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meownotgood · 4 months ago

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forwards, beckon, rebound. / machine herald!viktor x reader, 18+, reader is fem bodied, angst, size difference, fingering, choking, dry humping, praise, russian terms of endearment, somewhat toxic relationship, mild augmentation kink, way too many emotions, mix of arcane + league lore / spoilers. word count: 16.2k

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Viktor enjoys making you feel helpless.

Technically, it isn't enjoyment so much as it is a responsibility; you'll repeatedly show up at his secluded lab in the Undercity, and as he does with everyone who comes to his doorstep worn and destitute, he'll take it upon himself to give you what you need. You are like the rest of his endeavors — meticulously examined, ambitiously furthered. But unlike his various grandiose experiments and his pursuits for evolution, it isn't just his mind you occupy.

There is some dusty, disregarded hole in his once-perfect mechanical heart, and if the hypothesis he's formed but doesn't want to acknowledge is correct, you are the most probable cause. Or perhaps, you'd be the cure.

Carefully, with his usual amount of precision, Viktor pulls his leather glove from his hand. He allows his fingers to flex: scarred skin improved by intricately-crafted metal joints. He's positioned above you, large and imposing while he keeps you pinned beneath him. The firm, steel surface of his giant worktable feels cool against your bare back. The room itself is dim, worktable lit by an overhead lamp that burns when you happen to look directly at it. Thankfully, Viktor's armored form above you, encased in dark shadow, blocks out most of the light.

The Hextech third arm on his back grasps your wrists unwaveringly, and keeps them in place above your head, utilizing an exorbitant display of strength. You can't move a muscle, not even if you tried. Lingering heat sears into your skin, radiating from the metal — from where the laser he's perfected could easily sever your wrists from the bone.

What's more, you can hardly think. Your head is spinning; your heart pounds from between your ribs, fiercely yet uselessly. You can only stare at the glowing, emotionless eyes of Viktor's mask, and wait for him to decide what he plans to do with you. Gentle. With the way you're looking at him, you need him to be gentle, this time.

He presses his palm to the center of your chest, where he can feel the erratic beat of your heart. Slowly, he begins to drag his hand down. It's a knowing, practiced motion — not as soft as it ought to be, considering his cold, purple-veined hand and calloused fingers. As his touch is brought down to your stomach, your waist, you shiver, and your body relaxes. Finally, fully.

It doesn't take long for you to arch into his touches, just as he predicted, just as you always do. Your flesh loves to sing for him.

This dance has been performed by the both of you numerous times beforehand. Viktor questions if you'll ever grow tired of it. Of the pirouetting, of revolving constantly around unspoken, trembling complications, just to return, to let your mind and your heart reel all over again.

What he feels for you — what he has evaluated from you, because machines do not feel — is something unexplainable, foreign, futile. He knows this, this dynamic you've fostered; it hardly makes sense. You are allies with no common goals. You were friends, some disregarded years ago. Every other night, you stumble into his lab to interrupt his work, and he lets you.

No, he indulges you.

"You are quivering," Viktor hums, voice muffled and deepened by the mask's filter. A usual, matter-of-fact statement, but the edges of his tone sharpen in the wake of a held-back, dark chuckle. "You want me to touch you. Say it."

The powerful, vastly-superior Machine Herald already has you right where he wants you.

Slightly riddled with static, the way his thick accent curls around the words only serves to make you shudder more. Your breathing is choppy, your chest rapidly rising and falling.

Not from fear, if Viktor had to guess. His scans of your heart rate would come across much differently if that was the case. This is from arousal. Clear, easily definable arousal. Just from his thick voice, his soft touch, and the imagery provided by his large body above yours.

The sight of you is addictive. Addiction isn't a sensation built into his mechanical repertoire, but it's the best word he can think of to describe this. You are small when you're underneath him. So malleable, so fragile. So human. How abnormal. The compulsive surge that runs through his veins should not, according to all of his tests and conclusive research, be occurring.

Viktor supposes this type of behavior would be more fitting of the past version of him. Presently, he doesn't have room to let time go to waste. His vision is all that matters. The old him, though, the Viktor you once knew would've given you whatever you desired without a second thought, even though he hardly deserved it.

He was weak, once. For you, perhaps a part of him still is.

