hi my name is claire, i'm 20, im black british and i write fanfiction. this is just a shit post to introduce myself and what i'm most likely going to make out of this blog. i can't commit to one thing, so for that reason i'm a multifandom writer. most of my writing will contain adult content, so please leave now if you are not 18+. if you are coming from ao3, hi! thank you for being here. this is where i'll be posting more updaty, chatty, behind-the-scenes things. if you have any other questions, feel free to drop them in my asks, i'll try to reply and give updates when i can, i am a uni student though, so if it takes a while don't think im dead or anything, i might just be busy. whew, now that that's all out of the way, please proceed to what you're really here for ;)
navigations/tags:
✿ my masterlist
✿ my ao3
✿ all fanfics under #my fics
✿ fanfic teasers, snippets and wips under #teaser
✿ random bits of writing (finally have a place to put them now lol) under #words words words
✿ answers to questions you guys ask me under #ask
✿ #updates and #announcements
i'll pin this, if anything changes, this will be updated, but for now, enjoy everyone!
my new wip!!! hermione texting draco not knowing she’s texting draco. can you tell the only trope I know how to write is the ‘one of them doesn’t know the other’ trope?
warnings/tags: smut, modern AU, some plot, fluff, oral sex, blow jobs, dry humping, friends with benefits, mentions of cunnilingus, mentions of vaginal sex, happy ending, no beta we die like men
word count: 2.4k
a/n: life's kinda been falling apart, think i might offically have the ao3 curse dunno. but anyways...here's modern au draco and hermione meeting in a coffee shop and falling in love. also i recommend listening to futile devices by sufjan stevens as it inspired this fic :)))))))
────────
I.
On Monday she forgets her rain boots at home and has to wear flats.
Her ankle hurts but it will likely hold through the day. So she grits her teeth, stomps out to the corner shop and buys a newspaper. It should be a day like any other. She throws it over her head to shield herself and rushes towards the coffee shop across the street.
She should not think twice about the stranger who holds the door open. She certainly should not try to commit his face to memory: kind and sharp, with expressive dark eyebrows and warm blue eyes that crinkle at the corners when he smiles. He should be but a blip, a nearly silent thank you mumbled between them as they part ways, finding their respective ends of the queue.
Except the coffee shop is crowded and he is still holding the door for an elderly woman and Hermione is stuck right beside him and it is not a day like any other.
Her newspaper is soaked all the way through, pages upon pages of words that blur into one another, her hair already curling at the ends. She must look like a drowned rat. Next to this picture of dignified perfection, she must look like a drowned rat.
Hermione is nearly sure of it when the older woman, who has finally shuffled past them, pays no mind to Hermione’s awkward but endearing smile.
And now, Hermione wishes, with a sudden, hot wave of mortification, that she had those rain boots. Or an umbrella. Or, at the very least, the sense to check the weather forecast before leaving her flat this morning.
He turns to her, and she doesn’t know why but she feels something instinctively brace her for what will surely be a polite nod in her general direction before he moves to stand somewhere else, somewhere far away from the damp, newspaper-wielding weirdo.
Instead he holds her gaze, a flicker of amusement in his blue eyes as he says:
“Nasty bit of weather, isn’t it?”
And for some reason, she laughs.
II.
Her ankle still hurts. Obviously.
She has been meaning to go to the doctor for it, long enough that the intention has begun to take on the shape of an unresolved household chore, but she is always either forgetting or has other, more important things to do. So in typical, stubborn Hermione fashion she lets the pain fester until it hurts so much she has to switch from taking the stairs to taking the lift up to her department, and lets it fester even more until she, once and for all, sorts it out—a decision that takes three more excruciating days, an argument with her mother, and a particular walk to the kitchen for a cup of tea.
The walk-in clinic is, as expected, understaffed and overpopulated. She signs in at reception and sits down in the waiting room to a chorus of coughs and sneezes, her hands folded in her lap. She should be working on the Ministry's latest quarterly report, but she is forced instead to thumb through a three-year-old copy of Gardener’s World.
She is on page 42, reading an article about soil pH levels, when a familiar voice cuts through the sterile drone of the waiting room.
“Granger?”
Her head snaps up so fast it’s a wonder it doesn’t fly off her shoulders.
It’s him.
Coffee shop man. Coffee shop man who bought her drink and introduced himself to her as—she reads the badge pinned to his uniform to confirm—Dr. Draco Malfoy. Who gave her his number. Who she promptly texted that night and let stumble into her flat at one in the morning and fuck her against her front door. Who unceremoniously left without a word that morning in her sleep, and whom she has not seen or heard from since…Well, since now. Just now.
III.
As her luck would have it, turns out her orthopedician is also her one-night stand.
She fucks him with her cast on. For six weeks, she cannot put any weight on her left foot. So he insists—at first—on driving her home, helping her around, then on picking her up and carrying her to the bed, the counter, the shower, and worshiping the ugly plaster thing as if it were carved from gold.
He still holds open doors for her. He still remembers her coffee order. He still looks at her with that same expression from the coffee shop, that flicker of something like amusement and something like awe all at once. And after he is done licking his spend from between her legs, in the brief moments before he leaves, he rests his forehead against hers and whispers her name like it’s a prayer. But there are no dates, no romantic dinners, no long walks. It is simply a series of incandescent encounters that almost always start with a text message and end with him leaving her bed before sunrise.
She hates it. Not him, not the sex. The sex is good, great even. A little awkward at times, what with the boxy cast and all, but it is good. Better than anything she’s had in a very long, long time. But she’s not naive. She knows what this is. Really, what it isn’t. That even when he fills her up so, so completely, she is still horribly, terribly empty.
She doesn’t let herself sit with the thought for too long. She prefers to focus on the physical, the tangible: the way he looks at her, the way he touches her, the way he feels inside her. The way her ankle still aches dully even as she’s arching into him, her fingers tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck.
IV.
One morning she wakes up to the smell of coffee and the sound of someone shuffling around in her kitchen. She panics, for a minute, her heart thudding against her ribs, until she remembers.
She had texted him last night. A single, impulsive message: I made too much soup.
Stupid, probably. Presumptuous, definitely. She had stared at the message for nearly a minute before sending it, her thumb hovering over the little blue arrow like it was a loaded weapon.
He had replied almost immediately: I’ll be right over.
He hadn’t come for the soup, obviously. They hadn’t even touched it. She’d pre-emptively shoved his portion in the freezer when she heard the buzzer. Instead he had eaten her out on the sofa until she was a trembling, boneless mess, and then he had fucked her slowly, lazily, on her living room rug. She doesn’t even know how she made it to her bed. She doesn’t even know how he did either.
And now, it seems, he is still here, doing something as mundane as making her coffee. And her heart is doing this funny little flip-flop thing that feels an awful lot like hope.
Her hair must be a bird’s nest. She tries to tame it down with the clammy palms of her hands. She’s never had to worry about things like this, she thinks. He’s never stayed long enough to see.
She finds him leaning against her counter, sipping from a mug that says. ‘World’s Okayest Co-worker.’, and she has to physically bite her tongue to keep from saying something stupid. Something like, “Stay.” or, “What are we?” or even worse, “I think I’m in love with you.” So for now she goes with a quiet:
“Morning.”
