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luvrodite · 3 months ago

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ᯓ★ ONE. OCTOBER 1 | FUCK OR DIE

GOT ME CALLING OUT FOR HELP (S-O-S) [3.8k]

in retrospect, it was only a matter of time before you got hit. you should consider yourself lucky — there are worse fates than being fucked like your life depends on it (it’s gotham. of course it does) or: you get hit and jason deals with the fallout

content warnings. f!reader, dubious consent due to intoxication, chemical aphrodisiac, established relationship, dry humping, fingering, penetrative sex, begging, unprotected sex, creampie, prevention of pulling out.

ⓘ minors, blank and ageless blogs do not interact, you will be blocked!

<< kinktober masterlist | week 2 >>

It goes like this:

On a monday evening, Pamela fucking Isley decides to take her quarrel with Gotham's newest weapons company – God, could they fucking give it a break? B had only busted the last one a few weeks ago before they'd brought the city down on everyone – to new heights.

Jason's sitting in traffic with a bag of groceries slung around the handle of his bike when he gets the call. He's eager to beat you home, ready to make you dinner and heavily intent on wining and dining you after a long weekend of missing each other.

His fingers tap against his thighs impatiently, impatience sitting beneath his skin like an itch. Spikes of activity during the week had meant his plans for Friday night – dinner and a deserved night off – had been pushed to the backburner. He'd returned home in the early stillness of dawn, unable to get more than a couple of hours with you before your phone had rung, a friend's emergency pulling you out of bed with an apologetic grimace and a promise to reschedule your date night.

The headset in his ear notifies him of an incoming call, the syllables of your name dulled by the clinical, robotic voice of his phone's intelligence system. His mouth curves up into a smile beneath his helmet.

"Hi, baby," he answers immediately. "I'm on my way home, you need anything? I just left the store but I can go back–"

You cut him off in a tight voice. Later, he'll be ashamed that the first thing that comes to mind is, not another fucking postponement. Now, his brows furrow at your tone, stomach dipping uncertainly when it becomes clear that this is something more serious.

Your voice wobbles, high-pitched and tearful. At the same time, the dash on his bike begins to flash in rapid succession, the paging system he'd installed for the bats to communicate with him glaring back at him, blood red.

ORACLE: CHEMICAL LEAK DOWNTOWN. BATS + R.ROBIN EN ROUTE. ALL UNITS STANDBY.

His dread plummets and for a moment his throat closes over. You're speaking to him but he struggles to make it out through the ringing in his ears.

"Jason, I'm – I'm home but I don't – I don't know what to do."

He bites back a curse and tries to swallow the lump in his throat, grappling for words of comfort.

"It's okay," he soothes, straining to keep his voice level. "Listen, sweetheart, can you go lock the door for me? I'm – shit – I'll be home soon, alright? It'll be okay. We'll fix it."

He doesn't give himself time to linger on the call after you confirm you've locked it, barking out a command to dial Oracle that his system fails to pick up twice, only registering after he steadies himself.

She picks up on the third ring. It irritates him how unfazed she sounds when he explains the situation to her. He hears the click of her keyboard in the background, the hum of her monitors. Each passing second as she patches through to Nightwing is agony and the slow crawl of traffic does little to help.

His leg has begun to jostle the bike with the weight of its shaking when she returns to their call.

"You're not going to like this," she says and he feels the bile rising in his throat.

"What." He grits it out through his teeth, unable to manage much more than that. He hears Oracle sigh.

"Looks like an aphrodisiac," she says clinically. "Her plan was to get them caught compromised enough to lose credit publicly."

"Oracle." She hears his growl for what it is – Tell me whether or not it's over.

"It's non-lethal," she affirms and he sighs harshly. The tightness in his chest loosens ever so slightly as she talks. "Ivy let it off near city hall because most of the shareholders were scheduled to hold a meeting – that's where your girl works, right? Alf's working on an antidote but she should be relatively fine until it's ready. Just – keep an eye on her."

Tim joins the line then and Jason startles at the sound of his voice in his ear.

"I don't know what the fuck she wanted to achieve," the boy grumbles. He's a little out of breath and in any other situation, Jason would have something to say about that. Tonight, he's not in the mood for jokes.

"Red," he barks out. The kid makes a distracted noise, and he can hear the sounds of a scuffle on the other end. "You tell Ivy if anything happens to my girl, I'll make sure she's next."

He doesn't wait to hear what's sure to be a non-committal answer at best, kicking off and veering between the lined up vehicles. There's an outroar from the drivers around him, laying on their car horns. Someone pokes their head out of their window to scream at him.

He hears none of it, the blood rushing in his ears keeping him single-minded.

This string that twines him to you isn't new. It wears signs of age, shows the years in the way his fingers reach for yours in the early moments of his day, the turn of your eyes to his in any room. He's seen a few summers with you at his side but the fear –

Blood, coagulating, the cold brush of death, splintered wood beneath nails and a haunting smile

– the fear never stagnates.

A bitter, resigned shard of him breathes out as he speeds through the streets. A veritable sword over his crown, this almost seems expected. Loathing colours the skyline and he, the fool, to think he could hold this one, precious, beloved thing unscathed.

He forgoes the groceries in his haste, leaving the bags in his haste to throw himself up the stairs and out of the parking garage. Pulse thundering in his ears, sweat coating his palms, he scrabbles with the key to your shared apartment.

The door flies open and a hand is grabbing him by the front of his shirt before he can slot it through the lock.

You, wild-eyed and frantic, pull him inside with a bitten off sob.

"Shh, shh, I'm here, come here."

He kicks the door shut, reaching behind him to flip the locks with one hand. The other curls you protectively to his chest, fingers splaying over your back. The sight of you calms him considerably and he chokes out a stuttered breath, the lump in his throat dissolving to give way for a flood of relief.

You're burning in his arms, the thin undershirt you've got on soaked through with sweat, face glowing with perspiration. Eyebrows knitted, you cling to him tighter and he finds himself making noises of comfort.

"Jason, I –"

"Shh. I know, honey, I know," he murmurs, pressing his forehead against yours. Your eyes are tearful, salt spilling over lashes and rolling down your cheeks. "Come on, let's get you to lie down."

"No," you whine, pitching miserably as he shuffles the both of you towards your bedroom, face creasing with every movement. "Hurts."

"I know," he whispers, hating the way his voice cracks. His eyes burn painfully. "'ll get you a towel, alright?"

You're deposited on the bed and he makes a turn for the bathroom, wetting a cloth. When he enters the bedroom again you've pushed yourself up, kneeling on the bed. You've shed the pants you'd worn earlier, left now in only and undershirt and your underwear. His name falls from your lips pitifully and he steps forward, lips turning down into a commiserating frown.

You shy away from the cloth when he presses it against your forehead, letting out a hiss as it makes contact with your burning skin. He brings a hand to the nape of your neck and you seem to like that much better, sighing under his touch. Jason takes advantage of this to keep you in place, mopping the sweat off your face and neck, trying his best not to give into your dissatisfied squirming.

"I know, I'm an asshole," he mutters, when you cry out his name, displeasure making itself clear on your face. "Get better so you can yell at me for it, alright?"

"Don't wanna – yell at you," you mumble, wetting your lips as they part.

He clocks the dilation of your pupils a little too late and shakes his head adamantly, trying to draw back but you've got a hold of his shirt, pulling him forward. He catches himself with a hand agains the headboard, a knee pressing into the mattress beneath him.

You stare up at him, mouth turning down into a pained grimace.

"C'mon honey," he mutters, pleading, feeling his face flood with warmth. "Don't do this to me. Be good, you'll be alright, okay? Any minute they're gonna call and tell me Alf's got an antidote ready – shit, maybe we should just drive you there now -"

"No," you sob, face crumpling under the weight of your tears again, pushing up on your knees to fling your arms around his shoulders. The effort of the movement makes you stutter out a gasp and he's forced to band an arm around your waist to steady the both of you.

Your tears wet the skin of his neck, your body pressed flush against his. He becomes aware, regrettably, of the skin beneath his fingers, your undershirt having ridden up to expose the softness of your lower back.

"Please," you hiccup into his shoulder. "Please, Jason – Please."

He'll have to ask Oracle later if second-hand exposure to the toxin is supposed to have an effect on him. At the touch of your chest to his, he feels himself warm all over, mouth drying when you begin to keen, arching up into his touch in an effort to get him to do something.

"Fuck," he curses. "Fuck. Alright, just – come here."

He kicks his shoes off, the sneakers clattering against the floor, and crawls onto the bed properly. Sat up against the headboard, he meets your baleful gaze with a raised brow and reaches for you.

Jason shakes his head when you go to straddle his lap, maneuvering you against his chest until your back rests against it. You let out a whimper, displeased, but he shakes his head.

"This is all you're getting, alright? Just – it'll tide you over until they call."

He spreads your legs until they hang over his own, your thighs bracketing his and leaving you open. His blood thunders in his ears, hand trembling as he reaches it up to your mouth, fingers prodding at the soft plush of your lips.

Your tongue laves at his digits, a muffled moan trapped in the recesses of your throat. One of your hands curls around his wrist, the other perching against his thigh, nails curling against the fabric of his jeans. He can feel you shift against him, hips canting ever so slightly over his own.

Awful, wretched, lecherous, he stiffens under the movement, jeans tightening. His free hand wraps around you hip with the intent of pinning you in place and stopping you. Somehow, he finds himself guiding you back and forth instead.

You tip your head back against his shoulder, baring the soft line of your throat as you drool around his fingers. He can feel the wetness pooling around his knuckles, the softness of your ass against him, separated only by a few layers. If he cranes his neck, he'll probably find your panties sticky with your need. The thought alone makes his eyes flutter.

The room is blanketed in muffled whimpers, the whispers of rustling sheets and his shaky breaths. You've quietened down some since he'd gotten his fingers in your mouth, but the heat seems to have returned with a vengeance when you begin to fuss in his lap again. Your fingers dig into his thigh and you whine, tugging at his wrist in an effort to push his hand where you need it most.

He hushes you with a squeeze to your hip and tips your face to meet his. Bleary eyed, silvery tracks smattered across your cheeks, you're struggling to hold on. He lowers his mouth to yours, a chaste kiss that deepens when you part your lips to lick into his mouth.

"Jason, come on."

"No, don't take it off," he whispers when your hands make to tug your underwear off. You whine and he hushes you again, "Shh, I'm going to take care of you, be patient for me, alright?"

He slips his fingers beneath the waistband of your panties and watches you shudder at the first swipe. Similarly affected, he feels himself twitch when his fingers make contact with the soft slickness of your flesh, gliding against silken folds.

"Oh," you sigh, sagging slightly into him.

"There you go." He presses a kiss to your sweaty temple, trying to pretend this is just another night together and he's being a loving boyfriend, that you're not delirious with want just because of the toxin running through your bloodstream. "That's my girl."

He presses gentle circles against you, closing his eyes and ghosting his mouth over the curve of your shoulder. The smell of sex is thick in the air, that heady musk and sweat that he could drown in. Your breaths come in pants now as he works you open gently, thumb rolling over your centre.

"Just like that," he rumbles, straining to keep his head on straight. It's difficult, when you arch against him, his name spilling from your lips in adoration coloured mewls. Your arm raises, curling behind you to embrace his neck.

It doesn't take you very long to come, pent up and sensitive – he discovers this when his hand grazes over your chest to stroke your face and you keen so loud he fears he'll come in his pants at the sound, your mouth, bitten raw, dropping open as you moan. A few strokes against your centre and you come apart in his arms, hard. The tremors wrack your body long after the fact, your core pulsing around his fingers.

He, ever the fool, expects this to sate your hunger.

Whatever Ivy's put in her newest concoction is potent. You gather your breath quick enough and it becomes apparent that just the one isn't nearly enough. He's pushed back against the headboard, stunned into silence as you clamber onto his thigh, pawing at him like you can't get close enough.

You struggle with the fabric of his shirt before giving up and any questions he has sputter off into silence when you begin to rock back and forth on him. The denim of his jeans is unforgiving against the thin, sodden material of your underwear, providing a harsh friction that you lose yourself to. He watches, his heart racing, you taking your pleasure for yourself.

It isn't as though you've never done this in front of him – he remembers, blurry, the aftermath of a dinner date that had seen you riding his thigh on the couch, still in your dress.

But this… This feels different.

There's an urgency to this, a franticness running beneath your skin that pushes your hips down harder, more unforgiving. Your face screws up, salt misting your cheeks and neck.

For a moment, Jason almost feels as though he's the one that's been hit. You take on a blurry quality, smudged around the edges like wet paint, wanton, hazy. A gauzy film over his eyes, he blinks, and blinks.

When you come once more, it shatters and he's aware of the stain that's bled into the dark denim on his thigh, a stickiness that's smeared between your thighs. Your panties are ruined and he gulps when he drags his gaze up from between your legs to your face.

Quiet, hungry, you're already staring at him. Your chest heaves with exertion but you remain still otherwise, lips parting in invitation, eyes half-lidded.

"Baby–"

"You said you'd take care of me," you intone beseeching, voice affecting a trembling, delicate quality.

Fuck.

He's never been good at denying you much. Already, he feels the urge to take you into his arms and promise to make it better, but he forces his hand to stay, curling his fingers in the bedsheets.

You crawl forward, until your lips are ghosting over his, eyes swallowing his field of vision until all he can see are the stars in your irises. He feels the

"Jason, please, it still hurts," you whimper quietly, a wounded noise that carves him from the inside out, guilt and shame poisoning his every nerve. He's at war with himself, wanting to ease your pain – he feels responsible for it, in a way – and hesitating similarly. Is this right? Is it okay?

Before he can come up with an answer, you press your mouth to his.

The last of his inhibitions crumbles completely under the plush of your mouth.

He rolls the both of you over, relishing in the gasp you let out, the sight of you splayed against the mattress. He's quick to divest himself of his clothes, tugging his shirt off recklessly, not minding the sound of ripping fabric he vaguely registers hearing. The jeans go next, and his underwear in one, flung to some corner of the bedroom.

Your spit slick mouth curves up into a delighted, drunken smile when he crawls over you, body eclipsing yours with every intent of ravishing you.

Jason holds himself up with one hand, the other reaching to the bedside table and rummaging in the drawer for the box he keeps there. Only, he comes up short and dread dawns over him in a cold wave when he remembers –

He'd used the last of the condoms a few nights ago. It hadn't mattered in the last couple of days, the weekend too busy for the both of you to do much else but curl up next to each other, too exhausted to consider working up a sweat.

"Fuck," he whispers, shaking. "Fuck, baby, there aren't, um…"

Your eyes fill with tears at the unfinished sentence, a hiccuped sob stuttering out of your chest.

