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luv4arinn · 4 months ago

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I Just Wanna Feel

Author’s Note: So—sorry for not posting in weeks, but I had a massive writer’s block, and well… I’m back! I was heavily inspired by THAT Robbie Williams song. Yes, I watched his biopic. Yes, I cried. Yes, I recommend it. And… surprise?! There will be a whole chronology with the others, all themed around Robbie’s songs! Yayy <3!! Consider it a gift? from me for taking so long 🥺. Love you all.

Pairing: Bayverse!Donnie x female reader

Tags: Intense fluff, nerd having an emotional crisis, extreme overthinking, unexpected kisses, Donatello’s mental breakdown, romantic panic, “oh no I messed up” but in HD, happy ending.

The sound of the keyboard echoed through the room—a rhythmic, steady tapping that blended with the low hum of the monitors. The bluish glow from the screens cast irregular shadows across his face, reflecting off the lenses of his glasses with every line of code appearing and disappearing on the monitor.

Donatello was there, as always.

The work was easy. Thinking was easy.

It was like a well-structured algorithm: receive information, process it, execute a plan of action. The world had rules, patterns, probabilities—formulas that predicted outcomes with near-absolute precision. No matter how chaotic a situation seemed, there was always a logical solution waiting to be uncovered.

Computers don’t lie.

Data has no biases, no whims. It doesn’t suffer irrational fluctuations. It doesn’t beat faster without reason. It doesn’t have to remind itself to breathe.

But then…

There’s you.

And everything falls apart.

Not immediately. Not like a fatal error shutting down the system in the blink of an eye. It’s more subtle. Like an unexpected variable in an equation that had, until now, been perfect. Something that doesn’t fit into the rigid structure of his world—but something he can’t ignore either.

He thinks about it often. About how his brain operates like a well-calibrated machine, each thought clicking into the next like the teeth of a moving gear. Logic is his native language. Reason, his compass.

And yet, when it comes to you, all that logic becomes blurred.

The gears grind.

The code becomes erratic.

The equation fills with unknowns.

Because when you step into his space, when your voice disrupts the steady rhythm of his keyboard, when you lean over his desk without a second thought for the scattered circuits and switch off his monitor without warning…

His first instinct is to think. Analyze. Quantify.

What does this mean?

Why does his heart react this way?

Why does his skin register the shift in temperature more intensely when you’re near?

But thinking doesn’t give him answers.

Feeling does.

And that is terrifying.

Because feeling isn’t predictable. Feeling has no neatly arranged lines of code, no graphs to chart behavioral patterns, no equations with exact solutions.

Emotions, in themselves, are a chaotic system.

And you…

You are the anomaly he still doesn’t know how to decode.

Nights shouldn’t feel this short when spent alone in front of a screen. And yet, when his mind drifts to the memory of a laugh, the fleeting image of a glance, the echo of an accidental touch… time dissolves in a way not even quantum physics could explain.

When he feels the weight of his name on your tongue. Like an access key to a system he never thought anyone would try to hack.

And he watches you from the corner of his eye as you lean closer, and in that instant, every variable in his mind shifts. Every equation rewrites itself.

A shiver runs down his shell.

Feeling.

He knows because his chest tightens with an undefined pressure, a sensation he can’t attribute to any specific physiological variable. His heart rate isn’t elevated from exertion. He’s not under attack. He’s not in danger.

So why does his body react as if he is?

There’s no equation to explain this.

Because if there were, he would have solved it long ago. He would have identified the problem, broken it down into its components, eliminated any errors. But every time he thinks he’s close to an answer, another unknown appears, shifting all previous solutions out of place.

Music filters through his headphones, slow and melancholic.

“I just wanna feel, real love…”

A shiver runs down his spine.

His body reacts to the sound before his mind does. It’s absurd. It’s ridiculous. There is no logical reason why a progression of chords and a set of words arranged in a certain way should have this effect on him.

And yet, here he is.

Fingers hovering over the keyboard, motionless—caught between the instinct to keep working and the strange, undeniable realization that… he can’t.

Not because he’s tired.

Not because he lacks information.

Not because there’s a problem that requires more processing.

But because, for the first time in a long time, the data isn’t the most important thing.

The screen flickers with information he should be absorbing, but he isn’t. His glasses reflect numbers and graphs that would normally hold his full attention, but his gaze is empty, unfocused.

The room remains unchanged—draped in shadows, illuminated only by the bluish glow of his monitors and the faint blinking of LED lights from his equipment.

The mission had been difficult. The margin of error had been higher than he liked to admit.

It wasn’t often that his calculations failed.

But sometimes, calculations weren’t enough.

Sometimes, reality simply… refused to adhere to logic.

“Feel the home that I live in…”

His jaw tightens.

He doesn’t know how that song ended up on his playlist.

But he has a reasonable theory.

One that involves Mikey, his blatant disregard for personal privacy, and his insistent need to “help him connect with his emotions.”

(Sure. Right.)

And yet…

The lyrics hit him harder than he’d like to admit.

It’s not the melody itself. It’s not the chords or the rhythm. It’s the way the words seem to slip through the cracks in his mind, seeping into the spaces that logic has never quite managed to seal shut.

“I just wanna feel, real love…”

Donnie exhales slowly, his fingers still hovering over the keyboard, motionless.

He thinks about the battle.

The mistakes.

The risks they took.

Numbers flash through his mind like a simulation running in reverse—impact probability, the margin of error in his calculations, the reaction speed needed to avoid damage. Fractions of a second where the difference between victory and absolute disaster depended on decisions made under pressure.

But more than anything—he thinks about you.

He thinks about the way, at the end of the fight, you rushed to check if he was okay.

About how, without even thinking, your hands—warm, alive—ran along his arm, searching for injuries he had already identified and dismissed milliseconds before with his visor.

He could have told you it wasn’t necessary.

That he was unharmed.

That he had concrete data to prove it.

But he didn’t.

Because logic dictates that worry should be extinguished by facts.

