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jezebelblues · 3 days ago

Note

I just started following you a while ago and I love your work so much, I was even considering restarting my blog to write!

I was wondering, can I request something about the reader being a college student? And maybe harry is taking a break from touring and writing music. He’d probably try to make jokes and distract her sometimes, but he’d also want her to teach him stuff and debrief after class. He might even get serious about her study sessions and be super quiet, but also bring her snacks here and there.

If you get to write this, thank you sm!! 😊

lady grinning soul | h.s

summary: see request ^ basically that, but it’s a slight au because harry isn’t tooooo famous in this

| thank u anon <3 ur too sweet. i hope u got back into writing

cw: fem!reader, unedited. bf!harry, lhh

word count: approx 4.4k

| sorry this took so long to get to! i’ve been in a slump. i hope you don’t mind either that i made him more of an up-and-coming artist rather than the fame he has today :^) lhh just felt right for this too he’s so bf

"you did what?" YN laughed, her fingers coated in the smooth, familiar feel of one of harry's leave-in conditioners as she worked it into his damp curls, gently coaxing through knots and tangles that told stories of long nights and late shows.

harry sat on on leg while the other hung lazily off her bed, shirtless, his skin glistening faintly under the dim dorm lights, still cool and damp from his shower. a well-worn towel hung low on his hips, clinging to him in soft folds, and he twisted the silver ring on his index finger, flashing that crooked, boyish grin that still managed to make her heart skip.

"yes—water," he said, a hint of pride in his voice as he looked up at her through dark lashes. "poured it right into the crowd. they went mental."

she chuckled, focusing on a particularly stubborn knot as his head tipped back, giving her a better angle. "do i even want to know why you did that?"

"beer," he replied simply, with a lazy shrug and a mischievous glint in his eye. he shifted, turning to face her fully, the mattress giving a soft creak under his weight as he adjusted. "they were flinging beer at me, so i figured it was fair game. bit of payback," he said with a smirk, his voice deepening in that low, conspiratorial way that she adored.

her lips tugged into a soft smile as she leaned in, her eyes tracing the ink on his skin, pausing over the small mermaid tail curling near his elbow. she felt the room go still for a beat, her fingers just barely grazing his tattooed arm. "tell me more?" she murmured, barely above a whisper.

but instead of answering, he caught her hand in his own, his thumb brushing over her knuckles as he brought her palm up, pressing it gently against the warm, bare skin just below his left breastbone. his expression softened, and his voice dipped, tender and a little unsteady. "was thinking–right here. your initial." his gaze searched hers, a flicker of vulnerability in his eyes that made her heart skip, lingering between them in a way that left her breathless.

a small, breathy laugh escaped her as she drew her hand back, fingers trailing down his chest as she settled back on the bed, her heart fluttering with that same familiar warmth that only he could draw out of her. "about the show, styles," she chided, though her cheeks had warmed at the idea. it was all she could do to keep her voice steady, even as that look in his eyes held her captive, that glimmer of something deeper, something unspoken.

with a lazy grin, he slumped back on her bed, folding his arms behind his head as if he owned every inch of this tiny dorm room. he was still her harry—the one who'd lean against her door at ungodly hours after a gig, smelling faintly of stale smoke and beer, his voice barely a murmur as he recounted the night's little victories and mishaps. but there was something else in his eyes tonight, an edge softened by the dim light, his hand inching toward hers, fingers grazing against hers.

he gave her a dramatic sigh, pretending to be exasperated, but she could see the way his eyes lit up, the pride he tried to hide. "alright, picture this—tiny, cramped stage, lights barely working, and a crowd that's already three drinks too deep."

she chuckled, already seeing it. "sounds like your crowd."

"my exact type.” he hummed, eyes glimmering. "i was halfway through kiwi when this guy in the front row starts singing louder than me. like, absolutely shouting every word—more like repeating guess, i don’t think he knew the lyrics—didn't care if he was off-key or not."

"oh no," she gasped, theatrics, biting back a grin. "how did you handle that?"

"well, first i tried to ignore him. y'know, be professional and all." he raised his chin, like he was already picturing himself on a real stage. "but then he threw his beer in the air, and half of it hit me, so i thought, why not join him?"

she felt the words settle over her, a quiet intimacy that wrapped around them, thick and warm. she let herself lean into him, their knees brushing, her hand finding his and lacing their fingers together. here, in this cocoon of her dimly lit dorm room, the outside world faded. it was just him-her’s, with his rough edges, inked skin, and soulful eyes that held a thousand unspoken promises.

"so," she murmured, her thumb tracing slow circles over his knuckles, "it was a good show then?"

a soft laugh escaped his lips, his eyes dancing as he looked at her. "good? better than good, baby." he said, a certain fire in his voice as he recalled the night. "place was packed-should've seen it. they might've only been there for the drink deals, but by the time we hit the first chorus, they were in it." he paused, a flicker of excitement lighting up his face as he leaned closer. "even had this one bloke shouting for an encore, practically begged us not t’leave."

she could see the pride, the kind that was so uniquely his—modest, but bursting at the seams, a quiet confidence that only she got to witness in moments like this. her heart swelled, and she squeezed his hand. "sounds like a big deal," she teased, her voice softening as she held his gaze. "next thing i know, you'll be playing to actual crowds, not just randoms at pubs."

"don't tease me," he chuckled, nudging her gently with his shoulder. "could happen. could be my big break, y'know? today, it's a back alley pub with sticky floors—tomorrow, a real venue." he looked at her, his expression shifting from playful to something quieter, almost vulnerable. "maybe even a place you'd be proud to be seen at."

she shook her head, her voice barely above a whisper. "h, i'm already proud of you." and she meant it—down to the core of her. there was a strength in his persistence, his dreams kept alive by late nights and small crowds, his music spilling into the shadows of empty bars and dim lights. it was the kind of resilience most people never understood, but it was something she loved about him, something that made him feel like home.

his hand shifted, cupping her face gently, his thumb brushing over her cheek as he searched her eyes. "how'd i get so lucky, yeah?" he murmured, almost as if to himself. he looked at her like he was seeing her for the first time, the weight of the night lingering between them, the quiet promise of everything they'd built together.

she tilted her face into his touch, eyes fluttering closed as she breathed him in-the faint smell of his shampoo, mingling with the scent of rain from outside and something warm, something distinctly him. her hand found his chest, fingertips resting over the steady beat of his heart.

"can i stay tonight?" he asked softly, his voice a low murmur against the backdrop of their shared silence.

she nodded, her lips brushing over his knuckles as she squeezed his hand. "wouldn't want you anywhere else."

with that, he leaned forward, capturing her lips in a kiss that felt like a thousand words, soft and slow, as if they had all the time in the world. harry's hand slid from her cheek down to her neck, his fingertips tracing a delicate line along her collarbone, sending a soft shiver through her. the playful glint in his eye had shifted, replaced by something deeper, a heat she felt all the way down to her toes. he inched closer, the rough rasp of his stubble brushing her jaw as his lips found the soft skin just below her ear.

"you're staring," she murmured, voice low, a smile on her lips as her fingers traced along his shoulder, her touch grazing the edge of his tattoo.

