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cursedwretch · 2 days ago

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What Lurks Beneath - Chapter 5

GIF by featherlumina

Viktor x AFAB!Reader; Word count: 4948 Words; Rating 18+ MDNI

AO3 | Prev

The smut is here, the smut is here! Content warnings below: CW: A smidge of soft dom!Viktor/switch!Viktor if you squint, Vaginal sex, Vaginal fingering, praise kink

Chapter also contains canon-typical (implied) violence, and mentions of injury/blood.

In the cramped confines of Heimerdinger’s carriage, I avoid Viktor’s eyes at all costs. I ignore how his finger traces his lower lip as he stares absently out the window. Realistically, I should be grateful for ride home, but right now I’m half-convinced it was some contrived torture method.

Gods, help me.

Heimerdinger fills the air, ensuring there are no pregnant pauses throughout the journey, rattling off plans for the remainder of the month. Meetings, meetings, meetings.

One such meeting, uncharitably, is apparently taking place at 8 the following morning. Perfect. A board meeting, Heimerdinger informs me, so not one I can skip. Naturally. He’s practically immortal, I remind myself. I doubt he’s ever experienced a hangover, or even needed to sleep in a day in his too-long life.

“Thank you for the notice,” I clip, though it’s a struggle to come across neutral. I paste on a weak smile for good measure. From the edge of my vision, I catch Viktor’s shoulders silently shaking with laughter, shifting to face the window fully. The little shit.

It isn’t until Heimerdinger exits, hopping out with a bright ‘see you in the morning,’ that Viktor looks at me. His hand sliding from his lips as he turns my way.

Lidded eyelids and a lazy smirk. My heart lurches. And there’s something about the way he fixates on my mouth has me following that tug—stumbling across the distance to scramble into his lap. His hands meet my hips, holding me steady as he looks up at me, his head tilting back with a soft exhale. Whisky. Another taste wouldn’t hurt, would it? My hands float up to hold his face between them, thumb swiping across the mole on his cheek.

“I don’t live far,” he warns.

I dip down, pulling his lips to mine, watching as his eyes flutter closed. Strong hands pull me tight against him, one shifting to splay out flat against the small of my back. I trace the seam of his lips with my tongue. He gives me access with a groan, tongue running along mine.

The hand on my hip roams up, tracing along the side of my body, into the dip of my clavicle, before coming to rest on the nape of my neck. I breath in, deep, smiling against his lips as our teeth click. One of those little snags when things are still new. He laughs in turn as he pulls back, hand in my hair holding me in place.

My eyes fluttered open to find his earlier bravado replaced by a shy curve of his lips. “Almost there,” he murmured, his voice softer now. “Would you like to come up?”

“Yes,” I whisper.

He cranes up once more, pulling me into another kiss—slow and soft and heady. He sucks on my bottom lip and it sends my head spinning, whining softly into his mouth.

The motorcarriage jostles as it comes to a stop. I’m hesitant to break away. Greedy. My fingers clutch at his lapels, pulling closer.

“Up,” he smiles against me, guiding me off of his lap.

It’s an awkward scramble out of the carriage. Viktor’s the first to step out, leaning to the driver to shake his hand with a quick thanks. I’m fairly certain he slipped some coin his way as well. Good. I follow without decorum, stumbling out, taking Viktor’s hand as he offers it.

Its quiet. And something electric hums through the air as he leads me to his front door. The feeling thickens when we reach it. With a swallow, his eyes glance my way for a split second before he unlocks the door, propping it open.

Black currant tea, warm leather, and wood envelope me. It smells completely, utterly, like Viktor. Comforting, complex.

His apartment is messy; not health-risk messy, but certainly cluttered. Half-finished projects and knick knacks line the shelves, a discarded mug left on just about every surface. A daunting little pile of coats sits atop the chair at his writing desk. Clearly, he doesn’t pen many letters. I can’t help but laugh as I take a look around.

He regards me with a quizzical brow.

“I thought Jayce was the messy one,” I tease.

Color dusts his cheeks as he continues in, leaning down to set his keys on the table, haphazardly tidying what he could within reach. “He is,” he insisted, “in all fairness, I didn’t anticipate company tonight.”

I smirk, walking behind him, hands sliding around his waist as I press my mouth against his shoulder. His hands still, and his tense shoulders melt under my touch. His fingers intertwine through mine, and he peels them away, turning in my arms.