V.
He takes off the cast. He uses a small saw, and it vibrates against her skin, the noise loud and grating in the small examination room. She doesn’t watch. For some reason this feels…final. She stares at a poster on the wall, a brightly colored chart of the human skull. She tries to focus on the names of the different bones, but all she can think about is how this will change things.
No more carrying. No more excuses for him to stay. No more reason for him to come over at all.
The cast falls away with a definitive snap. Her skin is pale and shriveled, a map of red indentations where the plaster had been. She wiggles her toes. They don’t feel like her own.
“Alright?” he asks, his voice soft. “Let’s see you put some weight on it.”
She does. Tentatively at first, then more confidently. It holds. It aches a little, but it holds. She takes a few steps around the room. She is whole again. She is fixed. And suddenly, she is terrified.
“Well, Granger,” Malfoy says, and she can’t quite read his expression. “You’re free.”
VI.
He is just…there.
Standing in her doorway, like he never left. Not after a text. Not after a buzz. She had heard the knock, opened the door and—just…there. He looks solemn, like he did in that examination room, his lips slightly parted on a word he couldn’t seem to find.
So she says the only thing that comes to mind—
“I still have soup.” and the words are so stupid and so out of place, but they chip away at whatever daze he’s in, now he just looks confused. “In the freezer,” she clarifies, her face flushing with what she’s sure is a bright pink. “I could, I could heat it up.”
He is silent for a long moment. He doesn’t move, and neither does she, being careful not to make any sudden movements and scare him away. He just watches her intently, and her eyes must give something away because he is connecting the dots, finally taking a step inside and closing the door behind him with a soft click.
“Okay,” he accepts the lousy peace offering, his voice low. “Okay, Granger.”
And he follows her, like a stray animal she’s taken in, past her kitchen, through her living room, into her bedroom. He is making this easy on her, or the both of them, she realises, letting them pretend a little longer.
He lets her push him onto her bed. He lets her undress him, herself. He lets her unbutton his shirt and trace the faded scars on his chest with the tips of her fingers. It’s hot to the touch. So hot. He is a furnace and she wants to ask about the scars, where they came from, wants to kiss them and feel them against her tongue, but he is making this easy on her. She should do the same for him.
She sinks to her knees, something she’s not been able to do for a great while now, loosening the buckle of his belt.
“Granger,” he says, the word is a strangled, pained thing, and he reaches for her, his fingers tangling in her curly hair, the way she’s learned he likes it. “Granger, wait.”
She looks up at him, at the raw need in his eyes, and something else, too. Something fragile and exposed that makes her breath catch in her throat.
She doesn’t wait. She can’t. And she takes him in her mouth.
It’s surrender. His hands fall away from her hair, not in rejection, in surrender, as if he’s handing over the last pieces of himself. He tastes of salt and something that makes her head spin, and she hollows her cheeks, her tongue swirling around the head, taking him as deep as he’ll go. He’s big. Far too big to fit comfortably in her throat, so she takes the base of it into one hand and lets the other slither down between her legs until she reaches her clit.
“Fuck,” he breathes, his hips bucking forward. “S’good, Granger, so fucking good.”
He’s getting close. She can feel it. He has noticed her busy little fingers, now chasing release in the hot damp of her knickers, and he is throbbing deliciously against her tongue, the muscles of his thighs spasming.
“Not like this,” he says, and he’s pulling her up, up, onto the bed with him, until she is straddling him, her hands planted on his chest. And he is looking at her, the vulnerable thing is back in his eyes, and he is not making this easy on her anymore.
“I want to see you,” it seems so unguarded, so honest. “I want to see you when you come.”
Hermione’s breath hitches. Her hips, of their own accord, give a little roll against him, and they both gasp at the friction.
“Did you miss me?” she hears herself ask. She knows, in the back of her mind, some distant part of herself that’s still attached to reality, that she means for it to sound teasing and coy, the way it usually is between them. Except the words come out sounding small, and just a little bit scared. She grinds down on him again, partly for distraction. Partly to alleviate the ache.
His hips are jerking in rhyme with hers. She can see the muscles in his neck strain. He isn’t saying anything.
A tendril of panic curls deep inside her. This isn’t fair, she thinks. She can tell he doesn't want this to hurt. He doesn’t want to fight or talk or argue. He is soft and giving under her. He is not trying to hurt her. She is nearly cumming from how good it all feels, and he is trying not to hurt her.
“Hermione, you have—” he starts, a bit frantic, a bit wild. “You have no idea.”
Hearing her name—her real name, not the one he uses as a tease, not Granger. Hermione. That’s what does it for her.
The rest is lost somewhere along the way. The soup, the questions, her pride. It all dissolves into a searing, blinding, earth-shattering orgasm that leaves her trembling and gasping for air. He follows her right after with a strangled groan, emptying himself into the space between them.
Later, much later, after they’ve cleaned up, after they bring themselves to completion again under the shower, and Hermione has pulled on his shirt that smells of clean linen and him, they eat the soup. The frozen soup from six weeks ago. He heats it up on the stove while she sets the table with her good plates, the ones she only ever uses when her parents visit. They sit at her small kitchen table, the one that’s really only big enough for one, their knees brushing together under it.
The soup is terrible, freezer-burnt and just terrible. But it’s warm, and it’s there, and they’re sharing it, and it's the best meal she’s had in months.
“It’s not very good,” she admits, giggling, pushing a limp piece of carrot around with her spoon.
“It’s perfect,” he says. And he looks at her, and she knows he doesn’t mean the soup.
warnings/tags: smut, plot, porn with plot, dry humping, multiple orgasms, creampie, overstimulation, power dynamics, hate sex, post-war, draco in a suit, this is what happens when i have too much free time
word count: 5k
summary: Hermione and Draco meet again for the first time in nearly a decade at the leaky cauldron
a/n: happy new year everyone, sorry it took me a month to release this. I had a baddd case of writers block halfway through this and got pretty busy during christmas with family and stuff sooo yeah. also I created a playlist for this so if your into that you can listen to it whilst reading this, if your reading this on ao3 the playlist is on my tumblr which will be in the end notes. as always if i'm missing tags or anything looks out of place let me know. have fun reading :))
────────
If a week ago someone told Hermione she’d be standing five metres away from Malfoy in the Leaky Cauldron, she would’ve laughed—politely, of course—before suggesting they seek immediate medical attention. Merlin’s sake, ten minutes before opening that door she could’ve listed a hundred equally ridiculous scenarios more likely than the idea of ‘The Draco Malfoy’ being caught dead near a “Leaky” anything. (that’s what she said.) Of course, there's always the more merciful option that it actually wasn’t him, just some unfortunate soul with the same discernible shade of icy blonde, and pretentious habit of wearing suits everywhere.
But she guessed she could give whoever it was the benefit of the doubt for now. Since she’d last stepped foot in the pub, shortly before the Battle of Hogwarts, it seemed to have gone through its fair share of renovations, and by that Hermione meant the place now looked unrecognisable. A lot brighter, the floors a lot less stickier, and covered in Christmas decorations from a couple days ago. It was a change she both welcomed and resented. Admittedly, it’d improved. Really improved. Not enough that it justified a three-piece-suit getup. It was still a pub. But in the back of her mind, she knew that something about it would always feel off. It’d changed too much.