"Hey, hey, it's okay," he tries to soothe you, a hand smoothing down your face. "I'll just – I'll run to the store, I'll be back before you know it."

"No, please, just–" Watery eyed and upset, you tug him closer as though fearing he'll take off. "I don't care, I don't, I just – I need you, Jason. Please."

He stares at you, heart thundering in his ears. "Fuck you without –"

"Need you now," you whimper, lips tugging down pitifully into a pout that cuts through his chest.

It isn't as though this is his first time fucking you raw –

Tipsy laughter, hushed whispers of it's fine, just once, we'll get the morning after pill.

– but still. This is different, another ballpark entirely.

You stare up at him, desperation in every crease and curve of your face, pleading with him. Too far gone to care, you beg him.

"I'll, um," he rasps out, throat dry, "I'll pull out."

You make some sort of noise that sounds like a vague affirmation, tugging him closer hastily. Poor, pretty girl. His chest aches at the sight of you, needy, looking to him to fix it.

"I'll fix it," he finds himself muttering, lining himself up with your entrance. You've similarly taken to murmuring under your breath, hands carding through his hair, devotion in your every touch.

"Need you so bad, please, please, baby."

The slick that smears against his head, the soft warmth of you, nearly makes his eyes roll back into his head. A drawn out whimper spills from your lips at the press of his hips, the first inches of him pushing into your tight heat.

You sink into the mattress as he notches himself further inside, mouth opening. You paint an obscene picture, your lips bitten raw, naked chest arched. He lowers his head to mouth at your nipples, teeth teasing at the sensitive points. You're warm, so warm beneath him – around him.

He's given only a moment to breathe before you push your hips up, impatient. Fucking yourself against him, your fingers dig into the muscle of his back for leverage, tucking him close enough to you that he brushes against your neck and tastes the salt on your skin.

Jason sets a harried pace, bucking forward against you. You begin to cry out again, every resounding slap of his skin against yours drawing out a moan that curls tight around him and presses down on his stomach. You exchange panted breaths between open mouthed kisses, tongues and teeth clashing messily, muffled pleas that beg for more, more, more.

Filthy, debauched, it doesn't take very long for you to approach your peak. Jason, lost in the wetness of your cunt, feels his own building and knows this is a dangerous game he's playing, toeing the line of recklessness.

"Close," he pants, feeling the tell-tale fluttering of you around him, your orgasm imminent. If he can just hold out until he's gotten you there –

Your legs wrap around him, hold so tight he's not able to do much more than rock against you in desperate, quick rolls of his hips.

"Inside," you warble. Your hands come to cradle his head, coaxing him down to kiss you, licking up into his mouth sweetly, teeth catching on his bottom lip. "Mmh, please, baby? Please? I – Jason – want it so bad, need you inside."

"Oh fuck," he gasps, voice hitching, breath stuttering. His face creases, overcome, and you grin, dazed, drunken, pulling him into another sloppy kiss. What's he to do?

You scream into his mouth at the same time that Jason comes. His vision whitens at the sensation of your pulsing heat, the unforgiving tightening that demands his orgasm. His fingers dig into the soft flesh at your hips, burying himself to the hilt and surrendering to your claim.

Warm and wet around him, the evidence of his debauchery coats the inside of your thighs and clings to the base of him. He's light-headed, a little winded, and it takes him a moment to gather his sensibilities. When he looks down, he finds you a boneless puddle beneath him, eyelids fluttering tiredly.

He should pull out. He knows he ought to – but he's broken so many rules, what's another? Jason gathers you in his arms and rolls over gently, tucking you against his chest, a hand skimming up and down the length of your spine comfortingly.

"Fuck," he whispers out into the air, and you murmur atop him. He glances down, meeting your bleary eyes. "Y'just had to go and get caught in that crossfire, huh?"

"N'my fault," you grumble, pressing your face back into his chest.

"Gonna give me a heart attack," he grumbles, dropping a kiss to your crown. Then, with a look over at the bedside table, he jostles you a bit. "Hey. Don't fall asleep. We still have to get you the antidote."

"Wake me when 's ready," is your answer, tone somehow managing a prissiness unexpected of someone who'd just been fucked to within an inch of their life, and he drops his head back into the pillows, incredulous.

This girl would be the death of him.

first kinktober 2024 fic let's go!! i genuinely didn't think i was going to be able to commit to kinktober this year (i'm still nervous about whether i'll be able to) because finals are literally just around the corner and i'm stressing. but hopefully you enjoyed the first installment to this year's kinktober and the coming ones don't disappoint, either!

#jasonsmirrorball #jay my heart #jason todd x reader #jason todd x reader smut #jason todd smut #x reader #x fem!reader #x female reader #jason todd fanfiction #kinktober 2024

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hughiecampbelle · 5 months ago

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Supe Preference: Asking You Out

Requested: hi, idk if you write for the supes, but I will try request anyway :D how would the supes ( the boys series) ask a gn reader out? Ty - anon

A/N: I hope this is okay my love! I tried to stay true to character as much as possible, so I'm not sure how romantic some of them are. I tried writing for new Supes too, at least new for me, so apologies if it's not totally in character! Feedback is always appreciated! 💜💜💜

Homelander doesn't exactly ask you out. Rather, on live TV during an interview or event, he grabs your hand and proclaims that you're in love, that you're a couple. Whether or not you're into him, it still comes as a shock. Afterwards he'll ask you on a date where the public and paparazzi can see and take pictures. It's not as intimate as you'd like, but the date goes well. He takes you to an expensive restaurant where you've gotten rid of your suit for something classy and elegant, but he sticks with his regular attire. It's definitely not how you were expecting to be asked out or how you thought your relationship would progress. Ashley thinks it's great! You are both insanely powerful and, for selfish reasons, she wants Homelander off her back. She appreciates that you'll take some of the attention off her.

The Deep probably makes more than a few inappropriate, crude, raunchy jokes about and around you before he properly introduces himself. It's almost compulsive the way his jokes come out. He just can't help himself. He later apologizes and asks to start fresh. Would you want to go out on a date with him? When you say yes, he instantly tells you about all his ideas. You could go to the aquarium or to dinner or to the amusement park or coffee or whatever you want to do. You stick to coffee. It's pretty cute how excited he is. He wasn't expecting you to say yes, so he really didn't have it planned all the way through. He was expecting, like everyone else in his life, for you to call him stupid and move on without answering.

A-Train and you have been dating forever, but you haven't been out on a date in ages. He's still shy trying to ask you out even now. Of course you say yes, excited you'll get some time alone. You might have to reschedule once or twice because Homelander is on the rampage, but when you do get together, he takes you rollerskating. Despite how fast he is in sneakers, he's awful on wheels. He holds your hand the entire time and definitely drags you down when he falls. He stays pretty casual in his clothes and tries to keep his hood up, but it just falls down. You guys find a roller-rink in the middle of nowhere, so you're pretty safe in being discovered. You make fun of his clumsiness and check him for bruises when he falls, especially hard. He makes the same joke over and over: that he "fell" for you. You think he's an idiot, but this is by far one of your most favorite dates.

Queen Maeve asks you out over text. When you say yes, she shows up in her civilian clothes. She makes sure she isn't followed and that Homelander is distracted the entire day. She takes you to the movies. It's dark and secluded, but she knows you love movie theater popcorn specifically with all the butter and the blue raspberry slushies, and you picked the only movie not funded by or produced by Vought. It's a really terrible comedy, but you two can laugh at it anyway. Maeve even holds your hand during the movie which makes her heart beat out of her chest. Afterwards she makes you stay after to kiss you and tell you she had a really great time. It's the first time in forever where she's felt like a real person whose allowed to do real person things. She wants to get your read on it, but you're both excited for a second date.

Firecracker would ask you on a date to some fast food restaurant where you can get the best greasy food and the thickest milkshakes. She'll definitely be sported because she doesn't go incognito and ends up spending a few minutes at least taking pictures and videos for everyone who wants one. She apologizes for them, but secretly, she loves it. You don't mind. You knew what you were getting into when you said yes to the date. She tells you about her life growing up and her past with Starlight. You tell her about your own life and how you came to New York to follow your dreams. She tells you about joining The Seven and what she really thinks of Vought. It isn't the most magical date, but you're glad you said yes. It made you feel like a teenager again, getting food with your old crush, trying to play it cool when you're actually freaking out.

Soldier Boy doesn't really ask you out on a date. You two *get busy* in bed and afterwards he asks if you'd want to go to a bar. You say yes and find yourself at a local hole in the wall, a place that definitely doesn't see new faces. Most of the patrons are as old as Ben would be if he'd aged. He looks so familiar to them, but they can't figure out where he's from. An old friend? An old co-worker? Regardless, they don't pay attention to the two of you. You and Ben start trying to out drink one another and though his tolerance is astronomically higher than yours, you keep up enough to impress him. You two probably go back to bed and keep drinking, sharing stories about your lives between sweaty sheets and shared sips of whatever booze he has lying around. It's not too official, but you both kind of think of it as a date.

Bonus! Annie asks you to go bowling with her. Like in the show, she plays it off like she's not very good until you point it out to her. That's when she starts kicking your ass. She's really embarrassed and worried that you'll think she's showing off or just trying to make you feel bad, but you love it. You love her strength. You love her showing off and almost breaking the pins with the ball. You get really awful bowling alley food and beers, and it's a really fun night despite all the drama that comes with being Starlight. It's the first time in a long time she's felt normal and safe and excited to be here, excited to be herself. You're not shy about asking for a second date, though you know you're risking a lot by wanting to be with her. She makes that known before anything else.

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pedgito · 7 months ago

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𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐀 𝐅𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 | Javier Pena x reader

summary | this is my own entry for the summer lovin' challenge, somehow torturing myself further by writing a fic amongst all my other wips and helping organize this challenge. there's sweaty javi p and office sex, that's all you need to know.

content warning | heavy smut, teasing upon teasing upon teasing, lots of mentions of heat/sweat, perfect use of ice in a situation like this, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, public-ish sex

word count — 5k

You curse quietly over your second paper cut of the day, nursing your pointer finger between your lips and silently reprimanding yourself for agreeing to help Steve—he was good at begging, you could give him that, and a hell of a sweet talker when he wanted to be. He always wore you down, a promise of coffee every day for a week on him, or lunch the following day, anything to sweeten the deal. This time it was neither.

“I rescheduled twice already,” He’s pointed out the reasons on his fingers, extending them out as he numbers them and using his finger to add emphasis as he pressed down on them as he went, “we finally have someone to watch Olivia for us this evening, and you know, you won’t even be alone—Pena’s staying late.”

He wiggled his three fingers like it was the best deal you’ve ever been offered, a smile growing on his face as he attempted to pass over the file that you took with reluctance, blowing out a puff of air and clutching it to your chest, arms crossed over the manila folder as you glance at your dainty watch—four in the afternoon. Not bad. Not great, either. You’ve stayed later—given your commute is only about five minutes. You tended to pick up the slack, for everyone, but mostly those boys. You weren’t sure how it ended up this way, but even Carillo acknowledged it.

You did grunt work, small and miniscule things in the lives of two DEA agents who were out in the field hunting a notorious cartel leader every day—but you, you were dealing with papercuts and carpal tunnel, it wasn’t nearly as comparable.

And Javier Pena made sure to remind you every chance he had.

You pluck at the group of files labeled La Quica and El Limon, a hefty collection of data that has been compiled for the past several months and felt never ending—you were nearing the point of understanding every piece of information in this room back to front, knowing far too much about the cartel than you originally intended. It was terrifying; even seeing the look on either of the men’s faces when they returned back from a hard day of busts and undercover work.

And, maybe Javier just figured you didn’t care or wouldn’t be able to comprehend half of what was stored away in these files—but he sure wasn’t quiet about it.

It’s been around an hour now, tearing through the unorganized mess that the file room had become.

Mumbling the names under your breath as you drag your finger over the sticky note and kneeling down until your practically on all fours, digging through a box on the floor with your head tucked and oblivious to Javier as he rounds the corner to the secluded room, heavy footsteps falling on deaf ears, too entranced in the task to notice him.

He clears his throat with distinction and your head snaps up, looking clearly disturbed and annoyed—Javier offers a superficial smile and points a finger at the pile on the floor, his shoulder leaned against one of the tall shelves holding boxes upon boxes of crucial information.

Your eyebrows raise in expectation, head shaking slightly at him as you urge him to speak and get on with whatever comment he was dying to make as he continued to stare down, licking his lips briefly before they finally part and—

“Those the files we’ve been asking for?”

That Steve has been asking for—Not Javier, never Javier. He’s too macho and mighty for paperwork and sitting at a desk all day.

“It is part of them,” You say with emphasis, “I still have an entire section to go through. Steve asked me to pull everything we have on those two.”

“Well, everyone’s leaving—and I know where most of the shit is. I got it, you can head out.”

You seethe, jaw clenched and your eyebrow furrows as you stand, a pile of strewn papers in your arms.

“You know, instead of going through Steve to have me fetch the stuff you need—I don’t know, you could just man up and ask me directly.”

He has no idea what you’re talking about.

Except, he does.

He’s shoved off work to Steve who was enough of a pushover for his friend and partner, to pick it up when he had time, but this time it had landed on a busy day, a busy weekend, there just wasn’t enough time for him to handle it.

“La Quica, El Limon—Carillo was talking to you about them this morning. What’s got you so tied up that you couldn’t handle it yourself?” You ask accusatory, back turned to him as you walk toward the table in the center of the room.

“We’ve got leads to check out, muñequita.”

Out of your wheelhouse. Yeah—Okay, that explains it.

You roll your eyes at the nickname and drop the stack with a distinct thunk before moving past him, narrowly avoiding his broad shoulders as you walk past him, through the half-open door as you grab for one of the styrofoam cups on the water dispenser before spooning the ice into it and filling it with water, sipping with a distinct look of disdain as you eye Javier up and down, seeing that he’s followed you over, half in the doorway and half out.

“If you’re going to stand there the least you could do is help me,” You tell him, “that way we can both get out of here faster and not have to spend any more time together than we need to.”

“It’ll be faster if I do it myself,” He tells you, a metaphorical shoo-ing away as he nods toward the stairwell at the end of the hall, “I know this room like the back of my hand.”

“Have you been in here lately? It’s a mess. No one ever puts anything back in the right spot.”

Javier’s got his signature pout on, looking downtrodden and pathetic behind his thick mustache perched on his upper lip, the constant look of being unimpressed by everything.

“I’m not leaving, Javier. You’re welcome to help, stay late, whatever—but I’ve been in this room, in this heat for an hour already and you’re not about to swoop in and snatch the credit for something you couldn’t be bothered doing yourself in the first place, alright?”

