So Far So Good!

(Poly 141 x medic reader, where you might as well be the sun to them)

The phrase started as a whisper.

It drifted through the base like smoke curling around corners, impossible to pin down but impossible to ignore.

“Here comes the sun.”

It bounced off walls, passing lips in hushed tones, slipping into conversations as a half-joke, half-omen. At first, the 141 didn’t pay it much attention. Soldiers had their quirks, their superstitions- rituals to keep them sane when missions dragged too long and they smelled more blood than earth. But this one stuck.

Price furrowed his brow the first time he heard it. Ghost only tilted his head slightly, filing it away. Gaz grimaced and muttered something about troops getting weird ideas. Soap, though- he took notice.

He’d caught it more than once before a mission, said like a prayer or maybe a warning. He’d asked around, but answers were vague. “You’ll know when you see it.” That’s all they’d tell him. It irritated him to no end.

Then the mission happened.

It was supposed to be a clean extraction. A quick in-and-out, but things went sideways fast. Soap had been covering the team’s six when the ambush hit. A sharp crack split the air, followed by the searing pain in his side. He hit the ground hard, blood soaking into the dirt, a familiar, burning ache travelling through his body.

“Soap’s hit!” Gaz’s voice barked through comms, panic threading through the static.

“Pull him out!” Price ordered.

But the line fizzled and died. Soap’s world narrowed- gunfire, shouts, and the taste of copper in his mouth. He couldn’t hear the others anymore. The ground felt colder than it should have. He pressed his hand against the wound, but it was bad. Really bad.

This is it, he thought. This is where I die.

The edges of his vision blurred. He barely noticed the figure sprinting toward him until a flash of bright red and orange, a blazing fire, pierced through the smoke and haze.

Like the sun.

You hit the ground beside him, all motion and precision, your gear unlike anything he’d ever seen. Bright red and orange covered your tactical vest and helmet- colors that didn’t belong in a war zone. Colors that should’ve made you a target, a dead woman walking.

But instead, you looked like salvation.

“Stay with me, Sargeant.” You said, voice sharp and steady. You weren’t panicked- not even a little. It was comforting.

Soap stared, wide-eyed, as your hands worked quickly to stop the bleeding. He should’ve been paying attention to the pain, to the gunfire, to anything else- but he couldn’t stop looking at you.

“What the hell are ya wearing?” he rasped, because that was apparently the only thought his brain could form.

You didn’t look up. “Bright colors make it easier to spot me. Medics don’t have the luxury of hiding- we have to be seen when it counts.”

“It’s bloody ridiculous.” he muttered- and then sucked in a sharp breath as you tightened the bandage.

“Maybe,” you said, finally glancing at him. “But it got me here, didn’t it?”

Soap’s heart stumbled. Your eyes were sharp, focused- but there was something else there too, something warm. Something steady.

Here comes the sun.

It hit him all at once. That’s what the others meant. It wasn’t just the colors. It was you. The way you moved, the way your voice cut through the noise, the way you didn’t hesitate for a second.

“Stay awake, Sargeant.” You ordered, and for the first time in his life, he didn’t have a single smart remark.

Much later, he woke up in the med tent, groggy but alive, and immediately found himself staring at you again.

You were restocking supplies nearby, your bright gear an almost comical contrast to the sterile white walls. The moment you noticed him looking, you crossed the room.

“You’re awake,” you said, checking his vitals. Your voice was softer now, calm and patient. He felt like he could melt. “Good.”

“You’re real.” He blurted out before he could stop himself.

You raised an eyebrow, tilting your head. “What?”

“Thought I was hallucinating.” He gestured vaguely at your vest, a grin cracking on his lips. “I mean, look at ya.” Lovely. The sun has never looked better.

Your lips twitched, like you were holding back a smile. “I get that a lot.”

Before he could come up with anything else to say- anything remotely smooth- the tent flap opened.

Price, Ghost, and Gaz stepped in, their eyes immediately landing on you. And for once, Soap wasn’t the only one caught off guard.

Gaz blinked. “You’re… bright.”

“Easy to spot.” You said, beaming.

Ghost stared at you for a few seconds longer, peering, before he spoke. “…You’re the sun.”

Price studied you for a long moment as well, then nodded like something clicked into place with a sigh. “Makes sense.”

You, on the other hand, looked confused and unsure, tilting your head once more in the way kittens do.

Soap couldn’t stop staring. He barely even heard the others talking, answering your confusion. All he could think about was how you’d shown up when he thought he was done for- and how you’d looked like a fiery star in the vast expanse of a cold, dark sky.

You glanced at him again, eyes sharp and warm all at once, lips quirking in a delicate smile while Gaz talked with you.

Here comes the sun, he thought.

(… would it be possible to cradle the sun, such warmth, in his hands?)

imagining marrying blue-collar simon and all of 141 goading him into going under his wife's dress and remove her wedding garter with his teeth instead of his hands for the shits and laughs but to also fluster simon, johnny being ESPECIALLY enthusiastic about it

light nsfw content (minors do not interact)

I really love the idea of bluecollar!simon and his lovie having a little wedding, eloping with those they live the most there to witness. has price as his best man and kyle and johnny as his groomsmen

you buy a thrifted knee length wedding dress and simon grabs you a bouquet of flowers from the shop and then you all celebrate at the local pub and simon’s a few pints deep at this point and so madly in love with you that he’ll do anything

ignores your squeals and shoves at his shoulders when his head disappears under your layered skirts, no one suspects a thing when he nips on the inside of your thigh and press a kiss to your clit over your white lace panties 🤭

pulls back with flushed cheeks and a playful grin before he plants a sloppy kiss on your lips

“yeh stuck with me now, mrs. riley…” he’d whisper against your skin

His Majesty the King - pt one

King!Viktor x Fem!Reader Royal AU

Series Masterlist - Arcane Masterlist - AO3 - Ko-fi

Series Synopsis: After your family cannot afford to pay a tax, they have the option to offer something up to the King as collateral to buy them more time. They decide to send their oldest daughter: you.

Warnings: sexual tension, fluff, nsfw content, yearning (so much yearning), anachronisms for any historical fiction lovers (I'm sorry, this wasn't researched), viktor undoing your dress, stolen kisses/forbidden romance (sorta), viktor feeding you, dirty talk, fingering

Word Count: 8.1k

A/N: The royal au series i wrote off-the-cuff all put into an official series. Parts one through three are found here. Enjoy!

pt one:

You'd been sold, for lack of a better term. Bartered? Traded? Your parents owed money. A tax they couldn't pay one too many times. We need collateral came after begging for an extension for the umpteenth time. There were a few options they could've offered up. The deed to the house, to their general store. Two easy ones. Locked in the safe in your father's office. It would've taken a matter of minutes to retrieve. But he remained planted in the mud outside your house. Modest, but nothing to brag about. A show for outsiders when there wasn't always food on the table.

