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valaruakars · 2 years

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Horny for Revenge (Part 2)

Viktor x f!Reader || 5.1k || NSFW

You’re fucking Heimerdinger’s assistant. He can’t resist fucking with you sometimes, when you’re least expecting it. But for once, he picked the wrong morning to underestimate you.

shoutout to @studyincontrasts for revealing my ultimate kink: being called pretty 🥺 credit where credit is due for THAT bit, you’ll know it when you see it.

warnings: little more thigh fuckery, biting, unsafe PIV, semi-public sex, it’s just all p0rn okay

[Part 1]

To your credit, you tried to let it go. Made a commendable effort; terribly valiant of you, for once. You really put your back into it—only to end up on it instead, but that’s a story for later. We’ll get there.

Left struck and sodden in his mind-numbing wake, you had options. Direct action. Immediate gratification. More of that bitter taste of his tongue. There were many paths at that crossroads that could’ve led to those things—very few wise or reasonable. You could see down one that might have led you to follow after him; to become the devil at his shoulder whispering of filth and spiteful promises, perhaps punishment to be redeemed later. Another that might’ve seen you laid low and simply begging for him to finish what was started—at his earliest convenience, please, please. And the worst: one that had you dragging him by the fistful into the nearest single-occupant bathroom; to have him quick and literally dirty. Gross.

And yet…?

No. Nope. Absolutely not.

You flushed that idea down the proverbial toilet. Smoothed yourself out, clothes then hair, with a good few stinging slaps to your cheeks for clarity's sake. Fumbled for something, anything else to feel and settled on the ease of anger. Almost as easy as want. Indignation, that righteous, driving feeling, was the only illuminating thing that guided you back to the path you’d started on this morning. The shrewd path; the studious path. You waddled down it dutifully, wishing desperately for a change of underwear.

It led you first in your flush-faced fury to the hold counter. Saw you snatching up your books in a rush, quite sure by the crinkle of his nose that the ancient clerk could scent the reek of depravity clinging to your skin. Breaker of silence, defiler of books—he knew it was you. Knew what you’d done. Probably—no, definitely—shushed you himself. Oh no, you thought, looking down at the scribbled reserve ticket on top. He knew your name too. You clutched your books as if they could keep you afloat in an ocean of shame, and ever polite, fumbled out a thank you.

Wholly embarrassed, you fled deep into the bowels of the library to find sanctuary at a study carrel, one you liked to haunt in the engineering stacks. To focus, focus, focus on the work you came here to do. Threw yourself into it with enough clumsy violence to smash your knee against the desk, rushing to settle in. Books? Open. Notebook? Out. Thighs? Clenched. You were determined in your budding wrath; it flourished beneath your skin, marrow deep. Would it not be so deliciously spiteful to just forget about him? To be utterly unaffected? You thought so. In the beginning, you really did.

You, haughty and hotly optimistic to start, waded through six pages. A meager six before you stumbled bodily, shoved off course by none other than his hands. Long and lithe, that phantom touch; you leaned into it reflexively. You felt it ghost through your hair, pulling sweetly; on your knee, sliding up and under. Closed your eyes and felt it viscerally at the sodden cleft of you, palming that sickly heat between your thighs, through your panties. Oh, fuck. And that was certainly what you’d say, the moment he would slip them aside and touch you properly.

The squeaky wheel of a book cart brought you back as it passed your desk—from behind, blessedly, so that you were spared the ordeal of being caught practically drooling into your hand. Probably just looked like you were sleeping. Having a raunchy dream, at worst. Happens to everyone, right?

Sure.

Shit—focus!

And you did, somehow. Reason unclear, but you managed for two agonizing hours hunched over that desk, grinding a poor pen between your molars. You coaxed your rotten, useless brain through sixty eight dry and clinical pages until it broke you. Or, well, he broke you.

Because in the end, you couldn’t let it go.

Not when your mind finally, fatally wandered. Not when you started hearing the soft lilt of his accent in the words on aptly numbered page sixty nine. It gave way quickly, spiraled uncontrollably into the recollection of his filthy whispers: ‘Good girl, very nice, louder for me, lyubov.’ You thought of him, his voice cracking, panting, moaning into your ear. Into your mouth, sometimes, when he would cum and breathe that pleasure into you, messy and broken. You were doomed, when you thought of him sloppy. Absolutely finished.

You clapped that godsforsaken book shut. Well and truly thought: fuck it. And put your conniving little brain to work properly this time, wrathful and needy.

