacked every mistake. The thought is so harrowing he lets a soft whimper slip, earning the driver’s glance in the mirror.

“Sir, want me to pull over?” the man asks, clearly afraid Viktor’s going to puke all over his backseat.

“It’s fine. The sooner you get me home, the better.”

He shuts his eyes while the weekend unreels behind the lids. You were perfect—or at least trying. He was the one who thought he could out-logic biology.

How fast his brain clocked you as something to guard, he cannot fathom. Claire was a speed-bump; he’d have rattled past her. Instead, he’d ended up snorting your wrist like it was cut with diamonds. Instead of knocking himself out with an extra melatonin dose, he’d lain awake dissecting your scent into elements. Instead of waking on time, he’d been late—blockers forgotten—and you’d liked the way he smelled. That had felt good, watching you unravel for him.

Then, rather than a colleague’s pat on the back, he’d decided it was appropriate to take your fucking hand: that gentle palm, finger-pads leathered with test-tube burns, tendons showing under skin.

One flute of champagne to drown it—too shallow. Instead of skipping the dance, he’d followed the siren pull of your bittersweet skin and buried his nose where neck meets shoulder; nearly ended himself right there.

Afterwards, instead of a penitential ice shower—or, better, explaining and going home—he’d accepted your arms. And it had worked, briefly. You were a cold compress on a burn, a stitch in a cut, a meal to the starved. Until his wandering hands, desperate for more of that addictive perfume, tore away the last defence. Patch off, hormones on. Simple math.

Uncanny, yes, that losing the suppressants and a few hours’ proximity flipped your cycle—yet not impossible. Two days together: awkwardness, stress, and, artificial or not, attraction. Biology only needed a crack; he’d handed it a canyon.

He could plot it on a chart: his own half-life inability to suppress. The constant ghost of your scent—thin, but enough to stir sediment. Lack of sleep. Stress. Alcohol. You, being brilliant and kind on a loop. Your neck. His near-rut collapse. The god-forsaken, well-meant scenting. Patch lost, your scent turning syrup-sweet, everything he’d dammed crashing back through the breach.

It’s all very simple, yet still, Viktor can’t believe it has come to this.

As the world smears past the cab window, he prays it was a false alarm. Just a temporary wobble in whatever balance your body keeps, not an unprecedented heat. He prays he’ll be the only one to pay—alone, aching—for wanting a warm body that isn’t his to claim, and that the disruption he’s triggered in you will vanish the moment he’s out of sight. Here’s to hoping.

Because what hits you first, is the temperature—a cloying layer of warmth that swaddles your whole body, pours down your throat, settles in your marrow like liquid iron. Then pain—familiar, yet your brain is still too far behind to clock it. It feels like waking inside the worst flu of your life: muscles packed with wet sand, bones leaden, skin stretched too tight, begging to be clawed off.

Your teeth ache, as if each one were trying to work itself loose from the jaw. Fingers throb—blunt, swollen and useless. Your belly knots hard, a fist inside a fist. Even your hair hurts, scalp buzzing with tiny, angry needles. At first you blame the buffet, a glass too many, yesterday’s adrenaline curdling into vile hangover poison.

Then the ache strikes—low and insistent. A hollow opening between hips, greedy and raw. Your eyelids flicker open, bleary; the sheets smell like last night, like Viktor, and your heart slides down a lift shaft.

There, on the mattress: the patch, peeled and rolled into a sad little tube, dusted with stray fibres. Beside it—where Viktor should be—a folded note, stark against the crumpled linen.

Forgive me, but despite all effort, our attempts failed. I am heading home—I should be on my own. Please let me know when you return safely. —V.

You stare at the handwriting until the letters wobble. Then you scan the room, half-expecting him to materialise from a shadow. Nothing. No clothes draped over a chair, no cane leaning against the nightstand. His door is locked; your knock dies unanswered. The bathroom is scrubbed of him, as if water washed every trace down the drain. Only the note remains.

Another cramp claws up your spine, hot and mean. You think of options: brace through it, flood your body with blockers, slap on a new patch. Too late; the engine’s already revving. Heat roars in you—worse than ever—stoked by an alpha who smells like a deity and spent the night mapping you with his mouth.

You fall into the sheets and inhale what scraps of Viktor linger there. The earth is dry, honey burnt to a shell. It isn’t enough. A raw, keening sob drags free of your chest.

So you let it. Mourn your past self who thought this moronic idea wouldn’t backfire. Let the tears come—undignified, just hot and wet and wrung from the pit of your belly. You cry until the worst of the pain ebbs, just enough to think again. To see clearly what’s been in front of you this whole time.

About one thing, Viktor was right—you need to be alone too. But before that can happen, you need help getting there. So you fish your phone out from under the sheet, wipe it clean on the duvet, and tap Vi’s name. She answers on the first ring.

“Hey genius, what’s up?” she says.

“Hi,” you whisper. “Could you… come and get me?”

“I’m on my way. Send a pin.” That’s it. No questions. No noise. Just the small click of her ending the call.

Two hours later, the knock on the door is brisk. Vi slips inside and closes it quietly. She takes one look at you, puffy-eyed and still wrapped in the sheets, and her mouth presses into a thin line.

“I’ll pack,” she says.

“I’m sorry,” you croak.

“Don’t be stupid.” She grabs your overnight bag from the floor. “You got anything in the bathroom?” You shake your head. She nods. Efficient. Gentle. Checkout is a blur: signatures, key cards, hotel staff with polite smiles you can’t return.

When you step outside, Caitlyn is leaning against the driver’s side of Vi’s car. She doesn’t say a word, just opens her arms. You fall into them. She holds you tight, hand flat against the back of your head like she’s trying to shield you from the whole damn sky.

She loads your bag into the boot, then slides behind the wheel. Vi herds you to the backseat of your own car, tucks a blanket over your knees. You curl into a bean, forehead pressed to the cool window.

The road unfurls ahead, double yellow lines swimming in heat shimmer. You tell yourself it’s fine. You’ve done this before. First heat alone? Hardly. Not the last, either. You’ll manage.

Neither of you speaks, and yourself, you are too busy breathing through it—each mile a small act of endurance, each bump in the road pulling a thread through your spine. Vi drives with quiet focus, while the outside slides by in soft colours and smeared light.

When the cars finally pull up outside your building, Caitlyn steps out first and opens the boot. She passes you your bag with a soft “Here,” and presses your shoulder once before retreating.

Vi lingers. She watches you hoist the strap, watches the way your body dips under the weight, and you can see it in her face—the way she’s deciding whether or not to say anything. With teeth sunken into lower lip, she sucks in a breath, and—

“Do you want me to—?”

“No.” It comes too sharp, frayed. You sigh. “Sorry. Thank you. I’ll call if I need anything. Does that work?”

Vi nods. “Works.” She exhales through her nose and rubs her hands along your shoulders, brisk but gentle. “Yeh, that works, genius.”

With the most effortful smile of your lifetime, you mutter, “Thanks.”

You get to your flat nearly blind. Vision blurred, muscles trembling, bones creaking. First thought: off. Off, off, off. The clothes—sweaty, clinging—feel like insult more than fabric. You wrestle it all down with a snarl, peel yourself out of the pants, the shirt, the bra. Every seam a battle. Every thread a needle.

The bathroom tiles burn cold under your feet. You drag yourself into the shower and turn the tap left. Heat slams your back like a red-hot palm, but you hold still, eyes squeezed shut. You need the scald, the slackening. Muscles loosen by degrees. The fog helps. For a moment you could almost trick yourself into thinking you’re not falling apart.

You towel off, stumble into the bedroom, and fall face-first into the mattress. Unnested sheets are unforgiving. You make a low sound that isn’t quite a sob and roll onto your back, legs splayed, skin steaming.

Then, your hand reaches for the phone. Even though everything in you boils over, you can’t help your fingers. They type the text before you can kick your mind into working properly and you find yourself staring at a message sent to Viktor: Home safe. Hope you are too.

