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valaruakars · 2 years

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Let’s Get Physical (Part 5)

Viktor/F!Reader || 7.4k || Modern!AU + Gym!AU || SFW (but getting suggestive)

The mystery unravels. Viktor crashes the world’s loneliest slumber party. Rio’s on her best behavior. Vi gives a really gay pep talk that lifts you high, and Caitlyn lays you low.

Biggest of thank yous to @weltraum-vaquero who literally said ‘but what if he was grosser’ and i was like oh absolutely yes

Part 1 → Part 2 → Part 3 → Part 4 → Part 5 (Ao3 Link)

Once you start seeing him, you can’t stop running into Viktor.

Well, maybe running into him isn’t the right phrase. Nothing about it is quite so unexpected. Not in his own house, not when you know he’s home. Not when you consciously hope to chance upon him each time you slip inside from your workout. It’s all very intentional, your silly little excuses to briefly defect. And they are silly, should you be caught dumping half your water out in the bushes or with your phone near full battery as you take it to charge safely in the kitchen. Even alone, you have to justify it to yourself—can’t seem to be seeking him out, but you certainly are.

And you’ve been lucky.

Because twice now, you’ve found him out in the open.

With low expectations of a man who seems tethered to his room, a private creature, it startles you the first time you walk in and he’s just there. To see him and all his books and papers spread out across the kitchen table has your heart trip and catch its rhythm, quicker than before.

There’s something about him, something different; a faint glow in shades of gold and brown and that enduring purple beneath his eyes. Or perhaps he’s simply backlit by the bay windows overlooking the pool, wreathing him in that nearly autumn light. You can’t stare too long, too closely, but it has to be that. Otherwise you’d think he looks content despite the exhaustion carved into the hollows of his face, and that can’t be right. Again and again, you wonder if he ever sleeps.

His cup of coffee and the whole bottle of Tylenol next to it say no, suggesting a rough night prior.

A different evening, that giddy second time, he looks much the same. Same expression, same demeanor, same clutter in a semi-circle around him. You might think he hasn’t moved from the spot, but a change of clothes tells you otherwise.

And twice now, of his own accord, he’s been the one to hum a little ‘hello’ over the lid of his laptop when you walk in. Dutiful as he types away at something in quick keystrokes, he hardly glances up, but the acknowledgment makes your toes curl with excitement in the tight space within your sneakers.

Whatever he’s up to seems important, though. Nothing to interrupt, so you keep those exchanges quick and concise. Keep it to hi and bye on your fake little errand. Then flit back out the door again having found your private thrill in seeing him, which will have to be enough.

It is a thrill, truly—one that has your heart beating harder, leaves you a little breathless before you’ve even picked up your weights again or powered back up the treadmill. You are properly addicted now to the lilt of his voice, the wild way his hair curls soft around the hard angles of his face. Have sampled his sweet, awkward kindness and find yourself in want of more. Anything to nurture that warm bloom of curiosity you feel when you think of him and wonder more and more about the sort of person he is when he’s alone. Anything to support that what you feel isn’t shallow or strictly physical—not anymore.

So, you decide: Third time’s the charm.

Growing brave, you take the next easy opportunity while Jayce and Vi are bickering about what sets to do next. Chug your water and duck inside for more with no further explanation than a shake of the empty bottle. Never mind that it gives you that gross, sloshy feeling in the pit of your stomach. It’s worth it, even if he isn't there this time.

But he had been.

You wander into the kitchen to find that he’d set up at the island this morning, but without his usual array of cluttered mess. He’s left out only a book and a pen beside a plate of untouched toast and a half-eaten plum. But more importantly, he’s left out that laptop of his, curious thing. Left it open and plugged in to an outlet so that the screen never darkens into sleep mode. The cursor blinks steadily on the page as you pass, drawing you in, tempting you to look. Stops you slowly in your tracks.

What harm can it do? All week, you wondered what he worked on so diligently. Couldn’t bring yourself to simply ask Jayce—what if he makes assumptions about your interest? Never mind that they might be right, but you’d rather shoulder it privately than face disappointment just yet. Couldn’t bring yourself to ask Viktor himself either—what if your questions bother him when he’s been so preoccupied? It would be easier for everyone if you just look.

So you backpedal a few steps. Hover over the computer and try not to feel too guilty because you just have to know.

The title in the upper left corner is an acronym that tells you nothing. The actual content is far worse.

The page he’d left off on is a series of equations, not a single number in the godforsaken things. No, these are entirely comprised of variables that you’d probably been taught in undergraduate math and long since forgotten. Even so, that wouldn’t have helped you here. This is something completely and utterly out of your depth, surely, because even the explanations offered below each equation can’t make them make sense. The words weave a picture you are blind to, like another language entirely. You skim and catch words like velocity and momentum, so what, this is physics? Your itchy fingers just have to swipe the touchpad. You scroll down for more context, much needed, and find a diagram of a structural formula—so something related to chemistry?

You keep paging down, eyes catching on random words. Pass tables and graphs and so many more acronyms, but for shame, you can’t grasp what it was actually about. Only that you are two very different types of smart, and that this is an advanced piece of research beyond casual understanding.

Even with more time, it’s unlikely you’d decipher anything meaningful. And you are out of it, by the sound of his door shutting softly.

Startled, you squeak and hurry away from the computer. You aren’t so bold as to get unapologetically caught snooping. So you busy yourself at the fridge. Just getting ice and some water. Nothing out of the ordinary. Very routine.

