#Viktor x f!reader

[pipthepiper]

virgin!bf!viktor who simply cannot control himself around you.

it’s like he’s some sort of horny teenager, eyes glued to your body at every chance he gets and sticky hands attaching themselves to your ass or tits when he sees the opportunity.

you don’t really complain about it; being wanted so viscerally is a compliment, one that makes you feel good in every way — so even when viktor gets amped up in situations that he shouldn’t, you don’t do anything to stop him.

“wan’ you so bad,” viktor pants into your ear, grinding his hard cock against the swell of your ass and bruising your hips with his hands. “wan’a feel’ya.”

you bite your lip to mute the moan that bubbles in your throat; you know it isn’t entirely safe right now, clock nearing noon and academy halls bustling with life — even behind the thick door of the closet, you can hear the murmuring and cackling of people.

“vik, we gotta hurry,” you whisper, not entirely sure if he even heard your words over his pants and groans.

“i know,” he grits out, slightly surprising you. “jus’… let me, fuck, — feels so good.” his voice tapers off and the shuffling of clothes gets louder as he humps faster, the imprint of his thick cock almost sliding between your cheeks.

you let out a small gasp at the sensation, mind conjuring up lewd fantasies of feeling the hot flesh without the barrier of the layers — and now your own head is fogging up, slick gathering between your folds as arousal grips your gut.

“i-i’m sorry,” viktor says breathily, blunt fingernails digging into your flesh. “shit, i-i’m close,”

a moan escapes from your lips before you can stop it, and the sound seems to strike something carnal in viktor — moans tumble from his throat as he starts to fuck himself against you more desperately, pattern completely erratic and near feral; simply using your body to chase his nearing high.

“you’re so good, sound so pretty — i-i can’t, — hah, oh, fuck — ‘m so close, can’t hold it—!”

a few more harsh thrusts and a long groan later, viktor’s cock throbs against your ass as wet heat seeps into the front of his pants. his dick twitches in something that resembles a rhythm, like a heartbeat, and it’s so fucking hot, you’re soaking your panties — you want him inside you.

“hah, oh, shit,” viktor rasps as his hips stutter, voice deep and honeyed, cum cooling against your ass. that damn fog is thick, and the urge to taste him is overwhelming.

that’s why you wiggle from his grip and turn around, dropping to your knees in front of him and inhaling lungfuls of that bleach-y scent. you grip viktor’s thighs and stare up at him with lidded eyes,

“lunch isn’t over yet, vik. think you can cum for me one more time?”

virgin!viktor save me… save me virgin!viktor…

[whoreforsexymen]

Hidden In Plain Sight | Viktor

Pairings: Viktor x GN!Reader

Pronouns: None used for reader 🤍

Rating: NSFW, 18+, MDNI !! You WILL be blocked!

Word Count: 2.5k

Tags: Blowjob, Unknown/Unintentional Voyeurism

Summary: You aren’t going to let a conversation stop you from relieving your lover of his frustrations.

Notes: Heyyy!! So. I’m working on requests. But this idea popped into my head when I was rewatching S1 to prepare for S2!!

This is based on S1 E5, the conversation Viktor has with Sky Young. I loved the idea that, since Viktor was so clearly uninterested in her, I should make the reason for the uninterest be you. 🥵🤍 Enjoy, my loves.

I SWEAR PT. 2 of The Cuck Fic is COMING SOON!!!!

Viktor threw his hands to his sides in a sharp, exaggerated motion, his frustration bubbling beneath the surface. He leaned back in his chair, tilting his head back against the top of it as he tried to counteract the heaviness that had settled over him. The weight of his thoughts was more palpable than any tangible burden. His eyes drifted briefly to the clutter of papers scattered on the desk, but nothing held his focus for long.

Viktor’s mind drifted, momentarily pulling him away from the weight of his work. He wondered where you were, why you weren’t here with him now. In moments like this, when the pressure of it all became too much, he often needed you to hold him, to ground him in a way only you could. He could almost feel the comfort of your presence, the warmth of your touch, and it left a deep ache in him. It wasn’t just the physical relief he craved—it was the calm, the quiet reassurance that you always provided. Without you there, the room felt colder, emptier.

He exhaled sharply, a deep sigh that seemed to carry more than just exhaustion. The silence of the room hung in the air, thick and unyielding, until it was broken by a soft, almost hesitant voice from behind him.

“It’s beautiful.”

Viktor tensed up at the sudden intrusive voice.

The words felt distant, like they belonged to another world entirely, one that wasn’t caught in the weight of Viktor’s own spiraling thoughts. He didn’t need to look to know who it was—he could picture her there, standing a little too close, her voice trembling at the edges.

Sky. Always Sky.

Viktor didn’t turn. There was no need to. She had said enough with those few words. He inhaled again, slower this time, trying to keep his “irritation” from surfacing.

He sighed, the sound low and heavy.

“I can’t figure out why it’s not working…” Viktor muttered, his voice flat, as he rubbed his hands over his face, trying to maintain a simple composure. It wasn’t just “frustration”—there was something else lurking beneath it. Something quieter that gnawed at the edges of his mind.

“You will…” Sky’s voice was soft, almost soothing, as though she had said those words a thousand times before, to herself or to him, or perhaps to both. Viktor didn’t acknowledge the comment, his gaze still fixed on “nothing” as he looked down into his lap.

Sky shifted, an anxious movement that Viktor could feel even without seeing it. He imagined her wringing her hands, pushing her glasses up her nose, trying to find the right thing to say.

“Are you… headed home soon?” Her voice was tinged with hope, though it faltered as she continued, as if she already knew the answer.

“I thought we could walk together…”

Her words hung there, like a delicate thread pulling at the edge of his attention. But Viktor wasn’t interested. He didn’t hate her, but his mind was somewhere else—too far away to grasp her meaning.

He almost rolled his eyes, but he stifled it. Instead, he answered with an aloofness that was more instinct than deliberate cruelty.

“I’m, uh… probably going to sleep here tonight,” he said, his voice distant, distracted. The words were a gentle deflection, but the disinterest was clear. His fingers tapped absently on the desk, the motion more automatic than purposeful.

Sky’s voice softened, like a fading echo.

“Again? You know there’s always tomorrow, right?” The words stung, though she tried to mask it with a forced cheer. Viktor didn’t respond right away, but he knew what she was trying to do.

“Goodnight, Miss Young,” he said, his tone a little more clipped now, though he didn’t intend for it to sound harsh. He didn’t need to look at her to know she was still there, standing in the doorway, hoping for something—anything—that would make him look at her the way she looked at him. But he didn’t.

She hesitated for a moment, her presence lingering in the room like a shadow, before she stepped back. The silence stretched on in her absence, but Viktor remained frozen in place, his thoughts elsewhere, far away from the quiet, expectant gaze he knew she had been offering.

With a soft exhale, Sky left. And the room was quiet once more.

As the door clicked shut behind her, replacing the silence, Viktor let out a long breath, as though he had been holding every one of the previous ones far too long.

The room fell into an uneasy stillness, broken only by the mechanical hum of surrounding equipment, his own steady breathing, and the faint sound of wet, sloppy, suckling.

He looks down into his lap once more, where you were, your head bobbing between his legs like a buoy in water.

Viktor felt his stomach churn at the sight of it, a wave of pleasure pooling inside him. A low, involuntary groan slipped from his lips, the sound escaping after he’d spent too long stifling it.

It was deep, slow, and rich, a reflex of the sensation that tightened in his chest and spread through his body. His breath hitched slightly as the pleasure took control, a warmth spreading through him as he fought to stay composed in case anyone else were to pop into the room.

Your lips were wrapped tightly around his needy cock, maintaining a seal around it as you sucked and licked at it.

Viktor, truthfully, hadn’t been frustrated at all during his exchange with his assistant.

In fact, he had been struggling to conceal the pleasure slowly building within him—pleasure he had worked hard to keep hidden from Sky.

Earlier, you had offered to help ease his tensions, but Viktor had turned you down, citing the risk of someone walking by at any moment. You couldn’t deny he had a point—-which felt ironic, now. But you weren’t one to be easily deterred.

You couldn’t help but pity Viktor, watching him struggle with the frustration that clung to him like a second skin. The weight of his work seemed to suffocate him—trying to stabilize and control the intricate combinations of runes for the new version of Hextech he and Jayce had launched. The constant pressure, the endless tinkering and problem-solving, had a way of wearing him down.

No matter how often you reminded him how brilliant, how capable, how wonderful he was, it never seemed to quiet that relentless inner voice of doubt. He always carried that burden, that self-imposed expectation of perfection, even when he had already accomplished so much.

You knew there was only one real way to relieve his aggravation apart from the simpler comforts you’d provide.

And so, as Viktor bent over his work, eyes fixed on the sprawling notes before him, you slipped under his desk. He didn’t notice at first, too lost in his thoughts, as you moved quietly and carefully, prowling and crawling to him like a tiger stalking a gazelle.

What you didn’t realize, though, was that Sky had arrived and was now looming behind Viktor in the annoyingly often way she did. The chair Viktor occupied, wide and heavy, combined with you on your knees, faithfully hid you from her eyes. Leaving Sky unaware of your proximity, just as Viktor remained blissfully unaware of her presence.

Your hands were beyond eager as they worked to unbutton his clothes, the fabric of his pants slipping easily beneath your fingers. You could feel him tense, stiff as a statue as you pulled his cock out right after she had said her first sentence.

You knew Viktor was stunned, and it amused you to imagine the expression on his face as he tried to conceal what was happening outside of Sky’s awareness.

You only had to wait, feeling the tension in him shift, his body responding to your touch in ways he was trying hard to ignore, while also trying desperately hard to maintain an unsuspecting tone as he talked.

You had begun lapping, sucking, and hollowing out your cheeks to accommodate his size and length. You greedily slid down until his cock reached the back of your throat, almost laughing at the sound of the sharp inhale that garnered from him.

A part of you almost wished Sky could see you—see how easily you could reduce this man to a babbling mess, unlike anyone else. It wasn’t as if you and he were some secret, hidden item, but maybe if she knew, really knew, what you often did to him, and how he crumbled, she’d finally back off.

Maybe then, and only then, would she relinquish her pathetic attempts to encroach on what was yours. The thought of her realizing that she’d never compare, never measure up to the desire Viktor had for you, gave you a twisted air of satisfaction.

You heavily considered the idea.

Your amusement remained bold, even as Viktor’s attention finally drifted down to where you were hidden beneath his desk. It was almost as if he had sensed your devious train of thought.

He shot you a look, one that said more than words ever could. There was a trace of minor disappointment in the way his brow furrowed, confusion flickering in his eyes as he tried to reconcile what was happening beneath the table with the ongoing conversation. But beneath it all, you saw the unmistakably familiar glimmer of pleasure, one he couldn’t quite suppress, despite his attempt to maintain control.

It was a mix of surprise and something deeper, something he didn’t always allow himself to acknowledge. His eyes lingered just long enough for you to sense it, the tension between his desire to focus on his work and the undeniable pull of the moment.

Several painstakingly long moments passed before Viktor finally managed to rid the room of the unwanted third presence. As Sky exited, Viktor released a deep, almost aching sigh—one that resonated with a relief so intense, it sent a shiver of arousal down your spine. The tension that had been weighing on him seemed to melt away in an instant, and the air between you thickened with the shift in his attitude.