She doesn’t move. She can’t, really. Seeing what little she could of her former bully renders her immobile, and in a particular state of panic. Stuck at a crossroads of wanting to tuck tail and run, whilst simultaneously being aware that any sudden movements could draw a certain someone’s attention. Ultimately, she’s stupefied, in front of the door she’s still yet to close, letting in all the unruly January draft. The few patrons here show a mild concern, likely noticing the drop in temperature over the last couple of seconds, their eyes following the cold back to its source, back to Hermione. By the time it occurs to her that standing here long enough won’t magically make her blend into the doorframe, it’s already too late. He’s turning in his stool, and instinctively she braces for impact.
Yep, that’s definitely him, older, a lot easier to look at. Nothing like the rotten boy she’d known in her youth. He only glances at her, and then the door, and then back to her again. The command is unspoken, and mirrored in the blank expressions of everyone else in the room, but she understands. Hermione fumbles for the handle, her fingers clumsy with self-consciousness. She finally pushes the door shut, the soft click echoing in the light bustle of the pub. And the move is quick, so quick she thinks she might have imagined it—Malfoy’s mouth pulls into a curved line, before returning his focus back to whatever drink he was nursing.
Okay, that was weird. Not necessarily the smile, even though, yes, that was also a little weird. But the way he looked at her. Like he’d barely even noticed it was her at all. Something she can’t say she was used to. Back in their school years, going unnoticed in his presence, even for just one second, felt like mission impossible, there was always a new way to pick on her: jokes about the purity of her blood, quiet laughter that rippled through the classroom whenever her hand shot up. The ‘accidental’ bumps in the hallways that always ended with her books scattered across the flagstones.
She keeps her head down, the curtains of her brown hair a pathetic shield between her and his peripheral vision. If he truly hadn’t noticed her yet, then she could probably still slip out through the back, she only needed to time it correctly. But she barely makes it two steps before—
“So…What’s a beautiful woman like you doing here all alone?” It takes Hermione a while to realise the question is being directed towards her, longer still to register it’s coming from Malfoy’s general vicinity. Even so she continues moving, deciding that it was just her mind playing tricks on her. Malfoy calling her beautiful? She’d laugh if she wasn’t basically behind him, just a couple more quiet footsteps away from sweet, sweet escape.
“You’re a weird one aren’t you?”
Hermione hadn’t touched a spell book or brewed a potion for close to a decade—war tended to do that, beat the wonder out of magic so thoroughly it felt more weapon than whimsy. But right now, without hesitation, she’d have given anything for an invisibility cloak. He’s facing her fully now, sporting what Hermione can only describe as a mix between shock and confusion. Not shock from recognising her. No. Shock like he’d caught her redhanded. And in all fairness, she probably did look a little worse for wear, mid tip-toe, her hair and coat dusted in snow. Ignoring him now would be overkill. Even she had to admit that.
“Hi?” Spoken like a true moron. Well done Granger.
She watches the gears begin to turn, sees the slight tilt of his head, the puzzled stare, and then…the shift. That’s it, right? No more chance of escape without him knowing she was there in the first place. He’s caught on, hopefully now he’ll only save her the embarrassment of getting mocked for how stupid she must look right now, let her go back home with some of her dignity.
He quirks a single brow. “Can I buy you a drink?”
Hermione only questions if she misheard him, not whether she should accept, because of the way he says it. Like it’s the most casual thing in the world. He really couldn’t recognise the face he’d spent seven years tormenting? Maybe he was drunk. It seemed the only reasonable explanation. The irony stings in a pathetic way. A lot still haunted Hermione, naturally. The woman had taken on Death Eaters, been tortured and had the scars to prove it. But in the times before all of that, before the war, death and destruction, when there was no sense of impending doom, and the most she had to worry about was Malfoy and his clique of goons, she’d have sworn it was all worth it if only he spent the rest of his life tormented with guilt and shame. Because, for her, at the very least, no matter how hard she tried, she could never forget all the pain he put her through.
“Seriously Malfoy? Aren’t you a little too old for pranks?” Her question is met with more confusion, and then the eventual dust settling. He’s smiling again.
“Wait, have we met before? I’d like to think I’d remember a woman as gorgeous as yourself.” Oh, he’s wasted. He has to be. There’s no way he just said that. Hermione can’t help it. She bursts into laughter. Laughter so strong she nearly doubles over from the sheer force of it, and Malfoy has to wrap his hands around her shoulders to keep them steady. He’s laughing too, in a more nervous, uncertain way like he’s not quite sure what’s happening, but still wants to be a part of it somehow.
Suddenly she’s all too aware of his touch, aware that this was Draco Bloody Malfoy flirting with her, and in a half empty, grubby pub of all places. Spending the New Year at this sort of establishment seemed a little too humble for the aristocrat. It had her questioning, for the second time tonight, if it was really him at all. Apart from the obvious out of character behaviour, something about him felt off. He was the same, but different.
When her laughter subsides to gentle hiccups, he lets go of her. Thankfully so, because if he’d held on any longer there would be no mistaking the humiliating flush burning its way up her neck right now. The heat from his fingers leave an impression on her skin, even through the thick fabric of her coat, and she has to clear her throat before she goes to speak.
“Do you use that line on every girl you talk to, or is it just the ones you think are gullible enough to fall for it?” She meant for it to be more rhetorical, but after the first couple of words it somehow turns itself into an actual question.
“Only the ones I catch staring for too long.”
Right…the not so subtle camouflage she thought she was pulling off. Hermione just looks at him, weighing her options. Draco Malfoy. Son of one of the highest ranking Death Eaters. Call it curiosity or just plain stupidity, but she decides to go along with it. She hangs her coat up by the coat rack and takes the stool next to his. Malfoy wanted to play strangers? So be it.
His lips do the weird thing with the corners again, and she lets her gaze linger there a little longer than needs be. He orders Hermione the same drink he’s having, Cherry syrup and soda. Tom the barman hands it to her, barely sparing her a second glance. What happened? Did she accidentally drink a polyjuice potion today or something? Of course Hermione knew she was no longer the meek, bushy haired girl of her past, that it did take people a while (and a hint) to figure out it was her, but this was just absurd.
She stares down at the glass, studying it the way one might a vaguely alarming insect, circling its contents before carefully taking a sip. For one it’s not alcohol like she expects, it’s sweet and kind of fruity. She was fully prepared to hate it. But the drink is like…annoyingly good.
“Not bad,” she says, feigning indifference.
“Not bad?” Malfoy repeats. “That’s high praise.”
She rolls her eyes. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, it’s the drink I’m talking about, not you.”
He snorts, lifting his cup for another sip, his sultry eyes never leaving hers over the rim. And she hates herself for how quickly she reacts to it. Since when did Malfoy smile like that? Since when did she care?
Hermione fiddles with one of the abandoned menus on the bar table. At first it’s mostly just to give her hands something to do, but seeing some of the numbers makes her do a double take. A couple renovations and this place thinks it’s Gringotts. She knows she must be making faces but she doesn’t care—Nearly a Galleon for a Firewhiskey?
