wishful thinking

my last one shot skipped viktor giving head… rest assured that is not something i plan to let happen often… and here, neither do you

wc: 3.5k

summary: after years of avoiding his feelings for you, viktor has finally turned a corner— though you’re still unsure if he’ll stumble back into the bear trap of all-consuming work. not too keen on neglect, you decide to make sure he’s sticking to the right track. newly established relationship. f!reader

warnings: smut, desperation, dirty talk, choking

btw— i kind of have no idea what’s going on here. dom!vik, sub!vik, then angst, then metaphors, then clichés, then more sub!vik, and straight smut, and a little fluff? idk this has been making me insane for like a month

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Clothes are left in a trail, leading from the living room into the bedroom. You're both on the bed, limbs tangled as you cling to each other. He's whispering sweet nothings into your ear. Things, of course, you’d have appreciated to hear scattered across the day instead of sewn together and adhered to one single moment.

It was a reality that you hoped for at the beginning of your relationship, only to soon declaw each finger from, one at a time, until you let it go. After yet another dinner at your kitchen island alone, accompanied by the somber tap of an expectant fork, heating up the remenants for a stony soul when he finally decided to cross through the front door. Things had been better; you basked in his attention for some time. It was only recently that he had backslid into the same depths that pooled at the most tormented part of your mind. 

Improvement wasn’t linear, of course, but god, could the ebbs and flows of it all be nothing less than excruciating. A garden, tended to and watered, would not continue to flourish if suddenly neglected. And oh, were you in trouble if came winter’s first frost. 

He moans softly, his hips thrusting upwards to meet yours, nipping at your earlobe. "I could do this with you for the rest of my life, and it would never be enough." His kiss is stinging with the sweet affection you’ve sought for fruitlessly for days now.

You grab his hips and needily move them faster for him. You knew he wouldn’t last this way, and the dichotomy of not wanting it to be over and desperately needing to take what you could, in the fleeting moments you had it, festered low in your abdomen. 

Another moan is blooming on his lips, and you register it in blissful slow motion. "You're so impatient, my sweet girl.” It’s a breathless, low sound, reverberating light into that dark place in your brain. He relents, his hips snapping with intensity. "Like this?" he groans, the bulb in his throat tremoring deliciously as it his voice travels up his esophagus in offering.

“My sweet boy” you whine back insistently at the use of the name: The very phrase he had decided to comandeer, your favorite endearment for him. Shame on you for sharing it with him, because the cheeky thing loved it so much that he was compelled to make it yours instead. You wrench his hand off of your waist, placing it on your neck. 

The sly smirk that plays on his face is one of prideful understanding at your nonverbal prompt. He grips your throat gently, his hand wrapping around the eloquent column as he applies a slight pressure. His gaze is one of communication, searching, silently asking, Is this what you wanted?

“Harder, love,” you declare, because after ample days of not enough, too much was more than welcome.

A tightening feeling at your trachea. The intentional shift of his position. The subsequent heightening the speed of his movements, it all hits you like three successive strikes. “This okay?" he asks, his breathing ragged but his voice weighted by feathers as he monitors your reaction. 

He leans in, hand brushing over your cheek as he were thumbing layers of dust off a forgotten bookshelf. "Look me in the eyes," he commands gently, and you realize that as your face twisted and contorted under his, he had been absorbing the tiny details that spoke to something else battering at you. A somber note between syllables of your words, the very corner of your mouth, where your lips discolored at the transition to skin, curling downwards ever so slightly. Subtle, but there all the same.

When you meet his eyes, he settles at a conclusion to the very research he had been conducting from aereal view. He presents a hopeful, apologetic solution— it pains him to think of all the time you’ve spent utterly hollowed by his absense. 

"No matter how busy I might be, you're always on my mind.”

The reassurance swaths across your collarbones, fizzling out delightfully somewhere at the peaks of your shoulders. A sharp grin appears across your face. “I know it’s worse now.” A calculatedly vague statement, of course, baiting him. 

He furrows his brow, slightly concerned by the change in your demeanor, and oh, the poor thing falls into your trap. "What are you talking about, love? What do you mean it’s worse now?" he asks softly, releasing your neck and letting tentative fingers pass across your brow, pinky pressed to your temple.

You laugh mischievously— he was completely correct in his sentiment, and for this you were well aware. 

“You couldn’t stop thinking of me… compromised, before,” you grab his neck instead, causing his jaw to jerk forwards. “But now that you’ve had me, you need me. You need this, love, and now it’s even harder to wander from because you know exactly what it’s like.”

His eyes widen, mystefying golden caches that you’d love to curl up inside of. His bleached clavicle warms with something that resembles sun kisses, washed with a soft flush. 

