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It's a shame he’s always so busy—one of the few apothecaries Zaun has to offer.
Reliable ones, at least.
Viktor wishes, each time the door chimes and you flit in to brighten the dim, dusty shop, that he could spare more time for you. Reciprocate your shy, sweet flirtations or fully convey his gratitude for the home cooked meals you pay him in beyond a paltry thank you. Really, they do not need to be that good; you put in far too much effort for the likes of him.
But he can only spare a few quick words before it’s on to the next customer or back to the careful task of brewing someone’s medicine.
He’s been searching for the right words to ask, perhaps even beg, to see you outside the shop, but he just hasn’t found them yet. He suspects they’re hiding out amongst his frayed nerves, his mouth dry and useless each time the chance comes and goes.
You’ve already been by for the day, hours ago during peak time, so when the shop bell chimes and he wheels around the corner to warn this last patron that he’ll be closing up momentarily, he doesn’t expect to see you.
But there you are, looking rather like you’ve sprinted here—messy, sweating, your hand braced on the door as you try to catch your breath.
He gets to his feet quickly, fumbling for his crutch. “Is everything alright?”
“Do you, um… want me to lock this…?” you ask instead, breathless and strained.
“Yes, but—” The concerned furrow of his brow deepens, eyes ticking over every inch of you, looking for something, anything that might indicate the problem, “I would also like you to answer my question. Please.”
“I—I don’t know…” As you come closer, your expression becomes increasingly pained until you stop all together on the other side of the counter. You can’t meet his eye, wringing your hands as you whisper, “I don’t think so…”
Embarrassed. You are embarrassed.
This is why it’s wrong to be overly familiar with patients, he scolds himself. He tries to be clinical, to stuff down all the personal concern as he asks, “Can you describe your symptoms?”
“I’d rather not,” you say, so soft he hardly catches it, “but I think it has something to do with this.” A shaky exhale, and you pull something out of your pocket and hold up your fist closed around it, shaking too and clammy. So, so clammy as he has to pry whatever it is out of your hand.
And it is a vial, one of his, with nothing but a little heart drawn on the label.
“Viktor…” you choke out as he pales visibly. “What did you give me?”
You look like you’re about to cry and, frankly, he wants to vomit. Never has he ever fucked up so badly as to give someone the wrong elixer. Of course, it had been busy when you came in, but he had clearly instructed you that your package was on the left—was sure that it was your medication in it.
Oh. Oh wait.
His left.
Your right.
“Why… why did you take this?!” he asks, harsher than he means to in his panic. “It’s not your usual bottle!”
“I—I thought you were trying to be sweet!” you shout back, shifting and shuddering for it, trapping a little groan in your throat that isn’t lost on him. Your hands grip the edge of the counter, white-knuckled. You shrink into yourself as you dare ask again, though you must know the answer by now: “What did I take?”
“It’s an…” He has to force it out, the word feels thick and stubborn on his tongue: “Aphrodisiac.”
And as if to declare its presence—thrilled to be acknowledged, that concoction in your bloodstream—a shudder wracks your body again. A breathy whine leaves you. He knows it to be entirely against your will, but for shame, you hang your head miserably.
“It’s, ah, very strong—made for a Vastayan twice your size. I can make something of an antidote, but it wont purge the effects entirely. They will… linger. It can take anywhere between 6-8 hours to completely clear your system.”
As much as he is soothed by a scientific explanation, you, clearly, are not. You stare up at him hopelessly through your lashes, wielding your watery eyes like a weapon of his destruction, whether you know it or not. The guilt could bring him to his knees.
“Please believe me,” he says, his voice thin near begging, “I am so, so sorry.”
“You… You didn’t do this to me on purpose?”
“That is deeply unethical, I would never.”
“But you’re going to help me… Right?” you ask, starting to squirm so restlessly where you stand, victim to an itch you can’t scratch—can’t satisfy, more than likely.