Without hesitation, his hand slipped into your hair, fingers tangling in the soft strands as he gently tugged you closer. His gaze met yours, dark and heavy, as though he had been waiting for this moment, for the silence to settle between you both. The way he looked at you now was unmistakable, that mix of pleasure and need, the kind of intensity that made your pulse quicken.

“You really need to learn patience, my love.” He breathes, his other hand coming up to caress your cheek as he uses his grip on your hair to help guide your movement.

He hisses as he pushes your head down far enough to lightly rut his cock into the very back of your throat.

“What if she had seen you?” He asks, not really expecting a reply considering your current state.

You hum lightly as he slowly but surely flicks his hips up into your mouth, gagging around him as he did so. Viktor’s string of moans in response to your gags were filthy, needy, and whiny. You always drove him crazy, and this was no exception.

“Mmf…” he groans, biting his lip as a last ditch effort to keep himself from moaning too loud—-quickening the pace with which he began bobbing your head to meet his tiny thrusts.

“Mmm.. like that, my love.” He instructs softly—reassuring that the new way you had started licking up and down the length of his cock was simply divine.

Viktor was cursing himself inside due to the speed at which his orgasm was approaching. You’d barely been down there six minutes when he recognized the familiar tightening in his stomach nearing the edge of snapping.

“My love, I— I’m going to—“ he tried to warn you before his hot cum began spewing onto the inner walls of your mouth. It shot directly into the back of your throat, splattering off the tissues and trickling down your esophagus. The tepid, viscous substance slid further and further down as you swallowed around his twitching cock.

Viktor had cum with the unholiest of moans leaping out of his throat to invade your ears. It sent an unforgiving wave of arousal through you, singeing your skin and shocking your bones. He had gripped your face with an automatic force, pushing you down as far as you could possibly go, his eyes clamping shut as the thick strings of cum practically drowned you on land.

You gagged against the mindless way he jerked his hips into your mouth as he chased his orgasm seemingly halfway to your stomach.

Viktor practically whimpered at the sensation of you mercilessly swallowing around him—-now sensitive beyond measure from the sheer might of his climax. You had been correct—-he really needed that—arguably more than anything else.

When the pressure in your throat became unbearable, you squeezed his leg, silently pleading for him to loosen his grip.

Viktor’s eyes snapped open, the clarity that followed his release allowing him to regain his focus. He immediately uncoupled his hands from your head.

“I—I’m sorry, my love… I guess I got carried away,” he muttered, his voice tinged with sheepish regret.

You gasped as you pulled away, strands of saliva trailing down your chin in a delicate cascade—-like a miniature waterfall against your skin.

You hum softly in response to his apology, the hum dancing along the edge of a gentle laugh.

“Guess I did, too,” you murmur, wiping your mouth clean as you meet his gaze with silent affection.

Viktor gently cups your face once more, his thumb sweeping over the apple of your cheek as a soft smile tugs at his lips.

“Thank you…” he whispers, his voice rich with adoration, gratitude, and love for you. He tilts his head, aligning it with yours as his intent becomes clear.

He presses his lips to yours in a tender, silent show of his affection. Viktor shudders as a result of tasting himself all over your lips and tongue. The fact that you had eagerly swallowed every last drop sent a jolt through him, making his hair stand on end—-as it always did. He was downright obsessed with your greedy thirst for his cock and his seed.

The passion and tenderness with which Viktor kisses you never fail to set your heart racing, the gentle yet intense pressure of his lips stirring a swarm of butterflies in your stomach.

After several tender, passionate moments, your lips still lingering in a dance of their own, Viktor pulls away, his mind swirling with the renewed flames of longing sparked by what just transpired.

“My love… Why don’t we move… on top of the table?” he suggests, a playful gleam lighting up his eyes as he gazes into yours once more.

At his suggestion, you feel the butterflies in your stomach morph into something far more intense—fighter jets soaring through the cavern of your core. You meet his playful gaze with one of eager anticipation.

You nod, shifting to rise from your knees.

“I’ll lock the door,” you mutter softly.

[ihopeinevergetsoberr]

— i’m in love with a dying man

rating: mature. or explicit? i’m not sure. angsty study on grief in unconventional forms. (mild) smut purely for poetic reasons

word count: 4,1k

pairing: viktor x gn!reader

cw: terminal illness. several mentions of death. everyone is horny in a heartbroken way, so grab a napkin—but not for the reasons you think. and yes, you may dox me for making you even sadder after whatever happened in ep 6.

—

He licks a tear off your cheek, and it seeps in between the bumps on his tongue, all prickly salt running down your face in two glossy trails of sorrow. Stinging, when his calloused thumb swipes over a puffy eyelid, only to inevitably fall to your lip and tug, nudging your mouth agape. His desperate grip softens when you oblige and arch, letting him grunt over the slope of your throat; wheezier than you remember, raw, rhotic and ravenous. The hard shift of his lungs is palpable under your hand, ruckling heavily in his sternum. It almost breaks down to a cough when he cants his hips into you, slanting one last slow, weak slam. Spilling all his pent-up frustration deep inside you through that bitter orgasm, leaving a clumsy mess of stickiness to dry on your inner thigh. Stilling for you to hold him through that collapse, grateful for the shaky hand that you firmly fist into his hair. Not receding until at least a few kisses are strewn upon your shoulder. 

It’s always like this now. Viktor clings to you, and you cling to him, nails digging into handfuls of him hard enough to draw blood, each embrace so tight your ribs might just break if he doesn’t retreat in time. And god does he wish to let it linger, to drag it out until eternity tumbles in—even if his eternity is reduced to a question of mere months at best, even if he must crawl out of a casket to have your touch back. 

The night you almost lost him still has you in shambles. You remember it all too well—hell, it’s almost like that acute smell of hospitals and doom still coats his skin, more slimline than it ever was, its once ivory shade fading to chalk-like disaster. The utter horror of crushing verdicts, endless heaps of bloodied handkerchiefs and palms so cold that even the heat of your breath fails to make the feeling of him any less chilling. 

The dark humor of sneaky death: she’s right around the corner, the cruelest of all mistresses. Ready to snatch him away whenever your fingers ghost over his spine, stroking a languid count over each prominent vertebrae. And no matter how tight you curl up beside him, she will supplant you, and her proximity can’t be measured in miles, feet, or inches. Because death is a termite—she gnaws at his very heart. And blooms metastases everywhere you still have him. She’s inside him. She’s merged with him into one.

At first, you denied it. Knuckles drummed against the wall in a frustrated fistfight, painting that scabrous canvas bright with your frustration. White and crimson—the speckled pattern of your hysteria. You recall how bad it stung, and how shame creeped up your spine—frightening and so, so sticky. Throttling, when he tended to that self-inflicted disaster, bandaging your smashed hand in motions sick to the core with gentleness. 

And it felt so ugly. Like you’ve grown to loathe everything around you: the doctors, for their disgusting prognosis; life itself, for being hardly fair. And even Viktor. Especially him—for slowly slipping out of your pale-knuckled grip. Well, red-knuckled, more like. That angry stunt did cost you a decent injury. White and crimson, remember? 

Naturally, grief doesn’t always progress by the book. However, denial always comes first. It’s an axiom, an invariable component, and you’re sitting on Viktor’s hospital cot, hand in trembling hand, eyes snapped wide and ferocious. Wrapped up in fear while the silence rings in your ears. 

His doctor addresses the quandary. It doesn’t feel vicious—at least, not yet. Flimsy, more like. Deceptive, too. Like if you just blink it away hard enough everything will snap right in place, and you’ll find yourself at home again—where that aseptic smell of medication can’t reach either of you. 

Well, of course, there’s always a possibility of postponing the inevitable. Winning over a year or, even, two—if Viktor’s lucky enough, that is. But you both know that he’s lacking in that department.

And yet, you grab your little hope by the throat: to look into later, when your comprehension is intact again. Surely, it’s just not plausible: so what if Viktor’s cough pulls you out of sleep every night, so what if every shirt he owns has tiny blood stains on it? Yes, he spends more time in bed than he does at the lab. He’s simply tired. He needs the rest. Not in peace. 

The retraction doesn’t linger, though. It survives a few more blood tests and a lengthy, dreadful discussion of his calamity—most strikingly frightening when the doctor talks him through each option. And not a single one manages to appease you. To stop your fury from retching out and causing an ugly scene. 

So you fling the door to his room ajar and leap inside with a bitter scowl, teeth gritting hard enough to crumble into powder. Arms a tight crisscross over your chest, step wide and listless—punctuated with a muffled clack of heels. Viktor’s eyes follow your tremulous circles—a lazy, sheenless flick of pupils, each widened into a bleak void from the rancid dose of painkillers. He lays supine, with his hair ineptly slicked back, umber waves awry, loose and sweat-damp. He’s almost mellow, tongue barely a glide over his chapped bottom lip—a martyr-like stiffness, the carrion of a man. 

But you don’t look at him. You pace, and pace, and pace—in that same tiring route, all around his creaky cot. Viktor rasps something indistinct—a muffled plea that tickles the back of his throat, rupturing yet another coughing fit. You silently hand him the speckled handkerchief. 

He looks up, eyes the saddest shade of buckwheat honey—dark with remorse; seeking comfort. But you don’t have any to give. You stare past him, gnawing at your tongue hard enough to draw fleshy copper. Dodging the kiss he tries to press to your wrist—pulling yourself back and out of his loving grip, igniting a staring competition full of glassy eye-daggering. Blink slow and borderline drowsy. 

“Milackú,” he pleads. Pulls at the corner of his mouth to wipe the bloody evidence of his withering. 

Your tear catches in your bottom lashes. 

“Milackú,” he rasps again, kicking the blanket aside. Stepping one bare foot on the cool tiles and reaching for you: arms, legs, and heart—all yours for the taking. If only you consider crawling under his minty sheets again. 

You don’t. 

“Why?” It’s so meek you barely recognize it as your own. Taut throat tightens even more, and, suddenly, you’re choking on a gasp. “Why did you turn down the treatment?” 

“Please, if you could just—“ He husks, but you can’t hear him through the ringing in your ears; the room already smudged into wattery, astigmatic lumps, Viktor’s face but a bunch of fuzzy dots you’re struggling to make out. All missing jigsaws, blurry little fractions. 

“What did I ever do to you?” You yell, shielding your eyes. Turning away from the arm he extends, his weak fist clenching to grab thin air, then tumbling as he stares at his palm in sheer dubiety, upper lip trembling. 

He winces. Ceases you by the hand and tugs as hard as it gets—frail enough for you to easily nudge him away—but you don’t bother this time. Your knees ungainly bend into shaky arcs, drifting apart when he clasps around you and pulls until you finally land on the sheets next to him, your tears mingling with his cold sweat—a salty fusion of mutual suffering.

Then comes a sequence of guttural, squealing whines and you stay twined with him for a while. Lithe fingers run through your hair, spreading to untangle an occasional knotted strand—up, and down, and over your shoulder in a caress. His lips purse on your temple, sucking an indistinct kiss. His heartbeat trails off under your fingertips the second you rake them over his thin hospital gown, growing frenetic again when you tug at the fabric, demanding closure.

“Please. Please don’t do this to me.” You exhale your choked up entreaty into his neck and it pours over his skin in a rigid breath, aftertasting of stinging desperation. His hand seeks your face, taking a forcefully gentle hold of one puffy cheek, drinking in your unsightly, woebegone rebuke. Looking at you like a repentant devotee, his timid eyes meeting your fierce ones.

