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Forgiving, Forgetting, and a Whole Lot of Flirting || A Valko Fic —
Fair warning: …suggestive. Fair warning: I did NOT revise Fair warning: Valko. Here’s my little gift to all of us who are fighting for Valko’s return and for creative liberty. Used my own creative liberty and may have done a lot more than I anticipated and got carried away. I didn’t even get hit my a truck (yet).
Discord server for Valko supporters: https://discord.gg/c6jERV9Cx
Guys it’s not OOC if they gave us nothing on Valko right I made do with the scraps I was left with aswell as my writer knowledge and headcanons (I put in so many of my little headcanons of him LOL). This is one of his maaany ways of apologizing. I KNOW he’d also snuggle and nuzzle and be all cute and sincere if it was serious leave me alone stooooop let me indulge myself— I MEAN— you guys. This is a very silly stupid argument.
With everything being said, ENJOY ——— The apartment was quiet except for the sound of your voice. The argument wasn’t even about anything serious, but ohhh were you going to be petty about it either way.
“I cannot believe you.”
Valko didn’t even look up from where he was leaning against the kitchen counter, rolling a glass of water between his palms.
“I’ve apologized.”
“Oh-ho, you mean with those little puppy dog eyes like they’ll just fix everything? Is a real apology in the room with us?” You point at him, “You don’t even look sorry!”
“I look devastated,” Valko says, deadpan, taking a slow sip of water like he has all the time in the world. “This is my very devastated face.”
"That is your smug face. I know your faces, Valko. I’m literally your wife.”
"You are," he says, setting the glass down with a soft clink. "My wife. Currently building a case against me. Should I be taking notes?"
You narrow your eyes, “Since we’re having an argument at all? Yes, I have a lot to say.”
“I would never dream of stopping you.”
"Good, because I'm not done, I'm not even close to done. Just because you’re this whole know-it-all who apparently has knowledge on everything and yet—”
He pushes off the counter. Doesn't rush. Just starts closing the distance with that unhurried certainty of his, like a man who already knows exactly how this ends and is simply enjoying the walk there.
“—Alright, don’t think I didn’t notice you're not even arguing, you're just letting me spiral, which is a tactic, I know it's a tactic, I've studied tactics—”
“I like it when you ramble,” he mutters.
“I’m not done.”
“I know. Please. Continue, pancake. I mean it.” He's close now, close enough that you have to tip your chin to keep glaring at him, and his eyes have gone warm and slow and entirely too fond for a man currently on trial. "You get very articulate when you're furious with me. I almost feel bad interrupting.”
"Then don't." You deadpan.
“Wasn't planning to.” His hand finds the counter beside you, not touching, just there, framing you in without so much as a fingertip on your skin. “Go on. What is it I shouldn’t do just because I’m knowledgeable?”
The way he asks the question somehow manages to sound both serious and amused.
“That’s not the point. The point is—”
“I disgraced you with my ‘know-it-all’ tendencies and I don’t sound genuinely apologetic about it even though I really am sorry. Tell me the rest, princess. Something about my tactics?”
“Stop pretending to listen.” You roll your eyes.
“I'm listening to every word.” His voice dips lower, quieter, close enough now that you feel it more than hear it. “I'm also thinking about the crease you get right here—” he brushes his thumb over the spot between your brows, feather-light, “—when you're building to a really good point. Very distracting. Apologies in advance if I miss something.”
You scoff, “You cannot just charm your way through this, Valko, that is not how consequences work.”
“No?” He's smiling now, slow, unrepentant, forehead dipping toward yours. “Worth a try, though. What's my sentence, then? Be specific. I want to know exactly how much groveling I'm signing up for.”
You look at the closeness, face still stubborn and full of fire— except for the fact that your cheeks seem to be on fire. “A lot. A lot of groveling.”
“I can do a lot of groveling." His nose brushes yours, voice going soft. "I've had practice. You bring it out of me constantly whenever I’m wrong.”
You scoff, “You're doing the thing.”
"I'm doing several things," he murmurs teasingly. "Tell me which one's working. I'll do more of it."
"None of them—" Your voice catches, betrays you completely. "None of them are working."
"Mm." He doesn't pull back. If anything he leans in, patient, sure, insufferably pleased with himself. "Say that again. Slower. I don't think I believed you."
