Work Text:
The hydraulic hiss of the delivery truck’s brakes echoed through the loading dock, a sound that signalled the end of a long, sweltering afternoon. You wiped a bead of sweat from your temple, the humidity of the warehouse clinging to your skin like a second layer of clothing. The heat was oppressive, thick with the scent of ozone and sterilised metal, but the pressure of the shipment was heavier. They were the high priority neuro-stabilizers, an experimental batch Viktor had been obsessing over for weeks.
You had tracked his preoccupation with the precision of a seasoned professional. You knew he hadn’t slept well because his gait was heavier, his jaw tighter than usual. You knew he was anxious because he had been checking the temperature logs in the clinic three times a day, a habit that was entirely inefficient, yet entirely necessary for a man of his temperament. Knowing his habits was simply part of the job. Anticipating his needs made the clinic run more smoothly. That was the logic you used to quiet the restless hum in your chest.
You stood at the heavy metal desk, the tablet tucked under your arm, waiting for the courier to finish his digital signature.
“Sign here,” the courier muttered, sliding the stylus toward you.
You signed the digital pad with a practiced motion, your fingers feeling a little clumsy from the warmth. Once the courier had vanished into the bright afternoon sun, you began the tedious process of cross-referencing the manifest. The vials were heavy in their specialised cooling crates, a shimmering, iridescent liquid swirling behind the reinforced glass.
You didn’t hear the door open, but you knew he was there. You knew the exact cadence of his boots on the floor before you actually saw him. You preferred finishing the tally on the manifest first before turning around, a small, private rule to ensure you appeared composed, focused and entirely unhurried. You had rules for Viktor. Most of them were about not looking too long, or not mistaking his quiet, practical instructions for something more intimate.
When you finally looked at him, he was already standing at the edge of the dock, his silhouette cutting a sharp, imposing line against the bright glare of the afternoon sun. He looked exhausted. The dark circles under his eyes were more pronounced today, and the new, shallow cut across his left knuckle likely from a misplaced tool or a restless night was a bright, angry red. You noted it because it might affect his dexterity during the transfer. Nothing else.
“They’re here” The voice was vibrating through the quiet of the supply room. He didn’t need to offer a greeting. But he moved toward the crates with a driving purpose, his shoulders tenses under his shirt.
“It just arrived,” you said, your voice soft as you began to unlatch the first crate. “Everything is accounted for.”
He stepped into the room, his footsteps echoing on the floor. Moving with a grounded presence that always seemed to displace the very air in the clinic. He stopped a few inches away, his presence a sudden warmth at your back. You wouldn’t face him immediately, another rule you kept to ensure you didn’t appear too eager for his scrutiny.He was watching your hands, his jaw tight, and eyes tracking the precise way you handled the volatile vials.
“Don’t just leave ‘em sitting there,” he grunted, his gaze shifting to the iridescent liquid swirling in the vials. “The temp in here is fine, but those things look… sensitive. Get ‘em in the storage room before the heat gets to ‘em.”
He crossed his arms, his knuckles stark against the dark fabric of his sleeves. You noted the tension on his shoulders, the way his brow furrowed when he was worried. It was a subtle shift, one you had learned to recognise to avoid unnecessary questions.
“I’m on it,” you replied, reaching for the first crate. The metal was cold, but as you lifted it, a strange, faint sensation prickled at the back of your neck.
“Hurry up then,” he muttered, standing there, a silent and weighty observer.
You moved to the refrigerated storage unit, the door hissing as you pulled it open. The cool air hit your face, a brief relief from the stifling humidity of the loading dock. As you began transferring the vials one by one, a sudden clink echoed through the room.
Your hand slipped.
The sound of glass shattering against the floor was deafening in the small room. You froze, your breath hitching as you stared down at the broken vial. The iridescent liquid was spreading rapidly, a shimmering pool that seemed to glow with an unnatural light.
“Shit,” Viktor growled, stepping forward. He reached for the spill, his boots clicking against the linoleum. “Don’t touch it. Get back.”
You scrambled away, your heart beating rapidly. “I’m sorry, I-“
“Forget it,” he snapped, his voice harsh. He grabbed a handful of absorbent towels from the supply shelf, his jaw tight. “Just stay there and don’t breathe it in.”
But it was too late. The mist was already rising, a fine glittering gaze that caught the sterile overhead lights. It smelled of crushed lilies and something metallic that made your head swim. You felt the air thicken, the atmosphere turning heavy and viscous.