"My daughter," he exclaimed, yanking your forward with a harsh grip on your wrist, "take her. Put her to use. Surely you could use another hand around the castle."

You were the only one to protest. Which was cut short as you glanced between your mother, father, and younger sister. Not a word was said between the three as you were tossed towards the soldiers. Into the grips of knights you knew weren't there to save. They were there doing the king's duty, identities hidden beneath the freezing metal. The winter weather pierced your thin cloak like needles when you slammed against their chest plates. Had their gloves close around your wrists, yanking them behind your back.

"She will do," one murmured entirely unimpressed. "For now."

The ride to the castle, wrists bound behind your back with chains you'd mentioned weren't necessary. You had nowhere to go. Nowhere to flee to. You'd been offered up on the slab like a piece of meat. Quite literally.

You have no idea what to expect inside the castle walls. It was hard to like a King that often kept himself out of sight. Who seemed entirely okay accepting a person as collateral for his high taxes. Granted, it was his soldiers that had accepted the bargain. But you doubted they would've agreed had the King not been okay with the barter.

Once upon a time, he wasn't that bad. He and his council of advisors kept the kingdom safe. It flourished. But in the last few years, it'd started to deteriorate. Taxes were raised, days felt desolate, those that wore jewels like they weren't worth your entire house lived beyond reason. Parading around wealth worth the entirety of your family's store. Worth you. Wealth that would've paid the debt that you were currently fulfilling without putting a scratch in their jewels.

Those unsure expectations were satiated quickly upon pulling into the castle gates. Luxurious. That's what the inside was. Rich velvets and silks lined the halls, colors vibrant and bleeding an obvious wealth. Rich aromas of foods you'd never even dreamed of tasting. Fireplaces that warmed each room, making the vast halls feel cold and unwelcoming.

They were taking you to meet the king. In your beige dress, unkempt hair, watery eyes as your demise set in. He had to be informed of your joining the staff. Kitchen or cleaning, the knights had decided. They'll make good use of you. But you were stuck on meeting the king. As if it were some casual introduction. Your heart was lodged in your throat as they opened two massive double doors and shoved you inside, surely hoping you'd fall on your face. That you'd embarrass yourself like the peasant you were in the eyes of royalty.

You nearly did, falling to your knees in front of a lavish throne. You tugged on the cuffs, cursed beneath your breath, fought the way your heart wanted to leap from your chest. Too many emotions too fast. Home, gone. Betrayal from those meant to protect you. Thrown into the fray of working until enough time had passed for your family to pay back the debt. And then what? Would they keep you to make sure your family kept paying? Or give you back with the threat they'd take you back in a heartbeat if they couldn't pay again?

And now you were sat before the king. Knees aching, wrists chaffed, fighting fear.

You locked onto a set of gold eyes. Ensnared with a darkness like the hair on his head. Face angular, two beauty marks dotting his face. Beneath his right eye and above the left corner of his mouth. Grayish purple bags were stark against his pale skin, the exhaustion stretching throughout his lean figure. A thin frame of metal braced his right leg, creaking slightly when he moved. He ran a gloved hand lazily along a cane he held, carefully coming to rest on the gold handle. His thick brows furrowed as he scanned you, and he frowned.

"Who is she?" A man you hadn't even bothered to notice asked. Standing beside the king. Shorter, rosier cheeks, significantly older. His blond hair was combed back with hints of gray poking through.

"Collateral." One of the soldiers stepped forward, motioning to you. He came so close to smacking your head that you flinched. The King kept his eyes on you. His frown deepened.

"She was sent as collateral?" The short man asked.

You couldn't tell if he was offended that someone had sent their daughter in place of a family heirloom or a property deed, or if they were wondering if you were even decent enough to be considered collateral. Something told you it was a mixture of the two.

"For the (Y/L/N) family." The soldier rolled their shoulders, armor clinking. "Unable to pay for the fourth time in a row. When told they needed to offer collateral, they gave us her."

"Well." The short man sighed. "Throw her in with the maid staff for now. See if she can make herself useful there."

"Yes, sir," the soldier said, grabbing the chain between your cuffs and jerking up. A searing pain shot into your shoulders, and you winced as your knees were yanked from the ground only to smack right back down. Not enough strength to lift you entirely, but enough to remind you who was in charge.

You rose on wobbly legs, stealing one last glance at the King as the soldier turned you, and you felt the metal dig into your flesh. At the King whose eyes narrowed as you were dragged from the room. The King who the public envied, hated, feared. Worshipped, put their lives on the line for. Whose name was treated like a curse in one circle and a god's in another.

It was most definitely the former for you as the double doors were reopened. You hated the perfectly tailored shirt he wore. The thin gold crown that glinted under the chandelier that dripped wax down the crystals that hung beneath like a taunt. A reminder that this was what the townsfolks were paying for. What you were covering your family for.

You were shoved out the door despite offering up little resistance to the knight's movements. But your feet stalled at the sound that cut through the room. Quiet. Calm, even. It drew everyone's attention back into the room.

You blinked at the King as he sat expectantly.

"Your name."

Two simple words. He knew your name. Or the one that mattered. You were covering for your family so you'd become just another nameless maid expected to do her tasks without question. Your path would never cross with the King again after this. You were nothing to him. A name wouldn't matter.

But still, he waited.

"(Y/N)," you murmured, forcing your voice to remain steady. His eyes burned with an intensity that you couldn't pinpoint. You swallowed as he nodded.

"Well," he muttered, voice wrapping around you like the silk curtains that lined the hall. You were practically out of the room, but it felt like you were standing beside each other, whispering secrets only the two of you knew. "Welcome to the castle, (Y/N)."

pt two:

You weren't supposed to see him again. One in your position wasn't meant to cross paths with the King. You were to be tossed into a cramped room, given a uniform that felt a size too small, shoes that hurt your feet, and were expected to do your duty without complaint. Conversations forbidden unless they were hushed and behind closed doors. No contact was to be made with anyone, let alone the royals, without permission. So you stuck to your duties. Cleaning, tidying, washing clothes you had only ever dreamed of touching. Getting your hands swatted when you messed up. Verbally berated when you weren't quick enough. Even if you were more efficient than some of those who worked by your side.

Your entire body ached by day four. You could barely move on day six. It was day seven when you were brought to the library in the middle of the night and were instructed to clean it--spotless--due to your lackluster attempts earlier in the day. It was code for those who had cleaned the library earlier hadn't done a good enough job and since you were feeling the repercussions of the job, you were forced to fix their mistakes.

