hexwhore

[hexwhore]

stay your pretty eyes on course

[hexwhore]

the em dash and i are in a torrid toxic love affair

[hexwhore]

VIKTOR in ARCANE: LEAGUE OF LEGENDS ↳ S2, Act I

[hexwhore]

your writing is always fanTASTIC!!! i’m always hooked on every word in each fic you drop, keep up the great work 🙏🙏

also, being a lil self indulgent here, is there any chance we’ll be getting a prejac jayce fic in the future

Thank you ao much! And. Guess what anon. You’re getting a premature ejaculation Jayce fic Roight Neow.

My New Year’s gift to you all :] Enjoy!

18+ MDNI. Mature content under the cut.

Penetrative sex, GN reader, compatible for both AFAB and AMAB reader. Where there’s a hole, there’s a goal.

“O-oh.” It’s not rare for Jayce’s voice to pitch up so high it goes girlish, vulnerable. The scrunch of his brows is as delectable as the soft, easy stretch of him finally sliding home.

As opposed to what one might think by the looks of him, Jayce is a comfortable size: a stubby cock with a soft upwards curve, but so leaky it could likely rival the average cunt. You’ve prepped just enough, and it’s divine, it’s satiating, how he fills you exactly as much as you need.

His sticky stomach seams to yours with a delightful cocktail of your shared sweat, his legs and arms tremble like a newborn faun’s with how he barely keeps himself from crushing you. With a pitchy whine, his head falls to your shoulder, his breath coming ragged in your ear — as though he’s just ran up a few flights of stairs, and not licked and sucked you into an easy orgasm before haphazardly bottoming out inside you.

Jayce, bless him, tries to ride it out — the warm, dizzying grip of your walls on him — but as his chubby cock jerks within your clutch, you realize he can’t. He won’t.

“Uh oh—!” His right hand scrambles down between your bodies in an uncalculated hurry, squeezing at the root of his stout dick in what you realize is a desperate attempt to choke his orgasm down. And you also realize before he does that it’s a losing game. “N-ngh, no, nono, shit…”

Jayce only squeezes at himself harder, entire forearm flexing with the Sisyphean weight of his task. You know that in moments like these, though he tries, the most he’ll manage is an unsatisfying, painful, ruined orgasm. You don’t want that for him, not tonight, now when he’s been so good.

And what can you do, but take pity? It’s what you do best, especially when it comes to him.

You wrap your fingers around his wrist, and tug. Jayce obliges — his fatal flaw, always so eager to please. It will be his undoing.

“Let it happen,” you whisper into his ear encouragingly, legs wrapping around his waist to draw him in. He warbles a moan like it hurts, and his strong arms give below his weight like he’s weak.

And he is.

“S-sorry,” he mutters although given permission, before his hips slap to yours just once, to sheathe all of himself within, and he chokes on a pitiful sob.

All of him slumps on top of you and his cock, leaky as it already is, paints the inside of his condom white, spurts it full. He pulses against your insides with his orgasm, dick swollen and desperate, and he clings to you as though he might fall apart at the joints if not for your arms around him.

You can only stroke his hair through it, cooing at him like you would at a scared animal, kissing his dewy forehead in encouragement. Somehow, his spent cock still twitches at your words. You let him have as long as he needs, you hold him until his breath calms and his arms stop trembling.

It’s a long, sweet time before he lifts his forehead from against your shoulder.

“ ‘m sorry,” he says again. “I didn’t mean…”

You nod. “I know, Jayce.”

“Do you want me to make it up to you? I can use my mouth on you again, or, uh,” he scans the room for inspiration, and his eyes land on the nightstand, “oh! I can fetch the dildo—“

Your palm finds his cheek, and you’re drawing him to face you. Jayce swallows nervously at the heartbeat of silence between the two of you before you speak.

“You can make it up for me by not worrying about it.” Your thumb circles lovingly at the long-healed nick on his cheekbone. “You know I love it when you enjoy yourself so much you can’t help it. It’s… such a good look on you.”

[hexwhore]

[hexwhore]

a bunch of happy viktors to celebrate viktor day!