Not even a minute passes before your cell rings—it’s him. The phone nearly drops on your face. You wait for your throat to unclench before picking up, praying to every god you know your voice doesn’t sound like you’re clawing at the walls.

“Hi. What’s up?” It comes out choked.

“Why are you home so early?” Viktor’s voice scratches at your ear, hoarse and wrecked, not all that different from your own.

You draw all the force you can to keep yourself from cracking, speak on an exhale: “I didn’t feel like staying for the wrap-up.”

“Do not lie to me.” His tone cuts through, soft but sharp.

“So you... ah—“ you pant, trying to breathe around the spike in your belly, “can lie to me, but I—fuck—can’t lie to you?”

He groans low. “Will you forgive me?” The words tumble out, rushed. “I thought—” He swallows, and you hear it clearly in the speaker. “I thought there’s a chance it would spare you if I left.”

Your head falls back against the mattress, eyes squeezing shut. “Well, you know what kind of path is paved with good intentions, don’t you.”

Viktor sounds like he’s just winced. A beat. Then, careful: “And how... are you?”

“Ah, you know—the usual.” You shift, cramp shooting up your spine. “Contemplating a little impromptu self-sterilisation.”

He says your name. Pained. Pitied. “Is it the usual, or worse?”

You whimper, dragging a hand across your face. “Oh God, Viktor.” It spills out raw. “It’s so much worse.” You swallow against the dryness of throat. “I feel like I usually feel on day three. You?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Then: “Worse. It rebounded badly.” A long breath. “The patch—”

“I know.” Your voice softens to a thread.

“I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be, please.” You groan. “It’s me. Your deadline, I—it was my stupid idea and my stupid pride that led us here.”

He hesitates. You hear him breathing like he’s running. “Do you need—” He cuts himself off. Restarts. “—anything? Can I help?”

“How?” You press your knuckles to your lips. “Don’t you have enough problems of your own right now?”

“It would solve one of them,” he says, cracked and low. “I know it’s not real, but I—” He exhales hard. “I need you safe. I can’t stop thinking. Or I can’t think, I do not know which one it is.” A pause. “Just tell me you have people to take care of you.”

“I don’t want people.” You press the phone into your cheek. Of course you could call Vi, ask her to sit out the fever with iced towels and soft jokes, and she would say yes without blinking. You could swipe for a stranger, barter heat for an hour of borrowed kindness.

But the thought tastes like chalk. Too sanitary. Too lonely. The ache wants teeth, wants hands that already know the map of your spine, wants deathly sweetness you breathed all night—the scent that screams life. Every rational thread tears loose, floats off like ash. All that’s left is the want, bright and brutal and singular. “I want you.”

A splash of water. Viktor curses softly, then stutters: “Text me your address, I will—”

“No.” You push up to sit—it hurts. “Viktor, you shouldn’t,” you say and hear him sucking in a breath. “It’s easier for me to come see you. I wouldn’t forgive myself if—”

“It’s not how it’s supposed to be,” he says, resigned.

“Well. nothing has been so far. It’s safer. Just promise you won’t move.”

There’s a sigh of surrender. “Take spare clothes,” he says, voice rising, urgent. “Take—goddamnit, just hurry up.”

You stumble over your own legs. Pick up whatever random ‘spare clothes’ Viktor mentioned, claw at the key bowl to fish out the car keys and run downstairs, tears stinging your eyes. No idea what he means. No idea what’s going to happen, or rather—a million ideas, none of them you are brave enough to dwell on.

When you get there, it takes exactly one ring for Viktor to buzz you in. And then, once upstairs, instead of knocking, you rest your forehead against the wood, and breathe. Try to. The lock clicks.

Viktor’s scent hits you like a thick, heated blanket thrown over your shoulders. It blooms into the room, pushes back the ache, the fog, the gnawing loneliness jabbing like a second set of ribs.

He stands framed by the doorway, backlit by the dim hall light. Shirt half-buttoned, sleeves shoved to the elbows, collar limp and clawed open for breath. Sweat beads at his hairline and eyelids, catches the lamp-glow, slicking dark lashes together. The angles of his face look carved sharper than yesterday—cheekbones ruthless, mouth bruised from his own teeth.

You mean to say Hi or I’m here, anything civilized, anything other than—

“Hold me.”

It breaks from your chest, soft and raw, already climbing toward pleading. No filter. No dignity. Just need.

He pulls you inside by the wrist. It’s swift—door slams shut, cane tossed onto the coat-hanger, your bag sliding to the floor with a thud. Then arms—whole miles of them—wrap round you, hauling you into the cloying safety of his chest, his neck. And oh—there it is, your favourite sound. As if relieved to have you, he hums long and croaky, the side of his throat sending a sweet purr into your temple, seeping straight into your brain. Hands span your spine as if he could press the ache straight out through your skin. The thrum inside you finds its twin in him; your body seizes—and then lets go. Silence, deafening. You could swear your back is steaming.

You breathe him in as a palm rests against your forehead and smooths down your scalp. “You’re burning up,” he murmurs.

Already beguiled, drunk on sheer proximity, you let him pull you, steer you wherever he wants. Until you realise—instead of being led straight to bed, you find yourself in his kitchen. And instead of fucking you on the table, Viktor pours you a glass of water and puts on the kettle. “Mint tea,” he explains. “We need to cool you off a bit.”

Seeing you standing there, dumbfounded, he nearly laughs. It’s maybe not a first, but the first in a while—having someone eat him alive with their eyes, holding back a plea to get obliterated. To say it’s entertaining is to say nothing, but Viktor is fighting his own little battle.

Accepting that dignity is no longer for him, he adjusts the crotch of his pants and sits. Cane set on the table like a barricade, he licks his lips, then says, “I’d like you to be comfortable. Do you understand?”

You nod. You keep nodding, as you set the glass down, half-full. Then, you keep nodding while crossing the short distance and straddling his lap. And Viktor lets you—he will be good to you like this, he decides.

When your weight settles against his cock, a breath puffs out of him. He’s about to tell you this can also be just a favour. That it can mean nothing. That you can laugh it off in a day or two when the storm passes and part ways like the colleagues you are.

Before he can produce any of those reasonable phrases, your face pushes itself against his. It’s a needy, cat-like rub, rough and slow, your mouth hanging open as you inhale him. His eyes fall shut.

He can feel arms around his neck, tight, your body already melting into the shape of him. His tautness—your pliancy. Your thighs press and shift against his, and the pressure only makes things worse.

You’re falling—boneless, animated by something that has no neural pathways. He smells like everything you missed, everything you denied. And he smells like you, too—your scent, woven through his skin, still clinging to the threads of his hair.

His nose grazes your throat, then lower, to the divot of collarbone. A thumb hooks under the shirt collar and tugs it wide, the seam groaning. His mouth finds your shoulder—just lips, no teeth—and he grunts, cut and ragged. Open-mouthed. Starving. “God, you smell so good,” he whispers.

Before he realises what he’s doing, his hands are sliding lower. He gropes your ass like it’s something he’s owed—full-palmed, urgent, pulling you hard against where he’s tumescent. “Yes,” you gasp, fingers curling in his hair as you guide his mouth to yours.

And Viktor opens—filthy and willing. He lays his tongue out flat, and you meet it halfway with yours. Now you’re tasting one another in the deep grooves of his palate. For him it’s summer distilled: oranges split open, apricots soft to bursting, rain-soaked peaches still wearing their skins, right down to the faint arsenic bite of their stones and the dark soil they grew from. Sun, but the cancerous kind, storm that brings floods, earth scathed, feeding on carrion—all the danger and thrill and madness of living.

The flavour hits him like a narcotic. His nails bite through fabric into the meat of your ass when he rocks you against him. Every nerve inside him howls fuck me. Gorgeous creature, fuck me, eat me alive and I’ll fuck you and eat you alive until there’s no seam between us.