You were blessed with a scheming mind, an aptitude for getting what you want. Forceful, focused, really fucking horny; you wanted Viktor. And you read the solution easily on the dial of your pocket watch as you fished it out and checked the time. Natural as breathing, you thought of something truly terrible. And worse, you thought to execute it.

Revenge in thirty minutes or less.

You were packing up in a blind rush before you could sabotage your own brilliance; before you thought too long and hard into all the ways it could go wrong and the consequences therein. Too many variables—ignore, ignore—shove book into bag, harder and it will fit. Or not. You huffed rather dramatically; abandoned it and bolted, more pressing matters to attend. One less thing to weigh you down. A price you could pay.

9:29AM

You took off out of the library, down the marbled hallways. A sprint where nobody could see you, a fairly suspect power-walk where they might. Turning familiar corners, passing familiar doors, you tried not to choke on that breathless rush tightening your lungs. Giddiness. Anticipation. Light cardio—yikes. Your heart beat hard and fast against your sternum; your mouth was going dry from the frenzy of it all.

You saw fit to duck into a bathroom—just a little detour. Rinsed your mouth. Fluffed your hair. Gave yourself a long, hard look in that mirror and hissed to the deranged creature staring back at you: ‘don’t fuck it up.’ It would be a toss up, naturally. Seduction was the knife you fumbled for blindly and held with a limp wrist. But, oh, did he seem eager to press himself to your blade. Dick first, the psycho. You really liked him.

Liked him enough that in a final stroke of obscene genius, you decided to make it so blissfully easy. He should thank you, really. But if he didn’t, you quite liked the sensation anyway; it felt like such a delightful, dirty secret. That you weren’t wearing panties anymore, having slid them off over your ankles and shoved them deep into your bag. Along with your bra, which was pointedly no secret at all.

Your watch bade you hurry along, and for once, you listened. Checked it, dropped it in your pocket and fled what could be considered your second? third? crime scene of the day. Crimes of passion, thank you.

9:35AM

You stormed up to the threshold like a wild-eyed tempest; took a deep, grounding breath as if it could temper the thrill. You felt a little insane, and for this, maybe you were. Needy thing, you pushed through that great, looming door before you could even think to worry that it might be locked. But why would it have been?

Professor Heimerdinger never locked it when Viktor was inside.

Yes, you really were that stupid. Stupidly, helplessly infatuated, you thought indignantly, since you refused to be faulted entirely for falling prey to him. In fact, this was all his fault for choosing to fuck and fuck with someone so lacking in restraint. Yes. Perfect logic.

You slipped quietly inside to find him right there. Stationed at your left, shelving books in the grand, vaulted space of the Dean’s office. It suited him to stand beneath that starry, painted sky. No cane. Neat and tidy. Alone, but you had to be sure.

You loved your field, but his expressions made more of an intriguing study. He hid them poorly; lacked control and you could learn of them easily.

That initial spark of surprise in shades of wide-eyed amber when he first caught sight of you, the suggestion of a smile on his fine mouth, it faded to something sharper. You could see the gears turning as he shelved the book in hand and did not reach for another. Calm, cool, and professional in the hard set of his jaw, a man diligently at work, but his eyes swam with something more. Always the eyes. Heady, dark and wanting; you read your fortune in their churning depths and divined that he would not refuse you. Could not refuse you, perhaps, because it was almost like you could smell him. And he reeked of desperation too.

Holy shit, you thought with such delight. You were going to make him behave so unprofessionally.

You bit back a wicked smile, saved it for later, and asked with such deceitful innocence: “Is the Professor in?”

Cruel, that he turned back to his work so easily. Snatched his eyes from your breathless figure too quickly—all futile resistance. “He doesn’t have appointments during lecture, and won’t accept unscheduled walk-ins afterward.” Viktor recited his dry lines like you were any other visitor, playing the role of Professor’s Assistant almost perfectly. Almost. He slipped when he added: “As you know, Miss (Y/L/N).” Couldn’t conceal that pitch of mirth in his voice, not when he said your name. Acknowledged the game and joined, a willing participant.

“That’s a no then?”

“It is.”

“That’s fine” you hummed, nearly rocked back on your heels in such dainty, impish delight. Dropped your bag near the door and looked around coyly, curiously. “Since I came to see you, actually.”