“This is not about you,” he wheezes, too stern for your liking. Presses his forehead against yours and holds you through yet another shudder—and there’s no avoiding his pleading stare. “I’m not trying to get away from you. I merely want to escape my conundrum.” 

“These aren’t mutually exclusive, Viktor,” you hiss, voice simmering with betrayal. 

“Unfortunately.” 

“Unfortunately?! Is that all you have for me right now?” 

“I’m afraid so.” 

He sighs like he means it. His words keep slipping away from him, drowned in coughs and ambiguous humms. You get it, though. Your semantics became sparse the minute Viktor almost died in your arms. 

You melt into one-another in a teary, sniffling twine—simply breathing, trading tense silences. His stately stance collapses into a lifeless hunch, straightening a bit only when your fingers billow over his shoulder-blades—chiseled like ones of a famished dog. There are plenty of dog-like things about him now—the pleas lodged in his glances, the newfound hunger for your touch. Especially for the way you’re holding him; every embrace like a loving headlock—and the pressure soothes him. 

“I’m tired of taking risks,” he finally whispers against your temple. “All these… labored efforts for mere fractions of peace. Decaying steadily. Constantly hurting. I’m spent.” 

“Exactly. Which is why you need the treatment.” 

His lashes shudder against your cheek in a prickly tickle. They keep fluttering when he recedes, shaking his head with a bitter frown.

“But its success is… highly improbable.” 

“Yes, but there’s still hope—“

“It’s running thin as we speak. I shouldn’t squander it on… the imminent.” 

Viktor’s irksome choice of words had you springing backwards in glossy-eyed delirium. Staring in disbelief as if he’d requested something inexorable: which he did, inherently so. 

He curses when tears slice your face again—tends to them with the softness of a man most contrite of his omission, shaky hands already catching holds of your waist, using your temporary pliancy to swiftly nudge you into his cot. Curling up close enough to have your weeps reverberate in his sternum. 

“I’m sorry,” he repents with a deep rasp. “Please, don’t cry.” 

He held you in reticence again: this time horizontally. Offered you every solace his body could provide: your fingers in his hair, fumbling mindlessly (he put them there himself). Tangled legs. Apologetic neck-kisses. His head heavy on your shoulder, its weight a welcome tranquility. And only when your last tear soaks his pillow does he commence with his explanation. 

“I don’t want to spend what little time I have left miserable,” he tells you, drawing a breath. “Yes, the treatment might win me a year—a year I would spend bedridden, nauseous, and weary. A travesty of life. An illusive salvation. I’ve had enough of those.” 

Your hand stills in his hair, nestled within unkempt strands. You’ve run out of tears, so this bitter truth is met with nothing but a piteous sigh—the only thing you can still master after crying your heart out into his skin. Now you can only stare at the ceiling, chewing on your cheek in cruel denial. 

He’s right. He always is. 

Viktor sees the shift in your face—knits his eyebrows together in tender pity, tucking himself firmly against your face. Wincing, when he feels the aching tension in your temple. 

“I know I’m asking a lot of you. Too much, even.” He’s sincere when he says that, and you can sense the gratitude in his voice—for even allowing him to utter this excruciating of a thing, for attempting to understand. 

You simply nod. Yes. It is a lot. But you want to hear everything he has to say. 

So Viktor continues.

“I would hate for your last memories of me to be tainted with despair and hospitals only for all the struggle to go to waste when I inevitably pass away. I have no desire to postpone this torture at the expense of growing indifferent towards everything that makes me feel alive.” 

“But what if we manage to cure you?!”

“That’s too much of a ‘what if’ to risk dying a grim death for. I want to die…content. I want to enjoy myself before I do. Please. Don’t take that choice away from me.”

His eyes brim at you with every ounce of guilt he possesses, big tears wallowing in his eyes like an earnest plea—tacit, weary, earnest. Yes, it’s not like you have a word in his terrific decision, but Viktor wants your blessing. It’s only right that he includes you. Even if he’s intending to refuse the treatment regardless. As absurd  a bid as that is. 

You clasp his face like it’s about to vanish. Like you won’t be able to make it out when he’s gone if you fail to remember it right this instant, your gaze frantically jumping from one feature to another, seeking to embroider the image into your very eyeballs. Roaming over the artifically-white hospital light hallowing every streak of his hair. Indulging in a bittersweet smile when you note how prettily it spills over the pillow. Lingering on the patterns in his ochre irises—almost fully swallowed by his void-like pupils. Observing how they match the insomniac, mauve shades under his bottom lashes. Tracing every convex little thing—two lovely moles, thick eyebrows, the pointy mouth. Everything you’ve grown to love so dearly. Everything his illness keeps taking away from you. 

You wince, cradling his cheeks, your thumbs dipping into the hollows of them gently. Urging him to scoot closer—eye to eye, lips on lips. Breath over shuddering breath. 

“Are you sure?” You mouth the question on his skin, barely even uttering it. Hot pressure meanders into your head like a prickly impulse. It’s timid like motion sickness—borderline nauseating, too—all murky splashes of trippy lights under your closed eyelids. And the unease is diluted only when he finally kisses you—an approbatory, guilt-ridden thing. 

He’s certain. And for that, he’s so, so sorry. 

You try not to think of it, focusing on the feeling. No tongue, no teeth: just sheer tremor and so much rawness. A soft, soothing exhalation straight into your mouth like the gentlest of placebos—and yet, it works for you, slaps your pulse out of its frantic antics, and the stiffness slowly leaves your limbs under his touch. 

When it’s over, he winces at you in that sleepy, adoring way of his. Attempts a wry, sad smile. The cold light besieges his head into an even clearer halo—a foreshadowing of what is to come, an inconspicuous little thing. But everything about him is conspicuous to you. Loving Viktor has made you wary, and you wanted to hold onto that attention to the detail before it eventually slips away alongside him. 

 “Are you sure?” You repeat, tightening the inadvertent chokehold around his neck. The grip weakens only when he pulls away to clumsily clear his throat. 

“Yes.” And you know he means it when his face turns just as solemn as when he confesses his love to you. 

“I’ve had a nice life with you,” he adds, hoarsely. “I want it to feel nice when my time comes, too—whenever that might be. Sooner than later, I presume.” 

The figurative knife in your stomach twists anticlockwise. 

“Will you stay with me?” He dares to inquire. Meek, shaky hope tingling in his throat. “For however many months I have left?” 

And when you look up at him with a hurt frown, he’s reminded not to ask you rhetorical questions. 

— 

A few days later, Viktor is discharged from the hospital and insists that you both go back to normal. Well, to the new, tainted definition of it—where one spoiled napkin less is considered an ephemeral improvement and grief is a fixed variable by your side. 

Your slow-paced, quiet life that keeps turning even more timid in a frail attempt to savor what’s left of it. Faux preservation, but he allows it—savors it just as earnestly as you do, and your weeks weave into a darling, familiar routine. With some minor, necessary changes, no less: rest comes before the lab now, all deadlines fashionably late to accommodate this newfound tempo. Mandatory hourly breaks. Weekly check-ups. Four days off for every three he spends bent over the parchment. But this time, he doesn’t protest. His body demands it, inconveniently so.

You don’t tell anyone about your horrific arrangement—not yet, at the very least. It’s all you can think about, and the words threaten to slide out every time you speak—but you’re forced to swallow them with a smile so lopsided that everyone around you can only suspect the worst. A mantra of countless ‘What’s wrong’s irritating your ears with pure sincerity. 

What is wrong with you, indeed? You’re a spectator to death—not just any death, but the one you dreaded most. And not only are you witnessing it in the making, but this decision was never forced—you handed Viktor the choice and accepted whatever he went with so obediently that it felt absurd, and it had your skin crawling every time someone vaguely mentioned anything even remotely related to his condition.

But they—whoever that refers to—could never get it. They wouldn’t know what it’s like: to be stripped of your selfishness for the sake of Viktor’s peace. Defying your needs. Forcing yourself to find relief in demise. You might’ve failed to intimidate her into allowing you to keep him, but you could still accompany him into her arms and make it glorious. Here it is. Your new, appalling reason. It’s all that you want now.

Or is it? 

There’s plenty of nobility in being his chaperone—welcoming him into bed every night, painfully aware that it can become his death one. Treating every new invention of his like a soon-to-be postmortem legacy. Mourning the living. Anticipating the inexplicable. Marking every shared kiss the last, just in case. 

But then it came—unabashed and sudden. That blurry line where mourning merges into something dubious, a confusing paradox that leaves you full of filthy carry-over somewhere within your gut. The scorch his lips engrave into the column of your neck. The way it ignites a swell you can almost convince yourself is actually tangible, running your fingers over it recursively like a tactile little prayer. The gaze he throws at you across the lab ever so sneakily—a figurative punch that feels surprisingly close to a kiss. And you never resist turning it into one. Escalating. Claiming. Indulging those ambiguous, yet-to-be-defined things and having them wash over the remnants of your decorum. 

You try to fight it when it first happens, but it doesn’t last. There’s no place for restraint in grief—not when it turns into a beautiful desire to be all over him, to take everything life has to offer before he runs out of it. And Viktor doesn’t judge you. He encourages it. He craves it, just as bad—if not more—than you do. How many more undoings can he claim before the final one absorbs him? You’ve already lost that count. So much for having your love bleed on every inch of his skin.

Tonight you let it bleed mouth to mouth—a sweaty, heartfelt thing that commemorates your hunger for him in a kiss so dizzying that he has to lean back with a silent, breathless plea for brief interlude—foggy eyes staring up at you so devotedly. Shuddering, when your arms wander over his chest to feel the rasp, pointed lips bruised full of spit-slick swell. He’s a beauty—exquisite, albeit worn-down, his lines and angles blurring together into one eager, contourless essence, and you cage him in a firm straddle—your bare thighs over his clothed ones—grinding in a whiny attempt to reach him through his pants. 

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, leaning back to let him breathe. He’s sprawled out beneath you, tortuous hands already busy with tugging his tie off—impatient, clumsily nervous. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me,” you say at last, averting your gaze almost shyly. His fingers lurch to your hip, locking it in a gentle cradle, stilling above your backside in hesitation—asking for a laze caress, pushing your flimsy limits. As if forgetting that you never set those for him. Or, perhaps, he simply likes hearing your excited ‘yes’ every time. You can’t quite figure out which it is. 

He grabs a handful of you with reverence, and yet there’s something resilient about that grip—like he dreads that you might slip through his fingers if he doesn’t hold on possessively enough, staring up at you with his head thrown back in a curious, admiring droop. Aiming to dispose of your shirt in a nimble pull. Plotting a sequence of kisses from neck to collarbone. 

You expect it when he rises on his elbows, then grips the bedframe to shift beneath you in a silly leap. Inelegant, but he couldn’t care less, releasing his hips from the hedge of your legs to make you slide up his crotch instead—a most welcome, brusque change that you adapt to in a squealing instant. Your moaning mouth agape under his grin. His hips thrusting through restraining fabric. Shaky. Erotic. With your arms tumbling astride his shoulders. 

“Don’t apologize,” Viktor insists in a lulling whisper, switching to a cautionary nip on your ear. “I’ve missed you, too,” he confesses somewhere into your hair, brushing through it with a tip of his nose—breathing you in through a tender whiff.  