He swallows hard, his gaze locked with yours. “That is something I cannot deny,” he admits, almost solemnly, eyes pacing back and forth pensively to find the subtext. "You're right. It's harder now. The lab, the separation, it is… challenging.”

You purse your lips, still holding a bit of teasing bregrudgement. “Tell me you love it then, Viktor. Speak to me, for god’s sake, forget all the pleasant—“

"Your pussy is divine," he cuts you off, the words rolling off his tongue, and it’s almost without second thought. Someone so pretty uttering such filthy words like a confession is a sight to behold, and your breath catches abruptly.

You bring a hand to his face, and he closes his eyes, his exhales growing stronger at the thought, offering more. “I dream of it, fantasize about it, obsess over it. I stare at the chalkboard and try to conjure up the taste of it in my mouth." 

“You must be parched,” and you sigh passively, as if isn’t the most seductive statement his eardrums could manage with currently.

His eyes fly open and he groans loudly, heat coursing through his body. You can feel the boiling froth in his stomach seeping through his skin into yours where you lie against one another. How enjoyable it is to peer at him now, avoiding eye contact, staring up at the cieling and squeezing his eyes closed in heavy blinks.

“You’ve been rude, baby.” You tut.

His chest swells with a large inhale before slowly looking down at you once again, raising an eyebrow. You can’t miss the immistakeble hint of a grin playing on his lips. "Have I? And what did I do exactly?”

He leans in closer, his hand trailing up the side of your leg, pressing a thumb into the dip below the jut of your hipbone. "I'd hate to think I've offended you, love."

”I’ve just noticed,” you lift your chin and angle it upwards towards him. “You skipped what you claim to crave.”

“Sounds like a terrible oversight on my part." He tilts his head, his eyes gleaming with playful corruption. 

He leans in, lips ghosting against yours, amber irises bleeding into one another centimeters from your eyes. A painting set to still, knocked sideways by the soft underbelly of your spite, just before it could dry. 

"Allow me to rectify that," he whispers, before gently placing a kiss on your collarbone, starting his descent.

You’re shaking your head as you watch him move towards your legs. ”I don’t know, I can’t help but think you don’t appreciate it.” Appreciate me. “Is that it?” You tease, feigning mock sadness, the real version holding real space in the real lonely moments you’ve endured without him lately.

He looks up at you in an emotion so passionate it may be offense. “Love,” he murmers, his voice low, now swinging his head back and forth as well. "You know that simply isn’t true. Don't make the mistake of doubting that." He’s nudging your legs apart, and the sick, scorned thing in your mind jumps at the opportunity to interject.

“Maybe I shouldn’t let you.” You grab his chin, pulling it away from where his face has become situated between your thighs so he looks up at you. “Maybe I shouldn’t let you discover what it tastes like after the fact. You think you deserve that, hmm?”

He stills, and his brows furrow in dismay. You swear you see his lips beginning to tremble. "No, please," he gasps, his voice barely above a whisper. He sucks his cheeks in and bites, creating a pronouced hollow on either side of his slim face.

You scan his expression, completely enthralled in the fact that you’ve never seen him do that before, but he’s still trying his best at persuasion. “Please, I want to taste us, together. I do.”

You nod, acknowledging his plea, your grip on him firming slightly, fingertips pinching and propping him up by the jaw, snared like a spider’s catch. “You forgot all about it, my sweet boy. I can’t help but think you’ve been negligent, and just started fucking me. That doesn’t seem fair,” you tut once again.

He whimpers, his body trembling without inhibition now. "I'm sorry," he chokes, his voice ragged, spitting out fragments, as if otherwise he would be forced to swallow splinters chipped from feeble teeth. “Never that. I couldn’t forget. I simply lost track of my thoughts. I got carried away, I got distracted, I’m sorry." 

It may be a bit deranged, but you see yourself frolicking around, victorious, in your mind’s eye. There, you are clutching his reassurance— though product of an entirely different conversation— in a tight, delighted fist. Despite it all, your expression remains stoic.

"Please, just one taste. Just let me have one." There’s a low urgency in his voice that you haven’t heard before.

You spread your legs wider, immediately yanking his chin back up away from you as he tries to drive for a lick. His neck is now rendered taught again, poised back up towards you from your own manipulation. “I think that’s disingenuous, love. I think you know that one taste isn’t enough for either of us.”

He moans in frustration that somehow he’s saying all the wrong things, scrambling for any words that will earn clemecy. You can see the gears turning, conjuring up a response— another of which, you know, and perhaps he does too, that you will easily meet with the tortourous fortress of your acidity. “You're right," he gasps hopelessly, giving in, and he makes sure to echo himself over and over. 

“Repetition doesn’t denote sincerity.” You patronize, to which you can nearly see beads of sweat born above his brow. He buries his face into your inner thigh, shameful, disheartened. 