You are intelligent, you always have been. He has cast away much of his past in pursuit of chasing a better, more important future, but still, he remembers each and every moment he shared with you quite vividly. They play in the background of his mind sometimes, persistent like a system error, recurrent like a late-night looping television program.

Your inventions often kept pace with his. Your smile was bright, brighter than the pillars of light that shone from Piltover's grandest lighthouses. Starry-eyed and driven, you wanted to improve, as a person and as a scientist. You challenged him to push further right alongside you.

Of course, you knew him better than most, but Viktor wonders: did you ever expect him to go this far? Did you ever plan on retreating back to Zaun with him, to fall further into madness together?

By now, you must be smart enough to know he is different. What you might've had, a friendship or a partnership or something delightedly improbable, it is now nothing. Nothing more than another one of his shed weaknesses and old, discarded memories.

Perfect machinery does not feel. Not even for you, no matter what it once felt. Scientifically, it can't. You should understand this relationship is not beneficial. He could and would gladly break you, it's what he built himself to do. And yet, as he's starting to realize, perhaps being broken by him is exactly what you want.

"Please touch me," You're begging, as his palm caresses the all-too-human curve of your side. Your voice is warm, lustful. A sweet, familiar taste settles in the back of his throat, as you coo the old nickname you still reserve just for him. "I need you to, Vik."

And just like always, because of you, because of his predisposed sense of responsibility, or perhaps because of an unrecognized fault in his complex machinery — Viktor gives in.

He revels in your vulnerable, quivering limbs and your heavy, desperate gaze. The grip of his Hexclaw tightens on your wrists, your hands closing, fingers tensed. He drags his palm down your stomach slowly, carefully. His gentleness is calculated, but it is yours, all the same.

Your legs spread for him on impulse when his hand reaches your thigh. He squeezes, before he brings his hand between them, allowing the end of his index finger to brush your clit; his touch is precise, with all the efficiency and learned confidence of a flawless, apathetic machine. He could make you fall apart for him so easily, every part of you perfectly attuned to his touch, and his touch alone.

Yet, he's teasing you, careful and slight touches barely grazing where you're oh-so sensitive for him. Your thighs shake, and spread wider; your body is exposed to him, soft and sweat-soaked expanses of skin contrasting splendidly with his bulky, armored chassis of metal. Now, instead of his index, Viktor uses his thumb, providing more friction and a slightly firmer touch. You squirm, the pretty features of your face washed over in pleasure, before you breathe a small, satisfied whine.

"That's it," He murmurs firmly. "To think this is all it takes to make you submit."

Viktor allows his thumb to trace circles onto your swollen, needy clit, and your breath proceeds to hitch so deliciously for him. An action, and reaction. Repeated experiments make for predictable results. Hextech hand practically digging into your wrists, Viktor brings his free, metal hand to your cheek. Oddly tender, his cold palm cups your face. He isn't surprised at the response it gets out of you, your chest heaving with a deep, trembling sigh. Every part of your skin tingles, as you lean into his faux, steel touch.

"Earlier, you wished to be defiant. Disobedient." Viktor scolds, his thumb flicking over your clit while his fingers brush your cunt, gathering your dripping slick on the digits. He takes his metal hand away from your cheek, and he presses it flat to the table, right beside your head. Your brows pinch disappointedly, clearly unsatisfied with his subtle form of punishment.

"And now look at you. Wet and desperate."

He's barely touched you, barely even begun with you, and you're already dripping.

"I wasn't- I'm not disobedient," You're countering, although it's damn near impossible to keep your voice sounding steady when his persistent touch is toying with you. He's teasing, circling your clit agonizingly slowly, just to make you squirm. "I brought you everything you asked for. Like always."

"Yes, and you did well," Viktor praises flatly. As though he's reading off a trained script, rather than watching the way your eyelids flutter as his knuckles brush your entrance. "Our current project will run smoothly now, utilizing the tech you acquired for us. But when I told you to wait, to bring the tech after I had finalized our plans, you did not listen."

You admit simply, foolishly, "I missed you."

Those words are familiar. You'll often tell him you missed him when he returns to the lab, home at last after finalizing a few affairs elsewhere. You said you missed his face the first time you saw it, your hands gently holding his cheeks, caressing metal and skin — despite how different he looks now. Despite the scars, the mechanical parts.