“You fascinate me.” Malfoy’s voice cuts through her thoughts, abrupt and sincere. It stuns her for a while, and she doesn’t lift her eyes from the menu.
“Fascinate you? You don’t even know my name.” It comes out too quick and too forceful to be real exasperation, the sound she makes into the space in front of her. Like she doesn’t quite believe it herself. Any moment now he’ll drop the act. Admit that this was all some kind of joke with her as the punchline, and she was stupid to believe that he could ever actually be interested in her.
But that cruel version of Malfoy she expects never comes. Instead there’s a gentle clink of glass on wood as he sets his drink down, his voice dropping an octave when he goes to speak again.
“That’s the fun part.” He says it like he’s letting her in on a secret.
She lets go of the menu, finally meeting his eyes. “The fun part?” Merlin’s beard, she feels like a parrot.
“Mmm,” he returns. “Most people tell me too much. They want me to know who they are. They want to impress me. Or intimidate me. Or get something from me”
“And I…don’t?”
So to some extent, this was a game to him? He was used to women that he could woo. That took one look at his family name, his wealth, his status, and practically threw themselves at him. She was just another woman in a sea of those other women whose names he didn’t remember. Was that the fun he was referring to? Picking up a woman at a pub, calling them fascinating, and not even asking for their name before whisking them away to his Manor for the night. She should be mad. She should feel cheapened. The revelation shouldn’t feel this comforting. But it does. Right now, for whatever reason, Malfoy doesn’t know it’s her, and for once she’s no longer the ‘filthy mudblood’. She was just another woman.
“I mean you tell me?” He quips. “You clearly know who I am, but you ignored me twice, and tried running away when I spoke to you.”
“I wasn’t trying to run away.”
“You were absolutely trying to run away” He insists.
“I was trying to leave. There’s a difference.” She can tell he’s not convinced; he raises his brows in an over-exaggerated show of understanding, but fails to keep his obvious amusement at bay. “Running would imply I was scared of you.”
“And you? Scared of me? Never.” His voice drops to a low murmur on the last part, nearly whispering as he drags out the final syllable.
This was pure insanity. She should leave. Like now, she should leave. Pay the extortionate price for the drink, take her coat, and make a run for the door. It would only be a small bruise on Malfoy’s ego, he’d easily find some other girl to charm, and if she was careful enough around Diagon Alley in the future, she’d hopefully never have to run into him again. And yet, Hermione doesn’t move an inch.
“For the record you’re the weird one, not me.” She contends.
Malfoy doesn’t argue with it. He doesn’t say much of anything really. He just sits there, staring at her in silent contemplation. Hermione wonders if maybe he’s finally seeing it, finally connecting the dots. The hair, the nose, the small scar above her lip, the one he’d given her for punching him in third year. She almost wants him to see it. He’d called her beautiful, bought her a drink. She’d been vindicated. Now she wanted him to know who he’d been doing all those things for, wanted to see the look of horror and disgust on his face when he realised he’d been flirting with Hermione Granger. The silence stretches for an uncomfortably long time before he speaks again.
“Come home with me”
It should’ve ended there. (spoiler: it doesn’t.) She’d won. Inviting her to his Manor to potentially sleep with her seemed too far for a prank. Malfoy clearly didn’t recognise her. She’d remind him now, get the satisfying reaction she was looking for, and be on her way. Anything beyond this would just be cruel. But something about being in Malfoy’s presence must bring the worst out of her, because despite her better judgement she only manages to say:
“Okay.”
────────
Well, for starters, it’s not the Malfoy Manor. Not unless it somehow shrunk into the size of a modest London terrace house. Malfoy approaches the door with his key, and it’s only when he starts to twist the lock that Hermione finally lets herself exhale the breath she’d been holding. She doesn’t know why, but until just now, she’d still been waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for the cameras, for him to turn and sneer that he’d known it was her all along, to find out that this entire evening was just some elaborate joke.
But apparently, Malfoy just chooses to live here, in muggle London, and not that staggeringly grand castle or its equivalent. She feels gaslit. Forced to accept that this was the new him. That he just got to wipe his slate clean, wipe his past of her, and pretend he was the good guy all along. It irked her. How he didn’t recognise her, how weird he was acting, how different he seemed.
The door swings and she follows him over the threshold. It’s about what one would expect from a property in central London: small, quaint, mildly cozy. Malfoy gestures for her coat, and she shrugs it off to hand it to him, steadily watching as he hangs it on a small rack behind the door. He looked so normal and yet so out of place, like in the pub thirty minutes ago. This. The simple life. It didn’t suit him.
“So is this how it normally works?” She’s a little more nervous than she’s willing to admit. Everything that happened at the pub felt like it was all happening at once, like she’d blinked and now she was here, now she was doing this.
“What?” He asks, playing coy. At least he’s stayed true to himself in this department, still as smug as she remembers.
“You pick up women. Walk them to your house. Act all gentleman-ly. And then you…” She hesitates. “You just…” Merlin, she can’t even bring herself to say it. For some reason, it’s only now dawning on her, as she hears herself speak, the gravity of the situation.
“Fuck them?” There was probably a less vulgar way to say it but, yes, essentially.
She hums in agreement, trying to sound more casual than she actually feels.
“Partly, yes.” He admits with a smirk, before moving in a straight line to what she presumes is the kitchen. The lights flicker on, and Malfoy turns, watching her with hands in his pockets. “But I also make them a drink.”
He disappears around the corner, and Hermione’s left to stand there awkwardly. It wasn’t just closure she was looking for. She was still here, listening to the soft shuffle of feet in the kitchen. Stopping now would mean he got off easy.
When Malfoy returns, she’s convinced herself to keep the ball rolling, whatever happened tonight would simply be a means to an end, a lesson he deserved to learn. He’s holding what looks like two mugs? He steps closer. Of hot chocolate? Not what she thought he was referring to by drinks. He hands her the one with the reindeer face on it, taking a sip from his own, the mug reading: ‘THERE’S SOME HO HO HO’S IN THIS HOUSE’.
She nearly chokes on a marshmallow.
“Oh, sorry,” he says, pointing at his mug. “Gift from work.”
Right. Work. Because Malfoy wasn’t already independently wealthy. He moves them both to his living room, inviting Hermione to sit on the sofa with him. She takes the opposite end, placing her mug down on the coffee table in front of them. What was he then? An auror? Or maybe a potions master?
He must have noticed the way she was looking at him. Maybe not her scepticism, but the confusion at least, because he adds, “I’m an investment banker.”
It’s funny. His explanations only ever seem to have the opposite desired effect, somehow. Muggle house, Muggle job, Muggle…mugs? Even as she scans the contents of the room, it’s nothing one would expect a pureblood to have. There’s a television, books stacked up nicely against the wall on a small bookshelf, a makeshift christmas tree in the corner, even outside she’d spotted a Honda Civic. Malfoy driving and not apparating? What had happened to him?
“What about you? What do you do for work?” He asks, watching her expectantly.