“I want you to look,” you say, your grip loosening, allowing his neck to relax, throwing a leg over his shoulder, a coaxing heel following the path of his spine up and down.

Arousal spattered across your thighs, parted and reddened from him fucking you. Swelling like a flower at daybreak. He desperately wants to put his tongue where his cock had just been and—

You cut his thoughts off. “Why did you sabotage yourself, my love?”

He looks up at you, his eyes wide and bewildered. "Sabotage myself, darling?" he murmurs, his voice dragging with grief. "I don’t understand. What do you mean I sabotaged myself?"

You give him a stern look, heel settling against vertebrae for a moment while you readjust your expression. “Is it not my responsibility to make sure you take care of yourself? That you don’t starve yourself of your wants, of your needs? I forbid that. Though your actions suggest that this isn’t something you need.” You draw a jagged inhale.

“Or rather, that I am not.” 

And the bitter words finally find soil to take root here, stretching upwards and outwards, a wretched flower themselves.

He shakes his head vehemently, his eyes clouding with the pain of finally understanding. “No, please, don’t say that.”

You break, reverting back to the discouraged version of yourself that you’ve had to be for weeks, and you’re gazing at one another, palms stretched outwards, showing your hand, each card a compliment to the other’s misfortune.

“Do you doubt what I feel for you?” And he says it as if he fears the letters that comprise the words themselves. 

“No,” you say meekly, and his nose wrinkles slightly, not entirely convinced.

“It—“ he sucks in a sharp breath. “Consumes me while I’m away. You. I’m never without you in thought, you need to know that. Please, I can’t have you thinking otherwise. You don’t understand, I used to sleep in the lab, because that was what would consume me, but now, every night, I come back. I come back to you. I know it isn’t much, but come back.” His eyes search yours with a wildness to be heard. 

You swallow at the guilty knot of bile in your throat, tear ducts miraculously stirring awake for duty.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers. “You’re right,” There it is again. “It has been worse lately— thinking of you, in all regards. Just as my absence has worse. It’s ignorant for me to think that simply picturing you is enough. I know it isn’t. I need to be present, I need to just be with you.”

Here he is, Viktor, taking a sledgehammer to those walls, the ones you didn’t use mortar to build because you hoped that he would knock through them in the first place. Here he is, Viktor, crushing that wretched flower under the sole of a worn dress shoe, hurrying it into a paper bag which he takes to the lab and promptly incinerates so that its pollen is to never spread again. 

His gaze softens, thankful, when he observes that the downwards draw of your lips, where they discolor at the transition to skin, have pulled back to equilibrium. Subtle, but still there all the same. He takes another breath, now slow, much more assured. 

“And I will be, just, please.” 

You give him a weak nod, you find no skepticism for what he’s saying, and so, you take him up on his offer, you do not speak, you just be.

You sigh softly as he presses his chin to your mound, looking back up at you with adoration in his eyes, rubbing your thighs and sides and pulling your legs apart, before pressing a soft kiss to your clit. His eyes shine with desperation, one that lusters with the earnest need to convince. “Now, may I?”

A bashful smile is what he gets, a hand cupping his face, which is the most you can give while all of the solitude-driven uncertainty dissipates from your soul.

He pushes your legs apart, settling between them, his mouth hovering over your folds, bathing it in warm, billowing breaths. He plants soft kisses against your clit.

You grab desperately for a fistful of his hair. 

He gasps, his mouth already parted, tongue lolling, desperation turning into something much deeper. His tongue is hot, the suction of his mouth nearly unbearable, he’s being sloppy, abandoning his practiced nature simply for this.

He pauses and looks at you, his eyes locking with yours, his breaths coming in sharp pants against you. "I need you," he shudders, his voice ragged, bearing the weight of deeper meaning. 

There’s something so endearing about stopping what he’s doing to ask for more when he could just continue and take it for himself, but god, he’s worked himself up now, your foot twitching against his back. 

“Look at me,” you murmur, and he stops abruptly mid stroke, tongue out and glued to you, massive needy eyes, hazy with both sickening lust and pleading awe. You stroke his temple with your knuckle, murmuring his name breathlessly, and letting out a strangled cry as he cages his arms around your legs and pulls you up to his face, the back of your thighs locked against his collarbones, simultaneously held up and pinned down under his lips. The sensation of fabric tugging under your spine catches your attention, your gaze moving to angular shoulders, down his back, decorated with quaint little moles. You jump from one point to the next, where you rediscover the dimples at the base of his spine, just above where he’s moving his hips in slow, uncoordinated circles against the sheets. Hands, satisfied with how your thighs have found balance on his shoulders, shift, thumbs coming to massage where your skin meets your core, pulling it apart softly so he can lick his own whimpers into you, nose nudging at the underside of your clit.