Viktor was kneeling, his hands working towards soaking up the spill. The mist was still swirling in the air, a ghostly, shimmering haze that seemed to cling to the very fabric of your clothes. You watched Viktor through a blur, your eyes stinging slightly from the sharp, sweet scent. He was still on his knees, his broad shoulders hunched as he worked the towels over the floor.
“Goddamn thing,” he muttered, his voice a low vibration that seemed to rattle in your chest. You saw the way his jaw clenched, the muscles in his neck corded and tight. “Stay clear of the mess. I’ll finish this.”
“I’ll… l’ll go log it,” you managed to say. Your voice sounded strange to your own ears, breathier and a pitch higher, as you were speaking through a layer of velvet.
You turned away, your legs feeling uncharacteristically heavy, as if you were walking through water. Every movement felt dragged, every sensation amplified. The friction of your black trousers against your thighs felt inexplicably loud. A constant, sliding warmth that made you want to shudder.
You reached the small admin desk at the edge of the supply room, your fingers fumbling with the keyboard. The plastic keys felt unnervingly smooth, almost slick under your fingertips. You did your best to focus on the screen, on the task of recording the wasted stabiliser, but the numbers were beginning to swim.
A sharp prickle of heat bloomed at the base of your spine, radiating outward in a slow wave. It wasn’t a fever, not the kind that made you shiver or ache with sickness. But a deep, thrumming warmth that felt like it was settling into your very bones. You swallowed hard, the sensation of your own throat moving feeling strangely intense, almost too much.
‘It’s just the adrenaline’, you told yourself.‘The shock of the glass breaking. That’s all..’
“Log the loss,” Viktor’s voice drifted over the spill, the sound of his voice seemed to settle directly into your skin, making the fine hairs on your arms stand up.
You tried to focus, but the silence of the room had become a pressure right against your eardrums. You could hear everything: the hum of the refrigerator, the distant drip of a faucet, and most of all, the uneven cadence of Viktor’s breathing. Every time he shifted his weight, the sound of his boots against the floor sent a fresh jolt of electricity through your nerves. You felt a desperate, irrational urge to crawl out of your own skin, to find something cold to press against the burning ache in your chest and the pulsing warmth settling low in your belly.
You kept your eyes glued to the monitor, staring at the same line of data until the numbers lost all meaning, terrified that if you looked up, he would see the way your pupils were blown wide, or the way your lips were parted, searching for air that never felt deep enough.
“Goddamn,” he muttered, the word a low rasp that seemed to vibrate through the very walls. He was staring at his own hands, his calloused fingers twitching rhythmically against the metal table as if he were trying to work out a knot in his own skin. The air in the small room felt like it was thickening, turning into something viscous, making every movement feel like you were wading through warm honey.
“You’re still breathing like you just ran a marathon,” he grunted, though he didn’t turn around. His voice was lower than usual. “If you’re gonna be sick, just do it. Don’t make a goddamn production out of it.”
“I’m not…. Sick,” you managed to say, but the words felt clumsy, your tongue feeling too large for your mouth. You kept your hands on the edge of the desk, trying to force your focus back to the screen, but the numbers were dancing, blurring into meaningless shapes. The need was a demand. A quivering ache that made the simple act of sitting upright feel like an immense exhausting effort. You could feel a sudden prickle of sweat at your hairline, and the sensation of your own hair brushing against the nape of your neck that was so intense it was almost painful. You wanted to scream, or maybe to sink into the floor, just to escape the overwhelming senses of the room.
“Just.. go,” you whispered, your voice cracking. “Please, Viktor. Just go outside or something. I need a minute.”
You couldn’t look at him, terrified that if you met his eyes, the sheer hunger in your own gaze would give you away. You felt like a fraud, a girl playing at being a perfectly fine assistant while her entire body was betraying her, turning into a a blubbering mess.
“You’re burning up,” he grumbled, His voice sounded strained, as If he were speaking through gritted teeth. “Christ, what did that do to you ? Look at me… I’m not leaving you here to pass out and crack your skull open.”
He took a step toward you, and you instinctively flinched, recoiling as if his very shadow might bruise you. The movement was unusual from your usual quiet composure, and the suddenness of it made him freeze. “Stay back,” you pleaded. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to block out the overwhelming fever of his body, his scent, the way the very sound of his heavy breathing seemed to pull at the sensitive skin of your throat. “Just… give me some fucking space.”
He stood there, his hands curling into fists at his sides. It looked like he was fighting a war behind his eyes, his intense gaze fixed on the side of your face though he remained anchored to the spot.
“Fine,” he rasped, turning away abruptly, his boots thudding against the floor as he passed the small perimeter of the supply room. He leaned his back against the cold metal of the storage unit, his head tilting back against the wall with a dull thud.