"None," you try again, "are working," except your voice wavers right in the middle of it, and he catches it, of course he catches it, he catches everything.
This stupid, intelligent wolf-man.
“Mhm…” His thumb traces along your jaw, feather-light, tilting your face up just slightly. "You know, for someone building a whole legal case against me, you blush an awful lot for a prosecutor.”
“I am not blushing, I’m mad and it's warm in here.”
"It's not warm in here." He says it so gently, so reasonably, like he's doing you a favor by pointing out the obvious. "I checked the thermostat this morning. 21.6 degrees Celsius. Very mild. You, however—" his gaze drags slowly down to your cheeks, then back up, unbearably fond, "—you are doing something entirely independent of the thermostat.”
"You're insufferable. I don’t even want to hear this." the lie comes out, before you look away, “I just want you to—“
“Apologize. Right.” He doesn't move back an inch. If anything he curls a hand at the small of your back, thumb tracing slow along your spine, grounding and maddening in equal measure. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I didn’t mean to make you feel angry. I should’ve done better.” A pause, his mouth brushing your temple. “I'm considerably less sorry about how good you look right now, mid-sentence, trying to stay furious with me. That part I'd do again.”
You try to scoff, “Valko—“
“What? I can apologize and mean the second part. I contain multitudes.” His nose skims along your cheekbone, unhurried, deliberate, every word pitched for no one but you.
You try to hold onto your indignation, you really do. But he's warm against you, and his voice has gone all honey and low, and your traitorous body is already leaning into his touch like it's got a mind of its own.
“Yeah, you still don’t sound sorry.”
“I sound exactly as sorry as I am.” He tilts his head, those gold eyes catching the kitchen light. “Which is very. You want me to sound pathetic? I can do pathetic." He drops his voice to something wrecked and small. “I'm so, so sorry, sweetheart. I don't know what came over me. Please forgive me. I'll do better.”
You stare at him.
He stares back, utterly deadpan, before the corner of his mouth twitches.
“That,” you say, jabbing a finger into his chest, “was mocking me.”
"It was not. That was a genuine display of remorse and regret. I'm hurt you'd question it." He catches your finger, brings it to his lips, and presses a kiss to the tip before kissing the side twice.
You snatch your hand back, but the damage is done— your ears are burning and he's watching them like he can read the temperature shift in real time.
You wish your body would learn to control itself, because now he’s smirking like he had some hypothesis and you proved it right— which, to be fair, the heavily inconvenient warmth on your face probably did.
His head dips, mouth ghosting along your jaw, not quite kissing, just hovering there, letting you feel the warmth of him without the contact.
You shiver despite yourself, and he catches it, of course he does, because he’s insufferable and attentive in equal measure.
“I’m still mad.” You manage.
“I know.” His mouth trails higher, grazing your cheekbone, “I’m banking on making you forget why. Forgive and forget, right?”
You breathe, but the feel of his lips on your skin is very distracting, “That’s— that’s not how it works.”
“No?” He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, and there’s something softer under the smug amusement now, something genuine. “Then tell me how it works. Tell me what you need, and I’ll do it.”
You blink.
“I'll grovel however you want. In the rain. Dramatically, like in those terrible movies. Holding a boombox with your favourite song while howling out my crimes and how sorry I am infront of everyone to my beautiful, sexy wife.” He grins, then dramatisizes his voice, “‘Take me back, my love. I have wronged you so. I stand before you, drenched by the rain, humbled by my own foolishness, and armed with nothing but this playlist of our songs and the devastating truth that I was, in fact, an idiot.’”
You can’t help the laugh that escapes you at the absurdity of the idea, and his eyes light up like he won something.
“There she is.” His mouth finds your jaw again, grazing along it with a slowness that makes your breath catch. “There’s my girl. Still mad?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I like you mad.” He kisses the spot just below your ear, and you feel that smile against your skin. “You get all warm and sharp and you look at me like you want to kill me and kiss me in equal measure.”
“I want to kill you more.”
“Mm, I’ll take those odds.” His hands settle on your waist, fingers trailing up and down your ribs, slow and exploratory, like he's mapping you by touch alone. He doesn't break eye contact. Doesn't rush. Just lets his fingers trace lazy patterns through the fabric of your shirt, up toward your waist, back down to your hip, then up again.
You swallow. Hard.
