Hey! I’m in the middle of writing a Viktor x Fem!Reader slow burn fanfic on ao3. I’d loveee if people could check it out!! Reader is badass, Spider-Woman, Zaunite, and a doctor, and there’s gonna be a lot of cute tropes included!! It’s very plot heavy and yes, there will be eventual smut. Let me know what you all think!!
content: nsfw, Viktor x fem!reader, modern university au, exes to lovers, angst, reader has a bit of a moral/guilt complex, sexual/romantic tension, making out, blow job, mouth fucking, swallowing come, face sitting, praise kink if you squint, penetrative sex, happy ending and finally some fluff
summary: The resolution.
word count: 3.9k
an: final chapter :') thank you for all the love on this fic, y'all have been so lovely! And also thank you to the folks of freaktor nation, you are all so lovely and kind and it's been so nice to find some community <3 There will be an epilogue (maybe two if I feel like it)! to give some context for why Reader is Like That, probably around kinktober hm… I think my supervisor would have an aneurysm if he knew how much I'd written of this compared to my thesis. I need to proofread the last two chapters still so be warned. This chapter is like 50% smut and I'm kinda proud of myself for writing that much since this fic has been my introduction to writing smut proper. Lots of little references to previous chapters as I thought it would be a nice way to wrap this up. Anyway, thank y'all for coming along for the ride with me and this fic, enjoy <3
This fic on Ao3
Chapter list.
divider by @saradika-graphics.
An awkward silence falls over the table. Viktor slumps against the booth, waiting for the upholstery to split open and gobble him up. When he looks up again he's met with the scrutiny of Mel's gaze. Her look gives him a choice; either he must go after you, or she will. If he allows the latter, he knows there is a good chance you will never speak to him again. Actually, this time.
So he excuses himself, shuffles out of the booth and makes for the doors at the back of the pub.
He finds you stood at the far end of the garden, leaned against the low wall on your elbows. A tendril of smoke circles above your head.
"Can I bum a cigarette?" Viktor asks from behind you, flat and polite.
You pull yours away from your lips as he joins you in leaning on the garden wall, your brow raised in assessment of how serious he is. You look at him like he's asking too much of you, but it's the only things he knows will pry you open even if just for a moment. He doesn’t move, doesn’t repeat himself, his eyes pleading with you not to make him beg for this conversation.
Without saying anything you roll him one. Stingily. And for the first time in his life Viktor is stood there wishing he was a cigarette. Fragile paper held firmly between your fingers so you don’t lose him. Given just enough to be of substance. Rolled gently between your index finger and thumb as you shape him. Sealed with a swipe of your tongue, all to fulfil a craving. And oh, how he craves you’ll breathe him till he’s nothing but ash, to be the smoke you so desperately want if he cannot be the air you need. You hand it to him in such a way that he'd have to try hard to make his knuckles skim yours, but it occurs to him that rolling a cigarette isn’t something one does for someone they hate, even if only for the purpose of making sure they don’t use up your tobacco.
Viktor watches you bring the butt of your cigarette to your mouth, kissing it to your lips. It’s stained with your tinted lip balm, shiny and transparent. He sees it on everything; coffee cups, pint glasses, the collar of his favourite shirt, imperceptible enough to everyone else. He remembers what it tastes like, that hint of wax with that cloying floral aroma that sticks in the back of your throat and his. He wonders if it’s still the same one you used to wear. Not the shade, of course it’s the same shade, he’d know that shade anywhere. No, he wonders if it’s still the same tube. The one you used to complain would never scroll back down, that he’d carry in his pocket when you didn’t have any, that he’d occasionally tenderly apply just to kiss it off you like your cigarette was doing now.
Yes, standing in this pub garden, trying and failing not to look at you, Viktor wishes he was a fucking cigarette.
You hand him the cigarette silently. He’s smart enough not to ask for a light. That would be asking too much of you.
"If there’s more to it than just sex, why is it only ever just sex," you ask without looking at him.
Viktor's eyes narrow slightly. He lights his cigarette and allows himself one deep breath before responding.