But feeling…

Feeling dictates that your touch lingers, even after you’ve gone.

That the sensation of your skin against his stays beyond his capacity for reasoning.

That the light pressure of your fingers on his forearm still burns in his memory, like an unsolved equation looping endlessly in his mind.

“Come and hold my hand…”

Donnie closes his eyes.

He could turn the song off.

He could erase the anomaly from his system.

He could rewrite the equation, adjust the variables, find a way to rationalize what he feels.

But… he doesn’t want to.

Because for the first time in his life, the result of a problem doesn’t matter as much as the unknown.

He doesn’t just want to think.

He wants to feel.

He wants to understand why being with you feels like the only constant that truly matters.

And then—you arrive.

Without warning, without fanfare, without the slightest idea that the world inside Donatello’s mind is teetering on the edge of a collapse even he can’t explain.

The lab door slides open smoothly—barely a whisper against the silence, thick with static electricity and the faint murmur of music in his headphones.

He notices everything.

The shift in air pressure.

The sound of your footsteps, softened against the floor.

The faint scent of shampoo and fabric laced with the chill of the night.

The way the temperature in the room rises by just a fraction of a degree when you step inside.

But he doesn’t turn around immediately.

Because he doesn’t know what to do with the anomaly that you are in his equation.

He doesn’t know where to place you within the rigid parameters of his logical, structured world.

His operating system slows, his brain—so used to processing information with the precision of a surgeon—stalls in an endless loop, searching for a resolution that refuses to exist.

And then—your voice.

“Donnie?”

Soft. Not because you’re hesitant, but because you know him. Because somehow—through a method he can’t quantify—you can read the tension in his shoulders. You can see the way his fingers have stopped typing, even though the screen is still waiting for input.

He closes his eyes for just a moment, as if that alone might be enough to reboot him, to restore the control that feels like it’s slipping through his fingers.

He knows he should say something.

He knows he should act normal.

But his normal means efficiency, speed, precise answers delivered at the exact right moment.

And right now, every command in his mind is failing.

You watch him with quiet curiosity, tilting just slightly toward him—just enough for the air between you to feel heavier, more tangible.

“Everything okay?” you ask, voice soft in that way that completely disarms him. Then your gaze sharpens slightly, scanning him with quiet scrutiny. “Are you hurt?”

He doesn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he looks at you.

His mind runs an automatic analysis of your expression—eyes slightly narrowed, lips barely pressed together, the faintest crease in your right brow, as if you’re already calculating the probability that he’s lying.

Logic dictates that he should reassure you with data. That he should tell you his visor has already run a full diagnostic scan and that his physical condition is optimal. That there is no rational reason for concern.

But then his gaze drops.

And he sees his own hand, still resting on the desk—still tense.

And for the first time in a long time, he chooses to do something without overthinking it.

He looks at you again.

His throat feels dry. Without realizing it, he wets his lips—a quick flick of his tongue over skin cracked from hours without proper hydration.

Then, in a voice so quiet it barely sounds like his own, he asks:

“Can I… hold your hand?”

It’s not the kind of question anyone would expect from him.

And he knows it.

Because it doesn’t fit his usual patterns. It’s not something that makes sense in any logical context.

But right now, logic is utterly useless to him.

Your lashes flutter in subtle surprise, as if the words take a few extra seconds to fully register.

“What?”

His instincts scream at him to backtrack, to rephrase, to find a way to explain what even he doesn’t fully understand.

But he doesn’t.

“I want to…” He inhales, trying to reorganize his thoughts. “I mean, just—”

He shuts his eyes for a second, frustration flickering across his face. He has never felt this clumsy with words before.

When he opens them again, you’re still there. You haven’t moved. You haven’t looked away.

And somehow, that alone gives him the courage he’s lacking.

“I just… want to feel it.”

The truth escapes him so easily, so quietly, that it almost embarrasses him.

Your expression shifts.

It’s not amusement.

It’s not rejection.

It’s something softer. More intimate.

And without questioning it—without hesitation or unnecessary words—you let your hand slide over his.

Not hurriedly.

Not hesitantly.

Just with the quiet certainty of someone who understands exactly what he’s asking for.

And when your fingers intertwine with his, Donnie feels every equation, every algorithm, every carefully structured rule in his mind… simply dissolve.

As if they had never really mattered in the first place.

“Well?” you ask, your voice carrying a faint attempt at lightness.

Donnie knows you’re trying to sound casual, that you’re masking your uncertainty behind a relaxed tone. But he notices.

He notices the delicate dusting of pink on your cheeks, the almost imperceptible tremor in your lower lip, the way your thumb brushes against the back of his hand—like you’re adjusting to the contact just as much as he is.

And something inside him… softens.

His lips curve, at first unconsciously—a smile, small and barely formed. Then, from deep in his chest, a quiet laugh escapes, unbidden and genuine, as weightless as the air after a storm.

It’s not mockery. It’s not disbelief.

It’s something purer. Something real.

—Nothing, —he murmurs, his thumb moving awkwardly against your skin— Just… this is nice.

The confession catches him off guard.

Because he hadn’t planned it.

Because he hadn’t filtered it through his logic before speaking.

Because it simply happened.

And then, you look at each other.

Maybe for too long.

Maybe just long enough for the world around you to blur into a distant murmur, as if nothing else exists except the space you occupy together.

He finds himself mesmerized by you.

Fascinated.

But not in the way he is fascinated by a new equation, by an unexpected pattern in the data, by the perfect symmetry of a well-designed structure.

This is different.

This is raw.

This is visceral.

This is feeling.

His other hand, trembling in a way he doesn’t understand, lifts with a slowness that borders on reverence.

And when his fingers brush against your cheek, the touch is so light it feels like an experiment in itself.

He feels.

He feels the warmth of your skin beneath his fingertips, the way it molds so effortlessly to his touch, the way your body leans ever so slightly toward him—responding to an equation he hasn’t yet written but, for the first time, doesn’t feel the need to solve.