“So impatient,” he smirks, voice growing low and rough. I raise my eyebrow in a challenge he gladly takes.

The kiss he pulls me into is searing, bruising, as he ushers me backwards. He leads me blind through his apartment, my steps falter, stumbling, until the back of my knees hit something soft. A push, and I’m seated, his bedding a silken whisper against the palm of my hand. He’s out of breath already.

I reach up, tugging at the collar of his shirt; greedy hands fussing with the buttons, exposing more and more to my touch as his legs slot between mine. His hands traces along my thigh, knee nudging against my core and a white hot need curls in my stomach.

“So perfect,” he whispers against my skin, shifting his weight fully onto his knee. Another push, and I’m on my back. A vague clatter goes ignored as it rings through the room. My mouth parts.

He watches me, drinking in each hitch and gasp as his fingers trace up my bare thighs, pushing the hem of my dress up with the movement. His lips part. My heart skitters at the look in his eyes—focused, gentle.

His hand skates to my inner thigh. Tracing up, up, up; parting them with each inch. There’s a hitch, so soft, almost imperceptible, in his breath when he catches the first glimpse of the lace that lies beneath.

Dipping between, he presses his fingers against my still-clothed sex. I arch into his touch. More. He’s slack-jawed and sly, mouth quirking up as he watches his fingers slip beneath the side of my underwear.

“Gods,” he rasps, “you’re soaked.”

I keen. He’s going to be the death of me. I grind against his hand, shameless and desperate for friction. Any foolish hope of maintaining any demure air now cast to the wind as I reach forward, tugging at the button of his slacks, “off.”

He peels my hands away, pressing them down against the sheets; fingers twining through mine as he presses wet, hot kisses down my neck.

I gasp, “fuck.”

“Patience,” he chides.

He takes his time with me—languidly pushing my dress up as his own mouth works its way down. Dizzying. I can feel his smirk with every strangled noise I make. When the hem of my dress pushes past my ribs, he pauses, pressing a kiss to my shoulder, pulling me to sit up before peeling it up past my head.

“Lay down,” he says softly, gesturing towards the headboard.

I slide my underwear off, and quickly resist the urge to cover myself, feeling suddenly bare at his hungry eyes roaming my form as I scoot back. My head hits the pillow. His own tilts to the side as he pushes his shirt down his arms, shrugging it off. His lips quirk at the face I make—pinched brows, lips parted—while I watch him make short work of his pants. He’s lithe, lean, with an elegant cut of muscle. As I drink him in, I spot the metal brace lining his leg. I wasn’t even aware he wore one. He smiles, a little shyly; color dusting his cheeks. Still, he doesn’t shrink away.

“I wanted to do that,” I pout. Which is true. I’d undress him with my teeth if he let me.

He laughs, half-crawling onto the bed, “another time.”

He collapses onto his side beside me, bed doing a little shake before his fingers are curling around my knee to part my legs. His unbraced leg hitches forward, holding mine open as his nails rake up my inner thigh. It’s torture.

“Viktor,” I gasp, a warning.

He hums, craning forward to watch his own hand intently as it slides higher. So close. I turn to look at his face, and I’m struck by just how long his eyelashes are, kissing his cheek with contented blink. When his fingers hit the juncture of my thigh, I whimper. He relents, thank the gods, amber eyes lifting to mine while his fingers brush against my core.

“Good?” He asks. He knows the answer.

My hips buck against his hand, “yes, please.”

His eyes widen, blown-black as his fingers sink inside. I keen, writhing at the delicious curl. Well-practiced. My own fingers find his hair, searching for purchase as he dips down, lips pressing against my ear. I can feel the heat of his gaze, watching my hips stutter and grind against his palm.

“That’s it,” a ragged groan tears from his throat as he whispers into my ear, “so perfect.”

I cry out, that familiar heat building in my core as a litany of praises fall from his lips. So fast. Teeth scrape at the skin beneath my ear, fingers curling within me in time with the roll of my hips.

“Fuck,” he gasps.

My hips stutter with another whine, “Viktor, please.”

He hums, but is cut short as my hand snakes down to his underwear, palming him. “Gods,” he chokes.