"You tell me," he says. He could make an educated guess, but the sentiment came from you. As well as he knows you, he'd already spent too much time trying to decipher your version of events from your behaviour. It was never just about sex for him, not really. For all the thinking you do, he can't believe you haven't figured that out. "My guess is that sex is less complicated."
You blow smoke out in his direction.
"Right, because it feels better. It feels good." Your voice is dripping with cynicism.
“Of course it does. It’s you. The only piece I can have of you, it seems.”
Your hand pauses as you bring the cigarette back to your mouth when his words register. Viktor feels his body relax a little, realising that this time you're listening.
"And how many pieces do you want, exactly?"
Viktor ashes the cigarette on the wall, drawing a breath between his teeth. Words he should've said a long time ago threaten to clog his airways. Still, he gathers the nerve.
"All of them," he says, strained at first. "Everything you think, everything you have to say, everything you keep to yourself."
Frown lines appear between your brow, and though studying your profile is something he is well versed in, Viktor has never been so uncertain in his observations until now.
You stub out the cigarette, half finished, and finally look at him. "Why did you never tell me this?"
"I didn’t know how, I thought I could show you but…"
Viktor expects you to cut in, to say something about how he is too little too late with his elucidation. But there is nothing. You're not angry — your brows pull up in the middle, your breathing intentionally paced, lips pressed together in a line — you're waiting.
Viktor clears his throat, loosening the rest of his words.
"It is not… easy for me to articulate these things. I tried, in my own way, but I don't think you ever really heard me. I know you are not a mind reader, but you are impatient," he huffs ruefully as he remembers the times you walked before he could say anything. "You know, you never let me get a word in."
Cigarettes are abandoned on the wall. Viktor watches your face fall, the colour draining with it. He is convinced, now, that you finally understand.
As you step back to perch on one of the benches behind you, Viktor hovers a hand at the small of your back. Your hands grip white-knuckled to the bench edge.
"I feel sick," you swallow.
Tentatively, Viktor sits next to you. He pries your hand from the bench, running his thumb over your palm to relax it open, and intertwines his fingers in yours.
"Please don’t throw up," he jokes weakly. "I don't want you to feel guilty. Just… show me how you feel."
Any coaxing he'd prepared is proven unnecessary. Viktor is met with that familiar floral wax, sweet lime, smoke, and iron. You've hardly said a word and you're kissing him.
“You know, you never let me get a word in.”
You feel your stomach sink.
All the times you and Viktor bumped into each other. All the times he touched you and kissed you so reverently. The way he'd called you Lásko. The way you'd get angry when he didn’t reply quick enough. You had always known, somewhere, that Viktor preferred to express his feelings in actions rather than words; subtle touches, mending things without asking, quiet company. Somewhere along the way you had forgotten, or somewhere it had failed to be enough, and you had stopped listening. That, you could forgive yourself for. There were only so many times you could cope with guessing the meaning of something he'd done.
All that talking you'd done over the years had been in pursuit of goodness, of honesty, of transparency. The realisation that you'd done the opposite, that you'd been toying with his feelings accidentally, as much as he'd done to you, made your stomach twist in knots. You had pulled and pushed at him in equal measure, let things run hot between you before leaving him cold. What had you done but run away? What impression was he getting other than that, to you, it really was just sex?
A wave of nausea comes over you and you need to sit down. Viktor comes with you. You tell him you feel sick, and hope he'll understand what it means. He does what he does for you better than anyone else and massages some of the tension out of your palm. And if he wants you to show him how you feel, it's the least you could do.
Viktor tastes of smoke, too, and malt. The fingers intertwined with yours squeeze tighter. You grasp at the edge of his jacket to pull him closer, lick at the seam of his lips. He obliges immediately, eagerly embracing your tongue in his mouth.
It all comes bubbling up, forcing you to breathe before you suffocate somewhere between his tongue and your version of events.
"I thought I had to stay away, that it was the right thing to do," you gulp. "But every time you were right there, you were just… right there. I don't think I did a very good job of it, wanting you that is. I just couldn't stop, and I couldn't stay away, but I'd convinced myself you'd never be able to say what you really wanted from me so I just-"
"I know. I know."
Viktor runs a soothing hand over your hair, and you breathe with the rhythm of it. One more thing, then you promise yourself you'll be happy shutting up.