It doesn’t startle him to find someone lurking around the corner. Even if that someone is you.

He passes by holding his coffee mug by the rim. Skin still flushed fresh pink from the shower, you catch the smell of soap as he quietly greets you yet again and reclaims his seat at the counter. Hair damp and dripping in places down the neat collar of his shirt, you feel warmer than before and snatch your eyes off him quickly. He usually looks so put together, while you draw a sharp contrast, looking such a mess each and every time. A sweaty thing today in your baggy shirt and shorts that have shrunk up since you bought them, riding higher than you like. You tug down at the hem, as if that might offer you any more put-together modesty.

With him sitting closer now than the times before, the silence between you feels heavier. Or maybe that’s just the pressing weight of guilt. But Viktor breaks it quickly, clearing his throat to steal your attention away from the rising line of water in your little plastic bottle. Not that it was interesting. You certainly prefer to look at him.

As he picks up a paring knife to slice a piece of plum off the whole, he asks, ever casual, certainly knowing, “What did you think?”

You dare to sound innocent, practically batting your lashes. “Of what?” As if you aren’t a complete idiot, not scrolling the page back up to where you found it.

Somehow, that earns you his wisp of a smile, an entirely disarming thing. “My dissertation,” he says. “I remember, I didn’t leave off on this section.”

Straightforward as he is, the confession comes easily. “I’m sorry, did I lose your place?”

“Of course not,” he says, self-assured. “At this stage, I know it too well. And you did not get very far.”

You try not to track the way he pops that golden-fleshed fruit into his mouth; the way his hands work to carve off another neat piece. You are hungry, that is the truth, though only half of it. He chews thoughtfully before he adds: “You know, I would’ve just shown it to you, had you asked.”

You practically snort, screwing on the lid of your water bottle as you mutter, “Well, I saved you the trouble. Now you don’t have to waste your time showing me something I won’t understand.”

“There are far simpler explanations for some of this content, and I enjoy giving them. If you’re curious, I would not consider that a waste.” His voice pitches hopeful. “Are you?”

‘Mostly about you,’ is your private response, but outwardly you force yourself to coyly tell him, “A little.”

Something in him lights up, all in the eyes, at the opportunity to share the thing he cares so deeply about. “Would you… like to sit?”

Which was why it hurts to say, “I can’t…” as you look off toward the garage, the low, reverberating bass a distant reminder. You should be getting back by now.

“Ah,” he says quietly, disappointment palpable in that single sound. He turns his attention away from you, back to the screen in front of him, stung by that rejection.

“Could you at least tell me what program it’s for?” you ask, trying to salve what damage you’d unintentionally done—to demonstrate your interest and bookmark it for later. “I only skimmed, but it seemed multi-disciplinary.”

“Somewhat. It falls under nuclear science and engineering.”

“Masters?” you ask, hoping to relate at least on that note.

“Doctoral,” he corrects, and suddenly a lot of things make sense about him. Nobody gets through those programs at the University of Piltover without being chewed up and spit out in the process. Seclusion is practically a feature, if only to keep up with all the responsibilities. The tedious work therein leaves little time for a personal life. You forgive the haughtiness with which he responds, just the once. You let him have that as a consolation prize for the shit he’s clearly slogging through.

“Well that’s very impressive, but I’m sure you know that,” you say, kicking yourself for sounding a little like an ass-kisser. But watching him preen beneath that compliment—if the subtle, sly little curve of his lips is anything to go by—you think fuck it. It's far better than the sulking, to see him feel good about himself. “Though… It probably doesn’t mean a lot coming from someone who barely passed every math class required to graduate.”

“And yet you did pass.”

“Because I always cheated off the smart kid next to me, yes,” you snort, and receive a bit of a dirty look from him. But you shrug it off and add: “It was never what I was good at.”

“You could’ve learned,” he says quietly, like it’s some slow dawning disappointment that your brain isn’t wired for numbers like his.

“Maybe,” you hum, noncommittal, “but it wasn’t relevant to the degree I was pursuing. Not then or now, so no offense, but it would've been kind of pointless. Not all science programs require mathematical proficiency, you know.”

That seems to pique his interest. He opens his mouth to say something. What, you have no idea and never will, because your name is shouted over him in Jayce’s most authoritative voice. Probably thanks you’re skipping out on the hard work, so you shout back between cupped hands that you’re coming.

Viktor’s eyes cut away, annoyed at the interruption—you catch that, yes.

Despite your hurry to get back out there, you come up just beside him. Your hand rests warm against the cool granite countertop. It’s just shy of his forearm because you have to plant it there to curb the urge to touch him casually. You’re so used to it with other friends, but he’s not just anyone. “I’ll see you later?”

“Not today,” he says curtly, but that’s okay.

You know you’ll run into him again.

—

Sleep is fitful.

It wanders in and out of waking; funny little lucid dreams that feel too real, that take turns you can’t follow, full of nonsensical anxieties.

A student waits for their appointment in your bathroom, why can’t you get up? Get to them? You have to, you have to—you want to keep this position. But your body won’t budge. You are running out of time. Running out of time, yes, sleeping in your cramped little office—your bed tucked between walls that tower infinite above you, and you’ll be in so much trouble for sleeping here. It’s still your apartment, yes, but it’s work too, bleeding together becoming one. Twisting, warping—why is he here? Someone is standing above you, waiting for you to wake—your supervising professor, surely, because you forgot that assignment. You know, the one. It’s late. He’s waiting.

No… Wait.

Someone is standing above you.