And you had no choice. So you cleaned. You dusted, swept, mopped. Scrubbed and organized. Stole one too many glances at the leather-bound novels. Settled beside the fireplace for a moment longer than you knew you should've. But it just felt so good to just sit for a moment.

And then you heard a voice and you froze, hands stretched out towards the fire, feet tucked beneath you as you warmed up your calloused hands. Your wrists were still raw from the cuffs they'd kept you in as long as they could when you'd first arrived.

"Careful," he whispered. His cane clinked against the floor. "If they catch you slacking, they will not be happy."

You slowly rose and pulled your hands away from the fire but a gentle hand stopped you. He stood beside you, frowning as the tips of his fingers ran over your chaffed wrists. The uniform felt infinitely tighter, making each breath impossible.

"Please, warm yourself." His hand lingered until you stretched your arms back out.

The air in the room felt thick and heavy.

"Yes, Your Majesty."

He winced, sliding the hand that'd once been on you into his pocket. His gaze perused your frame and you felt yourself starting to shake, unsure what he was looking at. Unsure how you were supposed to act in front of the King.

"It's too small." He was frowning again.

"I-I'm sorry?"

"Your attire. It is too small. That cannot be comfortable." He eyed the string crisscrossing across your back, holding your dress firm to your body. Too tight, too small. His hand twitched on his cane before he turned his attention to your face. His concentrated expression softened. His gold eyes flickering in the firelight. "I, er, I am sorry for the circumstances that brought you here, Miss (Y/N)."

You blinked at the King, breath catching in your throat. You blatantly ignored the fact that he'd remembered your name.

Instead, you focused on if he'd been wearing his crown, you would've plucked it from his head, pointed to one of the jewels that glittered the band, and screamed about how half of one would've absolved your family of what was owed. That if he hadn't crave such lavish items, the taxes wouldn't be so high, and you wouldn't even be there in the first place. If he were wearing his crown, of course. And if you suddenly gained a bravery you knew was hidden deep beneath the breath you couldn't quite get enough of.

Still, to your surprise, a smidge snuck out.

"You're sorry? Really?" You laughed bitterly. Right in the King's face. In a heartbeat, you threw your hand over your mouth and stepped back. Fear tingled your skin, all the way down your back. "Oh--shit--I'm so sorry, Your Majesty."

Both cursed and beloved, you had no idea how the King reacted to such behavior. You weren't given much of a chance to see as you backed into a bookcase and yelped, thinking you'd bumped into a guard or even another servant. You spun tripped over your own feet. You expected the ground to knock the wind from you, but the King caught you, both hands on your shoulders, his cane thumping softly on the ground. His grip soft, gently trailing down your arms until he got to your elbows, where the sleeves of your dress stopped, and his skin brushed yours once more.

"Relax, Miss (Y/N)," he whispered, mouth beside your ear. "You are free to speak your mind to me."

It took a moment for you to gather words.

"You apologize when it is because of your laws that I am here. If you were sorry, you'd let me go home and give us the extension anyway."

He was quiet. His hands twitched on your elbows before they dropped. A slow breath. Then another. His hair tickled your neck.

When he finally spoke, his words sounded stilted.

"If I were to make an exception for one, I would have to to make an exception for all. Taxes have to be paid. One way or another."

You would've laughed if tears hadn't been welling up. So you stepped away, wiping away the wrinkles on your skirt, and cleared your throat. You hadn't expected any other answer, but it still hurt to hear. And it hurt knowing that you were stuck at the castle until the debt could be paid.

At least there was food every night. Even if you'd been forced to miss dinner due to cleaning the library.

You wanted to cry. You missed your parents cooking, listening to your sister run around wreaking havoc as you set the table. Your bed that was endlessly more comfortable than the poor excuse they gave you here.

Now, you were standing beside the King, his words like the key locking the door to a cage. You couldn't chirp, you couldn't fly. All you could do was speak when your master commanded it. You wanted to hit him. Maybe upside the head. Maybe with his cane that he was subtly reaching for. Your brows furrowed when you glanced at his leg. He wasn't wearing the brace. Nor was he wearing anything that fancy. Just a basic white shirt and pants. They looked like something you would've thrown on when you snuck out during the night to visit your friends, long past when your parents had gone to sleep.

"I ought to get back to work then," you mumbled. Voice more broken than you ever wanted the bastard to hear. It was his fault you were here. Fucking his. His damn taxes. His damn knights. Being goddamn collateral-

Without warning, you were led to the side.

If someone would've told you that you would've ended up in a compromising position with someone while you were at the castle, you would've shrugged. You had to pass the time somehow. And doing so with some nice company? That'd be the way to do it. But if they told you that it was with the King? You would've called them delusional. That perhaps they needed to get their head checked.

But when the library door opened, its hinges squeaking and two distinct voices carried between the bookcases, a tender hand on your wrist guided you into a crevasse beside the fireplace. Where you'd pulled a potted plant and a vase out earlier to clean. It wedged back far enough for neither of you to be seen.

It did, however, mean that the two of you were wedged so close together that you felt every inch of the other's body. Your back was against the King's chest, one hand reaching out to grab his cane before it fell as his hand came to cover your mouth. His other arm wrapped around your waist and held you as tight as you figured he could. You tried not to scream against his hand, and he held it firm when you tried to drag it away.

His breathing was surprisingly even, contrasting your desperate attempts. Each rhythmic movement making his chest brush against your back. You closed your eyes and counted to ten, trying your best to calm down. But it was growing increasingly harder in the small space. Especially so when his thumb ran reassuring lines along your ribs. An action that felt like fire was licking your skin. That the thin dress had caught the flames just on the other side of the wall.

He shushed you, turning his head towards the voices as they got closer. He tensed and you knew whoever was in the room was right there. If they found you--the King and some collateral hiding in a little corner in the library--you wouldn't be collateral any longer. You'd be six feet under.

"This is where he usually goes when he's not in his room."

It sounded like the old man who'd been in the throne room. Heimer, he went by, you found out shortly after. Your paths had crossed no more than what you could count on one hand, and each time he gave you a glance you couldn't read. Uncaring curiosity? You weren't sure.

"He might have gone to see the cook for a snack," the other voice said. "Or he is with the blacksmith, trying to see the progress on the latest weaponry."

"He's not you, Jayce. You're the one who prefers to do the heavy lifting. Viktor prefers to exercise his mind."

