✰𝕓𝕒𝕘 𝕠𝕗 𝕞𝕚𝕝𝕜✰

The queue at the campus café crawls. You bounce on your heels, counting breaths in fours the way Viktor once suggested for panic attacks. When the cardboard cup finally hits your hand the contents look like sump oil. You pay anyway.

Phone buzzes.

09:04 – Viktor: Today’s proof: time is real, and you are late. [photo: blackboard cluttered with equations, wall-clock caught in frame reading 09:05]

You hammer a reply with your thumb while the barista pours the black slur into the next unfortunate student’s mug.

09:05 – You: Got stuck in a queue for life-force. Coffee’s abysmal in the quad today—avoid. [photo: your fist, cardboard cup, liquid blacker than Anish Kapoor’s nonsense]

Ping.

09:06 – Viktor: Try diluting the tar with some sweetness and milk.

09:06 – You: Abomination. Black coffee or death. I’ll be right there, provide distraction. [photo: lecture-hall door from afar, brass handle smudged by generations of latecomers]

Mug clenched tight, you half-jog the final corridor. Heart drums loud with exertion. As you crack the door an inch, you catch Viktor already rising from his seat, cane hooked over one wrist, other hand waving a sheaf of notes at the professor.

“Sir, could you clarify this term here?” he asks, scratching the back of his neck like a puzzled schoolboy. His accent thickens—the performance version he keeps for emergencies. The professor, flattered, bends in close; Viktor angles his body just so, blocking most of the room from view.

You slip through the gap, slide along the far row, breath tucked tight in your throat. Desk creaks as you drop into the seat beside him. He doesn’t look, only shifts the sheaf of papers one notch higher, still baffling the professor with questions he solved last night.

Safe. Coffee sloshes as you set it down. Viktor returns, his knee nudges yours under the table as he sits, a silent you’re welcome. You nudge back: owe you one. The clock ticks to 09:07. Proof complete—time is real, and you’ve outrun it by a whisker.

A taut wire between you and Viktor is always alive—sometimes light as static, sometimes sparking hard enough to blind. If he’s hunched in the materials lab and you’re exiled to the library stacks, the chat thread fills with rapid-fire photographs: his scribbled derivations, your highlighted passages, the odd espresso cup sacrificed as scale bar. When revision drives you both feral he switches to voice notes so you can hear the scrape of his pen and the soft Czech curses that follow a mis-stroke; you reply with a sigh that rattles the mic and the rustle of pages turning.

The channel exists because, in Week One, Jayce Talis sloshed cheap red over your T-shirt at an underground orientation party. While Jayce shouted apologies, Viktor—cane, accent, faint smirk—recited the chemical recipe for neutralising tannins on cotton and typed it into your phone before you could memorise it. “Use cold water, two teaspoons sodium percarbonate, and agitation—complaints to this number if it fails.” It worked. The number stayed.

Since then mornings begin with snapshots:

06:43 – You: Need caffeine before human interaction. [photo: campus café sign “HOT BEAN JUICE”]

06:45 – Viktor: Premedicated. Lecture E2-203 in six. [photo: dark hall, fluorescent tube flickering]

Mid-afternoons carry jokes:

14:17 – Viktor: Your future husband built this. [photo: prosthetic arm prototype, wiring an ungodly tangle]

14:18 – You: Your opinion on my taste in men is atrocious. Also... didn’t you make that with Jayce last week?

14:19 – Viktor: Not confirming, not denying. The joke stands.

Nights close on softer notes, one of you too tired to type full sentences:

00:08 – You: brain mush.

00:09 – Viktor: sleep. equations unchanged by dawn.

The thread never quite veers past the border of friendly flirt: his “those glasses suit the curve of your cheek” defanged by your “don’t charm me while I’m holding solder”; your “bring your voice, I need background grumbling” shrugged off with his exaggerated eye-roll emoji. Exams loom now—tents of students litter the quad, blankets like bright islands—and the messages grow denser, almost hourly, but the bubble holds. Pure academic kinship, you insist. Just two bright sparks keeping each other lit.