“Space,” he muttered, the word a bitter, low growl. “Fine. You want space, take the damn space.”
But he still didn’t leave. You could hear the tension is voice, that seemed to fill the gaps between your frantic breaths. He was standing here, his chest rising and falling in laboured heaves. He sounded less like a man waiting for a colleague to recover and more like someone trying to hold himself together.
The silence that followed was worse than the noise. Thick with the scent of the spilled mist that still clung to your skin and his clothes. Every time he shifted, the sound of his breathing : rough, jagged and unusually loud sent a fresh wave of throb rolling through your entire body. You were trapped in a sensory cage, the sterile air feeling too thin to satisfy the sudden, desperate hunger in your lungs. You kept your eyes glued to the monitor, praying that if you didn’t move, the fever wouldn’t consume you.
But the silence was a lie. It stretched to the breaking point. You could hear the way his pants creaked as he shifted his weight, a sound that felt like a physical touch against your skin. You could hear the grit in his throat when he swallowed, making your own mouth go dry.
“Ah, shit...” He breathed, the word barely a whisper. You could feel the shift in the air, the way the pressure in the room seemed to tilt toward him. He sounded like a man holding himself together out of pure spite. You could still feel his gaze, even without looking. A tactile weight pressing against the curve of your shoulder and the nape of your neck. It was a dark, hungry thing stripped of his usual clinical detachment.
The air was so thick with the scent of the spilled stabiliser that it felt like you were breathing in liquid gold, sweet and suffocating. Every time he exhaled, a gust of warmth seemed to roll across the distance between you, hitting your skin. You anchored your hands to the edge of the desk until your fingers ached. But the sensation of the hard plastic under your palms only served to remind you how much you needed something soft, something warm, something like him.
He called out your name in his low voice, making your stomach flip. He didn’t say it often, usually it was just a grunt or a clipped instruction. But this time, the way he said it made the fever in your blood spike into a panicked, demanding rhythm. He sounded like a man who was trying to remember how to breathe, how to stand, how to be the doctor. Instead of someone standing in a room that had suddenly became too small for the both of you.
“Don’t,” you choked out, the word catching in your throat as you forced yourself to stare harder at the screen, though the numbers were nothing but a meaningless blur of white on black. “Just.. don’t come any closer, Viktor. Please…”
He didn’t listen, he never fucking listened when he was like this. Instead of retreating, he started pacing around the room. You could hear his boots stomping on the floor like a caged animal. Every time he passed behind your chair, the air pressure seemed to spike, a wave of fever rolling out of his body that made the fine hairs on your arms stand on end.
“Stop it,” you whispered, though you weren’t sure if you were telling him to stop pacing of telling yourself to stop wanting him to touch you.
“Stop what?” He growled, stopping dead. You could feel his gaze boring into the back of your neck “Stop breathing? Stop standing here? For fuck's sake , you’re acting like you’re about to jump out of your own skin.”
The sensation of your black clothing, usually a comfort and a shield, was becoming unbearable. The fabric felt heavy, abrasive, a constant dragging friction against your breasts and hips that made you want to scream against your skin. You felt a sudden, irrational anger at the unyielding solidity of the chair beneath you, at the way the desk wouldn’t move, at the way the world wouldn’t just bend to the frantic, pulsing need clawing at your insides. You wanted to reach out and grab something, anything to ground the electricity that was lashing through your nerves.
“Just… leave me alone Viktor,” you snapped. The words sharper than you intended, the soft spoken, polite assistant fracturing against the pressure of the pollen. You didn’t mean to be rude, you just wanted to feel better. “Go back to the front, go fix a fucking implant. Just get out of here.”
The silence that followed was deafening. You held your breath, your heart hammering waiting for the gruff dismissal, for the wounded pride, for him to turn and walk out the door.
Instead, you heard a sound of pure strain. Then you heard the thud of his hand hitting the edge of the desk, as he was trying to anchor himself to the metal to keep from lunging at you.
“No. No, don’t tell me what to do,” he rasped. The gruffness was there, but the edges were frayed, stripped of its usual authority and replaced by raw tension. You could hear the grit in his voice, the way it caught on the words. “You think you’re the only one in this room losing their goddamn mind?”
You finally turned, the movement sudden and uncoordinated, and the breath left your lungs in a sharp, audible hiss. He was leaning over the desk, his large hands gripping the edge. His jaw was clamped tight, the muscle jumping in his cheek. And his eyes, usually so steady and observant were dark, blown wide and fixed on you with a singular focus.