Javier looks surprised at that, not as much by the bite in your tone but the lack of snide comment, not calling him an asshole or a prick and storming off. Again, you brush past him with your drink in hand and take your seat, feeling the thin layer of sweat covering your body—it wasn’t that unbearable, but another hour and you would be a hell of a lot more crankier.

“Fine—” You respond, eyes tracking elsewhere as he moves form his place against the open door, only catching the lingering shadow of the door as it closed until it was far too late, “fuck, Javi! The—”

A loud click and Javier’s reaction time, given his ability to pull out a gun and have it propped at the ready in half a second, is far too slow. He turns, seeing the now closed door and turns back to you.

“Door,” You say, voice falling flat.

Javier backtracks and heads for the door, hoping and praying this was one of the days it wouldn’t lock—it was a tricky thing. Only working half of the time. Luckily, any other time it was during the day, surrounded by people who could help. But, now—it’s the two of you and no one else.

If you were pissed at Javier before, you were fuming now.

He jiggles the doorknob. Nothing. Fist pounding against the door. Nothing.

A quick shout out to anyone. Anything. Hoping someone would still be near.

Nothing. Not a sound.

“We’re stuck,” You sneer at him, “—sit down or that jiggling is going to drive me insane.”

He kicks the door for good measure, hoping by some miracle it might actually pop open.

You huff out an exhausted laugh under your breath and spread your hands out over the files, sorting out the important information and pictures from the notes and extra files that weren’t really needed. Javier approaches slowly and you take a sip of the water, thankful that you were at least able to reward yourself with that before you ended up in this mess.

Javier takes a look at his own watch and clicked his tongue before resigning to the fact that things weren’t going to go his way, dancing his fingers along the edge of the table as he took a seat, fingertips pressed into the surface as he settled, watching you casually under the flickering overhead light.

A few minutes slowly turn into several, quiet aside from the occasional shuffling of paper or sips of your water and you find that when no one else is around, Javier isn’t a total asshole. There’s no harsh quip or snide comment being lobbed your way but you can also tell that he’s just as frustrated as you, knowing that he needed to sift through this intel too.

But, the heat was sweltering—so distracting and despite the setting sun outside, had you reaching for a few buttons on your blouse as you leaned back, sighing as you picked up an empty file folder and fanned yourself in earnest, exposing your neck as you hung your head back.

You don’t hear Javier, but you feel him. His eyes on you as you lift your head back up.

Bewilderment. Annoyance. You can’t place it in the moment, he doesn’t even speak. But, you find yourself responding anyway.

“What? It’s hot.”

Javier throws a casual hand up in defense but his eyes follow your hand as they descend into your styrofoam cup, water long gone but the ice standing strong. You take a piece and cup it in your palm before rubbing it over your neck, instantly sighing at the crisp cold touch of it against your skin and aptly ignoring how it drips down the valley of your breasts, looking up to catch Javier at just the right time, his eyes looked on your movements and more pointedly—your chest.

“Here, try it,” You tell him, noticing the sheen of sweat on his neck, “it helps.”

He plucks a cigarette out of his half-empty pack and places it between his lips.

“I’m good.”

“Suit yourself, “ You shrug, but quickly lean forward to pluck the cigarette from his mouth and place it down on the table, “–hey, can you not?”

Javier looks at you in disbelief, snatching the cigarette off the table and tucking it away anyways.

“You smoke in this place all day, you can at least wait until we’re out of here.”

“Do you ever loosen up?” Javier pokes at you daringly, “I mean, what does it really take for you to pull that skirt out of your ass?”

“Not you,” You reply sharply, a smile spreading across your face, “but, putting away the cigarette is a start.”

Javier leans back in the chair with a dignified sigh, scratching at his forehead in frustration at the lack of progress and the fact that he literally has no way out of here.

“You know, he’s been off the grid for three weeks,” You speak out loud, knowing that Javier is well aware, “is there really anything in here that is going to help? Or is it just that all of the leads are dead?”

His demeanor breaks slightly, a shuffle in his shoulders as he crosses his arms over his chest.

“Both—maybe. This shit is probably pointless.”

“And that’s why you wanted me to take care of it,” You respond conclusively, “but you’re impatient—you don’t have to argue with me, I know you are.”

“Really, muñequita, you think you know me so well?” Javier asks testingly, tongue swiping over his bottom lip, “What else do you know about me?”

“That you like your ego boosted,” You retort, “and I’m not about to do that. So—”

“I didn’t ask you to,” Javier says with a smirk, eyes glinting with a faint, creeping darkness.

“Shut up,” You say in a clipped town before looking around curiously, “and what are we supposed to do now? Sleep here? I really can’t believe you fucking locked us in.”

“No, no—” Javier's finger wags in a motion that makes you want to bite them off, jaw clenching forcefully, “if you hadn’t wasted so much time then maybe we could have flagged down someone.”

“Okay, but you still let that door close.”

Once again, both arms crossed over your chest, a staredown is initiated.

It wasn’t the first, it wasn’t the last, but you wanted to ruin him.

Knock him down a beg—hell, kick him off the pedestal and wipe the goddamn floor with him.

That stupid smirk, the boiling tone of cockiness wrapped in self-righteousness.

“Don’t think too hard, cariño.”

You huff out a half-impressed laugh and organize the files after a moment, stacking them to the side and reaching into your cup for another piece of your melting ice, repeating the same motion as earlier as you slide the ice between your breasts, but with the immense amount of eye contact you didn’t give Javier the first time.

Stubborn girl. He knew that much about you.

Javier doesn’t break immediately, but the small flex in his jaw, the slightest of cracks in his hard exterior.

Attack. Attack. Attack.

You wipe your arm against your sleeve, subconsciously pressing your breasts together in the process and Javier looks like he might keel over, eyes flicking up to meet your gaze now—he’s been caught. Gazing. Admiring. Seering to his memory for a later time.

You’re not really sure but you’re not going to let him off easy either.

“Now, Pena—Don’t think too hard.” You tell him in a sickly sweet tone, “It’s just a pair of tits.”

I don’t bite—you want to add. But, you don’t.

Because even if you found Javier attractive…there was just no way.

No. Not possible.

“What is it?” Javier asks curiously, seemingly snapped out of his stupor, and meeting your gaze like he hadn’t just been staring directly at your breasts for far too long. “About me, I mean?”

You raise an eyebrow, finger circling the styrofoam cup as you center on the table.

“What?” You ask with a soft laugh of disbelief. “It’s—it isn’t your looks, Javier. It’s all of you. You undermine me, you treat me like a fucking lap dog. I might be a bitch but—I am not your bitch.”

He wasn’t expecting that intense of a response, it felt even more eerie as your tone continued on steadily. He considers interrupting but you continue, holding a finger up to stop him.

“You know—I transferred here to help with the assignment, collect the intel and take down Pablo Escobar just like you, but for some reason, you seem to think I’m just a personal assistant. Or one of the few receptionists who all want to throw themselves at you.”

“There something wrong with that?”

You roll your eyes in silence, but the gesture is loud.

“Did I say there was?” You counter, “I think the problem for you is that it isn’t me. That someone might actually find you repulsive, right?”

Javier only looks slightly dumb-founded, following your movements as you stand and fetch the stack of files, returning them to their make-shift home for the moment, buried away on a shelf that could be reorganized later—he turns in his chair, glaring right back at you when you turn on your heels.

“Your legs don’t work?” You ask him, nodding toward thfew smaller stacks of files scattered about the table, “If you want to get the work done so bad, clean up—or do you want me to—”

“I. Got it.” Javier responds stiffly, standing on his own two feet. He scoops up the remaining files and puts them away opposite of the shelf you had, resting a palm on an empty spot as you lean back to pick up a stray piece of paper. “But, don’t act like I don’t see you kissing Carillo’s—”

You stand and shove the paper into his chest, “Finish that sentence and you will regret it, Javier.”

“It’s alright. No shame in your game and all that.”

Fuck this.

You reach for the cup of melted ice, splashing it promptly in Javier’s face before crushing the cup in your hand out of frustration, a moment of frozen realization coming to you.

Had you actually just done that?

Javier blinks, looking down at his soaked front before promptly removing his jacket in haste watching as you slowly back away, slightly disturbed by his calmness until he’s rearing on you.

Slowly—oh, so fucking slow.

Your chest rises in slow, deep breaths and is nearly hanging off your shoulders by now, riddled with red, hot rage.

“Tell me I don’t make you even a little bit nervous, muñequita.”

Is this a challenge? Is this what he’s worried about?

“You don’t.”

Your response is quick, but you find yourself pressed against a file cabinet and a few inches of free space before he’s right there—so close you can feel the heat of his body, your heart races slightly.

Okay, maybe just…a little.

“Again,” Javier beckons, a sneer to his tone as he crowds you in—“Look at me and say it.”

And for the love of god, the words never come.

“You let me flirt with you because you like it. Never correct me when I give you those little nicknames—look at you, you can’t even deny it.”

A half-truth. You didn’t mind it, but it wasn’t some sort of sustenance keeping you alive. Besides, it didn’t make up for half of the times he’s belittled you in front of your shared boss.

The heat is suffocating now and Javier’s eyes follow the trail of sweat down your neck, over your breasts, watching your fingers twitch at your side because—

Why do you feel the need to touch him so badly now?

To receive that touch in return and tenfold.

“¿Qué pasa, pobrecita?”

His fingers curl around the edge of the file cabinet behind you, barricading you between the wall and him and if you decided to show any signs of discomfort you knew Javier would back off in a heartbeat—you didn’t even need to say anything.

“Is that what it took?” You ask, voice soft in the small gap he’s created, eyes softening slightly as he hears you speak, “Being locked in here with me, nothing else to do—that’s what it takes for you to see me as anything other than some lowly little assistant to you?”

“You’re so fucking stubborn,” Javier says fondly, holding back a chuckle in his throat before his free hand is reaching for your neck and forcing your chin up and back, his thumb rubbing into the soft spot where your jaw twitches under his touch, swallowing hard.

“I thought you hated me.”

“I can say the same for you,” Javier responds, tilting his head slightly.

You’re so hot under his touch, skin clammy and wet from the ice and broken AC.

“I’m not saying I don’t.”

Javier presses his body against you slowly, your hands reaching for his shirt instinctively, curling into the fabric and feeling it stick to his skin, feel the weight of his chest against yours, and the very obvious strain of his slacks against your thin pencil skirt.

“And I never said I did,” Javier counters, “doesn’t change the fact that you get under my skin, querida.”

Javier leans in slow, that heavy eye contact never breaking until he’s there—nose pressed against your own and you sigh, breathing into his mouth as your eyes fall closed and he knows.

His lips are soft, careful. It feels like a test.

Your resolve melts in an instant, damning Javier for whatever spell he’s placed on you but you want more, hands skirting slowly up his front until they’re molding around his neck, kissing back with a similar eagerness, still laced in trepidation.

Things ramp up quickly, Javier’s fingers finding the edge of your shirt where it’s tucked into your skirt, pulling it free and squeezing at your sides, forcing your ass down against his knee from where it's tucked between your legs, somehow finding its way there in the chaos.

“Jav—Javier,” You breathe, pulling away, “maybe—maybe this isn’t the best place…”

Your eyes trail toward the camera tucked away in the corner of the room, knowing that it had to have some pretty damning evidence by this point—the list was long and you tried not to think about it for too long before Javier’s voice is pulling you back.

“That thing hasn’t worked in weeks,” He reassures and the flickering light above dims slightly, almost on cue, “are you scared of getting caught?”

You shake your head slowly and his smile grows, lips pressed against your own as he speaks and his hands tight at your hips, pressing your core right at the center of his thigh and pushing your skirt up until it’s bunched over your ass. You throb at the pressure, breathing out shakily.

“Then let go, muñequita,” He coos.

You hum, breath catching as he pushes his thigh up, your hips instinctively rocking against the pressure and if the heat weren’t already overwhelming, you would’ve passed out from that alone.

“It’s cute,” His hands aid your movement, a slow but steady rock of your hips as you furrow your brow at his voice, “—yeah that, you do that little thing with your brow whenever I talk to you.”

“Because I can’t s—stand you,” You voice falters, feeling him pick up the pace slightly to match your sudden eagerness, months without a proper sexual partner outside of yourself and you couldn’t help but be just a little bit more open to the idea of fucking someone who wasn’t your first option, or second—not even your last. Javier was nowhere on your list, actually.

But, here he was. Offering himself over to you.

Besides, you had an entire night stuck alone with him—it wasn’t the worst way to entertain yourselves.

“Doesn’t seem that way right now,” Javier counters, his ego shining through.

“Stop. Talking.” You plead, hands pulling at the seam of buttons on his shirt, pulling at it roughly in two quick, forceful movements until it splits open, mangling some of the buttons in the process but if upsets him, he doesn’t say a word.

Instead, he rips it away just as quick, pulling his leg away to descend to his knees, pushing your blouse up your chest until he can reach bare skin, mouthing at the soft skin of your stomach and—christ, it’s distracting. He yanks at the short zipper on your skirt, making a small noise of happy acknowledgement when he’s able to get it undone and pull your skirt down the rest of the way, breath hot over your underwear as he stares up at you, fingers curled around the thread at your hips.

You nod silently and he presses his mouth against your center, teasing kisses along your inner thighs that slowly turn into playful bites until you’re nearly squirming, begging with a softer version of his name that you never tried to let him catch you using.

“Javi, please.”

He pulls your panties down your legs, over your heels and to the floor with little care, too focused on settling your leg over his shoulder before a hand is curling over the top of your thigh, fingertips digging in as he licks a broad stripe through the center of your pussy, his other hand balled into the fabric of your shirt and you need less—less clothing, less restriction.

You fumble with your buttons, head falling back against the metal of the filing cabinet with a sigh as the tip of his tongue slides over your clit and down, a motion he repeats several times in your poor attempts to undress and chuckles against you when you curse, finally getting your top unbuttoned and letting it sag at your shoulders, your fingers buried in his hair as he groans, lapping at you eagerly as his hand rises blindly until he can squeeze at your breast.

You moan loudly, instinctively covering your mouth at the sound as Javier pulls back in subtle shock himself, surprised that you allowed yourself to be so vocal about how he was affecting you.

“Not a fucking word, Javi.” You berate him, pushing a finger into his forehead gently which he takes in stride, laughing quietly.

“No one is here.” He reminds you, “Listen.”

And you do, Javier slowly rising to his feet and pressing his lips against the side of your neck, working at his belt in time, shucking his pants open just enough for you to slip your hand into his boxers, gripping his cock tight in your hand—still, absolute silence.

“Let me fuck you,” Javier begs—begs with fervor, his breath hot against your ear, “please?”