He knows you missed him. In a soft, delicate way. In an indecent, desperate way. His form of longing is much, much different. When the mortal matter and fraying wires of his brain yearn to have your presence beside him, with him, under him, it is strong, it is carnivorous. It is encompassing.

"You nearly comprised everything we've been working towards." Viktor's third arm tightens even more, making your wrists and arms go nearly numb. "There is only so much I can do to protect you. I disposed of the last enforcers to attempt tracking you down, but if you were to lead them here, you will not just be putting yourself at risk. You are threatening our entire vision with your recklessness."

Carefully, his index finger finds your entrance: sensitive and wanting. He deliberately pulls his hand away when you whine, instead placing his palm back on your inner thigh. Your skin is soft to the touch. Your gaze stays steady on him, on the unflinching shape of his mask, your eyelids heavy, pupils blown with clear arousal. As though he encompasses all you need, anything you could possibly want, and everything that could devastate you.

You are frustratingly beautiful.

Viktor hums, the sound low, somewhat mechanical. He gently guides his hand over your neck, just how you like, until large, metal fingers are wrapping around your throat. Not squeezing, just tightly holding. Enough to ground you, to remind you of who you belong to. You let go of a sigh, your eyes growing heavier. Your heart is skipping, and with his hand around your throat, the subtle vibrations of your quick pulse shudder through his complex machinery.

"Viktor-" You start, voice weak, barely there. "I'm-"

"I know you want more." He squeezes your thigh, applies just enough pressure to your throat to make your mind go fuzzy. "Tell me what you have been waiting for me to give to you, what you desired so strongly that you ran to me, instead of following the plan. And perhaps, I'll let you have it."

You tremble: a full-body, tingling shudder. Viktor — the Machine Herald — is so much larger, so much stronger than you. He's augmented himself to be significantly taller, significantly more imposing, and underneath him like this, you must look meager. Pathetic. Fully bare, your legs spread open for him. Giving yourself to him so easily. Your chest heaves, your mortal heart skipping and wavering at the sight of him above you, pinning you beneath his heavy, metal form.

"Breathe, zayka," Viktor murmurs, his grip on your neck loosening up. "Your heart is racing. Focus on me."

Taking in slower, deeper breaths, your mind quiets, your pulse calms. Stars and static thrum in the corners of your vision, your thoughts a knotted up blur. Viktor — his touch is all you can focus on — traces his fingers further up your thigh in approval.

"There. Very good. You're alright."

"Your fingers," You pant, "Please."

Viktor scoffs, his tone mechanical and rough, "You can do better. Try again."

Huffing, your head knocks the firm worktable when you toss it backward.

"Bastard." Your hands clench and unclench, your wrists giving a poor attempt at struggling against their hold. To no avail, of course. "Are you at least going to let me touch you?"

"No. Answer me. Do not make me repeat myself."

You briefly gnaw on your bottom lip, your jaw tense, thighs shaky. "I need your fingers inside me, Vik. I've missed you, I need you, please. I'm going fucking crazy."

Viktor's unmoving, glowing eyes examine you carefully. "That's it. That is much more sufficient. So exquisite, when you are begging. Take what you need, then."

You're well aware he isn't the same man you once fell for, nor is he the soft-spoken, bright scientist you once knew. Rumors paint him as a maker, a monster, a machine. He is cold to the touch. He isn't supposed to feel, he removed such functions ages ago; they were useless to him. As were his failing lungs, his weak legs, his heart. A heart made from machinery never skips. It can't be blinded by love, or lust. It cannot be distracted by old, unkindled flames, in the same way you often are. You envy him, somewhat.

But Gods, when it's just you and him in his lonely little corner of Zaun, and when you are at the pleasant mercy of his perfected touch, you swear, he feels more human than anything. Nothing else truly matters, because still, he is yours.

Viktor's index finger slides inside you slowly, just barely stretching you around its thickness. You're wet enough that he could press it in easily, could have you melting and drooling over whatever you're given — but instead, he chooses to let the digit fill you languidly. The feeling is slight, enveloping and enthralling and familiar, yet not enough to make you feel full, at the same time. His fingers are long, dexterous. Pretty and scarred.

You've watched him work on plenty of augments and automatons, hands tightly grasping a wrench to turn it, fingers carefully holding the ends of thin wires to thread them together. Each action swift, exact.