Looking at him finally was the final crack in your composure. Viktor, who was always so precise, so contained in his work clothes, looked utterly undone. His glasses were askew. His hair, usually kept short and practical was mussed, a few dark strands clinging to his damp forehead. His collar was pulled wide, the blue fabric damp with sweat, clinging to the broad lines of his shoulders. He looked unraveled. The sight of his scarred hands trembling just a fraction, a tremor of unadulterated strain sent a jolt of electricity straight to your core.
“Viktor…” You breathed out, and name was no longer a polite address but a soft, desperate sound, a lurching plea. You reached out, your fingers hovering inches from his forearm, wanting to touch the warm skin there. Wanting to see if he was as feverish as you were.
He flinched back as if your proximity was a physical blow, his jaw tightening so hard you heard the bone crack. “No, stay back.” He said, his voice a low, jagged warning. He didn’t close the gap, just stood there, tense and his chest heaving as he fought for air. “You’re not thinking straight. Neither am I.”
You pulled your hand back, clutching it against your chest, your fingers digging into the black fabric of your shirt. The air between you was thick, saturated with the scent of the spilled stabiliser. Your mind was a chaotic blur of need and panic. “No, don't pull away.. I can’t… I can’t think.” You admitted, your voice small and trembling.
Viktor’s eyes never left yours. He looked away, then back “Go get some water. Get out of this room.” He sounded harsh, but his hands were shaking. He reached up, rubbing his forehead with the heel of his palm, a desperate attempt to clear the fog. “I’ll finish the inventory. Just go.”
You didn’t move, you couldn’t. The idea of walking through the empty hallways, of passing potential clients, of pretending to be fine while your skin felt like it was being licked by flames, was impossible. You felt a sudden urge of frustration, a desire to grab him by his forearms and shake him until the fog cleared.
“I can’t just leave,” you whispered, your voice cracking. You stood up, the chair scraping harshly against the floor. You took a step toward him, your legs feeling bulky and uncoordinated, as if you were walking through sand. “It’s everywhere, Viktor. It’s in the air. It’s… It’s in me.”
Viktor let out a half-choked laugh. He turned away, his shoulders bunching as he gripped the edge of the metal supply cabinet. Leaning his forehead against the cool surface, his breath coming in ragged, uneven hitches. “Then we’ll wash it off,” he muttered without making an effort to move away, just stayed stuck to the cabinet.
“Wash it off?” You repeated, the words coming out as a breathless, hysterical laugh. You took another step closer to him. “How? With what? It’s in my lungs, Viktor. It’s in my blood.”
He turned sharply, his presence was overwhelming, a dark shadow that blotted out the fluorescent lights of the lab. He didn’t touch you, he was too disciplined for that, too terrified by the force of the impulse. But he leaned in, his face inches from yours. You could see the fine sheen of sweat on his upper lip, the way his eyes were blown wide, the pupils swallowing the blue irises until they were nothing but voids of hunger.
“Then we find a way to kill it,” he said, reaching out, his hand hovering near your jaw. His fingers were twitching as he was fighting the urge to grab you and pull you flush against his body. He didn’t dare close the distance, but the electricity of his palm was a brand against your skin, a silent promise of what you were starving for. “Then we find a way,” he repeated, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper that made your knees buckle. “Before we both lose our goddamn minds.”
Viktor’s teeth were grinding with a sound that felt too loud in the suffocating quiet of the lab. He was a man of precision, a man who spent a good part of his life under the steady light of a surgical lamp, repairing people with a hand that never wavered. But now his own hands were betraying him. You watched, mesmerised and terrified, as his fingers twitched against the metal cabinet, trembling with the effort of not reaching for you.
“Water,” he rasped, “We need… we need to flush it out.”
It was a practical suggestion, a ripperdoc’s solution to a failing system. He turned, his movements stiff and uncoordinated, and grabbed a clean, sterile cloth from a nearby tray. He moved to the sink, the sound of the running water echoing like a waterfall in the silence. He soaked the fabric, his movements frantic, lacking his usual clinical grace. When he turned back to you, his face was clammy, a dark feverish flare radiating from his skin.
“Hold this,” he said.
You took the cloth from him, your fingers brushing his for a fraction of a second. The contact was a sudden, violent spark that made you gasp. The cloth was freezing, a cold shock against your feverish skin, but it did nothing to dampen the warmth. As you pressed it to your neck, the sensation of the damp fabric sliding against your skin only served to heighten the awareness of your own body, the way your pulse thrummed against the cloth, how your breath hitched in your throat.
Viktor watched you, his eyes dark and unreadable and his chest heaving. He reached out, his hand hovering near your temple helping you apply the cold compress. But as he leaned in, a single, heavy bead of sweat escaped his brow, rolling down his temple and landing squarely on the back of your hand.
