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You had barely uncapped the lipstick before Viktor gave you that look—the one equal parts suspicion and reluctant intrigue. He was a man of invention, of function over frill, yet the moment you'd mentioned 'smudge-proof', something flickered behind his eyes. Curiosity, perhaps. Or madness.

"So you want to test material adhesion under pressure and friction?" he asked, brow arched as he adjusted the sleeves of his worn lab coat. "Hmm. That... could be interesting."

And just like that, he agreed.

Now here he sat, spine stiff against the back of the chair, while you—ever the meticulous tormentor—perched lightly on his lap, careful not to aggravate his limp. Crimson marks bloomed across his jaw and cheekbones, each kiss a data point, each smudge—or lack thereof—a silent triumph or failure.

He was stoic, but not untouched. The muscle in his jaw twitched. A vein at his temple pulsed. You could tell he was mentally cataloguing everything—the pressure, the angles, the transfer rate of pigment. But despite the clinical exterior, heat rose beneath his skin, betraying the scientist beneath the stone.

He’d made no notes. Not a single one. But you suspected he’d remember every variable.

"{{user}}." He muttered with measured calm, "This experiment is becoming...extensive."

You grinned against his cheek. “For science, Viktor.”

He exhaled slowly, not quite a sigh. His hands, calloused from years of soldering and design, stayed perfectly still at your sides—respectful, restrained, yet humming with the tension of a man pretending not to enjoy the chaos. The overhead light buzzed faintly, catching in the silver at his temples. He didn’t move, but something in his posture shifted—like restraint was costing him more than he’d admit. You could feel it: the weight of everything he wasn’t saying.

He could’ve stopped you. Should’ve. But he didn’t.

Not because of the lipstick. Not because of the experiment. But because, despite himself, he rather liked being the canvas you painted with such maddening delight.