Keep The Rain || Viktor x reader
Summary: Quiet and cosy fall morning with Viktor while the rain falls outside your window.
Pairing: Viktor x gn!reader
Warnings: fluff, mentions of chronic pain, talks of feet (non-sexual), yearning, idiots in love, sickeningly sweet, mildly suggestive language, domestic bliss. Playlist: Keep the Rain
author’s note: Thank you to @a-babe-without-a-name for helping me when I got stuck and to @hivemuthur for waking from a dead sleep due to cat shinnanigans to propose a book Viktor reads. I guess technically no beta, but it was edited at 2am by my tired eyeballs. If something is wrong, no, it isn't (please tell me kindly). ❦
Rare were the moments you got to experience calm mornings, and rarer even were mornings of quietude. The groggy whispers exchanged between the silence of lovers came after reaching for the warmth of one another under the hefty duvet, body heat sealed by the feather down. A language few were privy to is exchanged, a wordless debate over who had the honour to bless the house with the calm ritual of coffee making.
This morning was a blissful exception; your old hung windows pushed open, curtains billowing against their wooden frame like old ghosts. Chilly, you reach for your lover, ice-cold feet tangling themselves between his calves, arches slotting against the muscle, eliciting a sharp hiss, yet his hands find your waist—retaliation. You jump and let out a giggle through your nose, the air forced out in the quiet way that only foggy mornings knew to draw out. As his frigid skin warms against yours, your eyes droop from sleep, crust in the very corners of them, giving away just how peacefully the Sandman had taken you to dreamland last night.
He faintly curls his lip, eyes still half-lidded, hiding the treasure of his irises, as he admires you, hair splayed across your pillow, smelling of sage and musk. These were his favourite mornings, when you’d try to force him out of bed with your cold extremities, hiding your silent request behind the promise of proximity. Viktor leans in, nose nudging yours, numb from the cool breeze you’d both invited in the previous night. He knows his joints will pay, and so will your knees, but neither of you have anywhere to be, and it proves an excuse to keep each other close.
You nudge back, and he understands, your breath desperate for a certain bitter warmth on the tongue. His fingers curl against your waist for a moment, cherishing that which he has in his grasp before he spiders his fingers over your hip, tracing the dip like a space to be worshipped. Three taps before his yawn, I love you in your own silent language. It's an uncommon one that you both communicate between the first crack of the sun over the horizon and the faint curl of steam above the kitchen table.
His breath, however atrocious, communicates a need; you answer with your own yawn, rubbing your eyes with a balled-up fist before slipping your hands into the morning chill, splaying your fingers across his face and wiping away the sleep from his eyes, tucking a strand of bedhead as if it would do anything at all to tame it. It never did, but it communicates everything Viktor needs to know - a wordless approval, because you know he’ll come back. Turning, he accepts, pliant like a lazy house cat, and he stretches, joints popping loudly into place as he manages to escape your hold. A game of tug of war as the fading sun spot barely kisses the far corner of the bed where the cat lies cosy.
Reaching for his cane, his steps falter for a moment, a shudder running through him as his body registers the temperature difference, and he hurries to slip a large t-shirt on in hopes it would keep him warm. Another yawn, his right hand coming to cover his mouth as he leans his left hand against the pommel. Grumpy is the word that comes to mind when you look at your darling, and yet you can’t help but love him all the more for it, your heart swelling at how impossibly human he is.
You shift, rustling the sheets as you pull them up to your nose and shift closer to his side of the bed, inhaling the scent deeply. Of course, he notices, huffing a warm breath out from his nose. With time, you come to know it as fondness masked in disbelief, having previously mistaken it as a scoff, until the one morning you caught him looking, stars glazing his eyes over in the love-struck way that only seemed present in childhood crushes or after centuries of pining. Your eyes meet his again on this cool morning, a tired affection pulled over them before he leans in to kiss your temple—I’ll be back, lásko, it whispers to you.