He catches your lower lip between his teeth. You answer by twisting your fist in his hair and dragging a guttural sound out of him. Your hips grind harder, more, damp cotton sliding, sticking, gathering heat where your bodies meet. Each rub marks a darker patch on his trousers. The shape of your cunt presses through cloth, obscene and perfect, and his.

He releases your lip—it reddens. Fists the hair at your nape, tipping your head back, baring your throat. The place that begs to be torn by canines throbs, inviting. A wrecked sound claws out of his chest; he drags his mouth over his teeth, blunting the bite, swallowing the instinct. But he keeps the grip, hard enough that you twitch and shove yourself down on him.

“That’s it,” he rasps, voice gravelled with rut. “Fuck yourself on me.”

“Yes—yes, yes,” you mumble, the words dissolving into breath as you yank his hair until the sting jolts his hips up. His hand leaves your nape; two fingers press past your lips, curl over your cheek, then slide free, slick with spit. He drags that hand down the ridge of your spine, beneath the waistband, between your cheeks, and sinks one finger into the tight heat of your ass—so snug he exhales a shattered praise against your mouth.

“Oh, so deprived, poor thing,” he coos, thrilled. “You’ll take anything, won’t you?”

The sound coming from your throat is nothing human; Viktor swallows it whole, tongue chasing the echo until fire licks the back of his throat—whatever noise leaves you now belongs to him.

It’s freaky and raw and impossibly good. He kisses you hard with forceful tongue and eyes open—and it’s so vulnerable and intimate it scorches. Heat coils low, unspooling like ice flash-melting under a torch, racing down your thighs, up your chest, until white steals the edges of vision.

“Look at you,” he husks against your cheek, voice a rasp of wonder and tease. “Grinding like you can’t stand the hollow. Does it hurt, clever girl, to be empty?”

You whimper, hips pushing harder, chasing. “So desperate—using your alpha before you’ve even earned it. Go on then, show me how pretty you are when you come,” he murmurs, inhaling at your throat.

You gasp, clamp around emptiness, thighs locking, and somewhere in the crush his lower spine pops; it drags a gasp from him that feeds straight into your climax. Shaking apart on his lap, your pulse is a bright flare against the dark, and Viktor holds you through each ragged wave, whispering rough endearments into the seam of your mouth—good, just like that, aren’t you just lovely.

With your muscles loosening, shame seeps in. Hunger falls back just far enough for reason to edge into your hormone-fogged brain: God, you all but devoured him while he was only trying to keep you hydrated. Your gaze wanders, casting for an exit.

Viktor chuckles. “Are you—” he begins, and your eyes squeeze shut, bracing for the word you’re sure is coming—done?

“—alright?” he finishes, voice gentle, eyes all kindness again.

A teary laugh slips out of you. “Yes.”

He gathers you close. “It’s all right. Come here.” A slower, deeper kiss follows—steadying, unhurried. He tastes good. Safe. His thumb coasts over your lower lip. “You’re going to be trouble, aren’t you?” he teases, half-smile breaking the tension.

“God, you must think I’m an animal. Maybe Dan was right about me—”

“Stop.” His tone slices the thought clean. “I will not have that.” He cups your cheeks, thumbs stroking the damp beneath your eyes. “No animal—just a beautiful creature.” He draws a breath through his nose, steady. “And remember—I understand this. I know how it feels.”

Only then do you notice the kettle screaming on the hob. Sheepishly, you scramble yourself up from him, trying not to stare at the wet stain you’ve produced in his crotch. Colleagues, favours, it all blurs. “Alright then,” you mutter, and let him make you the goddamn tea.

Thoughts rattle; you almost laugh at yourself. He’s good at this, and you’ve barely begun. Momentarily sated but nowhere near calm, your gaze keeps drifting to the slope of his groin—admiring the shape of him and, more bewildering, his composure. Anyone else would have bent you over by now; Viktor makes sure you cool off. If someone had told you it would go like this, you’d have laughed in their face. But the reality—being held without being broken—defies every word you have.

He slips an arm around your shoulders, the other braced on his cane. “Come with me,” he says, as if you require convincing. You fist the damp front of his shirt and follow, trying not to lean on him. His neck looks delicious. Desire swells again, blooms, as you realise he’s steering you down the corridor toward the bedroom—an air saturated with him, undiluted. This is where he spends his weekends, where he sleeps, reads, sweats, drools into his pillow. The very walls hum with him, and each step feels like wading deeper into the pulse of his scent.

Once you reach the foot of the bed, it all curdles into gluttonous urge—to bite, to lick him all over, to snort the powdered glass of epidermis off his sheets. Amber-thick, sap-slow, copper-sharp—you gulp this air, and it granulates on your tongue, swells into something you can almost chew on. Every breath is a dose; every exhale, surrender.

Viktor’s cane clicks away. His palms settle, bracketing your shoulders—steady, unhumanly gentle. Fingers find the hollow beneath your skull, coax your chin up. One-day stubble grazes first, a dry spark over soft skin; you shiver, the sting flowering sweet behind your knees.

Then his mouth closes on yours, and it’s just endless depth. Tongue sliding in like warm liquor, searing a path you taste in colour: gold turning to iron, iron smelting to night. It spirals, pulls until you’re hollowed, until you are only pulse and flavour.

He drinks you in long strokes, and the need that usually sleeps behind his eyes breaches the surface—black, ravenous, incandescent. Your hips tilt of their own accord, hunting friction; his answering groan wraps itself around each joint, lights every fuse you didn’t know was waiting.

When he finally lifts his head, breath ragged, his scent has saturated the room—resin and storm and something darkly, deliriously patient. Gold of his irises eaten to the brim, his hands return to collar your neck. “Undress me,” he croons, then licks a broad stroke from your cheek up to the line of your hair.

Branded, first with the heat of his mouth, then with breeze blasting pheromones all over the wet patch, you strip the shirt from his shoulders. Underneath it is the brace—an exo-skeleton of matte carbon frame hugging sternum and ribs, sleek, almost elegant. Even though you know this might be a breach, you want him naked. You want all of his skin draped over yours. “Can we take this off?” you ask, voice pitched low with hope.

Viktor nods. “Here.” He guides your fingers to the magnetic latches at his sides. Two clicks and a soft pneumatic sigh, and the contraption loosens, folding away from delicate tissue. The marks beneath are tender: redness where pressure rested, pale surgical scars arcing beneath his ribs. You pause, hands hovering over nacre marks.

Viktor catches your wrists before you can trace them. He presses your knuckles to his cheek, eyes half-lidded. “Later,” he murmurs, soft but certain.

Instead, you run your fingers down his chest, nails raking. He shudders, his stomach sucks in and glues itself to his spine when you reach the waistband.

You ease it down, rolling fabric over the jut of hipbones, descending with it. No underwear—just soft cotton guarding him. Inch by inch, crown to root, he comes free: flushed dark, veined, the silky skin damp where you’d ground against him. The densest heart of him blooms there so thick you taste it before you breathe it.

Your pulse gives a hard, grateful kick. He’s beautiful—brutal and elegant at once, the heavy line of him begging the hollow of your throat. Drool bleeds in your mouth for the chance to seal around him. You want to lick the salt from the slit, map every vein with your tongue, tuck him so deep the world can’t see either of you.

The trousers pool at his knees. You rest your palms on the flat of his abdomen, nails scratching lightly through the fine hair trailing downward. A hiss leaks between his teeth; his belly flexes, trying to retreat, but you follow, sliding to your knees on the floorboards.

Mouth open, eyes glossed, you press your cheek to the base of him and inhale. Slow. Thoughts abandoned. Your breath shudders back into your lungs like you’re siphoning oxygen straight from his skin.

Viktor’s hand finds the back of your head, fingers threading—trembling. The sound he makes is raw, unguarded, as if you’ve dismantled him with nothing but breath. Your knees creep forward; palms cup the curve of his ass, guiding him closer, deeper into the cradle of your face. His cock drags across your cheek, your nose, your brow—heavy velvet, pulsing under the thin sheath of skin—and you breathe again, longer this time, mouth and nose both, until your vision blackens.