[hexwhore]

Prompt 111 ?..... plz

Yeah! Spicing it up for the new year with an extra guest feature in this one. Very much inspired by the ball fondling fic that rewired my brain.

Tags/Warnings: 18+, Jayvik x GN Reader, oral (Viktor receiving), face fucking, fingering variety pack, fuck it we (appreciate) ball(s).

“Can you please,” you huff, wiggling to detangle your legs, “just sit on my fucking face already.”

“No,” says Viktor, firm in this denial, and a hand falls away from roaming your chest. “We agreed: You sit on my face.”

“I did not—” you accept a peck, then another, “agree to that.” 

His fingers slip out of you, and he admires the dark, sticky puddle soaked into the couch between your legs. But for now, he withholds a comment on that. Instead, jostled by the hands shoving at his boxers: “There is a certain numerical solution for this, you know,” he says. 

The hands stop abruptly. “Then what am I supposed to do?” Jayce asks, incredulous. He is unshaven, unshowered and touchy after a long day and too many late nights.

Viktor cannot help himself. He gestures vaguely in the direction of a ratty wingback chair in the corner, his first real piece of furniture after leaving behind the student dormitories. Jayce has never had a nice thing to say about it. “For all your jokes about the, eh, cuck chair…” 

You snort. Jayce sniffs. And after a moment’s consideration: “I’m not on your side anymore,” he decides. And you have the audacity to high five him to seal this alliance. But he smiles, and you smile, and it only proves that affection and annoyance are, at times, indistinguishable emotions. 

“Fine,” Viktor seethes, half-hearted at best. It’s no true loss to have Jayce ease him naked while he catches your jaw in his spindly grasp. Thumbing the plush of your lower lip, he considers how nice it will feel to drag his cock against it, how pretty you will look swallowing him down. Softly asks, “You prefer when I watch you take it, don't you?”

To his left: Jayce groans and nuzzles into his hair, hard-pressed to peel away and urge this tangle of limbs into a new configuration, but he’s being so brave. 

To his right: You nod thickly, wanting mouth already slack and open before you ever lie back against the arm of the couch and let him mount your shoulders. 

It’s easy on his knees, but Jayce—thoughtful, eager-to-serve—still urges a pillow beneath the bad one while you start to grope and grab and smear your face into the heavy velvet drape of his balls. In the shadow of his body, of his twitching cock, your open-mouthed kisses knead that pliant skin. He sucks a hiss through his teeth when you pull one, then the other into your mouth, rolling each like a tender stone on your tongue. 

Viktor’s thoughts turn syrupy, wondering if love is like this for everyone: a want to be devoured, trusting someone to do it kindly. 

Another swell of affection sees his cock guided between your lips, rocking into that warm clutch with a shuddered sigh. Your hand wraps firmly around the base, dragging back his foreskin, limiting the forward momentum of his hips. He smooths back your hair to the wet sound of Jayce behind him—straddling your core, splitting you open on thick fingers—lapping the sweat from his nape, hard against the small of his back. 

Viktor can hardly bear it, turned overwrought and sloppy so efficiently—so effortlessly. 

His fingers rake your scalp and latch, desperate little sounds leaking from behind his teeth. His other hand braces the arm of the couch beside your head and hollowed cheeks. “Deeper, please,” he rasps. Asking, not begging, though he’s alone in seeing it that way. 

Your eyes, clear and interested, cut over his shoulder to Jayce, whose breath washes the desperate words, “Let him fuck your face,” over his skin. Jayce does want to watch; wants to wish it was him; wants to use your pleasure as a whetstone to slowly sharpen his own. 

That’s why Jayce’s groan frays with a whine against his neck when Viktor asks, shakier than he means, “Would you like that?” and you hum, “Mmhm,” around the head of his cock. 

You fist your thumb where it rests against his alabaster thigh, perfectly able to unfurl and stop him at any point. But it never does. Maybe because you’re good at slackening your throat, and lucky that little trick works to keep you from gagging. Or maybe it’s because he doesn’t hold out nearly long enough to approach your limit. Who could know? 

(Viktor can.)

(Viktor does.)