My fingers wrap around him through the fabric, thick and weighty in my hand. I let out a strangled noise. Gods. I tug at the waistband, a quick yank and his cock springs free. Gorgeous. I’ve never found a cock gorgeous before. I trace up the underside with a light touch, wringing a sharp breath from him.

“Need you,” I swallow, throat suddenly dry.

Another groan, and he’s falling onto his back, bringing me with him, tugging me forward until I straddle him. My legs quivering, I prop myself up with my palms flat against his chest.

For a beat, we catch our breath.

He looks so soft, wavy hair splayed out on the pillow beneath, staring up at me like a man starved. It’s nearly overwhelming.

So I break the spell; my fingers wrap around him.

His hips buck up into my hands as I give an experimental stroke, pausing to press my thumb against his cock to collect an errant bead of cum. I bring my thumb to my lips, bringing another lovely curse from his lips. He’s salty-sweet and intoxicating. My eyes flutter closed, making a show of it and—

Was that a growl? How interesting.

He grabs my hips, fingers bruising as he pulls me down against him, cock grinding against my clit. I fall forward, hips stuttering with a cry. How on earth does he keep pulling the rug out from under me?

“All this for me,” he rasps, rocking my hips against him, “and I haven’t even fucked you.”

I mewl his name, reaching down with unsteady fingers to line him up with my entrance. He slides into me with a rough, insistent thrust that makes me gasp. I clench around him, the unfamiliar stretch of him sending a dizzying wave of pleasure through my core.

“That’s it,” he gasps, guiding my hips to roll against him. His eyes burn into mine, rapt. There’s a flush to his cheeks, dusted pink as he pants up at me, fingers making their way up the length of my body.

It’s by the nape of my neck that he pulls me down into another crushing kiss, each thrust up into me stoking the flame. He’s all tongues and teeth as I cry against his mouth. A hand snakes between us, thumb circling my clit. With each motion I feel an aching pulse. Intoxicating. I could get drunk off the feel of his cock hitting that spot—that perfect fucking spot—alone.

“You take me so well,” he gasps, breath catching, “so perfect, so needy.”

Each word sends fire through my veins. Thumb brushing against the base of my ear, he presses my forehead against his, our broken breaths mixing in the air between. He gulps as I clench around him, “I’m not going to last if you keep doing that.”

“Don’t care,” I shake my head, thighs shaking as his thumb picks up the pace against me, “me neither, fuck, Viktor—“

“You going to come for me, hm?” He hisses, his own thrusts growing uneven.

I nod, a feeble little motion as I moan out. He chases the noise with his lips, pressing to mine, drinking in each little noise that slips out. Every rough thrust of his cock up into me bringing me closer to the edge, that heat building until I’m mewling, babbling against his lips—

“That’s it,” he groans, “good girl, just let go.”

My back arches as I cry, waves of pleasure coursing through me as I fall apart at his command. He’s close behind, a high-pitched strangled noise tearing from his throat as he fills me, hips jerking erratically. He chants my name, holding me against his chest as I slump forward.

“Gods,” I pant.

With a content hum his lips brush against my temple, hand tracing soothing shapes along my back. I cant my head towards him, pressing a kiss to his jaw as I slide off of him—eliciting one last hiss.

He turns to his side to face me, the corners of his mouth quirking upwards. Though his eyes hold something else—keen and alert, looking into mine like equations were written on a blackboard within. My eyes widen.

Too bare.

I stretch, retreat; eyes sliding shut. A chaste kiss to his cheek and I’m slipping out of the bed with a quick, “be right back.”

When I return he’s half-awake, heavy lidded eyes and a lopsided smile as I tuck myself beneath the sheets. His arms slide around me, tugging close to his chest, enveloping me fully. I sink into the feeling; safe.

As the clutches of sleep find me, I hear him mumble, “I am.. glad you decided to stay.”

- - -

I’m the first to wake. Surprisingly.

The rising light peaks through the windows of his apartment, setting those brown locks aglow—a halo of orange and gold. His mouth was slack, lips softly parted. I leaned in, admiring the way his long lashes kissed his cheek. He sleeps like the dead, which is, honestly, rather unexpected.

Birdsong—a loud, twittering call—rings through the room, as if on cue. Time to get up.

I have that blasted meeting a 8. And the academy was a twenty minute walk away. And I needed a change of clothes. And a shower. Shit.