You shove at his chest, but there's no force behind it, and he doesn't budge. If anything, he leans heavier into you, pressing you back against the counter.
The edge digs into the small of your back. His body is a wall of heat and quiet intent, and the only thing between you is the thin, useless space of your half-hearted shove.
“You’re crowding me,” you mutter.
“I’m groveling,” he corrects. One brow lifts. A flash of teeth and sharp canines that is almost a smile and almost a dare. “Say the word, sweetheart. I’ll drop right here on the tile and mean every second of it.”
His hands slide from your waist to the counter on either side of you, caging without trapping, leaving you every exit and while you take none of them.
“Valko…”
“Still talking. Still groveling.” His voice drops into that ruined velvet he only uses for you. “I will cook every day. I will do the laundry you hate. I will sit through every single one of those terrible movies and not complain once— aloud. I will write you an apology letter in handwriting and leave it on your pillow like a man who has lost the plot entirely, because maybe I have.” A beat. His nose skims yours. “I will also keep looking at you like this, because stopping feels physically impossible, and I am only so strong.”
You shove again. Still nothing. Your palms stay on his chest anyway, feeling the steady thump under muscle and cotton.
“You’re not sorry,” you try, weaker.
“I am wrecked about upsetting you.” He catches one of your wrists, turns it, presses an open-mouthed kiss to the inside like a vow. “I am zero percent sorry about having you pinned to our counter looking like you can’t decide whether to bite me or forgive me. Both options, for the record, are excellent. I will take either. I will take both. I am flexible in my penitence.”
His hands slide from your waist to the counter on either side of you, caging without trapping, leaving you every exit and while you take none of them.
Heat crawls down your neck. He tracks it with his eyes, then with his damn mouth again— slow along the line of your throat, not quite a kiss, just the ghost of one, the promise of teeth held carefully in check.
“That’s cheating,” you breathe.
“That’s strategy.” Another near-kiss, lower. “Tell me to stop and I stop. Tell me what you actually need and I will give it to you until you forget there was ever a reason to be mad.” He pulls back enough to look at you properly, something raw threading through the arrogance. “Please. Let me fix it. Let me earn it. I will crawl if crawling is what gets me back into your good graces. I will beg pretty. I will beg filthy. I will beg in public if that’s the sentence. Just— don’t stay angry at me when I can feel how much you want to melt, sweetheart. It’s killing me in the best and worst way.”
Your fingers curl in his shirt, which is probably the only thing keeping you grounded right now.
His forehead rests against yours again. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so damn sorry I made you raise your voice at me in our kitchen over something I should’ve handled with both hands and my whole chest.”
One hand leaves the counter to cup your jaw, thumb sweeping your lower lip.
“Tell me I can kiss you,” he murmurs. “Or tell me I have to wait. Either way I’m staying right here until you decide. I’m not going anywhere. Not when you’re this close and this bright and this stubborn.” A pause. Softer. “My beautiful, sexy, terrifying wife. Let me make it right.”
The space between your mouths is nothing. A breath. A choice.
His eyes stay open on yours, gold and wrecked and waiting.
“Your move, prosecutor,” he whispers against your lips. “Sentence me.”
You don’t kiss him.
You tip your chin the fraction that keeps your mouths from meeting and say, with all the dignity a woman pressed to a kitchen counter can muster, “Community service. Extended. Starting now.”
He blinks for a second, before letting out a laugh, quiet, wrecked, delighted. “Community service.” He tastes the words against your lower lip without taking it. “That’s ambitious. What’s the service I’m providing?”
“Shutting up and suffering.”
“I can do one of those.” His mouth curves. “Guess which.”
Before you can shove him properly this time, he catches both your wrists with one hand— gentle, deliberate— and presses a kiss to the pulse points.
Then he lets go and starts down.
Not rushed. Not begging in the soft way. Begging the way a man begs when he already knows he’s going to win and wants you to watch him earn it.
His lips find your neck first, open and warm through the thin heat of your skin. “Still mad?” he murmurs into the color of your shirt.
“Yes.”
“Good.” Another kiss, lower, right where cotton meets collarbone. His breath soaks the weave, “Hold onto it. I want something to work against.”