The moan he spills is more than grateful; it’s ruin dressed as praise, and it’s yours.

“God, you smell like sex,” you murmur, lips brushing the silk-hot flesh. It vibrates against him, and Viktor releases a startled, half-delirious giggle. You glance up: cheeks dewed with juvenile blush, lip shining. He cradles your jaw, as if bewildered by himself.

“Do that again,” he purrs, hips nudging forward.

Another slow inhalation, a pull of air drawn right at the root. Then you nose along the seam of his balls, heavy, over the damp crease of thigh that smells of sweat and sweet rot of the body on edge—up, up, until you kiss the notch under his crown as if it were mouth, pressing him back against the flat of his stomach.

Palms framing his hips, thumbs stroke the bones like fret marks on a beloved instrument. You lick once at the underside, vein-slick, feel him jump, feel your own pulse answer.

“Are you trying to make me beg for you?” He aims for a tease but comes out weak. “Because that’s not going to happen.”

You smile—it could. You tuck it for later. And then, at last you take him: lips stretching, heat sealing, your tongue cupping the length through a swallow. Your mouth becomes bottomless as you let this sacrilege of a man into the soft dark corridor of your throat. His breath shreds when you feel the weight glide deeper, feel the blunt head nudge against the brink of comfort and invite itself farther.

He tastes like rain on copper roofing, like peach skin split under thumb, like resin melted over firebrick—sweet, acrid, elemental. Each drag of your tongue ripples through his thighs, earning a stuttered curse, a praise wrapped in a groan. “F-fuck—your mouth,” he gasps, half-laughing, breath heavy. “Enjoying yourself, aren’t you?”

You hum, eyes closing, keeping this image of him for yourself. Heat soaks your skin, slick pooling between your legs as the rhythm settles: close, draw back, hollow your cheeks, sink again. Every pass slicker, greedier, addiction sedimenting on your palate.

Viktor’s hand claws at your hair for anchor; the other strokes your cheekbone in silent awe. His voice fractures around your name—"I’m close,” he whispers, a warning that canonizes—while you press on, throat opening, until your nose meets the soft thatch at his base and you breathe him there, utterly claimed by scent and salt and trembling skin.

He shudders, from head to toe. Reality contracts to the slide and the thunder of blood in your ears. There is nothing else—only him, only you, only hunger perfected in the yawning darkness between your lips.

In Viktor, something splits. A tearing-open—instinct clawing up the spine, demanding to mark, to seed. Heat detonates at the base of his skull; every scent gland flares, flooding the room with his euphoria. Muscles seize, vision flashing white. Slick heaven of your mouth, the convulsive suck drags every pulse of him forward.

He groans—no language left, only sound—and drives in, shallow and helpless. Orgasm rips through him in hot, feral bursts. He feels it leave, thick and bright, feels you swallow greedily around the first spurt, and begin to ease back, lips stretching wide. His body misreads your throat as the place it was born for, and the base of his cock swells—hard, sudden, threatening to lock him inside that velvet vice. A startled growl breaks from his chest; he fists your hair, pulling you off him.

“Knot—hnh, can’t stop it,” he rasps, hips jerking once more. You open for him, tongue red, catching the final ribbons as they land—offering sight as proof of possession. The image brands his hindbrain: white streak against scarlet, your eyes blown wide, pupils eclipsing everything.

“Perfect,” he whispers, unbearably soft, fingers trembling against your cheek. “Perfect, merciless omega.”

He sighs. The world tilts. He’s half-hanging from your grip on his hips, breath shredding, pulse in his ears like drums in fog—animal and unmade. The storm in his head though—it’s quiet.

You watch him, curious. The thick root of him swells, pulsing right in front of your face—wanting somewhere to lock, somewhere to sit and drain. An old, deep part of you unfurls at the sight, almost prays for it: plug me, keep the seed, make it stay. Heat squeezes low, instinctive, greedy.

“Does it hurt,” you murmur, brushing the pad of your thumb along that engorged ridge, “when it’s like this?”

He laughs, breathless, the sound skittering up his ribs. “No. Feels strange, though—wrong without a home.” His palms open toward you, invitation and command braided into one. “Come here.”

Clumsily, you rise. Drape yourself over him, kiss him with his cum still on your tongue, so he can taste both of you at once. Shameless, you breathe into his mouth: “More.” And how could he say no—he’s high on you. It lives on him now. Gets into the hair on his arms, the base of his throat, the roots of his neck.

“Show me,” he says, fully aware everything is backwards. He should be pinned in your space, trapped in your nest, fucking you fast and mean to blunt the first wave. Instead you’re here, reaching between your legs and—oh—

Your hand comes back slick. Heat-scented fingers smear sweetness over his lips, across the sharp of his cheek.

It scalds and soothes in the same breath—purifies him of every sin and stains him with new ones, steadies his pulse while spiking his need, empties him out and overfills him at once.

But above everything, it feels right. A lovely purr spills from his throat—he lets you anoint him, lets the slick paint his lips and jaw, and then seizes your wrist, drawing your fingers to his mouth. Licks the remnants—slow, devout—until you are clean.

“As I thought—trouble,” he murmurs, releasing you with a wet pop. His teeth find your lower lip, sharp and possessive, then he breathes against it: “Strip.”

You step back, obedient. Viktor lowers himself on the mattress, propped on one elbow, cock already stirring back to life against his thigh. The fragments of you he’d catalogued—slope of shoulder, curve of breast under the dress, the ribbon of spine he traced last night—begin to assemble into a full map.

Undressing while being watched and watching someone undress is awkward, but he hopes you’re both miles past embarrassment. You tug your shirt over your head; in the instant your vision is blinded by fabric, he inventories skin for future claims—the dip of your waist, the notch beneath your ear, the wrinkle at your belly when you bend to shimmy out of your trousers. A dark wet patch blooms on your underwear; he swallows hard.

The bra falls away last, lace peels off skin. Your breasts settle—heavier, lower, perfect—tempting him to lie back and let them drape over his mouth, suffocate him. His cock twitches at the image. You’re beautiful, he thinks.

“You are gorgeous,” he tells you.

And you—shameless creature who just sucked him dry—try to tuck the rush of blood to cheeks under bashful smile, but he sees anyway. Viktor’s gaze stays fixed, hungry and gently awed, as though he’s seeing art and appetite at once.

He extends one hand; you set yours in it, and he turns you slowly—show me—one quarter, then another—he catches a glimpse of a scar on your lower belly, tucks it for later. At halfway he stops, palms settling on your hips. He leans forward and sinks his teeth into the curve of your ass, a bruise that borders ugly. You squeal, arch back into the bite. His laugh is a hum against flesh; one hand dips between your thighs and comes away drenched. Slick strings in the lamplight, painting his knuckles.

“Look at this,” he teases, spreading the wet across your inner thighs until they shine. “Insatiable thing.” There is nothing but pleasure in his voice, and pride.

He pivots you to face him, chin resting on the rise of your pubic bone. Eyes upturned, fervent. “You looked so pretty riding me in the kitchen,” he says, breath warm. “I want to see that again, clothes off.”

You gulp your anticipation down, drop to your knees, ease the rest of his trousers down. Another brace there—dark Velcro latching to his calf and thigh. You hesitate. He catches your wrist, gently. “This can stay,” he murmurs. “It helps me with balance.”

Your nod is immediate. Palms settling on his shoulders, you straddle him on the bed; his cock slides through your heat, slicking its length. You kiss him, mouths open, and his arms lock around you, tight, tighter with each pass of tongues. My omega. He almost tells you.

