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sweet-as-an-angel · 2 months ago

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Taking Viktor's Virginity [Viktor x Reader | Smut]

Warnings: 18+, Smut, Heavy Angst, Spoilers for Season 1, Talks of Death, Dying & Mortality, Descriptions of Physical Illness, Penetrative Sex, Implied Female Anatomy for Reader, No Pronouns used for Reader Except 'You'.

Word Count: 1,861

Viktor’s skin is pale and coated with sweat, his body heaving with every deep, laboured breath. His hands claw at the bedsheets beneath him as he lays upon his death bed. But it is not his illness that drives him so. Not today. For you sit atop him, hands gripping the clinical robes the doctor gave him as your hollow centre swallows him inch by delicate inch.

Viktor gasps, hands whitening as he holds onto the sheets not out of pain but of a pleasure he believed inaccessible to him — one he thought he’d experience no sooner than an untimely death. The knotting beneath his stomach tethers him to this coil, to you, and he contends with the foreign feeling of budding euphoria as it flowers within him.

He feels your body welcoming him, taking him deeper inside until he feels the skin of your lips pressed flush against the fine, tamed mass of dark hair that covers his skin. This tightness is not unlike that he feels in his lungs every waking moment as his illness takes hold, yet this is infinitely more desirable. He fights to open leaden eyelids and look upon you, both exhaustion and pleasure urging him to keep them screwed shut. The glow of the ceiling light frames the back of your head, making you appear as something biblical from a religion founded in a far-off land.

Between gasps, you smile down at Viktor, body rising and falling in a smooth pattern as you unsheathe his slender length before adopting it into your wanting core, the tip knocking some part sensitive and unseen within you. But this is not for your pleasure. You know this. This is solely for Viktor - to give him the most base and primal human experience there is before his expected passing.

Having been friends for some time and closer to each other than others would suspect, it hadn’t taken much to convince Viktor to give it a chance. In all honesty, you’d initially suggested it as a method of pain relief, but upon discovering that this would be Viktor’s first (and likely only) sexual encounter, you wanted to make it worth his while — make his borrowed time stand still for a tick.

Viktor gasps, his hips weakly trying to pursue yours as you lift from his length, a sheen of your arousal combined leaving his shaft wet and glistening. His bones groan and you hear, feel, them creak. He grips his teeth, the enamel cracking beneath not much pressure at all. Symptom of his sickness. You place a reminding hand to his jaw and he loosens, leaning into the warmth of your palm, vibrant and flush with life compared to his sallow complexion.

“Just relax, Viktor,” your voice is of resounding comfort, the gentle ringing of a bell. You lean forward and place your lips upon his, pressing hard enough that he can feel your intention but no pain. His lack of experience and his exhaustion show as he tries earnestly to take your lips in his like the interlocking of lovers’ hands, yet his teeth bite gently on your bottom lip, his tongue uncertain and sluggish as it licks a stripe across the gum behind your lips, counting your teeth. You give a well-natured chuckle and, gently, withdraw, and, much like the rhythm of your strokes, return, pressing flush against Viktor’s lips not just a kiss but all the experience you’ve cultivated, saving and using it just for him.

The arousal within you graduates to something greater, the building of pleasure between your legs becomes noticeable. Distracting. You push forward — through — focussing only on Viktor’s pleasure. You’d have time to pursue yours properly at a later date. He wouldn’t.

Once you’ve acquainted Viktor with the feeling of your mouth to his, your tongue slithers to the parting of his lips, the seam of his undoing. He parts them, and with a gentle rhythm you map the inside of his mouth, the originator of his sass, of his every comment that left you in stitches every time. Of his smiles which he rarely granted to anyone, especially nowadays after Jayce’s ascension to the position of councilman.

You consider pushing it out of your mind that this could very well be the last time you ever hear or see anything of Viktor’s personality. Your heart, your body, tightens and, unwittingly, you clench around Viktor. He gives a vocal reaction, moaning sharply despite his sluggish demeanour, his body rocking into yours. You wonder how he’d feel knowing that his pleasure derived from the reaction you had to thinking about his death.

This, you do push out of your mind. But you choose to remember that his mortality is the reason why you’re doing this to begin with, why this should be as special for Viktor as you can make it.

You press on, with renewed fervour, and take charge, driving your tongue deeper into the cavern of his maw and sliding it along his flaccid muscle within. You taste metal, the remnants of blood coughed up from somewhere within himself. You don’t shy from it. You commit it to memory. The folder of everything belonging to Viktor stored in your mind. You bring your hands to cup his face, manoeuvring him for his comfort and your convenience as you endeavour to remember every part of your beloved friend, inside and out.