Utterly helpless, the two of you, as you tug and chocolate tendrils and every muscle, every tendon, every capillary goes stiff. 

He moans, his hands grabbing at your thighs and pulling you even closer, giving you no escape. He's panting and sweaty, hair stuck to his brow, ears slightly flushed. It’s just about the most beautiful thing you've ever seen. "Please love," he whines, his voice ragged and urgent, “Please, love, please come. I need it. I need to.”

His face nods rapidly as he speaks into our flesh, and you cry out, his tongue lapping now with a preciseness to cultivate your orgasm and care for it like it’s precious. And your body feels like it’s accelerating, through all the seasons, the biting of winter in the jolts of adrenaline coursing in between your thighs, the mugginess of summer in his hot tastebuds. His dark eyelashes flutter like birds migrating, and his noises are like the groan of an old tree’s branches resisting torrential rain. His eyes are as captivating as golden hour, the sun begging you to follow it down the edge of the earth so that it can illuminate you all over again at the next hemisphere, pleading that you come with him. So you do. Hard, and he follows suit, straight into the duvet.

You’re stretching for him, reaching out and staring until your hands wrap around his shoulders and you inadvertently dig your fingers into his armpits, pulling him up on top of you and holding his waist with your thighs. He nuzzles into your neck, bracing a few moments too late for the shockwave. Your stroke his hair and tell him it’s okay, and you nearly want to sob, trembling against one another, willing your nervous system to still. And he nods into your throat, soothing you back, clutching at you tightly, whispering it’s okay back to you softly.

He grounds you without thinking or trying, just being, adorning your neck with tender kisses. You kiss his temple back, tilting your chin down against your throat to look at him as he draws his head to the side to peer back up at you. And you’re faintly aware that the angle of your face is abysmal, probably, but you don’t care.

“Are you okay?” You both ask, simultaneously, and your arms tighten around him affectionately.

You both chuckle when you speak at the same time, and it’s such a silly, wonderful thing, a small, soft smile budding on his lips. He’s so still, simply watching you, like you’ve just watered his soul. 

“Love…?”

“Yes, my sweet?” You whisper quietly, pecking his nose.

He shushes you softly, presses a finger against your lips. “Let me. Let me tell you…” 

You laugh at whatever strange force has corralled you two into pleasant delirium.

“Tell me.. what?” You murmur.

He whispers, slowly bringing himself up onto his elbows, his breath warm against your cheek, “Everything.. just...” he trails off and presses a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth.

You rub his temples gently with your thumbs, fingers stretching over his ears and playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. “I know, love. You know that I know,” you coo. You let out a bashful, affectionate giggle as he rolls to the side, bringing you, your legs, still twined around him, with you. You kiss his mouth softly, then the spot between his eyebrows. “Do you know? That I also feel.. everything?”

“Yes… I do,” he sighs, and his eyes close, grazing the tip of his nose up and down the bridge of yours. It’s all so nonsensical, but the mutual understanding prevails.

“Then maybe we shouldn’t even attempt to find the words” You whisper, feeling some gravitational force pull your face right into his neck.

He nods, his hand coming up to swipe your hair out of the way, exposing the flesh of your shoulder, and he kisses you there, trailing kisses across your collarbone.

“You’re right,” he murmurs, just one last time.

hi so i am posting this and then absconding back to my arsenal of viktor x reader pieces that i can’t seem to stop writing

art: gea-rth on pinterest

wc: 4.0k

summary: viktor tries to play IN YOUR FACE until you set him straight. kind of. literally just smut with the feisty reader trope (sorry), simpy viktor, fluff, and some banter. f!reader

warnings: smut, choking, warfare (?)

^ not sure what else to put but eager to learn so let me know if I should include anything else!

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“No, no, no, no no no..” you plunder frantically, releasing his tie and grabbing his wrists to stop him from unbuttoning his vest. “Not that. Too slow,” you groan.

Your hands fly to his belt in tragic desperation, yanking hard as the buckle doesn’t unclasp. You’ve lost all understanding of the most trivial, age-old technology, unable to get the small metal bar to unhook as you fumble with it hopelessly. Viktor’s hips buck with every pull and he lets out a sharp gasp, staring down at you, you, a neurotic and hysterical mess, you, biting at the inside of your lip and looking like you could almost cry, you, an insect that he had just trapped under a glass, panicked, fluttering wings sending you ricocheting off the rounded edges as you tried to reach the world outside of it; too worked up to recognize your incompetence, that there was a translucent barrier between you and what you wanted. Desperately trying, over and over, to no avail.