Except for that one time. Second-year, end-of-term blow-out, everyone slick with cheap lager and relief. You remember backing into the courtyard wall, brick still warm from sun, plastic cup spilling over your trainers. Viktor followed, shoulders stiff with nerves he pretended weren’t there. Then his mouth was on yours—open, needy, tasting of bitter beer cut with mint cigarette—and the world pitched sideways.

His hands roamed without map, palms dragging from ribs to hips, thumbs hooking the waistband of your jeans as if checking the strength of the seam. He kissed like he’d been gagged for months: tongue eager, hungry, sliding against yours, retreating only to bite at your lower lip. Between each lick and nip a small, surprised moan slipped out—sweet, almost puzzled at its own volume—fell down the length of your body and pooled low, heat sparking behind your knees.

He pressed closer, cane abandoned somewhere in the grass, hips fitting between yours. Sloppy, clumsy, glorious; the grind of denim on denim made you gasp, made him chase the sound deeper into your mouth. Fingertips skated up your spine, counting vertebrae, then fanned wide across your shoulder blades as though to keep you pinned. Breath mingled, rough and fast, until the floodlights clicked on and someone laughed too loud nearby. Reality sluiced over both of you. You broke apart, pupils blown, lips stinging, and Viktor stepped back with a half-strangled apology neither of you accepted nor refused.

You told yourself later that romance is a luxury, that staying top of the class leaves no time for anything as messy as wanting. But on nights when revision melts your brain and the library lights blur, that single memory cracks the surface. You feel again the tremor in his fingers, the reckless tug of hips, and you wonder—just for a moment—how Viktor’s hands might travel elsewhere if given permission and an empty room.

Stop. Now it’s good. It’s civil; you’re friends for life and that’s worth more than any fleeting connection. You’ll holiday with your spouses, and maybe your imaginary children will become best friends and marry, so it all stays in the family.

You sigh and survey your surroundings: coffee pot nearly empty, notes scattered across the bed. Your dorm-mate’s blissful snore seeps through the paper-thin walls—lucky twat doesn’t have to run their body dry or sell their soul to scrape through finals. The clock shows 00:48. Phone in hand, thumb typing.

00:48 – You: Kinetics has devoured my brain. Distract me. Please.

00:49 – Viktor: Happy to assist. Evidence first. Present current condition.

00:50 – You: Brace yourself. Corpse-like imagery, not safe for work. [photo: selfie—hood up, textbook for pillow, cheeks smudged with graphite]

He opens it, snorts softly—because you look more mischievous than dead—and zooms in on the charcoal streak under your eye.

00:51 – Viktor: Corpse rating: 4/10. Pulse likely extant. Lower angle, better light? (this is very safe for work by my standards)

You raise a brow at the gall, but the request plucks an ache of curiosity.

00:52 – You: Am I being baited into something here?

00:52 – Viktor: It is merely a request for more data, no trickery. A drive purely scientific. Without proper data, I’m afraid I cannot assist you.

Sighing, and shaking your head, you tug the hoodie wider, let one shoulder show.

00:54 – You: Scientific obsession noted. [photo: hoodie sliding, neckline loose, collarbone catching bed-lamp glow] Control variable: dignity = 0.

Back in his bedroom, Viktor sucks in a wet gasp. He turns the phone sideways, studies the sharp line of your collarbone, imagines tracing it with a thumb. The heel of his hand is pressed over his chest; he feels the truth of the number.

00:56 – Viktor: Heart rate approximated at 87 bpm—mine, not yours.

00:57 – You: Peer review says prove it.

00:58 – Viktor: [video: six-second clip—two fingers pressed to the pulse point at his neck; the vein jumps hard under skin, rhythm rapid and undeniable] Evidence attached. Beats per minute trending north of ninety.

00:59 – You: Viewing thrice for statistical confidence. Conclusion: subject’s variables wildly skewed by unaccounted stimuli. Recommend further sampling.

01:00 – Viktor: Your methodology intrigues me. Suggest reciprocal data—perhaps respiratory rate?

01:01 – You: Fine. Observe the control losing composure. [photo: lips parted around the rim of the coffee cup, steam curling; focus tight on the base of your throat] Baseline: visibly accelerated.

01:03 – Viktor: Noted. Steam interference minimal; signal very clear. Correlation between my bpm and that throat confirmed.