"can't help it." he whispered, his voice low and rough, leaving no question about what he wanted. his fingers trailed down her back, pulling her just a little closer as his towel slipped dangerously low on his hips, clinging to him in a way that left little to the imagination. "s'not every day i get my girl all to myself, undistracted." his fingers slipped just beneath the hem of her shirt, his thumb stroking slow, lazy circles along her hipbone, sending a faint shiver up her spine.

she felt herself melting into him, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw before wandering down to rest on his chest. his skin was warm, firm beneath her touch, and she felt the steady beat of his heart thrumming under her fingertips. just for a moment, she let herself get lost in it-the way his hands roamed, slow and sure, his lips brushing her neck, her jaw, her shoulder, each kiss igniting a trail of warmth.

but as his hands started to wander lower, his towel barely hanging on, she bit back a smile and placed her hand flat on his abdomen, feeling the firm, taut muscles tense under her touch. she let her fingers linger for a moment before giving him a light flick, snapping him out of the haze that had taken over.

he kissed his teeth, head snapping up, a shocked, slightly betrayed expression crossing his face as he met her gaze. she smirked, letting her eyes trail up and down him with a playful glint before meeting his eyes, her voice light and teasing.

"don't get too excited, styles. i've got an essay to write, remember?"

he blinked, looking adorably lost for a second, then let out a groan, throwing himself back on the bed in dramatic defeat, one arm flung over his face. "an essay, bunny? now?" he peeked at her from under his arm, a playful pout tugging at his lips. "you're really gonna make me lie here in agony while you write about... what? politics? shakespeare?"

"modern lit," she corrected, grabbing her laptop from the bedside table with a grin. she settled beside him, nudging his leg with her knee as he sighed in exaggerated frustration. "i'll make it up to you," she added, her voice sweet but her expression mischievous.

"is that right?" he asked, raising a brow, his mood instantly lightening as he leaned up on one elbow to watch her type. "what kind of 'make it up' are we talking, then?"

she rolled her eyes, though her smile softened.

"you're ridiculous, you know that?"

“mm-hm, i know,” he chuckled, unbothered. he kept his eyes trained on her as she adjusted the computer in her lap, fingers flying across the keys as she tried to ignore his gaze.

but she could already feel his fingers tracing idle patterns along her thigh, his head resting on her shoulder as he sighed dramatically, determined to make her work for it. “fine,” he murmured, pressing a quick kiss to her shoulder, knowing she wasn’t going to let up. “but don’t say i didn’t warn you when i’m too tortured to focus on my next gig.”

she shook her head, grinning. “i think you’ll survive.” and despite his protests, she felt him settle beside her, his hand wrapped loosely around hers as he waited, patient and easy, for the essay to be done—and for the night to be theirs again.

after a few more minutes of him sighing and shifting beside her, nudging her leg with his knee, or letting his fingers brush distractingly over her shoulder, she finally gave him a pointed look. “lovey, come on. at least put some pants on,” she said, biting back a laugh as he gazed up at her with an exaggerated look of betrayal.

“y’sure baby?” he mumbled, the corners of his mouth tugging into a cheeky grin as he adjusted the towel around his waist, letting it dip low enough to reveal the line of his hip bones. he leaned in close, his face just inches from hers. “last chance to give up on that essay.”

she rolled her eyes, shoving him lightly as she tried to suppress a smile. “h. pants. now.”

he sighed dramatically, rolling off the bed and muttering under his breath as he crossed the room, as if she’d asked him to do something outrageous. “you’re cruel, you know that?” he grumbled, pulling on a pair of briefs, followed by his well-worn grey sweatpants. he shot her a mock glare as he snapped the waistband into place. “i hope that essay’s worth it,” he teased, flopping back down on the bed with another exaggerated groan.

but he couldn’t keep up the act for long. settling beside her, he wrapped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her snug against him as he leaned over her, his gaze shifting to the screen of her laptop. she felt him press a quick kiss to the side of her head, and then he tilted his head curiously, reading the words on her screen. “alright, genius. what’re we working on?”

she grinned, knowing his curiosity was genuine—harry was the only person who ever asked about her classes, who remembered the details of her projects, who even stayed up late to help her brainstorm ideas when she got stuck. “it’s for my modern lit paper,” she said, turning the laptop slightly so he could see the opening lines. “i’m writing about identity in contemporary poetry.”

his brow furrowed, and he gave a thoughtful hum. “identity, huh?” his fingers started playing with a strand of her hair, twisting it absently as he thought. it still smelt like her lavender shampoo. “so, like–how people see themselves? or how they think they should be seen?”

she nodded, feeling a warm flutter in her chest at the way he genuinely tried to understand. “yeah, lovey, exactly. it’s about how people present different versions of themselves, depending on the world around them. how sometimes people feel like they have to hide who they really are, or adapt, to fit in.”

he was quiet for a moment, his eyes thoughtful as he took that in, a small crease forming between his brows. “guess i know a bit about that,” he murmured, almost to himself, then gave her a soft smile. “makes sense, though. we’re all trying t’figure it out, right?”

she looked at him, her heart swelling at the way he always found a way to connect with her world, to show up and care. he wasn’t just the guy who played guitar in pubs and poured water over the crowd—he was thoughtful and reflective, her safe place and her biggest support. she reached out, brushing a stray curl away from his forehead, her gaze softening.

he met her eyes, a small smile tugging at his lips as he watched her type a few lines, completely relaxed against her side. “y’really like this stuff, don’t you?”

she nodded, feeling her cheeks warm. “i do. and i like that you care enough to ask.”

he grinned, his hand resting over hers on the keyboard. “wouldn’t miss it, bunny. i want to know it all. even the boring bits,” he teased, pressing another kiss to her temple. “so… what’s next? how do y’wrap this thing up?”

as she dove into her explanation, she felt him settle in closer, his head resting on her shoulder, eyes flicking back and forth between her face and the screen. and even though he’d begun the night wrapped in little more than that towel and mischief, there was something about the way he lay beside her now—calm, engaged, just there for her.

after a while, she tried to concentrate on the closing argument of her essay, but harry’s hand found a lock of her hair again, twirling it lazily around his finger, his touch warm and gentle. every so often, he’d place a quick, messy kiss on her cheek, or the side of her head, each one more dramatic than the last, until she couldn’t help but huff out a laugh, nudging him back.

“alright, enough with the distractions,” she muttered, shooting him a mock-stern look as he grinned back, clearly pleased with himself.

but he was relentless. when she referenced another poet, he piped up, a mischievous look in his eyes. “ah, yes, that guy,” he said, tone teasing as he tapped his chin as though he were deep in thought. “big fan. wrote that one poem about… feeling feelings, right?”

she rolled her eyes, biting back a laugh. “harry, i’m serious.”