“I’m a social worker.” She feels so small saying it. Next to a job like his it sounds so insignificant. Another small twinge of irony tugs at the lower half of her heart. If her younger self could see her now.
She's not entirely sure what the reaction she gets is. There’s a certain look he gives to her answer. It’s long. Significant. His eyes explore the vast expanse of her face, darting between both her eyes.
“So you help people?”
“…I try.” She shrugs. It’s definitely not how people usually interpret it.
“You fascinate me.” And there it is again, that word. Hermione can see the faint outline of his irises: the classic pale grey—they drop to her lips, and her entire body stiffens. Somewhere, a better version of her—a past, more emotionally mature version, would step back. What more could she possibly want? But a lot could change in a decade. And she was so sick of being the bigger person. So when he moves in closer, close enough for him to kiss her, close—but far enough to give her room if she wants to reject him.
She doesn’t.
Malfoy reaches for her jaw, pressing his lips firmly against hers. There’s no sense of urgency in the way he kisses her. No sense of ulterior motive. Just soft, warm, gentle lips. He makes a low groaning sound in the back of his throat, sliding a hand around her nape, his other hand tugging her forward, pulling her up and across until she’s settled on his lap. From the new angle the kiss deepens. It gets sloppier. A little needier. She hates it, but it’s what she’s willing to put up with for payback.
He lets out another groan. It comes out much more hoarse, desperate, and she realises, with some alarm, that she’s been mindlessly rocking her hips against him.
She rolls into him again, consciously, clinging onto his shoulders to keep herself steady, and for the first time all evening, a grin, genuine and wicked, stretches across her lips. Making Malfoy cum from nothing more than a bit of dry humping ought to be more humiliating than just kissing her.
She pulls back to make work of his belt buckle, and almost instantaneously he’s lifting his hips to tug down his trousers, not bothering to fully undress. She does the same, bunching her dress up and around her waist. When she lines them up and sinks back down onto him, she nearly gasps at the friction alone. Clearly she’d forgotten to account for her biological response to such an act.
He feels impossibly big, even through the sheer layers of their underwear she can feel how thick he is, pressed against her core. It’s not at all what she expected, but she figures that as long as she’s in control it should be easy enough to ignore the growing heat between her thighs. Malfoy’s head lolls against the back of the sofa, a string of curses spilling from his lips as she continues to grind against him.
“So wet—fuck, n-need to be inside you.” She doesn’t make a move to fulfil his request, instead she pretends she’s too lost in the moment to hear him. He looks so pathetic, the way his eyelids fall, half closed, how he licks his lips as if he wants to remember the taste of her forever. There’s a strange sense of empowerment one gets from watching someone like Malfoy fall apart beneath them. She flips her hair to one side, picking up speed.
“Want your cum all over my panties.” It’s a diversion attempt. A blunt, perhaps racy diversion, but stubborn as she is to admit it, what she’s doing isn’t exactly easy on her, so having this end sooner rather than later would still be a step below actually fucking him.
“Fuck, say that again.” His hands find their way under her dress, squeezing her ass hard, pulling her deeper into him.
“Want you to cum all over my panties.” Hermione pants, resting her forehead against his. “Want you to ruin them.”
That seems to do it.
“Y-yeah?” He responds.
In a horrifying turn of events, she’s being flipped onto her back on the sofa, Malfoy hovering over her. He kicks his trousers off the rest of the way, shoving his boxers down just enough to pull out his cock. “You like it when men make a mess of you?”
As far as witty comebacks go, she has none. She watches in a daze as he fists himself a couple times before settling between her thighs. Everything was going to shit. He drags the head of his cock along her sodden underwear, pumping himself between them in long and uneven strokes. His tip catches on her clothed clit with every pass, and her thighs start to tremble, she can feel a familiar tightness beginning to coil inside her.
No, no, no.
She reaches a hand down to grip his length, halting the movement entirely. Hermione would sooner take another Crucio then let Malfoy have the satisfaction of making her cum. It’s played off as though she meant to jerk him off, she quickly switches to stroking him, using the cup of her hand to work along his cock back and forth. He pushes himself upright and for a moment she thinks he might be trying to get a look at what she’s doing, his face contorts into a look of pain—something she finds deeply amusing—and she pumps even faster. But then she feels a hand come flat against her pubic bone, and without warning his thumb begins making tight circles around her clit.
The unexpectedness of it causes her to lose a bit of her resolve, and just like that it’s happening again, the coiling inside her. So tight, so close. She squeezes his base in retaliation. Malfoy hisses.
Hot, sticky jets coat her pussy, some splattering on her pubic bone. He makes a mess of her, like he said he would, like she asked. She opens her eyes, only now becoming aware that she’d closed them. Merlin, it’s so much. The image of Malfoy half bare and panting over her, of him working tirelessly to get her to the same state.
She’s left little to no time to revel in her victory. Fingers from where he was still rubbing her get slick with his own cum, and he uses it as a sort of lube as he continues to tease her swollen clit. Her hand shoots down to stop him but it’s already too late. She’s already so close when it happens, just bordering the edge when she grabs his wrist. The few seconds between him finishing and her realising are enough to send her over with a force she’s ashamed to admit she’s never felt before. She’s cumming. She’s cumming all over Malfoy and Malfoy’s sofa the loudest and painstakingly hardest she ever has before. And on more than one occasion she tries squeezing her legs together, forgetting there’s someone between them. The experience is humbling to say the least, and she hates the wicked smile that dances along his face by the end of it.
What she thinks is arrogance must be enough to snap her out of it, she doesn’t spare a beat getting back on track.
“I have to tell you something—”
Her words get cut off when she feels her thighs being pushed further apart, the thin fabric of her underwear being slid aside. What was he doing…oh.
She’s still coming down from the high of her first orgasm, but it doesn’t seem to faze him in the slightest because he’s snapping his hips forward, and Merlin—he’s fucking her. Slow, deep strokes at first, letting her feel the entirety of him swell back up inside her. Maybe she really did drink that polyjuice potion after all, only it wasn’t just affecting her appearance, but maybe her mind as well. Why else was she allowing any of this to continue?
“You—” he exhales, unsteady. “This is good, right?”
Hermione only had herself to blame. She’d practically waltzed into the lion's den with this one. Thinking she could have complete control over this type of situation was costing her a lot of dignity.
“Fuck—Draco, I think I’m going to cum.” She tells the ceiling, flailing her arms uselessly at his chest.
It’s all the answer he needs, he goes back to rubbing her clit, pinching and rolling the nub in his fingers.
She begins to jolt, babbling and sputtering out plea after plea. He hits her with his final thrust and she cums for the second time tonight, the remnants of her last orgasm propelling her into a new one. This time, when she comes, there’s no room for shame. She claws at his back and hopes it leaves a mark.
“One more?”
She slides back and forth against the sofa, her head hitting the armrest as he fucks her with renewed vigor. She couldn’t remember ever hearing him talk in such a smooth, gravelly tone. The words ripple through her and she hates this. She hates him, but they don’t stop. There’s no more fight left in her. She feels her pussy contract at the overstimulation, and then her entire body tensing up as a violent wave of ecstasy courses through her.