Viktor’s movements are stiff, but practised, cane clacking against the hardwood, hollow and warm. Left foot, thump, right foot, left foot, thump, right foot. Old buildings never had proper insulation, and sound carried through them with ease — an endless charm. He memorised his route, repeating it every morning for both of you, and when he reaches the kitchen, he opens the cabinets, allowing the hinges to creak in greeting. Fondly, he pulls out two mugs and places them on the counter with a resonant ka-thunk before shutting the cabinet door, rubbing his hand over the wood in thanks.
Steady hands reach for the tin of coffee you both keep above the stove: Paris Tea - Fruity Black Tea with Bergamot - deceiving, but the aesthetics of it won over any practicality or logic. Water pours into the reservoir, three tablespoons scooped into the basket before the serving pot is secured by the steady hands of the scientist.
While he occupies himself with the exactitudes behind the science of coffee making, you peel yourself out of bed, slipping on one of Viktor’s large t-shirts, bunching it up to your nose and inhaling. Remnants of cologne infuse themselves into the fabric and waft up your nose, warm spice taking over your senses. Sandalwood cut with the subtle citrus vetiver had to offer, dewy like the long grass on the foggy autumn mornings. You pad over, barefoot, to your wardrobe and pull out two pairs of fuzzy socks, slipping one pair over your frigid feet before a cold sweat starts to perspire from them. No longer would you watch your darling squirm from your torturous teasing; instead, you trade torment for tenderness, knowing he forgot to slip anything over his soles.
As you depart, a black ball of fur stretches at the foot of the bed, yawning lazily, tail flicking in contentment, just shy of pleased. She peels out of the warmth of the sheets and hops off the bed with a thud, slowed movements approaching the bench beneath your window, a ritual she knows all too well.
You bring Viktor his socks, silently touching his waist, and he turns to you with a fond smile, an arm wrapping around you before he kisses your temple. The lithe man then sits down on the cushioned kitchen barstool to slip them over his feet, laughing gently as the coffee brews, the small Moka pot warming over the anger of the coil burner.
You love his feet, his Achilles tendon, you love that they carry him despite their unwillingness, and you love them because they connect to the person who uses them to nudge you from under the table. You love how they find yours in the night because the man needs to be touching you in some way in order to sleep. You love them even when he presses one of them to the back of your thigh after he comes in from the cold, his walk from work having dragged on longer, and causes you to shriek and slap his arm playfully. Most of all, you love that he wears the atrocious matching duck socks you bought last year.
“Morning.” He breaks the silence, standing and wrapping his arms around your waist, chest pressing to your back as he nuzzles his nose into the crook of your neck, his lips teasing the ghost of a kiss. His voice is hoarse from disuse, rounded around the edges, his accent heavy on his tongue, warm like whiskey around a fire, honey sweet.
“Morning.” You answer back in a whisper, voice lost to the morning, head leaning back against the man’s shoulder, eyes falling shut on instinct. Hands rest on his arms, and your lungs draw a deep breath. Years ago, you wouldn’t have considered yourself so lucky, unsure if you’d even find a love like the one you had now, slow and deliberate. Comfortable wasn’t something you expected, but then a lanky Czech scientist with the most adorable cat found a way into your heart, and both made a home. “Rio’s waiting for us.” You add.
“Mmm.” He purrs, nosing at your neck, lips parting softly against the sensitive skin of your jugular. Viktor was a man starved, but starved for you; he’d remain if it meant getting to hold you like this.
Cavitation draws both your attention, but as Viktor is about to push himself away, you stop him, tiredly padding over to remove the coffee maker from the stovetop, shutting off the element in his place. A collaborative effort where it needn’t be one. He reaches for the mokka pot and pours the coffee into mugs, handing you yours before gripping his with his right hand, cane in left, and following behind you as you lead him back to the bedroom.