“hey, i am too!” he replied, the grin on his face only widening. “poetry’s got layers, YN. all about emotions and metaphors.” he lifted an eyebrow, giving her a wink that made her want to laugh and push him off the bed all at once.

she groaned, turning back to her screen, though the smile tugging at her lips gave her away. despite his teasing, she knew he respected her work and thought she was smart, even if he pretended to be clueless just to get a rise out of her.

a few minutes passed, and she found herself stuck, her fingers hovering over the keyboard as she struggled to find the right words to tie everything together. she could feel harry’s gaze on her, his eyes flicking between her face and the screen, and right then, her stomach gave a loud, unmistakable growl.

harry’s eyebrows shot up, and a playful, knowing smirk crossed his face. “oh, is that how it is, then?” he said, nudging her gently. “i’m over here pouring my heart and soul into supporting you, and you’re starving yourself for art.”

she laughed, rolling her eyes as she tried to wave him off. “it’s fine, i just need to—”

but he was already halfway across the room, grabbing his phone with a sense of purpose, tapping away with single-minded determination. “nope, not happening. i’m ordering us food. you’re no good to me fainting on the job,” he teased, tossing her a grin as he started scrolling through options on doordash.

she watched him, warmth blooming in her chest at the sight of his focused expression as he debated between a few late-night favorites. his finger paused on the screen, and he shot her a look over his shoulder. “what are we feeling? i know goodfella’s is open late.”

she hummed, folding her arms and pretending to think. “their pizza sounds good.”

“perfect. what kind?” he asked, giving her that soft, endearing look that always managed to make her heart skip.

“surprise me,” she said, her eyes crinkling with a smile as he turned back to his phone, murmuring thoughtfully to himself as he made his selections.

once he’d ordered, he slid back beside her, his arm slipping around her shoulders, pulling her close as he planted a quick kiss on her forehead. “alright, aristotle. you’ve got about twenty minutes to wrap this up before the pizza gets here.”

she grinned, feeling a rush of renewed energy as she settled back into her laptop, his warmth beside her and the promise of food on the way. and as she typed out her final thoughts, she felt his hand come up to her hair again, his fingers working through her locks in a gentle rhythm as he leaned his chin on her shoulder, watching her with a soft smile.

“think you’re about to blow the rest of the class outta the water.” he muttered, his voice low and genuine, cutting through the playful teasing of earlier.

she paused, glancing over at him, her cheeks warming under his gaze. “you think so?”

he nodded, brushing his nose gently against her cheek. “definitely. i knew you were brilliant the first time i met you. just, you know, don’t forget me when you’re off being some lit professor with a fancy office and your own bookshelf in every bookstore.”

she laughed, shaking her head. “you’ll be playing stadiums by then, styles. i think you’ll be just fine.”

once harry met the driver outside of the dorm and made his way back up the stairwell to the second floor of her building, they sat cross-legged on the bed, the pizza box open between them, warm and smelling faintly of melted cheese and marinara. YN took a bite, savoring the comfort of it as they eased into the rhythm of their usual conversations. she told him stories about her classes—about the professor who insisted everyone call him by his first name and the girl who always argued with the readings in ways that both amused and baffled her. he listened intently, his eyes focused on her like she was the most fascinating person in the world, laughing at all the right moments, nodding as if every small detail mattered. and for harry, it did.

soon enough, the conversation shifted, and he told her stories from his recent gigs—how the second-to-last venue had practically been held together with duct tape, how he’d overheard some guy loudly claim he could “totally play guitar better than that dude.” she laughed at the way he imitated the voice, rolling his eyes in good-natured frustration. “seriously,” he groaned, grinning through a bite of pizza, “the heckling never stops, even when you’re playing to like, fifteen people.”

she nudged him with her knee, a smirk tugging at her lips. “just you wait, one day those fifteen people are going to turn into fifteen thousand, and that guy will still be standing there with his pint, going on about how he should be the one on stage.”

harry’s face softened, his gaze lingering on her. “you’re just saying that because you’re in love with me.”

“maybe,” she said with a wink, brushing a crumb off his cheek.

they fell into their easy banter, and soon enough, poetry came back up. she was telling him about one of the poets she was analyzing, the language they used and the intricate metaphors she was supposed to decipher, when harry raised a brow, an amused look crossing his face. “you’re talking like i don’t write poetry myself, you know.”

“oh, really?” she teased, leaning back with her arms folded, a skeptical look on her face. “let’s hear it, shakespeare.”

with a grin, he pulled out his phone, scrolling through his notes until he stopped on something, looking a bit sheepish but handing it over to her with a small smile. “here. latest masterpiece.” he joked with a shrug, though he seemed a bit nervous. “study it in your lit classes ‘n all that.”

she took his phone, her heart skipping a beat as she saw the title: adore you. her chest warmed as she started reading through the words. it wasn’t like the love poems she read for lectures, full of flowery language and convoluted metaphors. no, this was simple, but sincere—lines that felt raw, real, and vulnerable in a way that only he could make them. each line felt like a glimpse into him, into the parts of himself that he shared only with her, the quiet moments, the late nights, the laughter and gentle touches that only they knew.

when she finished, she looked up at him, unable to hide the wide smile spreading across her face. “harry, this is—you’re so cute.” she said, her voice soft with genuine awe. “forget those old poets i read about. they’ve got nothing on you.” she squeezed his hand, her thumb brushing over his knuckles as she looked back down at the lyrics, rereading her favorite lines.

a blush crept up his cheeks, and he gave a little shrug, pretending to brush off her praise, but she could see the way his eyes shone, how much her words really meant to him. he nudged her playfully, leaning in with a grin. “you know it’s about you, yeah?”

she felt her heart flutter, her smile growing even wider as she met his gaze. “is it now?”

“obviously,” he chuckled, shaking his head as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “i mean, who else am i going to write about? you’re the one i can’t stop thinking about. the one who makes every line worth writing.”

she felt warmth bloom in her chest, reaching out to lace her fingers with his. “well,” she said softly, “then i think i’m the luckiest girl alive.”

he squeezed her hand, his expression softening as he leaned in, his forehead resting gently against hers. for a moment, they stayed like that, their hands intertwined, the world outside her tiny dorm room slipping away. it was just him, his steady heartbeat under her palm, his soft gaze that held a world of promises, and the quiet knowledge that he’d put it all into words just for her.

“so, poetry and pizza,” he murmured, his lips curving into a contented smile as he leaned back, pulling her into his chest. “didn’t think my night could get any better.”

“oh, really?” she teased, settling against him, her head resting just under his chin. “not even if i let you watch me struggle through the rest of my essay?”

“thrilling stuff,” he joked, his hand trailing gentle patterns along her arm. “actually, it’s all kind of perfect, YN. you, me, pizza, some poetry… maybe the start of a terrible song i’ll write when i can’t sleep tonight.”

“a song about pizza and poetry?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“why not?” he grinned, his eyes sparkling. “everyone needs a little inspiration, hm?”

she laughed, and the sound seemed to brighten the whole room, making everything feel light and carefree. “i’d listen to it.”

“i’ll dedicate it to you,” he replied, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of her head, his voice softening. “after all, you’re my favorite muse.”

they sat like that for a while, the remnants of their pizza scattered around them, the warmth of his arms wrapped around her. she felt her eyes growing heavy, lulled by the steady rise and fall of his chest, the soothing hum of his voice as he mumbled quiet words of nonsense, half-asleep, just for her.

“hey,” she whispered after a while, her voice soft, almost a breath. “thank you for being here. for everything.”

“always,” he murmured, his voice a low, sleepy rumble. “wouldn’t be anywhere else.”

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weltraum-vaquero · 3 days ago

Text

Swan song

Professor Viktor x TA Reader

[PART 1]｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆[PART 2] ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆[PART 3] (coming soon)

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆[AO3 link] ⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡

Summary: You’re a bright phD student who won’t shy away from a challenge. Getting the most notorious professor at the University of Piltover to hire you as his assistant is one of them.