“Oh?” You saw that terrible smirk and knew it meant danger; signaled a misstep. “For what purpose?” he asked, blunt and bit cavalier, bringing attention to a terrible flaw in this half-baked plan. That being: you. Not brave, not direct, and not keen on confessions. He liked those, unfortunately, the curious prick; derived too much satisfaction from drawing shameful little truths out of you.

Inching closer, dragged by his gravity, you hoped he would see and accept the answer unspoken. Your dress was unforgiving through the chest and your body was a traitor, always on his side.

“Are you not happy to see me?” you asked, trying for low tones. Sultry tones. But your voice never did quite what you asked. Not when the thrill of being bold had a hand at your throat and squeezed tight, pitched it too breathy, too unsteady.

He canted his head, rocked it consideringly. Definitely noticed your traitorous nipples up close; you saw him wet his lips. “Eh…” That long sound, drawn out between his teeth, let you hope he took the redirect. Falsely. “I believe I asked my question first.”

Fucking fine.

“Give me your hand,” you sighed, and he thought to hold it like you needed an anchor in this vast, scholarly confessional.

You did. But not like that.

You flipped it palm up, drew it to your chest, and bid him squeeze in the span of a stuttering heartbeat. His breath did the same, ghosting over your temple as you crowded closer and refused to look up into his face. His throat worked over the prim knot of his tie, and with a hard stare, nurturing that hollow resentment from earlier, you tucked your face there and whispered, “Did you really think I would just… let it go?”

He laughed into the shell of your ear, soft and taunting, and for it, you licked a warning stripe up his jugular—nipped at the apex and you weren’t sorry for it. He deserved it. He liked it. You knew, when a salacious something stiffened, half hard against you. You knew, when his voice grew breathy and his tongue thickened on the vowels.

“I wondered what, if anything at all, I might have set into motion. I wasn’t sure,” he confessed quietly and cupped your breast more generously; dragged his thumb over your nipple in long, sweet strokes. Too slow. Not enough. “You are so erratic. An unknown variable, if you will—”

And to prove his point, you pushed your impatient mouth hard against his—teeth on teeth, but he didn’t oblige you the rush. Took hold of your hair at the nape, and gently drew you back. Thickly, you remembered that he had use of two hands at the moment. Foolishly, you looked into his face and drowned a little bit.

He flushed so nicely, and sincerity suited him when he said: “My intention was to keep your interest, and my hope was to find you at my door tonight.”

A curious statement, if a little somber, you filed it away for dissection later. You know, when you weren’t trying to get throughly, efficiently fucked on tight schedule.

“That’s a long time to wait,” you chided, growing more and more anxious at the minutes ticking away. Time, slipping through your fingers. Time, forcing your forward, ever faster, lest you be caught. How close you were cutting it, how thrilling. “I’d rather you fix your mistake now.”

“Mistake?”

You were pleased that he didn’t focus on ‘now.’ Pleased that his hands had taken to gathering up your skirt in grasping handfuls, hiking it higher. Infinitely pleased that when his hands found your ass completely bare and waiting, he groaned and swore and pulled you tighter to him.

That wicked smile you’d saved for later caught your lips, but they had a better use still. Your hands worked at his tie, his collar, to make space for them as you said, “I would consider leaving me high and dry a mistake, yes.”

“Dry?” He practically snicked the word, and you went for the throat—literally. Latched on to that private space beneath his collar and set to bruising it with your mouth; lips and tongue and teeth in a hot hurry. You were kind to cradle his head, though the press of the shelves into his spine was likely uncomfortable. Now he knew how it felt. Understood then that you wanted to punish him, if only a little bit.

“Restraint was necessary, I promise you,” he said, repentant; keening when you bit softly at the juncture of his shoulder and neck. Pliant and unwinding, until he grew bold, suddenly. Put that leg back between your thigh and had you gasping at the friction, at the scandal, because the wet patch left on his pants would never dry fast enough. “Risking our standing aside, you are far too loud for the library,” he whispered thickly, and you whined right on cue when he kneaded your ass, ground you down harder. “I could not keep you quiet enough if I tried.”

“You’re not very quiet yourself,” you scoffed. Pulled his hair and heard nothing for it but shit-eating silence, the smirk to match. Just to be contrarian—for now, until you’d exhaust him of that capacity. The twitch of his cock betrayed him, though; told you in no uncertain terms that he wasn’t entirely unaffected.

“Then I would consider this an improvement from earlier. To be alone, behind closed doors.”

“Not like it’s your office, though. Not entirely private.”