You nod jerkily, feeling him settle his slacks just low enough that they aren’t a nuisance and pulling the thigh that was resting over his shoulder around his hip, his fingers digging into your ass as you tug at him testingly, enjoying the look on his face when you squeeze a little harder than he’s expecting, enjoying the heavy weight of him in your hand.

“Oh, I can fuck that hate right out, querida ” Javier admonishes, “don’t try me.”

“I dare you,” You challenge him, using your free hand to pull at the hair at the nape of his neck, earning a soft grunt in return, “—just remember to pull out, yeah?”

Javier full on snorts at that, a noise muffled into your neck when he leans forward, guiding himself to press against your cunt before he sinks in, both of your momentary hostility turning to full bliss.

His hand curves around the back of your head, a simple gesture but maybe more of a warning, his hips snapping into you suddenly, quickly, jostling you against the hard surface. He was protecting your head from the sharp edge of the cabinet and you almost laughed at the thought, but his impatient, fevered movements are sending you into a spiral, eyes rolling back.

“Stay with me,” He teases softly, lips at the base of your neck, “want you to look at me while I fuck you.”

And you do, boldly, despite how your heart races. You let your body do the work, shutting your mind off for the moment—the hesitation, the worry, the regret that would hit you five minutes after this was over.

You don’t remember it feeling like this, either. The full body sensation, his gaze heating you from the inside out, your thumb slipping over his bottom lip curiously, his teeth biting down gently on the digit as he fucks you deeper into the surface of the cabinet, if that was possible.

There are no words, just sounds—moans that could be heard across the bullpen if someone was close enough and Javier, who is plenty vocal and has shown himself to be, can’t even form words, grunting with every few sharp snaps of his hips, fucking you so thouroughly it aches.

“Touch yourself,” He instructs, “let me see, muñequita. Wanna know.”

It doesn’t matter if he’s thought about it before—or, if somewhere in the deep, dark shadows of your mind that you might have had the same thought about him too.

There is no convincing, feeling yourself so on the edge already that it wouldn’t take much. And it doesn’t, your hand descending until your fingers graze over your clit, steadily bringing yourself closer and closer, legs shaking under Javi’s grip until he has to bear most of your weight as you come, blunt fingernails digging into his shoulder as you cry out. And he’s there too, so close and hanging on by a thread, the unsteady thrust of his hips a tell-tale sign.

Your heart is racing, mind too, and the words that come out aren’t anything of rational thinking.

“In my mouth,” You tell him, sounding more earnest than you ever have.

“You sure?”

You laugh through the exhaustion.

“Are you really questioning that?”

He shakes his head in amusement before he’s patting the back of your neck gently and urging you to your knees, jerking himself into your open mouth a few seconds before he’s coming, somehow managing to keep the moment tender as he holds your chin and squeezes gently, watching you swallow down the heady taste of him with your eyes locked on his.

“So, what now?” You ask jokingly, taking the hand he offers to you after a moment of him tucking himself back into his jeans, cursing when you shoulder bumps a stack of files on the way up, dropping them to the floor in a pile.

Javier fetches your clothes and hands them over, redressing himself before plucking at the files hastily.

You’re nearly dressed when you hear him curse behind you.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

“Hm?” You turn on your heels, busy tucking your shirt back into your skirt when you spot the item in his hands—a small gold key. “Well—don’t fucking stare at it. Try it.”

Javier approaches the door with quick footsteps, followed by your softer ones as you slip on your heels, gasping as the key turns in the lock and suddenly—the past couple of hours dissipates in an instant.

“Look at it this way,” Javier says lightly, “we’d still be stuck in here otherwise.”

Being that, if he hadn’t fucked you against the filing cabinet you’d be spending your night sleeping on the murky carpet of the file room floor—so, as usual, Javier Pena saves the day.

“Let me give you a ride home,” Javier suggests, “it’s the least I could do.”

“I live like three blocks away from—”

“Humor me?”

You chew at your bottom lip hesitantly.

Javier reaches forward suddenly, soothing the worry with his thumb.

“Pobrecita, if it isn’t all gone, we can try again?”

You slap his hand away gently, wordlessly taking his offer as you step past him, watching as his smile grows to a satisfied grin.

“You didn’t say no,” He adds.

Maybe he hadn’t fucked all of the hate out of you, but it was a start.

↝ special thanks to @undercoverpena for taking a look over this for me <3

↝ divider credit: yours truly.

#javier peña #javier pena x reader #javier pena x you #javier pena x y/n #javier pena smut #javier pena fanfiction #javier pena fic #narcos fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #SummerLovin24 #my writing

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moody-alcoholic · 6 months ago

Text

The Missing Piece

Chapter 2 - Dinner Date

Summary: Ghoap x Reader, throuple. 4.6k words. Reader is female (she/her), army nurse, non descript physical features, names used: Ashe.

CW: Mentions of sex, description of injuries/ scars, alcohol, little bit of fluffy touching.

Previous parts - masterlist - next

AO3

Enjoy <3

You’re early again standing outside the coffee shop doors. Johnny didn’t give you much warning asking if you were free that afternoon. You should have said no, rescheduled for another day. You didn’t want to come across as desperate, you didn’t want them to think you had nothing better to do then wait around for Johnny’s text. In truth that’s all you had been doing. You had spent the last two days trying to distract yourself, thoroughly cleaning the flat and yourself. The vague talk of sex had you scrubbing and waxing your body within an inch of its life.

You take a breath and walk into the cafe, the place is warm and you find yourself taking your coat off walking up to the counter, ordering a tea. You pick a spot where you can see the door this time. You flick through social media on your phone trying to calm yourself, checking the door every time it opens. It didn’t take long before you clock Johnny and Simon walking in.

Johnny is standing up on his tiptoes making him almost taller then Simon. Your heart skips a beat as Johnny spots you walking over to you dragging Simon behind him. He’s not wearing his usual skull balaclava, instead a the bottom half of his face is covered with black surgical mask and his hood pulled up. He sits down while Johnny takes his jacket off placing it over the back of the chair

“Need another?” He asks pointing at your cup.

“No, I’m good,” you say gripping it. Johnny smiles walking behind Simon pulling his hood down as he makes his way to the counter. You smile eyes fixated on Simon's curly golden locks. His eyes are a deep chocolate brown, his meets your gaze and you blush looking away. You take another sip of your tea, your leg bouncing under the table as you wait in silence for Johnny to come back. He places a cup in front of Simon and sits down with his own.

“How’ve ya been lass?” Johnny asks his infectious smile beaming on his face.

“Good, busy.” You say. “What about you two?”

“Ah nothing much, enjoying some time off.” Johnny says his hand resting on Simon's thigh. You look at Simon he seems tense his eyes scrunched studying your face, he seems like the polar opposite of Johnny. You simile at him anyway taking another sip of your tea.

“Plan on going anywhere with your leave?” Johnny asks.

“Maybe see a few friends, rest mostly.” You reply sighing.

“You got family?” Johnny asks raising an eyebrow. A lump forms in your throat.

“Yeah but we don’t speak much.” You reply swallowing the lump away.

“Are you a virgin?” Simon ask’s the question catching you so off guard you gasp your mouth hanging open.

“I think what Simon is trying to ask is have you ever had a boyfriend?” Johnny says squeezing Simon's thigh. You let out a smile at Johnny his presence calming you.

“Eh, yeah a few, never anything serious though.” You explain without going into too much detail.

“We must seem quite unusual, but I promise we don’t make a habit of taking pretty girls out for coffee.” Johnny winks. You blush.

“It’s fine-I mean I don’t care-if you take pretty girls out for coffee..” You blurt out trying to act like you’re totally not freaking out with these two sat in front of you. Johnny chuckles sipping his coffee. Simon hasn’t touched his, he’s leaned back in his chair arms folded.

“How do you do it? The threesomes?” You ask, skipping straight to the point. You’ve had the last two days to imagine the scenarios Johnny and Simon must get themselves into. “If you don’t make a habit of taking girls out for coffee first?” Johnny laughs.

“We’ve only tried it twice, you’d be surprised how many dating apps there are for this stuff.” Johnny looks at Simon who looks back at him, his eyes soften as Johnny strokes his thigh.

“Just hookups, it’s like scratching round an itch, it doesn't feel quite right.” Johnny looks at you. You tried to pick up on what that meant, you’d always been pretty vanilla in the bedroom, not inexperienced but this was new territory.

“Why ask me?” You say nervously tapping the mug in your hand. Johnny smiles.

“Well for one you’re drop dead gorgeous love, been playing on our minds ever since the day we saw you.” You look down at the table feeling embarrassed tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Normally, when we talk about it it’s cos we have that itch that needs to be scratched. With you it’s like, there’s a full body rash and we desperately need you to itch it.” You see Simon roll his eyes at Johnny metaphor, but you get the point. Guess it’s now or never bite the bullet or turn them away. You look at them both again your eyes flicking between them, taking in a deep breath.

“So you’re looking for a hookup?” You ask, your eyes flicking to Simon who hasn’t said a word since his last question, but his eyes have never left you.

“No, something different…” Johnny trails off, you bring your tea up to take a sip looking back at him.

“A relationship.” Simon blurts out. You swallow your tea hard looking over at Simon.

“But you two are married,” you say frowning, putting the cup down.

“Happily, but we both feel like there’s something missing.” Johnny says looking at Simon who looks back at him. You’d heard about this kind of dynamic before, people in 3 way relationships, seen documentaries and YouTube videos that kind of thing. It always seemed to be 2 women and one man though.

“It’s it illegal isn't it?” You ask quietly. Johnny chuckles.

“Only if you marry multiple people.”

“Oh,” you don’t know why that disappointed you, they’re all ready married. You sigh looking at them not quite sure what to say next.

“How about we cook you dinner some time? You can come to our flat, we can chill out no pressure, just getting to know each other. See how the night goes.” Johnny suggests. You find yourself smiling again.

“Sure,” you say nodding. A dinner date, one that might end in sex has your tummy doing flips excitedly, the previous nerves being washed away.

“How about on Friday? I’ll text you the address?” Johnny asks. You nod sipping the last of your tea and check your watch.

“Sounds good.” You smile going to get up.

“Haven’t scared you away ‘ave we lass?” Johnny asks.

“No, I just-I want to get home before rush hour and I’m crammed on the tube like a sardine.” You say as you walk round the table. Johnny laughs getting up giving you a hug. You say goodbye and leaving the cafe.

…

Later that evening after a microwave meal and a few glasses of wine to quell your nerves you get a text.

Thanks for today xx

You smile at the kisses.

No problem, can’t wait for Friday xx

Your belly is doing flips again, your mind wondering to the meeting today. Johnny and Simon had been on your mind for days now.

Wear something sexy ;) xx

Holy shit that sent tingles through your body. The wine mulling you out, the thought of a skimpy dress being ripped off your body by Simon and Johnny forced its way into your head making your body shiver.

Of course ;) xx

There let his imagination go wild.

——————————

Johnny and Simon's flat was in a very affluent part of London on the Thames, a place you had only ever been too once. You double checked the address before pressing the correct buzzer. There are a few seconds before a voice comes through.

“Who is it?”

“It’s Ashe,” You say.

“Ah come on up!” Johnny’s energetic voice comes through the speaker. The door buzzes and you make your way to the lift taking it up to the 6th floor. You grip the neck of he bottle of wine you bought, pulling down the bottom of your dress again. It had been almost half a year since you had dressed yourself up like this. Your heels felt especially uncomfortable, but you did promise sexy, you hoped it was enough.

You make it to the door, your hand shaking as you ring the bell, theres no turning back now. It’s Simon who opens it, it’s the first time you have ever seen him without a mask. His hair freshly groomed, he’s stunning just like johnny, you fight to keep your jaw from dropping. You’re not sure what you were expecting but the sight of him makes you blush.

“Wine,” you say thrusting it into his hands. He smiles taking it and stepping aside. Holy shit it’s the kind of smile that makes you weak at the knees, it’s maybe even more palpable then Johnny’s. Their flat is nice, big windows, open plan, great view of the city. You start to take your coat off when you feel Simon’s hands on your shoulder’s helping you slip it off.

“Thanks,” you say turning to him as he hangs it on a hook. He makes his way back over to you lightly pressing his hand on the small of your back leading you down the hall. The touch sends electricity up your spine but you’re quickly distracted by the amazing smells coming out the kitchen. You look to see Johnny pushing something round in a pan, he looks at you, his mouth dips open as he leans back putting one hand on his hip taking you in.

“Well ain’t you a sight to behold.” A wave of embarrassment falls over you and you look at your feet for a second heat rushing to your cheeks.

“Wine?” Simon asks his hand leaving your back as he heads to a cupboard to take out glasses.

“Yes, please,” you say a little too quickly, Johnny chuckles turning his attention back to the food. Simon pours the glasses handing one to you and placing one next to Johnny. He leans up against the sink behind Johnny who turns to see him sipping his wine. He reaches down and picks up his glass.

“Cheers!” He says holding it up then taking a sip. You follow taking a big gulp.

“What are you cooking?” You ask moving over to stand closer to Johnny looking at the various pots and pans working on the hob.

“Chicken alfredo,” He says proudly putting the lid on the pan with the chicken in.

“It smells amazing,” you say, it’s true the smell has your mouth watering.

“It’ll be done soon just need to wait on the pasta.” You nod turning your head to look at Simon still leaning against the sink. His eyes meet yours, and a small smile appears on his lips, you take another sip of your wine feeling your body relax as you smile back at Simon feeling your heart flutter.

He seems different more relaxed when he’s in his own home, not like the big scary skull guy you’re used to seeing round the base. His eyes are soft but always alert, flicking between you and Johnny. He’s nothing like the rumours you’ve heard, you’re starting to think it’s just because he’s special forces. They do have to do some horrible stuff sometimes. You take another sip of wine, you’re not here to psychoanalyse him.

“Need a hand with anything?” You ask, feeling like you need to do something other then standing around gawking at them.

“Don’t be silly lass you’re a guest,” Johnny says as he pulls out a piece of pasta tasting it. “Why don’t you go sit down with Simon, the food is pretty much done anyway.” You nod letting Simon lead you to the dining table. You take a seat as Simon sits opposite you.

“How long you been in the Army?” He asks.

“4 years,” You say. “What about you?”

“I stopped keeping count.” He says as Johnny comes over with the first plate placing it in front of you.

“Thank you, it looks great.” You say watching as he places a plate in front of Simon.

“If there’s one thing Johnny is good at it’s cooking.” Simon says as Johnny walks back into the kitchen smiling.

“That’s why I married him.” Simon says quieter leaning over to you. You can’t help but chuckle. Johnny comes back sitting with his plate and a bottle of wine.