Tags: Modern AU, SFW (for now…), DILF professor Viktor, romanticizing and eroticizing borsht, lab shenanigans, reader being filled with equal parts shame and lust

Word count: 7.8k

Notice: This fic is written with a transmasculine reader in mind, but that won’t come into play at all until the final third chapter of this mini-series.

Notes: A little something something while we await season two ;] The draft for this post deleted itself twice now. If the formatting looks wonky (especially in the texting section), NO, it doesn't. Shut up.

He didn’t lie.

Which is all the more shocking, considering you attend his 8AM lecture on the very same day, and he seems more bright and alight than you’ve ever seen him.

When did he find the time?

Though there isn’t a daunting amount to your thesis just yet, you still want to believe you’ve written something quite substantial over the past months.

You toss one glance around yourself before you follow him into his office after his lecture, and you find the stack of papers you’d left on his desk last night looking positively devoured, in the most… academic way possible. Scribbles and notes litter the margins, the edges of the papers are already somehow lightly worn.

He must have read it multiple times.

“Coffee?” He offers.

“Yes, please.”

As he gropes the machine in search of its switch again, he cocks his brow at you. “And what was that for?”

You frown. “What was what for?”

“That… glance, before you followed me into my office.” The switch clicks, the light comes on. “Looking around like you were being followed.”

“Oh,” caught in the embarrassing act, you shrug. “I don’t know. Being cautious, I guess. Students have been looking at me a little funny, lately.”

“Much too late for caution, I’m afraid.”

Uh oh.

As he retrieves two paper cups, you’re left wondering what exactly that should mean.

“Why’s that?”

“I thought you were well aware of the fact that rumors would start, um… circulating the moment I made it public that I had hired an assistant.” Coffee trickles into the cups, a soothing little melody. Viktor leans against the wall beside the machine as he watches the cups fill. “I’ve always been adamant about not needing one. It is natural for people to have questions — and to come up with, eh, answers — when I suddenly do.”

The notion of the answers students might have come up with swirls around in your brain.

You wish they were right.

You’re glad they’re not.

You look at Viktor.

“Do you mind it?”

The coffee stops pouring. Viktor does that thing again, spreading long fingers apart to grasp both cups. And he’s quiet — for a beat longer than he should be.

“No. There are more important things to worry about than… gossip.” He sets the cups on the table, then takes his seat. He hesitates for a brief second, craning his neck before he fixates on you, motionless. Waiting. “Do you?”

“Trying not to.”

The answer makes him… deflate, somehow. It’s barely visible, for just a fraction of a second his chest sinks, before his tone is back to his composed cadence.

“You will get used to it,” he assures. “Now, onto more interesting matters — your work.”

Thank god. You don’t know how much more of the awkward tiptoeing you could have handled.

“Yes.” Your heart leaps into your throat. Acting normal has never been so difficult. “What did you think?”

“Very impressive.” He slides the stack of papers towards you. “I have made some… suggestions here and there, should you wish to take them into consideration. But, I think you struck gold with your hypothesis. Should you need a conversation partner, guidance, anything at all — I would gladly be at your service.”

“Thank you, Viktor. I really appreciate this.”

At the sound of his own name coming from you, something in him shifts. Shifts with an unfamiliar near bashfulness, he stifles a little smile into the rim of his paper cup, the corners of his eyes crinkle, he settles into his seat a little further.

“But you never held up your end of the bargain,” you point out. That snaps him out of it.

“Ah, yes. I did not.” He continues to hide behind his cup, before he finally seems to decide to take a metaphorical leap, as he sets it down and stares down at it. “I fear the unfortunate truth may be that when it comes to research, I either work better with a partner, or that… Cecil is right and I need to slow down. Though I’d guess the former is more likely.”

“You used to work with, uh…” you’re not sure how to approach the topic, “Talis, didn’t you?”

“The five basic principles of applied arcanism are commonly referred to as Talis’ princies, you do not have to feign uncertainty to appease me.”

So you drop the attempt to tiptoe around the subject, and ask, plainly:

“Why wasn’t your name added on?”

Viktor scoffs. “Talis-Sidorov-Sviboda has a terrible ring to it. Or so he’d said. And admittedly… I was more of a conduit than the co-author of his idea. He said we would name the next big thing we would discover after me, but… well, you know how it is. I dedicated myself to teaching, he retired to lead a quiet life in his gaudy mansion with his sports cars and his purebred German shepherds after he married some businesswoman.”

Though his story does line up, those aren’t necessarily the rumors you’d heard. There’d been talk of more than just a mild dispute of names, and… well, there had been… something between Talis and Viktor. But that’s about all you know.

Under your gaze, Viktor grows suddenly uncomfortable — both with the subject and the fact that he might be able to tell you know more. He’s quick to redirect the conversation.

“As for my research: I have been studying the laminal hexoin cascade in stabilized hexgems in various matrices. And though bold, I have been attempting to figure out the ideal matrix — something that will allow for close to a hundred percent energy renewal and render all other sources of energy obsolete.”

”That is bold,” you say. Your other thought, you keep to yourself: it also sounds impossible. You suppose stabilizing hexgems 20 years ago was also something thought impossible — and yet, Viktor hadn’t shied away. If anyone is apt for the job, it is him. “Any luck so far?”

“Partially. They have been yielding favorable results, but not enough to be viable energetic alternatives as of now.” He takes his cup again, bringing it to his lips in a rushed movement, drinking a mouthful, rather than a sip. Once Viktor sets it down, his hand remains on the table, fingers tapping on the shiny surface once, twice— “I could use a theorist to assist me with a few things.”

The implication dizzies you. Is he…?

But then he slides another one of his drawers open, and retrieves a stack of papers. Slanted handwriting, barely legible — you’re by now intimately familiar with it: his cursive. It litters the pages, in different inks and in pencil, diagrams, sketches… just looking at it makes you hungry to read it.

He smiles as if he’s read your mind, again.

“I was thinking it could be you.”

—

You’re invited to his office for lunch break the very next day too. And though he assures you there is no pressure in having to read through his notes by then, you disregard it.

It takes you a reread to be able to make sense of all his scribbles, but… it’s brilliant. He’s brilliant.

It should stop surprising you by now — his ideas, his drive, his curiosity, his mind — but with every single time Vikror impresses you anew, he becomes something more distant.

As you’re marveling at his intricate weaving of concepts, it strikes you, unpleasantly, that this is the same man you’d wanted to devour just days ago. The man who’s made you coffee, the man whose sharp eyes fold at the corners when he smiles.

You’d have deified him, had he been your teacher. You still do, especially now, after you’ve seen more of what his mind is made of. The mere notion of him becomes terribly out of reach, and you’re plagued with guilt for that night. Guilt for having tainted such a man with your thoughts.

And yet, you still can’t help but think of his neck, the soft pink of his chapped lips, the hollow of his cheeks. You wonder what his mouth tastes like, and you want to slap yourself on the wrist for it. You should have, because minutes later, you wonder about worse things too. The scent of his skin, the coarseness of his body hair, how far up under his navel it might reach.

And when you finish reading his notes a second time and bring the paper to your nose to sniff it — hoping for a trace of him — you realize you have a problem. A serious one.

It torments you for the rest of the night, through the hours you spend writing up some suggestions and ideas, all the way to when you switch off the light, and hug whatever pillow’s within reach close.