You startle awake—truly awake—with a gasp, reality rushing in whip fast and dizzy as you twist in your blanket to sit up. Brought back to consciousness by one part your climbing heart rate, two parts a sixth sense. The one that speaks up when you’re being watched; the one that whispers to you, even in dead sleep, that something is wrong.

And what’s wrong is Viktor, staring down at you in mute shock over the back of the couch.

That dream, born of one too many drinks at dinner, has lied to you. You are neither at home nor at work, but curled into yourself, freezing cold under a paper-thin blanket on Jayce’s living room couch.

It all snaps back into place.

Back to late last night.

You’d been pleasantly buzzed enough to make driving home dangerous. You needed to stay. Caitlyn and Vi too, but they had rights to the upstairs guest room, which was fine. You’d agreed to sleep on that lumpy couch with little care, less consideration for where it left you. You only cared that you stank of the beer that Violet had drenched you in. Talking too enthusiastically with her hands, she’d slapped it clear off the table and down your front. That was at the forefront of your mind the whole way home and then some, before someone threw a clean t-shirt at your face and told you to stop whining. Massive, down to mid thigh, it could only be Jayce’s. And Jayce would be the only one to own a Naruto t-shirt, if you had any lingering doubts.

By the time you’d changed and sloppily tried to clean up in the powder room sink, everyone had already dispersed upstairs. Left you woefully alone to scavenge a blanket and a crappy old throw pillow. To stare up at a different ceiling until you fell asleep to the strange sounds of a house not your own.

But Viktor—you hadn’t told him that you were staying. Hadn’t thought to tell him. Hadn’t thought about him since the four of you had piled into Jayce’s car and it was clear he wasn’t coming along to taco night. You weren’t going to angst about it; weren’t going to wonder what it might be like to spend time with him outside the house. You put him out of your mind quite intentionally, and then quite unintentionally once the sour sweet buzz of the margaritas kicked in.

Until now.

“I—I’m sorry,” he whispers, frozen in place. You’ve never heard him so breathless before. “I didn’t mean…”

He loses his grip on the words as you hum your groggy displeasure, rubbing flecks of sleep-sand from your eyes. “Mmn, what’re you doing…?” you ask blearily, finding your throat dry and steel wool scratchy, mouth to match. It makes you sound that hushed sort of angry.

You… aren’t?

No, not really. You’re mostly tired and confused and slow to find your coherence. Distantly relieved, too, that you’ve been sleeping with your face shoved into the crook of your elbow, not an open-mouthed, splay-limbed, embarrassing sort of mess.

“I was… Ah…” he begins. Fumbles with what to say, and oh how the tables have turned—finally his turn to feel that hot flush of embarrassment you know so well. If his cheeks or the lean column of his neck pinken for it, you can’t see.

You sling an arm over the back of the couch; keep yourself upright as your sluggish gaze sweeps the room. Catch the little white numbers illuminated on the microwave first: 3:55am. See the faint light of an open door at the end of the hallway next—Viktor’s room. Look at Viktor himself last, fit to collapse with how he held his breath. He’s mortified in his soft, cotton sleep clothes and—oh.

“…Hungry,” he finally says sheepishly, right as you notice it: That jar he clutches close, and the glinting, metal prongs of a fork, both held in his free hand.

You’re still tipsy—have to be—because it’s cute. Really fucking cute and the raspiest giggle breaks loose at the sight of him and his not-so-midnight snack.

Poor thing must think your laughter malicious, the way his thin frown screws deeper, his brows drawn low and fraught. “I heard you move, but I didn’t know—”

You shush him, hearing that agitated pitch in his voice pick up, and offer him your sleepiest, most lopsided smile. “It’s alright,” you whisper, lips loose in these candid hours, “I don’t think you’re a creep. I actually think you’re nice, sometimes.” You turn up a palm by way of showing him proof, but even you can hardly see the pink pucker of healed skin. “My hands are doing better now, by the way.” He’ll just have to take your word for it.

His bowed mouth softens. The rest of him does too. He lets out slow the breath he’s been holding, some of it as a huff of a laugh. “I’m glad.” Shoulders sag and, by the tilt of them, he’s leaning hard against his cane, just as tired as you.

You wish it’d be right to ask him to sit with you a while, to talk and twine yourself around him, to drift asleep like that, with someone soft and warm and real to hold fast to.

You shiver visibly—from the cold, nothing else—and draw your arms to yourself. For fucks sake, do they not have heat?

Viktor reads you easily for the miserable ball of frigid, tucked limbs you’re becoming. Gentle as he asks, “Would you like another blanket?”

You nod and agree with nothing more than a ‘please.’ Have to wait until his back is turned and he’s walking through the kitchen to bite down on a smitten little smile.

Back down the hallway he goes, and you just can’t leave well enough alone.

Fleet-footed in your mismatched socks, the only thing standing between you and icicle toes, you slip off the couch and creep down the hall. Quiet, trying to blend in with the ambient sounds of the house, because he certainly meant for you to wait behind, but you don’t want to. Not when the warm yellow light of Viktor’s room is so coaxing, so curious.

You sneak up on tiptoes to lean your shoulder against the frame of his open door. Hold yourself tightly in that oversized t-shirt as you teeter on the cusp of stepping through and knowing to stop. But in or out, it matters little. You see plenty enough just peeking inside.

Oh, goodness.

You suck in your lips to stop from laughing at the reality of it all—at yourself, for what you’d imagined in passing when you wondered about him. Whyever had you thought he’d be a neat and tidy thing, all clean lines and sophistication?