Meanwhile, Viktor's cold, pallid hands are pressed against your exposed thighs, your bottoms and undergarments laying neatly folded on the visitor’s chair. Your warmth — both that beneath his hands and that which is swallowing his most underused asset — is unlike any he’s felt before. He’s been held, yes — granted those times had been few and far between, whether it was a quick embrace from Jayce after a breakthrough or the plush of your thighs brushing him when you would breeze past him in the lab, leaving him buzzing and distracted as he stifled the temptation to indulge in a human instinct he thought beneath him. Savage.

The memory of the latter leaves him humming. He entreats himself to the sight of you once more. His vision is blurry not just for the failing of his body but for the fact that his eyes can’t focus on you. You’re too close to see but perfectly within reach to taste. Your eyes are closed and he can feel the soft tickling of your lashes against his cheek, see the hollows of yours accentuating as your work your mouth with his to establish a rhythm. He tries to keep up with you, heaving breaths through his nose, wanting to give back to you even a fraction of all you’re giving him right now. He feels himself twitch and, though this entire situation is foreign to him, knows that his end is nigh. In more ways than one.

Viktor feels himself engulfed in the same feeling as when he’s zapped by his own Hextech invention. He feels alive.

He wants you to know. He needs to tell you.

His words are only hums in his throat as you occupy his mouth with your own, pressing the heat of your eagerness to please against his dry, cracked lips and letting a pink flush take his cheeks. When the humming persists and you feel his fingers weakly grip the skin of your thigh, you withdraw, panting. He looks up at you between half-lidded eyes.

“I... I need you to know that–“ he coughs and his hold on your thighs tightens so that you can feel the crescent indents of his brittle finger nails on your skin. You wish for him to press harder, deeper, so that the memory of him will persist, take longer to heal.

When he gathers his bearings, he continues: “This is the first time I’ve ever truly felt like...like I was living, not just existing.” His eyes, from what little is visible of them, seem to shine in a way you’d never seen before. The yellow of his irises hidden beneath a glow of white as the light above reflects in his eyes.

“My only concern is that, now I’ve had a taste of you — of life as it should be — I’ll fear to relinquish it when I go.”

You see now that the glistening in his eyes comes from his tears, and, to stop him from seeing your own as they catch in your throat, you take a breath and press your lips to his, screwing your eyes shut. You’re aggressive in your pursuit, but neither you nor Viktor care. Your hands find his and, pitting them either side of his head, you interlock fingers.

Perhaps it’s guilt that leads you to say what you say next, or perhaps it’s what you know you should say before it’s too late. Or maybe the guilt of giving Viktor something to fear losing convinces you to go all-out. Nothing to lose.

“I love you.”

Your voice is quiet, strained beneath the weight of holding back tears and the exasperation of your shared kiss, but Viktor hears you all the same. The tip of his nose presses to yours and his forehead finds yours. His last display of strength as his neck is lifted from his pillow, holding contact between two minds made for each other.

“I love you, too.”

The rhythm — albeit having warned somewhat during these minutes of revaluation — brings Viktor to a tidy end. He finishes, indicated only by the thin, weak spray of warmth you feel inside you, the drop of his head against his pillow as his orgasm saps the last of his strength, and the unrestrained moan that comes from Viktor, bouncing off the walls of this sterile tomb before dying quickly.

These walls weren’t built for acoustics.

You don’t finish. And that doesn’t matter.

You hold hands with the brunette beneath you, feeling him gradually softening, his pulse weakening as he’s no longer pressed to the most sensitive and innermost part of you. When you’re sure he’s ready, and when you can bear to, you slide off him, shuffling off the edge of his bed and putting your underwear back on.

You're not even sensitive. No visceral evidence of your activity, no consequence. The only thing you can liken it to is the concern Viktor raised with you once privately, that of his legacy, of his contributions being too miniscule to be remembered.

Casting a glance at Viktor, you see him staring at you. And suddenly you’re shy, looking away and turning, hiding the flush of your cheeks.

Viktor chuckles before giving way to a coughing fit. Each wheeze makes your heart squeeze.

Fully clothed again, you tend to Viktor, wiping a cool cloth along his forehead, finding him a new, clean robe to change into. When you try to dispose of the other, he accosts you.

“No. Keep it.” He gives pause. Realises you can’t read his thoughts. “For me, I mean.”

You cast him a curious look, the partially-sodden mass of white material rolled up in your arms. Viktor gives a laid-back, crooked smile. You wonder if it hurts for him to do so with how cracked they are, whether he opens old wounds when he gives you such a delicate look.

“You never know, I might want it someday. To reminisce, I mean”

Someday. A luxury many can’t afford. You just hope that Viktor wins the lottery.

Masterlist Masterpost

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