When you get the urge to tilt your hips against it, you decide to get up and splash your face with water.

And you wish you could do the same thing the very next day on your lunch break, when you’re standing in the doorway of his office and he’s eating borscht. The sweet-tangy smell of vegetables, beef and beets makes your stomach growl, but your physical hunger is long lost on your otherwise preoccupied brain.

The beet red of the soup has pigmented his lips. They look kissed raw, puffy, ripe. A lavish speck of colour on his otherwise pale face, it draws your gaze and does not let it stay somewhere more respectful.

You want to taste them.

He does it for you, raspberry pink tip of his tongue darting over the plush of his lips before he swallows and finally greets you.

“Sorry,” you say, and it comes out tense, near horrified. You’ve caught him eating soup, for chrissakes, not being bent over his table. Oh, god. Why did you have to think about that? ”I’ll come back later.”

“No,” Viktor gestures to the empty seat across from him. He screws his thermos shut, and puts it away. “Please, I’ve been waiting for you. Sit.”

And you do, like the dog you feel like you are right now.

“Did you manage to find the time to read my notes?”

Oh, did you.

“I… followed your example and made some suggestions of my own. But on separate pages. Here.”

His reaction is more than what you’d hoped for. It’s more than the impressed raise of thick brows that had kept you fueled last night, it’s more than the smile you’d been hoping for.

“You are unbelievable,” he grins, and takes what you offer, pushing his glasses up his nose before he starts reading. You selfishly use the distraction to stare at his lips again. He mutters to himself as he reads, pink mouth molding around whispered jargon, nodding. “Yes, this… this is exactly what I’d hoped for, when I’d asked for your assistance. Your fresh set of eyes is invaluable. I hadn’t thought of approaching the modification from that angle.”

“I’m glad you think so.”

He doesn’t take his eyes off the page for even just a moment, flipping it surprisingly fast, and taking it with him as he leans back in his seat.

And decides to torture you.

Viktor traces the pad of his own thumb over the curve of his bottom lip as he takes in your handwriting. The give of the flesh under his fingertip hypnotizes, the slight drag of rough skin on soft pink one, your mind is long gone.

You think of rough fingertips on his lips, on his chest, rough fingertips on the pasty white of his gaunt lower stomach, rough fingertips in coarse hair. Rough fingertips dipping between his milky thighs, rough fingertips on where he runs just as pink as he does on his lips, rough fingertips dipping, slipping on slick skin—

You need to stop.

And you most certainly need help.

“Is something the matter?”

It feels like you’ve swallowed your own brain whole when he speaks, because your skull rings hollow when you try to come up with a reply that isn’t incoherent babble.

“Wh— me? No. Why?”

And because embarrassment loves to stick around once it has made its presence known, the stars align for the next social disaster: your stomach growls. Loudly.

“Did you not have lunch?” Viktor asks.

“I… didn’t get around to it,” you admit.

“I won’t take up too much of your time, then,” he assures. If he knew just how much of your time he’s started taking up — and the fact that you wish you could give him what is left of it to him, too. “I would like you to work alongside me on my research. But if you don’t feel like you can squeeze another project into your presumably busy schedule, I understand. I would be glad to have you merely as… a colleague to consult with, as well.”

Is that even a question? He’s offering you the opportunity of a lifetime. You would be an idiot not take it.

And an even bigger idiot to turn down more time spent with him.

“You don’t even have to ask,” you joke. “Yes. I would be thrilled, Viktor.”

This is his first smile you witness when his pretty boyishness doesn’t shine through. It’s a gentle quirk of his lips, no teeth to be seen, just tenderness. It makes your heart leap to be the cause of it.

“Thank you,” he says.

“Thank you.”

Silence.

Just as you’re about to breach it — he does it first.

“Would you be free for lunch tomorrow as well?”

He watches you from below long, dark lashes as you give a breathless yes.

—

“I brought you something.”

It’s the last thing you expect as you step into his office at noon, upon exchanging hellos.

You’re alight. With curiosity, above all else. And with worry — why would he bring you something? What will you do to reciprocate?

“Thank you,” you say, though you have no idea what for just yet. “What is it?”

“I saw you eyeing my borscht yesterday.” There’s a glint in his eye that suggests more, so much so you can’t decide between flirting or digging a hole for yourself in the hardwood floor of his office.

The middle ground is standing in his office awkwardly as he unzips his backpack.

He retrieves two thermos bottles: the one you’re already familiar with, and another that looks older, more worn, and sorely lacks the sticker you’ve so come to love and fixate on and dream about. “I, eh, I made you some. In case you wouldn’t get the chance to eat before you came here.”

Your chest swells so much it hurts.

He made you soup?

“You… Viktor, this is… thank you. You shouldn’t have.”

“I wanted to. Have a seat.”

You practically jump into the seat across the table from his — a seat you’ve come to associate as yours, in spite of being well aware of the oppisite.

As he screws the bottle open and pours some steaming soup out into a paper bowl — god, he’d brought paper bowls — his eyes flick to you.

“But if you don’t care for borscht, you don’t have to—“

“I do care.”

And that rings true not just for the borscht.

It rings true for the soup he brings you the next day too, it rings true for every word that passes his lips. And it rings true for the time you start to spend in the insane coffee shop queue to surprise him with his preferred order and a slice of cake (a different one each day, until you figure out his favorite: cinnamon coffee), it rings true for the dark blue roughed up thermos he lets you take home the day you don’t finish the soup he brings you because you’re just so busy talking.

It’s November before you know it.

As the days grow colder, it’s not rare to be finding warmth by lavishing in Viktor’s attention as you ramble on about ideas — either for his research, or your thesis. All while he intently follows your thoughts with a smile, stopping just to shave another mouth-half-full’s worth off his cake of the day with his plastic spoon.

And once he savors the last bite, Viktor almost always flips it hollow side down, sliding it down the swell of his tongue within his mouth, removing it from between puckered lips. His cheeks hollow, he holds eye contact all the same, and it’s a mental image that haunts you. A mental image you project in your mind, nestled between the apex of your thighs. The thick of his tongue. The cushiony seal of his lips, the suction of his cheeks.

It never becomes any less distracting than the first time it happens.

You startle when Viktor speaks as he sets down the plastic spoon into the now empty packaging.

“I would like you to accompany me to the lab sometime soon. When would you be free?”

You’ve been before — but just a handful of times. Mainly for him to demonstrate or disprove certain guesses, or test conclusions you’d reached together.

“I’m free right now,” you suggest.

Viktor shakes his head. “I have a lecture in an hour.”

Right.

“I mean… I think we could make it in an hour.”

“I prefer to take my time.” Viktor leans back in his seat, stares thoughtfully at the clock on his wall for a moment. “Would seven PM work for you?”

“Uh…” you mentally go through your schedule for the day, “yes. It should. I might be a little late, though. How about… seven fifteen-ish?”

“Good.” The flow of the word is syrupy, yet his next sentence comes out surprisingly peppy with excitement: “See you then.”

—

Though you’re well into the final week of November, it never stops bothering you just how quickly the sun sets. By the time you get to the lab, the air’s gone cold, dry, and the darkness is heavy and thick.