You follow the movement of his hand as it reaches into the bedside drawer and comes back with a foil strip—condoms, ridiculous amount, accordion-folded like cards in a winning hand. The sight punches through you, sudden and molten: jealousy, raw as fever. Some cool, rational corner tries to explain that any unattached alpha might keep a surplus on hand, that it is not betrayal, but the thought dissolves before it can settle. You watch him tear one packet open with his teeth, balance the latex on the flushed crown of his cock, and something inside you gives.

Home, your body insists, the word roaring through bone and blood. Everything about him fits: the scent—just lovely. His hands that touch the way you always imagined someone might, someday. The voice that turns honeyed when it shapes your name. His hair, so soft. His mouth. Kissable. Him—kind.

You want his bite. You want his name on your body forever. The thought makes you lubricate down to your thighs.

Without thinking, you catch his wrist, stopping the roll of clear latex.

“No,” you breathe—raw, pleading. “Breed me. Keep me.”

The words don’t sound like any version of you you’ve met before, but they are the only truth left standing in the wreckage of need.

Viktor blinks through a gasp. His cock jerks once, but when he speaks your name it’s with a tenderness that destroys you. “Darling,” he murmurs.

The condom stays half-rolled; he cups your face, studying you as if there is mythical best in your skull he has to banish. “You don’t know me. At least—not well,” he says. “You don’t want a baby with me—and there’s a very good chance we’d conceive today.”

“I—” The syllable fractures. Mortification spikes: of the two of you, he ought to be the one lost to instinct, yet you’re the one begging, and for what. Panic swims up your throat. “Yes. I mean—no.” Crushed with shame, the heat of it licking at your skin like punishment, the words tangle. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, hiding behind your hands.

“It’s all right.” His tone is a balm. Gently, he pries your palms away and kisses each knuckle. It’s absurd—you sit spread across his thighs, drooling onto his lap in abundance. Utterly obscene, and yet he’s soothing you as if nothing could be more natural.

“I just—” He pauses; you stop breathing—all braced for him to tell you this is just... a favour. “I want to take you out first. Let you decide, when it all clears, if you still want me.”

A breath shudders free, carrying a tear with it. “You would?”

“Yes,” he says—soft laugh, sure nod. “Of course.” His thumb brushes the tear away; then he cranes his neck and kisses you—slow, reassuring, a promise held between lips rather than teeth.

You dissolve—relief spilling through muscle and marrow. The fear that you’d tipped the balance vanishes under that kiss. Shoulders unlock, lungs open, warmth pours back into your limbs like blood allowed to flow after a tourniquet.

Your palm glides down his cock, unrolling the latex to the base; it snaps home, glistening where you’ve webbed him with slick. Viktor’s hand dips between your thighs, gathers more—two fingertips slipping through seam, coating themselves, then stroking the sheathed head until it gleams.

He settles both palms on your hips, thumbs splayed over the flex of bone, and guides you forward. The crown nudges your entrance—heat meeting rut—and then silence. Your eyes flutter and for a moment it’s all black. In darkness, greed roars loudest as the famine between your legs needs to feed. You sink, take him all at once, and his groan you feel echoing in your chest, rather than hear.

“Fuck,” he breathes, unbidden.

The plethora of blood forcing its way through your head is deafening—it aches so sweetly to be stretched, it’s almost sickening. Sunken, shocked by the feeling of being filled so quickly, you pulse—only exist around him, nails digging into bony shoulders.

His fingers cinch your waist—iron rings disguised as hands—then guide you up. The parting burn is a scream under the skin, but the emptiness lasts only a blink before gravity drags you down again. You bounce, rhythm jagged, and he meets each descent with a grind that feels less like friction and more like welding—tissues fusing, atoms locking. Bruises bloom under his touch, delicious. Any marking you get, you take.

“Perfect,” he says, voice threshed raw. “A true bitch in heat, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you whisper, not hearing what you’re agreeing with. “Yes.”

Thighs flex, knees bite the mattress—every rise destroys you and re-makes you, every drop a punch of fullness that rifles your organs into new orbits. Wet gathers and splatters where bodies clap; the sound is vulgar percussion beating inside your skull. His cock drags over a spot so deep it feels like spine, like marrow, like origin. Each impact lights a fuse behind your ribs.

And Viktor watches, rapt—this dark vessel he means to pilot, the lethal body he aches to tame and claim. He reads the mutter of your mouth, smells the want you haven’t voiced. Fingers dig deeper into your waist. “Ask me,” he rasps. “Tell me again what you need.”

Your pupils shrink, flare. Instinct snakes through every muscle—yes. Hands dive into his hair; gratitude, surrender, demand. Fogged reason knows it isn’t real, knows he isn’t yours, but the hunger is louder: “You. I need you.”

Viktor hums, pleased. “And what do you need me to do?” he purrs—almost mean, mocking on the surface, but the tenderness in his eyes betrays him.

“Fill me up,” you murmur against his mouth. Then, clearer, raw, as your eyes fall shut: “Breed me.”

“Yes,” he hisses, voice gone to gravel. “Moje krásné děvče, chceš být moje?” Yes, my beautiful girl—do you want to be mine? Thumbs hook deep in the crease of your thighs; he drags you down until you seat flush, the stretch singing in both bodies. He steers your hips, slow grind into hard thrust, setting a rhythm that has your womb blazing.

“Beg me,” he snarls, rapture bright in his eyes.

Laughter—giddy, wild—spills from you. Arms loop behind his head, biceps bracketing his ears; you bite his lower lip and breathe, “Please. Breed me. I want you—only you.”

Something flares in Viktor’s belly—a fucking full-blown Leviathan of lust. His moan is wreckage. He clamps you tight, mouth buried at your throat, breath branding skin. “Chci tě,” he growls—I want you. “Nechám si tě.” I will keep you. Knowing damn well you will understand nothing.

Sweat beads, runs, collects in the hollow of his spine; your skin skids against his, slide so easy it feels natural. Heartbeats hammer out of sync—two frantic animals locked in a single cage.

Your insides flutter around the barrier, fucked-out brain convinced it’s bare flesh, whispering yes, this one, keep him. Sanity dies somewhere at the bottom of all this—abandoned until it’s putrid, as you give in to the fantasy of his cum dripping down your thighs.

Release tears through you first: a spiral low in your belly, tightening, then snapping—pulse after pulse gripping him. You ride the tremors, hips stuttering, but he doesn’t let you slow. A sharp slap to your ass sparks fresh ignition; you gasp and keep moving, every glide a raw stroke over sensitive flesh.

His speech slides out in broken, filthy shards, consonants guttural against your ear: “Kurva, jezdi na mně. Tak mokrá. Vezmu si tě celou. Už…”—Fuck, ride me. So wet. I’m taking all of you. I’m—until it dissolves into a rough cry. He thrusts, bottoms out hard enough to rattle bone, and spills—body seizing, pulse throbbing deep as his teeth close on your chin.

Once more, his cock thickens at the base, a sudden swell that locks him in place, wedging so full you gasp. Your body clenches, forced to hold every inch while he tremors beneath you. The urge to rise meets immovable heat; you’re pinned, sealed together, heartbeat to heartbeat.

Interlaced, slackening under you, he finds your lips—grateful, kissing your bruised mouth like you’ve hauled him back from oblivion. “You really are something, aren’t you?” he murmurs, voice spun with awe and exhaustion.

“I was right,” you pant, lids low, fingers brushing through his hair. “You are good at this.”

He chuckles, abashed and falls on his back with a long, blissful sigh, heels of his palms pushing into eye sockets. “God, it’s been ages since I’ve done this with someone,” he says.

Mere mention of someone has you twitching. He feels it, but there’s no escaping now. “Come here. Come lie down with me.”

You drape yourself over his chest, cheek to the damp plane of muscle, and feel his heart hammer wild under bone. He’s tired—pulse galloping, lungs dragging air in ragged drafts—yet he still rolls, bringing you onto your sides, conjoined.

“How are you?” he asks, voice low, fingers combing idly through your hair.

And how are you? Shredded. Blissed-open. Full of cock still swelling. Half outside your own skin, wanting to shake your own shoulders and prove this is happening.