Some mornings, Rio likes to break routine and follow along with you both, making you feel like a shepherd as you lead the two back to the cosy banquette, steam curling through the air. This morning, she found her spot early, chirping in greeting as you settled on opposite ends of the nook. Blankets tug over shoulders, draping them over each other, noses brushing before the taller leans down to kiss your lips with a gentle dip of his head, cane cast aside soon after to settle against the pile of pillows arranged deliberately to support his lower back. Following suit, you too lean back, mug clutched between two hands, the heat making your hands sweat as you adapt to the contrasting temperatures.
Socked feet find socked feet and pull your attention from the gloomy morning rain to your lover instead. He nudges past your ankle and slips his foot up to the back of your thigh, toes curling to tease. He offers a tender smile as he sips his coffee, so you mirror his actions, blanket wrapping tighter around you as you take a slurp, careful you don’t burn your tongue. The familiar bitter taste blooms into deeper caramel notes, acidity dulled by the slow, pressurised extraction. Smooth and buttery on your tongue yet sharp enough to wake your old bones, you hum, satisfied.
Steam curls and kisses the moles on your lover’s face, and you want nothing more than to lean over and kiss them too, because he deserves it, because his eyes complement the changing leaves, and because you cannot believe how lucky you are to share moments of silence with him on rainy mornings such as these. The downpour created the perfect soundtrack to peace, enveloping the moment into a pocket where time stood still.
Rio calls out to you both, her small mrrrap! turning into the low sonorous rumble of a contented cat as she nestles in the nook that your tangled legs create, tiny chin resting on her paws as her tail curls up beside her face. A hand reaches out and scratches just below her ear, nimble fingers teasing out a contented sigh from her.
“How’d you sleep?” Viktor is the first to break the silence, eyes warm and trained on you despite the attention he’s directing towards the sweet girl.
“Mmm, I always sleep well with you.” You admit before taking another sip of your coffee. “How’s your leg?” The question runs deeper, but you don’t dare pry or push unless your lover relents. Feeling weak was not something he was good at; too used to putting up a front.
“A little sore, but it’s nothing to worry about today, lásko.” He nudges your thigh again, this time the gesture pairs with a wry smile. The pain is less than yesterday, but I am in immense pain nonetheless is what he means, and you know it, but coated in it is a small I can handle it. You managed to decipher the hidden meanings well after several years. “What about your knee?” He shoots back, arching an eyebrow from over the rim of his mug.
There was a charm to his bedhead, unruly yet so utterly him, his eyes slowly coming to life with every sip of coffee. The gravely timbre to his voice, accent dripping like honey off his tongue, was welcome, warming up your insides in places coffee couldn’t touch. You pushed your leg out, tentative, testing the waters. Your knee cracked, cartilage feeling more like a rusty hinge than like connective tissue, the synovial membrane failing to lubricate the joint properly. A low chuckle escapes Viktor, and he shakes his head.
“Displeased.” Another sip of coffee, another bloom of caffeine that sinks into your system, nudging you closer to the line of wakefulness. Your foot returns to Viktor’s thigh, brushing past Rio. Her nose scrunches, whiskers twitching at the unforeseen intrusion into her precious space. A small apology is uttered to her under your breath, a faint smile etching itself across your lips as you reach out to right the wrongs through a few little scratches to her precious chin.
“We will close the window tonight.” He hums, head thunking against the glass before he lets a yawn slip, the sound drowned out by the pattering of rain over concrete.
“It’s okay,” you shake your head, eyes following his line of sight, “I like the cool air and the rain too much. It’s not bothering you, is it?” A small twitch of your lips harbours a lovestruck smile reserved just for the scientist before you.
“Hm? No.” Viktor confirms, eyes slowly flicking up to meet yours. For a moment, he doesn’t know what to do with himself, and so in boyish nature, he slides his foot up your leg, toe poking into the shallow depression behind your knee before it retreats, ankle slipping to meet the soft cushion of the banquette, the ball joint of his foot unwilling to cease contact with your skin. You can’t help but giggle, clutching your coffee mug tighter, placing it against the flat of your chest to ward off the chill. “You seek me out in the night when the window is left open.”