"I'm sorry," you say. It's a little shaky.
Viktor runs a knuckle under your jaw till you're looking at him, then tells you, "I'm sorry, too."
You nod. It's far from settled inside you, but you feel better knowing it's all said and done.
"What now?" you ask.
He chuckles fondly. "I'd like to kiss you again, if you'd let me."
You smile, the corners of your mouth drawing up into a shy thing. "We're in a pub garden."
"That did not seem to matter five minutes ago."
Swayed by that reasoning, you compromise; a series of light kisses, sweet and smiled into, and a lingering one to assure him there is more to come.
Soon you will need to show proof of life, that you've managed to break the pattern instead of tearing each other's hearts to shreds in public. Back inside, your drink awaits, dilute and sweating rings into the table. Mel examines you as you slide back into the booth, Viktor following next to you. Anyone could tell from your flushed cheeks that you were more than pleased by the seating arrangement. Her eyes dart between you, him, and back to you, as you read the question from her face. Later, you mouth. Jayce gives Viktor a not-so-subtle thumbs up, and when you look at him you find it's because Viktor's face looks much the same as yours.
You stay for as long as is polite, that is, the time it takes you to put away your drinks without looking too hasty. Viktor's hand rests on your thigh under the table the whole time, thumb running back and forth as you chat. Goodbyes too efficient for a typical pub night give you away.
When you get into the taxi, you don't hesitate to give the driver your address. Viktor doesn't let go of you, but he gives you a look that asks if you're sure.
"Well I can't run if it's my own flat, can I?" you posit. "And I don't really want to deal with those two in the morning, if I'm honest."
There would be questions. Plenty. You'd rather figure out the answers to some of your own alone with Viktor first.
One handsy cab ride later, Viktor is tossing the driver twenty pound note and telling him to keep the change as an apology for having to deal with the two of you in the back seat.
The second your front door shuts, you're kissing Viktor against it. His mouth is greedy on yours, hands greedier on your body; tits, waist, hips, ass, every part he can reach like he can't decide what he missed most. The sounds you pull from him are sinful already, and you devour each one more keenly than the last.
Shoes thud as they're kicked off. Your hands slide under his jacket, pushing it off him and letting it drop to the floor. Your own is thrown somewhere in the hallway.
You sink to your knees before him, this time not interested in pretending you want anything else. Pulling his shirt up, you press a kiss below his navel, tug at his belt, and look up at him with half-lidded eyes.
"Can I? Please?"
Viktor feels like he might burst. He wants, wants, wants. Wants you, wants to show you how much, wants to pull you up off the floor and drag you to your bedroom and not come out for a week, or maybe two, so he can show you just how much and how many times and in how many ways he has wanted you over the past two years.
But here you are, looking up at him, wanting just as much.
Please. It'll undo him. He should be asking you that.
"Lásko, how could I ever say no to you?"
You waste no time with his trousers, pulling them and his underwear down enough to let his cock spring free. The groan he lets out is downright filthy as you make out with the tip, tongue caressing the sensitive patch of skin under the head.
When you finally take him in your mouth in earnest, though, he could come on the spot. Your mouth is a thousand times better than he remembered. He wondered if all his fantasising had left him with some unrealistic version of it. Instead, he finds heaven in the warmth of your mouth. One hand comes to the back of your head to still you, just for a second. It stays there, clutching at your hair, when you begin moving.
Viktor's hips give one sharp, involuntary, buck forward. He steadies himself with a hand against the door, slowing himself before he takes too much. You don't pull back at the movement. No, your hands travel his clothed thighs, tug his trousers down a little further, slip beneath his underwear to cup his ass and nudge him forward. And when he does, pushing a little further into your mouth, you moan around him.
He fucks into your mouth, slowly at first, savouring the drag of your tongue along the underside of him, the wet heat of it. Then faster, because you let him, and because he has waited too long to be any more patient.
"I'm close," he gasps.
You hum around him, hollow your cheeks, and Viktor is done for. His head hits the door with a thud, and he makes a strangled noise. It gives way to softer curses as he fucks into your mouth through it, spilling hot onto your tongue as you swallow around him.