The reaction was instant.
The world seemed to tilt beneath you, the cool dampness of the cloth turning useless in your grip as something far sharper tore through your body. It was no longer the lingering mist in the room or the feverish ache under your skin. Whatever had touched you through him sent it all violent at once, a sudden chemical spike that made your breath hitch in your throat. You let out a strangled sound, half gasp, half sob, staring at the damp mark on your hand like it had burned you.
"Please...” He breathed, the word a broken, desperate prayer. His hand shot out, his fingers curling tightly around your wrist. He pulled your hand, the one damp with his sweat upward, pressing it hard against his own mouth. A low, strained sound tore out of him.
“Goddamn it,” he grunted against your skin, the words vibrating straight through you. He leaned into the contact like he’d already lost the fight and knew it, eyes squeezing shut as his breath hit warm across your hand.
His grip tightened, his thumb dragging roughly over the pulse in your wrists, which was already beating itself raw beneath his touch. When he looked up, there was nothing steady left in his face. Whatever distance he had managed to keep between you until now : the clipped instructions, the gruff dismissals, the careful professional coldness, had finally burned away.
“You’ve got me gone,” he rasped, and then his forehead came down against yours. His skin was searing, a feverish brand that made your vision blur at the edges. You could feel the uneven thud of his heart where his chest hovered too close to yours, close enough now that his breath fanned warm across your mouth. Smelling faintly of coffee, close enough that the distance left between you no longer felt like restraint.
Viktor’s mouth slammed into yours with a desperate, uncoordinated force that nearly knocked the breath out of you. The kiss was all ruined restraint and bad timing, open-mouthed and messy, nothing careful or practiced about it. You met him with the same hunger, your hands tangling into his hair as you dragged him closer, closer, until there was no space left between you. Only the drag of his mouth over yours and the broken uneven rhythm of both of you trying and failing to breathe.
He pulled back only an inch, his breath coming in hitches as he looked at your mouth, your lips swelling and wet beneath the sterile, overhead light. “Fuck…” he breathed, voice wrecked. Sliding his hand up to the back of your neck hard enough to make your pulse jump, and he tilted your head back before kissing you again.
Then, he broke the kiss just enough to drag his mouth down the line of your jaw, before crashing them back on your lips. With a sudden heave, he pulled back and grabbed your waist, not letting you time to recover, and hoisted you up. He sat on the edge of the metal table, pulling you directly onto his lap. He handled you with uncoordinated urgency. Straddling your hips and forcing you to face him. He kept you upright, your legs wrapped tightly around his waist to anchor you against him. “N-no….” He let out, his breath uneven against your ear.
He began to grind his hips upward, forcing the air from your lungs. You could feel the friction of his thighs against yours and his weight pressing into you through the barrier of your clothes. He was chasing the sensation, his hips bucking in short jolts.
His hands were working, one splayed flat against the small of your back to crush you closer, while the other gripped your hip so hard his fingers left stinging, red crescents on your skin. He tilted you at an angle that forced you to take everything.
“Stay right there,” he rasped, as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his stubble scraping roughly against your skin. “Don’t you fucking move.”
Then, Viktor’s fingers bit into your jaw, his grip hard enough to hurt. He kissed you with all the restraint knocked out of him, rough and open-mouthed, and when his teeth scraped your lip the sting only made you pull him in harder, your fist tightening in his shirt.
He tore himself for a second, breathing hard. His face was flushed and slick with sweat, his mouth swollen from the kiss. Then, without warning, he gathered a mouthful of saliva and spat it directly into your open mouth. You swallowed it down, feeling it sliding down your throat. It made your stomach churn with a sudden, violent hunger.
“You’re a mess,” he rasped, using his thumb to smear the remaining moisture across your bottom lip. He leaned in again, his mouth crashing against you with a renewed, frantic need. The sound was wet as his tongue swept through your mouth, while his hands roamed around. One staying clamped on your jaw, his thumb pressing hard into the soft flesh of your cheek, while the other slid down the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair to pull your head back at an uncomfortable angle. He needed you exposed, every time he pulled back to catch a desperate, gasping breath, he was back in your space a second later.
“God, look at you…” he groaned against your mouth. After a little while, he pulled away from your mouth, a string of saliva stretching and snapping between you. His hands were already on your waist, frantically gripping the waistband of your trousers. The fabric was straining under his strength as he yanked them down. He didn’t care about being careful, about the sound of the zipper or the way the fabric bunched awkwardly around your thighs, he just needed you open.