He’s nothing of the sort.

And something about that is so very reassuring. It humanizes him, the cluttered, cozy mess he lives in. All modest, mismatched furniture and too many cups; crumpled papers overflowing the trashcan and clothes discarded in heaps on the deep red slavic rug. Some might consider it an eyesore, threadbare and fraying at an edge, but it’s charming in its own way. Brings a warmth to the room that feels deeply familiar—reminds you of reading long into the night by lamplight or waking up slow on a dark, foggy morning. Makes you want to curl up on the coffee stained blanket draped over his bed and listen to him talk and stay for a while.

The empty pickle jar, on the other hand, does not. You can only romanticize so much.

But ultimately, you stay your judgment. Looking at the two framed degrees above his desk, those lone wall hangings, you remember what it looks like to let other things in life slip when academics take precedence. You look at the long tank set up on a low bookshelf, and see proof that he’s perfectly capable of keeping tidy when it’s important and he cares enough. And he cares about Rio, that much is clear.

You only wish that could extend to himself.

Your attention keeps drifting back to it, though—that large and lovely terrarium beside his desk. Verdant and pristine, it’s the true centerpiece of his room. You know well what it contains. Know that you want to look inside and see for yourself the little creature he tends to. Know that all you have to do is ask and the worst he could say might be later.

You pitch your gravelly voice sweet as you can manage, and hope you sound hard to deny. Toeing at the threshold, you ask, “Can I go look at her? Please?”

Oblivious to your lurking as he digs in vain through his storage closet, Viktor startles and swears beneath his breath, but not any word you know. The helplessness of you standing there, seeing everything—he stares at you from beneath furrowed brows, studying you with a searching sort of frustration.

You prepare to be sent away.

Prepare and say, “Never mind, forget I asked... I’ll go,” because it’d feel better to leave of your own free will than be so shamefully cast out. You keep your chin up, even if you can’t keep the disappointment out of your voice; even if you can’t stop yourself from nervously fidgeting with the edge of your t-shirt sleeve, waiting for a response.

Something falls into place for him, tracking the play of your fingers. The dejection on his face gives you whiplash, confusing when he suddenly looks so hurt, but however could you have caused that? It comes and goes in the blink of an eye, so fast you must have misunderstood, tired eyes playing tricks. His shoulders finally slacken in acceptance, because embarrassed or not, he can hide nothing from you anymore. Not the used plates on his dresser or dirty laundry on the floor or coffee stained papers on his desk. You’ve seen it all.

“No, it’s… It’s fine,” he sighs. “You may.”

You shoot him a thrilled smile and tiptoe across the carpet, mindful of the stabby little paperclips tangled into the edge. Creep up cautiously to the tank like you might scare her away, but find yourself an I Spy adventure instead, wherein you need to find the gecko and she’s masterfully hidden. You assumed she’d be nocturnal, or even just easy to spot, but all is still in that tank. He’s provided plentiful nooks and rocky outcroppings to hide in—she has her pick. You busy yourself peering into each one, looking for the same little lizard you’d seen in his picture. To no avail, but ever persistent, you keep trying.

Eventually, Viktor draws up beside you, on your knees with the thought that searching at ground level might work. He hands you down a plush, plaid blanket, crudely folded, but you can’t resist shaking it open and pulling it snugly around yourself with a pleased little hum of thanks. You could’ve melted on the spot into the coziest puddle when you realize just how thickly it smells of him. How much you like what he smells like beneath their laundry detergent—warm and earthen and completely his own. You cross it securely, tuck it into the crooks of your elbows, and notice the edge of an old stain.

“If you look there—” He points with one long finger, “—Behind the wide leaf, on the outside of that cave. That’s the tip of her tail.”

You scoot a little closer, craning up slightly to see, and… Oh! She’s very well hidden in a shadow, wedged between the mossy textured cave he pointed out and a rock formation, shaded by a plant like a little fort of her own. Odd spot. “Is she stuck?”

“No. She just favors that spot when she’s shedding,” he says, pointing out a few flecks of shed still littering the ground. “Ah, watch...”

Her tail is gone. The plant is moving, a subtle rustle, until a little pink snout emerges first. She ambles out—a slow reveal of her odd self. Very odd. You really hadn’t looked at the picture of her long enough to notice the strange, nodular growths toward the back of her head, or the fact that she isn’t pink skinned so much as a flushed albino. It lets you see the blue of her organs beneath. Bigger than expected, she crawls right up to the glass with those unblinking eyes, deepest red, and simply watches. Waits, like she expects something. You didn’t think a lizard could be so responsive.

Transfixed, you blurt, “Can I hold her?” before you think better of it. You double down on it, though, as you turn up your most pleading look at him.

He seizes tight and tense with indecision. Those tired amber eyes tick from you to Rio, jaw working at the words—yes or no or whatever’s in between. He breaks in a defeated sigh when her tiny tongue pokes out, like she’s smiling at you.

You smile back.

“If she’s agreeable, I suppose...”

You find out what agreeable means when he lifts the grate and sticks his hand in, palm up. She clambers on without hesitation and he lifts her out gingerly, cradling her close. With a tilt of his chin, he tells you to, “Sit, please,” in the chair at his desk.

You get to your feet and go to it easily. Sit and wait patiently for him to wade closer, looking for all the world like he’s going to hand you a tiny piece of his heart and it terrifies him.

“You don’t have to do this,” you assure him gently, caring more for his feelings than the selfish urge to hold Rio, but he shakes his head, resolute.