You were shaking, and the King slowly--very, very slowly--lowered the hand over your mouth. It skimmed down your throat, circling back until it slid between the two of you. You let out a shuddering exhale as he tugged on the strings holding the dress against you like a second skin, and very carefully loosened each cross. Each gentle tug of his finger made you silently gasp. The last few times someone had undone your dress even remotely as slowly, tender, and carefully, was not because you couldn't breathe. And the memories were tricking you, with each flick of a touch. Each graze and tug. As the fabric hung loosely around your chest. Not low-cut enough to cause worry of potential exposure. But it did dip lower than appropriate for someone to be wearing near the King. Especially with such a difference between classes. Especially with someone you despised.

Yet as you took your first full breath of the evening, you could've sworn you felt him relax ever so slightly.

"Alright, I'll go check in the kitchen and see if he found his way there. Get to bed, old man, I'll catch him up on what he missed from the council meeting."

"Fine. But I am trusting you to return him to his room, Mr. Talis."

"Yeah, yeah, I will."

Two sets of footsteps retreated and the library door closed shortly after. The King waited a beat before fully relaxing, his head falling back against the wall. He didn't guide you out of the small space.

Your mind seemed to catch up with you as he pulled you to rest against him, subconsciously, it seemed.

"Your Majesty," you whispered even though the two had left. "If I may venture a question?"

"You may." He seemed fond of whispering in your ear. And you weren't fond of the way it made your body shiver in a way that should've been disgust but was the exact opposite. It also wasn't helping that his hand was still firmly on your ribs, thumb running that same teasing circle.

"I can understand why you hid, but why me as well?"

His arms tightened for a brief moment around you before they fell and frustratingly so, you missed the contact.

"I, er." He cleared his throat. You couldn't tell if he was trying to choose his words carefully or if he was stalling. "I did not want you to get questioned. You have already been through enough on my behalf."

Silence. Neither of you moved. Your bodies were still practically pressed together. And without much warning, his hand came atop yours as he reached for his cane. You owed him nothing, yet you felt the urge to say what you certainly should've kept to yourself.

"I wouldn't have said you were here."

He leaned forward, one hand on his cane, the other reaching over your shoulder and pressing against the wall. You clenched your jaw as you felt all of him meld to you.

"I appreciate that, Miss (Y/N)." His breath fanned against your neck. And he stayed like that for a second before sliding out. "Genuinely."

When he was out, he gave you his hand. You hesitated before taking it. It was soft yet calloused, his fingers bony against yours. He didn't let go even once you were out of space.

"Spin," he murmured, eyes alight with something that made your cheeks burn. He held his cane underneath his arm, an obvious well-practiced stance. You did as he said, and he laced up your dress, not nearly as tight as it had been before. You noted how close he was standing. Closer than he needed to be, but you didn't step away. And it wasn't because he was the King and you feared potential repercussions. The exact opposite. It made you clench your jaw.

"I ought to return to my bed chambers," he said when he finished, hands hovering over your waist before falling to his side. "My apologies for interrupting you during your duty. I hope you are not kept up much later in pursuit of cleaning this place. I must apologize for its state of disarray. It's my fault that things are often out of place."

You stared at him in disbelief. He was...apologizing to you? You tried to fan the flames of irritation you'd felt towards him days ago, hours ago, goddamn minutes ago. But the soft, crooked grin he gave you pierced you like a damn dagger. So hard you nearly staggered back. You would've had you not locked your knees. But the damn thing made his entire face light up. Made his eyes sparkle and soften his demeanor.

"It's...alright, Your Majesty."

"Call me Viktor, please, when it's just you and me." You swore there was a dimple on his cheek when his smile deepened. You felt the strange urge to kiss it and you hated it.

"Yes Your...Yes, Viktor."

"Thank you." He nodded, studying you for one last moment before starting towards the door. "Sweet dreams, Miss (Y/N). "

The library door closed gently behind him.

When it's just you and m. Sweet dreams.

You bit your lip as you tried to process the slew of emotions. He expected the two of you to spend more time together. Alone. Something that should've angered you, worried you, shouldn't have made you excited. Secretly, you told yourself. You were secretly excited. But there was a strange curiosity there that you couldn't ignore. That bubbled to the surface.

The King--Viktor--was very much not who he seemed.

pt three:

You saw Viktor dozens of more times after that. All during your duties. In between conflicting feelings about the man you should hate, missing your family, and trying to figure out the relationship between Viktor and the council he seemed to meet with every few days. Meetings he often tried to avoid, you discovered, as you overheard who you discovered to be Jayce telling him that he needed to start showing up again.

That was in the throne room, where you'd been started to get sent more and more shortly after your midnight meeting with Viktor. One that you hadn't stopped thinking about since it'd happened. It was growing increasingly frustrating that you were getting less and less sleep each night as you thought back to that evening.

You saw more of the castle as the days passed. Bringing tea, coffee, and fruits into offices with members who you figured to be of the council. They talked of politics you only somewhat understood. Of wars you hadn't known were in talks of being waged. You felt privy to information you knew they weren't in fear of leaking--who were you going to tell, after all? You were there until your family paid a tax that felt more and more impossible to meet as each day went by.

Saying you met the members was a reach. You were simply able to put names to faces. Kirraman and Bolbok, who cared far more for those inside the walls of the castle than those beyond. Hoskel and Salo, who cared only for trade routes, talked of lowering the pay of the workers since the roads had become nicer, in order to pocket more for themselves.

Then there was Mel and Shoola, the only two who seemed to acknowledge the existence of those beyond the castle walls. Of where you and many of your friends and family lived. Where many of those who funded their lavish lifestyle lived.

The final two, Jayce and Heimer, seemed to be the closest with Viktor. But one thing became clear as you traveled from room to room, witnessed the same Viktor you'd seen on day one. The man with puffy eye bags, unkempt hair, clothes and a crown that reminded everyone of his royal status. The man who you watched turn away begging citizens. His hand gripped the armrest of the throne tighter when each denial he had to give. His jaw clenching, hair curling over his forehead.

"It's for the greater good," you heard Heimer whisper to him.

"We need the money to continue expanding our arsenal," Jayce said. "You saw how well the advancements are coming. They're almost there, Vik."

Viktor didn't always meet your gaze when you offered him a snack. A cup of tea. But he almost always made sure he acknowledged you in some manner. Hands brushing as you passed him a cup or a plate. Whispering a very undeserving and etiquette-breaking thank you that he only ever spared you. Handing you his cane if he needed both hands to be free. He'd even asked you to fetch him a book from the library once.

"On the bookcase you nearly fell into that night. Second shelf, middle, right beside the fireplace."

He hadn't spoken loud enough for anyone but you to hear. And it made your entire body burn up. You hoped you hadn't looked as flustered as you felt as you fetched it for him.