He feels the erratic pounding of his own heart, too fast, too unsteady, as if it has forgotten its natural rhythm.

He feels the heat gathering in his chest, expanding outward like a shockwave, defying all logical explanation.

And then, he hears you sigh.

Small.

Soft.

Almost imperceptible.

But he feels it.

He feels the warmth of your breath against his skin, the subtle vibration of your exhale in the nonexistent space between you.

Feels,

feels,

feels.

As if every one of his senses—once so meticulously calibrated to process information—has now been repurposed for a single objective:

You.

Your warmth seeping into his skin.

Your quiet, rhythmic breathing.

The barely-there weight of your gaze resting on him.

The familiar scent of you, imprinting itself onto some hidden corner of his mind he never thought necessary.

Just you.

Only you.

Nothing else exists.

Nothing else matters.

And then—without thinking, without calculating, without rationalizing it into exhaustion like he always does—

he kisses you.

It’s brief. Just a brush of lips.

A moment suspended between doubt and need, between impulse and fear.

A single heartbeat contained in a single point of contact.

And then—

He hears you gasp.

His entire body locks up. Every muscle goes rigid with a tension so sharp it’s almost painful.

His brain—so efficient, so precise, so relentless in its ability to analyze every variable in a situation—enters a total shutdown.

He stares at you, eyes wide, pupils blown.

Oh, no.

No, no, no.

He misread everything.

What the hell was he thinking?

You don’t see him that way.

Why would you?

Why would you ever?

Shame crashes over him like an unstoppable wave. His stomach twists, his skin burns, his heart clenches into an invisible fist that threatens to crush it from the inside out.

He pulls back, his hands loosening, his voice catching in his throat.

—Oh, God, I didn’t mean to— —he stammers, his voice cracking under the weight of his own panic. His thoughts are a mess of unsolved equations, of probabilities collapsing into a singularity of pure dread— I just… I thought it was a good moment, I—

—Yes.

Your voice cuts through his spiral.

His brain short-circuits.

—It was.

…

What?

His breath halts.

The air thickens, pressing in from all sides, as if the entire universe has stopped—right here, right now, in these words, in this reality he never accounted for.

And then—

You close the distance.

You are the one to bring your lips back to his.

And his mind—his brilliant, overanalyzing mind—

for the first time in his life—goes completely silent.

And he simply—feels.

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darlingdaisyfarm · 6 months ago

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What do u think dad!Ford would be like? 🥹

☆彡 Ford Pines as a dad :)

★ his past haunts him. Ford is hyper-aware of his own mistakes and he’s terrified of repeating them. if he gets snappy or distant, he always circles back to apologise to his kid. “i didn’t mean to upset you. im still learning how to be better at this.”

★ academic expectations aren’t a thing for him. Ford understands the pressure of being “the smart one” better than anyone, so he refuses to let his kid feel the same weight. they could be an artist, a gardener, or a professional bubble blower, he’ll support them 100%

★ awkward, deeply earnest. he’s the dad who gives his kid a PowerPoint presentation on how much he loves them or offers comfort by saying things like: “i believe your emotional pain is valid and deserves acknowledgment.” but he’ll also stay up all night building a model of the andromeda galaxy for their science fair because he wants them to feel supported

★ he loves teaching them. not in a pushy way, but because it brings him joy to share what he knows

★ he's willing to explain the same thing 20 times if they don’t understand it or sit through the same annoying kids’ movie on repeat because it makes them happy

★ paranoid protector. if you think Stan is overprotective, Ford is worse. he teaches his kid how to build a Faraday cage just in case someone tries to control their brainwaves

★ PROUD NERD DAD. he’s that parent. the one who builds overly complicated science projects for the school fair or accidentally intimidates the teacher by asking if the curriculum includes quantum mechanics

★ Ford has seen things. he’s fought interdimensional monsters and battled with Bill Cipher, so yeah, he’s terrified of his kid getting hurt.

“you can’t go to that sleepover. what if it’s a trap set by extradimensional entities?!”

“dad, it’s just Timmy’s house.”

“just Timmy’s house, you say? that’s exactly what Bill would want me to think!”

★ he gives his kid tracking devices disguised as bracelets and builds a mini forcefield generator for their room. It’s a lot, but it all boils down to one thing: he’s terrified of losing them, like he almost lost Stan

★ notes on the fridge with text “out of milk. also, don’t touch the glowing rock in the lab, it might be sentient.”

★ Ford doesn’t always know how to express affection, but he’s so proud of his kid. hes the guy clapping too loud at the school play, or awkwardly trying to high-six after a good report card

★ i have a feeling he'll insist on preparing the kid for every possible situation, from wilderness survival to escaping an alternate dimension. he turns a simple camping trip into an intense survivalist training session.

“so you see this? this is how you create a makeshift compass using only a magnet and some swamp water. now, repeat it back to me.”

“Dad, can we just roast marshmallows?”

★ Ford knows he’s made some very questionable choices in life. and he’s determined to steer his kid away from making the same mistakes. but he also knows that life isn’t meant to be lived in fear. so he tries to let his kid explore and make their own mistakes, even if it kills him to watch

★ he does these impressions of weird creatures he’s studied to make the kid laugh or making up ridiculous bedtime stories about interdimensional adventures

★ being genuinely interested in whatever the kid loves. they mention liking stars? he’s pulling out telescopes and teaching them how to navigate by constellations. they doodle in a notebook? he’s buying them every art supply and researching the history of visual storytelling

★ if the kid needs help with a project, he’ll spend hours (or days) going overboard. you’ll find him at 2 AM in his study, hunched over a model volcano, muttering about optimizing the lava flow

★ casually mentions his interdimensional adventures at dinner and the kid eats it up because, let’s face it, having a dad who’s basically Indiana Jones with extra trauma is awesome

★ he’s terrified of being a bad father, of not being enough, and that fear can make him distant at times. he overthinks every decision, convinced he’s going to mess it all up. what if he's too much like his father? what if he pushes his kid too hard? but the thing is, he cares, so much. and his kid knows it, even if Ford’s love is sometimes wrapped up in layers of self-doubt and fear

★ if anyone messes with his kid oh, they’re done. Ford may be a nerd, but he’s also a six-fingered genius who’s survived the multiverse. he’ll calmly dismantle anyone who threatens his family

★ Ford's bedtime stories start off like normal fairy tales, but somehow they end as “and so, the starfish rebuilt its missing limb, but it always remembered the one it lost. and it knew that even though it was whole again, some things leave scars you never see.” you’re sobbing. the kid’s sobbing. Ford’s eyes are suspiciously glassy as he kisses them on the forehead and mutters something about needing to adjust the humidity in the room.