When you pull off, Viktor's cock rests for a moment against your reddened lips and the side of your nose. You nuzzle at him as it gives a post-orgasmic kick against your skin, leaving behind a mixture of your spit and his come there.
"You are wonderful," he pants, wiping your cheek with his thumb. "You are so good, so good to me."
He coaxes you up onto your feet, draws you close, and kisses you deeply. Your mouth is thick with the salt of him as he hums into your mouth. No sooner have your lips met is he kicking his trousers off and walking you backwards. You stumble, giggle, guide him through the newness of your flat to your bedroom where he promptly pulls you down on top of him.
"Are you angry with me?" he asks warmly.
You blink at him, smiling. "No," you reply, "do you want me to be?"
"A little"
"Why?"
"You're beautiful. And you're beautiful when you're angry."
You blush, giving a bashful laugh. You had always thought of your anger as an ugly, festering, thing to be concealed and never witnessed. It wasn't anything exceptional, but a small part of you believed that it had to stay hidden for anyone to want you.
Yet Viktor had seen it, all the ugly sides of you in the too-long time you'd taken to straighten things out between you. He had seen it, received it, and apparently wanted you because of it rather than just in spite of it.
"But I'm not angry right now," you venture.
"You are beautiful," Viktor repeats, reaching into you underwear. His fingers dip down, and then run upwards, spreading the slick of you, "and wet."
The touch is feather light and teasing. He makes you gasp and lay your mouth open over his in a faltering attempt to kiss him. Viktor simply grins beneath you, enjoying the way your bottom lip nudges at his chin.
"Up, up." He pats you on the ass, helping you shimmy out of your clothes before you settle above his face.
A rather apprehensive look crosses your face. Where Viktor has given into want, there is still a final piece of you that clings to what if. You're not sure you're allowed to want him this much, so much that every fibre of you aches for him; look at how much trouble indulgence has caused.
Viktor thumbs at your thigh. "I won't bite," he says gently.
You take a breath, centre yourself, focus on the feeling of his touch on your goose-fleshed thighs.
"Okay?" he checks.
You nod. "Okay."
The first pass of Viktor's tongue is warm but tentative. He lets out a low groan that vibrates through your body. You let a hand slide into his hair and grip, firm but gentle. More, it says, more, more, more.
It is easy to surrender to the tongue lapping at your cunt, to Viktor and his methods of persuasion. He offers you proof; that it feels good, to feel pleasure, to want, to indulge. He offers praise for doing so — good girl, you taste divine — muffled between your legs, so that it feels as right as it does rapturous.
His hands on your thighs pull you down, to put more of your weight to him. Then his tongue is delving inside you, pressing firm where it can while he fucks you with it. Your clit grazes against his nose, and you allow your hips move wantonly, grinding against his face.
A grunt escapes him. You find a moment to look over your shoulder to see that he's touching himself, palming over the front of his cock.
You grind harder against him, and his tongue is relentless, as the coil tightens low inside you.
"Ah, Vik-" you moan.
"That's it, come for me," he breathes where he can. "Ano, moje zlatíčko…"
Thighs tremble around him. His mouth fucks you through it, your body giving over to pleasure entirely.
You need nothing more than to press your face to his and breathe him in. Your body slackening, you shift downwards enough to do just that. You are in Viktor's mouth, and he is in yours, and you are both exactly where you need to be.
"I do not think," he breathes, "you understand how much I've wanted you."
"I think you're right." Teeth pull at his bottom lip. "I don't think I was paying attention."
Viktor grins, full and Duchenne, and nips back at you. "It hurt quite badly."
"Where?"
"Clever girl, where do you think?"
He pulls your hand flat against his chest. Disheartened to find fabric there, you slide it beneath his shirt. At the same time, his cock twitches against the apex of your ass.
"You have my undivided attention," you purr. "Show me."
The remainder of your clothes quickly become littered on your bedroom floor. Viktor fumbles around in your bedside drawer blindly. You help, hands bumping, not wanting to part from him more than you have to. The condom is rolled on just as blindly. You sink back, mouth opening over his once again.