Caught between your silken mouth and Jayce’s middle finger—wet with slick, dipping into his ass—he comes unmoored regardless.

[hexwhore]

YAY birthday prompts!!! Thank you Bri the Viktor hoes love your writing!!!!! (It’s me I’m the Viktor hoes) May I suggest 131 + 94, please? Maybe Vik eating out reader like they’re his favorite meal and leaving them a blissed out mess 😳 Perhaps slightly on the dom!Vik side even (but like in a really sweet/adoring way) 😳😳

I love mess :)

Tags/Warnings: 18+, Viktor x G/N Reader (AFAB), cunnilingus, spitting, touch of overstimulation.

A bead of sweat pearls down your spine. Cloaked in humidity—wet with it, among other things—you breathe deep of mossy, churned earth and running water trapped within the greenhouse. Obscured by a cradle of tall fronds, the metal lip of the retaining wall slips at your nails, fingers flexing against the urge to touch.

But you are not supposed to. 

Viktor kneels, singularly focused. His hands are hard, smooth like coated wires, and cold, warmed by the heat of your thighs pressed open—held wider than fits his narrow face, simply because he can. His long, flaxen-streaked hair unfurls piece by piece from the hasty knot at his nape. He doesn’t seem to notice or care how it hangs in dark clumps, pulled through sweat and slick and an unfathomable amount of his strange spit. It clings between your thighs with an unnatural iridescence, spread like an oil spill from his mouth. Otherwise unchanged, that is still soft and ripe—hungry, though he doesn’t seem to eat much anymore. 

Of course, you are the exception. 

He eats you, firm and fervent, on knees that don’t ache now, with a body that won’t ache later. There is no rush. He can lead you to the edge as many times as he pleases. 

And it does please him, the geometry of your body arching and curling into a golden ratio around his mouth, writhing on his tongue. He smooths it, wide and flat, up the flooded seam of you. Sucks hard at the apex. Pecks a neat little kiss to your clit like he’s sorry for how close it brings you, but he’s not because he does it again. And again. And again until you’ve never felt so sick with need in your life, which is certainly another affliction his touch can cure. Will cure. Eventually. 

His hums become words with the cadence of praise. Your thoughts are so cottony that you can’t ascribe them meaning, whispered against your swollen skin; can’t tell if you’re whimpering please, please, please or merely thinking it. 

Your hand finds its way to your mouth, biting down on a crooked knuckle to quiet yourself just in case. 

At this, he makes a displeased sound and peels back. A dark strand of clinging wetness follows and snaps back against your skin. “There is no need for that,” he coos, dragging his fingers through the mess. “I will not let anyone hear.” His smile is thin as spider’s silk; subtle, knowing. The eerie thread is wholly eclipsed by his adoration. 

When you agree—what other choice do you have?—his fingers clench your shaking legs, ten points of pressure to ground you. He bows his head, watching your face, and spits without any need to look for the trajectory. It slides down your cunt and he nuzzles in after it; sighs at your hips arching to meet each pass of his tongue; pursues your limit and what lies past with sweet, ruthless diligence until your voice—within and without—breaks. 

Your spine wilts one final time, sheltering him between the kiss-bitten plush of your thighs, and he allows it: for you to come with your hands in his hair.

[hexwhore]

NAME CHANGE LET'S GOOOO!! It's perfect

started from the bottom now we here

[hexwhore]

wip, but i'm not finishing this in time for his birthday. miss you, machine herald </3

[hexwhore]

happy birthday to this diva

[hexwhore]

HIII BRIIII I’m so excited you’re doing this AUGHH Smooch kiss

How about 148 + trans Viktor? 👀

Yee-haw baby, your wish is my command 🧚‍♂️🤠

Tags/Warnings: 18+, Trans!Viktor x G!N Reader, modern flavored, public sex, shotgunning the devil's lettuce, frottage. Terms used for Viktor: Tits (pre-op, pierced), cunt.

The split vinyl groans as he levers himself up, felt more than heard. Sounds get lost beneath the mixtape of chatter and heavy reverb, bass like a second heartbeat. You catch the raw hem of his sweater, tugging, shouting, asking: “Where are you going?”