01:04 – You: Bold to assume causation. Might be the tar masquerading as coffee.

01:05 – Viktor: Then we’ll isolate variables later: remove coffee, keep throat. Pure science.

01:06 – You: Dangerous hypothesis. But consider the request approved. [photo: finger pressed to mouth forming a pout, throat exposed, neckline of the hoodie pulled low, revealing the top of the sternum] Diagnosis, Doctor?

Viktor gasps softly, surprised with himself how warm his cheeks feel. He runs his thumb on the screen where the pool between your collar bones glistens in the night light.

01:07 – Viktor: Diagnosis: Control deprived of rest and sensible company. Treatment: insulation and terribly clever jokes.

01:08 – You: Patient requests second opinion. Also: intensely bored.

01:08 – Viktor: Boredom fatal in forty minutes. Suggest stimulus level two: unplanned confession.

You raise a brow, type while nibbling the cap of your hoodie lace.

01:08 – You: Your field, Doctor. Confess.

01:09 – Viktor: Confession: still haven’t watched the film you recommended. Secondary confession:—

typing... deleting...

01:10 – Viktor: —kept the biro-bite photo from the library you sent on my phone, because I like the way you look when you’re trying not to laugh.

You stare, teeth sinking into lower lip.

01:11 – You: Unexpected variable. I keep screenshots of your lab doodles. They’re chaotic. Feels like seeing your thoughts naked.

He swallows. Has the window just opened? Fingers hover over camera. He is in his T-shirt, hem riding up. He decides on half-measure.

01:13 – Viktor: Speaking of naked thoughts—one more sample. No judgement. [photo: clavicle to mid-torso; thin shirt hitched, a strip of stomach, shadowed hip dip just visible] Heart rate still elevated.

Send. Instant regret. Instant thrill. He braces for reply.

You drop the phone, exhale through your nose. Heat pricks at ears. Hands tremble; you lift the sweatshirt, angle lens. Pause. Too much? Too much. You try again—nothing that would doom you, had the photo been leaked and someone recognized you. Not that you would ever suspect Viktor sharing such a detail with anyone, but better safe than sorry.

01:14 – You: Need to recalibrate breathing. Not bored anymore. [photo: cropped torso with hoodie ridden up, visible waistband of sleeping shorts stretched over hips, underside of breasts, nipples covered by sweatshirt’s hem] Level two. No judgement.

Viktor’s lungs stutter. He feels blood tugging south.

01:15 – Viktor: Judgement: unfit for polite society. [photo: hand, blotched with ink, resting on lower abdomen, bare. Thumb hooked over waistband. Sputter of hair leading beneath it visible.]

Heart banging, you type one line before you think better. Hit send anyway.

01:16 – You: Wonder how those ink-stained fingers feel.

He stares. Everything inside him locks. A full minute passes.

01:17 – Viktor: Feel where?

You swallow hard. Type. Delete. Press your palm to your forehead. Madness, surely—but boredom has mutated into something hungrier, and now the only scientific question that matters is how those ink-stained fingers would actually feel. The short-circuit lasts a full four minutes; Viktor does nothing but stare at his screen, breathing through his mouth until your reply finally lands.

01:21 – You: Here. [photo: middle and index fingers slipping between your lips; eyes half-closed, lashes low, a string of saliva catching the warm lamplight] Variable: texture.

Viktor’s pulse spikes; he watches the glisten, feels the echo of that string snapping deep in his thighs. Silence stretches on his side. He shoves his shorts down, cock hard and leaking; fist tight at the base, he smears pearly drops over the slit. Brain fogged enough to snap a photo he’ll regret at dawn—yet you beat him to it.

01:24 – You: Or here. [photo: two fingers curled inside slick, legs spread, cotton shorts rucked down mid-thigh]

01:25 – Viktor: You are killing me. [photo: ink-smudged fingers wrapped around the head of his cock; fist shiny with pre-come] Provisionally modelling pressure here.

You hiss, circling faster, pulse impossible.

01:26 – You: Model accepted. My surface currently highly conductive. How is your breathing now?

He exhales, a fractured “Fuck,” thumb shaking above the microphone icon. Decision made; he taps record.