“Hold her with two hands, and do not pull at the shedding skin. If she makes you uncomfortable, say so and I will take her, yes?”

“Yes,” you echo, holding out your cupped hands.

You grow the most spellbound little smile when he puts his hand in yours, coaxing her in pretty, lilting words you don’t understand until she turns herself around and steps into your hands on tiny clawed feet. You could swear, truly swear, that the back of his forefinger brushes the shiny new skin on your palm intentionally, but your thinking always trends wishful at this time of night. It’s only him sliding his hand out from under Rio as she drags her belly’s dry skin over yours, settling in comfortably against the heat of your hand.

Viktor hovers close, casting an uneasy shadow that doesn’t lift. You look up into his face, reassuring, but find him wide-eyed and utterly fixated on where Rio is cradled, hands in your lap. He can turn pink in the face, so it seems, and you worry for how stressful it must be to trust you to hold her. “I can give her back,” you offer, and his eyes snap to yours.

The flush on his face deepens. “No!” he says quickly, stepping back a few paces, “No, I—This is fine. She is happy.”

Springs give in a soft creak as he sinks down on the edge of his bed, messier than you remembered walking in. He sits there quietly with his hands in his lap. You feel the sudden saccharine grip of longing as you realize it. The blanket with the old coffee stain that’d been layered over the quilt, his that he’d been using—he gave you that one.

And if it’s true of Rio, that she’s happy in this moment, you know a little something about that too.

You’re comfortable in his company; comfortable with the silence as you stroke a crooked finger down her back, but you just have to know. “So…” You cant your head conspiratorially. “You stole her?”

“You remembered?” The laugh he huffs is almost disbelieving. “That’s a long story.”

This night isn’t infinite, sure, but you have time. What’s another hour when you’re already fucked for the workout you promised Caitlyn in the morning?

You scoot closer—close as the wheels of the chair will take you before they catch in the drape of your blanket. Close enough that you can reach out with your socked foot and playfully nudge at his good leg to get him to look up and look you in the eye. So that he will know you sincere when you say, “Tell me anyways?”

And so, with a honey soft gaze that often falls to Rio and reminiscence in the lilt of his voice, he does. Viktor freely tells you everything.

None of it is what you expected. Not even close.

Now, to be fair, your imagination hadn’t been that creative. You expected a story about how he stole her from somewhere like a sad, run down pet store. Not someone like a disgraced pharmaceutical scientist with a lab in his basement and a questionable interest in exotic reptiles. That he may or may not have experimented on, but Viktor leaves that vague and, frankly, you don’t want to know.

It’s hard to voice any questions at all when you’re so stunned speechless, picturing an awkward, lanky, brilliant teenage Viktor employed by that man to scrape together college tuition. A lonely teenage Viktor who bonded with something as small and insignificant as a forgotten little gecko, kept in a dull, cramped tank. An opportunistic teenage Viktor who saw his chance one night and took it. Crafty thing, he loosed one of the snakes, fed it a frozen mouse, and smuggled Rio home in his sweatshirt pocket. Set it up perfectly so that it would appear as if she’d been eaten, and even replaced the missing mouse in the morning in case Singed—what a name—suspected anything and counted. He didn’t. And in the end, when his grandmother let him keep her, they lived happily ever after.

At least, that’s how you’d conclude it, with your rose tinted glasses.

He laughs that lovely, quiet laugh of his when you say as much.

The way she looks at you when you hold her up at eye level, it dawns on you why he loved her enough to take her. It’s all in the eyes, something about them so intelligent and unfathomably kind—something you’d expect out of a warm-blooded mammal, not a reptile. And the fluttering beat of her tiny heart, you can feel it against your skin.

How could you hold something so small and precious, a life in your hands, and not want to protect it?

You are simply besotted with her; with his love of her and the lengths he would go because it speaks to something vulnerable and deeply empathetic in him. Something that draws you in.

All of him draws you in, and you aren’t thinking straight. You’re glad to be holding Rio, so very, very glad, because otherwise you might do something stupid. Might close the distance, crawl into his lap and see if he takes to it. Kiss the bow of his mouth if he does; let him run his hands up your bare thighs and learn that you have shorts tucked up under your t-shirt if he grows bold enough to take a handful of you. Thank god for Rio, that she won’t let you make that mistake. Your heart couldn’t take it if he pushed you away, and, well, isn’t that the most likely outcome?

Really, stupid girl, it is.

Just because he can be kind, as any other decent person can be kind, doesn’t mean he’s interested. And there’s nothing to suggest that he might be! He hardly likes to look at you, only touches you when it’s unavoidable. There stands a harrowing chance that this sad little crush you’re nurturing is entirely one-sided. That you will fall back asleep tonight thinking of him, while he won’t spare another thought for you after you leave this room.

You’re spiraling. Drowsy, too, and your eyes feel heavy. You need to go back to bed.

He needs to go back to bed, if his indiscreet yawn is anything to go by. You can take a hint.

“I should, um, get back…” Yawn for emphasis, you mimic him. “To sleep. ‘M supposed to work out with Cait in the morning.”

“Won’t you be a little, eh, hungover?” he asks candidly, getting up to tenderly scoop Rio out of your hands.

“I drank a lot of water, and I only had a drink and a half—really!” you pout when he looks skeptical. “You’d know that if you went with us.”

You know exactly what he’s going to say. Could mock him in that exact dismissive tone of voice when he says, “I was busy,” as he puts Rio carefully back.