It was after about two weeks of the behavior that you realized he was most likely doing it because he wanted you to feel comfortable. Almost like a distraction from why you were there. And it angered you, strangely, that it was working. That he was even trying to do that.

It made the only alone time the two of you ever got...well, different.

Usually, it was your paths crossing while you were left alone to clean while Viktor was trying to just get a moment to himself. Hiding in one of the random bathing chambers, bedrooms, the kitchen, even outdoors in the garden. The latter was your favorite. The one that stuck with you the longest. The hardest.

The rest were momentary meetings. You both knowing you only have minutes at the most together, sharing small talk as you worked and Viktor took a breather, before someone else came passing through. And the King couldn't be seen conversing so calmly and casually with you.

You hated how you longed for the meetings. The way his hands would graze your skin as he brushed your hair from your face. Passed you a rag that royal hands had never once touched. Wiped the corner of your mouth when he fed you a piece of food that was not meant for a mouth of a maid. Of the collateral. He grinned when you practically moaned at the taste. You'd never tasted something so damn flavorful. It was infuriating.

And then there was the garden. Where he'd found you while strolling, a book in his hand that went unread as soon as he saw you. He sat on the bench beside you as you trimmed plants and plucked flowers for a centerpiece that'd been requested for the dinner that evening. But the sunny weather hadn't lasted long. As thunder crashed and rain poured down, Viktor whisked you away to a small gazebo hidden away in an overgrown section. Away from the castle. Away from the rest of your responsibilities for the day. At least during that moment, they felt far, far away.

He tripped on his way in, falling forward and pinning you against a wooden pillar. The roof sheltered you from the rain, but you were both already soaked to the bone. Freezing. Shivering. He didn't right himself, panting as his breath puffed out in a visible cloud. He was so close. You'd never stared at the mole above his mouth for so long. So desperately. So infuriatingly.

But all the two of you did was pant. Pressed against each other, a cold hand coming up to cup your jaw. You gasped. You hadn't meant to, and you tried to tell him that it was because his hand was cold. But the deep-set shivers made your words stutter. And it'd just made Viktor grin. A sight for sore eyes. Sometimes it made you wonder how he could sit there and frown for most of the day when his entire face lit up with just one crooked grin. One that warmed you like a fire. As did he as he settled between your legs, nose nudging yours as an arm hooked around your waist. You hadn't even noticed that you'd started to part your legs for him. Neither of you, it seemed, were going to comment on it.

Neither that nor the way he held onto you like you would slip through his fingers if he let go.

You wanted to stab him. You wanted to kiss him.

Perhaps both.

But your time was short-lived.

"Your Majesty," someone had called out. "We must get you inside before you catch a chill."

"Forgive me, Miss (Y/N)," he murmured as his hand traveled down your neck, trailing over your exposed clavicle in a touch more teasing than anything you'd ever felt. And you'd done a lot more with someone than a simple light touch. "As much as I do not want to, I must say goodbye for now. Please, do not stay out much longer. I fear the council would have my head if I tried to nurse you back to health if you were to get sick."

A laugh bubbled in your throat at the image. The King taking care of a sickly maid because she'd caught a common cold. An image that was difficult to imagine even if he was right in front of you, whispering it to you himself. The ruthless King. The man who wanted to take care of someone. The man you couldn't get your fingers around enough. His neck or him.

"They would if they knew you were even out here with me," you'd said back, breathless. You blamed that damn tight dress. But you knew it was much more than that. You hoped he wouldn't notice.

"Perhaps." He grinned. "But I am starting to realize that listening to the council may not be in my best interest."

He was gone, walking as fast as he could with the leg brace on. You stood shivering in the gazebo as the train pelted down until the tightness in your abdomen subsided. You went back to your duties once the warmth faded. The bouquet for the centerpiece was small and unfinished, so you expect it to be discarded as a waste. But when you stepped into the dining hall that evening to help clear plates, it was still sat right in the center.

The entire encounter was with you for weeks. You thought you couldn't sleep after your meeting in the library. You really couldn't after that. Sharing a bedroom with four other people was devastating when you got more wound up each night. Thoughts drifting into places they shouldn't have been about him.

Anger was the appropriate reaction. Wishing to take that anger out on him physically? Also appropriate. But the ways in which you wished to? Very much inappropriate. You were starting to understand why some of your roommates tried to pry specific...information...from Viktor's personal servant. A man he rarely ever asked for assistance from. Also a man who spilled absolutely nothing. Except to you after they'd asked if he'd be interested in a bedmate.

"Not from any of you," he'd said, eyeing them with amusement as they frowned and pouted. So they left to return to their duties, dismayed and unimpressed. To them, the King was a man to flirt and attempt with. Not the man who was the reason you were at the castle in the first place. A man who your family had willingly given you to without a damn question. Worth more than a deed. Or, perhaps less. More expendable. But you weren't a fan of dwelling on that thought.

Then, he turned to you. "He already has his eye on someone."

And that was all he ever said on the subject.

Because the next time you were alone with Viktor, the sentiment was proven true.

It was a month later. A very tense month where Viktor had been spending a lot more time with the council. And they'd been dismissing far angrier than when they'd started. Except for Mel and Shoola, those two were the only ones who walked out looking even remotely amused.

Taxes were being argued, trade routes disputed, the parties that the castle once threw every few weeks had become few and far between. Only three had been held since you'd been there. And not once had you even been allowed to peep inside. You'd been forced somewhere else, along with half of the other maids and servants, to do other duties. It was after the third party when you discovered that Viktor had snuck out and often snuck out of the parties.

You'd been instructed to clean a servant's quarters downstairs. It'd taken longer than it should have, but you couldn't shake the anger that came with each party thrown. Funded by the money that could've sent you home. That would've let you be with your family again.

But it was off being spent on fancy gowns and jewelry and crowns. On food that you'd only get to smell, to dream of tasting. On music you'd only ever hear muffled and mixed into a sea on conversations. You wanted to tear the rag you'd been using in half. But that risked consequences you weren't interested in facing. You'd already been yelled at for wearing your uniform too loose. They'd tied it extra tight the past few days as a reminder. It made bending down hurt.

You were walking down a hall, bucket and rag discarded, trying to steal and glance at the party you were to be nowhere near. Just a whiff of the food made your stomach twist. A glance through a cracked door that you dared not to get close to showed a glittering sea of rich colors and fabrics you wished you could touch.

Of gowns and jewelry that you wished to burn and break.