I really needed to leave.

I pressed a kiss to Viktor’s cheek, murmuring, “gotta get up.”

He groaned, eyelids heavy as they fluttered open. His mouth tucked into a pout as I slipped from his arms. He mumbled, “mh, leaving?”

I nod, rifling through his closet. “Meeting,” I explain, shrugging on one of his shirts.

He’s all limbs, taught and elongated, stretching out. He takes it a hair too far, apparently, as his face pinches into a brief wince. I frown, fingers faltering on the buttons. There’s another muffled groan as he shifts to his side, hand slipping beneath his pillow to stare back at me.

I fish a pair of pants from the closet, slipping them on.

“Little thief,” his teasing voice is rough, warm and gravely.

“You’ll get them back,” I laugh, “walking home in a gown at 7 am feels a bit indecent.”

He hums, “eh, a convenient excuse.”

“Careful, I may pilfer more on my way out,” I pad over towards the bed, leaning down to pull him into a kiss. Soft and slow and sweet. He hums as I retreat once more. “See you, Viktor.”

- - -

The board meeting turns out to be, as always, entirely unnecessary. Bloviation and repetition. I continuously find my mind floating back to Viktor’s apartment: to soft brown hair and fleeting touches and gentle lips. I float through the rest of the day this way; half-present, swept up in the whirlwind that inevitably comes after Progress day.

I manage to carve out a moment for myself to pen a message to Cassandra, taking it alongside the veritable mountain of pending correspondence that’s grown throughout the day. It’s only a quick jog to the pneumatic tubes, thankfully. I’m half-surprised he didn’t have one installed in his office. A suggestion for later, perhaps.

When I return, I’m surprised to find Viktor and Jayce loitering in the office. The events of last night come flooding back at the sight, a fire licks through my veins, curling in my stomach. Low, needy. My face heats as my eyes meet Viktor’s, judging by the tug at his lips his thoughts are the same.

“Afternoon,” Jayce smiles.

He seems… unexpectedly oblivious. Nonplussed, at the very least. I raise a brow to Viktor before I turn Jayce’s way, “good afternoon, Jayce. Meeting with the councilor?”

At his nod, I smile, pivoting on my heels. “One moment, I’ll see if he’s available.”

For his star mentees? Of course he is.

Heimerdinger insists I sit in on their discussion—on next steps, which was, apparently, loosely scheduled the night previous—to take meeting minutes. From the spare seat in the corner of the room, I keep my eyes glued to the page, doing my best to ignore the fleeting glances Viktor keeps casting my way.

“We anticipate, mh, twelve months to complete construction on the Hexgate,” Viktor says, coolly crossing his ankle over his knee as he shifts in his seat.

Hm, interesting.

Heimerdinger’s eyes practically bulge out of his head, exclaiming, “that’s quite an aggressive timeline!”

It really isn’t. Still, I hold my tongue; I’ve learned long ago that it’s better to nudge Heimerdinger in the right direction from the sidelines, rather than advocate in public.

There’s a pause as Viktor’s tired eyes meet Jayce’s, a wordless little exchange that seems to say ‘you deal with it.’

“We’ve worked on these plans for years,” Jayce leans forward, eyes bright and full of promise as he speaks, “you have my word, sir, that we will continue to take every precaution.”

Heimerdinger narrows his eyes before sliding them closed in an animated little nod. “Fine, fine. It’ll have to be discussed with the council, of course. But, you’ll have my vote.”

Viktor is quick to stand, reaching forward to shake his mentor’s hand, “your support is.. appreciated, sir.”

His smile is pleased, peaceful, as he turns towards the door. I go to follow him and Jayce out, steps halting as the councilor calls my name.

“A moment,” he says.

- - -

Cassandra Kiramman is quick to respond, and a date is set for one week later.

Cassandra Kiramman’s estate smelled of freshly-cut lilac mixed with sandalwood and vanilla. Buttery and altogether intoxicating. I bring the tea provided—white with honey and some secret, delectable third taste layered within—to my mouth, savoring each sip. I very much doubt I’ll taste something so fine for a long time.

Her office is bright, ornate. Filled to the absolute brim with flowers and plants of every kind. All quite rare. All exceedingly difficult to keep alive in Piltover’s climate. This room, however, is warm, hospitable, and teeming with life.

