this but its rewritten to satisfy my meljayvik agenda (viktors pov) | 18+
and he realizes, he could still smell her on his coat from the polite hug she gave. her perfume, a spicy, citrusy concoction with her favorite wine tucked underneath. his breathing quickens as he puts it back on, unbuckling his pants and leaving the bottom half of his body bare. the only thing worn is the smell of her mixed with him— the coffee and oil from working the day away in the lab lingering in the leather. he chews down on his lip hard enough to break the skin as he wraps his hand around his length, scolding himself through mumbles and pants. but he turns his head and buries his face in the cool leather collar against his scorching rosy cheeks and groans, something deep, something breathless, something pathetic, something heavy. she’s tucked there, scratching his cheekbone with the scuffed material. she’s there, with her gilded freckles and languid walk and ringed fingers and—god, her hands—a sharp inhale of breath, his flushed chest rising and falling in an unsteady rhythm. the way she says his name so formal, so polite, juxtaposed to the position he is in right now fills him with shame and arousal. she is with his best friend and that is worth respecting. but it doesn’t change the fact that he would press both of their knuckles to his lips if given the chance, that he would tangle his aching legs with theirs under soft lantern light and that is his best kept secret. he is not quite sure how he would go about handling him, as he is much bigger, and far more eager. perhaps he would tame him as one tames a puppy, but he knows he would be slow with her. worship her soft skin and hold her hand as he sunk deep into her, burying his head in the crook of her neck. the thought sprung from his groin to his brain as he made a noise all too unfamiliar to him behind his teeth. he threw his head back as he hit his peak, her knowing smirk still painted behind his eyes. he can’t wonder what she would think if she saw him like this, a flushed, panting, whimpering, filthy mess, all because of her— he knows he doesn’t have the energy to go another round with his fist tonight.
