When You Warmed Up My Heart
Listen, I was trying to make something fluffly but I... quite didn’t get it (?)
Viktor x AFAB!Reader----- 1.2K-----SFW but it’s suggestive
Synopsis (tho this is very much plotless): When the cold season comes, you two learn a thing or two to warm up each other :)
Tags: no pronous for Reader but AFAB for reasons| I think that’s all lel| Sorry this isn’t really smut, but I’ll get to that soon enough
Autumn and winter days meant a lot of things. Sun setting earlier, walking home with a hue of cold blues, streetlamps flicking on, illuminating the cobblestone you walked slowly, arm tucked under Viktor’s. Layers of extra clothes, coats, sweaters, even scarfs; extra minutes buttoning each piece—fingers lingering a little longer, perhaps a quick stolen kiss.
Sometimes more than that.
Cold mornings that would slide between the closed windows and drawn curtains, a pair more of fluffy blankets, limbs tangled into a cozy cocoon. Viktor used to loathe cold days—sure they didn't become his favorites, but something changed.
He met you.
Days didn’t grow heated magically in the peak of winter, but it seemed so when you were around. Hot coffee and hot cocoa packed inside a thermos bottle; some days he was lucky enough to have packed soups that sent steam up when he took off the lid, the smell of spices filling the lab which made Jayce peek for over his partner’s shoulder to see what you brought him for lunch.
The only downside was that Viktor's limbs were always cold. He tinkered with metal most of the time, and such surface didn't warm up quickly enough, instead stealing his body's heat. Viktor refused to wear gloves, saying his usually deft fingers turned clumsy.
But contrary to his cold digits, he discovered that your hands retain warmth despite the chilly temperatures outside. It was a day like any other inside the lab, Jayce was out having lunch with Mel, and you were eating quietly. It was a rather cold day, drizzle falling in the witching hour got the streets covered in fog in the morning, the mist that was lazily climbing up the buildings into the grey sky.
You were helping him clean his worktable, putting notebooks back on their shelves, and throwing out scribbled papers. That day your coat was hung beside Viktor's chair, a knitted sweater and a long-sleeved shirt kept you cushy enough with all the movement and the hot soup you two ate earlier. You could feel his golden eyes following you even if he pretended to be revising some papers stacked in his working area.
Viktor sure saw the sweater coming up from your hips to your waist, so he had to help with that. You shivered, jumping away from his cold fingers swooping the cotton fabric down your skin.
You looked at him with wide eyes. "You're freezing!" you shouted but left him to drag you against the desk.
“And you’re so warm, love—endearingly so, I might add.” Skilled touches started inside your sweater, pulling the sleeved shirt apart until he could brush your bare skin, hands grasping your waist. You squealed, the little sound stopping when Viktor rest his head against your stomach, humming pleasantly while the cold sticking into his digits melt away.
You couldn’t retort anything, even if you wanted to. He looked like a cat randomly snuggling up at unexpected times. Because it wasn't the last time—oh no, he was just testing.
From that day on, you could feel Viktor tugging the hem of your clothes for some seconds before his palms went up your waist, hide inside your coat's pockets, and even snuck up to your shoulders and down your collarbone. It was supposed to be a hug, you thought every time. A weird one, but it was cozy—after some minutes when Viktor's hands reheated.
You noticed his fingers became more skillful, running circles on your bare skin, knuckles brushing sensible spots. Then, goosebumps arise in your skin, but this time wasn't because of the cold. At least he contained himself to the moments you two were alone.
For that sole reason, his preferred moment became to arrive home at night. After taking off his boots or shoes he went to pile up his coat, scarf, and sweater in the racks hung next to the door. The living room was dimmed, only a lamp lit from the tiny wood table in the middle of the two couches. When Viktor glimpsed towards the bedroom, he didn’t catch any light filtering from under the door, which meant you were already sleeping.
Even after a boiling bath, he didn't get rid of the cold. Viktor sat at the edge of the bed, finishing to dry up his hair—he should cut it shorter one of these days, it took so much time to dry now. The only sound besides the rug against his head was your steady breathing, hair scattered around the pillow. Carefully, Viktor put aside those that were getting into your face.
You snuggled your cheek deep into the pillow, his cold touch startling you.
“Very well,” he muttered, putting the towel away and getting inside the blankets you already tucked to him. In cold seasons, you two got a separate couple of blankets for each other because you knew from previous experiences that Viktor liked to steal blankets in his sleep. With more blankets, he just kicked out a few before curling up against you.
He laid against the pillows, shifting into a comfortable position before approaching you. His legs got tangled between yours, and you grumbled something because his feet were always colder than his hands, but you didn’t push away. Viktor understood from the first occasions that you grow used to his body pretty quickly—and it was delightful every time.
Perhaps his limbs were cold, but you always reached to his chest where you liked to lay your head, lulled by the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. He always hid his palms under your pajamas, the soft fabric wasn't a match to your velveltlike skin. Besides, he liked the sounds you make, between moans and sighs, Viktor couldn’t really pinpoint them, but they made him happy.