And then you rounded a corner and, when you smacked right dab in the middle of someone, you saw your life flash before your eyes. You thought about sprinting off and hoping they hadn't seen your face. That they'd never recognize you again. Or perhaps dropping to your knees and apologizing profusely.

Then he spoke and you'd be damned if you didn't relax.

"Ah, Miss (Y/N), are you alright?"

You glanced at Viktor and swallowed. He had to know you were supposed to be here. You glanced at the two guards positioned a few doors up.

"Y-Yes Your Majesty. My apologies. I'm terribly sorry. If you'll excuse me, I really must get back to my quarters. I'm sorry for the intrusion."

Viktor frowned, and you only caught it momentarily as your gaze fell to the ground. Just as it was supposed to when you were to talk with anyone above your station. You panicked and curtsied, sucking in a sharp breath of pain as you dipped, wincing as your stomach churned in a mixture of pain and hunger.

A hand on your arm stopped you and you stepped around him, and you froze, peering back at him wide-eyed.

"Come," he murmured. "I would be a horrible King if I let you go off without feeding you."

You bit back the words. You already are thought to be one.

You weren't sure what you were supposed to say. If you were found out to have gone with the King, you'd face consequences. If they found out you'd denied the King, you'd face consequences. You already were once they discovered you'd ventured into part of the castle that'd been off-limits to you for the evening. So you nodded and went with the man you were still conflicted about.

He brought you to a small office where a desk sat unused, the curtains were drawn, and a couch seemed way too plush. Stay he said before he disappeared, so you sat atop the desk, a small sign of disobedience you hoped Viktor wouldn't punish you for. A small part of you figured he wouldn't, but he was still the King. Even if your small interactions made your heart flutter in a confusing way, he was still the fucking King.

The King who came back with a plate of food that smelled so delicious you were worried you'd started drooling. He said nothing about you sitting on the desk. All he did was smile, walk up, and sat his cane and the plate down. He held up a piece of what looked like steak, his eyes twinkling like the damn stars in the sky, as he waited for you to part your lips before he fed it to you.

You moaned. You'd tried not to, but when it was the most delicious thing you'd ever tasted and it was fed to you but the literal King, it was hard not to. And the smile he gave you, so self-indulgent and cocky, one you never expected from the man who oozed anger whenever he sat on that damn throne, who'd only given you boyish grins until now. It made your heart stop.

"Good?" He asked. You nodded. "Then have more."

"I do believe," you spoke slowly as to not sound so affected by his presence," that I am the one who's to be feeding you, Your Majesty."

Something sparked and Viktor leaned in.

"Oh, you are?" His hand came up and cupped your jaw. "I thought I was the one who made the rules, considering I'm the one with the crown on my head."

Your eyes shot up to that damn band of gold. You wanted to snap it in half.

"You hate it just as much, don't you?" He spoke against your cheek, breath tickling your skin.

"W-What?" You weren't sure if you were stuttering at the close contact, because you wanted more, or because he'd called you out so blatantly.

"The crown," he said as he picked up another small piece of food from the plate. His lips grazed your cheek as he fed you the dessert. A tang of strawberry, a hint of sponge, and the sweetness of cream. You sighed. "You glare at it every time I wear it."

How he could've expected any answer besides you melting against him was beyond you. His closeness, his lips grazing you, the damn food. You wanted to strangle him. You thought about it, too.

"Your Majesty-"

"Viktor," he cooed, "I love hearing you say my name, Miss (Y/N). It drives me wild."

"Viktor," you breathed, but not much came out. The damn tight dress. Too many emotions at once. Too many thoughts. Your eyes closed but you couldn't get your heart to stop racing. You clutched onto his sleeve as you trembled and you heard Viktor mutter something indistinguishable under his breath.

"I really ought to have a talk with them personally," he said, sounding as angry as he did when he spoke with Heimer and Jayce once. Hating how much he had to turn so many begging citizens away. "About these damn dresses."

He was between your legs, stepping forward until his chest was against yours, his hands sliding down your back. It wasn't as slow or methodical as it had been in the library. He tugged without restraint on the crisscrossing strings that held your dress tight. Each jerk making you gasp, and you wrapped your arms--and, shamefully, legs--around him until the dress was loose and free.

"There," he breathed out quietly. You didn't drop your legs from around him when you desperately knew you should have. It didn't help that when he pulled back, your dress caught against him, and it fell down your shoulders, exposing the low-cut slip you wore beneath. Neither of you parted.

A comprising situation with the King once more. Once again you would've laughed at the idea. Called them crazy. More so if they told you his eyes would drop to your chest, his hands would twitch on your waist, and his gaze would come up to meet your so hungry that they would draw you in like a magnet. You simply wouldn't believe them if they said he'd kiss you.

But, in fairness, he hadn't.

He devoured you.

And you devoured right back.

You weren't entirely sure who'd made the move. Just one moment you were staring at his mouth, silently begging to know what it felt like against yours. And the next, you were leaning forward and you had that question answered. Amazing. Soft and amazing. Perfect. He tasted like coffee and vanilla.

His hands roamed up to your ribs, but strayed no higher. He held you against him, hips still between your legs, and you held him even firmer against you. You wanted so much from him. To yell and scream, to strangle and kick, to kiss and devour. To take him right there. To let him take you right there.

You grabbed onto his shirt, wincing at the poor soul who was going to have to press out the wrinkles. But the guilt hadn't lasted long. Not when Viktor's tongue grazed yours and all intelligent thoughts drifted right out of your head. You'd tried to keep composure, but when one hand came up and skimmed your jaw, reaching back to tangle in your hair, you were hanging on by a thread. One that snapped as his nails scraped your scalp and he tugged your head back just enough to make you gasp. And you'd be damned if you didn't moan when he took that opportunity to deepen the kiss, his hips finally moving between your legs.

Not much, but enough to tell you how much he wanted you.

And, damn it, you didn't want it to stop. As shameful as you felt after everything, you wanted more. You were dazed from the kiss, barely able to keep up with your thoughts as you unclamped your fingers and attempted at undoing his shirt. Practically clawing at it to get it off.

That's when Viktor paused, breaking the kiss, huffing. You prepared yourself for disappointment. That he was just a King exercising his power, his intelligence, his charisma to play with you. Make you want something you could never in a million years have.

"Not here," he muttered. "If I am going to fuck you, Miss (Y/N), it's going to be in my bed where I can strip you down and taste every inch of you."

You moaned. Practically sobbed. Guilty pierced your heart but you'd be damned if you let it break it.

"And if I wasn't expected back at the damned ball..." He cupped your jaw so tenderly and shook his head. "That is where we'd be right now."

You cursed whatever compelled you to speak because all you managed was, "don't go."

And Viktor laughed. He laughed. That was your undoing.