As you stand on tingly legs and walk to the door, dragging the blanket behind you like some childish cape, he clears his throat.

“I didn’t realize you would be going, though.”

…What?

Your heart is fit to choke you, the way it swells. Have to draw the blanket tighter around you, like it might keep you grounded. You can barely get out saying, “There’s, um… There’s always next time,” with that cottony tongue of yours, because it feels for a moment like you’re walking in another lucid dream. One in which Viktor goes willingly to spend time around you, whatever that means.

“Next time,” he echos, “yes.”

You say your goodnights after that. Close his door for him, and wade back out into the strange ambient silence of near five in the morning. You miss him immediately, but it’s stupid and desperate and you try to put it out of your mind. You dutifully wash your hands in the dark kitchen sink—per his last instruction, something about safe reptile handling—and curl back onto the couch when you’re done.

You fall asleep faster than you ever have before, hopelessly lulled by the comfort of his blanket snuggled soft against your cheek and the memory of his voice. Deeper and dreamless, finally warm.

—

You lock eyes on some distant speck on the ceiling, Vi’s head of sweaty, pink hair is blurry as she peers down at you from above. Watching. Waiting.

You grit your teeth, determined to get in two more reps before you need her, a second pair of hands, to help rack the weight.

“Hey—breathe,” she reminds you.

Yes, you realize distantly, your lungs burn tight and painful from the breath you’re holding in. She’s right, you need to, but it’s hard to control. Breathing technique: The bane of your existence, your greatest enemy.

You let it out, long and fraught, drawing breath back in through your nose. In and out; a rhythm. Keep it steady, you think as you steel your resolve and swiftly push the bar up. You lock out your elbows at the top, which is a poor choice—bad practice and it hurts like hell.

Attentive, Vi takes the wince on your face for a prompt, and you’re grateful for it. She grabs the bar, ready to catch it if your arms buckle or to guide it back into place on the rack—whichever happens first.

Neither of which do because flagging though you are, you have one more rep in you.

Breathing harder, faster, losing patience and control, you drop the bar a good two inches from your chest. Clearly struggling, but you’re in the right space to embrace that. You never feel judged for trying when you’re here, even when you fail.

But you won’t. Can’t let yourself believe that it’s a possibility. Not when you’re still riding the high of last night.

Caitlyn shouts something encouraging from the treadmill—hard to hear over the music and her feet pounding against the belt. Vi won’t let go of the bar. Her bruised up knuckles grip it firmly, though she bears none of the weight.

You almost wish she would. For a split second, doubt creeps back in and makes you think you aren’t going to push it back up again. But with a guttural sound, arms on fire, jaw clenched, you rally the last of your strength and thrust it upward. Your back doesn’t arch off the bench when you do—nearly perfect form exhausted as you are, numb as you feel.

Your voice is somewhere between a groan and a hiss as you offload the bar, calling it a stupid fucking motherfucker as you do. Eloquent, as usual, when you spend too much time around Vi with all her colorful language. And you’ve been around her all morning, ever since you woke up from a dead sleep to her poking your shoulder and dragging the blanket off you when you tried to pull it up over your head.

Can’t say you regret staying up so late, though.

No, all morning you felt electric. Got up and brushed your teeth with your finger, put your sneakers on and knotted Jayce’s too big t-shirt at your waist because you couldn’t bear to take it off yet, the way it smelled faintly like Viktor now. Transferred all that giddy energy into working hard, hoping it might distract you from the rising urge to tell somebody, anybody about what happened last night. About why it made you feel so fucking transcendant.

‘I didn’t realize you would be going.’

God, you can’t stop thinking about it, turning it over and over and over again in your head, each time choosing to be hopeful about what he meant. Still, you want a second opinion. Want to tell Caitlyn specifically, because she has a tried and true talent for figuring people out. Want to, and you’re going to after the three of you finish, and Vi is safely out of earshot.

Peeling yourself off the bench to sit and catch your breath, you find your palms studded with tiny diamond shapes. Sweat drips out of your hairline, down your face and the nape of your neck. When you swipe at your forehead, your arms are wobblier than when you started. And Vi, she claps your shoulder and gives you a firm shake from behind.

“Knew you had it in you,” she says, and you bat her away with a grin that grows from shy to sure. Don’t always know what to do with compliments, but Vi gives them so freely. She has a way of making you believe them, and today you really want to.

Pooling sweat and out of patience for it, you pull your t-shirt off over your head. Use it to scrub the sweat from your face and neck and arms, and then just… leave it on the bench.

If Vi can always do it, so can you. You can finish this workout wearing just a sports bra and feel good about yourself. Why the hell not?

Right… Because it’s embarrassing. That’s why, you remember, as Vi lets out a low whistle. Has you hiding your face in your hands, but you smile into them because the attention is ultimately harmless and a little funny coming from her.

Which only serves to spur her on the rest of the morning. All fun and games until you’re doing kettlebell swings, squatting low to create enough momentum on the upswing, and she shouts, “Caked up!” out of nowhere, so loud that the weight slips your sweaty grip when you startle. You’re lucky for the angle, that it only skids across the floor and doesn’t lodge into the drywall. Lucky enough that you can afford to laugh until it splits your sides and you have to sit down on the bench to catch your breath, eyes watering.

“Alright,” Caitlyn scolds, hopping down off the treadmill. Though she definitely thinks it’s funny too, the way she fights to stay serious. “I think you’ve taken it far enough.”