“Ah, hell…” he choked out, his breath hot against your stomach as he dropped to his knees. The sudden shift in height made your head swim, the pollen in your blood turning the sensation of his proximity into a pulsing ache. When his hands finally hit your skin, the warmth of his palms against your hips sent a jolt of electricity straight to your core, making your thighs tremble uncontrollably.
He buried his face in you, his stubble an abrasive friction against your inner thighs that made you gasp and arch your back. He kept licking you with a broad stroke that felt like it was trying to strip the very skin from your bones. You reached down, your fingers digging into his sweat dampened hair, pulling him harder against you as a slow, broken moan tore from your throat.
He was relentless, using his thumbs to spread you wide, his eyes dark and unfocused as he watched the way your body reacted to him. Every time the saliva hit your sensitive skin, the friction felt amplified, the moisture turning into a searing burn that made your vision blur. He was lapping at you, his tongue working with a frantic pressure that drove you toward the edge.
In his desperation, he lost his footing, his knee sliding on the slick linoleum of the lab floor. As he lurched forward, a few drops of your slick escaped, splashing onto the floor. Viktor didn’t even flinch or pulled back to find a towel. Instead, he leaned down and licked the stray drops directly off the floor, his tongue scraping the cold linoleum. The sight of his broad shoulders hunched, made your heart hammer against your ribs. He looked wrecked, his shirt stained and his hair messy, but he didn’t care. He was focused on you, on the warmth radiating from your body and how you were shaking under his touch.
“Viktor,” you gasped, your voice a broken whimper. Every time he sucked, the sensation was a sharp, electric tug that made your toes curl and your vision go white. He was strained, his breathing a series of ragged, shaky breaths as he worked, his hands bruising your hips to keep you anchored there.
“Fuck.. You’re so wet..”, he sighed against your skin, the vibration of his voice sending a fresh wave of tremors through your thighs. He sped up, his tongue flicking with a desperate, uncoordinated speed that made you whimper into the empty lab.
“Please, just-” you choked out, the word a frayed, desperate thing. Your hips were jerking uncontrollably, your muscles twitching with the aftershocks of the friction. You reached down, your fingers trembling as you gripped his shoulders, trying to haul him up. You then tried to grab his hair instead, pulling his face up from between your thighs. His eyes were bloodshot, his mouth glistening and wet, and his face flushed a deep, feverish red. “Viktor. Please, let me… Let me do it too..” You were begging, the shy, quiet assistant completely dead, replaced by someone needy that had to feel him in her own mouth.
He stayed there, dropping his head back in between your thighs. “No,” he gritted out. “Don't pull me off you. Let me have this.” He wanted to milk every last tremor out of you before he’d let you have him.
He reached up, his hand slick with your moisture, and brought his fingers to your lips. You leaned forward and licked them clean, your taste on his skin making your stomach lurch with a fresh, violent wave of need. You didn’t stop there and leaned in, pressing frantic wet kisses to his knuckles, to the scarred skin of his wrists and to the salt slicked hair of his forearms.
Every time your mouth touched his, the pollen flared. It felt like a chemical explosion in your chest, a white hot pressure that made your lungs too small for the air you were gasping. Viktor let out a low, pained groan, his hands tightening on your hips until they sank deep into your flesh. He was fighting it, his jaw working and his eyes squeezing shut as he tried to hold himself back.
“Goddamn… stop..” He rasped, though he was clearly lying, his hands were shaking. The more you pressed your face into the crook of his neck, inhaling the scent of his skin. The warmth was becoming unbearable, a thick, suffocating pressure that made your skin feel too tight for your body.
“Viktor, please,” you whimpered, your voice cracking as you reached for the waistband of his trousers, your fingers fumbling with the fabric. You needed him, everything from him to drown out the screaming in your nerves.
He let out a sound that was half groan, half sob. Grabbing your wrists with a bruising grip and hauled you upwards, he didn’t let you stand but instead shoved you back against the edge of the lab table. The cold metal a jarring contrast to your skin. He loomed over you “You want me to give it to you ?” He rasped, “Say it again”. As he saw you nod, he unbuckled his belt and shoved his trousers down frantically.
The moment he was free, the air in the room seemed to vanish. You lunged forward, your hands sliding up his thighs to pull him towards you. He was pulsing and slick with his own pre-come, and his taste was everything you had been starving for. The moment your lips slid over the head of his cock, a breathy groan tore from his throat.
The air seemed to thicken, turning the very act of breathing into a humid labor. As you worked your mouth around him, your tongue swirling against his head, the heat of his skin felt like it was melting into your own. Every time your saliva met his skin, the sensation flared racing up your spine and settling deep in your gut.