“Well dig in,” he says picking up his fork. You smile following his lead twisting the pasta round your fork and almost throwing it in your mouth.

“Holy shit,” you say. “This is amazing.” Johnny laughs looking at Simon. They spend most of the meal chatting, they tell you more about their work-without going it to too many specifics. Talking about some people called Gaz and Price. Their banter puts you at ease as you listen to them, the whole thing starting to feel more and more natural.

“What made you want to be an army nurse?” Simon asks.

“I was an A&E nurse. I don’t know, I guess I wanted to do something different. The travel and the pay was the main incentive.” You explain, as Johnny tops up your wine glass. “I thought I was going to quit during basic, that was a shock I wasn’t ready for.”

“How did your family react.” Johnny asks.

“They were upset, tried to tell me it was a bad idea. Like I said I’m not close with them.” You reach out sipping the wine. “I have a friend Chloe, we went to uni together, we both ended up in the same A&E department. She came to my pass out ceremony.”

“She sounds like a good friend.” Johnny says smiling at you.

“Yeah, she is.” You nod. You feel sad all of a sudden putting the wine glass down and going back to your food. You’ve missed her, you’ve already made plans to meet up with her this weekend. You’re not planning on cancelling that appointment.

“What happened to your arm?” Johnny asks, you’re nervous all of a sudden. You don’t even realise you’ve stopped chewing the food in your mouth. You look between him and Simon. You think you can see something in Simon’s eyes. Does he know? No, how would he know? You force yourself to finish chewing the food in your mouth letting it slide down your throat taking the lump away with it.

“Shrapnel. A bomb went off in a hospital.” You say maybe a little to quickly looking back to Johnny who seems to have picked up on the tension not pushing you any further.

“How many tours have you done?” Simon asks.

“2 humanitarian aid in Bangladesh then Senegal.”

“Did you enjoy it?” Johnny asks.

“Yeah. I like helping people. I like the rush of knowing you’re one of the only things keeping someone alive. Being in the army turns that up tenfold.” You say moving food around your plate. You look up at Simon, may they’ll think you’re weird.

“You’re an adrenaline junkie.” Johnny laughs.

“Name someone in the army who isn’t. Everyone get’s off on saving someones life.” Simon says picking up his glass of wine. You smile listening to them talk as you finish the rest of your food. By the time you’re done you’re full and comfortably tipsy, Johnny insists on moving to the sofa where it’s more comfortable. You nod first excusing yourself to the bathroom.

When you come back out Simon and Johnny are already sprawled out on the couch flicking through the TV channels. You can see a bottle of whisky on the coffee table as you make your way over. As soon as Simon sees you he moves apart from Johnny.

“It’s okay,” You say waving him back to his spot. “I’ll sit on the end.”

“Don’t be silly love, come sit.” Johnny says patting the spot between him and Simon. You feel bad for breaking them apart like this but then you remember the reason you’re here in the first place. Simon wouldn’t have moved so eagerly if he didn’t want you to sit between them.

You smile walking over and sitting down leaning back on the plush sofa. Johnny extends his arm round the back encouraging you to lean against him, which you do. He smells good, whatever cologne hes using fills your nose, its earthy it suits him.

“The food was good.” You say breathing out relaxing into his shoulder.

“Yeah, that’s good.” He says his voice humming in your ear making you feel all warm and fuzzy inside. You watch as Simon keeps flicking through the TV till he lands on some random police chaser show, and he throws the remote on the coffee table. You watch as he too leans back on the sofa.

“You can put your legs up if you want I don’t mind.” He says looking over at you, it was uncomfortable leaning on Johnny with your feet still on the floor. You reluctantly pull yourself from Johnny’s shoulder bending over and unclasping the strap on your heals pulling them off. You move so they have a bit more room leaning back up against Johnny with your legs on Simon’s knees.

“‘E’s never gonna make it,” Johnny says pointing at the TV as you see a birds eye view of the police chase.

“I don’t know, he’s got some good distance now.” Simon says.

“I bet he loses them.” You say, looking at Simon who moves his hand down to rub your leg, you smile at him in approval enjoying the feel of his hands on your body.

“See you want to avoid the tight residential streets.” Johnny says as a matter of fact.

“Talking from experience there Johnny?” Simon says chuckling.

“Not experience just common sense.” You chuckle looking up at him, his deep blue eyes looking back at you.

“You okay?” He asks smiling down at you. You nod as you do his arm rests on your back pulling you closer to him. You let out a breath your arm stretching its way over Johnny’s stomach.

“Have you done this before? With other women?” You ask. Shit, why did that come out now, it’s a total mood killer. And you were enjoying yourself, your body tenses as you grip Johnny’s shirt. Johnny chuckles of course he does his hand squeezes your arm.

“No lass, we weren’t exactly on the look out for women.” Johnny’s smile put your mind at ease.

“We knew you were special.” He murmurs, squeezing your arm again. You look over at Simon still stroking your leg. He smiles, reaching over with his free arm and squeezes Johnny’s hand. You look back over at the TV, they’ve caught the guy.

——————————

When the show ends Johnny gets up to clear the table, flat out refusing your offers to help insisting you stay on the couch with Simon. You sit up yawning looking down at your watch. Shit, it’s almost 10pm. If you stay any longer you’re going to end up having to walk home instead, you nervously tap your foot at the thought of walking across London at night.

“You alright?” Simon asks placing his hand on your thigh you stop tapping your foot.

“Yeah, just I didn’t realise how late is was.” You say smiling.

“Do you need to get home?” He asks. You look at him, you don’t want to leave this is nice, but it would be rude to stay the night. You find yourself biting your lip trying to think of what the best solution would be.

“You can stay the night, we have a spare room it’s no bother.” Simon says.

“You’ve already been so accommodating I couldn’t-”

“It’s not a problem.” He cuts you off, his voice laced with authority, you almost want to bark back yes sir. Instead you nod smiling at him. He moves his hand from your thigh reaching over for the bottle of whisky.

“Want one?” He asks.

“Sure,” you smile at him as he leans forward pouring the drink in the glasses. You pick it up trying to remember the last time you had had a whisky neat.

“Cheers, to new things.” He says, you clink your glass with his and drink. It burns your throat as it goes down and you can’t help coughing, it’s stronger then you remember, or maybe it’s the fact it’s not mixed with coke. Simon chuckles taking the glass out your and hand placing it on the table. Johnny comes back into the living room with a bottle of wine and a hand full of glasses.

“Breaking out the scotch already?” He says.

“Tastes like wood,” You cough again the taste coming back.

“Probably why Si likes it so much,” Johnny winks sitting down next to you and pouring you a glass of wine you gladly accept to get rid of the taste of whisky.

“She’s gonna be staying the night Johnny.” Simon says as a matter of fact. You look over at Johnny to see his response.

“No complaints from me.” He beams sipping on his wine. You place your glass back on the table leaning back on the couch. You feel Simon’s arm pull you onto his chest this time, you put your legs on Johnny’s thighs without thinking about it. Feeling his warm hands stroke your leg.

Simon plants his chin on the top of your head as you stretch your arm over his stomach. He’s bigger then Johnny, his shoulders broader you relax into him just like you did before. Okay maybe you could get used to this, Simon’s hand rests on your side rubbing your arm.

“Can I hold your hand?” He asks after a few seconds. You don’t say anything but move to loop your fingers with his. It feels natural his hand being in yours. You look over at Johnny, he smiles at you squeezing your leg. Then your stomach drops, you squeeze Simon's hand sitting up.

“I don’t have any pyjamas, or a tooth brush.” You look between, Simon and Johnny, suddenly aware of how uncomfortable your dress was feeling.

“Don’t worry ‘bout it, you can borrow one of my tops.” Johnny says winking at you.

“Or mine, and we have a spare toothbrush I’m sure.” Simon says pulling you back onto his chest. You look back at the TV as Simon and Johnny get back to guessing how this police chase is going to end. You find yourself rubbing Simon’s thumb as you relax even more. Okay you could defiantly get used to this.

It feels nice having Simon’s hand in yours, your thumb stroking his as he continues to watch the TV with Johnny. You’re pretending to pay attention too but the fact that you’re now staying the night had your mind racing. You spent the last week fantasising all sorts of different situations, hell you even chose the dress on purpose, so it would be easy to rip off if said fantasy was to come true.

Your head cranes to look up at Simon, his eyes look darker in the low light of the living room. He looks down smiling and squeezing your hand. There’s an ache in your belly something deep, you want to kiss him. You look away blushing. You look over at Johnny sipping his glass of wine, his hand on your leg. God you want to kiss him too.

Simon Squeezes your hand again and you look up at him. His eyes are scrunched together, giving you a worried look. Shit, you don’t want them to think you’re not enjoying this. You let go of Simon’s hand pulling yourself up and sitting on your knees. Simon and Johnny both turn their attention to you.

“I want to kiss you,” You say flicking your eyes between them both. “But like how does it work? I can’t kiss you both at the same time.” You let out an awkward laugh reaching for your glass of wine taking a sip to calm your nerves. Johnny lets out one of his chuckles sitting up, you look at Simon still laid back on the sofa smiling.

“Love, if you want to kiss one of us you just have to ask.” Johnny says.

“Okay but what if one of you get’s jealous, wouldn’t it be fair to just kiss you both?” This time it’s Simon who lets out a little chuckle. You look at Johnny.

“Would you be jealous if I kissed Simon right now?” He asks, you shake your head. “It would be kind of hot though.” You blurt out before you realise what you said, slapping your hand to cover your mouth. The alcohol has really loosened you up. Johnny and Simon laugh, Simon sits up his hand resting on your shoulder. You feel yourself blushing.

“Don’t worry, I also find it hot when Johnny kisses me.” Simon says in your ear. You relax a little feeling his breath on your bare shoulder sending shivers down your spine. Johnny takes your hand in his. You turn to look at him.

“You do whatever your comfortable with. Unless you want to set boundaries?” Johnny asks. You think for a second, what kind of boundaries? Like sexual ones? You’ve not really experimented with much other then some pretty normal vanilla sex. That ache comes back in your belly when you think about all the things you would be willing to try.

“I’m pretty open, I mean, tonight has been really great, the best I’ve felt in years. I just don’t want to ruin things I guess.” Simon squeezes your shoulder.

“We invited you here to relax, get to know each other. If anything happens that’s fine just as much as if nothing happens. You pick the pace, we’re patient people.” Simon says. Now they’re being too kind. Most guys would expect you to put out of they’d gone to all this effort, Simon and Johnny seem content with just sitting here and watching TV, cuddling till you all fall asleep. You take another sip of wine putting the glass back on the table.

“I would like to get out of this dress.” You say looking at Johnny. Simon gets up his hand leaving your shoulder.

“C’mon, lets see what we can find you.” You get off the couch bending down to pick up your shoes and follow him into the bedroom. Simon starts opening drawers rummaging through till he hands you a few t-shirts and PJ bottoms.

“I only need one.” You say as he closes the drawer.

“Now you have options.” He says smiling and leading you to the guest bedroom. He leaves and you close the door so you can change. You look round the bare room, there’s storage boxes round the place and uniforms hung up on the wardrobe doors. Your curiosity gets the better of you and you run your hands over the badges. So it’s true they are SAS.

You throw the clothes down on the bed choosing a t-shirt that is way to big for you and some bottoms that barely fit. You fold your clothes up neatly, hiding your bra under the dress. You take a deep breath tying the string on the ajustable bottoms so they won’t fall down when you walk. You decide to leave your phone in the room, you can always check it later. You open it to see a message from Chloe.

Still good for Saturday? xxx Yep, just wait till you hear the news I have for you xxx

You don’t expect a reply back, she’s probably working. You’ve missed her you can’t wait to see here again. She’s going to have a field day when she hears about your situation. You smile and turn to head out the room.

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nausicaaandhermouth · 3 months ago

Text

Quandary & Retribution in F#

masterlist

professor!viktor x violinist!reader [6k] [AO3]

mdni

cw: nsfw, blow-job, piano witnessing oral sex i'm so sorry

summary: being neighbours mean being mindful of the noise you make - though, you'd been set on being a nuisance through violin solos, bringing Viktor to your doorstep to plead for silence. You decide to apologise.

tags: modern au, physics professor viktor, gn!reader, neighbours, nsfw, sexual tension, suggestive physics & music talk, blow job, fat set up beforehand, not betad

a/n never written comedy nor smut but at some point a girl's gotta try (why are both almost equally difficult) - but here ya go (plops down this mess). also, i'm more familiar w music than physics, i 3rd page googled the latter so there's def smth not quite right. if u know physics, no u dont.

and ty to an anon ask for pointing out a mistake in the pronouns. i intend one shots to be gn but i write back and forth from an f!oc fic, resulting in she/her ending up in one shots and they/them on the other :')) entirely on me for not catching those before posting though - but thank you for notifying me, i appreciate you!!

btw requests & taglist are open!

Viktor had repeated it ad nauseam—keep the overtures to a minimum.

His days are a gruelling marathon of lectures and lab work, stretching from the crack of dawn at 6 AM to the academy's closing bell at 10 PM. This self-imposed siege isn't mandated by the university—no, they frown upon such academic masochism.

Rather, it’s Viktor's desperate attempt to squeeze productivity from the fleeting moments of silence. The irony? The moment he shuffles home, key turning in the lock, his apartment transforms into an impromptu concert hall.

Attempting to grade papers? Constructing intricate lesson plans on quantum mechanics? Preparing for the department's annual "Explain Your Research to a Five-Year-Old" challenge? Hah. Another pipe dream of this beleaguered professor.

No, instead, he’s treated to a violin solo that would make Paganini nod approvingly in his grave, some overture to madness waiting to ambush Viktor the instant he dares to sit down and tackle his workload. And the cherry on top? The virtuoso had chosen the room directly behind his study as their personal rehearsal space.

Tonight, Viktor's reaching his breaking point.

One more pluck of that violin string, and he might just snap (hopefully with more panache than his freshman physics students' failed bridge-building projects).

He's hunched over his laptop, a harsh '02:24' glowing on his wall—a neon reminder of how little he's accomplished in far too many hours. And there it is again, that infernal violin leaping across frets, notes ping-ponging between octaves with reckless abandon.

This time, it feels personal. A taunt aimed squarely at his last shred of sanity.

Viktor's fingers rake through his dishevelled hair, tugging in sheer frustration. His other hand thunders against the wall—once, twice, thrice. Stop. Stop. Stop.

For a blissful moment, the last note wavers, then fades.

Silence descends. Relief washes over him.

But his reprieve is short-lived. The melody resumes with a vengeance—louder, closer, more petulant and frenetic. It's as if the laws of acoustics themselves have conspired against him.