“Relax, we’re just having fun,” Vi croons. Gestures to you as she says, “She’s been working so hard, I think she deserves to know how fine she’s looking.” Vi passes by to grab her water, making sure to smack a loud kiss on Caitlyn’s sweaty cheek on the way. “So do you, Cupcake.”

“Gross,” Cait mutters; rolls her eyes but cracks a smile that makes you doubt she really thinks so. She grabs her phone and towel; wipes both the sweat and her girlfriend’s sloppy kiss off her face as she comes to sit on the bench adjacent. “She’s right though, we’ve all noticed a change. You should be proud.”

There’s a long list of notifications on her screen when she wakes it—probably work, and it splits her attention.

“I guess I am,” you say, feeling bashful. “It’s just hard to see it day to day.”

“Just means we need to keep telling you,” Vi shrugs. “Somebody’s gotta do it.”

“And you’re taking one for the team, is that it?” you tease, taking a long, well earned draw from your water. It’s warm, but it goes down easy.

“Hey, woah, I’m more than happy to tell you what a catch you are. Full homo. You look like that and, I mean, we’re all thinking it: How the hell has no one snapped you up?”

Easy answer. “Oh, let’s see… That would be because all my friends are in relationships, and Tinder is a cesspit. The options haven’t been great.”

Vi cracks her knuckles with an audible crunch, on a tangent and can’t reign herself back in. “Listen, we had the perfect setup to fix that for you, but—”

Caitlyn tunes back in, eyes wide. “Violet,” she snaps in that warning tone, but that only makes it click. You’re smart. You can connect the dots.

When Jayce said he could see you getting along with Viktor. When he’d asked you to go easy on him—oh, you’d failed that fucking test and kicked yourself in the teeth when you said he wasn’t your type. When Jayce, loose-lipped, implied he’d been talking to Caitlyn about you. About more than just your search for a new gym. And now, here’s Violet telling you that a setup had indeed been discussed.

Holy shit. It’s an entire conspiracy.

And more than that? You have a chance.

You hold up a hand. “Wait, wait, wait,” you say, putting on your best look of suspicion to mask how utterly giddy you feel at the thought of getting exactly what you want—what you’d been secretly hoping for. “Does this have anything to do with you telling Jayce that Viktor is, um, my type?”

Caitlyn purses her lips, but can’t hide her guilty posture.

“Busted…” Vi whispers, which doesn’t help matters. Only gives you the confirmation you so desperately crave.

But not the answer you want.

“I’m sorry…” says Caitlyn, so gently. And it's true, she is, like it breaks her heart a little to tell you:

“He wasn’t interested.”

#arcane #arcane viktor #viktor arcane #viktor x reader #viktor x f!reader #arcane fanfiction #reader insert #my writing #amazing how i forgot to actually tag this until 4 days later #cringe fail of me

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scifibi · 7 years

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Mel could I pls have option 1 for Blarke? With: Person A: I’m thinking a spring wedding, or maybe fall, I dont want it to be to cold though. Person B: Babe we aren’t even engaged Person A: sO THAT’S WHAT I FORGOT TO DO LAST NIGHT

OF COURSE you can Caitlyn

YOUR BELLARKE FIC:

[ALSO ON AO3]

“What?” Clarke asks, with a Cheshire-like grin.

He frowns at her, his gaze narrowing playfully. “What’re you up to, Griffin?”

She brushes a perfect blonde curl out of her eyes with one hand and presses the other to her chest, feigning mild shock. “Whatever do you mean, Bellamy?”

“Sparkling wine,” he observes, tapping their recently filled glasses. “That’s not a normal dinner drink.”

“We have wine all the time!”

“Not the sparkling variety,” he retorts dryly. “We’re at a tablecloth restaurant, too. Cloth napkins. Proper candles, with fire and everything.” He cocks his head towards a small door off to the side. “If I go into that bathroom, is someone going to offer me a mint on my way out?”

“Methinks thou doth suspect too much,” Clarke quotes innocently, with a light shrug thrown in for good measure.

“That’s not the line,” he says, already smiling despite himself. Clarke’s been strung a little tighter than usual over the last couple weeks, checking and double-checking throughout the last few days to make sure that they’re still on for tonight’s seemingly special dinner. He’s gone through his calendar multiple times, trying to figure out if he’s forgotten their anniversary or some other important date.

(And then he’d remembered that they don’t have an actual anniversary date, considering they’d only realised they were dating after several months of sleeping together in a manner they’d both thought was ‘casual’.)

Between the two of them, Clarke’s always been the one who’s more rigid about things like dates and scheduling. Even so, something about the way she’s been acting in the days leading up to this particular dinner has just got his spidey senses tingling. Strangely enough, though, she’s been absurdly normal throughout the actual dinner. She’s laughing frequently, and smiling easily. She's… almost bubbly. Cheerful, even.

He’s beginning to wonder if he’d imagined it all.

He leans forward, making sure to carefully drop his voice a couple of pitches, so it hits that rough tone that always sparks a reaction from his girlfriend. “I’ll get it out of you, princess. One way or another.”

Satisfaction spikes through him when she sits up at that, leaning forward as her face lights up with an interest that definitely isn’t entirely innocent. “Oh, will you, now?”

He turns their lightly entwined hands over on the table, tracing a light line across her warm palm with the very tip of his finger. Light touches always get Clarke way more riled up than anything, a hint of teasing stoking her fire far more easily than the real thing does.

“Dessert first, Clarke,” he says, letting a touch of desire underscore his low tone. “And then I’ll get it out of you.”