“Hermio—”
Everything cuts to ringing and her eyes roll to the back of her head. It drags out for a long time. In her mind she’s suspended in time, feeling herself clam down on his cock, in his living room, the Christmas decorations he hasn’t taken down even though they’re nearly a week into the new year, those stupid, stupid holiday mugs, Malfoy filling her with his seed.
Malfoy filling her with his seed.
“I need t—I need to tell you something…” Hermione squeezes out.
A bout of scrambling ensues. This isn’t really happening is it? For the love of Merlin, please let this be some sort of nightmare. She shoves him back, forcing space between them. He seems reluctant to comply at first, giving her a look before taking his place back on the opposite side of the sofa.
Nothing is said for a while. They both just stare at each other, half-naked and panting. She just can’t believe what happened, what she let him do.
“Could you ask me a personal question?” He finally breathes out.
“Personal?” He can’t be serious. Were they just going to gloss over the fact that she has his cum inside of her right now?
He nods. “Yeah, something I wouldn’t tell just anyone. Something private. I just—I just want you to know me.”
Is that regret? Suddenly fucking him is turning out to be a useful choice. The possibility to turn this around is very much still there. Here he was unknowingly offering his deepest darkest secret to the last person he’d ever imagined telling. The thought settles slowly, heavy and sharp all at once. Not triumph—something more dangerous than that. Power, maybe. Or the illusion of it. She could push. She could pry. She knows, now, exactly where the lines are. That if she asked the wrong question now, he’d answer it.
warnings/tags: smut, headcanon, some plot, some fluff, cunnilingus, oral sex, subby viktor, viktor is insecure, established relationship, blow jobs, creampie, breeding, overstimulation, edgeplay, mentions of rimming
word count: 4.1k
a/n: we are so backkkk! randomly got back into the mood of writing (ahem! *two years later*) and that's how this was born. i might make a long fic based off this prompt but idk yet... but enjoy this for now!
────────
A - Age
It is no secret that he’s much older than you. It’s something he stupidly tries to hide in the very beginning of your relationship. The awkward pauses, the disapproving looks, Viktor sees every stare that meets them on the winding cobblestone paths past the science buildings. To say it can be a little more than jarring would be terribly understated. Not that he can’t understand the sentiment behind it. A lanky man of his stature and of his reputation standing next to a woman like yourself. Not to mention, the cane isn’t exactly doing him any favours.
But for all his age, Viktor can’t say he has much to show for it. Sure, he knows more than most about astrophysics, a bit about neuro-mechanics, and runology to a lesser degree. But when it comes to matters less academic—and he knows he shouldn't place such significance on things so crude, so unimportant in nature. Viktor isn’t all that well-versed in the art of pleasure. He wants to laugh or hide just thinking about it, the embarrassing irony that Piltover's most brilliant mind can be reduced to little more than an amateur over the subject of intimacy. Most men his age are at the very least experienced, if not entirely proficient, which is more than Viktor can account for. The truth is, you’re his first relationship, his first kiss, his first…everything.
Suffice to say, you on the other hand, have a little more knowledge of how these things go, which can be comforting in a way (as comforting as it can be, feeling somehow indebted to a nameless person for his sex life)—that one of you possesses the confidence and experience that the other lacks. In short, Viktor knows he’s in good hands. Both figuratively and literally.
“Does that feel good?” You glance up at him from your place between his shaky thighs, eyes so blown out that Viktor might think you need medical attention if it weren't for how eagerly you’re jacking him off right now.
Viktor only manages a strangled whine, a sound that he hopes conveys his pleasure.
B - Body Part
Viktor isn’t sure he can pick a favourite. Back when Viktor was not so subtly ‘trying to play hard to get’—you call it. Back when you used to wear those fitted skirts and prance around the laboratory like a minx, deliberately bending over tables just within his line of sight, he might have said your legs were his favourite body part, specifically the backs of your thighs. What’s the saying? Hate to see you leave, love to watch you go. Yep, that’s the one. But now, having seen all of you, having touched all of you, the very idea of choosing just one part seems absurd. Maybe if pressed by you, he’d mumble something about your ring finger. More and more these days, he finds his gaze lingering there when you’re working across the lab, imagining what it would look like wrapped in gold.
C - Cum
Something tells Viktor you may have a breeding kink. If the begging for him to finish inside you isn't obvious enough, then the satisfied hum and subsequent squeeze of your walls around him when he does inevitably fill you with his spend is a dead giveaway. Viktor isn't complaining though, quite the opposite actually; he can’t deny that he thinks of knocking you up more than a couple times a day. Of course, he knows it’s unlikely, given that you’re taking preventatives. Neither of you can afford to add a baby to the mess of an equation that is your lives. But the thought of your belly swelling with his child, of knowing who put it there, of being forever tied to him in that way—it sends a pang of arousal straight to his dick. And if his suspicions are true and the thought of his seed taking root inside your womb brings you as much pleasure as it does him, then what kind of monster would he be to deny you?
D - Dirty secret
(Well, if you haven’t already guessed by now.) Viktor isn’t exactly the dominant type. Not in the bedroom, at least. There are physical limitations to consider, of course. The brace cradling his spine doesn’t make tossing you around and pinning you to the mattress practical. So, by default, Viktor finds himself beneath you, which—to a man with his pride—could feel rather emasculating. Most of the time, he can do little more than watch, when your arms tremble above his head, when you're moving for the both of them, working up such a sweat. During these moments, Viktor can’t help wishing for a different body entirely; imagines a stronger back, steadier hands as they roam over you. He wonders—in the darkest, most insecure corners of his mind—if you ever find yourself wanting a man of greater sufficiency.
Another one of life’s little ironies. The inventor of weaponry capable of levelling entire provinces, rendered completely useless in your hands.
It isn’t that he lacks the capacity to be assertive when needed. You’ve seen firsthand how ruthless and cold he can get. (That phase before you started dating was not an easy one.) He’d grown up in the Undercity, after all; you didn’t survive that sort of place without a few hard edges. It’s just the inconsistency of it all—he is not a fool, the two of you are stark contrasts, the type of couple whose sex lives cannot be imagined together.
Yet the truth of it—the ‘dirty secret’, he supposes—is how much he rather enjoys the arrangement; the surrender, not always having to be the expert, not always having to perform. For once, it is his job simply to lie back and be enraptured.
E - Edgeplay
“P-please~”
There are few things more humiliating to Viktor than begging. But in this instance, your thumb circling the head of his cock, beads of pre-cum leaking from his slit, the words—or really, lack thereof—somehow finding their way out of him.
“Please let me cum.” He tries, more urgently this time, like something might happen if he doesn’t. And perhaps it might. He’s never been so close, so painfully near, fractions of millimetres away and yet unable to tip the scale. Fuck, the sounds he’s making. Viktor expects a giggle or a wicked comment, or maybe nothing, maybe he doesn’t know what to expect, but you are watching him then, not with your usual leer, but with something else. He almost wants to ask if he’d said or done something wrong. Your wide eyes rake over him in pure bewilderment. Watching you watch him. It’s the first time he’s ever seen you truly at a loss for words.