God, if you’re there…

Viktor can feel his grip on rationality slipping. Perhaps it's time to conduct an experiment on the effects of sleep deprivation on a physicist's patience. For science.

Your paths had crossed in the hallways, a silent slide of avoidance. You’d exchanged fleeting glances, loaded with unspoken frustration, before hurrying on your separate ways.

Viktor had made the pilgrimage to your door three times, his voice dripping with forced politeness as he implored (bordering begging, not his finest moment) you to relocate your impromptu concerts or, at the very least, reschedule your sonic assaults to more reasonable hours.

You’d exchanged names, plastered on smiles that never reached their eyes—and yet, your solos persist.

In moments of weakness, Viktor's traitorous mind can't help but wonder what camaraderie you might have shared in an alternate universe where you weren’t the bane of his existence.

He finds himself muttering a desperate prayer to the gods of acoustics: "Grant me the strength not to bash my head against this wall." He pauses, another side of his brain kicking in. "Although, the resulting concussion might make for an interesting case study."

A groan escapes him as his forehead meets the desk with a dull thump. (Might you want percussions, he could supply his head banging against his desk)

His mind, addled by sleep deprivation and the constant assault, contemplates the unthinkable—actually standing up for himself. God forbid.

He envisions marching to your door, pride in tatters, ready to beg, plead, perhaps even grovel for a moment's peace.

The image of his students receiving paper feedback that reads like the ravings of a madman flashes before his eyes. No. Nope. This cannot stand. Something must be done.

Then another image invades his mind: your door opens and there you are face to face once again.

He grudgingly admits you’re… aesthetically agreeable. He supposes. Mathematically pleasing. Something about proportion, bone structure, genes, something, something, and—no, there is an undeniable artistry in your relentless dedication. Which he respects.

Even through the wall, he can discern the masterful control of your bow, a testament to hours of practice that simultaneously impresses and infuriates him.

If he could be granted such hours to achieve his own goals, he'd surely rule the world (or at least figure out how to soundproof his apartment).

There'd been one night—one treacherous, sleep-deprived night—when his exhausted mind careened off the rails of rationality into dangerously uncharted territory.

He envisioned himself barging into your apartment, a perfect storm of righteous fury and academic gravity. In this fever dream, he demanded silence with an authority cobbled together from an unlikely triumvirate: his stern Professor alter-ego (complete with imaginary tweed jacket), the ego-inflating gravitas of his hard-earned Ph.D., and the bizarrely suave confidence that only exists in the realm of 3 AM delusions.

But in this warped fantasy, instead of blessed quiet, he encountered something far, far worse—a scenario that defied even the uncertainty principle in its improbability.

Sharp gasps cut through the air. Delicate moans rolling against the nape of his neck that it sent shivers down his spine. And then—oh, sweet laws of thermodynamics—his name. His name in repetition, wearing the throes of... No. Stop. Abort mission.

Viktor's eyes snap open. Heavy breaths. His heart rate approaches escape velocity, threatening to launch his ribcage into orbit.

He shakes his head violently as if the motion could dislodge the inappropriate thoughts from his brain.

"Fuck off," he mutters to the empty room, to his unfaithful imagination, to the persistent violin notes that seem to mock his predicament. Fuck it all. And fuck you. Well… No—(he means yes (no)).

A few times since your initial encounter, Viktor had been subjected to a different kind of midnight sound through the walls. These weren't the familiar strains of a violin, but rather... a more primal composition. Something more akin to pleasure than anything Stradivarius could have conceived.

The truth was, these… vocalisations had rearranged his synapses, had opened up an entirely new neural pathway in his brain, one he had staunchly refused to acknowledge before. It was a new theorem of attra—intrigue he wasn't quite ready to solve.

Each breath, groan muffled, was a data point on his imaginary graph. To study the patterns, the crescendos, the duration. The other man in him... well, that was a variable he dared not allow to factor into the equation.

He found himself both dreading and anticipating these unintentional (at least he surmised so) performances. He'd catch himself straining to hear, then immediately feel a rush of guilt and self-loathing.

He reaches for his coffee mug, grimacing as he swallows the cold, bitter dregs. Clearly, this is what happens when a brilliant mind is deprived of its required REM cycles. Yes, that's it. Just the cruel tricks of an overworked, under-rested brain. Exactly.

His mind kicks into overdrive, frantically scribbling a mental grant proposal: "The Effects of Sleep Deprivation on Auditory Hallucinations and Improbable Fantasies: A Case Study." Purely for academic purposes, of course. (his mind lingers on improbable)

It's not like he's terrified these forbidden thoughts might return, more vivid and enticing than a perfectly aligned experiment. And it's certainly not because he's afraid he might enjoy—no, no, no. He minds. He minds with the intensity of a supernova. 100%. No, make that 100.1%, just to be safe. Exactly. Precisely. Quantum-mechanically determined.

Now, if only he could convince his subconscious of that irrefutable fact…

His eyes dart to the wall—that infuriating barrier of plaster and wood—separating him from the object of his des... deliberation. No, that's not right. The source of his frustration. Yes, frustration. A frustration so profound it could light up a small city.

He groans, burying his face in his hands.

The things sleep deprivation does to a man. It's enough to make even a rational physicist question the very fabric of reality.

But admiration be fucking damned—his frustration reigns supreme.

Viktor straightens up, a manic glint in his eye. Perhaps it's time for a little experiment in human behaviour. After all, every action has an equal and opposite reaction, right? Let's see how you’d like a taste of your own medicine—played back at 3 AM through a wall of subwoofers tuned to the resonant frequency of your floorboards.

No, no—Viktor, don't stoop. Just knock on their door.

A grin spreads across your face when a comically polite knock interrupts your crescendo. Ah, the sweet sound of success—or is it the dulcet tones of a professor’s patience snapping?

Oh, he's ever so gentle, even when he's one decibel away from a meltdown. You can practically hear his teeth grinding in perfect harmony with your last note.

You settle your violin and bow on the couch like a general laying down arms after a victorious battle. One palm reaches to massage your jaw, soothing the tender spot where your instrument has been resting. Who knew revenge could leave such visible marks?

Note to self: next time, consider a less physically demanding form of payback. Maybe take up the theremin? Start haunting him.

Though you're getting the creeping suspicion he doesn't know what he did—and it's entirely plausible that you just look like a nocturnal nuisance with perfect pitch and an impressive bruise. But hey, what's a little psychological warfare between neighbours?

Besides, it's fun crossing him in the halls, eyes following each other like two notes slowly coming in accordance, like a particularly flirtatious harmony. You're both knowing, sharing a secret thing. Well, as secret as a loud violin solo at 2 AM.

You reach the front door and turn the lock, swinging it open with a dramatic flair.

Leaning on the frame, you plaster on a grin that could outshine the brightest spotlight—and is sure to make the dear professor's blood pressure skyrocket. "Viktor," you greet, your voice a perfect pizzicato of feigned innocence.

As expected, he's the very picture of academic despair: dark under-eyes that could rival a raccoon's, hair ruffled in a way that screams ‘Sleep? What sleep?' (who knew sleep deprivation could be so becoming?), and a brow so furrowed it could host its own mountain range.

Huh. Interesting. Seems like the composed professor facade has taken an unexpected intermission.

You force yourself to keep your eyes on Viktor's face, resisting the urge to conduct a full-body visual scan. Tonight, you're oppositions. Stubborn ostinato. O-ppo-si-tions.

Oppositions don't ogle each other's physiques or linger on sartorial choices. That would be absurd, a complete discord in your carefully orchestrated revenge. Which is why you don’t see that he’s wearing a thin tank top, and why your eyes don’t hopscotch across the vague outlines of his chest.

Viktor grumbles your name with a frown, his accent turning the syllables into something between a growl and a plea. It's music to your ears, really—a different kind of melody, but no less satisfying than your midnight sonatas.

You wonder what else he could do with that voice. No—you don’t wonder. O-ppo-si-tions don’t wonder.

Rather, you flatten your lips, desperately trying to hold back a laugh that threatens to escape.

"Please," he breathes, the word carrying the weight of a thousand sleepless nights.

You cock a brow. "Please?"

He glares, his eyes boring into you with the intensity of a conductor silencing a wayward orchestra. Not finding me funny, you note mentally.

Well, tough crowd. But then again, you didn't take up the violin for the standing ovations, did you?

"How can I help you, Professor?" You smile sweetly, crossing your legs. "You're looking positively... nocturnal," Your eyes dance over his dishevelled appearance, drinking in every delicious detail.

You know that he knows that you know what you're doing. It's a duet of mutual awareness—simple, really—and satisfying.

He squeezes his amber eyes shut, his mouth a taut line of frustration. You half expect his hair to stand on end. Orchestra on their heels after a baton’s click-click-click.

That little mole above his mouth twitches, and you imagine it as a staccato note. There's a twin on his right cheek. You wonder, idly, if they'd dance a jig if you played just the right jaunty tune.

"Why," he begins, his voice a crescendo of exhaustion, "Are you doing this? I can't keep my head in tune with you behind that wall, turning my brain into jelly with your... your..." he gestures wildly at your apartment, as if trying to conduct your imaginary orchestra into silence.

"Oh? And what's wrong with exploring some alternative fingerings now and then?"

His eyes lock onto yours, widening slightly. He blinks, frozen—a maestro who's just realised he's forgotten his baton.

Ah. Are there actual discordant thoughts lurking in that brilliant mind of his?

What's a little push? You lean forward. "Care to demonstrate these unconventional techniques of yours?"

A gulp rides down Viktor's throat. A nervous glissando. A viola quivering. His eyes suddenly find your front door fascinating. "Look, I just want to be able to do my work, finish what needs to be finished, and get some actual sleep. Aren't you tired of this too?"

Your mouth pitches downwards in mock contemplation. "Mm... I get plenty of sleep in the day. Unemployment generally gives you a lot of time. Besides, payback is payback. This is simply the retribu—"

"Payback?" His face contorts into a mask of confusion that would make Picasso proud. Ah. So the maestro doesn't know his own composition. Tsk.

You straighten yourself, arms still crossed sternly. "You—" you sigh, brows pulling together.

"What," he huffs, clearly lost. His mouth slightly gapes open, eyes glancing to the side as if somehow the answer will appear.

lLast month. Seven PM. You're home with what I assume were your students," you gesture at his door. "Don't know what you were doing, none of my business. However, it does become my business when they stay over until four," you hold up four fingers at his face like a metronome gone mad, and he backs away. “In. The. Morning. You try sleeping with rowdy, hormonal young-adults screeching about the universe and quantum-this, quantum-that,"

He brings his hand up and rubs at his neck, looking everywhere but you.

"And I, not having slept in god knows how long at that point, had an audition for an orchestra later that morning," at this point his expression is completely soured, realising where this is leading. "And guess who bombed that and missed a potential orchestral debut?" you point at yourself with both thumbs, "First chair of the Insomniacs Anonymous Symphony,"

He brings his thumb and pointer to the bridge of his nose, worrying at his bottom lip.

You can recall a few times you’d burrowed your teeth in such a manner. Recitals. A particularly tricky passage in a Paganini caprice. On your couch with hand at the crux of your thighs rubbing gently to some fantasy. Nothing specific.

You stare for a moment, mentally composing a scream for the cosmos. How dare he look like a dishevelled maestro when you're trying to channel your inner fury? Not the time, brain. Not. The. Time. File that image away for later...

“I..." he begins, but the words seem to have gone on strike, leaving his mouth hanging open. Forgotten fermata.

A furrow grows on your brow, deep enough to nest a whole string section. His guilt-ridden silence gives you ample time to become distracted. Truly not the fucking time. But your eyes—oh, what rebellious instruments.

But fret not (hah), as you don’t discern much of his arms—not lean, nor precise. Not those fingers either, no. They’re not that long. You didn’t even notice. And not the slow rise and fall of his chest, rhythmic as a metronome in a world where time has suddenly become very, very interesting.

He says your name—it’s a baton raising in the air—and it wrangles your attention. “I truly... I apologise. I do admit... that night was foolish. I'd lost control of my class. I'd invited a few over since they wanted a discussion on quantum entanglement,"

Yeah, I know entanglements. What.

Your brain performs an emergency shutdown and reboot. “Uh-huh," you manage, trying to sound like you absolutely know what that means and aren't at all imagining him demonstrating the finer points of entanglement. Because you aren’t. O-ppo-si-tions.

You shake your head, imagining your thoughts like shaking a tambourine. Focus. Revenge. Missed opportunity. Right. But why does righteous indignation have to be so hard when he's standing there looking like Einstein's hotter, sleep-deprived cousin?

“And the discussion just… I wasn’t careful with the time,” he leans forward, mouth downwards in apology. His fingers tap on his cane, mouth sucking on one side of his bottom lip.

He looks miserable. And worse, genuine. Two things that never sit right with you when they happen at the same time. A string just slightly off tune that it settles as unease in your stomach. It gives you the itch to fine-tune it, put it back how it should be.

You give Viktor a resolute nod, blinking away. “I accept your apology,” you say shortly, gaze lounging on the hallway and making sure they don’t linger on his misery.

But he searches for you eyes first, and by obligation you look back. “And have you, has there been any opportunities after then?” he asks, leaning forward, brows tilted in genuine, apologetic curiosity (your heart decides it’s now a great time to perform an accelerando. 95 bpm, if you’re counting). “Auditions and… orchestral… things? Sorry, I’m not too knowledgeable on these,”

What’s good: he’s genuinely apologetic, which may herald the end of your musical tyranny.

You lean your head backwards, aware of the distance (What’s not good: he seems unaware of the distance he’d taken up). “Uh, no. Well,” you shrug, shoulders bobbing in reminder. “Not since then. But there’s one next week. Piltover Grande Hall,”

His brows raise, seemingly in recognition. “Oh? Highly-esteemed,”

“I know. I’ll probably need a good sleep before then,” you grin, watching his face go from confusion, to apologetic, to relief in mere seconds.

“I also… I assigned some heavy research work last week to my class, which’ll be submitted tomorrow, so I’ll be grading those next week,” he added, now fully leaning on your door frame as if his upper body were trying to slink inside slowly. “We’ll both need much rest before then,”

Your eyes meet his. Face fully facing face. “Mhm,”

Prelude: “An observation of observation of observation”. String section, sweet, curious, and swelling with playful remarks. Interrupted by staccato heartbeats, conflicted by seductive cello whines.

You don’t move. Not an increment. You stay as still as your body allows, suspended in time. So does he. His eyes flicker between your left and right, expressing nothing but obvious observation of you. Your stomach breeds a butterfly when you catch his gaze dropping briefly to your mouth before flicking back to your eyes.

Interesting.

100 bpm.