With the same level of precision, Viktor presses his finger deep inside you, and crooks it upward to nudge it right against your sweetest spot — and you whimper, your whole body shivering, collapsing.

"One is never enough to satisfy you," He asserts; he gently pumps his finger into you to a steady, easily manageable pace. "Isn't that right?"

If his mask weren't there, you're sure you'd see him speaking through a slight grin, maniacal and crooked, impossibly him. Your heart pounds. You're doomed, you must be.

In response, you nod your head fiercely. Another shaky moan tears through you as he works you on his slender digit. Pressing in, dragging out. Calculated and perfectly steady, like the continuous beats of a metronome.

"Or," Viktor questions, "Should I have you come undone around just one?"

"No," You snap quickly, although you're obviously in no position to be making demands. Your eyes flutter open, your face contorted in a mix of pleasure and frustration. He finds your desperation strangely satisfying. All for him. It's the same sort of hungry satisfaction that comes with working on an automation, striding closer and closer to a job well done. He adjusts, pushing your legs apart with his large knees when they tremble and threaten to close.

"Give me two," You're pleading, "Please."

Viktor hums, the sound low and vibrating.

"Guiding you to your peak would prove trivial, even without the means of penetration. You are simple. Easy to unravel." His low, intimidating voice effortlessly sends goosebumps careening down your spine. "You could most likely be led to cum against my shoe or my thigh, from modest friction and my voice alone."

"Viktor," You almost wince at how pathetic you sound. "Stop talking."

Viktor eases his index finger as deep inside you as you can take, and heat surges across your form in thundering, breaking waves. "Why would I stop when you are enjoying it?"

Oh, he knows you far too well.

"Dammit, at least-" You exhale, trembling through a moan, and Viktor's Hextech arm holds onto your wrists impossibly tighter as your hips roll into his hand — desperate to feel more of him. It works, momentarily. Until he is using his free hand to firmly grip your waist: thick metal fingers digging into warm, pretty skin. He pushes you back against the worktable, holding you in place.

You groan in frustration. "At least quit teasing me."

"Such impatience. I am working you upwards, gradually conditioning you to take higher levels of stimuli. It will make the process as a whole much more pleasurable."

"Gods if you weren't wearing that stupid mask, I would shut you up in no-"

"I always satiate you, milaya," Viktor answers calmly, as he slowly drags his finger out, leaving you quivering and empty. The nickname he uses is tender, familiar. It reminds you of your once different life. Vividly, it forms blossoms in your chest, unfurling flowers and delicate petals. Tugging sweetly at your thudding heart, despite the cold artificiality of his manufactured tone. Milaya. His darling.

Though, the Machine Herald does not covet. What he desires, he takes and makes his.

"Interesting," He's muttering, seemingly mostly to himself. "Your neediness has greatly increased since the last time we convened. Normally, you are capable of controlling yourself. To a certain extent."

He tsks, metal hand caressing slow, reassuring circles onto your waist, while his other palm dives back between your legs. His fingers drag over your cunt with an irrational sense of clumsiness, considering the motion is coming from him. He lets his fingertips search for nothing in particular, getting them slick with your arousal, nudging your clit carelessly with his knuckles until your back is arching, and your sighs are sharpening.

"Sorry." You mumble a half-hearted apology, eyelids softly fluttering.

"It was not a complaint." Viktor presses his fingertips close, dangerously closer.

Your body needs him, needs what only he can give to you. His hands, his fingers inside you. Every inch of you screams for his touch. As though you are a solved puzzle, a piece of technology broken down to let him understand each individual part. Your thighs shake, and that's part A. Your chest heaves, your shoulders go tense. Significantly human responses. Components labeled B, C, D, V. Your lips quiver, before they mutter another breathless, desperate plea of his name.

Predictable, and understandable. Yet, for certain, you are a delight to decipher. Those pieces and budding sensations come together as he thought they would, and they — and you, are primed to be bent at his will.

You expect him to tease you further. When he falls silent, becoming more impossible to read than he already was, you feel your arms and your thighs tense with what must be anticipation. Surely, he can sense how eager you are.