“Valko—”
“Serving my sentence.” He says it like a joke and means it like a vow. His hands settle at your hips, thumbs stroking lazy circles through your clothes as he sinks, inch by measured inch, kissing a path down the center of your shirt while muttering apologies. Button. Seam. The soft give of fabric over your sternum. Each press of his mouth is unhurried, deliberate, the kind of attention that makes indignation feel like a costume you’re still wearing out of spite.
Your fingers find his hair without permission— burgundy silk, the soft edge of a wolf ear twitching when you brush too close. He makes a sound that is almost a growl and absolutely not sorry.
“Hands in my hair while you’re sentencing me,” he notes with amusement in his voice. “I’m putting that in the record for mixed signals.”
“I’m pushing you away.”
“You’re petting me.”
“I’m— Oh shut up.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
He keeps going.
Down past the last button and a kiss to the waistband of your pants. Another, lower, through denim or cotton or whatever betrayal you’re wearing, heat blooming under the pressure of his mouth until your knees threaten to collapse themselves.
“Valko.” It’s thinner now. You hate that it’s thinner.
He looks up.
From the floor.
On his knees on cold kitchen tile, tall enough even like this, burgundy hair mussed from your fingers, gold eyes bright and wicked and soft all at once. His hands stay on your hips. His mouth is still curved. Smug. Sincere. Ruinous.
“You’re enjoying this,” you say.
“Immensely.” No hesitation. No shame. He turns his face and mouths another slow kiss into the inside of your thigh through the cloth, then another, higher, like he’s mapping a route he’s already memorized and wants you to watch him take it again. “You put me here. I’m making the most of the view.” His eyes flick up, gold gone dark and pleased.
He nuzzles the seam of your pants at your hip, open-mouthed, heat soaking through, then rests there with a sigh that is pure theater and pure want. “Tell me how sorry I sound from this angle. Be honest. I can adjust the pitch.”
“You sound smug.”
“I sound devoted.” A kiss, deliberate, right where fabric stretches over the soft give of your hip. His hands slide from your hips to the backs of your thighs, not gripping hard— just holding, thumbs drawing idle arcs that make your breath hitch. “Devoted and smug can share a body. Watch.”
He tips his head back enough that you see the line of his throat, the faint flush under his skin, the way his mouth is still curved like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.
“Please forgive me, beautiful, I was so wrong. I’m sorry I was a know-it-all bastard,” he says, clear, no joke under it for one clean second. “I’m sorry I made you feel small when you’re the only person who has ever made me want to be better than my instincts. I’m sorry I’m the reason you’re upset.” His fingers tighten once on your thighs, then gentle. “And I am not sorry—” that hot stupid smile returns, wicked, soft “—that you look like this when I’m on my knees. Flushed. Stubborn. Holding my hair like that. Damn, princess. Sentence me harder.”
You can’t think. You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.
Valko watches the failure happen, and doesn’t help when he turns his face and presses another open kiss to the inside of your thigh through your clothes, higher than before, heat blooming so sharp your fingers spasm in his hair. One of his wolf ears flick hard under your palm.
His thumbs stroke the backs of your thighs, slow arcs that make your knees forget their job. “Your pulse is doing something very persuasive right here—” a kiss, deliberate, to the soft give just above your knee “—and your grip just got meaner. That’s either violence or affection. I’m optimistic.”
“Valko—”
“You’re shaking a little. Did you know? It’s so damn beautiful. I’m going to think about it later when we’ve made up.”
Heat floods your face so hard it almost hurts. Your ears burn. Your throat goes tight. You hate that he can see all of it from below, framed between your hands and the kitchen light, burgundy hair a mess you made, mouth still wet from fabric and intent.
“You’re— You’re the worst…” you manage.
“I’m the worst,” he agrees, solemn, and then ruins it by nuzzling the seam of your hip with a sigh that is pure theater. “Worst husband with the best view. Have mercy, love, it’s extremely hard to be serious while your fingers are petting my ear like that—ah.” The ear twitches; his eyes half-lid.
You do it again. On purpose. Because you’re weak for him and furious and his ear is soft and he makes a sound that is not human and definitely not sorry.
His hands tighten on the backs of your thighs. Not rough— anchoring. The counter edge bites your lower back when you sway. Somewhere your dignity files for unpaid leave.
“Up,” you say, and it comes out thin and wrecked. “Stand up. Before I— just— up.”
For half a second he goes perfectly still.
Then that smile turns devastating.
“Yes, ma’am.”