They meant you were happy being with him, too.
“Viktor?” you muttered, still half asleep, but he could hear the smile in your voice. “You’re back.”
He hummed. “Yes. We bargained not late working hours at the lab, do you remember?”
You gave him a sleepy smile, your palms running from his stomach up to his shoulders, one of them leaning his face closer to you. “We did.” Your noses brushed fleetingly.
Viktor used to leave light bruises behind when he grasped you like that. Not that you mind. You squealed when his cold fingers brushed the sensitive skin of one of your breasts, an innocent kiss on your brow, his other hand wandering over the hem of your panties, aiming to go where you were melting hot. Not so innocent, then.
"Do you remember the terms of the agreement, love?” his breath, low whispers against the shell of your ear. You were beginning to shake, your fists clasping the soft material of his worn-out shirt. He seemed no notice, chuckling slightly and rolling nearer your body. “Are you cold too, hmm?”
Viktor kissed you before you could answer, first like a mere brush of your lips, but quickly enough he tilted your head to deepen the kiss, his teeth nibbling at your bottom lip, stealing a whimper out of you.
You missed him the moment he pulled away, even if it was only to position on top of you, eager, lingering touches ready to take the clothes off his way. The bedroom was half-illuminated by a streetlamp, and at that moment, his eyes shone like stars, molten gold outlined with dense, dark lust that made your toes curl when he caressed your cheek, putting hair out your eyes so you could see him clearly.
“Not worry, love. I know exactly what to do to keep you warm.”
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Na cama, na tentativa que o colchão me absorva, me engula. Algo entalado na garganta, não sei bem o que é, mas me sufoca, me dilacera. A falta de propósito, de utilidade ao mundo, por toda minha vida essa sensação de inexistência.
Mas ao mesmo tempo, sou uma eterna sonhadora, porque eu nunca me rendo, dia após dia, de pé, mancando, mas de pé. Idealizando que um dia eu acorde, e esteja bem, feliz, realizada. Que tudo não tenha passado de sonhos ruins.
Eu sei que toda a minha história justifica o porque de eu me sentir tão perdida, eu sei que foram fatores que independeram de mim. Foi uma série de escolhas egoístas de pessoas próximas que sempre me excluíram no final das contas. Não tenho raiva delas, espero que sejam felizes e estejam bem. Espero que a minha família não tenha que acordar com esse vazio que desencadearam em mim.
Talvez seja por isso que eu não desista de mim, preciso ser gentil comigo mesma porque não foram comigo. Preciso me priorizar porque não fizeram.
Mais um dia cinza que irei tentar uma outra vez.
Você consegue, tenho orgulho de você.
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Necesito ayuda tomando una decisión semi importante para mi historia.
En uno de los capítulos van a un mundo donde conocen a un personaje relacionado con el amor pero no sé si debería ser en un sentido positivo o negativo.
En ambos casos sabría qué hacer con la trama pero ambos darían distintos resultados que solo afectarían a la personalidad del personaje y sus motivos, pero no cambiaría la ruta de la historia.
Así que díganme, ¿con cuál me quedo?
I need help making a semi important decision for my story.
In one of the chapters they go to a world where they meet a character related to love but I dunno if it'll be positively or negatively.
I'd know how the plot would go in both cases but each would give different results for both the character's personality and their motives, but wouldn't change the whole story's direction.
So tell me, which one do I keep?
Plazo de 8 horas terminado, gana amor negativo. 8 hours deadline reached, negative love wins.
¡Gracias! Thank you! :)
¿Por qué siguen votando? Ya terminó, solo que no podía poner límite de 8 horas. Why are they still voting? It already finished, I just couldn't put an 8 hour limit.
💀
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Huesos
Ese no es mi padre. La Figura que, como una mariposa restringida por alfileres, yace boca arriba e inmóvil, no es mi padre. Sus ojos apenas se distinguen en su cara hinchada, pero sé, yo sé que miran hacia arriba, a las estrellas, y lo odio. Miran a las estrellas (o tal vez tubos fluorescentes), pero no las ven y no hay nada tras ellos, su cerebro está silencioso, mudo, y sé que no se moverá más. Sus huesos están expuestos en muchas partes, me asquea; son blancos-amarillentos, manchados de sangre y tierra. No, eso no es mi padre.