No. I, “Where The Gaze Lands Will Determine The Night’s Fate”. A languid 4/4. A lone marimba begins—blithe. The chirp of a güiro.

“And what do you propose?” you tilt your head up. Are you challenging him? Depends, you suppose. Depends if he tilts his face down.

But he stays in position. Instead, brings a hand out, palm open. “A truce,” his breath brushes against your chin. Hot. Temperaturally. Temperamentally.

Does he know what he’s doing to you? There are desperate sax whines in your head. Supposedly they sound similar to the human voice.

You take his hand and shake firmly. But you don’t let go. “What are the terms?”

A soft huff of a laugh escapes him, eyes slightly narrowing. “But you’ve already agreed,” his fingers tighten slightly around your hand. Warm. Long.

“Confident in the final piece,” you assert, letting your eyes drape with leisure between his eyes and to the bone of his cheek, the mole, the mouth. And you hope he notices.

The sax is breathy. It’s now a smoky jazz riff, painting dimly lit rooms, whisperings of sweet-nothings, a daring foot hiking up another’s thigh.

Your travelling eyes seem to catch his breath.

No. II: “Where Silence Is Relative”. Strutting 2/4, beginning with a sultry glide of an accordion. A conversation between the cellos and violins.

“Does that mean you’ll rest your little concertos?” his head tilts. “Giving me peace, finally?”

You play up a pout. “Shame, I thought you were a fan,”

“As I am of quantum tunnelling through a brick wall,” he responds, the brief questioning curve of his brow indicating this was not a good thing.

“Surely my playing isn’t that bad?” a smirk.

“Not the quality, no,” he gives a small shake. His thumb softly brushes your hand. “It’s the quantity. And the timing,”

You soften your fingers, letting the tips of them brush at his wrist. “I was trying to be helpful. Heard scientists appreciated background music while working,”

A glint of something playful in his eyes. “We do. Just not at 3AM when we’re trying to grade important papers,”

“Grading?” you quirk your brow and smile. At this point, it’s far from grating to him—he’s even looking at it. “I thought silence was overrated in the pursuit of knowledge,”

“Silence is relative when you’re next door,” he gives back. His hand is now shameless, inching your closer and closer to your wrist.

You wet your lips and hum. “Relative, right. Like, whose is that—like Einstein’s?”

“Like the relative pitch of a jackhammer compared to your violin,” his expression flattens sardonically, still maintaining that disarming smile.

“I’m touched,” you lean your head on the door frame. “You think I’m as powerful?”

“Enough to redefine my understanding of ‘noise cancellation’,” he retorts, eyes rolling. What a pretty expression that is. You wonder how else you can evoke that same reaction in other contexts.

“If you ever want a demonstration…”

He laughs. “I think I’ll stick to my textbooks. Much quieter,”

You feign a mask of disappointment, gaze sharpening and hooking his eyes in for your next few words. “Pity. I was hoping to show you how good I am with my fingers,”

His mouth parts. Surprise? Temptation? But he’s hooked in and it’s all you care for. “I… uh,” he blinks, hand still around your wrist. “That’s…”

His face fills with a slight impassive contemplation, thoughts seeming to run amuck in his head as he looks down at your growing, teasing smile.

“You’ve been hearing me practise, no?” you smirk. And you can tell he knows that you know that he knows what you mean. “The violin’s not an easy instrument. Unless you’re thinking of something e—”

He diminishes the space between you with his lips on yours.

No. III, “A Swing in A#”. 113 bpm. A confident, gritty trumpet reels you in.

The door shuts and is immediately faced by Viktor’s back. His neck bends to accommodate the difference in height, his free hand at the back of your neck to press you closer to himself. Your hands find purchase around his shirt, curling around the fabric, pulling and pulling—but as he’s leaning, only his hips jut forward. Good enough.

Your mouths move in tandem. He’s occupied with your bottom lip in a sort of desperation that speaks of practise—or at least imagined practise.

You nudge upwards, hip bone meeting his in soft collision, which coaxes a filthy, back-of-the-throat grunt from him. You smile. And as you feel his other hand snake around your waist, you hear the metallic thnk of his cane against the floor.

You jerk away to look down at it. Briefly, you assess its importance and his dependence on it. “Your leg,” you breathe, breath barely allowing your real voice to pierce through.

He’s nuzzling at the side of your face, gaping mouth at your cheek as he catches some air. “I’ll manage,”

When you turn to him, your heart jumps at the sight of him. Dishevelment caused by your hands, a slight flush from arousal, eyes rounded and trained on your mouth. You don’t look but can’t help noticing the hardness pressed against your lower belly.

“It doesn’t hurt?” you ask.

He shakes his head and finally draws his eyes back to yours. “A… discomfort. But not pain,” he dips in for a kiss, hand sliding up to tilt your jaw towards him.

A smirk becomes of you. “Mm… about the, uh… retribution. I do admit, I took it too far,”

His eyes widen in mock surprise. “Did you? All those unproductive nights, I truly didn’t notice,”

You roll your eyes at his quip. “But I was thinking of how to properly apologise,”

He quirks a brow, thumb tracing at the border of your lip and chin. “And how will you show your remorse?”

“Ah, well, I’m just like you,” a soft laugh escapes you, and you lean towards him to hide the slight embarrassment rushing to blush your cheeks. “Thinking all about… entanglements,”

“Do, please, demonstrate your version,” his accent noticeably makes ‘demonstrate’ even sharper and more pronounced.

“Only if you talk about yours,”

With a swift kiss, you silence him, lips capturing his words. Your hands grip his body, gently guiding him away from the door. Viktor's eyes, intense and unwavering, remain locked on you as you lead him a few feet to the side to the upright piano.

In one smooth motion, your foot hooks around the piano bench, sliding it out. Your hands, warm and certain, travel up to Viktor's shoulders, guiding him down onto the seat with a gentle and firm pressure. His gaze never falters.

For a breathless moment, you tower over him, drinking in the sight of him. He's even more deliciously undone—hair tousled, shirt askew, lips slightly parted.

The room seems to shrink, the world narrowing to just the two of you. You're minutely aware of every shallow breath, every subtle shift of his body, each time the muscles in his neck form a 'v'.

Something all-consuming takes root in your core, to hear his voice wearing your name—not just spoken, but gasped, moaned, worshipped.

“So?” you prompt. “Begin,”

No. IV, “Viktor’s Recitative”. An accented voice searching for focus. Punctuated by gasps.

“It’s, ehm, quantum entanglement. Imagine two dancers, perfectly in sync no matter how far apart they are. When particles become entangled, they share a quantum state. If you measu—”

With your leg you push his knees apart.

“Uh, if you measure one, you instantly know about the other. As if… as if connected by an invisible thread of… mm, cosmic intimacy,”

You kneel slowly, gaze locked onto his as he searches for his next words. “Rather romantic,” you add.

He swallows. And you take it as a suggestion.

“I think so, too. Two particles, forever intertwined,” his eyes fall to your hand as you palmed one knee, your head resting on his other leg. “Fates… linked across the, the vast…ness of space and t—time,” he jerks forward as your hand pressed a little too near his centre.

The sound makes your breath hitch. More. Your cheek’s brushing against the cotton of his pants, your other hand cradling around his calf. The hand on his knee roams further upwards, thumb applying more pressure on the ins of his thigh.

“Regardless of distance, still they influence each other in ways we can’t f—” he breaks off with a whine as your palm grazes the growing swell beneath his pants. It takes every ounce of self-control not to grasp him fully, to feel the entirety of him at once. “Fully…” his eyes follow where you press harder, your mouth curving into a smile. “Comprehend,” the word falls with more breath.

He leans back against the piano, elbows weighing down keys and sending a jarring, discordant chord alongside his sighs.

You straighten, bringing your other hand to the knot of his waistband. Your finger hooks onto it, thumb caressing the single button. Your gaze travels upward, admiring the sight of him leaning back, his shirt riding up to reveal a tantalising glimpse of hair trailing downward.

His breathing slows, becoming deep and measured as your finger grazes the skin of his stomach, the fine hairs tickling knuckles. For a moment, you imagine yourself above him, watching him squirm as his eyes fixate on the point where your bodies would join. Another day.

With a deft movement, you pop the button free. Leaning in, you catch your lower lip between your teeth as your hands gently guide him from the confines of his boxers.

His form arches slightly to one side, living sculpture of desire. Delicate ridges trace his length, and at the apex, his glans gleams like a ripe cherry. Tempting fruit begging to be tasted.

Deep, methodical breaths, you remind yourself. Deep and methodical. And oh so deep. You wrench your thoughts from this enticing path, lifting gaze to meet his. Your eyes seek permission, finding his half-lidded stare heavy with want.

Your palm, warm and inviting, glides along his length with exquisite slowness. The motion elicits a shudder that ripples through his hips, a breath catching in his throat like a trapped butterfly. His head falls back, unveiling the elegant lines of his neck.

Emboldened, you repeat the caress, this time allowing your grip to ascend until it reaches the pinnacle. There, with deliberate tenderness, you gather the pre-cum with a slight swipe. The touch brings a cluster of stuttered gasps and half-formed words. His body, as if magnetised, curls towards you, hands grasping the edges of the bench, white-knuckled, anchoring himself.

Your name escapes his lips in a plaintive groan, lust renewing his voice with a gravelly quality.

Responding to his unspoken plea, you stretch upward, capturing his mouth with yours. A reward. A prelude. Your lips, soft yet insistent, trail a path down to his chin, then along the sharp line of his jaw. He tilts his head back, an offering, granting you unimpeded access to the column of his neck. You accept the invitation eagerly, pressing a kiss to his bobbing Adam's apple, and leaving a trail of lilac.

Your hand torments him with a slow ride down, grip tightening incrementally with each kiss. But there's a yearning for more, craving something more substantial. Not that this isn't intoxicating—the pulsing in your core is evidence enough.

The moment a more desperate whine unfurls from his lips, a ribbon of pure need, drawing you in. It's the tipping point. As if thanking him for the sinful sound, your lips abandon the canvas of his neck, attention now wholly focused on his full, flushed hardness.

You level with the sight of his arousal, standing eager, tip glistening. Your breath ghosts over his sensitive skin, eliciting a shudder that courses through his entire body. You hear the complaint of squeezed leather beneath his grip.

“Show me how you like it,” you breathe, letting the little puffs of air tickle at his reddened shaft.

Seemingly overwhelmed, he remains answerless, eyes resting on your blushed mouth. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, as if reciting an undeniable truth, akin to the blue of the sky or the firmness of his length. His thumb traces the contours of your mouth with gossamer lightness. “Indulge as you please,”

At that, you smile, gently guiding his hand away and pressing a kiss tender on his knuckles. And with a final, heated glance up at his face—flushed with want, eyes dark with need—you lower your head, lips parting.

With a delicate grace, you envelop him, your lips forming a perfect crescent around his crown. Slowly, deliberately, you welcome him into the warmth of your mouth, one hand gliding to his base with tender precision. The other, seeking purchase, finds his chest, gently urging him backward to grant you greater freedom of movement.

He yields without resistance, acquiescence punctuated by a cascade of desperate, breathy whimpers as he reclines against the piano. The instrument protests beneath his bones, dissonant notes plunking out objections at the sin unfolding before it.

You savour him—heady salt and warmth. His velvet glides across your palette, your lips tightening in counterpoint. Your tongue laps and flattens against him in a rhythm that plucks a brief grunt from him. Curiosity compelling you, you lift your gaze to meet his. In that fleeting moment, his eyebrows arch—whether at the feeling or the sight, you prefer the idea of the latter—a wordless expression of awe at the vision before him.

This silent exchange ignites a fervour in you. You increase your tempo, sound of saliva blending seamlessly with his escalating pants. His voice, once controlled, now tumbles in a torrent of incoherent, keening pleas. His fingers now tangle gently in your hair, curling and uncurling in unconscious rhythm. When you dare to take him deeper, his grip tightens ever so slightly.

A deep groan reverberates from the depths of your throat, setting off a cascade of reactions that ripple through both your bodies. The raw sound triggers an involuntary response in him; his hips stutter and twitch forward with barely restrained urgency, cock brushing dangerously far back in your throat.

This sudden intrusion causes your body to react instinctively. Your grip on him tightens, fingers digging into the soft flesh of his thighs, pliant tongue pressing fully against him, cheeks hollowing with increased suction.

The sensation brings tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, threatening to spill over. Yet, you hold them back, your focus entirely consumed by the incoherent, mangled words tumbling from Viktor's lips. His loss of composure only serves to fuel you, ushering more strangled moans from you.

With a deliberate leisure, you pull him out of your mouth, slight, wet ‘pop' punctuating the action. A grin plays across your lips as you lick them slowly, savouring his taste and the way his eyes track the movement of your tongue.

Leaning back in with renewed purpose, you flatten your tongue against the sensitive underside of his length. You drag it upwards, feeling every ridge and vein. As you reach the tip, you linger at the frenulum, that exquisitely sensitive spot just beneath the head. Your tongue dances there, teasing and tantalising, while your hand presses firmly against his abdomen, pushing him back slightly, maintaining control.

This calculated move elicits a pleased hum from him, a sound that vibrates through his body and into yours. Encouraged by his response, you repeat the movement, each pass of your tongue a perfect mirror of the last, building a rhythm that teeters on the edge between pleasure and sweet torment.

You revel—the choked desperation emanating from the back of his throat, the frantic rise and fall of his chest—tempestuous sea. His jaw, slack, burns into your imagination, conjuring tantalising visions of how it might feel nestled between your trembling thighs. Pure masterpiece before you.

A thought dances through your mind: how differently might he approach his little entanglements if it were you sprawled across his desk instead of the mundane paperwork? The notion trails a delicious shiver down you.

The tip of your tongue traces feather-light around his sensitive crown. Slowly, teasingly, you envelop his tip between your lips. Tongue, emboldened, finds its way back to the frenulum and lingers there. Your hands continue to glide in smooth, quickened motions, descending and rising fluidly. His breaths grow increasingly laboured as you continue, his hips jutting and twitching. You apply gentle pressure, guiding him downward.

With a filthy cry that escapes him, you feel the hot release at the roof of your mouth. Encouraging him further, you draw him deeper, welcoming the spill into your throat with a rough hum. His voice breaks as he calls out your name between ragged gasps. It sounds almost like prayer.

Further sinful whines fall out of him as you continue to swallow and lap him from inside.

As you feel his tension finally easing, you slowly withdraw, your tongue tracing the pearlescent spill. His sharp, staccato breaths punctuate the silence, and he brings his hand to your chin, lifting your attention to him.

You smile, swallowing, though proving futile, his release unrelentingly coating the back of your throat.

“Will I get to demonstrate?” he breathes, voice hoarse.