01:26 – Viktor: [audio note, 0:04] “Keep showing me… fuck, I’m so close.”

The audio note crackles to life in your earbud: first a rough inhale, then the slick, unmistakable rhythm of skin on skin. His breathing staggers, each exhale catching on your name—half-spoken, half-groaned—while somewhere in the background the bedsprings creak a helpless counterpoint. A wet sound, sharper than the rest, tells you he’s being honest; the little hitch that follows shoots heat straight to your belly. Your pulse trips, thighs tightening all on their own.

01:27 – You: close too. Finish together?

You drag the camera lower, thumb trembling as you hit record. The lens fills with the slow clutch of your muscles around your fingers, breathy whimpers leaking past your bitten lip. Ten seconds, just enough for him to see everything tense and flutter.

01:27 – Viktor: Synchronise. Send evidence.

He props the camera, thumbs record, and lets the moment overtake him—body jolting, a loud groan torn open by your name, breath ragged as his release shudders through him. Thick ropes of cum spurt over his fist and stomach. He taps send without even watching the clip. The instant your phone lights with his file, your own proof is already on its way back to him.

01:27 – You: [video: a short clip, frame cropped from navel to mid-thigh. “Viktor, fu-huck—” you gasp as hips lift, inner muscles clenching around your own fingers. The camera shakes when your legs snap together, a final tremor racing through you before the image cuts.]

He breathes heavily and texts your back.

01:28 – Viktor: Post-trial observation: catastrophic success × 2. Motor skills questionable. Report from control group?

01:28 – You: Brain offline. Initiate regret in the morning.

01:29 – Viktor: We’ll analyse regret variables later. Sleep—if possible.

01:29 – You: We will see. Good night.

01:30 – Viktor: Good night, control group.

You stare at the screen a long while after his final text fades to grey. Thumb hovers, tempted to scroll back—frames of skin and breath and reckless honesty lined up like evidence—but each swipe pricks harder than the last. Post-climax clarity hits like a cold rinse: last time you crossed a line there was beer and exam panic to blame. Tonight the exits kept flashing—sleep, study, sheer prudence—and both of you walked past each one.

You drift into four hours of twitchy half-sleep, wake hollow-eyed and already braced for impact. No dawn ping from Viktor. No where are you? when you queue for nuclear coffee. The silence weighs a ton.

When you slip into the lab twelve minutes late, apology on your tongue, Viktor is already hunched over a bench, circles dark as bruises under his eyes. He hasn’t slept either.

“Morning,” you manage, neutral.

“Morning,” he echoes. “Did you sleep well?”

You snort into your sleeve. “What do you think?”

His shoulders lift, fall. “Look, I—I’m sorry if I went too far. It… just happened.” He toys with a pipette tip, gaze fixed on the plastic. “We don’t have to talk about it again, if you’d rather not.”

Disappointment bites surprisingly sharp; you taste metal at the back of your throat. Wetness pricks your eyes—exhaustion, you tell yourself—and you smooth your expression into something polite.

“Of course,” you say, voice steady. “Happens between long-time friends. Consider it forgotten. Never happened.”

Viktor nods once, a mechanical jerk, before turning back to the assay plates. The clatter of glassware fills the gap where last night’s confession used to be. You swallow around the echo, settle at your station, and pretend the silence is just another part of the experiment.

The rest of the day drags—lectures blur, and Viktor speaks to you only when strictly necessary. You resist sending him the funny things you spot on your feed, thumb hovering before you pocket the phone. Exhausted by stress and four hours’ sleep, you slump into your dorm room, nodding vaguely at your leaving flat-mate before burying your face in the pillow.

You’re on the brink of a restorative nap—one that will ruin any chance of proper sleep tonight—when your phone starts buzzing, and keeps buzzing. No text: a call. From no one else but Viktor.

“Hey, what’s up?” you answer, aiming for casual.

“I can’t forget yesterday,” he blurts in a single breath. “But I don’t want it to be strange. Please tell me we’re not going to be weird about it—I couldn’t stand another day like this.”

“Oh God,” you sigh. “Easy, Viktor. Slow down—I was nearly asleep.”