A pesar de su tatuaje, tan similar al que papá se hizo unas vacaciones en Indonesia (mi madre estaba enojada, pues relacionaba los tatuajes con la delincuencia aunque mi hermano decía Ay madre, no seai así. Los tiempos cambian), ese Monstruo no es mi padre. El tatuaje de papá es como una hiedra que abraza gentilmente su espalda, pecho, deltoide izquierdo, es de un negro brillante sobre su piel morena; es lustroso, elegante, complementa su cuerpo, realza su anatomía. El tatuaje de papá no es un amasijo de líneas groseras, tinta derramada sin consideración ni cariño sobre su piel, no, no se deforma alrededor de rasguños, moretones, y cráteres. ¿Cómo podría alguien confundirlos? (Mi hermano tiene ese mismo tatuaje se lo hizo en el muslo derecho a los dieciséis se lo hizo en el muslo para que mamá no lo viera mamá estaba furiosa luego calmada realmente eres su hijo sonrió)
La boca de la Cosa hace una mueca, algo a medio camino entre un grito, una sonrisa y un llanto. A pesar de que la boca esté abierta, no dice nada. Ya nunca dirá nada. Tick tock, pienso, hable ahora o calle para siempre. Todos quedamos mudos al final, pero yo quedo mudo al ver la parodia de su boca frente a mí. Mi padre sonríe cada vez que puede, es un hombre de risa fuerte y humor grosero pero bienintencionado (a pesar de que siempre le decía eso de pequeño mi padre nunca cambió siempre estuvo orgulloso de eso tal vez es eso lo que más admiro de él Dios sabe que pienso demasiado poco de mí mismo tal vez eso admiro o tal vez que se rió esa noche cuando nos enteramos que Sí, sí, lo siento. No pudimos hacer nada. Lamentamos su perdida, señor. Lamentamos su perdida. Sus ojos se llenaron de lágrimas y me miró y sonrió y me abrazó y lloró lloramos todos sí pero primero me miró y sonrió) No, él no quedaría mudo. ¿Cómo podría hacerlo? Toda su vida intentaron amordazarlo, pero el gritaba, gritaba a todo pulmón Aquí estoy, aquí estoy (y retumbaba contra los Andes Aquí estoy eso admiro de él que no dejaría que lo enmudecieran).
Muevo mi pulgar y revelo los jirones de brazos de la Criatura, veo sus huesos y músculos, como un libro de anatomía (si tu vida es normal nadie verá tus huesos de hecho mucha gente tiene huesos de colores extraños: azules, verdes, rosados, teñidos por medicamentos que tomas. Nadie se dará cuenta de eso hasta que mueras y de abran, ziiiiip. Aprendí eso cuando era pequeño y no lo puedo sacar de mi cabeza. Nadie ve tus huesos hasta que te abren). Y pienso, Oh, mi señor, no puedes decirnos tus secretos, pero ya no los puedes ocultar, están todos ahí a simple vista. Mis Ojos pueden ver: sangre, piel, músculo, hueso, tendón, sangre. Pueden ver: mugre, tierra, trozos de pavimento. Pero no te oyen. Eh, amigo, ¿por qué ocultas tu mirada? Tiemblo. Cuando se acaba todo y solo quedas tú en una sala oscura, con manos enguantadas explorando tus rincones, y todo tu Ser llenará quizás unas planas de formas clínicas, tal vez una noticia si tu partida fue divertidamente grotesca, tal vez una primera plana si tu rostro es conocidamente bello; cuando quiten todo lo que queda de ti, ¿quién escuchará lo que tenías que decir, quién te devolverá la mirada? Digo bien, tú, Bestia, decidme lo que ocultáis. Y entonces su alma se me revela (fue un milagro, o tal vez fue una mota de polvo que tapaba el Detalle Más Importante para luego volar y dejarme ver sus Ojos o tal vez me cuesta ver de cerca y debo ir al oftalmólogo o tal vez finalmente lo acepté).
Mi padre tenía unos ojos pardos, cristalinos. Siempre parecía que iba a llorar o justo había terminado de hacerlo (siempre pensé que tantas penas se acumularon en sus ojos a lo largo de la vida), eran bellos. Eran Él. Siempre miraba a los ojos al hablar, y siempre se arrugaban, tan solo un poco, cuando estaba a punto de contar el remate de un chiste, y parpadeaban rápido, como si no quisiera perderse ni un instante del mundo. Recuerdo que una vez me llevó a ver las estrellas, en el Sur cerca de donde nació. Era muy pequeño pero aún lo recuerdo: sus ojos húmedos reflejaban la luz de los astros y pensé que si me concentraba lo suficiente podría ver a Orión o a las Pléyades en ellos.
Aprieto la fotografía en mi mano, y acaricio la imagen de mi padre, desnudo, tendido en una plancha de acero. Sí, es él, le digo a la detective. Lamento su perdida señor, lamento su perdida, dice ella, gracias (o algo a ese efecto) le respondo. Le tiendo la foto, pero me cuesta soltar los dedos; ella tira y el grueso papel se desliza por las yemas de mis dedos. No lo volveré a ver, pienso. ¿Así lo recordaré? Lo dudo. En mi memoria el ríe y canta y habla y su tatuaje brilla con el sudor y el sol en una tarde de verano. Sus ojos están llenos de estrellas y me abraza. Pero está abierto, y aunque nunca me ocultó nada finalmente lo conocí. Vi sus huesos.
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