But Viktor doesn't falter, he does not hesitate. He guides his metal hand underneath your back, predicting its arch, and he presses two of his fingers, his middle and ring, to your drooling entrance. They slide into you with a filthy, wet noise; it's almost obscene how eagerly your cunt accepts them. How you plead with whiny utterances of yes, yes, your voice breaking, eyes closing. He eases them inside you slowly, fills you with them completely — until his scarred knuckles are nudging against you, and you're sobbing through a half-sigh, half-moan.

He doesn't wait to hear you beg for more. You're given a calculated amount of time, just enough seconds to catch your breath and get used to the stretch of both digits inside you. He fucks you on his fingers, pumping them in and out to the tune of your broken whines and gasps for air. It's a gradual process. A coded, mastered technique well-baked into his mind, his heart, and his hardware.

Of course, he's long since learned just how to make you fall apart. He has studied you, he's proceeded to subconsciously store your data in the most important vault in his mind. It is simply a matter of getting you there, of drawing out your pleas for him and your tremors and your pulses, to push you even further past your previous crescendos.

You can always be louder. Finish harder. You deserve to. And when it comes to any and all of his endeavors, including this one, he is persistently, unquenchably ambitious.

"Vik-" You're babbling, in a wavering voice he might logically, astutely label as precious. His quiet lab echoes with the whirr of various displays and devices. With your soft noises, echoing alongside the wet squelch his fingers make each time he presses them deeper. "Please, I just- I'm so- I want you so much-"

"You have me," He answers rigidly. Prepared and intentional, his fingers move slower, drawing out your moans and your shudders of pleasure. "Or were you demanding more?"

"I always want more with you." A faint, endearing pout forms on your features, the kind of look only he can draw from you. "Want- I want you to fuck me."

It isn't anything of importance; just an aimless, desperate plea. The kind you might be expected to ask of him when you're in this state — your mind wandering, your body relaxed. You need fuel for your building fire, you need to hear him outline through words what he can't through actions. You cannot make him feel as you do, but Viktor is kind enough to let you play pretend.

Though, for whatever strange, unrecognizable, illogical reason, he goes against the fixed line of actions he was previously adhering to, and he hesitates. He contemplates. He twitches, circuitry briefly inoperable, fuzzy and working against him. His center, his self-regulating core, hums with marginally more force than it did before. The hand he has pressed to your back trembles. It thrums with artificial, built-up heat, before he grips you much tighter.

Fortunately, he rediscovers his composure as quickly as it waned. Viktor quirks his fingers into your sweet spot to make you cry out for him, and then he drags them half-way out — every moment agonizingly slow, so he can admire the way the digits glisten in the lamplight.

"Filthy little thing." His voice is thick. His words are stern, making you picture how his jaw might be tightened. "I am already providing you everything you asked for, and yet still, you act greedy. Human desire is terribly intemperate."

"As if-" You're squirming, sweating, your hair a mess, warm gaze and moon-wide pupils locked onto his obscured face. "As if you feel nothing from this."

"I cannot feel. You are well aware of this reality. I suggest you do not continue to persuade yourself otherwise."

"Bullshit."

"In fact, I do feel nothing." Viktor brings his thumb to your clit on his next press in, rubbing it roughly, circling it precisely. "I am incapable of experiencing desire," His fingers crook and spread. "Nor enjoyment." They pump slowly, while they stretch you around their shape. "Or affection."

"But you were worried about me- fuck- when I went off on that stupid mission," You're mumbling, barely able to speak through ragged gasps for breath, "You were fretting over my safety. You- hah, you stopped everything you were doing just to check on me, because you felt relieved, you felt happy when you saw me walk in, didn't you?"

Did he?

Hours earlier, you returned to his doorstep, and he knew it was you from the way you knocked; he put aside the small automaton he was working on, and hurried to meet you at the door. He gave you a quick once over — in this form, he is vastly larger and taller than you, to the point where you have to crane your neck to look up at him — but you assured him you hadn't been injured. When you fell against his armored chest in something of an embrace, he didn't push you away. Nor did he protest when you pulled his heavy, bulky shape on top of you as you fell back against the nearest surface, his additional sensors picking up your already increasing breathing and heart rate.

He recalls your arms around him, hands tugging at his cape, removing sections of his armor, fingers threading through his hair. Soft lips pressing to cold steel —

Viktor tenses. You are plenty capable on your own, capable enough that he rarely considers whether or not you'll return. You always do, after all. This mission was considerably riskier, though. Considerably more worrisome.