Your words get lost in a deep fluster, rolling back into your throat and lingering there in a suffocating lump. They have you stiffening, heavy eyelids squeezing shut—a voluntarily blindfold to help you explore him through touch only. An invitation to feel you where he pleases. And, well—it just so happens that your whims align with his—a cohesive, welcome collateral. 

Viktor starts at the slope of your shoulder. Pulls the shirt down and traces that lovely curve—fingers first. Throws a brief, askance glance at your face to make sure that your eyes are closed, and, when met with the flutter of your lashes, gets back to his lovely tease. Tender, warm lips taste your skin with delicious, savoring sounds. Getting wetter when his tongue makes a fickle appearance—leaves a slick, capricious lick in the dip of your collarbone, fluffy hair tickling your face when he bends to tend to your chest, too—and you shiver as he sucks a plum love-stain that you’ll proudly wear under your shirts. 

“See,” he cooes. “Whatever gets into you must be contagious.” 

You give in to a half-lidded peek and find him begging for your assistance—a sweet request that you understand in half-nod. Arms up in the air and over your clouded head when he unleashes your skin from the thin garment—throws it on the floor for you to find later in the morning. 

“But it feels wrong.” You sigh. “Ever since we found out…”

“I’d rather you quit talking about that in bed, please,” Viktor reproaches, eyes heady with want. His fingers slide into your underwear, contemplating its fate—should he make it join your shirt or pull it to the side in hasty fashion? Either approach had him shivering at the thought. 

But the sudden sorrow stops the rush, rendering your urge for consolation. It wraps you around him all over again, legs locking in a tangle around his waist, drooping hands combing through his hair in a brusque, fervent tug. Seeking succor. Heart to heart and thumping an anxious march. 

“I’m afraid,” you admit, but it’s not a revelation. All shuddering shoulders under his idolatrous caress, and you pang with guilt at that, too—it’s you who should be fondling him this delicately, warm reassurance seeping into his ears—not yours. But Viktor wants to be your comfort. If anything, it’s the only thing on his mind.

“What are you afraid of, beloved?” A little shiver at the unforeign endearment—a rare occasion. His thick brows still drawn together in a concerned arc. They relax only when you rake your fingers down his body—counting ribs, toying anxiously. The hurry is gone, there’s only caution now: his enamored eyes, waiting for you to find your slippery words. 

“Of losing you before I get to show you how much I love you.” You whisper, suddenly tasting teary salt in your mouth. His thumb comes to the rescue, swiftly flicking the wet trails. So you chuckle at the affection in a silly stagger to bump sweaty foreheads together.

“Nonsense,” he insists. “You’re showing me right now.”

“Indeed.” You shrug. “But… Is this the right way?” 

And when he puts your palm over his eager heartbeat, you’re reminded not to ask him rhetorical questions. 

—

tags: @zaunitearchives @blissfulip @nausicaaandhermouth @thehistoriangirl @vyshnevska

[lokidjarin-7567]

Folks.. I am already 4k words into a Viktor x fem!reader smutty, angsty, fluffy one shot and ngl, I’m insanely proud of it. Trying to get the right balance of his character has been so enjoyable; I’ve seen so so many mischaracterisations of him so I really want to do him justice. Anyway, let me know if you’re also in love with this man and want to be on the tag list lol, I’m working on it tirelessly so it will be out in the next day or so I reckon. And it will be long oops - I simply don’t have the time to keep up more than one multi-chapter fic so I have to try and fit all my adoration of him into one shots 😭

[smol-lydia]

Coffee and Cigarettes: A Viktor x f!Reader Rehab AU

TWs: mentions of drug use (future, not this chapter) mentions of anorexia and bulimia, smoking, mental health issues

Summary: You didn’t exactly sign up to spend part of your time as a scholarship student at the elite Piltover Academy on medical leave at a co-Ed rehab for those who struggle with addiction, but you want to keep your academic standing, so here you are.

You also didn’t sign up for the cute theoretical physics major turned fellow patient with the golden eyes and irresistible accent, either

A/N: hi all I’m backkkkk it’s about damn time!!! I’m currently going through a very transient period in my life and all that, and I haven’t watched act 2 yet due to that but I do know Jinx and Vik meet, and ik he calls her Powder. I figure that he would call her Jinx here if she wanted it though. I may have made reader a cello player because my sweet golden retriever of a boyfriend plays the cello lmao

I’ll have 15 months clean + sober at the end of November, gd willing 🙏💜

—-

The ward smelt of antiseptic. Wait—no. This isn’t a ward. You’re bleary eyed and tired from the meds they’ve given you to detox; being shuffled from a more intensive unit to this co-Ed rehab just feels like a blurry stop on a long road.

Your belongings are in a plastic “patient belongings” bag and a single wheelie bag; you hadn’t planned on this. On any of this.

On the Disaster. On having to take a leave from the elite Piltover Academy, the university where you had gotten a scholarship as a music student. The Dean said your scholarship wasn’t in danger; that the department just wanted you well again.

You didn’t know what you wanted anymore.

The intake isn’t much of a change as before. Name. Vitals. A new hospital bracelet to replace the other. Answering the same questions over and over, as though they aren’t in your file. You want to crawl into bed and stay there forever.

The charge nurse, a no-nonsense woman whose name tag reads “Sevika” seems done with you before you even open your mouth.

As you sit there, in the hard plastic chair, drawing your knees up to your chin, a short, blue haired girl approaches the nurses’ station.

She’s thin. Too thin, her collar bones sticking out and her cheeks hollow. You know that look, the look of malnourishment, and envy burns worse than the stomach acid.

“Sevika—“ the girl starts, and Sevika holds up her hand in a “stop” motion.

“I’m busy. Intake.”

“You can’t just—“

“Jinx. Unless your arm is about to fall off or something, it can wait twenty minutes. Go talk to Lest.”

“Fuck you too.”

Sevika rolls her eyes, and turns her attention back to you. “Well, now I can say you’ve met your roommate.”

“My roommate?”

“You’ll be in Room 2 with Jinx. We’re gonna keep your luggage locked up here until after dinner when the night staff can search your belongings for contraband with you.”

You want to say that if you possibly had contraband it would have been taken at the detox; that Sevika surely would know that given your paperwork. But she doesn’t seem like the type you want to get into a pissing contest with, especially on your first day.

Finally, she lets you go with a gruff, “you can go into the community room now,” flagging down a lackey to lead you, still shell-shocked, down a hallway and through a pair of double doors.

The community room is a little rough around the edges, but you can forgive that, given you’re more than a little rough around the edges yourself.

There’s a few couches scattered here and there, a plain wooden table in the back with some chairs drilled into the floor. A series of cubbies along one wall, with personalized name tags clearly designed by one of the patients’ in blue and pink paints.

A bookshelf with a small lending library of books; if your mind wasn’t so fuzzy you would gravitate towards here immediately. If you weren’t busy with your cello, your head is always buried in some book or another. It didn’t exactly make you the most popular growing up.

Maybe that was why—

No. That was stupid.

You stand on the precipice, the stupid binder they’ve given you on entry held close to your chest, taking in the scene around you, of the other fuck ups in the cage, so to speak. There’s the blue-haired girl, the skinny one, that’s supposed to be your roommate. She’s sitting all wrong on one of the tall-backed armchairs, the kind that you used to see in the Academy library. In the matching armchair next to her is possibly the most attractive boy you’ve ever seen.

All lanky limbs and sharp angles, with bright golden eyes and thick brown hair you immediately want to run your hands through. His crutch is next to the chair, and he has an Academy pin on the lapel of his vest—his shirt underneath is rolled to the elbows and you keep thinking about his forearms for some reason.

Oh god, this is bad.

Your mouth goes dry, and it gets worse when you notice he has the most perfect mole by his mouth, begging to be caught by an errant kiss. Your heart is hammering in your chest and your realize that not only is this quite possibly the worst “first day of school” vibe ever, but you haven’t said anything for the past thirty seconds like some sort of startled creature afraid of her own shadow.

The blue-haired girl throws a wad of paper at the Beautiful Boy’s head. “Hey, Vitya!”

“I told you to stop throwing things at my head.”

Oh, his accent is enough to bring you to your knees, too.

“Fine. But look! We got a new one! And Sevika said she’s rooming with me!”

Vitya—if that’s his name—turns his attention to you, and you don’t know what to say or do.

Thankfully, you don’t have to. An effortlessly cool young woman takes control, sticking her hand out for you to shake, blocking your view of the boy.

“I’m so sorry they just left you like this. Lest. One of the floor counselors.”

“The only cool one,” Blue Hair drawls from the corner.

“Jinx—“ Lest doesn’t even pretend to be mad.

“Would you like to introduce yourself?”

You shrug your shoulders, mutter your name. That’s enough, apparently, and you are about to go hide in a corner, but no such luck.

“Hey! New roomie!” Jinx waves you over.

“Hm?”

Jinx hangs off the chair. “I scared off the last roommate.”

“Jinx, you snuck contraband up your—“ Vitya points out in a matter of fact tone.

Jinx cuts him off with the wave of a hand. “Details, Viktor. Does it really matter?”

“Well, yes.”

You laugh. You can’t help it. Viktor has a wry sense of humor; you can see the twinkle in his eyes when he speaks, and it’s precisely the same type you enjoy. The sound seems to catch him off guard, and he looks at you up and down for a long moment; you find yourself wondering if you’re being studied, and it takes a lot of effort to keep your gaze level.

A click of a doorknob and heavy footsteps.

“Jinx, meds.” Sevika.

“Do I have to?”

“What do you think?”

“Ugh, fine.” Jinx gets up, blue braids trailing behind her, leaving just you and Vitya-Viktor. You’re still standing awkwardly, not sure if you’re bold enough to take her spot.

“She has a thing about the chair,” he says, as if he knew exactly what you were thinking.

“I mean, I get it. If I had been here a while I would probably have a favorite too.”

You settle for the floor, drawing one knee up to your chest and circling it with your arm.

“It has been a while.”

Shit. If this is what Jinx looked like after a while in treatment, you probably didn’t want to see what the “before” was. You decide to change the subject.

“Vitya or Viktor?”

“An abrupt topic change.”

“I noticed you were called both. I was wondering what your name is.”

At this, you are gifted a rare smile from him, something you know you’ll be playing over and over again in your mind.

“It’s Viktor.”

——

[ursawastricked]

Distracting: Part 2

Viktor has been harboring guilt over his accidental thievery of your used champagne glass. At least he had the security that you were none the wiser..that doesn't change that your even harder to ignore now that he spent the weekend studying your lip print 

warnings: More of Viktor's developing crush on you, lots of flashback to after the party, him being soft, some VERY mild suggestive stuff..don’t worry more is to come in the next part 

Read part 1 here

Word count : 2,339

“Is the sun always that bright?” Viktor whined, covering his gaze as he hurried over toward the window, leaning toward it and squinting disaprovingly at the sunny world beyond it, before pulling on the shades and banishing the light. His head didnt exactly pound anymore, but he had a way of ending up hung over whenever he drank, call it his low weight, or the fact that his anatomy consistently seemed against him, if there was alcohol, it hurts the next day.

“I think it always stays like that Vik '' you answer, earning an unimpressed glance your way as he limps toward his desk and places down his bag. You stretch your arms upward, humming lightly as you feel the satisfying crackle in your spine and knuckles. You personally, feel wonderful. After the party over the weekend, you peeled away your dress and were fast to slip into a hot bath, allowing for your sore muscles to relax and let you practically fall into a perfectly restful weekend. You dont recall too much other than resting on your couch, reading the current novel that had infected your every thought, one you had also slipped into your bag for today when the lab was getting a little boring.