“Forgive me.” A pause. “I’m sorry for crossing the line.”

“It’s not as if you pushed when I was reluctant,” you remind him. “We crossed that line together.”

“I suppose.” He gives a shaky laugh. “Still—can’t believe I, of all people, sent you an unsolicited dick pic.”

“It wasn’t entirely unsolicited,” you blurt. “It wasn’t planned, but it wasn’t unwelcome either.” Silence. Either he’s stunned or you’ve just short-circuited his brain. “You have a very nice dick, Viktor,” you whisper into the stillness of your room.

He curses softly, murmurs your name. “What are you saying here, hm?”

“I’m saying—” you draw a steadying breath “—I can’t really forget yesterday either.”

Viktor sucks in air on the other end of the line. “All right—what do we do with this… data?”

A shy pulse of laughter slips out of you. “I don’t know, Doctor. What’s your prescription?”

He huffs, half-embarrassed. “I should warn you—I’m shyer on the phone.”

“Oh no,” you murmur, smiling into the darkness, all fondness, no bite. “I’m corrupting an innocent creature.”

“Innocent is debatable,” he answers, voice warm. Then, almost solemn: “You still don’t know how those fingers of mine feel on you.”

You lie back, free palm curling over the duvet. “Guide me.”

“Take your hand,” he says, tone dropping to a hush, “and pretend it’s mine. I’d start by brushing my thumb across your lower lip—soft, just enough to feel the give.”

You follow; skin tingles under the imagined touch. “Done, Doctor.”

“Good,” he murmurs. “Next, I’d press that thumb inside, just a little, watch your cheeks hollow when you close around it—once, then I’d let go.”

Your breath catches as you follow, the pad of your thumb slipping past your teeth. “That’s… done.”

“Then,” Viktor continues, voice turning almost dreamy, “I’d lean in and kiss you. Slowly,” he prompts, gentle.

“With tongue?” you ask, hand running down your neck.

“With tongue.” He sounds as though he’s smiling. “I still remember how you taste.”

You close your eyes, imag­ining the heat of his mouth, the careful sweep of his tongue meeting yours. The phone is silent except for your mingled breathing—steady, exploratory, each exhale a quiet permission to go a fraction further.

“Tell me what you feel,” he whispers.

Your thumb drifts around throat, tracing the pulse that leaps there. “Warm. A little light-headed. Like the room just tilted towards you.”

“Same here,” he admits. Paper rustles softly—perhaps his hand shifting on the duvet. “If we were face-to-face I’d cup your jaw next, hold you steady so you could lean as hard as you like.”

You follow the instruction, palm curling against your own cheek. Pressure, imagined and real, meets in the centre of your chest. Your breath slips out on a shaky laugh. “Steadier already.”

“Good.” His voice has gone hoarse, velvet over gravel. “Let’s stay there a minute. Just the kiss, no hurry.”

So you do—two mouths separated by miles of antenna cables but pressed together in perfect fiction, breathing shared across the wire, learning again the weight of restraint. Outside your window the campus settles into night; inside, the only sound is your pulse echoing his, two steady beats waiting for the next choice.

“I like your voice,” you breathe—small, embarrassed, as though the admission might crack the line.

Viktor laughs, soft and astonished. “Is that why you always text me and never call?”

“Maybe,” you tease, heat blooming in your cheeks. “Too late to hide it now.” A pause filled by breathing. “Tell me what you’d do with me, Viktor.” The words leave you as a whisper.

He answers with a low groan. “I don’t know what you like.”

“Well,” you murmur, pulse thrumming, “I like you.”

A shaky exhale rushes through the speaker. “All right. Using existing data, then.” His voice firms, though every breath sounds torn around the edges. “First, I’d kiss that spot just below your ear—slow—then lower, tracing the line of your neck.”

You tip your head against the pillow, fingertips ghosting the path he lays out. “Go on.”

“Down to your collarbones,” he continues, tone slipping deeper. “I’d lick there—test how sensitive you are. Maybe bite, just a little, to leave proof.”

Your fingers follow, brushing the dip at your throat. The air feels suddenly warmer. Viktor hears your soft inhale and presses on: “Then I’d kiss the middle of your sternum, right where your heart beats.” You imagine his mouth there, gentle weight grounding you. “I’d keep moving—imagine slow tongue across your stomach, right above the waistband.”

