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Simple images come first. You, your dishevelled self as you let him in, unannounced, and offer him a little kindness in sharing your food you were just making, unbothered, as you seat him at the table in your kitchen with a gentle press on his shoulders and go back to your dismembering of mushrooms that you haven’t thought to wash before he came in, because you were about to eat alone, but he of course, doesn’t know that. And you don’t tell him, deciding it won’t kill him, most likely, or at least you hope so. With the corner of his eye, he watches you sink your thumbs in the legs, sliding in with your fingernails to split the umbrellas in half and toss them onto the hot sprinkling oil. Pouring more on top, adding three pinches of salt uncaringly, some grains falling on the table as he watches them bounce off.
Then, he watches you, as he tries to squeeze any of the words he’s prepared to come out and you show him another kindness by not pressing, just humming and stomping around quietly on your naked feet. And he has nothing for or against feet but were your feet about to stomp his face flat into the floor, or, in a better life, into the soft foam of the mattress, he would let you and he would lick your soles with gratitude while pulling his needy hands to feel the shape of your ankles.
When suddenly a clattering sound startles his poor soul as you drop your spoon, it falls between the table legs, and you mutter a soft curse. And then, without warning, you drop on your all fours, so he can see the soles of your feet that he thinks nothing of, and your curling toes and he dares not to look further, it’s only his eyes that betray him.
They wander up in a quick glance as his putrid brain has to decide fast whether to have the most likely shape of your ass or the crease of your calves etched into it, when he’s betrayed again and what his mind chooses is the arch of your back as you reach between the legs. And now the vision of you spread on all fours entered from behind is all that fits in his head the same way he hopes that he would fit inside you—hardly.
In this feverish dream, Viktor whines loudly enough to be heard—had anyone been in the vicinity of his bedroom—yet not loudly enough to wake himself. His hand travels palm flat, as the fantasy version of you kneels with your ass up and your chest down and the fantasy version of him has two healthy legs that allow him to kneel as well, right behind you so his cock can slide between your thighs until skin touches skin. The fantasy version of his hand pushes on the small of your back to deepen the arch, pressing your torso further down until you mutter a soft curse at the sole shape he bends you into, the same soft curse you’ve muttered in your kitchen above the sprinkling oil. Ideally his name follows.
His hips jut into the foam and cock rubs against his stomach and the cloth of his pants and he moans again, for you, but no one can hear it. Again, he is in your kitchen, when you set the simple meal before him and pass him the fork, and he does his worst not to touch your fingers as he accepts it. Fingertips linger and you smile softly, tucking a stray strand of hair behind his ear and tell him to eat first, with something that sounds dangerously close to care. As your lips move, he memorizes their shape and wonders if the shape of his lips would fit between them, if the shape of his cock could be pressed there and would you drool has he given it to you.
It's your lips now that plague him, with you back on your knees, your tongue stuck out and it’s so very red and pretty Viktor can’t make himself decide whether he is the one that wants to suck on it, or he wants it to partake in sucking him. Nothing that is happening between his legs at the moment is close to what he imagines your mouth would feel like, the dull press of dry skin of his belly pulling his foreskin down and the faint weep of precum at his slit incomparable to what softness you have to offer.
His unconscious mind conducts his hips to snap, making him believe that it’s your lips that he is fucking into, while it’s just the press of the mattress and the waistband of his pants teasing the sweet spot right below where his length ends. His hands fist the bedsheet which in the dream version of this encounter becomes your hair that he tugs on to make your jaw open wider and release gush of wet drool to well onto the ridges of his cock.
With his face pressed against the pillow and hips rutting forth, Viktor dreams of pushing himself past your throat making you release a sweet sound of gagging. He even dares to go thus far to pinch your nose and stare into your teary doe eyes when he leans in to whisper so good, holding your jaw open wide for him. Had you any more space left to move your lips you would curve them into a grateful smile and your eyes would squint with bliss.
Sweat pearls his forehead, it gets wiped on the pillowcase when he writhes in his bedsheets, the images of you filling his sleeping mind, unbidden. Next thing that presents itself to him are your thighs that shake as you scrape the frying pan with your back to him and he can shamelessly watch the jiggle of your ass and the muscles flexing in your legs. And he doesn’t really care if your thighs quiver as you move around or if they quiver as you sink onto him, his hips pressing sharp dents into the tender flesh. He’s granted the vision of his cock disappearing within you, the imaginary sound of skin slapping against skin as your rise and fall and your lips part to gasp for air that he pounds out of you.
As you lift your hips the strings of gooey slick cling to your legs, and slap into a puddle on his navel once you fall with a sharp snap. The tightness of his clothes is nothing compared to what he imagines the inside of you would be, but his body follows the false thread and finally his throat gives in, betrays his restless slumber, when the sound of his whimper strangled against the pillow makes his eyes fall open.
He gasps, unaware of his surroundings, embarrassed of himself and for himself as he lifts his chest to gape between his hips and the bed, where a wet stain blooms and mocks him. He rolls onto his back, cock poking out of his pants and this time it’s Viktor who mutters a curse, though it lands far from your soft ones. He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes, wipes the halo of sweat from his forehead with a sleeve and sighs, long and heavy.
The unbearable tightness of his own skin clinging to him drives him nearly mad, so he sheds the damp clothing and throws himself back onto his soaked sheet with a resigned exhale. Whenever he closes his eyes, he sees you, smiling, gentle, kind and oblivious to the words that never came to him. So to end this painful torment, ease the need that invaded him uninvited, his hand travels down below his navel to stroke his aching cock absently.
Once you are back behind his eyelids, this time it’s his conscious mind that shows him what his heart fears, and you are back there, bent over, your hands fisting the very same sheet he just drenched and he is right behind you, fucking into you with his knuckles whitening around your hips and his other hand reaching between your thighs. The better version of himself bends over your back to lick the sweat from between your shoulder blades and the better version of his hand tugs at the hair on the base of your skull drawing out hopeless moans from your pretty throat.
And even though his real, calloused hand is nowhere near as soft and wet as you would be, he strokes himself hard and dry, free palm caressing his chest, imagining it’s your fingers that trace loving circles on his skin. He whispers your name over and over again and in the moment when his balls pull up and his stomach coils unbearably, he imagines kissing your sweet lips and saying all the words he can’t bring himself to say around you. And he imagines you kissing him back and accepting the words.
He cums all over his belly and around his fingers clasped on his cock with a hot groan and a tension in his neck in a few scorching spurts. His hips jolt up, tensing up his spine, toes curl and legs stretch far beyond the mattress. Laying there spent and bathed in his seed, he spreads it on his chest, imagining it’s you’re your tongue licking him clean and brings it up to his mouth, imagining it’s your mouth that carries it into his in a loving, debauched kiss.
Dirty and tired, Viktor blinks and thinks, time after time and once he’s empty it’s only the image of you in your kitchen, laughing warmly at his jokes, and pressing your hand to his in silence, when you finally ask, “So what brings you in?”