“Yes, as I said, I can make something to alleviate the effects. It requires thirty minutes, if I—”
Your hands fist into his shirt; you practically haul him across the counter, eyes wild and blown so wide your lovely irises are nearly eclipsed. Ah yes, the sweating, the dilated pupils, both are common side effects. Aggression too, though it’s favorable to some more than others. He’s not sure how to feel, himself.
“I can’t wait that long, Viktor, you have to help me,” you whine, craning your neck toward him, angling to catch him up in a kiss he’d very much like to share. But…
“I can’t,” he breathes onto your lips, resisting halfheartedly. “That would be—I cannot take advantage of you in this state.”
“Why is it taking advantage?” you ask with that soft, siren’s voice, and he finally realizes you’re not holding him forward anymore. It’s all him who’s leaning in, loving the way you lavish him with the desperate rake of your nails down his neck, beneath the collar of his shirt. “You like me, I like you… It would’ve come to this, eventually.”
He laughs, such a nervous sound, and his tongue grows thicker, the accent with it, as he begins to accept what is happening: that he is hopelessly willing to help you in all the ways he knows how. “I would have liked to take you out first, you know.”
“Later,” you’re quick to promise, regretfully letting him go without his kiss. “Right now, I need you to touch me. Please.”
“Just once, do you understand? Then I’ll need to make the counteractant.”
You nod your agreement vigorously, and already he fears you’re going to make it hard to stick to that resolution.
Viktor lifts the counter on its hinge for you to step through, and the old thing slams back down with a hard clap on account of you, quite literally, throwing yourself at him. He barely catches his balance, nearly topples over as you lay waste to his lips, sloppy and inelegant as you frantically jam your tongue into his mouth. Braces you by the back of the neck with one cold, calloused hand as he tries to pace you, but you’re far beyond that. No, you’re keening, a cloying, heedless sound, into his mouth when his tongue brushes back, and clawing at his chest like you mean to shred off his clothes. You probably do—but, again, not your fault.
Though… To be wanted like this, so base and careless and clumsy, he echoes a groan against your lips for the thought of it alone.
He breaks, has to pant breathlessly into your hair as your lips and teeth scrape down his neck instead, “Come, into the back, please.”
As he takes you by the sickly warm hand and walks you back into his private space, home and work in one, your grip tightens and you whimper into your other closed fist. Very suddenly, he understands what your initial pained expression was symptomatic of and, privately eager, his cock twitches against the leg of his pants.
He settles down on the stool at his work bench, needing off his sore leg. You stand between his spread thighs impatiently, practically rubbing your thighs together beneath your dress—he can see it, in the little wiggle of your hips. He smooths a hand over your waist, fisting at the fabric as he elongates the column of his neck—a blank canvas—to look up at you.
“Show me,” he demands, and you don’t require elaboration.
You eagerly hike up your dress, bunching it just above your hips to let him see. You are not shy, knowing he is the solution. You do not care.
Well, maybe you do. Mostly because he’s not touching so much as perversely admiring the swollen, throbbing peek of your cunt between your legs—your clit so red and puffy where it protrudes, you’re likely to cum the moment he touches it.
“Where have your panties gone, hm?” he teases, slipping a hand between your thighs to part them.
They make a lewd, sticky sound when you widen your stance because you are dripping in thick, shiny ropes of your own slick. Some of it hits the floor between your feet. Overproduction of natural lubricant—yes, another side effect. He mentally notes to keep you hydrated, and then tries to turn off the clinical side of his brain. Not very sexy.
“They were… too much…” you finally confess, starting to shake as he pets your wet inner thigh in slow, sweet strokes.
“Did you cum? Without ever touching yourself?” he asks, and okay, fine, perhaps it is partly a professional curiosity. Partly. The rest is for his own sick knowledge, something to think about later.
“Twice,” you hiss, grabbing his wrist beseechingly—a mind to force it where you need it, but he doesn’t budge.