“No,” he said thoughtfully, looking down between your bodies. You were far past being embarrassed at what he must’ve seen to say: “No, but I think you like that, don’t you?”

“Mmhm,” you nodded in quick, thoughtless agreement. Moved to fuss with the fastens of his pants imploringly between the cage of his arms. “But it also means you really need to hurry up. Don’t you know what time it is?”

Poor Viktor; he came abruptly back to himself and stilled. Inhaled, sharp and nasal, and breathed back out a nervous, “…No.”

You knew what he’d done—lost track of time, again, as he tended to. In all fairness, you only had a rough idea now. And it wasn’t optimistic.

So you fumbled for it in your pocket, the little golden watch. Pressed it into his hand as you brought him down by the tie and lavished those wet, open-mouthed kisses to his collarbone and up. Kinder, sweeter, softer. Begged him with each one not to leave you wanting again. You heard in quick succession: the spring of the case opening and the soft swear that followed. Not from your mouth’s minstrations, sadly.

He finally, finally understood your impatience. How for once, in this moment alone, it was well placed. He caught your jaw in his hand urgently, looking so dark and desperate and reckless; the swipe of his thumb over your cheek a gentle contrast. Showed you first that he didn’t want to stop, and you would ruin him for it.

“I will give you anything, but we have no time for—for everything I could possibly do to you,” he said forcefully, reverently, and you had to kiss him for it, ever briefly, on the bow of his lip. Once. Twice. Until he said, a murmur against your mouth: “Sixteen minutes, lyubov. Tell me your choice.”

Ah.

9:44AM

You knew in your heart of hearts—see also: the throb of your cunt—that you wouldn’t last five minutes. And you knew, too, that though you’d love to kneel for him, bruise your knees on the marble floor, he wouldn’t manage two rounds. You couldn’t have his cock and suck it too. Not in this amount of time. The choice was clear, but as to where? Well.

“Let me think…” you hummed. Backed off him and wandered away from the lovely, hot flush of his body; shrewdly appraised the options such a lavish office had on offer.

It was obvious though, wasn’t it? Part of you already knew from the moment you fled the library with your dire plan. You wanted it quick and carnal on that solid, stately beast of a table that filled the center of the space. Cluttered as it was, books and loose papers and—oh look—his cane leaning there against it, that was your choice. Even if it meant getting stabbed by a wayward protractor. Despite all the things littering its surface, you would add your body to it.

But first, you added your dress.

He made a strangled sound when you did it—pulled it swiftly over your head and discarded it across the open pages of Techmaturgy: A Century of Progress. You hadn’t planned to, but in the moment it felt right in a very, very wrong way. Bold. Sinful. Exhilarating, to show him your body where it was so forbidden.

You drummed your thoughtful fingers on the worn wooden edge, his uneven footfalls in symphony. Made a tempting show of your ass, perfect in his eyes, leaning over it ever slightly. Looked sidelong over your shoulder and asked: “Over the desk—can you manage?”

He pressed into your back, warm and lithe, first reaching around to place your little doomsday clock face up.

You didn’t care to look—not yet.

His hands found you then, quick to roam the naked expanse of your body—nothing short of worshipful, like you were a fantasy fulfilled. “Manage what, exactly, hm?” he asked into the crook of your neck, returning the favor of such feverish, open-mouthed kisses to the skin there.

Your head tipped back against his shoulder; gently, not leaning any of your weight onto him. Let him knead your pliant flesh however, wherever he liked, and clearly he liked all of you. Could have closed your eyes in such rapture, but you stared up, and found an answer there in painted shades of blue and white. Constellations, reflected on his skin.

“I want—” But you broke so quickly, giggled, because the joke you saw was very good. Told him through the grips of a snickering smile, knowing the curious arch of his brow without ever seeing it: “I want you to fuck me until I see stars.”

You felt the contagious grin, the quietly huffed shake of laughter against your skin. “Then don’t look up again until you want to finish.”

That required a start.

You looked, then, not up but down, as you slipped his grasp and bowed forward. Prostrated your body across that table; hitched your knee up on the edge and thoroughly exposed the crux of your need, slick and swollen. “Fourteen minutes,” you urged and choked on a sigh, shuddering as your forehead dropped to hard leather binding. The slow drag of his long, blunt fingers down your spine should not have caught you so off guard.