Viktor waits for you just outside the university lab, under the halo of the street light — perhaps just a hint overdressed for the cold, in your opinion. It’s certainly trench coat season, though his is surprisingly long, reaching somewhere along the middle of his shins. The hand he hasn’t tucked in his pocket holds his cane and is clad in a leather glove. Around his lengthy neck, a red knitted scarf lays in chunky, impenetrable layers, reaching almost all the way to the swell of his top lip and his ears. You can hardly see his smile from underneath when he spots you — but his eyes give him away.

“Right on time,” Viktor’s tone has just as much pep to it as a few hours ago, perhaps even moreso. He rolls his shoulders, before he subtly nuzzles further down into his scarf, shying away from the biting cold. “Let’s get inside.”

He leads the way into the building, its warmth embracing you the moment you step in. The tip of your nose and your fingertips feel like they’re beginning to thaw, tingling just a hint. As you go to take off your coat, you notice Viktor isn’t in a rush. He rests his cane against the wall before he unwraps the thick, wide scarf from around his neck, folding it. He sets it on a nearby table, shucking off his trench coat, slender shoulders under a wool sweater. You watch closely as he then takes his scarf and stuffs it into the sleeve of his coat before he hangs it up.

There’s something stiff, painful, about how he moves. You wonder if it’s the cold.

“What?” He watches you with appeased amusement.

Caught red-handed, you jump, still halfway clad in your coat.

“Nothing,” you reply, scraping for a way to deflect from your obvious staring. “Not a big fan of the cold?”

“Never.” He says it like it’s a very serious matter. “I still don’t know how I made it through my first eighteen winters in St. Petersburg.”

“You grew up in Russia?”

He laughs through his nose like you’ve told him a half good joke. “What gave it away? The accent? The surname?”

“No, I just thought… Svoboda is a Czech surname.”

With how his smile turns knowing, self-satisfied, you’re suddenly back in his office again, uncertain and nervous and asking for a job as his assistant. He could taunt you with the knowledge that you’ve looked up his last name, embarrass you a little, play with you.

But he isn’t that man anymore — not to you. This time, he feeds your curiosity, albeit just with crumbs.

“My mother’s,” he clarifies. “Sidorov is Russian — my father’s.”

Oh.

“It’s nice that they used both their names. I’m assuming that wasn’t… common, back then, and back there.”

“It wasn’t, and they did not.” Viktor waits for you to hang up your coat, watchful gaze making your every movement feel loaded with static that’s about to snap. “I added hers when I changed my name.”

Changed his name?

The image of the sticker on his thermos turns up fresh in your mind, and you can’t help but wonder…

“Well? I was hoping we could discuss more in the lab, but if you prefer the coat hanger…”

Goddamn it. Focus. You need to focus.

“Sorry.”

You catch up, then slowly follow Viktor down the hallway, into the small lab he has been assigned. It’s one of the less grand ones, but it has all it needs — from a pretty new hexion accelerator to a humble whiteboard. It smells sanitized, sterile, ozonic.

You assume your usual seat by the whiteboard while he sets up. It still doesn’t feel… right to let him do all of that by himself, but he insists upon it, so, you stay out of his way. Viktor tidies up the space just a little, finding his goggles among the mess. He slips them onto his head, elastic pulling back his soft hair into a fluffy grey and brown mess. His cane thumps against the linoleum with every hurried step — though he doesn’t seem to be hurrying on account of you being there as much as excitement to show you.

Once he’s done, he sits in front of the accelerator, slipping his goggles on, and nods for you to come. Which you do — you’d be at his beck and call beyond just the academic context. For a moment, you pluck the inviting tilt of his head and the quirk of his lips out of their context, and you plant it atop your own bed, him in just a loose shirt, underwear, lax with freshly received pleasure. More comfortable than he’s ever been, all because of you. Beckoning for you. Come here. Smiling at you when your knee dips into the mattress, tucking his index under your chin as you crawl to him, reeling you in for a kiss.

“Come closer.”

God help you.

You comply with a wildly beating heart, stepping forward until you’re close behind his sitting form, watching the accelerator over his shoulder.

He smells nice. Like an indistinct, aromatic cologne, covering up the natural, gentle musk of his skin. You have to resist the urge to dip your head down and trace the tip of your nose along his spine, from where the bones of his neck show to where the scruff at the back of his head goes thicker, fuller. You wonder if he’d shiver as you let the scent of him imbue you… you wonder if he’d lean into it, if he’d tilt his head for you, let you dip your face into the slope of his shoulder, where his scent’s more potent.

The mere thought of him, vivid in your nostrils and clinging to your palate and the floor of your brain, rattles you with a shiver.

“I thought I’d rather show you than tell you,” he explains, wrapping both pale, bony hands around the handles of the accelerator. Steam hisses from the exhaust, flooding the room with more ozone, and gently, but certainly, the gem starts to spin behind the glass panel, beginning to levitate out of its socket, illuminating the room.

God, you should have put on goggles too, it’s making your eyes hurt. It’s a welcome reminder as to why you chose to spend most your days staring down a blackboard rather than the thing itself. The screen right above it is more of a familiar sight to you: numbers, reading the rotations per minute, as well as energetic output, steadily increasing.

It whirrs, magic static whirling up around the blue orb, electricity crackles.

You can see the appeal of this over a blackboard. But you’d still take the chalk. Especially considering the deafening noise.

Nevermind the damn goggles. You need to remember to bring some ear plugs.

“Watch the panel.” Viktor raises his voice over the hum of the machine, and turns to you, watching you from behind foggy lenses with a smile. You wish you could see the way his crow’s feet deepen. It rumbles harder, so much so Viktor almost has to shout the next thing he says, which is a shame, because his usually playful lilt is lost in the noise of it. “Not to… spoil the outcome of this experiment for you, but I implemented the conclusions we came to last week, and, it is safe to say…”

With a well-timed click and tug on a lever, the machine disengages, and the gem drops back into its socket under the influence of gravity. Its violating light returns to a faint, blue glow, like an artificially lit aquarium; fluctuating and undulating gently in its intensity. The potential energy indicator’s numbers climb back up, steadily, but faster than what you’ve seen before.

Much faster.

You can’t help but grin with excitement. “It’s regenerating fast.”

Viktor smirks at you over his shoulder like you’re sharing a sacred, intimate inside joke.

“It is.“

You await the verdict with a bated breath.

“How much?”

Viktor’s smile only grows, like he’s about to give you a present. And, all things considered, this is going to be one, in months’ or maybe even years’ time.

“A thirty-seven percent recovery after usage within an hour.” Viktor spins in the lab stool to face you with the theatrical self-satisfaction of a magician who just sawed his assistant in half and is waiting for the applause. You nearly forget to step back to give him the space for it, so much so your knees knock together. But there is no chance for you to apologize, Viktor is unbothered, sliding the goggles up his forehead enthusiastically, his show of complacency ditched in favor of pure excitement. “That is more than I’ve ever achieved thus far. Thanks to y—”

His voice sticks in his throat, turning into a pained hiss.

His hair’s tangled in his goggles.

“Oh, wonderful,” he grits out sarcastically.

A frustrated half-sigh half-groan rumbles in his chest as he pulls again and only makes things worse.

“Could you get me a pair of scissors? I should have some in the third drawer over there.”