Oh this wasn’t you, though you were never all that poised, and often hasty, but this, this, was far beyond what he had ever seen from you. But god, was it nourishing to his ego, and nearly fascinating to observe. He watches you with a sympathetic expression on his face, bringing his hand to your neck and pinning you, harder than he intended, to the mattress under you.

You let your hands fall, the impact surprising you, surrendering to his touch. You lay limp and helpless, staring up at him. His gaze is so intense, so entertained, his eyes sparkling, gold muddled with sick amusement.

“Help” you squeak, writhing out of his touch and rotating your body to the side, pulling yourself into a fetal position and burying your face into the pillow, yelping as your neck strained unexpectedly at the rapid shift in positioning.

“Mmm,” he’s studying you now, all contorted and pitiful like this. “Come back here, my love.”

You try to roll over further, so you could lay face down on the bed and just die, but he grabs your thigh and holds it in place. Once you still, he gingerly rubs your hip, after a moment letting his hand round down and under your ass, toying his finger at your slit, compressed between your legs, through your pants.

“Don’t poke at me, Viktor,” you snap, pulling your face out of the cotton sheets and resting your temple against it, staring, antagonized, at the wall. “I’m a girl, not a sea creature in a touch tank.”

Oh, it’s too easy. “What’s this then? Why are you wet?”

You jerk and strain and turn yourself again under him, letting your arms fall straight out to the sides. A modern case of crucifixion, right here, in Viktor’s bedroom.

“Why are you wet?” He repeats, his accent feigning innocence this time.

“What do you want me to do?” You stare up at the ceiling in defeat, past his unkempt locks, stray hairs shooting off in every direction as electrical currents do. “What do I have to do?”

To no response, you grab the pillow from behind you and push it into your face, protruding feathers poking unpleasantly at your nostrils. “I’m ordering an air strike to this apartment” you mumble into the cushioning.

“Who knew such fervent arousal could turn sadistic so quickly,” his voice mused from the other side.

You pull the pillow away from your face, and in one swift movement, send it swinging right into his. “I don’t know the first thing about sadism. But since you’ve appointed yourself to give me a lesson, I seem to be catching on very quick.”

He chuckles gently, the intensity in his eyes draining. “Okay, love,” he murmurs, taking the pillow and gingerly holding the bottom of your skull, cradling your occipital upwards so that he can place it back under your head.

You give his cheek a patronizing pat, two short motions. You would like to swing your arm back further, and… “Thank you. Now leave.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“Out.”

“Of my own residence?”

“I quite like it here, actually,” you hiss. “Just be sure to let me know where you go so I can provide missile coordinates.”

He shakes his head, what the hell, and won’t stop shaking his head, the smile tugging at his lips is enraging, but he looks so sweet, a rouge growing under his cheeks. He finally lowers himself to you, the pressure of his weight on top of you so tantalizingly familiar. Your muscles relinquish any tension, and suddenly the exhaustion of your desires’s antics against your own body are dragging you down so low that you could nearly sleep right there.

“Just, take a second to breathe, please.” He murmurs, nose nuzzling your cheekbone, coaching you through the matter of your torment, that, you’re not sure who, between the two of you, is more responsible for.

You let your eyes dart to the peripheral, watching the mole above his lip move as he speaks. Your wildness, finally tranquilized. You imagine a prehistoric Viktor, ragged facial hair, in an animal pelt getup, chasing you with a spear. You stare at the wall again, glum and dead and unamused in the pupils.

Viktor nearly seems a bit concerned. “Are you alright?” And he’s propping himself up again, his face hovering centimeters over yours, his breath, hot tendrils fresh off of charred coals, undulating up the bridge of your nose. He looks almost guilty. No, Viktor wasn’t one to be this cruel, and maybe he had taken it a bit too far.

“Fine.” You say shortly, still not meeting his eyes.

He plants a firm kiss between your brows. “I— Did I ruin it, love?”

He did not. You wanted him so badly nestled tightly in the ditch right under your jaw, moans and whimpers and grunts and gasps working their way easily up to your ear, positioned perfectly for your listening pleasure. The sounds of sex, specifically, the sounds of sex with Viktor, were just as important to you as the involvement of body parts and sensation. You drank them in and wished you could etch them into your skin, commemorating each place they occurred, here against your temple where he whined, there into your collarbone where he huffed.

You grab him, kissing him softer than you want to. You tell yourself that you’ll keep it that way, refusing to let yourself get back to a place where he can exert this newfound audacity again.

“I’m sorry,” he offers into your mouth, the words slick with syrupy sincerity, wedging between your teeth and forming immediate cavities.

His hands are at your waistband, pulling your pants down gracefully, shuffling his body down as to give you your apology. And, as if no time had passed, no plans of homicide yet uttered, you grab desperately for his shoulders, whining in dismay.