She grins, leaning over even further so that his attention is drawn down to the line of her generous cleavage. A deliberate move, no doubt. “And here I was thinking I could be dessert.”

He groans, the sound of her laugh ringing clear in the air.

“How much do you think an open bar costs?”

Bellamy tears his gaze from his book to blink dazedly at his girlfriend.

“I… don’t know,” he says, uncertain. “Probably depends what’s on tap. Maybe… thirty bucks a head? Forty?” He pauses, scratching at his jaw. “Fifty?”

Clarke flops down onto the couch next to him. “Are you just going to keep increasing your guesses by ten?”

He squints. “Sixty?”

“Helpful,” she remarks, the corners of her mouth turning up despite her dry tone. She peers at her phone screen. “Not exactly cheap, though. Maybe we shouldn’t do that then.” She flings her phone aside, sighing dramatically. “Oh, but we have to, if we want to do it in the summer. We can’t not have an open bar in summer.”

He frowns slightly, peering at her over his glasses. It’s not unusual for Clarke to vent to him about her job planning and coordinating events for the local museum. “Miller knows this alcohol dealer,” he muses. “Pretty sure they used to work together. I can get him to pass along the guy’s contact information, if that’d help.”

She brightens instantly. “Yes, please!” she exclaims, typing rapidly on her phone. “Okay, so that’s one thing down. Although, on second thought, we should really decide first if we do want to do it in the summer.” She pauses, wrinkling her nose. “Maybe fall would be more comfortable? In terms of sweat potential, obviously. Don’t want the guests to spend the whole day all sticky and shit.”

He lowers the book, now too perplexed to pay attention to anything else. “Obviously,” he agrees slowly. “I guess. Uh, what—”

“Yeah, the colour scheme’s going to be all off if we do it in fall,” she says, focus already back on her phone. “Good point. Late summer, then? That’s, like, a happy middle, right? Or maybe early fall. I don’t know, what do you think?”

“Um,” he says, closing the book properly. This really doesn’t much sound like a work event at this point. For one, why is Clarke getting to choose the season?

More importantly, why is he getting to choose the season?!

He clears his throat. “Are we… celebrating something?”

She snorts, both thumbs still skidding briskly across her screen. “Well, we’re definitely not gonna be mourning our wedding.”

Bellamy’s not sure, but he thinks he could just about make out the sound of the microwave going off in their neighbour’s kitchen next door, the jarringly bright ‘ding’ cutting right through the walls.

He swallows, and blinks carefully. “We're… engaged?”

Fuck, is that his voice? God, he hopes it doesn’t actually sound that yelp-y.

Clarke pauses, and for a moment, it’s like he can see into her brain, all the gears and cogs grinding to an abrupt halt so that she just hangs there, like an ACME cartoon character suspended in mid-air.

“Oh,” she exclaims suddenly, looking up as she draws the single syllable out. “So that’s what I forgot to do last night!”

“What,” he starts to say, but she’s already bounded off the couch.

“Fuck, where is it,” he hears her mutter to herself as she rifles through her purse, lying forgotten on the living room floor where she’d flung it last night, too preoccupied with the sensation of his lips on her neck to bother with putting it away properly. “Where the— ah!”

She’s back on the couch within seconds, her face flushed and half-covered with untameable strands of blonde, all escapees of the loose braid she’d knotted her hair into earlier that morning. There’s a small velvet box in her hands, just a little smaller than her palm, and holy fuck, if that’s what Bellamy thinks it is—

“Sorry, I forgot to do this last night,” she says, a little breathless through her grin. “Well, to be fair, it was probably more your fault. You just had to go and distract me with sex.”

“I’m not the one who started making innuendoes about dessert,” he says tremulously, quickly laying his book aside.

She pauses, lowering the box on instinct. “You don’t seriously expect me to not make an innuendo when you’d already set it up right—”

“Clarke,” he interrupts, strained, with a pointed glance at the box. God, his heart is pounding so hard, it might just burst right through the cavity of his chest at any fucking second.

“Right, got it, got it, just—” She breaks off and closes her eyes, taking a deep, bracing breath before opening them again, the grin reappearing on her face like she just can’t keep it off. “Bellamy Blake,” she begins, her left hand clamped over the lid of the velvet box. “You are— fuck— you’re my best friend in the whole world, and I can’t ever, ever imagine life without—”

“I love you,” he blurts out. He can’t help it. His heart is literally, physically bursting. “Fuck, sorry,” he says in a rush, “I didn’t mean to—”

“No, no, it’s okay,” Clarke laughs, her grin splitting even wider. “You know what? You’re right, fuck the speech.” She opens the box, and at the sight of the plain silver band sitting there, the air fucking catches in his goddamn lungs. “Will you marry me?”

“Yes,” he says instantly, lunging forward to kiss her, both hands finding the sides of her face to hold both of them steady. They’re both smiling when he tears away. “Shit, was that too soon? I think I was supposed to wait a second or something before—”

Clarke’s eyes are shining, full of unshed tears, and with the way his vision is blurring in and out, he’s pretty sure his are, too. She shakes her head, her hand fisting into his shirt to pull him back towards her. “It was perfect,” she assures him, right before pressing her lips to his.

Hell, that’s more than enough for him.

#I HOPE YOU LIKE IT CAITLYN <33 #YES I AM AWARE this is so late i'm so sorry lmao..... tHE REST OF THE PROMPTS WILL BE FILLED SOON GUYS BEAR W ME #bellarke #bellarke fanfiction #mel celebrates 1.5k #sassamyblake #my writing #mine

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