You flex, subtle, and feel him thick inside—plugging you, as though the imagined seed could take root this very instant and bloom into a tiny replica of the man breathing sin into your hair. None of that will happen; everything is backward. The thought knots your throat, heat pricking behind your eyes. Crying would be absurd—unattractive—and yet the tremor is there.

“I’m good,” you manage, forcing a smile against his chest. “You?”

“I am,” he breathes, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, then another, until a gentle splay of lips dots your skin. “Incredibly well.” A hand settles at your crown—soothing, kind. “What are your feelings about the condoms now?” he blurts moronically, the words tripping over themselves. He hears the idiocy instantly; his mouth shuts a beat too late.

A breath, uneasy. “Ambivalent,” you whisper.

Viktor says your name. Tilts your chin with two fingers, just enough to bring your eyes to his. “You do know we can’t,” he says—softly, but with a gravity that makes your chest cave.

“Yes.” Your voice barely holds. Brows knit as you try to force the tears back into the lacrimal lake. You want to be rational. To show him that you understand. But your brain is all turned over with hormone cocktail boiling your veins soft. “I don’t know where this is coming from,” you say, and Viktor gives you a look.

He lets out a quiet, baffled laugh. “You wouldn’t want to have a baby with me, surely?”

No. Of course you don’t. You don’t want a baby with a man you’ve just dragged through the gutter of your fear and insecurity. A man you barely know, beyond the way he works with his hands and the way he talks to you like you matter. A man who made you tea instead of fucking you on the table.

But when your mouth opens again, it isn’t reason that comes out.

“You’re kind to me,” you say, shuddering. And the second it slips, your eyes cloud with water. Viktor’s widen, stunned. He blinks like you’ve hit him in the chest.

“Darling,” he murmurs, and cups your face. The pads of his thumbs rest gently under your eyes, waiting, not wiping anything away.

But that’s only one of the bottoms. Under the first one, there is another, and the knocking on it becomes more insistent every second. Your mouth opens before you can stop yourself. “I don’t even know if I can have one. A baby, that is.”

His gaze drops to where you are lacking, and you know instantly the 360 you gave him had you catalogued down to the hairs on your toes.

“What happened?” he asks. His palm comes flat over the pale crescent on your belly—warm skin, vulnerable, shockingly soft. Under his thumb he feels a tiny quiver, like a pulse lost then found.

You hesitate, eyes flicking away, and in that instant he sees how hard you’re holding yourself together—muscles drawn tight, pride laced through your spine tight like a bowstring.

“I had ovarian cancer,” you say at last. The words are too calm; the edge frays only at the end. “From suppressants. One ovary’s gone. The other is…” A shallow breath. “…not in great shape.”

A bloom of heat—toxic mix of anger and grief—flares beneath his sternum. Instinct drags him forward. He folds you to him, almost clumsy, arms locking wide across your back, trying to shield what’s already survived the worst. Your face tucks beneath his jaw, fragile and damp, his hips slot deeper between your thighs, as if proximity might knit a decade’s worth of wounds.

He hadn’t been there. Not for sterile corridors, scalpels, slow poison drips. He pictures you curled on a narrow bed with no one to press a cool cloth to your brow, and fury scalds him darker than rut ever could.

“I’m sorry,” you mutter into his neck, a hitch of laughter that breaks on salt. “We should probably make a list of banned bedroom topics.”

“No.” He eases back just enough to see your eyes—brow knotted, mouth smeared with trembling bravado. “No, darling—don’t hide it.”

“It’s old news,” you insist, brushing at tears like they’re ash. “I know this is all backwards. If you don’t want—I know nobody wants a faulty omega, and you probably—”

His laugh bursts out, sharp. “Faulty?” He sounds almost aghast. Warm hand presses flat to your abdomen, fingers splayed in quiet claim. “This? You think this makes you less?”

You blink—stunned, unsure.

“Why wouldn’t I want you?” he asks—low, as if the answer matters more to him than to you. “You survived. You’re here. You are extraordinary.”

The words pour out certain, as if he's naming a simple fact of physics. He bends, touches his forehead to yours, exhales. “Wonderful,” he repeats. His thumb traces the curve of scar once more, careful, almost grateful. The weight of his gaze keeps you still.

Then, softer—half-breathed, half-prayed—he adds, “You smell like home. Like summer—I love summer. I can’t not want you.”

“Viktor, Jesus,” you breathe, overwhelmed. “I know we both smell nice and are possibly not entirely sane right now, but you can’t say that to me and then withdraw—do you understand?”

“I do.” He nods. “I do. Here—” His hands capture yours and lay them flat against either side of his shaky rib-cage, where pearly scars ladder the skin. “I had SCLC. Five years ago. You were still studying. And this is why I can’t suppress.”

“My God, Viktor,” you whisper, tracing bone. “How?”

“Genetic mockery,” he says, mouth quirking. “It’s fine; it doesn’t look like it’s coming back. They caught it early, and I managed surgery with minimal radiotherapy and chemo.” Your brows knit, mouth tilts into a grimace of pity; he cups your face, suddenly solemn. “I’m telling you because—well—I carry obvious scars,” he murmurs, “and you could call me faulty all the same.”

You don’t argue; only nod. Hands still braced over his lungs as if you’ve been handed a bag of gold, you say, “Another morbid thing we have in common.” Your fingers stroke once—so reverent it makes him shiver—then you look up. “An odd foundation for anything.”

“Maybe backwards is the way,” he answers, touched. Kinship incarnate, he thinks—astonishing, the turns the universe takes. “Forward never brought anything to fruition in my case.”

“I’m sorry about your deadline,” you whisper, eyes fixed on his chest.

“Well,” Viktor sighs, “it is what it is. Jayce says we can afford the delay. And I’d complain a lot more if I had to spend the time alone. Hardly terrible when it comes with two days of fucking a lovely creature.”

A smile ghosts across your face. “Hardly terrible,” you echo. “Lovely creature. Careful—I might start getting ideas.”

You rub your nose alongside his jaw—scent him, not because it’s needed, but just because you can. Twenty long minutes tick by while the swelling softens, easing him from your body. The slip-out is strange: half-relief, half-loss, a cooled absence.

He stretches long, then stands. “I’ll be right back.” Footsteps retreat toward the kitchen.

You roll onto your belly, glance around the war-zone of sheets and discarded clothes. His trousers lie crumpled near the foot of the bed, shirt draped on top. Not enough. You slide off the mattress, pad to the wardrobe, crack the door.

Inside: shirts hanging, jumpers folded, a small drift of not-quite-dirty laundry in between-washes limbo. You sniff out the pieces that hum loudest of him—wool jumper, two soft cotton shirts, faint salt threaded into each fibre. Back to the bed, you stack them into a loose heap; pillows bolster the walls. A shallow den, improvised but perfect.

You crawl in, tug one sleeve over your shoulder like a blanket, bury your nose in the hollow of a collar. Layers of scent braid together: two-day musk in the jumper, today’s salt-and-skin in the pants, the new mix of both of you ghosting the warmed sheets. You inhale and the muscles in your back unspool; the room might be a forest, a kiln, a quiet heartbeat. All you know is it smells like him—safe.

In the kitchen, Viktor hunches over the sink and gulps straight from the tap, water bursting cold against desert-dry throat. It sluices over his chin, into the hollow of his clavicle, and he wipes it away with the back of his wrist—smelling of you.

A short, disbelieving laugh bursts out. Hours ago he’d have defended his solitary ruts like a point of pride—proof he could keep the world at arm’s length and still survive. Now the idea of riding another one out without your mouth feels not heroic but senseless, almost bleak. Independence suddenly looks like an empty room. He pours a glass of water, palms the faucet off, breathes deep, then turns back toward the glow of the bedroom.