“Wait. At least let me try first,” you insist. Reluctantly, you step closer, and after a moment’s hesitation, Viktor lowers his head for better access like a feral animal letting itself be pet for the first time. He sits still, the sound of both your breaths suddenly loud in the tall, quiet room as you’re forced to step even closer. “Could you…”

You nudge his ankles apart with the tip of your shoe.

He listens.

After a stuttering, fragile exhale, Viktor spreads his thighs.

You take the space offered. And you try not to think about kneeling, about making a home for yourself between his thighs.

“Do you think you can do it?”

You wish he’d asked you that about any number of things, except for the goggles tangled in his feathery, soft hair.

But yes. You think you do.

It would have been a terrible shame to cut it — though some shorter, bluntly cut hairs that sit a little further back near the top of his head tell you his suggestion was not the product of a new idea. Carefully, you pull whatever hairs are looser from between the lens and the bridge of the goggles, though a strand remains stubborn.

You try to ignore the warmth of his breath on your shirt, the intoxicating, soapy, yet distinctively human smell of his scalp, and the mesmerizing ratio of grey to dark brown, the subtle heat on the sides of your palms and wrists, resting on his head for stability.

As you separate another few hairs from the stuck strand and accidentally tug at them, Viktor has no reaction. Beyond swallowing thickly, and sitting through it dutifully.

You wonder if he’d act just the same, had you bunched his hair into the spaces between your fingers and tugged — simply biting his tongue and chewing through the pain — or if he’s leaned into the force, moaning with it, and god, you’ve hurt him, and you haven’t even apologized.

“Sorry.” You sound twice as genuine — mainly because you apologize for much worse than the inflicted pain. “Almost done.”

“The scissors would have been faster,” he half-jokes.

His voice sounds different. A hint more… strained. He shifts in the seat, wipes his hands on his slacks.

“Would have been a shame, though. You have pretty hair.” The last part of the sentence positively escapes you, and once you hear it, you freeze. Your brain scrambles itself trying to add something that will fix the inherent following awkwardness, the horrifying realization you just called your boss pretty, the fact that it’s true, the fact that—

Viktor flinches with another accidental tug of his hair, and so do his thighs — jumping with the surprise, clenching together until they squeeze around yours. But they’re gone just as fast, flinching away with horrified urgency. Before you get to savor the supple flesh pressing into your own in another new perverted way, before you get to imagine his ankles locking behind you, tilting and rubbing your hips into the hug of his thighs.

You need. To get. A grip.

“Sorry.”

You continue on in silence, and thank everything above he at the very least can’t see the way your hands shake, because he’s staring at the floor like he could drill a hole into it with just his eyes.

You should have gotten the damn scissors. As if through divine intervention, the rest of his hair comes loose not soon after.

“Okay. All done.” You smooth the slightly crinkled, but now free strand back down into the rest of his soft hair.

Viktor’s dainty features come into view from below his face framing pieces as he tilts his chin up. His lips quirk into a gentle smile, his eyes sparkle in the faint blue glow, soft shadows under the hollow of his cheeks and the swell of his lip and the tip of his nose and the bone of his brow. You wish you could immortalize him in whatever way he’d let you — a sculpture, a painting, a poem. He looks ripe for kissing, eyes half-lidded and twice as dreamy as he peers at you.

You’re going to see him like this in your mind’s eye later tonight.

Nestled between your thighs, or kissing down your stomach, molten gold under long, dark lashes, sitting atop carved marbled bone.

“Thank you.” He says it quietly — like it would break the sudden holiness of the moment to say it any other way.

He’s so warm.

You could kiss him. See what the ozone of the room tastes like in the slick of his mouth. You wonder if he’d let you, if he’d suckle your tongue into his mouth in a show of submission, or if he’d bite your lip, licking your teeth, pressing, pushing, make you earn the privilege to taste him.

You wonder if he’d hold you, or if his curious hands would roam, tracing the front of your stomach, or your spine, or press to the middle of your breastbone like he wants to see where you’d split open for him down the middle like a ripe peach. You wonder if he’d let you dip a hand down the front of his slacks, you wonder if he’d tilt his hips into it like he’d been aching for it, aching for you. Scorching your hand with want, materialized in slick or straining hardness. You wonder which it’d be.

From where you’re standing, the distance between the apex of his chin and the space where his slacks stretch between his thighs is small — and your gaze takes the leap, searching. But the material dips and curves in such a way that you’re left none the wiser, and with nothing but a disgusting realization.

You’re staring at your boss’ crotch.

You step back from the heat between his thighs, painfully awake, aware. It squeezes and wriggles in your chest like you have a parasite lodged in the chambers of your heart.

You’re disgusting.

You need to put an end to this.

“You’re welcome, professor.”

With that, you’re practically bolting from between his thighs, to stash the scissors away again.

You’re neglecting your job, you’re putting it in jeopardy. Putting yourself in jeopardy, risking all the rumors circulating becoming a shameful truth, you’re risking the first man who ever kept up with you, followed you where you wanted to go and took you further — you’re risking it all because he makes you unbelievably fucking horny.

And it’s absurd. Embarrassing. You need to get a hold of yourself.

“I was… thinking, actually,” you begin, and want to punch yourself over how Viktor perks back up from where you’d left him. “About some things regarding my thesis that I’d like your thoughts on.”

“Oh. Of course.” You have got to be imagining the subtle disappointment in his tone. The second you let yourself believe it’s more than just a figment of your make-believe, is the second you will be doomed.

Viktor, with all his years and experience, would and does know better than to fall for his assistant. You know he does.

“What’s on your mind?” He prompts after your prolonged silence.

If he knew the half of it.

—

You’re late.

And it’s a direct, shameful consequence of last night’s lusting, the time you’d spent frustratedly tossing and turning and thinking of his mouth and his eyes and his scent, before you’d given in past midnight, and humped your hand into completion.

Thinking about him under you, about pressing your face into his neck, about pressing him into the mattress and rutting into him until he gushes and his tired body sings for you and his voice cracks. Until he breaks for you, until pleasure itself oils and unscrews all the biological cogs of his body and he comes out unstrung, reborn.

Viktor’s in a wheelchair.

And he looks worse for wear than you’ve ever encountered him before, slumping in the chair and massaging his eyelids with his thumb and index, seemingly gathering his thoughts. He’s dressed even warmer than usual, in a loose but thick, dark red sweater. There’s a colorful knitted blanket folded and set over the tops of his thighs.

Viktor doesn’t acknowledge you when you come in and sit near the whiteboard, simply resumes his lecture as he regains his mental footing. And he goes on for a while, not sparing you a single glance, as he goes through powerpoint slides today, instead of his usual writing and hand drawn diagrams.

He’s at it for a while, not as fast as his usual pace, but undeniably concise, certain. Until…

“The energy output increases proportionately to the spin, and, with powerful enough matrices, some hexgems can create force fields of their own. This is a particularly common phenomenon in unstabilized gems as well, though with the activation of their force field, those tend to also create… eh…”

Viktor stops, sighing, pinching the bridge of his nose. He frowns, mumbling something in another language, which, judging by the heavy consonants and squeezed vowel, you’d assume it’s Russian. The word must be slipping his mind, so you decide to help out.

“A shock wave.”

Viktor’s gaze cuts. He’s looked at you with disinterest before, sure, but this…

He doesn’t even turn his head to look at you, just eyes you from the corner of his vision like something unworthy of acknowledgment. You wish you could swallow your words back up.