He pauses; when he speaks again the words hitch. “Tell me,” he murmurs, “how wet you are.”

You swallow, lips parting. “Enough that my shorts feel wrong,” you confess, voice barely a thread. “Enough I don’t need much imagination.” Fingers drift lower, gathering proof you don’t name aloud.

Viktor’s breath shudders. “Good. Stay there—just feel. Let me… catch up.” His own breathing scrapes the mic, rough with distance and want. “Tell me the next thing you need, and we’ll move together.”

You close your eyes, body humming at the edge of something vast, and try to find the words. Clearing your throat, your still the hand. “Are you…touching yourself?”

A quiet inhale over the line. “Yes,” Viktor admits shakily.

You bite your lip. “Are you imagining it’s my hand?”

“I’m imagining it’s your mouth, you innocent girl,” he answers, voice rough, and you gasp. “Close your eyes,” he adds, steadier. “Tell me what you want.”

You swallow, every nerve sparking. “I want you inside me,” you whisper. “Your pretty cock, I want it.”

Viktor curses softly; even over the phone you catch the hitch in his breathing. “I’d have to prepare you first. Tell me—would you want my tongue or my fingers?”

“Both,” you admit, cheeks burning.

He huffs a breath that almost sounds like a laugh. “Greedy,” he chides, fond. “But I’d give you anything. I’d start with kissing between your legs—enough that your scent stays on me all next day. Then I’d ease my fingers in, slow, holding you still when you try to wiggle.”

“How do you know I’d wiggle?” you ask, breathless.

“Because you’re impatient,” he says, warmth threading the words. “And I like that. I’d make you wait, take my time with you.”

“Viktor,” you say, pressure coiling tight as you try to mimic his instructions with your fingers.

“Say it again,” he whispers. “Say my name.”

“Viktor. Viktor,” you repeat, each syllable a pulse, and on the other end he groans, the sound rolling through you like thunder.

“I’d fuck you so slowly,” he murmurs, voice lilting higher, tangy. “Feel your thighs tighten around me—ah—” The line catches a ragged sound, half-moan, half-curse. “You’re dangerously sweet when you pout, you know that?”

“Oh, fuck,” you hiss, hips rolling into your hand as imagination fills the gaps: Viktor between your legs, his muscles trembling, sweat dripping off his nose into your mouth. His lovely fuck-face hung above you, lips swollen from kissing you breathless and parted as he fills you up.

“You sent me that picture of your belly yesterday,” he says, voice thick. “Oh God, it nearly killed me. It would look so pretty with my cum on it, I can’t even begin to imagine.” Breaths turn laboured and loud in your speaker. “Are you close?”

“Yes—so close,” you admit on a gasp. “Talk to me, please.”

“Oh, my clever girl,” he slurs, wet sounds faint in the background. “Whatever you’ve put inside yourself now, know that it’s nothing compared to how my cock will fill you up.”

Your answer dissolves into a shaky sigh, pressure winding tight as his voice sinks deeper, coaxing you closer to the edge with every promise. It’s nearly enough to hear Viktor breathing, but it’s when he starts moaning openly your eyes roll back in your skull—downright your favourite sound. He makes a ragged groan of relief announcing his climax, pulling you with him. Your neck tenses and muscles seize around your fingers you wish were his cock. Both of you fall apart into a salve of uneven inhales and exhales.

Silence stretches for a beat. Then—“Talk to me. How are you?” Viktor’s voice is wrecked.

“Amazing,” you sigh. “How are you?”

“You’ve made a complete mess of me,” he mutters, warmth shaping every vowel. Softer, he adds: “I really want to kiss you again. Please don’t go radio-silent on me.”

“You could come here. My flatmate’s out,” you offer. When Viktor hesitates, you ramble on, “Or… we could meet tomorrow after class. Or you can come now—ugh, Viktor, help me out here?”

A clatter sounds down the line. “Yes—sorry—cleaning myself up. I’ll be right there. Just don’t hang up.”

You laugh, still trembling. “All right. Just don’t break your leg.”