★ bonus point if he’s reading his kid a bedtime story, he gets way too into it, doing all the voices and even sketching out illustrations

★ Ford may not be that emotional as his brother, except when it comes to his kid. their first stick-figure drawing? framed in his study. their macaroni art project? encased in glass because he’s convinced it’s a modern masterpiece

★ i think Ford is usually the patient parent. but one day, after hours of hearing “why can’t I do this? why am I not good enough?” from his kid, he loses it.

“you think you’re not good enough? do you know what I see when I look at you? i see someone braver than I ever was, smarter than I’ll ever be and kinder than this world deserves. you are my child, my greatest achievement and if I hear you doubt yourself again, so help me, I’ll—” and then he has to stop because both of them are crying and hugging

★ he insists on teaching the kid “important life skills,” but half the time it’s just him geeking out while the kid watches in awe/confusion “okay now, if you ever find yourself trapped in an alternate dimension, here’s how you build a rudimentary portal using only a toaster and three rubber bands.”

“. . . can you teach me how to ride a bike instead?”

“right. yes. of course. bikes.”

★ and he never stops learning. about his kid, about himself, about what it means to be a father. it’s not always easy, but Ford is nothing if not resilient

★ Ford’s idea of a trip is hiking through the woods with a map and an emergency beacon, dragging his kid along while pointing out flora and fauna. “see this plant? highly toxic. don’t touch it.”

★ his passion for research often pulls him away, but he doesn’t want to miss a thing. over time, he learns to put boundaries in place, to walk away from the lab when it’s time for dinner or to prioritize their soccer game over his latest discovery

#grunkle ford #gravity falls #ford pines #ford pines headcanons #gravity falls stanford #gravity falls fanfiction #gravity falls x reader #gravity falls x you #gravity falls headcanons #ford x reader #ford pines x reader #stanford pines x reader #stanford pines x you #stanford pines #stanford pines headcanons #ford pines x you #ford pines x oc

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falsegodcore · 1 month ago

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IT GETS SO LONELY HERE; viktor x gn!reader, spiritual sequel to cutlery, domestic clingy yearner viktor, brief references to real scientists and artists, simple and sappy as usual. set before canon events and possibly non canon compliant but includes s2 spoilers. cw for internalised ableism in one paragraph. 5.8k words + crossposted on ao3 🙂‍↕️

small note to understand a three line exchange: while talking about quantum probabilities (in short, the concept that different outcomes of a quantum system can coexist until the system itself is observed or measured), einstein once said “god does not play dice with the universe” to voice his refusal of the theory. bohr replied to this with “einstein, stop telling god what to do” lol. written while listening to this on loop if you are curious

There is a short line that bends on the glass of the window he presses against when he waits for you. Sometimes his fingers trace it absently and he wonders how it even got there. You once guessed a past tenant dragged the metal tip of their bow compass on the surface – to jest, to get revenge on the Academy because of some strict professor, just to vandalise because they would get away with it. “Maybe leave a mark”, you had added. Viktor remembers not getting the appeal of leaving a small scratch on an old window for the sake of leaving a mark. When you had asked what he would call a meaningful mark, then, Viktor thought of the matching burn scars you both carry on the back of your left hands, the result of a careless experiment he carried late at night and that you had tried to stop, more lucid than he was, only to get hurt in the end. At least he knows his name is mentioned whenever people inquire about the taut skin. Viktor always hopes someone will ask you about him, because being teased by shared classmates isn’t enough.

Sometimes he has to stop himself from dwelling in such thoughts. Viktor fears Piltover has made him greedy. Maybe he can’t remember the hunger of Zaun.

(It’s easier to blame the city than you.)

It’s wrong to say he presses against the window, Viktor thinks; he presses in a safe corner between a pillar that looks ridiculous in the minimalist architecture of your shared room and the window. The windowsill he sits on is warm, warm only because they fucked up the water pipes’ placing when constructing the building and your downstairs neighbor had a habit of taking long showers that left the spot warm as if soaked with sunlight. Why a water pipe passes right under a window, the two of you don’t know.

Curling into the window gives Viktor a view of the Academy district in between his reflection, even if he tries to avoid his constant disheveled state – although Viktor always argues he has started to take more care of his appearance, suspiciously ever since you were introduced to him, years ago. But you have always looked at him more when his hair was a mess. He used to struggle to find the courage to duck his head and ask you to fix it for him with a playful tone – as playful as the nervous edge of the voice of a boy with a crush could be, anyways.

You never fixed much. Maybe moved some strands to the right side, twirl a few because ‘Your curls are cute,’ even if you both knew and know they’re not proper curls and just a result of his fidgety hands, never content unless they’re doing something. They’d be at peace around yours, Viktor thought.

And still does – he thinks too much and doesn’t act enough, or at least not as much as he’d like. Doesn’t even bother to look like he isn’t having a crisis when he is thinking and you've told him more than once he’s very expressive, and you like him for it. ‘I don’t have to second guess’, you had said, even if it sounded more like a confession; as if you wanted to say you were tired of second guessing, and maybe that was why you seemed to hesitate when some people talked at you – not to you. Viktor is observant and can tell the difference.

You don’t have to be observant to notice his clenched jaw or furrowed eyebrows or stares when he thinks or wants you. Viktor wishes he could be more subtle, but it’s hard to care when you offer palms and fingers without question, when you let him kiss the healing wound you carry because of him. Hard to keep himself from vomiting his heart out and offering it in exchange for a kiss.