A teasing smile dances over his lips before he sips his coffee, warmth painting his face as heat blooms in yours, a gentle dusting of colour across your cheeks and over the bridge of your nose. He won’t tell you that he loves to see the way you react to his subtle teasing, that he lives for how flustered you get over compliments when they’re given before noon.
“You love it.” You shoot back, the arch of your foot framing the man’s thin thigh, toes and heel pressing to peach fuzz skin, polyester fuzz acting as a cruel barrier, arch missing the kiss of flesh beneath. The sock clothed extremity, obscuring some of his moles as you made yourself comfortable, your eyes flick to them, landing on the dark beauty mark in the junction of his thigh before moving up over the small slip of cloth over his groin, to the loose shirt. You trailed your eyes over the creamy white of his neck, connecting his moles like constellations.
“I love you.” He voices, correcting you. You watch the mole above his lip move as he enunciates the words, following it ardently. He was toothsome in sharp ways, with rounded features contrasted by angular facial structures.
“You would.” The answer makes him laugh, a warm, resonant sound emanating from somewhere in his chest. Next to his heart, perhaps, at least he thinks, because looking at you right now, in the lazy morning, when gloom overtook everything, you were still his sunshine.
Foot nudges foot, thighs press back against the soles connected, and steam curls lazily between the two of you. The ritual almost feels practised, but no morning is ever the same, especially not when you’re gifted the pleasure of pattering rain. Viktor leans back against the wall of the nook, letting out a small sigh before speaking once again, amber flicking up to meet your eyes with unprecedented warmth.
“Mmm, no reprieve this morning, is there?” He drags his thumb over the tepid rim of the mug, wiping away a minor amount of condensation that wets his fingerprints, too absorbed in the distraction of you to drink the one substance that would wake him. Your actions were intentionally delicate; mellow even. He came across as too winsome for the way you were making his heart race by such a simple gesture.
“Mmm, no.” Your foot moves closer to his groin, slipping down his thigh, achilles meeting the bench cushion more firmly than it had initially, sliding towards the inside of his thigh, almost as if you’d dropped all the weight you were holding, letting yourself go. Viktor lets his eyes drop to where your foot teases, far too warm against his bare skin for such a dreary morning. You know how to make him squirm, even unintentionally, and so he reaches forward, fingers splaying across your calf as he yanks your leg forward, foot coming to rest against his hip bone. His long fingers curl around it, tips pressing into the top of your foot as his thumb presses into your arch with pleasant force as he sips on his coffee. It pulls a faint blush to his cheeks, and he attempts to deflect. The moment doesn’t go unnoticed by Rio, who lets out a faint whine, drawing attention to herself as she tries to sleep between the two of you.
“And here I was hoping we’d have a quiet morning.” A tease, pulling you into his games, and you wouldn’t have it. You challenge him, a smirk gracing your lips as you lean your body forward, chest brushing against your thighs, mug balanced against the flat between your clavicles and the tops of your knees. It was a capricious balance, unsupported aside from the faint touch of your hand to the handle.
“Who says you can’t?” Vilain* taunting falls from your tongue, and sunshine blooms in your chest despite the weather. If your words weren’t imbued with the warmth that threatened to shatter your paracardium, Viktor might have thought they were more insult than challenge. Still, it was impossible for you to interact with him without some fondness seeping through, even in anger. “You just want a kiss, don’t you?” Viktor inquires, and Rio mrrps from between you both, demanding a kiss of her own, like a collections agent coming to make good on a debt left unsettled. Her paw stretches out and lands on Viktor’s toes. A fond smile stretches across his face, boyish and goofy, tugging his moles geographically higher. His imperfect teeth only added to his charm, puppeteering your heartstrings in a way you tried to loathe when you met him first.