He smirks. The fucker.

You shake your head. “Not tonight. Tonight’s my repentance,”

#arcane #arcane fanfic #arcane viktor #viktor arcane #viktor #arcane viktor fanfic #viktor fanfic #physics professor viktor #viktor x gn!reader #violinist reader #neighbours trope #viktor smut #viktor arcane x reader #viktor x you #arcane smut #arcane viktor smut #nausicaas fics

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goldsbitch · 9 months ago

Text

Just don't talk---------

-and listen too.

p11 to Just don't talk

summary: Enemies to lovers on steroids. It's time to talk. Taking a spin on the whole fake dating.

mentions of Olivia Rodrigo lyrics - all rights belong to the respectable owners.

warnings: unprotected sex, squirting, minors DNI

"I WAS HALF MYSELF WITHOUT YOU, NOW I FEEL SO COMPLETE AND IF I'M NOT IN LOVE WITH YOU, YOU'RE NOT IN LOVE WITH ME!!!"

"You know those are not the actual lyrics, right?"

"WHATEVER!"

For a moment if felt nice to think she "pulled" someone like Lando. Bittersweet afterthought came just a second later.

Y/N did not go to the bathroom, in fact she sprinted over back to her hotel, sunglasses on and trying to avoid anyone stopping her. It must have been a record time in which she got back. Phone on silent do-not-disturb mode, apart from one one her best friends, back from her home town. Actively ignoring any resposibilities she was to attend to. Let her bloody PR team handle that for once. She could also be a diva for once. Always playing by their books, someone else's rules and thinking twice before opening any doors. Fuck that now.

She told her everything - only the best of friends give up their sleep for the heartbreak of others. Time zones were playing against them.

There they were, screaming Olivia Rodrigo lyrics out loud as if there was no tomorrow.

It felt good to get out of her system - she realized that she did not properly tell anyone, with all the feelings and complications involved in her recent fling with a racing driver. Fling. That's all it was ever to be.

The two screamed, danced and sang. One in a hotel room, the other in her own flat shared with a partner. Y/N was just a little bit jealous.

Lando stayed with the rest of the attendees of that forsaken meeting in silence, while they waited for Y/N to rejoin. As silence goes, this was one for the history books. He texted he few times, without any response. While he was worried, he had to get his own head in check first. When she did not return in about twenty minutes, they inevitably dissolved that meeting without rescheduling. But, since this gave Lando some time to think, he took a copy of the contract with him, cancelled all of the engagements of the day and immediately scheduled a call with his lawyers. He paid them enough for them to be available within thirty minutes.

He disclosed with them their situation fully - leaving out only the explicit details. Lando's lawyers have seen some thing with him over the years, this was a first one. As he did many times, he danced around the fact that he started to crush on this girl, which was making the whole conversation harder than needed. But, his team quickly came up with a clause to add should they go though with this - Recognition of Potential Emotional Development. It was all a bit bizarre, but Lando changed his mind from the initial shock he got. They were wrapped up in their own game anyway. He was getting weirdly excited by this.

Y/N ended their Facetime little party after an hour and kept herself locked up in the hotel room. No point in joining her team back for the rest of the day. It was all a little too much and far removed from racing - it was getting annoying. She was determined to get her emotion in check for the following days. It involved room service, some angsty tv show and phone on silent mode. So naturally, she missed Lando's text announcing that he is on his way to her room.

It felt like a strange deja vu. A knock on the door. He was the first one to cross her mind, like an intrusive thought you can't get rid off. She wanted it to be him knocking. And it was.

He let out a big sigh as he saw her open the door.

"Do you always ignore your phone when it matters the most?" he asked, fairly tired after the strange day they'd had.

She refused to answer his comment, simply stepped away to let him pass in her room.

"I was worried about you, you know?" he asked, not letting go as easily as she'd like to.

"Had to get out and clear my head. I'm not obligated to answer any calls or texts," she said in her defense, feeling like she was pushed into a corner.

Another sigh left Lando's lips. "Y/N, let's not go back this again. It's been a little mental for both of us, but we can't let it rule our life."

Was this when he was going to tell her that they should end their "whatever-this-is" affair? Y/N was getting mad - he could have at least wait after the race. There'd be a two week break where she could process all of this.

"Do we really need to do this now?" she asked, giving up on all hope.

Lando was firm on his stance, no more dancing around. "Yes, we do."

"Alright, let me get dressed," as it felt strange to talk like that only in her pyjama. Normally, Lando would drop a comment on how he did not want to hear these types of sentences ever again.

"Great, I'll wait in there," he said, pointing to the living room part of the suite.

The pseudo formal feeling Lando brought with him went out of the window pretty soon. He was nervous beyond belief and her overly-panicky mind was already five steps ahead, overcoming their relation before it even ended.

"So, Norris. What brings you here at this hour?" she asked with a hint sarcasm.

He chucked and observed for a moment, recalculating the angle from which to untangle this. In front of him sat slightly disheveled girl, someone who he wanted to know everything about. It seemed like she deliberately did not join him at the couch and opted for a chair nearby.

"It's been a little crazy lately."

"When was it not?"

"Touché, you're right."

He recalled something his mom used to tell him - it usually only takes 30 seconds to be brave, the rest is dealing with the aftermath.

"I've been thinking," he said and only then has Y/N noticed a folder with the devil contract which got her blood raging once again.

"A unique event, yes," she commented dryly.

"Come on. Stop it. I've thought about it and spoke to my lawyers."

"You did what?!"

"Hear me out, you muppet," another sigh and gestured to her to calm down before getting a wrong idea. "I think our little game of cat and mouse has gotten out of hand. I don't think we can go on like this before it blows up in our faces. It's better to control the narrative."

She shifted in her chair, sitting a little too far away from him on the couch. It felt uncomfortable. "So you want to end it?"

Lando was taken back. "Obviously not? Do you?"

She was quit to respond, fuck it now, right? "No, but I'm not the one who protested again the fake dating thing as if it was a request to walk into an open fire," she said defensively. She could not fathom how he could just run around this world, giving these mixed vibes all the time. And Lando was having the same kind of questions.

He stared her deeply in the eyes. His 30 seconds counting.

"Y/N. I think we're past the whole hatered thing. I really like you and it feels stupid to say it like that. But apparently, I need to say it in order for you to start believing me." He wanted to add few sentences about how he will leave her alone immediately if she didn't feel the same. But he didn't. Stopped avoiding.

Now it was her taken back. Stripped down to the core. Time to come forward, to herself and the gorgeous boy she wanted to devour.

"You once said no strings attached. I want strings attached. If we were to continue, I can't do something casual with you. I'm already beside that point," she said slowly, picking the right words in order to get point out.

He smiled. "Good. Feels nice being on the same page." She let out a smirk and a small laugh. The tension in the room gone and waves of relief washing them over.

"Do you realize we sound like high schoolers with a crush?" she commented with a noticeable ease.

"The truth is I believe not so far away from that." She made him feel all those feelings. Excitement. Butterflies. Healthy amount of nervousness. Because he cared. Because they both did.

"Can you come closer to me?" he asked, pointing at the blank space at the couch. More than wiling, she got up and sat next to him.

"Can I kiss you before I ask you to about the lawyers?" she pleaded, while he held her hand gently. He did not need any convincing. In fact, this was all he needed. He approached her face slowly, taking his time to take in the moment. And when he ultimately lock his lips with hers, it was like unlocking a whole new level in the game. Tender, vulnerable and soft. For her, it was like letting go of the biggest worry, she could finally let herself loose and be herself. With all the strings attached. He caressed her lips once more before they both reached for a short breath. He took a lock of her hair in his fingertips and played with it. She kept touching his hands, that were sending her all the way to hell.

"So, are we going with the whole dating thing?" she asked, mainly for confirmation.

"I hope so...It feels exciting to think about that," he said quietly, as if he just began to realize that.

"Yes, it does," she said, before she finally ended their moment of soft whispers and pulled back a bit. "So, the fuck you're talking about some lawyers shit. Are you planning on suing me?"

He laughed. "I find it funny that your mind went immediately towards that."

"Well you know, child of divorced parents, you never know," she said with a hint of sarcasm masking the true feeling of traumatic memories.

"Right, I understand," he said seriously and made a mental not to ask her about this another time. He longed to know absolutely everything. He shuffled to position himself in less of a slag off position. "So, I've been thinking. The whole "PR relationship thing" - at first I thought it was the worst idea known to human kind. I want to try it with you for real, not to dance like a puppy and not following my feelings," he said as her heart danced the happiest of dances. She nodded at him, letting him finish. Lando was surprised at how much she shifted towards listening instead of constantly jumping into his sentences. He was growing to like that. It was hard for him not to smile. "Right, stop giving me these looks, it's hard for me to get to the point," he said, smiles escaping left and right.

"Hard, you're saying?" she said cheekily. Oh, he was going to make her night really difficult later.

"Anyway, as I was saying. The whole PR thing will be an issue, or more like a thing to tackle together in the future anyway, so why not have some control over it."

She was trying to let this idea sink in. "So you're saying, like date for real and let people think it's for PR?"

He was happy that she appeared to be on the same page. "Exactly. Do whatever we want and just let them worry about our story. And at some point, when we see how this goes, we'll just say we managed to fall for each other because of them and it will a whole happy story for everyone. I feel like if we disclose now, we're robbing ourselves of precious time to get to know each other. What do you think?"

She thought about it for a moment - but her gut feeling was telling her to trust Lando. If she was to start dating him, it would be good to become a team. And he was around this stuff, better than she was. "I think what you're saying makes a lot of sense."

"Pardon? I did not quite catch what you're saying," he said, making fun of her.

"You idiot, you've heard me perfectly fine!" she responded, the corners of her mouth going up again.

"No, I did not, you're gonna have to come closer to say that," he winked at her and got dangerously close to her once again. "Closer, still far away," he said as he licked his lips before kissing her again. While having a way faster battle of tongues this time, she cupped his face as he gently pushed her down to lay on the couch they were sharing.

"There are few things to change in the contract," he said in between kisses, his voice getting characteristically high, as it always did when he was excited. "We need to add a Recognition of Potential Feeling clause, or whatever," he remarked as his mouth found her neck. "And few things regarding the physical aspect of the relation," he whispered to her neck, as she started to let out gentle moans.

"Physical aspects?" she let out suggestively. "Could you be more specific?"

His hands started to roam under her shirt. "I'm happy to show you everything that contract is banning us from doing. First point being not having any physical contact alone."

"Poor Oscar, he's gonna be mortified when he finds out he has to watch," she joked, as she began to touch his dick through his pants.

He bit her lower lip. "Do you like that? When people watch?"

"Depends. I want you all for myself."

"Oh, finally something we agree on. I'm going to be very territorial, you know? Let everyone know that this," he pointed at her torso, "this and this is mine," he said as his hand went in between her legs and lastly to her head. He looked her deeply in the eyes before speaking again. "I've fucked your body, but I feel like mind-fucking you is going to be fun."

Her eyes were wide open and she felt herself getting wetter and wetter. "Lando, show me everything this contract is prohibiting us to do."

It was like giving him three shots of espresso. He smirked, as he began to take off his shirt. "You're going to have to strip for me, honey." She more than happily obliged.

Lando observed like a hungry animal. She was finally his, fully. Her hands crept up his torso, lining his muscles all the way in.

"No touching here," he said as he roamed around her cleavage, "definitely not this," he continued as he kissed her nipple and let her grab his hair firmly. "Oh and most definitely not this," he ended with his hand reaching out all the way down and circled around her clit.

Blood rushed into her head and she arched herself on the sofa handle, giving him a sight to remember during lonely nights. Dim light hitting her body with shadows highlighting the curves. He watched, as his fingers made her lips turn into a smile. It was intoxicating. He flicked them like scissors, gently and watching his tempo. Then he took them out and licked them while maintaining eye contact.

"I want a taste of you," she said before thinking and gestured to come over to her face. She opened her mouth and closed her eyes, starting at the very tip and playing with it gently. She moved her hand up and down his shaft and started taking him in more and more.

Lando was never fan of slow sex. But her moves made him curious to see how far he can push her and himself. Her tongue and lips felt like a soft feather, making his now wet dick sensitive. He got shivers down his lower back, something he rarely did. It was like pleasure started flowing though his whole body. He reached out to hold her other hand and he began slowly moving his hips. He was sliding up and down her tongue as she wrapped her lips around without any plans of letting him go. He on the other hand slit out of her mouth completely, albeit reluctantly. He locked eyes with her and they both knew what was coming next. "I want to try something new this time," he whispered with a hint of excitement in his voice. She was more than happy to try new things with him, knowing all too well that he was perceptive enough to stop the moment she'd feel uncomfortable.

She expected a meriad of different things - but not him, sliding in as slow as possible. It was the sweetest form of torture. Her body, used to his deep hard thrusts was now tightly wrapped around his cock. Lando felt heavenly. Feeling every inch of her body that was around him more intensively than ever before. He kept his slow tempo she she arched her back again, providing him with his favorite view and an angle, that made his moves feel deeper now. Y/n never understood before this moment why some people really likes slow sex. There was tenderness, focus and a pelicular pleasure coming in longer waves. It was like slowing down made them more present. She felt wetter than she ever had with him. And soon enough, when her mind was somewhere high up in the sky, a clear warm liquid started coming out of her - and with every squirt an indescribable heat of pleasure coming around her lower belly. Her breathing became harder and harder, moans that she could not hold in for her life. Lando first felt warmth on his cock and then looked down as drop of her juices started hitting on his stomach. He watched with awe, not being able to get a girl into this position before. As he watched her drown in orgasms, he sped up just a tiny bit in order to get himself ready to finish once she was done. And when he inevitably did, he painted with him cum all over her bare chest.

If this was how it was going to be now, he is going to be a very happy man.

Y/N came down in few moments, her breath going at a normal speed now. He reached out for a box of tissue to get her cleaned up and kissed her once again.

"This was a nice sight," he said, again with his voice going up higher than usual.

She was taken back, this new incredible feeling of finally being "empty" taking over and mixing with a hint of shame as she the aftermath she left on the couch. Lando noticed when her face went red as she saw her stain.

"That's quite embarrassing," she said shyly. And that was not something that Lando would allow. He took his hand and pulled her chin up gently.

"Now, do not ever say that. Did it feel good?" he asked, genuinely curious.

She was gathering herself for a moment before finally admitting. "Oh, god, yes. Unreal."

He smiled proudly. "Good. Well then this is not the last time we're doing this. And also, this," he said pointing at the stain, "is not something a towel can't solve."

She bit her lips and let a smile escape her. If love was a sunbeam, her world was the brightest day in the middle of summer.

p12

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