He never meant to be this teasing, but it’s so hard to stop when you’re like this. He suspects you’ll tell him anything just to get off, which is fascinating.
“And did that satisfy you?”
“Not at all,” you whine, “because it wasn’t you and I wanted you.”
He preens at the idea that you thought of him as you came—that you sought him out, desperate for his help in more than one way, as a result. “Mmn,” he hums lazily, his hand drifting higher, his own legs spreading wider, “you can have me, however you like. After I have you properly taken care of, yes?”
“Please.”
“Very good,” he hums. “Let’s start with this, then…” he says, and it’s just as he suspected.
The moment his hand slides over your clit, between your legs to cup your throbbing cunt, you’re finished. You are that overwrought from the aphrodisiac alone—and perhaps a little of his teasing too, if he’s being hopeful.
It shouldn’t take you by surprise, but it does. You keel forward with a delicious sound just shy of a punched out scream and brace yourself on his shoulders. Your nails dig in, fisting his shirt, as your body begins to quake and sing in stuttered, pitchy mewls that match the buck of your hips. Your knee is lucky to find purchase in the space between his thighs on the stool, all so your legs don’t give out beneath you.
Eyes shut against the onslaught of sensation, you can’t see the voyeuristic, fascinated way he watches your face contorted with pleasure. “Jsi tak hezká, miláčku, so pretty,” he coos, eager to comfort, to make sure you know it.
He keeps his hand steady for you, lets you ride out your pleasure against the heel of his palm. Encourages you to do so with a grip on your waist that guides your hips to roll hard into his hand. He’s even able to give you a taste, a tease of what’s to come, dipping his fingers just barely inside of you when you rock back far enough. You’re so wet, so wanting, that your body offers little resistance. Oh, to sink his cock in instead; to watch himself disappear between your slick, swollen lips so slowly, so completely…
Viktor thrusts against the warmth of your thigh. Had you been lucid enough to press it closer, to let him rub up against it? Or had he sunk lower to seek it out? He’s not sure, but the heady friction makes him groan in chorus with you and the slick, lewd sounds of your cunt in his hand.
“Just like that, yes,” he whispers, and he’s not sure anymore if he’s soothing you or asking for more for himself, getting greedy when he knows you will give and give and give as you try to take what you want from him.
Another shockwave of pleasure wracks you and you’re starting to crumple, the buck of your hips erratic, as the force of your orgasm fades out. Even your voice tapers down into huffed little whimpers—frustrated, likely, that you’ve gotten what you wanted and still found no relief.
“No,” you whine, crawling into his lap, “No, no, no. That doesn’t count.” You are feverishly hot against his skin where you’ve wrapped your arms around his neck, buried your face into the crook of his shoulder. Hotter still and sodden, where you’ve seated yourself against the outline of his cock, looking for all the friction you can get.
“I think it does,” he tells you. Swallows thickly against the tempting writhe of your body and your lips, sucking open-mouthed kisses into his neck—so insatiable—but he promised to help you. Anything less than making that remedy right now would only be helping himself. There will be plenty of time for that later—all night, knowing the potency of that switched brew, but at a slower pace he’ll be able to keep up with. Hopefully.
Panting now, pressing harder into his lap, you lick a stripe up the column of his neck with the flat of your tongue. Beg him in one, demanding word: “More.”
“Moje milá věc,” he says, strained to be stern, resolute—it’s hard, when his cock is sliding raw and needy against the wet spot you’ve now soaked into his pants. “We agreed: Just once. There is a solution to your suffering and I am not all of it. Let me make you the counteractant and—”
But no. You shut him up with a filthy kiss to the bow of his lip, sloppy as your tongue brushes into his open mouth. It’s lewd, the way a gossamer fine string of saliva follows you away as you pull back, but he’s entranced—disgustingly so. But if he’s desperate, you are the walking incarnation of it.
You whisper, harsh the way your teeth scrape across your bottom lip, “Fuck me,” and well…
There is a solution for that too.