“Ugh..” You hear Viktor let out a relch at the sound of your joints popping, “Why, every morning..That isnt good for you, and it is worse to listen to” He lectured, placing himself in his chair, slowly turning to face you so that his point would get across. You mimic him immedietly, a practiced motion, turning to face him, and mirroring his posture and how his fingers laced together on his knee. He flashed yet another disaproving look, this time punctuated with a, “Rude”.

You snicker lightly, returning yourself to face your desk. Unpacking your bag only takes another minute or so, that moment remaining silent as you and Viktor set up for today's work load. The silence was normal, especially with Viktor, but that's why you liked working with him. While you could spend hours talking with Jayce, bouncing back and forth in a hyper focused frenzy, you much more enjoyed the comfortable silence of working next to Viktor. You had developed a ritual of passing back and forth materials and tools as you worked simultaneously on projects.

He was always respectful, never intentionally touching you without reason, and if he did bump you, he was quick to apologize, which you enjoyed only because of how flustered he got when he began to stumble over words so fast he began to slip into his native language. Or when he would tap you lightly with a pencil, and you would turn to see what he needed, only for him to lean over your notebook and scribble something down, like a warning before he did so.

You had caught yourself memorizing his little mannerisms over time, keeping a small tally at the top corner of your pages for every time he had tricked you into letting him fix a note, or murmured a word you didnt recognize when fidgeting with a new project. It relaxed you, like a little grounding tool to keep your mind occupied when you had tired yourself with your work, a healthy distraction. So you lazily flipped open your notebook to the current page, doodling a little box for today's tallies before pulling the sheet off your current project and beginning your busy work. Viktor sat quietly as he began his project, as usual. He had just gone for his wrench when he caught movement in the corner of his eyes, a familiar motion he had memorized, you're playing with your hair again. His gaze tracks the motion, how the tufts flutter about, if he was closer like last time, he was sure he would be able to smell the shampoo you used again..if he was correct in assuming, it smelt like honey. He didnt notice he was staring until you turned your head and caught him. Your eyes lock with his golden gaze for a short moment, a blissful second of eyecontact between you, before he caught it and you watched his gaze flicker around, his head turning swiftly before settling back on his work and his form shrank down far too close to his project to be safe, but successfully he had avoided the chance of you seeing how harshly his face darkened red. His breath was shaky, as he struggled to keep it low enough that you coculdnt hear. How frustrating, it had been getting harder to avoid your prying eyes, more tedious to avoid you catching him logging your smiles, and even harder to keep up conversations without smiling too much, and you had only added another level to it with that damned glass. That weekend, he had smuggled that stupid glass away from the party. He didnt know why, in fact he was sure it was a trance when he walked into him and Jayce shared an apartment, only to find the empty champagne glass still tucked in his palm. Jayce locked the door as Viktor considered what could have happened to end up here, now a thief..through the glass couldn’t be too expensive, it felt rather cheap.

“What's that you got there?” Jayce asked, leaning over Viktor and causing him the flinch, almost hard enough to send the delicate glass shattering across the floor. He gripped it tighter, giving one of his famously annoyed glances. Jayce lifted his brows, motioning specifically toward the rouge lipstain at the edge.

“Oh? Oh hoho..that color there looks pretty familiar” Jayce had started to tease, his chest was starting to bob with a deep chuckle, the kind he had always given when he was preparing to tease him.

Viktor felt the stab of anxity in his stomach, looking quickly between Jayce’s knowing gaze and the glass before he squirmed a bit away, trying to hide away in his room, fast.

“I dont want to talk about it.” He insisted, tucking away into his room and quickly hiding away the used glass in his closet with a slam.

“Talk about what? Did they give it to you or did you mean to steal it?” Jayce practically howled as he leaned into Viktors room, watching as his friend as he struggled to undo his tie with furious aggression, only getting more incense the longer he struggled. With a loud huff he finally undid it, now wrestling with his shirt vest,

“I didn’t mean t- I didnt steal it from them” He insisted, pulled off the vest before landing on his bed and taking off his shoes, “Oh..so you're not denying it anymore?” Viktor froze, his hands ceasing shakily over his cufflinks. Jayce smirked teasingly, suppressing another laugh until Viktor flung a loose shoe toward him. He quickly took the hint, “Okay! Okay! Good night loverboy-” He laughed, slipping away and leaving Viktor flushed violently and gripping his hair as he fell back into his bed. 

At least now he could let his face cool down now that you were no longer watching him, it of course was easier to work and ignore you for a few minutes at a time. Until..

“Hey guys! Sorry I'm late,” Jayce hollered, bursting through the door, nearly tripping over the doorway and spilling the offering of coffe for the trio.

Yes, Viktor was screwed now. Jayce knew, he dditn know to what extent, but he did know. He knew about the glass.

“Here ya go,” Jayce chirped, handing you a coffee with that stupid winning smile.

“Aw, thanks ya goof. You know, you could just not be late, then you wouldn't need to get us coffee every monday.” You explain, sipping the drink as you watch him float off toward Viktor who had frozen solid since the door opened.

“Then I would miss out on your winning smile, you have a very special smile when you get surprised by coffee” He replied, twirling around to the other side of an unresponsive Viktor. He placed the cup beside his friend's hand, leaning over his shoulder to whisper where you couldnt hear.

“I got you the same order, in case you want to ‘swap’ cups again,” He hummed, almost getting hit as Viktor swatted him away. Jayce snickered quietly, slipping away to his own work.

Viktor sat staring at his coffee for a few moments, regrettably reaching for it. Coffee was essential, how unfortunate that it was a gift from Jayce..he drank it non the less, pressing his lips to the lid and gulping down a few mouthfulls and returning finally to an average working pace.

“Vik? Are you there?” Viktor snapped out of his focused state, turning toward the sound before pulling off his goggles and finding you much closer than he expected you to be. You stoof next to him, leaning a little over his side after spending the past minute or so trying to get his attention. You tilted your head, giving an amused huff as you slipped some papers to his desk. “Thank Janna the fire alarm wasn’t going off, you would be cooked by now.” He blinked, glancing from you to the papers a few times before turning to read them better. He pulled them from the table, acutely aware of the fleeting warmth your hands had left. 

“Hmm..yes, and I'm sure in wouldn’t notice the heat or pain either,” he replied, looking over your notes with a similar, less intense, focus.

“I wouldnt be surprised, you kinda run on autopilot when you're zoned out. Once you stole my pencil for the day after fixing my notes”, You pull yourself up on the desk, crossing your legs and watching as he scribbles down corrections to your equasions. “And you have yet to return that novel I let you borrow, you're kind of a clepto.” 

“I am not a ‘clepto’” he huffed, adjusting one of your notes, biting on the edge of his pencil,

“That's my pencil..”

He pulled it away from his teeth, inspecting it for any signs he may recognize. He flipped it in his hand, finding your initials etched into the wood.. 

“Ah..so it is..” he muttered, finishing his edits before offering you the pencil. 

“No, you keep it.” You say, declining the chewed on pencil and snatching up your papers. You hug them to your chest, walking a step or two before leaning down close to his ear, “Add it to your little collection,” you purr, straightening up and hurrying toward Jayce for a final opinion.

Viktor stills in his seat, holding the pencil loosely between his fingers and staring blankely at the edge of the desk. He twitched his hand lightly, unable to do much more after that. 

You were so close..he still felt the warmth of your breath across his throat, the memory of it sending a static shiver down his spine, causing him to lean over his desk and place his head againstt his hands. You were warm, even though you hadnt touched him, and being so close, he could confirm..your shampoo smells like honey.And when you sat on his desk, he had fought every instinct in his body not to look at you, not when you sat above him like that. Your legs crossed, leaned over his work. If he reached over, he could have confirmed another theory, whether or not your thighs were as soft as they looked- Damn it, focus. He coudln’t be doing this, not here. You were no less than a yard away and all he couldnt think about was how good you smelt, how your breath felt against his neck..how your lipstain would look against his skin. He had noticed you were wearing the same color as before.

‘Stop it. They work with you.’ 

He grabbed his coffee, sipping it aimlessly.

The night after the party, Viktor had sat staring at the single stained glass on his desk. He had pulled it out to clean it, thinking at least he could put it in the kitchen and just forget all about his accidentale thievery. Instead, he had ended up watching it, as if it would squirm or come to life if he only watched for long enough. 

He didnt clean it..he let it sit on his desk and continued on with his day. On occasion he would glance at it, sometimes walking over and holding it to closely inspect the print of your lips left on its crystal edge. He always rounded back to it, replaying the memory of you in that dress, giving him the rest of your drink..you smiled..maybe you knew- of course you didnt. Why would you know? He was good about hiding it, right? He didn’t think he made it too obvious, maybe stareing a bit longer than he should have, or that one instance where he had to hide the smile tally from you when you had seemingly manifested beside him.

 Before he had slept that night, he absentmindenly brought it with him to the kitchen..he ment to clean it..but instead he had filled it, nursing down a bit of wine to trick his brain into sleeping. Maybe even allow for a dream similar to the events of the party..with less of him standing alone. 

He groaned lightly to himself, standing and grabbing his crutch before walking across the room toward the door. 

“Everything ok Viktor?” Jayce asked, pulling his attention away from the blackboard,

“Just need some fresh air..” Viktor replied, escaping the lab, and making his way down the hall. 

After a walk his head would be clear enough to work again. He would be able ti at least make some progress on the assignment without his thoughts drifting back to how your uniform looked against your skin, or how pretty your voice sounded when you gifted him your stolen pencil..

“Add it to your little collection..” 

He paused..eyes wide. “Oh..no..” 

[imthataliensuperstar]

Even though I hated seeing Viktor having a terminal illness and being in pain :( BUT….

He looked so pretty and hot as fuck while doing it!!!

UGH I WISH VIKTOR KEPT WEARING GLOVES TOO!!!

[anixzty]

I need Viktor so bad bro, yall don’t know how badly I need that man. I’m going absolutely feral just thinking about the things he could do.

[zevrra]

hear me out on a sub!viktor…. i just know he’d whimper as i ride him….

no you’re so real for that anon omg,,,

viktor who’s all sass and prideful; he’s intelligent and sure of himself constantly— until he gets the chance to “fool around” with you. then he can barely keep up with you and the pleasure you give him. head spinning with just some heated kisses and when you’re crawling into his lap, he’s a mess. tries his best to cover up his whines with a quick witted explanation but you know better.

you force him to watch as you sink down onto his twitching cöck and he’s immediately whimpering. open mouth, panting, gripping your thighs, moaning how good it feels when he’s inside BOYYYYY he’s all the works of a pathetic man but tries his best to reply to anything you say with a sarcastic remark.

it’s just his way of telling you that it feels really fucking good.