His neck tilts slowly up at you, like an owl. His eyes are so warm and beautiful that you’ve sworn more than once you were able to see them glowing through the night.

But the look on his face is abysmal. You were never one to refuse tastebuds against your clit, which worked out quite nicely, because it was Viktor’s idea of a pleasant afternoon to sample you, particularly needy and devoted, when it came to chasing your orgasm, for however many hours you liked.

“Oh, my girl,” he exhales, his face flickering in shock to your uncharacteristic ambitiousness skip what you enjoyed so much and just get started. To be plainly, brazenly, fucked. He grabs your hand, pinning it into the bed to the right of your head, fixing to murmur sweet nothings into your ears.

“I don’t want romance.” You say seedily, it coming out fast and sharp and dripping with unfortunate distress, still irritated, your other fingers twisting in the sheets.

He pulls away, his eyebrows lowering and tangling together in a calm and intense reverence. “You don’t have a choice. You’re getting romance.”

You don’t protest, rather, just press your lips into a thin line. Shut up. Shut up.

“Let me romance you,” he murmurs, biting at your earlobe softly. “I’ll fuck you right, my love, hard, but not in the absence of romance. In the name of it.”

You respond by dragging nails down the side of his arm, not aggressively, but enough to leave five little red lines, snapping your head and meeting his lips, kissing hard, desperately seeking everything you could possibly get. His moan into your mouth has you absolutely back up to 10, god. You didn’t appreciate the typical conventions, being the only one expected to be vocal. You liked hearing what it all did to him, a detailed song, as making love was, a duet, after all.

This kiss is becoming more frantic, on your end, but he’s breaking now too, serving it right back. You’re pathetically grateful that the frenetic, longing energy has finally became contagious. You whine and groan and try for his belt again, and he grabs your wrists, to your protest, too hasty and caught up in need that you can’t wait a moment to figure out that he’s helping you out, taking it off himself. But when it does click for you, or unclick, you yank his pants down, just below the butt, because you’re feeling lazy. No. Because you’re feeling productive.

He lets out a short, low gasp and the lust gets caught in his throat, you can see it knotted up in the dip of where his neck met his collar, which you slide your tongue along, letting him know that you knew that it was exactly there. His tip brushes between the frame of your folds and you can’t help but yelp and flinch and clench your legs together to prevent an exorbitant amount of lubrication from spilling out. But as he pushes himself inside of you, slow and lingering to start, a gentleman like always, it all comes crashing, causing you both to moan and grasp for each other.

The heartbeat of his dick is quite easily the most tantalizing thing you’ve ever felt. He straightens his face in concentration, starting to buck into you, nails resisting not to puncture the skin on your hips, the flesh of your ass, not forgetting to take a moment to grind against you at the the height of every thrust while buried inside. You take his thumb in your mouth, sucking for good measure, content with the rumbling noise he elicits. It’s not enough, none of it’s enough, the sharp digging feeling of nails in your skin makes you nearly vomit as if it is injecting more unfulfilled hunger into your body.

“I need to ride you,” you pant, pushing him over.

You’re moving, coming down on him as hard as you can, your eyes squeezed shut and making uncontrollable noises, mounted at the altar of your desire. You have to fall forward and stabilize yourself over him, until you realize he’s giving you that intense, slightly amused gaze, and you yelp and push yourself upwards again. Nothing you can do is nearly enough to satisfy yourself.

The look on his face is quite pleasantly dirty, his eyes following you as you bounce up and down, inhaling sharply, mouth ajar. He’s so in awe of you, to the point that one may consider his expression amateur, if there wasn’t the overt presence of the look of a wonderful man deeply in love right along with it.

“Romance,” He says.

He brings himself up into a sitting position, because he loves to hold you and stare up at you while you work, nipples, though clothed this time, to his face. His eyes get all big with wonder as he watches you, switching to grinding now, and yet they’re dark and shadowed. “I love you. I love watching you use me to make yourself feel good. You’re extraordinary. I love you.”

‘Use me’ is the most arousing and filthy thing he could have ever said. No matter how commanding Viktor could hope to make himself seem, he simply saw you as something of another world, ‘divine power,’ if he was being sentimental, and your stimulation would forever be his muse.

You extort his promise from before. “What do you love about me?”

“Your hugs,” he teases, so you fuck him harder, reaching behind and under your ass and gently fondling his balls.

He groans and his thumb burrows into the seal created between your stomachs to rub your clit, causing you to whine happily. “Can’t you say something nice back?” He frowns and chides at the same instant.

“That wasn’t— fine. I love that you’d let me keep this apartment after you bewilderingly get struck by a rogue missile.” But you can’t even keep the act up, laughing softly, pausing and kissing him tenderly, running your fingertips up and down his spine.