(He begs beautifully for them. Viktor’s lips part with need and his head tilts towards yours and he hooks his cane on his forearm to tug you closer with both hands, close enough you can see his pupils dilate. You never make him plead, ‘You’re worth more than that,’ you tell him, and then tell yourself you shouldn’t soothe a man so much, even if Viktor’s sighs when you kiss his jaw are worth more of a million ‘please’s.)

Viktor is very selfish and hates the one class you don’t share with him with a burning passion, making faces when it takes you away from him. You’re well aware it’s just an act: he actually doesn’t. If anything, your lover likes having an excuse to hear your voice and feel your enthusiasm – ‘feel’ because your hands are as fidgety as his and they play with his fingers or sleeve or hair when you ramble. Viktor likes it when he asks what you’ve done in class and you curl around him to exchange secrets about Physics.

What Viktor hates is waiting. The way his heart bends in desperate anticipation and how breathing almost hurts, even if he knows seeing you emerge from that door, looking for him and only him, will be bliss itself. Air will be knocked out of his lungs at the notes of a jingling and impatient motif – present in the slip of keys in a pocket or bag before leaving each other and the struggle against the weary lock of your weary room when coming back home. Only the sight of your face or any sound from your throat will fill them back with oxygen, and Viktor has learnt to act as if he wasn’t waiting at all. Even if you’ve never given him a reason to be ashamed of needing your presence.

A couple runs after each other below his attentive gaze and the three floors of your building. They crash and curl into each other and shake with either laughter or despair, he can’t make it out. If it’s a giggling fit, Viktor wishes they’d be you and him. You never let him go easily when his stomach aches with snickering muscles. Fingers curl around his jaw to catch the expression, because Viktor doesn’t frequently laugh with his voice and you can relish only in it, in the way his nose scrunches and his eyebrows furrow when he can’t stop what he calls a ridiculous expression. His hands try to hide his face and then paw at yours when you don’t let him. When you’re the one caught in helpless giggling, Viktor presses against you, rubs the tip of his nose against the fullness of your cheek and indulges in the sound or tremble of your body. He has realized holding you while his fingers cause that same reaction is oddly relaxing.

You scold he’s mean. He hums you should stop being so lenient, then. Takes it back when you’re vengeful enough to make him curl in a ball of whines and kicking limbs. Nothing ever gets him to beg as much.

The couple breaks their embrace and one rubs at their face – it was despair, Viktor hums. Soothing, then considers. He’s no stranger to crying in the safety of your collarbones and then trying to rub the traces away, as if that could prevent the swelling of his eyes. Fingers wrap around his and chide softly that he will only make it worse, even if they do the same against glossy eyes, trying to hide the tears before his lips can drink them away. Viktor drags his knees up to his chest because the thought of you crying makes him nauseous, in a different way than the longing does. Helpless and futile, holding what he worships while it falls apart.

(Viktor thinks of Rio’s absent gaze as he clinged to her as a child, when his safety net weren’t your arms but a cave and a disgraced professor and a muted waverider. Of feeling helpless again, and not helping anyone at all. The way you sometimes don’t let him close when you’re hurt doesn’t help. Never helps, and Viktor retches with the selfish desire of licking each of your wounds anyways, of keeping you away from anything that might make you cry, of forcing his care on you if it meant you’d be safe. It’s so selfish he hates himself, and avoids you until the terror of becoming that same professor is gone and replaced with rationality.)

You love to compare him to a cat whenever he’s curled against the window on your return. Viktor squints at you in faux offence because he knows the grumpy act always steals an endeared smile, a melted heart and the promise of a kiss the second your hands are free. Usually between his eyebrows, while his hands wrap around your hips and keep you there, in front of him, where he can see you. There is something special in pressing his face against your stomach instead of saying ‘I missed you. You’re back to me, I was growing impatient. I’m glad you’re back. Don’t leave again, please, don’t leave me again.’ Words he doesn’t want to bother in a mumble, lest he has to admit he truly is greedy.

Most dorm rooms are meant for one person, two if the Academy is being extra generous – Viktor recalls desperate laments about your roommate before they dropped out and before he found the courage to mention living together for the following semester. And the one after that. Part of him misses the large, single room he had, a courtesy from being Heimerdinger’s assistant. Viktor had asked him if it would’ve been okay to simply add another bed. Heimerdinger didn’t have to ask why. And even if he had been surprisingly eager to play matchmaker and be an ear for Viktor’s romantic struggles, the Yordle had said no. Couldn’t help but question if the two of you would be able to focus on studies while living together, but supported his pupil all the same. Viktor likes your small room. His eyes leave the couple (busy in another hug) to blink at two beds pressed together. They take most of what should be his half of the room. The rest is a garden of soldering wires stolen from laboratories, textbooks with notes scribbled in the margins, unidentifiable mechanical parts and the actual flowers Viktor tries to grow before succumbing to deadlines and finals and accidentally killing them. Your only concern with the plants is naming them lest he accuses you of murder.

The motif of jingling keys reaches his ears and his heart and it leaps somewhere around his chest, maybe tries to burst out of it; he’s foolishly glad his ribs keep it in place. Bleeding out on old tiles isn’t what he’d like as his demise or your ‘Welcome home’ sight.

Viktor makes himself smaller in his corner when you finally swing the door open, forcefully, and gripping the doorknob. Your eyes move to the bed first, because you had left him curled on his mattress with a midterm induced headache. The windowsill is the second spot they check, and Viktor pretends not to be staring at you through the reflection on the glass.

You’ve always been one for entrances that bordered on silly, which is something he adores. You carry conversations he can’t anticipate with your presence. A moment, and then “The door is swollen,” is your own ‘I’m home’. You push it closed more fiercely than usually needed, full of shoulder-shove. Still leaning on the faulty wood, the tip of your left shoe pushes against the back of the other to get rid of it. Cold tiles meet your foot and you can’t help a small wince as you repeat the gesture and change in your slippers.