“To smoke,” you read off his lips, invited to slide out of the booth and follow him through the humid churn of darkly dressed bodies. He leads you deeper into the bar, shouldering into the drop-ceiling, checker-tiled bathroom. But this isn’t new, and while you may snort, there’s nothing to say. It’s not as if he’s going where you won’t follow. 

In the second stall, farthest from the door, Viktor props open the inset window like a nimble-fingered expert. And he is—at avoiding the aching cold. He’s considerate about it, nonetheless; convinced that the scent of his vape is present enough to be off-putting, though you hardly ever smell a thing. 

Music melts through the plaster walls, the pulse running through your companionate silence. There is only you, hitched on the sink’s edge, ankles crossed, and him, leaning neatly against the wall, taking a meditative drag from the pen between his fingers. 

You watch his head fall back against the tile and have to wonder: “You wanna go home?” 

“No,” seeps out with his exhale, angled out the window. “I only needed an intermission. This is… fun.”

Your brow lifts.

“I’m having fun.” And his lithe little smile is earnest enough that you believe him. 

Your eyes drift to the door, returning a smile of your own—this one wry. “Not as much as them,” the undisputed champions of PDA, of course. Last you saw, Caitlyn had her hands in Vi’s patchy black, spray-dyed hair, and they were getting hot and heavy in front of the sound booth like the main characters of emo night at The Last Drop. 

“Mm.” He offers out the vape, drawing you off the sink and into the stall. “Their definition seems somewhat different.” 

“Not that different,” you shrug, plucking it from his cold fingers. “Just less subtle.” 

The shade of interest that darkens his eyes certainly is, something warm sparking to life between your bodies inching closer. You meant it to be heady, but your slow pull, holding his stare, is not as pretty and graceful as his had been. It tickles at first before the burn in your throat, your lungs, registers. Makes you sputter into your arm like you’re green as he takes the pen back—the cheap one that runs too hot—with a soft laugh.

“I forgot to charge the good one,” he apologizes, touch soothing over your shoulder. 

With one final cough and your watery eyes wiped, you begin to step back and grieve the ruined moment. (Which, yes, is completely his fault.) 

But his hand fits to the curve of your jaw. “A solution,” he murmurs as he shapes his mouth around the intake, and you follow the intimate thread of his logic. He breathes in, you breathe out. He leans back, you crowd closer. And when he seals to your lips, in accordance with this tidal push and pull, you drink deep of that earthy vapor and let his breath pool in your lungs. 

You pull away, barely able to exhale, before he’s hauling you back by the jacket and licking into your mouth like he wants to taste your teeth. You have the good sense to fumble the door closed, catching a split, smudged second of yourself in the mirror, framed in the stall, tangling into him.

Viktor pants into your mouth, and your hands grope beneath his sweater, eliciting a breathy, “Fuck,” out of him. His tits are subtle and sensitive, malleable in your hands like supple dough—a  harsh contrast to the ball-capped bars lanced through the center of each.  

“Don’t make too many noises or we’ll get caught,” you hush, as if thumbing his steel shot nipple helps. 

His jaw falls open, throat cinching around a fractured sound. Still, licking his spit-slick lips, he manages to chide, “That’s part of the thrill,” urging his chest into your hands for more. 

But you want more too. 

More takes shape to be his long, bird-boned arm draped over your shoulders, his pants shoved down and the thick, crude smell of sweat and slick in your nose; it is your grip on his narrow hips, at once setting the pace and letting yourself be used. His dark hair bobs starkly against the white tile, silver earrings glinting—all in the periphery of your focus. Because when you’re not watching him rut bare against your thigh, his swollen cunt catching and dragging when it meets skin through the rips in your dark jeans...

You can’t stop looking at his hand, clapped over his own mouth.

[hexwhore]

Bad news everypony: I fucked up.

But join me for the redemption arc where, instead of dropping them all at once as mage jesus god intended, I post one prompt fill a day. First one coming up shortly... after I do something a lil insane ✌️

[hexwhore]

[hexwhore]

merry clitoris

[hexwhore]

please god, take that man’s pain, double it, and put it on ao3

[hexwhore]

I finally finished this 🤧