Cassandra Kirraman, however, is quite cold. Not unfeeling. But, proper. A woman of process and propriety. Currently, her shrewd eyes are on mine, watching me take in the room.

“You’ve a lovely home,” I say, and I’m sure my smile comes out more grimace-like than I intend.

“Thank you,” she says, “and thank you for sending your materials in advance of our meeting.”

“Of course, I assume you have questions?”

Jayce, who was kind enough to help prep me for the meeting, warned me that she would be more hands on with her patronage. In recent years, at least. I can’t imagine why.

She nods once, curt and to the point, “yes. My primary point of concern lies in your ‘runoffmitigation’plans.”

Ah. As anticipated.

She continues, “You don’t have any sites determined yet, and I don’t expect you’ll find the industrialists of the undercity to be jumping at the opportunity to collaborate.”

“Of course,” I cross my legs as I speak, “but the benefits are great enough that I’d be remiss if I didn’t try.”

She nods, thumbing through the packet of papers.

The arduous pause that follows has me shifting in my seat, leaning forward to add, “nailing down where is my next step.”

She hums, “and your estimate on this? Will you have this determination made soon?”

“That,” I squirm, “is difficult to say.”

She tilts her head, “In that case. let’s aim for 3 weeks.”

Final answer, then.

- - -

It’s an aggressive timeline.

Perhaps it’s time to have a conversation with my boss—one thats been haunting the back of my mind these few months. On my return from my meeting, I march directly into his office; I’m fairly sure any delay would dry up the remaining dregs of my courage after my morning.

I clear my throat, propping the door open, “sir, may I speak to you for a moment?”

“Of course, my girl,” he straightens in his seat.

I reach down to pet his poro, who excitedly circles me, as I take my seat. I shift, throat suddenly dry—

“I’m fairly certain I can take an educated guess as to why you’re here,” he narrows his eyes.

I nod, a bit feebly. The words snag in my throat.

Charitably, he continues, eyeing me with his ever-shrewd gaze as he speaks, “time is about to become quite the premium for you.”

So he heard about my meeting, then. I swallow, “Yes, I expect so, sir.”

“Of course, it’s not lost on me that meeting minutes and correspondence are a waste of your talents—“

“Not at all, sir, I—“

He narrows his eyes at me, hushing me immediately. With a curt nod to himself, he continues, “I’m glad you came to me. I’ve been thinking it’d be prudent to adjust your role—let a student take over the mundane tasks for you to focus on your work. In exchange, however, I do have a request.”

I frown, tilting my head, “sir?”

“I’d like you to be a pair of extra eyes for me—primarily on any Hextech progress.”

Ah. I’ve had assignments like these as his assistant before, of course. I’ve never been a fan of them—hounding scientists to ensure they’re keeping to the ethos. Still, it’s a fair trade. I nod, “yes, of course sir.”

He fixes me with a neutral, if assessing, stare. I shift in place, finger carding through the edges of my notebook.

“Our boys have hit their fair share of snags,” he finally speaks, “I’m also aware you have grown quite close with Viktor, I expect you remain neutral.”

I nod, swallowing thickly. That was quite the emphasis. Did he mean that in a stay-away-from-my-star-pupil sort of way? Perhaps. Perhaps, I’m paranoid. Either way, I’m thrown. Something else scratches at the edge of my mind, and I ask, “Why, sir? Keep accommodating me, I mean.”

It’s a foolish question.

He blinks, mustache tucking into a frown as he considers my words. “It is the greatest importance, my girl, to focus on our future, to shape young innovators such as yourself.”

I’m not sure I enjoy the idea of being molded.

I chew on my lip, nodding. “Thank you, sir.”

- - -

The first two weeks pass far too quickly. I dive headfirst into my project, and visit the Hextech lab a few times. Okay, I’m fairly sure Heimer only meant for me to check in every so often. Call it an indulgence.

Viktor is keeping busy, as well. Relegating us to subsist on stolen glances and fleeting touches. The heat eats at me each time regardless, and I’m still a little unsure whether Heimer’s warning was purely about professionalism, or pursuit.

So, we’ve been careful.

It doesn’t stop the visits from being pure, blissful torture. It builds on it, really.

- - -

“Hello, boys,” I beam at the threshold of the Hextech lab.