“Probably because of humidity and all. Do you think it might be growing mold inside?”

“Hopefully not. My lungs can’t take it.”

“Sometimes I’m glad you got pneumonia two years ago. At least that got you to stop smoking. And get them checked.”

Sudden guilt pools in Viktor’s stomach. You don’t have to know he almost fell in the old habit one weekend you were away, he has told himself. He’s aware you hate secrecy – but shame clogs his throat. His brain conjures images of the cigarette packet that laid on his desk for hours, upright and menacing, before being unceremoniously pushed out the same window he is staring at you through. Viktor still hopes it didn’t hit anyone.

Too tired to catch the averted gaze of an awful liar, you’re certain he is still sulking about his exam and the two hours you were away. Two bags are dumped on the cluttered table you never eat on as you approach your cat’s hiding spot. Viktor watches as you do: hands innocently behind your back and uniform creased, you’re the picture of an angel, to him. Viktor presses his back against the wall with a quiet, wishful sigh, like a poet looking out the valley of the world. His eyes dump you for the orange sky when you lean to him, bending slightly.

“Have you been awake long?” One of your hands presses against the ridiculous pillar, the other tries to cradle his cheek. Your fingers hesitate and start to retreat, in case he’s still upset and needs space and because you haven’t washed your hands yet. Viktor blinks, like he does when he needs to snap himself out of something, and pushes his face against your palm before it can get too far.

“Not long, no,” His voice trembles with another lie as he presses his nose in your skin and searches for a familiar scent, but ink lingers on your hands and so does the clammy smell of university lecture halls. Your thumb drags a line down his nose and he sighs again. “You took longer than usual.”

It’s an innocent way to lament your absence without sounding bothered, even if Viktor is, very much so. The same teeth he tries to hide when overwhelmed by smiles nip gently at your palm, at the base of a phalanx. It pricks just enough for you to like it.

“I stopped by the bakery, love. You know Thursday nights are a rite of forgiveness.”

He blinks again and his hazel eyes stare into yours. Viktor thinks too much, doesn’t speak enough and is the most expressive person you’ve ever met. You’ve grown used to the absent gazes, clinging arms and faint pouts that visit your lover on Thursday – and you welcome them as long as the cause is innocent and not a mask for sorrow. Before you leave, since Viktor anticipates the longing, and after you’ve come back to his arms. Even if he’s the one to crawl in yours more often than not. Being held is soothing. Pinning you down with his weight is grounding. Eating cake before dinner is exciting.

“Mhm. Bribery?”

“Not really, just part of the rite. I’ve missed you.”

His angel speaks in effortless love confessions and the lump in his chest is lifted for a moment. Then comes back when you remove your hand from his face. The first frown of the evening makes its appearance but you kiss it away. Promise you’ll be back in a second and kiss him again somewhere on his face when he hums plainly, keep kissing until he’s unable not to smile through faux annoyance as he’s pushing you towards the bathroom with an unspoken hurry up and a pat to your ass.

Viktor dumps the windowsill for the two beds pressed into one instead of peeking at the pastry hiding in the bag or stealing a bite just to be annoying. His stomach presses against the mattress and fortune favors him: his nose finds itself in a crease of your pillow, and the scent of your skin fills his lungs as he breathes it in. The hand carrying your shared burn scar flexes against the fabric. Sometimes Viktor wonders if your scent is genetically programmed to heal the damage left behind the air of the Fissures and tries to delay wash day by a few nights, only to be completely engulfed in it as you sleep, dream, huff, moan in his arms and the very sheets that carry your sweat.

(It’s a foolish fantasy. He’ll start coughing up blood in ten years and pass out during the one all-nighter you’ll be too tired to join. He won’t get to put a ring around your finger. You won’t get to say goodbye before your lover disappears in a purple husk.)

A knee dips in the bed. Fingertips lift his shirt, dragging along his spine, tracing a shoulder blade. What remains of angel wings, as some obnoxious theorists like to put it. One peeks just slightly because of faulty anatomy – but an innocent case. “Bodies can be weird,” You once told him while tracing his back as you always do: softly, like feathers, worshipping him while he was face down and bothered by something that he forces to be unspeakable, all strong feelings he tries to rationalise to avoid a heart attack and scaring you to death. Casual words always work like a spell when he is tormented with thoughts. Questions would kill him. Thus, you simply spoke. “I can pop one of my toes for a full minute. Could have, since I was little. It’s just a little quirk, like this.”

You had pecked the soft spot where bone melted into muscle. Viktor tilted his head up, skeptical of your confession, then counted fifteen pops and struggled to remember why he had been upset in the first place.

Your thumb moves along an imaginary line towards his ribs and four other fingers press into them absently. A squeeze is always the beginning of a hug. The hum Viktor breathes against your pillowcase is both sleepy and needy: wordless requests for affection, for your hands or lips to keep moving against him. In the aftermath of a night of tipsy limbs too tired for sex, Viktor once muttered he’d rather you manhandled him if it meant he would be touched, but took it back when morning came. You simply read it as an exaggerated confession of enjoying your affection and avoided bringing it up lest he avoided you.

Mere obedience isn’t what drives you to give in to his whims; you are not one to please for the sake of it. Devotion simply comes easy with loving Viktor, and being loved by him. Being understanding, rarely pressing, never going out of your way to elicit reactions to soothe your heart – maybe because Viktor is a jealous man by nature and you don’t need to press any buttons. Maybe you are boring or too careful, but it’s not a good look on him, either: the averted eyes and stiff tongue, the isolation. There is nothing pretty in coaxing him out of bad moods and guilt – because Viktor gets mad at himself when gazes you can’t control linger, even when you don’t regard anyone nor anything outside your bubble, outside what ‘matters’.