Viktor’s hands were everywhere, his palms slapping against the metal table, then sliding down to grip your hair, pulling your head harder against him. He used you to anchor himself as he drifted into a fever. “Don't do that- no, fuck, keep doin' that.” he breathed out, his head falling down, his eyes squeezed shut so tight his lids trembled. Every time your tongue swirled or your lips tightened, his hips gave a small, involuntary jerk upward.
Driven by a need to be closer, you leaned in, your hands sliding from his thighs to his hips to steady yourself, and took him deeper. You pushed past the point of comfort, your throat stretching to accommodate him.
You felt it hit the back of your throat with a force that made you sputter, a muffled desperate sound escaping you as your eyes welled with stinging tears. You were heaving, your chest tight and your breath coming in shallow as you struggled to keep the pace. A choked and broken sound was ripped from the back of his throat. His head fell back, his neck straining and the cords of muscles standing out in sharp relief. “There you go… Christ, there you go,” he rasped.
His hands abandoned your hair, moving with urgency. His hand descended, his fingers catching your jaw as he tilted your head back just enough to control the angle. With a rough motion, he used his thumb to press against your bottom lip, forcing you to pout and open himself even wider for him.
“Don’t stop,” he pleaded, his hips bucking against your mouth in a desperate rhythm.
Viktor’s hands were trembling so violently he could barely keep his grip. He pulled back from you, his face strained. He looked down at you, his eyes dark and blown wide, searching your face desperately. “I can’t… fuck.. If we don’t…” he didn’t have to finish the sentence, the air was too thick with the pollen that made your skin feel like it was vibrating.
He reached down, his hands fumbling with the remains of your clothes, his movements uncoordinated and rough. When he finally cleared the way, the cool air of the lab hit your damp skin for only a second before he was there, his heavy body pressing you back against the metal table. He didn’t wait and grabbed your thighs hauling them up and over his waist with a grunt, his arms holding you steady.
He positioned himself, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance. He paused for a fraction of a second, his eyes locked onto yours. You could see the sweat dripping from his chin, the way his chest heaved. “Look at me,” he rasped. Then, he drove into you with a single thrust that filled you completely. It was overwhelming, a stretching fullness that made your hips tilt upward instinctively, seeking more. He stayed buried deep for a moment, his forehead dropping to rest against yours, both of you gasping for air. Viktor’s hands tightened on your thighs, his fingers digging into your flesh as he began to move.
He moved with a punishing cadence, his hips slamming against yours. Each thrust was deep, driving the air from your lungs. The slapping friction of skin on skin filled the small space of the lab. Every time he bottomed out, the impact sent a jolt of pleasure straight to your core, a sharp spike that made your vision blur.
Viktor weren’t slowing down. If anything, the sound of your breath, that broken hitching sob made him harder. He saw the first tear track on your cheek, a shimmering line of relief and it seemed to snap the last thread of his control. He leaned down and caught it with his mouth, his lips pressing hard against your skin as he swallowed the salt. The pollen turned the sensation of his wet mouth against your weeping skin into a searing heat that made your entire body convulse.
“Don’t… don’t you dare fucking cry. Stay with me...” He said, though his voice was a wrecked, desperate thing as he reacted to the raw vulnerability of it. He wanted the mess, and the salt. He wanted to feel what you were experiencing.
He shifted his weight and grabbed your ankles. Hauling your legs up until your knees were pinned against your chest, and then he drove his weight forward, pinning you on the table. His chest crushing yours, and sweat slicked torso flattening you against the unyielding metal of the table. There was no space left between you, no room for air, and only the frantic slamming of his hips and the scorching heat of the pollen vibrating in your marrow. He kept on babbling, "No, no, I know, I know..."
The tears wouldn’t stop, they flowed freely, a release of the tension that had been building and Viktor seemed to thrive on it. He leaned down, his face buried in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin as he let out a low guttural sound. He was fucking you desperately, his movements uncoordinated and raw, as if he were trying to merge your very bones with his.
The pressure in your hips reached a mounting tightness that felt like it was about to split you open. Your muscles began to clench rhythmically, a desperate, involuntary pulsing that gripped him tight. The feeling was too much, you felt your body spasm, your muscles seizing as you gushed around him.
“That's it- give me that-” He kept slamming into you with a frantic, uncoordinated speed, his hips hitting yours. You kept sobbing, the tears warms and he was drinking them in, his mouth moving from your neck to your cheek, his stubble an abrasive friction that made you arch your back and cry out. He was chasing the end, his breath coming in short heaves that rattled in his chest.