“You are so undeniably mine,” he grins, but his eyes are genuine.

“I am so helplessly yours. Poor, unfortunate soul.” You tut, smiling.

“Unfortunate?” He’s teasing you with a suggestive undertone, but kissing you so caringly, slender fingers leaving your core to trace down your jaw. “Need I remind you just how fortunate you are?”

“Hmm?” You push, curious.

It’s almost like he’s pleading retroactively, lamenting the loss of time spent fruitfully, face between your legs. “This is what happens when you don’t let me lick you… You forget. C’mere.” He coaxes you off of him, sliding to the edge of the bed, propping pillows up against the headboard and leaning against them.

You can’t help but glance at the state of his dick, and it’s bashfully adorned with you. It makes you shiver gently. He looks so pretty there, so dashing, his arms stretched out for you, his expression tender. He takes off his shirt, for good measure. “Please?”

You crawl over, and his fingers rotates your hips, turning you around and pulling your back to his chest, in between his bent legs. You instinctively grab a spare pillow and slip it in between the knee-armpit of his bad leg for support.

“Thank you,” he hums warmly, meltingly appreciative of your attention to make sure he’s comfortable amidst such… demanding activities. He lifts your hips on top of him, sliding down against the headboard ever so slightly more, adjusting himself.

He wraps his arms around your waist, fingers splaying flat on your stomach, prepared, like a small militia standing at the head of a clearing, ready to thunder towards opposing forces. He nuzzles behind your ear, humming and moaning softly as he kisses down the tendon in your neck. “I adore you, you know. Help me out and put it in for me, love?”

You inhale sharply at the words, the simultaneous honeyed and dirtiness of the request, shaken out of basking in his affection. So you do, and it pops in, and you both sigh and settle against one another. He rocks his hips upwards slowly, and you reach over your shoulder and caress his cheek, hearing little flighty breaths of concentration, as you watch him sliding in and out, transfixed. You turn his chin towards you, leaning back, kissing and moaning in rhythm with his thrusts, growing increasingly aware of his fingers moving, beginning their pursuit of victory down your skin, and it’s nearly monumentous. He runs a fingertip over your clit in little circles, the other hand moving to caress one of your breasts under your shirt.

You whine, and he shoots you a knowing smile. You stare at him, letting him see you, see all of you, eyes locked on his as he looks down your body and then back at you. He gives your lips little kisses, ever the caretaker, ever the reassurer when you needed it, when you weren’t foraging for war.

“I’m very lucky,” and you don’t say it like you’re conceding or letting him win, you’re unabashedly surrendering. “I love you more than anything.” You’re cut off by your own sharp gasp and moan as his fingers find the perfect pace between your legs. “And I think I’m going to finish soon,” you add.

His hand leaves your breast, pinching the hem of your shirt folding it upon itself, back towards your face. You bite onto it, holding it in your mouth, exposing your breasts and abdomen, groaning through fabric and gritted teeth.

“How are you real,” he deliberates earnestly, breathlessly, his hand returning to your breast, unable to stifle his own groans and whimpers as he begins to fuck you with more rigor.

You protestingly move his hand from your nipple to your trachea, giving him something else to squeeze. You feel him staring down at what the two of your bodies are doing together, and you follow suit, moans and the smell of sex filling the air. The heat is rushing to your face, and now you’re completely held in place, as if natural disaster was on the horizon and you were rendered completely motionless to watch it all.

“Come for me, my love. Do it, if you’re going to, let me feel it.”

Those words are so atrociously sexy wearing his accent. You knot your eyebrows together, your nose involuntarily wrinkling, as your head falls back, trying to keep your eyes open, figuring he wants to look into them— You like looking into his when he comes for you. And it seems like it’ll be a full sweep of success for the two of you, because his “feel it” came out much more strained than the rest.

It’s too intense: the contact, the position, his hands, the one on your neck which has now returned to your stomach, adding slight pressure there, as his other fingers— and dick, works you feverishly a mere few inches south.

He pressed his forehead to yours, face scrunching, suddenly frantic and needy for your orgasm, as he always becomes. His breathes are hitching and his noises are becoming higher and more erratic as he nears his own edge, and that’s enough to send you tumbling off of your own.

“Viktor,” you despair, your lips inches away from his, to which he responds with a desperate whimper of your name, nodding his head rapidly against yours.

“I know, love. Just.. use me, please,” he repeats, nearly anguished, and you’ve finally broken his proud act for good, regressing back to the devotedly impoverished man that he always becomes when you undress for him.