“Maybe I do.” You shrug, tilting your head to the side, watching your lover like a sly fox with doe eyes, inviting yet utterly false. Dangerous creature you are. You invite him in, your maw wide open, begging for him to place his most vulnerable parts within your grasp, to trust you won’t clamp your jaw shut and tear through him, and you never do. The naive man takes the bait, falling into your trap as he leans in, his chest coming to his knee, mirroring you as best he can.
His body doesn’t cooperate easily, screaming at him as he shifts and bends in ways that disagree with his bones, but he forsakes that for the chance at love, at proximity, at the pleasure of your touch. He thinks that any sane man would jump at the chance, and that every boy would combust under the weight of it. He nearly closes the distance between you both, breath ghosting over your lips.
“And for me to read to you?” He asks against your mouth, ready to devour instead of being devoured for once. He’s unable to withstand it this time, his heart already brimming with ardour, and he closes the distance. Viktor, as you’ve come to learn, devours slowly. He tastes, savours, and then consumes. He lets the tang of coffee and morning breath permeate as he moulds his lips to yours, drawing out what he needs, what you need.
“Mmm.” You hum against his kiss, lips parting to grant him the smallest entry, the briefest victory, a predator rolling over and showing their belly. Your partner seizes the opportunity, brushing his tongue against yours for but a moment before retreating — not tentative nor hesitant, but something else. Soft perhaps. “Yes, please.” You answer, voice gravely, sighing like he was offering you something pornographic.
Viktor shifts, leaning back and offering you a smile so honey sweet it was sickening – it is a promise of safety that you find in each other, in moments of silence when words aren’t needed and actions suffice. When he stares like that, his amber eyes soft as the fading summer, head coming back to lean against the cool window, you lose yourself in ambedo. It was like this every morning when raindrops would patter against the window and fog would swallow the city.
“Come here.” Viktor spreads his knees apart, and Rio shifts, borderline offended that he would disrupt her rest, moving to settle to his outer hip. He chivalrously lends the spot between his legs to you like a throne, but warmer, free of obligations or decisions, and ever the obedient thing, you oblige. You shift so that your back meets his chest, a warm vibration rippling through him as if to signal his contentment. It’s the moment that maru mori infiltrates your heart and you let out a deep breath, head tilting to the side so that your nose embeds itself into the hollow of his cheek.
Lithe fingers reach for a tattered copy of Frankstein as you settle in, and lignin permeates the air that already smells strongly of coffee and petrichor, wrapping you tighter into the blanket of solitude meant only to be shared between lovers. Lips meet the slope of your nose lazily as a low brontide resonates from the sky above and clouds darken, forcing you to nestle further into Viktor’s arms at that. You let your eyes fall shut, lips meeting the sharp angle of his jaw. It’s sloppy, wet, tired.
Your hand comes to Viktor’s bad knee, rubbing soothing patterns into the tender joint while your other clutches your mug like a lifeline. Your socked foot nudges his own, comical matching socks next to one another, making you both smile fondly, hearts swelling well past acceptable emotion. Fuzzy ducks stare blankly back at the two of you, not mocking, but perhaps teasing the notion of a love so domestic that it would raise bile in the throats of most, but to you, it brings tears to your eyes.
Viktor nudges your foot back and secures his arms around you, his mug abandoned beside him, the breeze cooling his coffee, but your warmth is enough for him as he begins to read to you, his accented voice low and more pronounced now that it’s so close to your ear, lips practically brushing against the shell of it.
“To: Mrs. Saville, England. St. Petersburg, Dec. 11th, 17—
“You will rejoice to hear that no disaster has accompanied the commencement of an enterprise which you have regarded with such evil forebodings. I arrived here yesterday, and my first task is to assure my dear sister of my welfare and increasing confidence in the success of my undertaking…”
❦ Vilain: French for naughty
ambedo: a momentary trance of emotional clarity
maru mori: the heartbreaking simplicity of everyday things