Viktor knows he matters. He has always mattered, even before you; never did he doubt his worth, even on those days he couldn’t move because of his joints and faulty leg, the same limb he’s learnt not to resent as much through your easy loving of it, of him. You shouldn’t even need to ask me – do you feel you have to? It’s not an issue, never has been. The only reason I say I’d give you my own is because you said you’d like to try running down at the harbour. Or play tag, I think you mentioned it once. But it’s not an issue for me, even if you can’t really believe it. You know you would tell me the same. It’s not even a problem to fix, to me. Ah, sorry, do I sound self-centric…? And Viktor’s tears are cradled in the pool of your collarbones like holy water. When shame and the fierce need of not crying over what he knows isn’t all he is come, you are still there to cling to; no longer for comfort or hiding, and just because a cat’s favorite spot is their human’s warmth. You let him make you sunlight to bask in. Understanding, rarely pressing. What else matters? Your lips press a kiss against the back of his neck as he muses over you.

The books you keep on two stacks on the floor and never recommend to anyone matter. Viktor has read only a few, secretly borrowing copies from a small library; not so you could talk about them together, only to catch glimpses of you in the lines, of the reasons you loved them so much and what they say about the heart his own is eager to fully understand, by himself, with as little help as it can manage. He wants to know you, completely.

Papers with diagrams and flashcards from past exams kept as souvenirs of your efforts (Viktor does the same), next to your favorite academic papers. Gadgets of a small, round, yellow mascotte of a brand he has no interest in, but finds very endearing. Hidden pictures of your family and school years that you let him see when he misses the version of you he has never met and a photo album of the two of you, before and after getting together (It’s thin: Viktor bought a camera only to forget to bring it on most dates). More carefully hidden cutouts of articles about people you no longer talk to. A moth made of a dead, slim bulb light and scrap metals as its wings he put together just to give you a little something out of a nightly whim (He takes a lot of pride in its presence on your shelf). A pitifully welded rose for a platonic Valentine’s day, as if something made by his own hands could even try to be less personal than a bouquet. Viktor realizes he couldn't have been less subtle (There are times you still fear one day he’ll wake up and leave). Jewelry that belonged to your mother and father. Vinyls you can’t play pressed against his own, but at least getting you to talk about the music you adore is much easier than doing the same for your books. Tickets of exhibitions and theater plays you’ve bought for each other. The mole you are currently trying to kiss.

Viktor huffs a chuckle as you nose at his throat, face shoved against the sheets. “Dearest,” He tries, chuckling again, “Love, you’ll suffocate. Wait.” You lean back slightly to let him roll on his back with another fond exhale. Viktor’s fingers reach for your face as you sit properly at his side, one ankle under a knee, back bent forward towards the line of muscle that hosts the dark smudge. The hand that just grazed your jaw traces a line up to the back of your head, tangling in hair. Viktor doesn’t understand your fixations for his moles, but has no reason to stop you. A kiss is a kiss and he wants as many as you can offer.

Your mouth moves down to his collarbone where a smaller mole almost blends in with his pale skin. Viktor laughs when you lick the bone just because. “Oh, quit it,” Viktor kicks you weakly with his knee as if he hasn’t licked weirder spots, “I don’t think God made collarbones for licking, miláčku.”

“You quit the dramatics, mister. And don’t tell God what to do.”

Viktor pauses for a moment before his lips break into a small smile and he speaks through poorly hidden amusement. “Did you just quote Bohr at me?”

Viktor’s fingers tug your hair to make your head tilt back in a gesture that is usually yours. The few brain cells still working after your afternoon lecture go through notes of Bohr, Einstein and Quantum Theory. You can only blink innocently. “No?” Not intentionally, at least.

Your lips approach his face again the moment his mouth opens to speak. The words die in his throat for another gentle huff, the closest you get to giggles from him on most days. “I was about to ask if you were done,” Viktor says as you kiss a faint acne scar on his chin and then start walking the path of his moles, one your lips knows perfectly. His part to blow on your face as you move from the one above his mouth to the mark under his eyes and you make a face at his cheekiness, an expression that gets him to actually chuckle. I missed you. I missed you, I missed you. His mind reels with it at every kiss, eyes closed. One of your fingers brushes the head of his eyebrow before your lips press in the small one that hides between hair.

“When summer comes,” Viktor moves while you speak to press his forehead to yours, secret code for a kiss, “I’ll drag you outside, to sunbathe. So I can kiss all your freckles.”

“Ah, please, don’t. I fear you will never be done.”

“Is that a vague way to say kisses tire you after a while?”

“Terribly wrong, dearest. But I get antsy with the need to reciprocate, you know that.”

Your expression couldn’t soften more. You lean back despite the hands that grip your forearms to try and get you to still. There is a small scar on his right earlobe that you don’t want to neglect – Viktor’s breath hitches under your attention and he covers it up with a weird sound in his throat. He calls your name once and tugs your hair again, firmer, the kind of firm to push you away.

Your assault ends before beginning. “What?” Slender fingers grip your jaw the moment you lean back; knowing Viktor, it’s less for keeping you in place and more to ground himself. His fingers are a sweet trail of affection against your skin; sharp and bony limbs that wrap around something divine, the same divine that he’s convinced knows no mercy. Ethereal, Viktor wants to say. Aren't you the prettiest thing they could ever create?

He has that look on his face. Eyes blown wide as if your head just exploded and his lips pressed in a pensive line. Thursdays mean silence, on most weeks. You don’t fully understand what happens every time you are away nor coax him to speak, but Viktor knows the clock is ticking. There are only so many things that are special when unspoken once romanticism wears off and he’s aware you won’t beg. The thought makes him huff, groan, let go of your face and rub his. You watch his tantrum with patience and a raised eyebrow. “What?” You ask again.

Viktor presses the heels of his palms in his eyes. “I’m going insane.”

“You go insane once a week.”

“I know. Could you keep pretending not to notice?”