Movement is easy and familiar. Viktor's hands land where you know they will; thumbs slotted into the hollow of your hips, fingers digging into the side. Your arms are around his neck, holding his forehead pressed to yours. The heady mix of your breath, the pounding heartbeat you're not sure is yours or his or both in sync. For a moment nothing exists outside of this room, there is no sound but the ones that fall from each of your mouths, there is nothing to do but drown in the feeling of each other. It blooms, white-hot and wonderful, till you're left lax and molded together.
The condom lands somewhere near the bin, a tomorrow problem. You don’t need to ask Viktor to stay. It is a given. You fall asleep, limbs entangled with the covers kicked off. There is ample space for you each to have your own cool side of the bed and spare yourself a sweaty night, and yet nothing could stop you from being so impossibly close together you can't tell whose limbs are whose.
In the morning, Viktor wakes with you tucked into his side and making those soft, sleepy sighs he has missed dearly. He kisses your forehead, grins like an idiot against it, takes a deep inhale in your hair, smokey and citrus. He has no desire at all to wake you. He is quite content to lie here, carding a hand through your hair and listening to the songbirds. He has no desire to be anywhere else in the world right now.
He is almost disappointed when you stir and blink up at him, disturbing the reverie to write a new one.
"You're still here," he murmurs.
Not quite fully conscious, your brow furrows. "It's my room silly, of course I'm still here." You stretch, legs grazing against Viktor's and re-entangling your ankles. "I'm more surprised you haven't slunk off to the lab yet."
"It's Saturday…"
"That's never stopped you before," you tease.
Viktor grumbles and buries his face against your neck. You are right, he supposes, infuriatingly so, as usual. And yet he doesn't mind one bit. He presses a kiss to the juncture of your neck and shoulder, letting his tongue flick against the skin.
Your contented hum turns into a giggle as his tongue becomes kisses peppered all over your face.
"You mean to tell me you've discovered work-life balance?" you manage to ask.
"For weekends, yes. I can't promise the same the rest of the week," he replies with a little mirth. "I have time for you, if you'll have me. I'll always have time for you."
"I don't think I could stay away even if you didn't."
Viktor beams at you, a rare boyish smile. You trace the curve of his eyebrow with your thumb, the skin crinkling at the corner of his eye, over the apple of his cheek and then the ridge of his nose. You wish not to blink so you don't miss even a millisecond of this.
That big, terrifying word is on the tip of your tongue. It's familiar in your mouth — Pavlovian, even — yet with a staleness that means you won't say it, despite how readily it would leap from your mouth. It has been too long, too far apart, and you would be dredging it up from years ago, bringing it to a now that deserves its own, renewed utterance when you're both ready.
So instead you kiss Viktor, firmly, with a hand on each side of his face. You press your lips to his like you're trying to fuse them together. One day, it says.
Viktor grins into it, bringing you closer with a hand between your shoulder blades and the other wrapped around your wrist.
he's not big on physical touch, at least not with people he doesn't know very well. once you're close, he's more open to hugs and stuff but it still catches him by surprise
he likes when you stroke his hair. it's very soft and fluffy, and he always blushes very cutely when you tell him how nice it feels.
he is a little spoon forever and always. he loves being held
he's very cold usually so cuddles at night are a must
he might be a bit shy but he knows how to fluster and tease you
he likes being kissed on his forehead
he absolutely loves when you rub his back, it helps him relax
kiss his moles!!!! he absolutely loves it
he's ticklish (this is actually canon which i find adorable and kinda hot) and he's most sensitive on his back, stomach, sides, and the back of his neck. he also has a somewhat sensitive scalp and tends to giggle a bit when you stroke his hair
he's definitely not used to physical affection. he's been very lonely for most of his life and didn't realize how much he craved love until you gave it to him.
Thinking about viktor being a boobs man. Glancing down your cleavage and blushing when he thinks you wont notice. Late night cuddles, his head resting on your chest, cheeks flushed stuffing his face between your boobs. Heated moments in bed lightly biting, lovingly licking your nipples, breathing in their warmth. Private moments where he sleepily squeezes them. Viktor buying you pretty bras on special occasions. Valentine's, anniversaries, dates.