When he steps in, he finds you curled, surrounded by pieces stolen from the floor and his closet, and burrowed into the mound at the center of his bed. An improvised nest: his scent steeped in cotton, your heat welded to it. Something in his chest does a strange flip. He sits on the edge, rumpling a pillow, and you huff—an offended little gust.

“Did you just huff at me?” A brow arches, amused.

“I did not,” you shoot back, though the glare you give him says otherwise.

It sparks a bright, restless flicker he hasn’t felt in years. This is the other secret pleasure of having an omega close: the cockiness, the little shows of teeth. You shoot challenge, he fires back; energy ricochets between bodies, comes back changed, sharper, better. Something in him—lazy too long—snaps awake, eager to chase, eager to be chased. The loop has only just started humming, and already it feels like power pooling in his veins.

He catches your chin, bites your lower lip just hard enough to make heat bloom. “Drink,” he orders, nudging the glass to your mouth. You drain it in three gulps, throat working. “Good. Now—all fours, please.”

You obey, and again—Viktor’s heart flutters at the speed of it. The second your knees spread and your palms plant, his cock jerks—hard, immediate—at the sight of you: back dipped, hips high, cunt drooling for him already. Breedable. An obscene heat coils in his belly; he has to remind himself of the condom this time.

“This is how you should’ve presented the moment you stepped through my door,” he says. He palms your lumbar spine, slides his hand to the nape of your neck—collects a fistful of hair, and twists it around his knuckles like ribbon, tugging until your spine arches sharper and you balance on fingertips and knees.

“Instead, here you are, disobeying already,” he muses, voice silken with menace. “First a huff. What’s next—annoyed sigh?”

You glance over your shoulder, lashes heavy. “That depends on what you do next, doesn’t it?”

He feels a devilish thing inside him uncurl—stretching like a predator roused at dusk, joints popping, head rolling on its neck. Heat riots in his gut, floods every vein with a single order: bend, mark, put back into place. He wants the sweet crack of your poise, wants your spine to bow because he said so, wants you to leak hotter at the first snap of his voice. Instinct roars for discipline—the ancient pulse to collar a misbehaving omega and leave her humming with obedience and need in the same heartbeat.

He laughs, low. Free hand slides between your thighs, another tightens at the base of your skull. Two fingers push inside you—wetness grips and drags as he sets a steady thrust. Warm liquid coats his knuckles, slides down to his wrist. He flexes, scissoring, stretching. “How about I violate you a bit first—hm? See if that earns a sigh.”

You look at him sideways, eyes already swimming. “More,” you rasp, and Viktor digs teeth into his lower lip.

“More?” he chuckles—dark, delighted. “You’ll beg properly before I let you graduate to cock.” His grip adjusts, drawing a soft gasp from your throat. A third finger joins, thrusting slow, tormenting.

“Yes, fuck me,” you moan, hips jolting into his palm, head hanging from his grip.

“God, what fun you are,” he breathes, watching your eyes roll half-shut, lashes fluttering. “Feel that.” His cock brushes against your thigh—a proof, throbbing and leaking joy of his own. “This is how happy you make me.”

“Oh, f-fuck,” you hiss. Fist in your hair tightens, jerking you back until your shoulder blades kiss. Slick drips from you in slow threads, warm as spilled honey over his skin, your gasps climbing higher—but Viktor is still devastatingly slow.

He bows close, breath grazing the shell of your ear. “Do you know what I want?” A small thrust punctuates each word. “I want you aching so hard you don’t dare huff at me again.” He spreads his fingers wider, splays them, forces another ripple from your throat.

He can taste your scent in the back of his throat, rich, tangy; the need to claim you buzzes under his skin, louder than blood. He forgot the power of a willing omega—forgot the way compliance can feel like conquest and gift all at once. Having you like this, wet and open and murmuring for more, is better than any memory. It tilts him sideways, invisible fist cramping up his lower belly.

Wrist snapping faster, he works a rhythm that borders brutal—flesh meeting flesh, a wet slap that syncs with every sharp exhale you fail to swallow. Your knees skid an inch; he drags you back by the hair, forces the curve deeper.

“Listen to that,” he murmurs, voice smoke-rough. “That’s how hungry you are.”

The slap-slick of his hand echoes, until sound and sting braid into one blurred pleasure. Your nerves spark, thighs trembling; each surge of wetness coats his palm, wrists, the insides of your thighs. It’s filthy music, and he conducts it without mercy.

“Please—” The word rasps out of you. “Please, Viktor. I need—”

“Need what?”

“I need you to fuck me,” you gasp, dignity dissolving like sugar. “Now.”

A satisfied rumble rolls from his chest. “Will you be good?”

“Yes, I will be so good,” you say, brows all knitted. Your swallow is so loud Viktor has to hold back a snort. He slips the fingers free; they leave with a lurid sound and a fresh spill of slick. Your body clenches on emptiness, furious. “Fuck, I hate this,” you whimper.

“Come now,” he shushes you, presses the coated fingertips to your lips—slips them inside. Your cheeks hollow, making electricity spark on his skin. Then, he tastes you on your own tongue—just licks it right up, sucking at the tip.

You part with a pop—his hand releases your hair, and your torso eases back onto the mattress, ass up—and when he raises to reach for the condom, there’s a pause. Possession slides its tendrils into the grooves of Viktor’s brain—he wants more. It howls against all the pains and aches his body usually carries, now dimmed. He looks at you spread, wet, sweaty. Your ribs expand with every awaiting breath. All his, aching for him.

His palm shakes as he tears the foil—reason’s last thin thread—and rolls latex down the thick, aching length. You’re still writhing, hips twitching like a live lure, every soft whimper making his insides coil.

He settles one hand in the crease of your thigh. The other glides down your spine, spreads wide at the small of your back—sheened with sweat that isn’t only yours. Heat slicks your bodies where they meet; the room tastes like salt.

Then, cock slides in like it was always meant to—splits you open, and the world turns slippery.

Yes.

His head tips back; lashes slam shut. Home. For a moment everything inside him goes bright, all sense rattling loose, the heavy pulse locked inside you a singular tether to reality.

“So… fucking… needy,” he grits. You clench—impatient, hungry. A soft sound snags in your throat.

“Would you rather huff now, my dear?” His voice is a frayed wire. “Or be bred?”

It burns through him; just the image—your body dripping white from him—sends a savage tug low in his gut. He never cared for this fantasy before—never held it so close. Now it’s a new drug. Makes his balls pull all the way up, aching to spend the laden weight.

“Please, Viktor, I—”

“Please, what?” A thrust—hips slamming, flesh smacking wet.

Your breath punches out, a stuttering moan. “Please, fuck me. Keep me, oh fuck—” you breathe, struggling. “Fill me. Breed me, I need you.”

He jerks inside you, smiles. Drags back until the ridge of his crown almost slips free, then drives in again, deeper, harder—moulding, so your cunt knows only the shape of his cock.

“Fuck—yes, like that,” he mutters, words thick in his mouth—astonished. Your knees skid on rumpled cotton; his thighs slam yours forward, back, forward again. The bed squeals. No neat rhythm—just staggered punches of flesh against flesh, breath collapsing into grunts.

Slick runs hot and sticky, dripping off his balls, threading down your belly. And it feels fucking incredible. In it, Viktor finds something he thought he’d misplaced forever. Each thrust drives him back inside his own skin—imperfect joints, latticed lungs, all of it—but suddenly sensible, necessary. Meat grinding, breath scraping: he’s both animal and architect, hammering at the gate and holding it all the same. Every expansion of ribs feels like he’s re-stitching himself to the world, sinew by sinew, using your body as needle and thread. Nothing ornamental, no fine work—just thudding, wet fact, and the relief of being absolutely, brutally alive.

His spine bows, hands move—one finds your hair, the other your clit—or rather, his. Wicked fingers worry you in rough little circles, no pattern, just frantic want. Every time your cunt clenches, he curses—half-laugh, half-whine—so raw it sounds broken. “How does that cock feel, hm?” he asks, voice an impish whisper.