"Do not worry," he breathed, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck and kissing the soft spot beneath your ear. "I do not intend to leave you in such disarray."

His hand snuck beneath the skirt of your dress and you practically vibrated as it skimmed your inner thighs. Your teeth captured your bottom lip and you whined--never once had you whined for someone until now--when he stopped just before he reached the apex.

"May I?"

You would've begged if you'd had it in you. But you were trying to maintain some dignity. So you nodded. And it all disappeared when his fingers ran between your folds, the tips grazing your clit and making you jump.

"Miss (Y/N)," he breathed as he ran the same teasing line. "Fuck."

You'd said the word dozens of times yourself. But from him? It felt a dozen times dirtier. And you committed it to memory. You were going to hear it every time you thought about the evening. Every time you looked at him. You'd think about him whispering it against your neck as his fingers spread you, his teeth dug into your skin, as he visibly ached to touch you.

And then his fingers found your clit. So damn easily, too. The precise, languid circles he ran over it were already driving you mad, your legs shaking as you tried to slow the coil that was tightening in your abdomen.

"I have not stopped thinking about you," he whispered as he slipped two fingers into your entrance. You buried your face in the crook of his neck to hide your whimpers. "My mind, I must admit, does do not you justice."

You nearly lost yourself at that. He angled himself so his palm grazed your clit with each pump of his fingers, with every movement of his hand as he curled them inside you. You wanted more than his fingers. You wanted him to take you right there on the damn desk. He could've. You would've let him without a second thought. Who needed a bed when you'd throw him in the desk chair and ride him until you were moaning his name. Until he was moaning yours.

"Fuck," you whined and Viktor sped up his fingers.

He felt so damn good. You'd watched him use those fingers to write, to eat, to argue. Hands gesturing, fingers twirling quills, it was torture. What little alone time you got by yourself, you imagined they were the ones making you bite your lip to the point of nearly breaking the skin. That he had you on his lap, legs spread, whispering how good you felt as you came around his fingers.

"Please," he spoke against your skin. "Do not make me leave this room without making do on my promise."

You would've laughed if you weren't on the edge already. Your walls squeezed his fingers and he grinned against you. He curled them a little harder, a little faster. He sucked, licked, dragged his teeth along your neck. Reached his hand up and yanked on your hair, angling to give him better access.

You weren't a begger. Not with him. You'd told yourself that.

"Please," you whimpered. "Don't stop."

"As if I have zero intention of doing so." His mouth brushed the shell of your ear. "Now be good and cum for me like I know you want to."

You did. He held your head back so you couldn't bury your face in his neck. And he watched. He watched you come undone. As your walls strangled his fingers, as your back arched, your eyes closed. As your muscles tensed and you fought the moan that still burst its way out. A strangled mixture of his name and just fuck.

He didn't remove his fingers until a few tears slipped down your cheeks and you slumped against him.

"Now that," he cooed as he brought his fingers up to his mouth. He groaned as he licked them clean, and you were ever thankful you decided to open your eyes as he spoke. "Is what's going to get me through the days until I can have you for myself."

"And when, Your Majesty, do you expect that to be?"

He cocked a brow.

"For all we know," you huffed, "my parents could pay off the debt before our paths ever cross again. I am kept rather busy here."

He grinned and kissed you. Long and hard. He redid your dress before speaking. Waiting until he was at the door to the room, ever the dramatic, he was.

"Then I better start sneaking away more often. Good night, Miss (Y/N)." He nodded towards the plate. "And, please, do make sure you eat."

He’s just a baby. Hi baby!!

Viktor getting what he deserves❤❤❤

Part Two of Simon Riley meeting a single mom at the park and going "that one, I want that one."

As much as Simon feels the persistent gnaw of want, he can’t pinpoint exactly why it’s there, and as the days since he met you drag on, he can’t figure out which is more frustrating — the wanting itself, or the fact that the reason behind it keeps eluding him.

Maybe it’s some biological impulse, that’s one thing he considers. Maybe it’s just a primal impulse drudged up by the sight of your belly and the helpless fear he’d heard in your voice that day. His rotten genes kicking around inside him, whispering to him that they want out.

Or it could be that you look like exactly the type he tends to go for when he allows himself the little indulgence of a pretty woman’s company. Present state aside, that is.

Regardless, he finds himself walking by the park nearly every day, scanning the area just in case he sees you or your little boy there again. He doubts he'd approach you again even if he did cross your path a second time, but even so, his aimless walks don't seem quite so aimless anymore.

It's not until one day, a few weeks after that first time, that he sees your somehow familiar form standing by one of the picnic tables. He'd thought you looked fit to burst the first time he saw you, but now you were somehow bigger still. Even from a distance, he can make out the sweat on your face, the wet bits of hair sticking to your forehead that show your overexertion, as if your rundown expression doesn't give it away.

You look absolutely miserable, and Simon pushes down whatever odd little instinct it is that makes him think about how much he'd like to kiss it all better.

Close by, safe on the ground this time, is your son, Charlie. He darts around the grass by the table while you unload a bag with snacks and drinks, your eyes firmly trained on him while you do it.

Simon walks slowly, trying to decide if it would be better to turn and go back the other way or to walk by as if he doesn't notice you -- he shouldn't notice you. If he did recognize you, it should only be in passing, a brief flicker of recognition that quickly passes, not ... whatever this is.

A small part of him, one that he'd never let see the light of day, considers the idea of approaching you.

The choice is taken away from him when Charlie spots him while doing spins in the grass. The little boy lets out a squeal, pointing directly at him, and begins bounding over.

"Charlie, for the love of --"

Then you look up and see him, and he can't be sure from the distance, but he thinks he sees the flicker of a smile.

He notices how you let yourself take your time a bit as you amble towards him, a small rush of pride going through him that you're not panicking over your child's safety as he runs in his direction. Charlie reaches him first, and he has to tilt his head nearly to his shoulders to look up at him.

"You were on the slide before."

"I was."

"You're too big for the slide."

"Wasn't there to slide."

By that point, you'd manage to waddle your way over, your hand going to rest on Charlie's shoulder as you look to Simon. You greet him, a quick "Hi," then look back down to your son.

"Let's not bother strangers, ok? Come on, we have a picnic."

"He's not a stranger," Charlie argues. "He was on the slide."

If Simon wasn't trying to keep his eyes off the drop of sweat that was trailing down by your collarbone, he would have taken a moment to properly appreciate the simplicity of the argument.

"Sorry," you say softly, glancing up at Simon again. "He's a friendly little thing."

"Quite all right."

"You want juice?"