The moment it happens, your eyes shoot open, drowning in the amber in front of you, you yelp and verbally tremble, your body suddenly straining away, but he holds you in place. The resistance of his dick, blocking the full range of motion of your pulsations, makes you gasp louder, and it takes approximately two pumps of him feeling this to go spiraling as well, gasping and groaning while your bodies exchanging kisses from the inside, so profound that it is devout.

Your fingertips rest against his neck, feeling his slowing pulse as you stare past your stilling thighs to the edge of the bed, completely dumbfounded and strewn out.

After a moment of regaining breaths, he wraps his arms around you with a loving tenderness, nuzzling your cheek. Your hand treks upwards, past the backside of his ear to offer his scalp reassuring scratches while pulling him closer, until you tilt your face and give him a million little pecks where ever you could reach, finally settling against his mouth, salty with sweat. He licks the beads of liquid settling in your cupid’s bow playfully, before leaving a trail of kisses down your nose.

“My world,” he murmurs, cupping your cheek.

“I’m yours, eternally,” you whisper back.

The redness of your little faces is adorable, and you’re just appreciating how it compliments his pale cheekbones as he lets out a wry chuckle.

“‘Natural disaster?’”

“What?” You’re wrenched out of the your flagrant daze of adoration.

“Your words, not mine. A bit of a peculiar selection, but I appreciate the broadcast warning,” he teases, and you grow increasingly aware of two things: Viktor has achieved the ability to fuck the balance of your internal and external dialogue into a permeable mess, and the mattress below the two of you is, well, soaked.

You writhe under his touch and spin around, facing him, as he falls out of you with a little satisfied gasp. He’s all splayed out before you, flushed and worn out and so beautiful that you wonder if he’s merely something your mind had just thought up. You, on the other hand, currently look like a disheveled feline, about to hiss and claw.

“It’s funny,” he coos with distinct entertainment.

You grow sheepish, wrestling with your overt defensiveness. “That was an inside thought. Or— it was supposed to be.”

He shakes his head, blinking slowly, all of the adoration swelling in his eyes. “You’re quite cute. And odd.”

You sigh, giving in, letting him pull you against him once more, kissing his neck loyally. Slender fingers rub your back, a sharp chin resting on the crown of your head, interrupted periodically to leave a kiss in your matted hair, and you feel yourself melt further into his chest, fingertips softly counting the little constellations of moles on his skin.

“We can’t sleep on this,” you say after awhile, referencing the incriminatingly expansive wet spot.

He grumbles in protest. “I’m wrecked, my love. I can’t be bothered to deal with wrestling a fitted sheet right now.”

No, he was absolutely correct, the task of a new fitted sheet was unimaginable in your current state.

You crane your neck up at him. “Couch?” You offer weakly.

“Couch.”

He reaches for his cane and swings himself off the bed, one limb at a time. You grab a lone towel draped over the back of an armchair, happy to be put to use after its abandonment as lovingly wipe down any perspiration off of him, and then yourself. It’s a sad, unbecoming attempt to clean yourselves up, but the exhaustion tugging at your eyelids seems to justify it. You scrub at his hair playfully, until his hands bat yours away with a chuckle, the terry cloth withdrawing and exposing a freshly perplexed mess of chocolate brown chaos.

You hold him close for a second, flush against his skin, staring up at him. He returns your gaze, intoxicatingly enamored with one another. The moment is objective perfection, other than—

“We’re gross right now,” you observe.

He twists his face. “You couldn’t ever dream to be gross.”

As he trudges out of the bedroom, supported by his cane, you stifle a empathetic giggle, swearing that his limp was slightly worse in the aftermath. You, yourself, were definitely walking wonky. You grab some pillows from the bed and find him in front of the green couch, unfolding a blanket for you, his movements drunkenly slow in the moonlight. You lean past him and prop the pillows up for optimal comfort. You stand side by side and admire your makeshift sleeping arrangement.

“Who’s taking the bottom?” He asks, looking enticed by the comfy set up.

“You can,” you smile softly.

So he lays down before you, handing you his cane to place on the coffee table for easy access. He half pretends to pull the blanket over him and seal himself away from you mockingly, greedily settling into the couch for himself, but is too weary to truly commit to the joke, abandoning it quickly, easily defeated by the energy it took to maintain such humor. He reaches out an arm for you, amber eyes entrancingly inviting, fingers wrapping around your waist and pulling you closer.

“Ridiculous,” you muse, lowering yourself onto his chest again, his arms pulling you tight against his skin once more, legs tangling together and feet caressing one another leisurely.

He ‘hmmphs’ contentedly in response.

“‘Natural disaster’ was precisely correct, you know,” you mumble pointedly through the pull of looming unconsciousness. “And by definition, we’ve been displaced.”

He pulls you closer, caressing careful, tentative fingers around the tangles in your hair. You can hear the surrendering smile in his voice, lilting drowsily through the dark.