“Yes,” he says. “Thank you. A shock wave.”

You don’t say anything again for the rest of the lecture.

Once the door falls shut behind the last few students who have left the room, Viktor turns to you. You wish you could shrink; and it feels like you do, when he finally speaks.

“I appreciate your intention to help — but do not interrupt me again. I know what I’m trying to say.” He sounds utterly unlike himself, both spent and angry. “I don’t need help. Especially not in the middle of a lecture.”

“Sorry.”

That alone softens him up a hint. He looks away, rubbing his thumbs against the wheels of his chair, before he speaks again. Calmer.

“Just… do not let it happen again.”

As he slumps in his seat, massaging at his temples, you understand that his anger… might not have been as directed at you as you’d initially thought. He’d been snippy when his back hurt — having switched to a wheelchair must mean he’s in a lot more pain now.

And you understand his frustration. He’d just gotten himself an assistant a few months back, and started a new project — looking like he requires help in front of his students is certainly not doing his reputation right now any favors.

“But if there’s other things I can do to make your day a little easier, I’d like to do them.”

“No, thank you.” He shakes his head, before he grabs both wheels and advances to where he’d left his bag. As he starts packing his things, he stops again, quietly groaning somewhere in the back of his throat. “Where did I put my pen…”

Viktor eventually finds it right behind his water bottle on the table, tossing the both of them into his bag, shutting it tightly. You expect him to wheel himself over to the ramp that leads to the exit, but he just hangs his head, massaging at his temples again, before he looks at you.

“Actually, I’d like it if you went to my office and got me a silver tin box in the… fourth drawer on the left side of my desk. Do you have the key with you, or should I give you mine?”

“I have it. I’ll be quick.”

“Thank you.”

And you deliver on your promise. You don’t run, but you power walk there, and you’re back with (hopefully the right) tin box in the same lecture hall before his break ends.

Viktor takes it from you gladly, popping it open. It contains two foils of painkillers, one already half empty, a small ziploc bag of… gummies, and at the very bottom, some dark chocolate.

You must have pulled a bit of a face at the contents — particularly the gummies — because Viktor cocks a brow at you, before he faintly chuckles under his breath and pops three painkillers in one go.

After depositing the foil back in the box, he fishes out the dark chocolate bar. It looks to be the expensive kind, something Belgian — Viktor breaks off a piece, putting it in his mouth, before he holds it out to you.

“Peace offering,” he clarifies when you hesitate.

You’d be a fool to turn him down. You take some — it’s rich, buttery, and melts on your tongue. It coats your mouth with its taste, dark and aromatic and unfortunately not as sweet as you thought Viktor preferred. He’d always favored the almost disgustingly sugary cakes.

“Didn’t think you’d like something so bitter,” you say.

“I do not. It sometimes helps with my migraines,” he tells you. “Sugar makes them worse. A very… devastating discovery to make, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

You wonder if right now is the right time to be curious — and you decide it might be.

“Do the migraines also affect your leg? Or the other way around?”

“No.” Viktor shakes his head, popping off another piece of dark chocolate. “This,” he gestures at himself, the wheelchair, “was just a very unfortunate… overlapping.”

“Oh.” You grimace in sympathy. “Fun.”

“A punishment for it, more like.”

What’s that supposed to mean?

“Let’s hope my migraine eases up on me throughout this lecture.” He smiles at you — and for the first time you’ve known him, he looks old doing it. Exhausted. The face of a man who’s seen enough hardship for a lifetime, but has yet to cave under it.

You wish you could hold him. You wish you could melt it away, kiss it better, love it better. Whatever he’d let you.

You surprise both him and yourself when you lay a gentle hand on his shoulder and let your thumb rub a small circle over the wool.

Though he flinches at the first contact, once something in his brilliant mind unfurls and settles, so does he. Through the cracks, tenderness shines under the fatigue. Viktor can be soft — in spite of everything im his body and his past that protests against it. “Thank you.”

You take your hand away sooner than you’d like — but at the ideal time to keep it from being anything more than a friendly touch.

“I’m glad I could help,” you say.

—

Viktor isn’t there at all next week.

You come in on Monday to find his office empty during lunch break, and when you attend his lecture, it’s another professor from his department teaching it. The students don’t seem all too excited about the change either — and you leave before it even starts.

Heimerdinger is none the wiser about Viktor’s situation when you talk to him — in spite of their shared history. He simply tells you he’d taken the week off and had arranged for substitutes.

You consider messaging him… and ultimately end up doing so, after some internal debate. You simply text him to get well soon and that you hope he’s getting some well-deserved rest. He replies with just a plain thank you.

Tuesday is quiet. You receive a stack of midterms you need to get through from the substitute, and you do, by Thursday morning. Which is when Heimerdinger messages you.

Dr. Prof. Cecil B Heimerdinger

Good morning! I’m well aware this is on very short notice — but the substitute professor has unfortunately suffered a minor car accident. Not to worry; they only sustained small njury. However, I am finding myself forced to task you with Viktor’s lectures today. Do you think you could take care of that? Thank you.

-Cecil B. Heimerdinger

9:32

Just the thing you needed — teaching two full lectures, entirely unprepared.

Alright. You’ve got this. You’ve got this. You just need to find out what’s even on the agenda for today. You could text Viktor, right? If he answers on time, that is… he’s sick, he might as well be asleep right now. You could call, but… he said only to do that in the case of an emergency when he gave you his phone number.

Would this count as an emergency?

Your phone beeps.

Dr. Prof. Viktor Sidorov-Svoboda

There should be a black flash drive in the third drawer on the left in my desk. It has all my lectures.

9:34

Today’s topic is LHC segments naturally occurring in unstabilized gems. Feel free to use my work laptop to familiarize yourself with the presentation before the lecture.

9:35

Thank you so much!

9:35

His answer comes a few minutes later, just as you fish the flash drive out of his drawer, and plug it into his laptop.

Dr. Prof. Viktor Sidorov-Svoboda

Good luck 👍

9:42

It would be a lot easier to get caught up in the desire to snoop around on his laptop if you didn’t have less than 20 minutes left until the lecture. His background is disappointingly the default image, but some of his folders look undeniably tempting — not just the scientific ones, which take up most of the space. There’s some photo albums titled with the year and location: Germany 2011, Czech Republic 2009, among many others. There’s also a photo album titled Persichka.

Who is that?

You almost click it. But then you check your watch again and realize you only have 15 more minutes until the lecture, and decide against it.

—

For how utterly unprepared you are, it goes surprisingly well. You stumble, once or twice, but you’re glad to see that even by the end of the lecture, you still have most students’ attention.

After you dismiss the class, you don’t expect questions. But a good handful of them, a little under ten, approach your desk, whispering among themselves, before a hastily appointed representative emerges.

“We were just wondering,” she awkwardly begins, “if professor Sidorov-Svoboda is alright. And when he’s coming back.”

“Oh.” You hope they’re asking because they understandably prefer him, and not because you did a particularly shabby job. “He texted me just today — he’s doing alright. But I can’t give you an exact estimate for when he’s coming back just yet.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

With that, all of them turn to go. After the last student has left the room, you reach for your phone, and pray you don’t see any other day-altering messages today.

Dr. Prof. Viktor Sidorov-Svoboda

I did not mean for you to have to do this.