[thehistoriangirl]

Bonjour!! I actually wanted to tell you how your writing is always something I look forward to at the end my day, like a candle lighting the darkest corners of my room. Could you maybe write a hopeless romantic!reader that slowly turned pessimistic at the thought of love (psst slow burn). Then Viktor realises how much reader has adored him since forever and wanted to do so in return! Merci♡

Bonjour ! <33 SADFGHJDHSGDJHDHDG thank you so much 🥺🥺🥺 Before anything, I have to said, you just cracked my well-preserved secret! Legend says if you ask me for a slow burn I will get overboard and make a multichapter fic :D and I guess it's true so here we are 🤡 [Brain why you have to be like thissss I hate you] Anyway, I hope you like this first part ;3 Passe une bonne journée, petalthea ! <3

The Oblivious Game I Want to Lose (Without Losing You) [Chapter One]

> M A S T E R L I S T <

Viktor x Fem! (Hopeless Romantic!)Reader-------2.1K------SFW

Synopsis: Your father wants you to forget about pursuing your dream of being an opera singer as your mother was. Instead, he's determined to make you a great business person to fit into his wealthy family—his solution? Hiring one of the smartest students of the Academy as your personal tutor, no other than Heimerdinger's assistant himself. But when you two grow closer, the plan gets tricky as you get your confidence back to fight for your re-discovered dreams just as Viktor starts to achieve his own.

Tags: Friends to Lovers| Not-Actually-Unrequited-Love| Hidden Feelings| Crushes| Slow-Burn| Oblivious (both Viktor and Reader)| Romantic Fluff| I'm not going to spoil more heheh >:)| ((Obviously Happy Ending))| Disfunctional Family/Family Drama

Viktor saw you four times before he was obliged to talk to you.

Inside the Music Faculty, the chandelier sent golden hues against the gold and silver accessories of the guests filling the auditorium. A line of teenagers was waiting, removing awkwardly on their feet as the people organizing the admission test formed them into order.

He was in charge of the lightning, tucked next to the half-open curtain that separated the scenario and the backstage, sitting on a stool with uneven legs. Viktor was careful to balance himself up the wobbling seat, growing less interested in the auditions as time went on. While managing the levers, he considered what his final project for his Mechanic class could be.

Until a wailing interrupted his line of thoughts, almost tripping his body off the stool.

Looking backstage, he saw a teenager being dragged away from the queue by two men in twin outfits, a woman looking at you some feet away with a stern expression. You were thrashing and screaming—begging should be a better word—, Viktor thought when he heard what you were saying in a river of blabbering, like a plea.

Please just let me try. Father doesn’t have to know—

But they ignored you and the tears that shone clear against the dimmed light inside the backstage.

He didn't recollect the moment his body decided to move on its own, but the click of his wooden cane snap him back to the present.

One of the organizers looked at him from the corner of her eyes, shaking her head slightly as if saying don’t even think about it.

Viktor frowned because he wasn't thinking about doing anything. They were full-grown adults working for an important house, if your tailored clothes were correct signal enough of your upbringing.

Though that didn’t stop the bad-hidden laughs behind some participants’ hands. 

But even as the sound of the cacophony grew fainter, the heaviness of his chest remained while remembering your broken voice, hands frantic trying to pull away, and he thought, brows pinched in confusion, that if that would have been him if Professor Heimerdinger hadn’t helped him enrolling into the Academy.

He saw you try three more times, with the same outcome. Only that each failed audition your pleads became weaker, and you didn’t fight back as much.

People kept mocking you, you fought and lost, and he watched you every time.

What a particular case, because Viktor couldn't understand why a rich family wouldn't let their child enter the Music Faculty and become an artist for the Opera House. And why you didn't give up?

The last time, just a touch on the shoulder was enough to take you away from the stage. Without the sound of your voice echoing in the room, you heard the quiet laughs, and for the first time, you looked back at them, eyelids heavy—Viktor couldn't know if it was anger or just fatigue.

The competitors cleared their throats and looked away, removing in their place as you scanned their clothes, eyes lingering in familiar crests.

"Good luck in the audition, then," you said, walking away without looking at him, even though Viktor felt as if his gaze was so heavy at least you should have felt it.

But no. You didn’t look back, and Viktor forgot about you soon after; when he became Heimerdinger’s assistant, leaving behind the myriad of little jobs he took at the Academy for extra income, the Music Faculty lightning technician included.

Until now.

*~*~*~*

The Ventos family manor was flooded with people as richly decorated as the house itself, and Viktor pretended to ignore the glances they stole as the guests looked at him following Heimerdinger’s steps.

Viktor knew the Ventos clan was horrifyingly wealthy, with around half of all the airships belonging to some member of the family, but reading about it and looking at the proofs were two different things.

The hall was bigger than Viktor's apartment, with arches supporting a tall, vaulted ceiling incrusted with mosaics. All inside was a spotless white and a pale blue, taking the nickname "owners of the sky" too seriously to be considered funny.

Professor Heimerdinger was greeting the few people that crossed his way into scanning the room, looking for the host of the party, even though Viktor was the one carrying the gift box.

A man Viktor recognized as part of the Chemistry Faculty of Teachers stopped his travel midway to the wine fountain when he spotted the yordle. He exchanged a polite and short greeting to Viktor before pouring his attention to the Dean of the Academy, asking him if he would like to see some experiments he’d been working on.

Heimerdinger raised a hand. "Excuse me for a moment—Viktor? Oh, there you are. Could you please give this to the birthday celebrant? I don't want them to run away from the party unexpectedly without the gift! Thank you, thank you."

The yordle turned his back on him, engaging again in the conversation while Viktor stood a couple of steps away, frozen, with an expensive gift tucked inside his arm.

He sighed, tapping his fingers over the box as his eyes scanned the room. How was he supposed to know who was the host of the party? All rich people looked the same, with expensive clothes and too many decorations with gold, all of them holding cups of wine while engaging in business deals.

Viktor walked toward some butlers and maids that were carrying away the empty platters from the dessert table and replacing them with new ones. He didn’t want to ask a rich Piltie about who was the birthday's celebrant—much less give any of them a gift—but it was part of his job, he supposed.

It didn’t make it easier.

One of the servants told him a name he hadn’t heard before. Frowning in confusion, the servant stopped what he was doing to give him a detailed description of the youngest Ventos heiress.

The young man shrugged. “I haven’t seen the Young Mistress in a while, though. I don’t know where the she could be.”

A maid interrupted. "Miss Ventos should be on the green balcony," she blinked and signaled the west corner of the room. "It's the balcony filled with plants. If they aren't there, then she probably withdraw to her bedroom already."

Viktor nodded, thanking them. After a short pause, the servants replied with a doubtful, “it’s nothing, Sir” and he left them to fulfill their job not wanting them to be punished because of his incompetence.

It wasn’t that late, perhaps 10 PM or something around that hour. If this person was already in bed—how old they were? Suddenly, his stomach twisted thinking about a spoiled child. What if she didn’t like the gift? What if she didn’t accept it because maybe she didn’t like him? Would he be in trouble?

The green balcony was obscured by thick potted flowers and little palms, only a narrow passage connected it to the marble rail that had a spectacular view of the city.

Viktor froze when he didn't see anyone in there. Should he return the gift with Heimerdinger? Or could he leave it with a servant?

His thoughts were interrupted by a rustling sound, his eyes darting toward the sound's source.

He recognized you right away, and Viktor felt a little embarrassed by it. You looked older—around four years had passed since the last audition you tried to join—but your clothes were very similar, contrasting with the pale blue and shining white in dark tones of purple and blue.

“Who are you?” you said, frowning. He felt your eyes sweeping his outfit—the Academy uniform—and your stiff posture, half-hidden behind a rosebush, seemed to relax.

Viktor blinked, and you blinked back, arching your brows.

“Ah! Right. I’m Heimerdinger— I mean, I’m Heimerdinger’s assistant.” He locked his cane’s handle in the crook of his elbow to take the box gift in his both hands, arms extended toward you. “He wanted me to deliver this gift. But I don’t, eh, I don’t know who the host is. By any chance… could you help me?”

You smiled then, a little tug of your lips as you took the gift box between your hands.

“Sure. Please tell Professor Heimerdinger my gratitude.”

“You’re the birthday celebrant?”

"That's right," you paused, shaking the box a little. It sounded metallic, and it was a little heavy. "Please sit down, I'm sure you must be tired from all that walking around."

You signaled at one marble bench built on one side of the balcony, next to where you were sitting, a glass of wine half-empty that you shoved away.

"You know you're hard to find," Viktor said, feeling the cold rock against his legs. He shivered a little, trying to be subtle about it. Then, he realized the words that slipped out of his mouth. "I apologi—"

“No need. You’re right, anyway.” You opened the box, putting aside the protective cloth to reveal a music box. When you pressed the button, the little shell opened, showing a little doll dressed in a deep blueish-greenish dress going in circles around a wooden stage.

Behind her, the scenery moved, showing an Ionian forest. You chuckled, moving one of your feet at the rhythm of the melody repeating inside the toy. Fingers hovering in the air as if you wanted to touch the little doll but wouldn’t dare to.

For a moment, he thought you looked cute.

“I knew Professor Heimerdinger still makes the best music boxes,” you muttered, and Viktor heard it for he was listening carefully.

“Do you know Professor Heimerdinger?” Closely, he wanted to add, but you seemed to understand his inner meaning.

“Yes. He was friends with my mom. Well—he helped her to pursue her career as an opera singer.”

Viktor smiled a bit. He finally understood that you wanted to enroll in the Music Faculty.

You jumped when someone called your name—a male voice.

"Shit," you whispered, and Viktor got surprised to hear you curse. Hurriedly, you took the music box under the bench, where the bushes hide it well enough. Your hands tried to accommodate your hair that had been disturbed by some branches as you stood up. "Enjoy the party for me—oh! That's right. What's your name?"

“My name?” You nodded, smiling warmly. “I’m Viktor.”

You extended your hand toward him. “A pleasure to make you my acquaintance, Viktor. I hope you enjoy the night.”

He frowned. "Are you leaving? No, wait. Where you hiding here?”

You beamed. "You're smart. Yes, I was. You see, when you reach a certain age your parents just organize these kinds of parties to shove suitors at your face each half an hour or so. I needed a break."

“Oh. You don’t seem fond of the attention.”

"I'm not. People still can't get over the fact about my mixed upbringing." You took off the shawl that was covering your shoulders, and let it fall on his lap. Viktor was still shivering slightly, the air of the night getting colder as time passed.

He wanted to ask what you were referring to, but you interrupted him:

“If you’re going to stay here, wear it. I wouldn’t want you to get sick.”

“But—” You shook your hands.

“Don’t worry about it. Thanks for the gift, Viktor. It’s the best I’ve been given in a long time. Thank Heimerdinger too, please.”

Viktor nodded and you said your farewell just as the same male voice entered the balcony.

You encountered him midway, dragging him away from Viktor.

“Yes, Father?”

The man sounded angry. Viktor could hear the disdain in Erik Ventos’ voice even from he was sitting, back hunched forward so he could hide better.

“Were you talking with someone?”

You laughed. “Oh, dear Father. Don’t tell me you have too much to drink again. Or it’s that you just like to nag at me?”

“Don’t try to act cocky. You left Yael from house Kiram all alone an hour ago!" Viktor heard your father whispering at you, a voice full of poison. "Is this how you pay for everything I've done for you? You're just an ungrateful brat."

Viktor closed his eyes while listening to that. His parents never talked to him that way, he couldn’t believe that some people would treat their own family in such manners.

“If you want me to marry him so badly, then go make the deal yourself,” you spitted out back, shoving him aside and walking away.

Erik Ventos followed you, stomping like a wild animal, the noise getting further away until all that was left was the crickets singing on the lonely balcony. His hands were tangled in your shawl, thinking that he was going to stay there a little longer, childishly hoping you would come back.