Jayce’s greeting is warm, much warmer than Viktor’s—who opts for a soft ‘mmh’ with a wave of his hand, eyes glued to his notebook.

I scoff, teasing, “I’m doing fine, Viktor. Thanks for asking.”

His shoulders shake with silent laughter.

“So, any interesting progress?” I turn to Jayce.

He readily walks me through their latest developments—planning, materials they’re sourcing, the few more tests left before construction kicks off. They’re moving fast.

“Why the hurry?” I tilt my head, finger tracing it’s way down the schematics laid out before me. Jayce has returned to his project, welding what appears to be two small metal sheets together.

He hooks a thumb in Viktor’s direction, “ask this one.”

“I would like to move forward,” Viktor pipes in with a sigh, “the Hexgates are just the surface of Hextech, and will likely only impact Piltover’s elite.”

I hum, he had a point. I step away from the table, crossing the room.

“The undercity will feel the effects too, V,” Jayce says.

“Eh, do we know that, Jayce?” Viktor stands, watching me as I approach his desk, “better to quickly satisfy our benefactors and move on to measurable, tangible impacts.”

His amber eyes shine, hopeful. Up close, however, I can see the purple kiss of dark circles blooming beneath his eyes. He’s been working too hard again.

Jayce hums in reply, not bothering to look up from the soldering iron in his hands, “I know, V.”

This was a regular conversation, then.

It’s quiet for a moment, Viktor silently watching the back of his partner’s head. I shift from foot to foot, drawing idle shapes against the desk top. The soldering iron kicks on.

Viktor’s eyes slide to mine, and my lungs stop. A careful step forward and he’s caged me between his arms, back against the table, breath hitching as he whispers against my hair, “you are incredibly distracting.”

His hips press against mine, driving the point home. My hands find his waist as I struggle to steel myself. I swallow, “I’m going back to the undercity soon.”

He presses a kiss to the corner of my jaw, voice low and amused. “Is that so? And do you require an escort?”

He seals his sentence with a nip at my skin.

“No,” I say, voice airy as I try to maintain an even reply, “I should be fine.”

Jayce clears his throat, “V.”

Viktor backs away, utterly nonplussed as he sits beside me on the table. I take the opportunity to step back, to put some distance between us.

Viktor looks at me, suddenly earnest as he speaks, “you’ve been going to the undercity a lot recently.”

I nod, blinking. I still have yet to find a suitable factory in the Undercity, each visit turning up fruitless. I murmur, “I’m on a tight deadline.”

Viktor stares at me for a moment, lips forming a thin line, “Careful.”

I shrug, giving him a lopsided smile, “of course.”

- - -

One such factory sits conveniently in the higher levels of the undercity, not-so-far from the very spot I ran into that odd man at. It’s partially why I’ve been avoiding it. The sigil lining the exterior of the building, however, was not the same. I’m still not sure if that is a boon, or not. The sense of unease twists in my gut.

I round the exterior of the factory, nose pinching. Smoke plumes up from one of the stacks towards the center, cloying and thickening the very air around me. There’s just enough space between the factory itself and the river, jagged rock and cobble smattering the land between. The ideal location for my work.

I cross around the back of the building, sticking towards the river. The closer to the other end, the more cumbersome the earth becomes: Manageable boulders turn to smaller, frail jagged shards. It’s a scramble. The factory itself is surprisingly quiet—windowless, devoid of most signs of life—save for the guard posted on the other side of the building. A silhouette in the distance, lax posture.

One wrong step. That’s all it takes to send me cursing as I tumble onto the sharp rocks below. A pain tears through my hands. Then, blood. I struggle to my knees with a hiss, investigating the source—broken slivers of shale embedded in my palms. I cry out as I peel the first away.

Swallowing, I manage to muffle the worst of it. My heart leaps into my throat. I risked a glance at the guard, paranoia singing through my blood. Had he heard me?

He shuffles on his feet, leaning against the wall.

I exhale, looking down to tug out another; this one deeper. I glance at the door to the factory, still closed. The guard still leaning there, unmoving. My nostrils flaring, I stand up on wobbly legs. I can deal with the rest later, when I get home. Was that a noise? No, I’m being paranoid. I stagger forward—

There’s a crunch of feet against stone behind me, and I whip around just in time—a glimpse of metal, a resounding crack, the tilt of the horizon.

Darkness.

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