Viktor let out a broken noise as he felt the sudden slick coming from you. It seemed to snap the last of his restraint. His jaw clamped shut so hard his teeth creaked, and his eyes unfocused. “You've got me gone- d'you hear me? Gone-.” he choked out, the words a broken mess of a confession. As his fingers dug into your thighs, bruising the skin as he drove himself into you one last time, his entire body tensing into a hard cord of muscle. He let out a long jagged sigh, his entire body seizing as he emptied himself into you.
He collapsed over you, his full weight pressing you back against the metal table, chest heaving against yours. Then, he buried his face In the crook of your neck, breath hot against your skin, his body still twitching with the aftershocks of release. For a long moment, the only sounds in the room were your heartbeats, and the broken, hitching pull of both your breaths.
The silence that followed was thick and damp, still clinging to the room with the sweet metallic scent of the spill and the charged residue of what had just happened. Viktor didn't move, he stayed draped over you, heavy and grounding, his breathing rough and uneven at first before it slowly, painfully began to settle. The warmth trapd between your bodies was stifling, turning the narrow space into something almost airless.
Finally, he let out a long, shuddering exhale that rattled through him. He shifted, the drag of his skin against yours damp and slow, and sat back on his haunches without fully leaving your body behind. His hands slipped from your things to the edge of the table, gripping the metal hard enough to whiten his knuckles.
He looked ruined. His hair clung damply to his forehead, his face was flushed, and his eyes had gone dark and distant, fixed somewhere near the floor like he couldn't yet bear to look directly at what had just happened.
“Christ….” He rasped.
He reached toward your face, his calloused hand lifting halfway before stopping short. It hovered near your cheek for one trembling second, as if even now he wasn’t sure what he was allowed to touch. Before he caught himself and dragged it back, wiping a streak of sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist instead.
Then he stood. Stiff and unsteady, his movements rough with the lingering aftermaths of release. He didn’t look at you, not properly. He turned his back instead, broad shoulders damp with sweat and still drawn tight, and reached for the paper towels on the nearby table with trembling hands. You could hear him fumbling with his clothes, trying to pull himself back together, trying to recover the distant, gruff ripperdoc he had been before the room went wrong on both of you, but the tremor in his fingers betrayed him.
“You okay?” He asked at last, voice rough, the question gentler than anything else he had said all afternoon.
He didn’t wait for an answer, his eyes flicked toward the sink as he grabbed a clean towel and started wiping his hands with a jerky, almost aggressive efficiency. As if the motion itself might scrape the last few minutes off his skin. The silence that settled over the room was anything but peaceful. It felt thick, charged and still humming with the aftermath of the spill and the far greater thing that had happened because of it.
When he finally turned back toward you, he still didn’t come closer. He looked like he wanted to say something : to explain, to apologise, to bridge the sudden space that had opened between you two. But whatever words he found seemed to die before they could leave his mouth. All that came out instead was one short, frustrated breath, sharp with self-directed irritation.
“Get your clothes back on,” he muttered, eyes fixed somewhere near the floor.
He still wouldn’t look at you, wouldn’t acknowledge the way your skin was still humming or the way the lab itself still felt altered, as if the air had not quite recovered from what it had witnessed. He stood there like a wall built too late, shoulders tense as though bracing for an impact that already happened.
The cold of the metal table had finally started to seep back into your skin, but the warmth he had left behind still clung to you like a brand. You sat there for a second longer, limbs heavy and clumsy, your breath still refusing to settle.
Whatever soft, distant ache you had once carried for him had burned away somewhere in that room. In its place was something heavier. Something real, anchored now in the salt of his skin, the shaking force of his hands, the way he had come apart in front of you and inside you and then turned away like he no longer knew what to do with his own body.
It was the ache in your muscles, the dampness clinging to your clothes, the sting of his teeth still lingering on your lip. Nothing left up to fantasy anymore.
You wondered whether he was going to pretend this had been nothing more than a a chemical misfire, a momentary failure of discipline brought on by the pollen and the sealed-in pressure of the room. You wondered whether he would put the clinic back on tomorrow like arbor and go back to being the same clipped, distant ripperdoc you had spent months orbiting from a careful distance. Whether he would even look you in the eye the next time you came in for your shift.
The thought of that, of him retreating so completely into himself, of acting as though the way he had unraveled against you had meant nothing at all, made a different ache open in your chest. Not the blind, pollen-driven need that had burned through you before, but something quieter and worse.
You wanted to know whether he was still here in it with you.
Or whether if he was already disappearing back into himself, leaving you alone with the wreckage of what had just happened.