[autumnalmoons]

Your late-night company (nsfw, mdni, +18 only)

It's smut bc I'm a horny bitch (lovingly), and because I want him to split me in half--I know he can, like c'mon

Viktor x fem!Reader | 2.1K

Notes: PWP, Established relationship, set kinda between act 1 and act 2, Vaginal Fingering, Innapropiate use of Viktor's cane (sorryyyy), Dom!Viktor if you squint, Cockwarming, Nipple play, English isn't my native language so lemme know if i messed up somewhere :)

Ever since he could hear the echo of your heels reverberate around the lab like a second heartbeat, Viktor knew you were onto something—and such rhythm makes his heart pick up speed too, though Viktor’s faster than each one of your carefree strides against the dark marble floor.

You go, smooching his cheek and surely leaving a pink mark on your lipstick. Not that he minds, of course, he's used to leaving his loving marks on you, too, and even now, he can see the now purplish hickey down your collarbone that you’ve been trying to veil with a silk scarf.

“What brings you here, my darling?” Viktor hums, unconsciously seeking your lips. Is that pink lipstick the one that tastes like cherry? He’s a man of science, he’s ought to investigate.

“Nothing much. I came to bring you home,” you say, hugging his slender frame from behind, your chin hooked in the crook of his shoulder, just over his back brace. “I miss my Vitya so, so much…”

Viktor shivers, trying to ground himself in the domestic, seemingly innocent gesture of a kiss over your temple. "I miss you, too, my jewel. Alas, Progress Day is in a couple of weeks, and we need to have everything ready in case a mishap happens.” He sighs, thick brows furrowing in focus. “As usually does.”

You nod. Of course, you understand that his work is a priority, but you also have a good memory; of those two past days when you went to sleep alone. There are those familiar purple bags under his eyes, only darker.

“Hmm, alright,” you say, massaging his scalp for a bit before wandering around the lab. “Then allow me to make you company. This place is filthy, handsome.”

“Chaos potentiates creativity.”

Your chuckle reverberates around the lab, which causes Viktor to lift his chin a little higher, how easily he can make you happy.

He turns back toward his desk, hearing you going toward the closet supply to get a feathery duster, mumbling a song under your breath as you hop around cleaning surfaces and wiping down machinery with a piece of cloth.

It's only a matter of time before your plan starts, and you have calculated it just as perfectly as Viktor's equations; using your knowledge of the man next to you, his existence is the most amazing creation you've seen—much to Viktor's attempts to surpass it with his machines.

You dust off the drawer next to his desk, ‘accidentally’ knocking off one of the pens tossed over the wooden surface, further down against the wall. "Oops!" you say in your best role of an actress, which isn't that good, only for him to look your way.

The floor is cold as you brush it with your fingers, a fine layer of dust and carbon covering it. One of the windows must be open because you can feel the cold autumn wind brushing under your mischievously short skirt, one of Viktor's favorites, right against your already wet folds that the underwear you chose today isn't meant to cover.

You want him to see. Swaying your hips playfully the moment you feel his gaze burn your back.

Over the purring of the machines, you hear his air leave in a sharp inhale.

Between not wearing panties at all, you choose ones made of black lace and cute, little black ribbons decorating the most… enticing areas. The cloth down your pussy was too small, and you had to choose or covering your clit, or covering your core—which of course, you choose the eager bundle of nerves, so Viktor could see you all wet and glistening for him.

Smiling, you push the pen further down his desk, a soft—very inappropriate—groan escaping your lips, copying my memory of one of the sounds you made every time his cock presses that special spot inside of you.

“I liked that pen a lot,” Viktor mutters, though you can hear the smirk in his voice.

By now, you have no idea where that damned pen had gone. “I’m sure I can make it up for you about that,” you say, knees bending slightly, so your pussy can open a little. Only if he ever tries to play the oblivious.

A chair squeaked, and it’s impossible not to start imagining Viktor’s lithe fingers caressing the curve of your ass. Instead, you got the cold metal of his cane’s handle.

“Ah!” He chuckled at hearing your surprised gasp.

“Is that disappointment I hear, my jewel? Or just cold?” He hums, dragging the handle along the folds of your pussy until it brushes your entrance, only the tip. “You’re all dressed up for me. And I wonder… why is that, hmm?” he says, the tip of the cane playing between your folds. “Is it because you’d like to ‘keep me company’?”

“I never told you how I planned to accompany you," You mutter, feeling your legs starting to shake as the cold metal meets your boiling core, thinking that you were about to melt.

“Use your words, darling. If you’re so eager.”

There is a certain edge to his words, the hoarse tone around his R replacing the usual soft tone he uses to whisper to you when you two aren’t in the privacy of your bedroom.

“I… I thought you may need… um…” you say, voice lost with each playful movement of his cane in and out your entrance; barely some inches in, but moving it just right thanks to the exhaustive research Viktor had conducted ever since he caught you with that vibrator. Little by little, your arousal warms the metal, and you wonder if Viktor can feel it, too. “Relaxing.”

“Relaxing? My, I’d say this is rather… distracting,” he chuckles, the wheels of his stool coming closer as you hold your hands against your burning thighs. “A pleasant one, of course, but still a distraction.”

“Oh? Then do I deserve a punishment?” You try your best to quip, though your voice quivers mid-sentence.

There’s barely a heartbeat of silence, and then:

“Bend over the desk,” he says, voice stern. You could almost picture him in one of the Academy’s auditoriums giving a lecture in that tone, absolute, bossy. He knows it, of course. He knows you, after all, just like any of inventions, he had spent several hours studying you. Loving you.

Your walls squeeze nothing at the words, but the light from the descending dusk is enough for him to see it.

“Hmm,” Viktor says. “I wonder how you’ve been pleasing yourself these days that I haven’t returned home, my jewel.”

You attempt to roll over—you want to see him, because he looked just so unfairly stunning with his brown hair stuck to his temples, beads of sweat running down his chest as he bit his lip as seeing you just so shamelessly needy for him, trying to contain himself just a little longer...

He pushes your back down the desk, pinching your butt once he catches you trying to turn your head to see him.

“Oh, no, no, my love. If you are going to distract me, then you must accept the consequences.” He bends down, biting your earlobe before nuzzling his nose down your neck, taking in the sweet essence of your clothes, of your hair, the same one he could always smell on his pillow. The mix of his shampoo makes his grasp on your hips tighten.

You whine, pouted lips parting in a breathless moan when he introduces the handler of his cane inside of you, his thumb lazily rubbing circles on your clit, first clockwise, and then in the contrary direction once he feels your walls starting to contract, ushering your orgasm away.

The wet sounds of the handle coming in and out your soaked cunt fills the lab, Viktor’s stool creaking as he re-position. From the sound of his pants unbuckling, you think you know what he’s doing that needed such a good grip on his seat.

“I wonder if you’d take me as well,” he mumbles, your wet sounds mixed with a new one that could only be Viktor starting to jack off from the view of you. "All those toys and they can't replace me.” He uses his left knee to part your legs even wider, his free hand making a wrinkled mess of your skirt, just above your hips.

You huff, fingers white from grabbing the edge of the desk. “As if I’ve ever disappointed you.”

Viktor chuckles, pinching your clit slightly before letting go. The emptiness fills you when he withdraws his cane, though the narrow length is soon replaced by the thick head of his cock rubbing against your entrance.

“Mmmm,” you hum, satisfied. Your hips buckle against him, trying to take him inside of you in one thrust.  Sadly, Viktor’s punishment for keeping him away from his duties was never.-ending teasing.

Viktor caresses the curve of your ass, his hands going to brush the outline of your hips and waist until his chest is against your back once again, his big length teasing through your folds without actually giving you what you want—and yet, you know you could finish off with only this. Would he be so cruel, though?

“Come here,” he mutters against your ear, sliding a hand around your waist, and pushing you down the seat with him.

You hiss, feeling the quick buckle of his hips as his cock burrows deep inside of you, twitching at the welcoming, wet warmth of your walls. His hands take you by the hips to stop you from starting to ride him.

“Shhh, shhh. Patience, my love,” Viktor coos, nuzzling his face in the side of your neck as he bites a trail of kisses toward your shoulder, fingers gently pulling down one end of the scarf, brushing slowly down your shoulders to reveal the quite generous cut in your neckline.

Humming, approbatory, Viktor returns to his desk, with a firm grip around your waist to keep you still.

He kisses your cheek, putting his cane against the wall. The metal glistens, soaked with your juices against the reddish hue of the dying sunlight.

His right hand pushes your legs open, tangling your legs against the desk to keep them open when his fingers slide down your stomach, fingers lazily rubbing your clit.

Closing your eyes, your head lolls against his shoulder, letting him take your lips in a kiss that lets you taste the bitterness of the coffee he has just drank to keep himself awake during the night.

His tongue passes along your bottom lip, and it’s indeed that cherry-flavored lipstick, teeth grazing the sensitive skin as the hand grabbing your hip raises to grab your breasts when he grows needy, too.

“Vitya…” you moan, voice muffled as he kisses you again.

“My favorite blouse,” Viktor says, tugging down the smock of the front so he could see your lacy black bra. “So easy to access.”

You smile, hips gently swaying side to side against his lap each time he strokes your clit.

Viktor’s fingers work masterfully inside your bra, rubbing your nipple as your hands frantically undo the clip of your top so he can push the bra away.

It’s too much. Between his playful nibbles down your neck, the slow circles drawn on your clit, his fingers pinching your nipples and rubbing them to make the little peaks soft again even his cock filling you, although still, is enough to push you through the edge of pleasure. Legs shiver as your mouth stutters a moan, letting out a cry that Viktor drowned with his mouth.

“We can’t let the guards know what we’re doing, don’t you think, my jewel?”

“Why… why not?” you pant, kissing the mole peeking above his shirt’s collar. “My boyfriend fucks me so good,” you giggle.

Viktor smiled, his cock twitching at your lewd words. Your walls keep squeezing him, greedily wanting to be soaked with his cum.

"I haven't yet today," Viktor hums, deep in thought, kissing your sweaty brow. “Let me finish revising this blueprint, and we’ll go home.”

You pout, but only another heated kiss is necessary to make you respond:

“Okay,” you say, all doe-eyed now that you’re satisfied. Momentarily, of course. And that you had convinced him to go home. “But only this one blueprint. Or I’ll bite you.” You try to stand up, Viktor’s hand yanking you back between his legs before his cock could sleep out from your pussy.

“I never said you could move, my love,” Viktor says, squeezing your hips playfully. “I’d take you can be a good girl while I finish my work?”

You shake your head. “No.”

Viktor chuckles, his free hand starts to rub your overstimulated clit once again. His other hand quickly drops his pen to reach the bottom drawer of his desk, where you can see the outline of the vibrator Viktor keeps there ‘just in case’. “I suppose I just have to tire you up, then.”

[sp1dermann0]

Viktor (Arcane) x gn!reader

Summary: Helping him relax 🫢

NSFW. Minors DNI. Not proof read ❌

This is my first time writing for Viktor, forgive me if it’s bad 😓 This is short, but when I get used to writing for him I’m sure there’ll be longer fics in the future.

You finally convinced Viktor to take a break on working. Finally. After a good amount of suggestions and practically pleading. Now all you had to do was help him relax.

You were sat in his chair, him on your lap. Your hand worked up and down on Viktor’s cock. Slowing down whenever he got close. But you only did that once, considering how much he worked and how he deserved to feel the relief of cumming.