And for a split second, in the dizzying, hazy blur of his lust, he truly, stupidly, thinks that you are considering it—allowing him his climax, freeing him from an eternity of denial. Viktor should know better; you never go easy on him. It’s one of the many things he really admires about you, how you don’t treat him like some fragile thing to be careful with. So there Viktor is again, hanging in the balance, your grip tightening around his base, cutting him just short of an orgasm. He throws his head back, a hand over his mouth to stop his teeth chattering. He has to blink back tears. Fuck, what did he do in his past lives to deserve you?
F - Favourite position
Viktor likes eating you out. More often than not, he’s usually the one coming undone in your mouth, so the switch can be refreshing. He also thinks it makes up for the limited options you have with him. And honestly? Viktor uses just about any excuse to taste you. As an apology, as a reward, as a thank you. If the two of you weren’t so busy all the time, he would go down on you for hours.
As for you? Cowgirl. Undoubtedly. Viktor likes to remind you that there are other options, less strenuous than the rhythmic rocking that surely makes your thighs ache with fiery strain afterwards. But none of them do it for you quite like good ol’ cowgirl, and sometimes to spice things up, reverse cowgirl. Which Viktor has no problem with, it allows momentary reprieve from those probing eyes that miss little. In reverse, Viktor’s gaze can roam free, linger on the elegant line of your spine, trace the curve of your hips as they roll into his, and commit every detail to memory.
G - Goofy
During sex, the ‘goofiest’ part about Viktor is how incoherent he becomes, the closer and closer he gets to finishing. He doesn’t need to tell you—most of the time, you can already tell when he is about to cum just from the minor infringements in his speech patterns. His Zaunite accent gives way to a thicker Slavic drawl and then ultimately deteriorates into a mess of broken syllables, odd groans, and voice cracks. Something Viktor is left painfully self-aware of post-sex.
H - Horny
Nothing. Nothing turns Viktor on more than when he turns you into as much of a pathetic mess as you do him. Turning the table, he calls it, tit for tat. Like when you have him pinned against the back of his bedroom door, your hands sliding down the slope of his torso. So, to balance out the power dynamic, he hikes up the knee-length dress you’re wearing for easy access and drags two fingers over your sopping wet panties. Now, at this point, it becomes a bit of a power play. Neither says it out loud, but the wordless exchange is clear. Who’s going to break first? It's hardly a competition—with all that practice Viktor gets from your relentless teasing and edging—he would win every time if you weren’t such a sore loser, pulling away just when you're about to surrender and dropping to your knees to finish him off.
I - Intimacy
In view of other people, you and him like to keep things PG. Viktor can’t stand the cringy PDA other couples do; all that needy pawing and mindless grabbing makes his skin crawl. He tends to just float around you, brooding and quiet, whilst you take the spotlight. At most, he’ll hold your hand or wrap an ‘emotional support’ arm around your waist. But Viktor just likes the quiet assertion of ownership that came with simply standing beside you. As self-conscious as Viktor feels, there is always something oddly satisfying about people's reaction to the unexpectedness of your union.
But behind closed doors? If anyone were to ever witness the spectacle, they’d probably assume that he were some other sort of Viktor entirely. Lots of kissing, frantic touching, heated words. Even if no one ever saw it, even if no one believed it. It’s his and yours, and that’s enough.
J - Jenvy (sorry i had to)
There are dreams. Strange dreams. Dreams about equations that can’t be solved, about metal bones growing from his own, dreams about you, wet-dreams about fucking you, nightmares about losing you. On the nights Viktor wakes up from those recurring nightmares, he often sees a crow out by his circular windowsill. It doesn’t happen often. The nightmares he means. But once he’s awake, it’s hard to go back to sleep, so he watches that bird from his place on his damp mattress. It was one of those crows that really liked collecting things. Viktor counts them all before falling back asleep, thinks it’s like counting sheep. On the occasion he’s waking up from another nightmare, there are new additions to the crows’ collection.
Sometimes, looking at your belongings scattered about his living space—your hair ribbon draped over a chair back, your mug still bearing lipstick prints on his workbench—he recognises the same crow-like impulse in himself. No logical purpose for keeping any of it, yet he can’t bring himself to move them. They are his collection, his hoard to keep in case the world might try to take it from him.
K - Kink
Apart from the aforementioned breeding and edge play kink? You and Viktor do like the occasional enforcer-prisoner ‘roleplay’, if he can even call it that, being that it only consists of your overperformance as the enforcer and Viktor’s less than enthusiastic role as the prisoner. (Yes this is a Vi and Caitlyn reference.)
“You’ve been a very bad, bad boy, Vik.” You tsk, holding him steady with a grip on his jaw. The grin on your face, the condescending tone. It makes his cock twitch.
Viktor has to bite his tongue, he shouldn’t say it, he knows he shouldn’t say it but—
“Yeah? So what are you going to do about it, enforcer?”
Fuck. That grin on your face falters just a tad, you’re trying not to let it show, but Viktor can tell. You like it when he talks back. He’s definitely going to pay for that later.
L - Location
There are a couple of rumours going around about a certain researcher and his research partner hooking up in the labs. No fingers have been pointed at either of you yet, which Viktor is both grateful and oddly offended by.
Just to be clear, Viktor and you have never, and will never, have sex in the laboratory, because the laboratory isn’t what Viktor would consider a romantic place. It’s sterile, cold and terribly lit. Besides, you guys have something those other people don’t have, which is a home and a bed. And a shower.
M - Masturbation
Until recently, Viktor always felt a sort of shame around masturbating, or if he were being honest, anything remotely sexual. For the longest time, he told himself those things were nothing more than baseless, primal instincts required for mating, and any other recreational practices only served as a distraction. Until he met you. You were the catalyst for many of Viktor’s sexual awakenings as early on as the first day he saw you, all bright-eyed enthusiasm and smooth legs.
Nowadays, Viktor has no problem with pleasuring himself, sometimes even watching you do the same. Sometimes only watching you.
N - No
Yes, there are limits. You both established a safe word early on in your sex lives. Banana hammock. It should be pretty obvious to note, between the two of you, who came up with the ridiculous name. Oddly enough, neither of you has had to use it during sex. (Probably because Viktor and you are freaks.) Instead, you both typically use it to signify when an argument is getting too heated. The contrast between whatever you guys are bickering about and the safe word itself usually being enough to break you both out of your angry spells.
O - Overstimulation
Poor Viktor can never seem to catch a break with you.
“One more baby? Just one more.” You coo, your voice deceptively sweet as Viktor writhes and spasms beneath your thighs. He’s started to lose track of how many times you’ve said that. It might not even be you anymore, it might just be a disembodied voice that exists in his delirious, fucked out brain at this point. He wouldn't know.
He nods weakly. The best he can manage. He tries counting the number of seconds until his next climax, an attempt to keep himself together. He doesn’t even know if he’ll make it to two. You slide back down, gently rocking your hips against him. Viktor's jaw hangs slack, and he doesn’t bother trying to stop the sounds tumbling out. It is almost painful how sensitive he is, a dull throbbing ache that sharpens with every motion of your hips.
—Two, three, four, Viktor can't keep count. It's getting so bad.
Five, six, seven, you're giggling? Your fingers pinch and tease his nipples, sending fresh jolts of electric current through Viktor's over-sensitised system.