He can't help but let out a chuckle at the kid's question -- he's never been much of a talker, and it seems like you might not be much of one either, but someone's putting in some effort.

"Mum made crackers too," Charlie adds. "You want some crackers?"

"I'm sure this man has more important things to do than have crackers and juice with us, don't you think?" you say.

But he doesn't. At this moment, he feels like he's never had anything more important to do.

There are a few more precocious little invites, along with some puppy dog eyes, and before he knows it, Simon is being led through a stretch of grass to a picnic table with you and your son.

The conversation is ... not great, honestly. You're either shy or guarded, maybe both, and Charlie isn't quite old enough to spark any kind of intelligent discussion. But he does enjoy the juice box the boy insists he takes, and he likes the strange warmth that spreads through his chest at the sight of you across from him at the table even more.

"Come watch me swing," Charlie demands after a bit. You shrug, apparently content with letting the child run the show at this point, and Simon lets out another deep chuckle, standing and hesitantly following you both to the swingset.

"Thanks for humoring him," you tell him quietly as you push your son on the swing.

"Not at all," he replies. "He's ..."

He trails off, not sure what he was even planning on saying. Sweet? Funny? They don't feel like words he'd use, but this doesn't even feel like an interaction he'd have. It's all new territory for him.

Thankfully, you don't seem miffed by his short responses, or by the silence that follows. You just stand there, one hand pushing Charlie while the other rests low on your belly, while he stands further back, watching.

And there it is again. The wanting. Brutal and undeniable.

“When’s the little one due?”

The question comes out low and gruff, as if it clawed its way out of his throat on his own, which it may have, because he rarely willingly engages in small talk like this.

"Couple of weeks," you answer.

Charlie breaks the next stretch of silence by instructing Simon to watch him kick his legs to swing even higher, which he does. After he gives him what he hopes sounds like a hum of approval, his eyes move back to you, watching the way your hand moves to rest on your hip, your fingers pressing towards the small of your back as if you're trying to keep yourself propped up.

"Kid seems like a bit of a handful to keep up with all by yourself," he murmurs. "Presently, anyway."

It's not his business, but you don't seem to mind because you reply again, eyes still on Charlie.

"He's been ... well, I think he's a little nervous, about the new baby," you explain. "So I've been trying to make these last few weeks of just us special."

You don't talk much, he's coming to understand that, but he doesn't either, so he knows how much can be said in the spaces between. He stays quiet for a moment, taking a pause to watch another one of Charlie's tricks.

"'Just us'?" he asks. "And what about that husband who was supposed to come to the rescue last time?"

"I lied so you'd think twice about kidnapping us."

Simon chuckles at the blunt response, and says, "Decided you're not in danger now, have you?"

"More like I've decided that if you kidnap us after we gave you juice and crackers, you're a monster and we never stood a chance anyway."

You glance up at him then, the first time you've looked at him since the party moved to the swings, and you smile. It's more playful than flirty, but it's for him, and he finds himself smiling back.

Simon doesn't do this. When he's home, he doesn't really talk to people. There's a quick exchange with a cashier or a bartender, or the occasional mutually distant transaction with a woman who wants the same quick release that he does. Some days are so bad that he'll spend more time than he cares to admit considering whether he wants to wear a mask out -- if he wants to just blend in as much as he can like he usually does, all dark clothing and hunched shoulders, or if he wants to risk attracting a bit more attention by wearing the mask since even so, it'll ensure that no one can see his face.

But here he is, for a reason that he still can't quite pinpoint, smiling at a pregnant lady in a park and watching her little boy play.

It doesn't make sense, but it doesn't feel bad either. So he doesn't stop.

It was late afternoon when Charlie first approached him, and now the sun is getting lower in the sky. You reach a hand up to pull on the chain of the swing, slowing the boy down, and tell him it’s time to go.

He whines for just a moment before obediently dragging his feet to stop the swing, standing up. Before Simon can process it, he comes up to him and wraps his arms around his legs.

“Thanks for playing,” he says before running back off towards the table where you’d left your things.

He helps you gather everything, walking the empty juice boxes over to the trash can so you don’t have to move any more than necessary. When you’re all ready to go, he watches you take Charlie’s hand and offer him another smile.

“See you around,” you tell him before turning and walking off towards the sidewalk.

He tries to think of something clever to say, then he kicks himself for wanting to say something clever, and before he can get out of his own head, you’re already halfway down the sidewalk. And, he notices, you happen to be headed in the direction of his own apartment.

Something in him wants to catch up with you, to say that he’s headed the same way, which wouldn’t be a lie. It’s the same part of him that made him a good soldier — the part that sees an opportunity to go in for the kill.

But the part of him that makes him a good leader stays put. The timing isn't right, and he doesn't want to take a chance on a half-cocked impulse, especially when he still hasn't even figured out what it is that's pulling him to you.

So he walks. He goes the opposite way, away from home, away from you, deeper into town. He walks past the shops as they start closing for the night, the pubs as they get more lively. He walks until he's sure that you and Charlie made your way to wherever you were headed, and only then does he make his way back to his apartment.

It's as dull there as ever, the overhead light flickering when he turns it on and walks inside. He hears the familiar creaking of his cheap old couch as it sinks under his weight when he sits, sees the white expanse of the walls, no pictures or paintings or whatever else people put up to make a house feel warmer than this.

But tonight, it's not quite so bleak. There's the faintest taste of apple juice lingering on his tongue, a sweetness he's not accustomed to, and he can still feel a bit of warmth on his face from being in the sun so long.

He wants more of it. He still doesn't know the ins and outs of it all, but he's ready to accept that it exists. And he's ready to start strategizing on how exactly he can get it.

TF141 and their sleepy marshmallow girl. Will curl up just about anywhere and rest so they learn to tuck themselves into your space if only to hold something that so gently contrasts the harshness they've endured.

white t girl i love you. and also do not forget that you are not the modern martyr for the oppressed voice. that's still black girls. it's always been black girls. stories of black martyrdom simply don't make it into the news cycle until the unrest caused by its reporting can be packaged as a "riot" segment between traffic reports. i know you suffer, but whatever you're experiencing, i beg you, when interacting with your community and building nuanced understandings of each other and the system which binds us, to not forget that a black tgirl has felt it 100 times worse before positioning yourself as an authority on all systems of oppression for having suffered unjustly at all. because you have suffered unjustly, but suffering unjustly as a white person means something so much different.

>:)

Stylized Viktor Proportions

Did a simple guide of Viktor's body proportions (in a very stylized version) for myself. Figured I'd share here.

Bath & Body Works logo but it says Back & Body Hurts

one thing i won’t be doing is having people believe a white person can experience racism