Viktor’s head was against your shoulder. Every whimper and whine that left his mouth got delivered straight to your ear. Your thumb rubbed against his tip, causing Viktor to gasp and move his hips into your touch; chasing after your thumb. He’s earned this. Constantly staying up late working and rarely ever taking breaks. All you wanted to do for the man was give him what he needed—to be there for him. And of course, you did just that. You soon went back to stroking him. With the amount of pre cum that leaked from his cock, it made it much easier. Every movement that your hand did made a squelch sound. Filling the silence of the room alongside the heavy breathing and moans.

It was clear that Viktor was close when he began whimpering more frequently. He looked down at your hand working his cock, but looked away, shut his eyes, and moved his head when you sped up. His jaw was open, yet he didn’t make a sound. That was until he finally came. Letting out a moan that was like music to your ears. Cum spurted up and got onto his clothes—staining that area white.

You kept your hand going, helping him ride out his orgasm. It soon went to a stop when overstimulation started to bloom.

“You relaxed now?” You asked.

“Mhm.” Viktor responded, tiredly.

[ihopeinevergetsoberr]

A quick meal

cw: shameless smut, no use of y/n, female anatomy for reader, desk sex, dirty talk, slightly rough(-ish)? perhaps??

word count: 1,5k

eng is not my first language, please inform me if you spot any mistakes!

Viktor always knew it’s what inside that counts. And so he counted. Every rich moan escaping your mouth, every squelch of the fondly fingered pussy — it’s every prominence, fold and flexure, and, of course — exactly how much pressure you prefer on your clit. Well, at least that explanation was the only reasonably-appearing one to you, because how the hell did he know how to make you cream his fingers in coats of delicious stickiness in exactly few minutes, the stretch of them so qualitative your throbbing walls could easily accept his cock with little to no effort put into penetration. He must have used an ungodly amount of diligence to develop this specific technique just for you — his precious, lecherous sweetheart. Your whimpers are a devil on his shoulder, distracting him from being a stern, dispassionate about anything except for his research man. That little temptation invited him into the warmth of your precious core instead. It kept luring in, filling his genius mind with dreamy filth. Besides: it’s so much better to be buried within the tightness of your cunt than within the loneliness of his lab, untouched and craving you in his arms so desperately. No, he most certainly would prefer the first option.

“Relax,” sultry whisper teases your ear, while the free from fucking into you hand crawled up, preliminarily teasing the swell of each breast on its way to your throat — to be wrapped around it like a pretty collar, securely tight, not firm enough to actually hurt, but to rather keep you in place, adding to the thrill, to the longing.

He rarely fucks you like this. Viktor’s never been a huge fan of quickies — he’s a taster at heart, thorough and passionate — a sloppy kiss here, a teasing lick there — working you up even when it’s not needed anymore, for the sake of pure entertainment — more his than yours, to be completely honest, but he would never willingly admit to that.

He likes to savour you, like a fresh fruit one’s supposed to eat slowly — painfully so, even, memorising the flavour in explicit detail, letting it engrave into the taste receptors.

But there’s cyanide even in the finest peaches. Eat too many — and you’re incapable of consuming anything anymore, death plastered across your gourmand-face. It takes around fifteen peach pits to kill a curious starved soul, after all.

So tonight Viktor stays away from the cyanide. He’s had enough ravishing for now, turning a solid number of your previous intercourses into love-making. He’s eager, and he’s treating you like a quick meal — totally different from his usual ‘eat-you up-like-you’re-the main course’ demeanour. Not that you mind, of course. Dining hastily has its charms too.

“Keep your legs spread for me,” the gentle demand continues to sting your ear, and as much as you’d love to comply — you simply can’t, trembling knees doing you no favours, allowing no small mercies.

“Darling?” he repeats, the sharpness of his ‘r’ a scrumptious scratch to your brain, turning you into a mess — nearly irreparable, matching the one you’ve turned his desk into once he bent you over it, capturing tightly between his erection and the hard wooden edge, kindly depriving you off the worries about your clothes getting in the way. So thoughtful of him.

Rolled up skirt rests on your lower back, exposing the plumpness of soft hips — so grabable, they’re practically begging for his attention, but he’s reluctant to pull the long fingers out of you just yet. You’re clenching around them so perfectly, blessing him with the privilege of feeling your every twitch.

The presence of your underwear doesn’t concern you anymore — it’s wrapped around your ankles, pretty lace occasionally tickling the skin, reminding of the abrupt harshness Viktor’s sinewy hands had ripped them off you with. So brusque when it comes to fucking you from behind that a mere touch feels rougher than the deepest of thrusts. Your pussy might be able to take him without turning into a mess, but your sanity? You wish he’d left you some, just the tiniest bit to at least obey him easily.

But not all wishes were meant to be fulfilled.

You mewl something hopelessly illegible as your words drown in your own moan, lewd sounds of his fingers parting the swollen folds of an already spent cunt louder than your actual voice. And suddenly body language is not a figurative concept anymore.

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” the kind threat encourages hoarsely. “Or should I spread them for you?”

You can only squeeze out a nod. Viktor releases your neck with a sympathetic chuckle, and a deft hand grabs at your left calf, helping a trembling leg to step out of the damp lingerie, leaving it completely forgotten and lonely on the floor. You’ll collect it later: if only the dirty-minded inventor lets you, of course. Which was highly doubtful, since tucking your undergarments into a pocket of his dresspants started to really grow on him lately. The possibility of obstaclessly fucking you over another surface once you’re in private again is too tempting to be pushed away so fast.

You fall on his desk, cold wood a tough pillow to your flushed cheek. However the loving hand stroking at your flesh doesn’t move to proceed with complaisant ministrations on your right limb. The buckle of his belt jingles, unfastening, negligently joining your underwear on the floor. You quirk an inquisitive eyebrow, putting a rather pathetic effort into propping yourself up, searching for an explanation to his movements. But a rough palm falls on your lower back with a thump, firmly pacifying, practically smacking.

“Don’t move, dear,” he hisses, pulling his fingers out of you right before you got the chance to cum all over them. Scarily rigorous again. And vicious. But you don’t say that. It’s not like you’re able to talk coherently anyway.

Something — which you suspect to be his foot — persistently forces your legs out of the way, sprawling you more for his hungry gaze. The toe of his shoe roughly kisses each one of your heels, spreading you open, just as he’d promised.

“How rude!” you exclaim, voice dripping with fake resentment.

“Rude?” he laughs, and the next thing you feel is a caring peck on a shoulder, the sweet heat of his breath back where it belongs — teasing the shell of your ear. “Well, please excuse me this one whim, but can you really blame me? Besides, I suppose my… barbarism happened to be quite efficient.”

His tip is pressed against your entrance, slowly working its way inside, brushing a puffy labia on its way. You’re sure it’s leaking with precum for you already — it might be impossible to feel through the lavish wetness seeping out of you, but you know Viktor good enough to be certain of pearly bitterish liquid breaking out of his slit.

You don’t lack his fingers anymore — not when you’re about to be so much more palpably filled, the thickness of his cock irreplaceable with any amount of his phalanxes. An unsolved mystery for both of you. The one leading you to an embarrassingly primitive statement — whatever it is so special about him keeps you coming back for more.

“There was no need to be so ill-mannered. I could have spread my legs just perfectly fine,” you mutter a shameless lie, already expecting a protest.

“And from my expertise you weren’t exactly competent,” Viktor mocks with a tortuously handsome smirk, and you make a fatal mistake of looking over your shoulder right when his narrow hips thrust into yours, his length splitting you with a delicious burn. It takes away the remnants of your stamina. “Because trust me, I can tell when one’s incapable of standing on their own feet — let alone moving properly. Coming from an adept, figuratively speaking.”

He bends lower, warm dry lips pressed to the glistening sweat on your temple. He doesn’t rush to have his way with you anymore, hand found peace on your chin, tilting up, gently forcing a thumb into the open mouth. You greet it with a needy bite, a wordless plea to convince him to finally start pounding into you, to satisfy the body lusting for his steady thrusts.

“You’re quivering,” Viktor notes with a pensive hum. “Shall I proceed? You look like you’re in more need of a cane than I am, my darling. So wobbly.”

The plea-bite on his thumb quickly turns into a menacing one. Canine pierces the skin, earning a muffled against the mess of your hair ‘ouch’, demanding the heartily craved resumption.

“Am I pinned like this forever or are you done with the fucking drollery?”

A sultry laugh caresses your ear, and the throbbing cock inside you slips almost all the way out, leaving you clenching purely around the bulging tip.

“Save the swearing,” utters the pretty tempter.

A rough roll of his hips into yours. Ass bounces off his pelvis, the slap of skin against skin loud and resonant, mingling with your desperate gasp just perfectly. Has you seeing numerous sparks, mouth drops open in a breathless ‘yes’.

“That vocabulary is only appropriate for an orgasm.”

[smol-lydia]

I wanted to give yall a little preview of a new Viktor x f!reader fic I’m working on, a rehab au! Some of the homies know I’ve played with this theme before with Viktor on ao3 in a different ship but this will have a different plot and dynamics so….

A little snippet of chapter one of Coffee & Cigarettes: a Viktor x Reader Rehab AU

[a-libra-writes]

⚖️🌟Libra’s Lackadaisy Masterlist🌟⚖️

Please check here if requests are open and what the rules are.

Under the Devil's Moon - Interactive Fanfiction, customizable MC, 25k+ words. On Chapter 1. Rocky, Mordecai, Zib and 4 OCs as Love Interests, more to come. WIP.

♣️Multiple Characters♣️

Getting a Laugh Out of You (M)

Lanky Tall Scrungly Boy (M)

Taking a Bullet For Them

Jealousy

Poly HCs - Zib & Mitzi

♣️Character-Specific♣️

Rocky Rickaby: Romantic HCs (Part 2, Part 3), Dating a Widow (F), Dating Asa's Daughter

Mordecai Heller: Romantic HCs (Part 2, Part 3), Male Partner HCs, Sharing a Bed, Widow HCs, Working w/ Marigold

Viktor Vasko: Married Life HCs (F), Romantic HCs (F)

Nicodeme Savoy: Dating a Widow (F), Romantic HCs

Serafine Savoy: Dating HCs

Sedgewick Sable: Crushing on His Assistant

Wes Clyde: Romantic HCs, Dating a Mob Boss' Daughter

Dominic Drago: Romantic HCs

Atlas May: Romantic HCs (F)

Zib Zibowski: Affectionate Partner

Asa Sweet: Dating an Older Savoy Sister

[ursawastricked]

Y’all got me tee-heein

Anyways here’s something silly

“Would you still love me if I was a worm?”

“What?” You ask, looking up from your book at a very frazzled looking Viktor..he is standing at the edge of the couch, gripping it for support as he looks off at you a bit too panicked for you to take seriously given the context.

“..well?” He asks, gesturing with his hand to push you to answer with haste

“Viktor..what is this question-“

“If it’s no just say it-“

“It’s not-“ you give a deep sigh, closing your book and making eye contact with him directly. “Yes. I would still love you..”

He stood silently,

You roll your eyes, “..even as a worm” you finish.

He lets out a loud sigh of relief, making his way to sit beside you on the couch and melting completely into your lap once he has laid down.

You look down at him, taking a deep breath, and rubbing his head as you start the search for your now lost page in your book