Eight.
Nine.
Ten.
Eleven, Viktor hears himself moan.
“Oh…you gonna cum in my pussy again, baby?” You purr, but he's not listening, he can only focus on that last number before—oh fuck~
His cock pulses inside of you, the sensation unlike anything he’s ever felt before, like he was being emptied. “That’s a good boy.”
He blinks slowly. No more numbers. Just the image of you floating above him, smiling, just like in those dreams. You look so beautiful, all fucked out and sweaty. It makes him smile back.
"Hmm~" You hum, looking back down between your thighs. You're still rubbing at your clit, making a show of mixing his cum and your juices together. "I dunno Vik, I kinda want another one." You laugh, and he thinks he's dead. He's dead and gone to hell, and this is what they mean by suffering in the afterlife. You start to move again, light bounces that make Viktor’s head spin. "Just one more, Vik, I promise, and then we can go to sleep, ok?"
P - Pace
Can he chicken out and just say normal paced? Truthfully, the man has little to complain about. Whether you’re fucking him like a dog, bouncing on his lap, moaning like a whore, or simply grinding into him, hip to hip, slow and sensual style—it never fazes Viktor. The man is essentially an instrument, finely tuned to your every move. He can accommodate whatever pace you set.
Q - Quickie
With how fast-paced the lives of two scientists can get, quickies aren’t exactly uncharted territory. Some foreplay here, and a quick fuck there usually did the trick for the mornings you sleep over and both of you are running late. As for nights? It is less common, but not out of the question. There will always be a certain thrill one gets from a five or ten-minute fuck. All the frantic groping and impatient fingering. It’s the idea that you want each other so badly that everything else has to wait—the dreaded paperwork, the looming deadlines, all of it. But most of the time, you are both just doing it for the love of the game, not necessarily with the mindset of getting off, not necessarily needing to. Similar to giving in to a craving, it’s usually a last-ditch effort to get it out of your systems before having to face the world. A goodbye fuck, if you will.
R - Rim
There are things—sick, nasty, depraved shit—a boyfriend should never want to do to his girlfriend. Things Viktor can only admit in the deepest, darkest, most depraved parts of his consciousness. Viktor can imagine a lot of things; you on the floor with him, hovering over his face, his tongue sliding up the length of your slit, your pussy, further still until he reaches that puckered hole. He would want to take his time with it, maybe tease you open with a lubed finger, enjoy the way you tense up and tremble at his touch. He wants to taste you too, feel your tight little asshole clench around his tongue. Viktor thinks about filling all your holes, having you in every possible way a person could be had. He wants to ruin you for any other man. It’s a sick thought to have, he knows, and he has no right to want any of it, and he would never actually follow through with it. But he feels the need to be clear with himself. It wouldn’t just be rimming, no. He’d be fully corrupting you.
S - Stamina
Viktor’s first time with you is, to put it bluntly, a full-on fuckfest. It lasts days. Round after round, from the second you both wake up to the moment you fall back asleep. You practically barricade yourselves in his quarters for, what is essentially, the entire progress day break, before finally resurfacing to the looks of relief on your friends' faces.
The explanation for where you two had been and why you’d disappeared right before they were ready to celebrate? Viktor was sick and needed someone to take care of him. Thankfully, no one called bullshit and instead extended their sympathies to him.
So yeah, all that considered, Viktor would say you both have pretty good stamina, you more than him, not by a significant amount, and it's because he’s forced to go at your pace, while simultaneously he’s being slowed down by his illness.
T - Toys
If you wanted one, Viktor would happily design and make one for you. He has the materials for it. But funnily enough, sex toys aren’t of any particular interest to you. He suspects your preference has little to do with principle and more to do with enjoying the manual, more hands-on approach, liking to get your hands and feet a little dirty. And Viktor can’t lie. He likes the idea of being your only source of pleasure, of relief. Obviously, he knows a toy can’t replace him, but it is still comforting to know that all you need is him.
U - Unfair
You like to tease him a lot. Even back when you only knew Viktor for being your aloof and serious research partner. He remembers being confused by the playful, almost flirtatious conversations, not knowing your intentions and thinking you might be mocking him. It takes him an embarrassingly long time to realise what’s going on. Now, the teasing seems to have only gotten worse and, as established in previous prompts (see a, e, h, k and o), expands past banter and jokes. You find the quietest, most inconspicuous ways to rile him up, and then it isn’t long before you find yourselves on his bedroom floor.
V - Volume
Oh, you two are loud. Not too loud. You both live in private laboratory quarters, so you do have neighbours to consider. But you aren’t quiet either. You love to proclaim how lucky you are. Viktor is very vocal in bed, especially when he’s cumming. You find the noises he makes so hot. Low, throaty groans and grunts, bitten back whimpers, hissing and breathy moans. That, paired with your own noises and encouragements, the slap of skin on skin and the squeak of his mattress. It’s a miracle neither of you have gotten a noise complaint yet.
W - Wild card
Victor has no emotions. Well, no—he has emotions, it's just more that the sensation of whatever he feels is so faint, not strong enough for him to recognise. Alexithymia, he thinks it’s called, difficulty in identifying and expressing emotions. It has its advantages, though. It makes Viktor brave, objective and consistent under pressure, all good traits for a scientist to have. Downsides? Sometimes Most times, he comes off as a dick with a death wish, apathetic, a man willing to risk his life for the sake of science.
There’s only one exception, only one person Viktor’s ever felt sure about. You. You are the only thing he feels strong enough to know it’s love.
X - X-ray
It’s not what you might expect from a man of his build; it’s girthy, circumcised, somewhere in between five and six inches, and you have to keep in mind that he’s a grower. It’s got a consistent base-to-head ratio. Hard, his dick touches his belly button and leans, just the slightest bit, towards his right (or your left). His balls are soft and round, and Viktor likes it when you play with them. Overall, he’s got an above-average cock, nothing too special, although you’d probably disagree. It’s pretty big for you. Despite Viktor being tall and very slim, the width of his torso compared to yours is quite sizable, but he fits and you love him, so that's all that matters.
Y - Yearning
Before he ever meets you, Viktor never has much of a sex drive. He’s always so preoccupied, too busy, and it never really crosses his mind. There are times during his university years when he wonders whether something might be wrong with him. Whilst others spend their nights stumbling in and out of each other’s halls, Viktor spends his hunched over equations. It’s an uncomfortable feeling—to feel like he goes against the grain.
But then he sees you, and something in him snaps.
It takes a while for him to get used to the idea of being turned on by someone. The sudden spike in his libido is a strange change, especially when it only ever seems to spike whenever he’s around you. But Viktor is nothing if not adaptable, and eventually, he learns to control his urges, to some degree.
Z - Zzz
You are usually out like a light by the end of it, understandably so, Miss Determined. Viktor isn't usually that far behind though, the exhaustion from being on the receiving end of your relentless pursuit, catching up to him. For Viktor, post-sex sleep is the best kind of sleep, the only kind of sleep that truly leaves him feeling rejuvenated by the morning. He likes the feeling of falling asleep next to you and waking up with you in his arms, and sometimes, if he’s lucky, still inside you.