He rises the way he does everything that matters—unhurried, deliberate, a long unfolding of height and heat until he’s over you again, caging you against the counter without quite pinning, mouth close enough that you feel the shape of his next breath. His hands find your waist. Your fingers stay tangled in his hair like you forgot how to let go. His tail brushes your calf once, involuntary, and he doesn’t apologize for that either.
“Still mad?” he asks against your mouth, not taking it yet.
“Yes.”
“Good.” His nose skims yours. “Stay mad. Kiss me angry. I’ll take it. I’ll take all of it.” A pause, softer. “Please, sweetheart.”
You yank him down by the hair.
The first kiss is clumsy with leftover fight— teeth, breath, the sharp edge of a laugh he swallows whole. He lets out a devastating chuckle, like he’s the one who’s being ruined. Maybe he is.
Then it deepens. His mouth opens under yours like he’s been waiting all night for permission he already knew you’d give, and the sound he makes is low and grateful and smug all at once. One hand slides up your spine under the ride of your shirt, palm broad and hot against bare skin; the other cups your jaw, thumb stroking the hinge like he’s steadying you for impact.
You make a noise into his mouth as he bites your lip. He answers by pressing closer, thigh slotting between yours, the counter hard at your back and him harder everywhere else— warm cotton, the solid line of his chest, the faint scrape of a canine when the kiss turns hungry. His tail curls around your calf. You feel it. He knows you feel it. He deepens the kiss anyway, slow and filthy-sweet, tasting the argument out of you one unhurried drag at a time.
“Valko—” you gasp when he lets you breathe.
“Ah-ah, let me serve my wife.” he murmurs, and kisses the corner of your mouth, then your lower lip, then takes your mouth again like he’s starved and careful and not careful at all.
His hand spans your ribs under the shirt, fingers spreading, mapping heat. Yours fist in burgundy silk and the soft fur at the base of one ear; he shudders, full-body, and hauls you up onto the counter edge like you weigh nothing, stepping between your knees, mouth never leaving yours for longer than a heartbeat.
The tile is cold under your palms when you brace. He’s all heat. Mouth at your jaw. Mouth at the pulse under your ear. A slow open kiss to the place where your collar gapes, then back up to claim your lips again, deeper, wetter, the kind of kiss that rewrites the last hour into something inevitable. His hands roam— waist, thighs, the small of your back pulling you flush— while yours map his shoulders, his throat, his hair, the ridiculous line of him still faintly trembling with restraint he is choosing, second by second, not to break all the way.
“Forgiven?” he breathes against your mouth, wrecked and laughing softly when you bite his lower lip in answer.
“Working on it,” you manage.
“Excellent.” Another kiss, slower, filthy with fondness. “I’ll keep applying. Thoroughly. Night shift. Overtime.” His forehead tips to yours, eyes half-lidded, voice gone full velvet and ruin.
Then there’s a mess. Hands. Heat. The counter edge. Fabric rucked and forgotten. His tail tight around your legs, tying them together. Your fingers in his hair. The fridge humming useless judgment while his mouth finds yours again and again— hungry, tender, relentless— until the night blurs at the edges and the only sentence left in the room is the one written in touch.
Without breaking the kiss, he puts his hand under your legs— unwrapping his tail from them— and lifts you up again like you weigh nothing. Your legs instinctively wrap around his waist as he carries you down the hall to the bedroom, kicking the door open and shut with more force than necessary— almost as if he can’t control himself.
Maybe he can’t.
Yet, he breaks the kiss and lays you ever so gently onto the bed, pulling away to look at you— his eyes somehow both soft and mischievous— before nuzzling you and smelling you, kissing and biting your neck and jaw before licking it better in the process.
“I’m.” bite, “So.” lick, “Sorry.” Then he kisses you again hungrily, tongue sliding past your parted lips to dance with yours as his hand finds and pins your own to the bed, fingers intertwined and grip firm and possessive.
You’re too distracted to bother to remember what the argument was even about. Unable to think with the feel of his mouth on you. It doesn’t even matter anymore. Maybe it never did.
You know he’s sorry. You could feel it.
You know tomorrow he’ll probably start getting excessive with the ways he’ll apologize.
You also know that right now, you can’t think about anything but him. Because of the feel of him everywhere. The smell of your intoxicating scents mixing together.
And there’s one thing you know above all of that.
You’d already forgiven him.
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