Chapter Text
It’s true: Viktor doesn’t fall asleep thinking of you.
No, he doesn’t. Because curled on his side in the dark, staring at the wall, he lies awake thinking of you instead.
Until, tired as he is, he can’t take it anymore, that intrusive ache.
Until his hand finds its way down under the covers to pluck at the tie of his soft, flannel pants.
Until he gives in fully and lets his fingers slip in, pushing past the elastic give of his boxers. Lets them wrap snug around the girth of himself, half hard. Again.
But this doesn’t have to mean anything. He just wants for relief, at the expense of looking you in the eye.
It’s not accidental, like last time he did this. It’s very intentional, now, that he thinks of you while he strokes his cock to stiffness in long, languid passes, tepid in his hunger as he experiments with what he wants and how he’d like to imagine you. And there are many ways, unfortunately; so hard to pick one now that you’ve given him much to think about.
But maybe the answer is obvious. Simply because it’s so fresh.
So fresh that he has to feel momentarily guilty that he’s doing this while you are still under the same roof, just a hallway’s walk away. Are you doing the same? Reaching down under his blanket and touching yourself in the middle of the living room, trying to keep quiet and—
No.
No, of course not. You wouldn’t do that. You’re not like him. You don’t share his lecherous tendencies. He can tell, the way you’re good and kind and sweetly unassuming of his worst impulses. Thought him worried about Rio, when he was so weak and unthinking as to openly leer at your bare thighs; to stand there and imagine himself running his hands greedily up them. Grabbing and kneading and spreading them apart to worship between. Fuck, were you truly just sitting there in your panties? Were you really so oblivious to the steady retreat of your t-shirt, rising higher and higher up your legs?
Jayce’s t-shirt.
His hand stills. He grits his teeth, frustration seething out from between in a slow streaming hiss.
No, don’t think of that. Not important.
What’s important is the fantasy. He focuses in, commits to the one he wants. Moves the blankets off, shoves his pants further down his narrow hips to let his cock fully free—more room to work as he takes himself in hand again, a sweet little squeeze to his cockhead beading precum. It’s dark enough that hopefully Rio isn’t watching and he doesn’t have to feel doubly ashamed for doing this.
For imagining what it would’ve been like to sit you on the edge of his bed and kneel before you, stiff leg be damned. To watch you bite your lip and lift your hips as he hooked his fingers around the edge of your panties and pulled them down, a slow sticky peel because you’d be wet for him. So very wet and wanting as he’d push your soft thighs apart, lavish them with open-mouthed kisses trailing upward and bury his face between them, heedless of breathing.
He sighs to think of how greatly it would please him, to please you. To learn what you like and use that knowledge to pull you apart slowly. His cock twitches in his grip like a nod of agreeance.
There is so much he doesn’t know. What kind of sounds would you make? Breathy pants, or little whines? Would you card your fingers through his hair? Pull at the roots with gentle insistence, or simply shove his face closer, all to writhe against his mouth if he teased you? Yes, yes yes—he shudders and quickens his pace to think of you pulling his hair. Any way you care to, he wants it. Wishes he was brave enough to call you back and live in a reality in which he knows intimately what that feels like. Better yet, what you taste like.
But he’s not.
All he can do is dream that you taste cloyingly like the fruit, the wine he favors—sladká švestka—as he nuzzles into the slick seam of you and drowns willingly in your distinct scent. He can’t always ignore the startling realization that you smell good, especially when you sweat. He hopes, desperately spiraling, that it’s something like that. Oh yes, it probably is.
His teeth sink into his lip as he rolls his wrist, just the way he likes, fucking up into his fist. Hips snapping sloppy, the mattress springs give and give quietly beneath his weight. He worries, too, that you might somehow hear his soft, open-mouthed pants, but can’t stop them now. He’s close. About to break and all he wants is to feel your legs quake where he cradles them; to feel you cum against his tongue in a flood of slick and desperate little sounds. To touch himself, like this, while it happens. And in the end, to have you be gracious enough to let him stand and mark your strong, spread thighs, your pretty, kiss swollen cunt in pearly ropes of his cum. That would be enough for him, to see it slide down your skin and mix with your sweat, your slick, his spit, while you sat there breathless and spent.
That is enough for him, just imagining it.
The high spikes suddenly, his whole body seizing tight and hot and frenzied; toes curling against the sheets, panting hard. He barely has time to snatch up the hem of his shirt and angle his cock just right to finish on his stomach in warm, erratic spurts. Has to turn his head into the pillow because he can’t stop it, the whine that leaves him as it becomes all too much and his sticky, feverish strokes begin to slow.
If it sounds a little like your name, that’s his business alone.