9:46AM

“I, eh… appreciate your eagerness,” he said, growing distracted, evidently. By the slide of his palm, that languid, thoughtful caress over the curve of your ass, you knew what he was looking at. Died a little bit as he squeezed and gripped and spread you apart, no doubt watching. And that sound, wet, sticky and shameful—oh yes, part of you absolutely died on that table.

His voice was far preferable to hear, heavy as he asked so sweetly: “But if you could turn over, please?”

“Why?” you snapped like a reflex, but your body moved without question. Turned and settled you sitting on the edge. You wished it hadn’t acted to fast.

Because it was hard to look at him, like starting into the sun if it could rise between your legs. Your heart seized as he shrugged, as he said all too casually: “Because you are so pretty. More so when I fuck you, you understand.”

And you did, if only because you felt the same way about him.

It wasn’t a question, but you nodded, a little spellbound by his voice, and widened your thighs. Inviting him in as he pulled his cock out and crowded closer, falling into your trap, quite sprung. If he wanted you shaking and desperate and entirely bent to his will, he could have had that. But his mistake; he gave you too long to realize that while you may bend, ever slightly, all you wanted was to see him break.

And this was how you’d do it.

This was how you’d end up on your back.

You took matters into your own hands—took him in hand, heavy and warm and twitching. Found his hip on the better side with the other and tricked him, made him think you needed to brace yourself with it. Like he needed to brace himself on either side of you, leaning hard on his hands, heavier to the left. You angled his cock up, gripped his hip hard and pulled him flush, flattened the underside against your cunt. He must have realized that you meant to set the pace and obliged; a sigh was his first concession.

Pushing and pulling, rocking him against you to slick his long length enough that it was easier to take, you decided that, no, it wasn’t a sigh at all. You heard wrong. It was the first breathy pant of many that began to fall from his lips, not nearly swollen enough, but you would fix that.

He looked over, stricken, and reminded you: “Ten—Ah, nine minutes, (Y/N).”

9:51AM

“You’d rather stop?” you taunted, thumbing over the soft skin of his tip on the upstroke. Slick, and it was anyone’s guess as to who it came from.

“What? No—” he said too quickly, too ardent; noted it, relented, and made his second concession as you started to take your hand away. “Please, no.”

He begged. And for it, you were merciful. That is, after you stopped the steady roll of his hips and laughed softly at his pinched, worried expression.

You were merciful for the way you gripped him at the base and lined up the head to your entrance. More so for the way you stroked his slick shaft, knowing that it had gone untouched up until this point. Where you were twice given the opportunity to grind against his thigh, he’d been left so neglected. That much was clear as he struggled for restraint and failed; hips twitching ever slightly, tidy snaps, into your hand and cunt alike. Just the tip and fuck it felt good.

You worked him and he worked you open; you both watched with sick, heady fascination, foreheads nearly touching. Panting breaths intermingled in a humid fugue. Your wrist ached where you leaned back on it, but it didn’t matter. Not while together you watched your hand slowly lose ground on his length as it disappeared; watched where he sunk into the delirious resistance of your body. More and more until you took your hand away and he breathed truth onto you, low and thankful and deliciously vulnerable.

“I would not have made it through the day without… ah, touching myself to the thought of you…”

And that was it. It was over. You cared for nothing anymore but to cum and have him cum wherever he pleased. It didn’t matter who broke who, though it would certainly be you if he kept talking like that.

You dragged him in hard and fast by the tie, set to brutalizing his lips with each terribly sloppy kiss you imparted. It forced him to bottom out between your thighs, sunk to the hilt. The stretched burned until you rocked your hips through it, saw it turned to something sweet that had you keening high pitched into his mouth. Pleasantly full. Pressure building.

And then he thrusted. One, twice, and though you so desperately wanted to swallow the sounds he made for you, you couldn’t keep upright. You collapsed backward on that academic leaf-litter and writhed in it, letting each ragged snap of his hips punch such vulgar sounds from your lungs that you covered your own mouth. Watched down your body as he lost himself entirely, a mess of a man, and thought to make it worse.

“Harder,” you demanded, “Fuck. Me. Harder.”

“Yes,” he nodded, breathing hard around that single word. Pressed a hand to your thigh, pushing you wider if ever you could spread more for him, “If… If that is what you want—yes.”

He was devolving rapidly, becoming your favorite version of himself: erratic and sloppy. Clothes disheveled, neck mottled, and his neat, pretty hair sullied by your hands. His eyes were a half-lidded, amber haze, but he watched you too. You were too far gone to wonder what he saw, what made him shudder and groan, lean harder, thrust deeper into your cunt with a foreign swear on his lips. The arch of your back, the bounce of your breasts, the hand on your mouth hardly stifling those sweet, pathetic sounds—it could have been anything.