That gets you to sigh. Loud and long and ending with a downturned smile: a fond, exasperated token of affection and a consequence of long exposure to him. Viktor wonders how he got so lucky. He peeks from under a palm to make sure you really are smiling. The corners lift more at the sweet sight. Viktor has little things like this: moments he looks at you all doe-eyed, even tilts his head as if searching for the right angle. Sits all curved on chairs like a cat trying to fit a much smaller box. He once mistakenly believed you had left without a word while he was in the bathroom – something you happen to do, albeit rarely, if you forget to check the mailbox; or do check it and end up abandoning grocery bags while going through junk letters (you’re always back before he can get himself to worry and apologize with an extra kiss, so it doesn’t matter). Viktor had moved around the apartment, frowning and mumbling to himself, had approached his safe window to maybe catch a glimpse of you down the street, had completely missed you under the table while trying to kill a spider (not catch: spiders do not matter. He is the one usually rescuing them.)

You had simply cleared your throat. He had stilled (resembling a doe again, only one freezing amidst the street), stared at you as if caught red handed and then stood in the middle of the room for a moment before sitting innocently on the edge of the bed, feigning ridiculous disinterest. All of that only to stand up in a second when his brain processed you were under the table.

Viktor sits up, leaning on his elbows with another sigh and a call of your name. “Could we go to bed earlier, tonight?”

“Of course. Are you tired? Naps sometimes make me more sleepy.”

“Ah, like coffee. You are always sleepy.”

“Maybe I am. Are you tired, Vik’?”

“Not exactly. I just want to hold you.”

His lips curl in a small smile when you press a string of endeared kisses down his jaw, a playful mwah, mwah, mwah of cuteness aggression. Viktor’s lips chase yours when you dare lean back and kissing amidst giggling always makes him feel light, like nothing else matters outside your smile. Viktor swallows your laughter until you’re pushing at him to retrieve that goddamn cake.

He follows suit. Arms find their place around your waist, nothing short of puzzle pieces and magnets, of things that return where they belong. His chest presses against your back like a second spine. Sometimes Viktor lets himself go, trusts you with his weight instead of being normal and asking for hugs without risking a domino effect with you face first on the floor. Other times he approaches with the faintests of pouts and hands that slip under coats and jackets to pull you flush into him and then pouts more when you let go – no matter how long you’ve held him. Viktor tells you there is a heaven in proximity. You jab at him for the poetics. He lets you, as long as you don’t hide blushing cheeks and flustered, bitten lips.

“Careful,” You chide with a smile as he squeezes your waist and peeks from behind your shoulder, all smiley eyes and clingy nose that rubs against your cheek thrice in the same innuendo of your three pecks. Throats are weak against laughter. “Viktor, careful!”

Whipped cream stains your side of the bed and Viktor’s chin is dusted with powdered sugar after his first bite. His fork steals the toppings from your slice and his mouth a kiss as if that counts as an apology. The flaky layers carry memories of times you’d buy a pastry on the way to classes and sink your teeth into it on old stairs in a lonely breakfast.

(You would hide. Wait in one of those sacred places no one would find you in, corners and crannies and abandoned benches away from any eyes that would recognize, ask, smile at you with too many teeth and not enough honesty; then take the longer route to your group’s meet-up spot. All to run away somewhere you knew. The brain soothes as much as it hurts.

“You can’t hide there forever,” Viktor had chided gently, in a delicate whisper, when you slipped up in your perfect act. Spoke in that way to let you know he was watching, observing. That you weren’t too hard to decipher under gazes that wanted to. It was scary. Less when you started staring back.)

One of your fingertips smears cream on the tip of his nose in late retaliation. “They’re closing soon, by the way,” You say. “Will move somewhere downtown– awful marketing choice, I know. It will become a music shop. A big one!”

“Unless they ruin the flooring plan in the process,” He knows his tongue can’t touch his nose but a scientist never stops trying; the chocked snicker you hide behind a hand is enough of a satisfying result. “Then we might as well hope they sell vinyl players. I miss working with background music. The radio’s picks are awful.”

“You and your indie rock.”

“You adore it.”

His thumb swipes the cream on his nose and on your lips while you raise both eyebrows. “Why, thank you.” You lick it clean while you speak. “What was that for?”

“For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.”

“We agreed on not quoting musicals in bed.”

“It was Newton, actually: you quoted Bohr earlier. It’s only fair, sweetheart.”

Viktor is so endearing it hurts. You bring your last bite to his smiling lips and his eyes soften with a kind of giddiness only sweets and eureka can bring him. Maybe it’s his own way of allowing himself to be playful, or a little childish. Carefree. You don’t ask: some things are better observed lest the magic falls into mundane. Or worse, into embarrassed – not flustered – and averted eyes.

(He is as sweet as he can be cheeky and it makes him precious. Openly treating him as such sometimes makes Viktor question if he’s precious glass rather than a gem and he tends to shrink back in himself – even if he thinks of you as precious, too, through the very same vision. So you treat his gentler moments with care, as he does with yours. Even if Viktor prefers lightening the mood to keep you smiling than risking a comfortable silence to turn sour. He likes the quiet much less than one would assume.)

Plates are moved to the floor and you on your lover’s lap. Viktor holds your face again, tilts it to focus on a cheek and swipes his thumb on the soft skin, pushing it up against your eye. You respond with a downturned smile that fills him with mischief. “Am I being manhandled?”

“Perhaps.” Viktor leans in to kiss below where his finger stretches your skin. It’s not very pleasant. “I missed you,” His chest feels lighter once the confession, the secret, leaves his heart through his throat. Viktor presses another kiss on your cheek before releasing your face, but your hand moves one of his back to your jaw and he can’t help a lovestruck smile. "I missed you terribly, miláčku." You don’t say it back, but your lips press against his and you sigh in his mouth like you finally found peace. Viktor guides your jaw to open further with a simple squeeze to your chin.

There is heaven in proximity and secrets in hums and you are still young enough to pretend affection will save you both. A ridiculous pillar and dead flowers watch over, the stars peek inside your apartment and everything falls into place. Right before his eyelids close in the bliss of another kiss, Viktor thinks two hours of weekly anguish are worth the prize.

#viktor x reader #viktor x you

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