“Good,” you moan, throttled by the clutched pillow. “Fuck—amazing. I want you. Iwantyou, fuck, please—”

He answers with a snap of hips, pace punishing, thighs slapping the backs of yours. Every clash feeds back to him in tremors; sweat slides down his temples, stinging his eyes. You tighten—again, again—milking him, and the edge rushes up his back like live current.

“That’s it—take me, my clever girl. Only me,” he says hoarse, near-laughing at how great it feels. “I want your belly round and your breasts heavy, do you understand?”

“Yes.”

Yes.

Kindness shouldn’t bruise like this, but it does—delicious, chosen. Every rough stroke says you, specifically you; not any omega, not just any body. He uses you the way a potter works clay: fingers hard, intent clear, heat necessary. It isn’t impersonal; it’s possessive, reverential, and the contrast swells inside you—behind eyelids that flash white, between thighs that clamp and beg. Greed thickens, wet rises; your whole core pulses on the thought that the man who drips kindness from his touch is the same man dragging you open beyond what you thought possible.

“More,” you choke. “Don’t stop. Please, don’t—”

He yanks your hair, bends you like a reed. Mouth at your ear, hot stream of nonsense: “I won’t, wilful creature. Not until you break—” Words disintegrate into grunts. You’re past language too, just pulse and the thud of his heart against your back.

There’s keening as the spark explodes—everything inside knots, teeth, stars. You seize around him, slick flooding out in fresh gushes. “Viktor, fuck—”

“Yes,” he moans, ragged, loud—and drives so deep you swear you taste him on your tongue. “Full of me—ah—” It’s fragmented. Nearly spent. “I will take care of you. Fill you, breed you, love you into oblivion—fuck—"

It drags him under. Hair released, but you don’t fall— his arms cinch tight, palms crushing your breasts. He slams in, holds you with a raw groan—

“Fuck—yes—you,” he chokes, words spilling like sparks. “Perfect—for me—keep, keep me—“

Everything whites out. He empties in thick, pulse-deep surges—each contraction like marrow siphoned through bone—blinding, violent, perfect.

Then—he swells. So tight, so close, you can feel the twitch of his balls where your thighs cradle them. Tied to you by a possessive knot at the base, he breathes heavily, sweat dripping from his chin to your shoulder—slow and hot. He licks the salt from your skin, grateful. You wish it was teeth, rather than a tongue.

Weight hums through his arms that suddenly feel too weak to hold him upright. You ease both of you down onto the mattress: Viktor sprawled over your back, his ribs pressed between yours. His stomach billows in long purrs against the hollow of your spine, arms slipping beneath your belly to keep you welded together.

“Where’s my sigh?” Viktor mutters, his mouth tickling against your ear.

“I can barely breathe, let alone sigh,” you laugh into the sheets. Then, quieter: “You ruined my nest.”

“I am terribly sorry, my darling.” The darling part crawls through you like a ray of sunlight. He rolls to the side, spooning you, one leg hooking over yours. “It was a very nice nest.”

“Don’t mock me, you bastard.” You swat his thigh. “Look at you, knotting like we’re married.”

He’s glad you can’t see the blaze climbing his cheeks. “You should feel complimented,” he says, voice hitching, “and—it’s nice. I get to smell myself all over you.”

He gathers your hair, bares the slope of skin, licks a slow line, then sucks at the point where neck meets shoulder. You arch before you can stop yourself. His palm settles on your forehead, holding you in place.

“Not yet,” he murmurs, though the urge to bite sings in his teeth. “When it happens, I’ll make it special, I promise. Will that suffice?”

“It will,” you breathe, eyes closed. “God, I want to see you.”

“Give it fifteen minutes,” he says, voice warm. “For now—let me leave you a souvenir.” As if your skin isn’t already blooming with finger-bruises and stray bite marks, he sets his mouth above your clavicle, nurses a juvenile hickey into living colour. A poor man’s claim, hidden below tomorrow’s shirt.

It feels right—soft, intimate, a compromise between barely knowing and soul-shredding sex. Very him, you think, and you’ll wear the promise like a proud little secret under your clothes.

“I can’t believe you let me just straddle you the first time,” you whisper and there it is—a sigh. Long and content. Viktor adores it.

“Oh, that was only because you took such sweet care of my cock first,” he teases, fingertips scratching along your scalp. “And—” A pause, then a swallow—“it’s rare for cycles to sync like this outside a bonded pair. I’d forgotten how fragile a person feels, torn up by hormones.”

“So you were being… nice?”

“Is that odd?”

“God, I want to kiss you,” you say, craning your neck. He captures your jaw and props up on one elbow—clumsy, your bodies locked, the knot pulling at your entrance, annoying—yet the need for him eclipses the ache.

His lips are dry, but soft. He licks under your cupid’s bow, then eases his tongue inside. Eyes closed, he purrs—a lovely sound, comfort incarnate, dissolves in your mouth. The angle keeps it shallow and sweet—an awkward click of teeth, graceless, but honest. Sweat cools on his skin, settling into salty film. The swollen base inside you shifts when he adjusts, jolting a shared moan.

You are being held by an alpha who feels like he’s yours. And for the first time, you understand what omegas can have—what they should have. It fixes nothing of what you’ve been through—but makes it ache less. Makes it settle in your chest, accepted.

Forty-eight hours blur into a feral, sun-streaked reel:

Viktor bites without warning—shoulder, hip, the pad beneath your thumb—then fusses over hydration like a mother hen, pressing glasses to your lips between rounds and watering his houseplants with the same diligence. He answers the door for takeaway in nothing but a half-fastened brace and a shameless grin. He falls asleep purring on your chest; wakes you by palming your ass, licking the shell of your ear, or simply blowing a rude puff of air against your cheek.

Between fucks his grip stays iron—spanks land when you test him, threats of next time I’ll take your ass hanging in the room like storm heat. Dinner first, you keep reminding him; promise, he keeps answering. His spine pops when he stretches, hair curling tighter the wetter he gets. He studies every bruise and blossom on your skin like field notes, then spends long minutes mouthing your scar, whispering praise before sliding down to eat you out until your vision whites. He spits your own slick into your mouth, kisses it sweet, and laces your fingers with his while you come shaking on his lap.

You trade stories in the breathless valleys: childhood scraps, lab mishaps, the songs that make you pace a room. He laughs more than you thought he could—sharp, bright, unguarded. You nap tangled in half-dried sweat, wake, fuck again, shower—he produces a shower stool with triumphant glee—then fucks you into oblivion on it.

By the end, confidence blooms ferocious. While he’s dozing, you clamp your teeth at the juncture of neck and shoulder, suck hard and slow until a deep violet brand rises where no collar will hide it. He startles, touches the mark, then smiles—wide, sincere, a man astonished by how much living can fit inside two overturned days.

When the frenzy recedes—need cooling to a deep, bearable ache of bodies having been used and abused lovingly—you stand in the doorway in your spare clothes. Both of you showered, dressed, wrung out but peaceful. Parting feels ridiculous; your chest pinches.

You clear your throat, extend a hand like it’s a board-meeting exit. “Thank you. For helping me.”

Viktor’s mouth twitches—he looks like he’s about to burst out laughing. He clasps your hand, squeezes once, then yanks you in and seals his grin against your lips. “Will you do me a favour?” he murmurs, warmth ghosting your mouth. “I am going to dinner on Friday. I need a plus-one.”

A laugh punches out of you, bright and spent. “I suppose I owe you one, don’t I?”

“Yes, a big one” he says, grazing your cheek with his thumb as if you’ve already said yes. “Good. I’d hate to attend alone. I’m scared of waiters.”

“Consider it done,” you tease, and Viktor, once more—bites your lip. “Always happy to return a favour.”

#late to work because i chose to read this instead lmao #INCREDIBLE #FOAMING AT THE MOUTH #i love this so much #...im talking about abo...what have i becum?#thank you nat #for gifting us with your talent #love you #love this #love them

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