But it was another thing that didn’t matter. You came around his cock all the same.

He struck a spot in you so saccharine and overwhelming, brushed up against your clit over and over until it was just enough, and you were well and truly finished. Threw your head back like the most excellent of whores and begged him not to stop, near sobbing, with nothing but his wrist to hold onto. Heedless of how loud you were.

“I won’t, I—I promise,�� he hissed, and by the grit of his teeth and his faltering rhythm you knew what came next, “But I—Tell me where—?”

“I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care,” you chanted, and meant it, as long as he kept touching you somehow.

You weren’t surprised when he immediately collapsed on top of you. Gave a few weak thrusts with what felt like his entire body, and made a deep, breathy, broken sound into the solace of your throat. It was perfect—let you grind your hips beneath his weight, rubbing greedily against his pelvis. Riding out the shuddering wake of your impatient orgasm, you drew his out longer and sweeter, his heavy, keening pants hot on your neck.

For a moment, you felt peace, full with the twitching feeling of his spent cock. Looking at him lazily as he looked back just the same, smoothing back your hair.

And then you felt panic.

“Time?”

Viktor inhaled sharply and dragged himself off you, so fast and soon that it stung, but you felt that privately. He found it quickly, read to you in a rasp, “Three minutes,” and tucked it into his pocket, clamoring to right his clothes.

9:57AM

“Yes, but consider that he still has to walk up here on those short little legs,” you snickered, closing yours to stand shakily and hopefully delay the mess, “Might take an extra five minutes.”

But you could feel it, leaking thick down your sweaty thigh as you pulled on your dress again. The shower called and you were sure as shit going to answer.

“Let’s… not cut it closer, hm?” he said, exasperated by how close you could fly to your deadlines. He repaired the knot of his tie and you attempted to brush his stubborn hair back into place with your fingers. Efficient, if a touch domestic, it saw him crack a thin smile. “I would feel better if you were not seen leaving. Otherwise my lies won’t be so convincing.”

“Planning them ahead for once?”

“I’m trying to,” he shrugged, a soft thank you to follow as you offered him his cane and made for the door. Quickly, to spare him any trouble. Quickly, to get the hardest part over with. Silly, sentimental creature—you hadn’t anticipated that leaving would be so difficult. Perhaps you had made a mistake this time, the want of him transformed into something tenderhearted. You wanted now for his weight, his warmth and the smell of his skin.

“Are you forgetting something?” he asked, and the guilt of your unkindness hit. Escape at what cost? He deserved more from you.

“Well, um—I suppose, yes,” you said, backtracking easily, so drawn to him as it was. It was easy, too, to lay your hand on his arm; to reach up and kiss him, a chaste and lingering press to the thin curve of his bottom lip.

A kiss he returned, because of course he did, even if your cottony, lust-addled brain had gotten it all wrong. You read it in his expression—like he was trying not to laugh, a pinch of surprise—before he told you true. At least you hadn’t apologized yet.

“Your bag?” You followed his line of sight and flushed. “I thought that was obvious.”

“Oh, right,” you said, clearly fucked stupid, but you weren’t about to admit it. Still salvageable, you scooped it up, slung it over your shoulder, and tried to be cool about it. Tried, because it was hard when you were a braless mess with cum running down your leg. Really hurt the cool factor, wasn’t great for morale. “Well there goes a great excuse to see me later,” was the flippant, shameful word vomit that came from your mouth and you were so quick to regret it.

“We are past that, don’t you think?” he said quietly, his pretty face cut by a sliver of hurt for a split second before he could recover. Almost sheepish, in the way he fidgeted with the handle of his cane. “You know, the invitation for tonight still stands… if you, eh, don’t get me fired.”

A clock struck then, its long, sonorous peals perfectly timed, and you didn’t need to count them.

10:00AM

“Okay, okay, I’m going,” you sighed, poised to flee out the door. The last thing you saw, the sweetest thing you could ask for, was slender curve of his lips in a private smile as you whispered in parting, “I’ll see you tonight,” and slipped away, knowing yourself a liar.

#arcane #viktor #viktor x reader #viktor x fem!reader #viktor arcane #arcane fanfiction #reader inserrt #my writing #my brother in christ i really did just set myself up for part 3 huh #oops #but don't hold your breath

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