If anything had happened to you, if he discovered you were injured or captured or worse, his subsequent reaction would be less than logical. His mental processes would malfunction, and he would lose the ability to think rationally. The stifling, unstoppable force that would build within him could be compared to something like rage, something like love.

You swallow thickly, and the room swirls around you in a dizzy haze as Viktor slowly pulls his fingers from you. Leaving you empty.

He murmurs, "Look at me."

It's a little difficult of a command to follow, with your head spinning and your eyes all heavy. Still, you force yourself to breathe deeply, to steady, in the wake of the sudden lack of attention.

You look up, and his hand, fingers slick and filthy, momentarily moves to grasp your chin. He tilts you towards him, to make sure you're watching. Viktor reaches up, and he presses a mechanism on the side of his mask. It hisses, releasing air, small puffs of steam streaming from either side.

He removes it tentatively. He tosses it aside with a bit less caution, causing it to clink, spin, and nearly fall when it hits the upper edge of the table.

You're met with messy brown hair, scarred skin, and familiar moles. The entirety of his jaw is made of metal, reconstructed into intricately crafted steel that continues down his neck and underneath his armor. His skin is overly pale, to the point where you can notice deep eye bags, and the criss-crossings of several individual, purple-hued veins. His expression is stern and deadpan, his brows slightly creased. He takes you in, gaze flickering down for a moment, then back up — and searing eyes, dark purple pools and bright orange suns, finally meet your own.

"Your legs," He's instructing; his voice, no longer filtered through the mask, sounds warmer, clearer, a little less deep. Despite everything, terribly familiar, and blissfully human. "Place them around me."

Unable to stifle a smile, you lift your thighs, casually locking them around his back at the ankles. You rarely get to see his face, and it's impossible to keep your eyes off of him, nor can you stop your heart from pounding. Viktor returns your gaze, cold and unflinching. It's like he's examining you, regarding you with the same restrained interest as he'd have for the subjects of his experiments.

"There you are," You're cooing, head tilting, "Vitya."

Viktor's expression finally shifts from his usual indifference, his brows scrunching up to form a slightly irritated scowl.

"Defiant again. As expected."

"You used to like it when I called you that. Am I not allowed to tease you now?" You're laughing, and your smaller frame, still pinned underneath him, shifts somewhat when he loosens his grasp on your wrists. A faint amount of mercy. You offer him one of those radiant smiles he can't stand — can't resist. "You can be such a hypocrite."

"Open your mouth," Viktor sneers coldly, "So it can be put to better use."

With a firm, metal hand, he holds the curve of your soft side, measuring your individual tremors, paying attention to the steady movement of your lungs. His gaze flickers between your eyes, your lips. Your breath hitches, and your mouth forms a line. You can't help but roll your eyes.

"I can just leave, you know," You mutter, your voice still playful, yet noticeably a few volumes lower. "But I'm guessing you don't want me to."

Funny. You seem to think you could escape from his grasp.

"Open. Your. Mouth. Before I give in, and do something I shouldn't."

"I'm not-"

Your protest fizzles out into a surprised noise and a subsequent sigh; Viktor grabs you, he pulls you closer in tandem with surging forwards, and his mouth promptly crashes into yours.

Finally.

The kiss tastes sharp, like iron and ash, like something distinctly him when his tongue slowly brushes against yours. You allow your eyes to close — but Viktor hardly leaves you any room for air as he practically devours you. It's deep, enthralling, and clumsy. Needy, on your end, and hungry on his. The kind of kiss that possesses you, consumes you. Your mind is dizzy, your breath is gone, but you need to kiss him more than you need to breathe.

You melt into him gently, naturally. Like you were always meant to. His hand cups your face, his thumb brushing your cheek: a motion far too soft, far too important.

When he pulls away, finally giving you some breathing room, your eyes immediately meet. Your chest is heaving, your heart warm and pounding to a tempo made just for him. His gaze is once again sharp, once again perfectly composed.

You miss the softness of his lips already. "Vik."

And he needs you, needs more of you. He's wanted to feel your lips against his for far longer than you or even he could have realized. Since those days when you were both young and stupid, when you vowed to achieve your dreams together. As though your gentle voice pleading his name is just tender enough to push him over a metaphorical edge, to flip some hidden switch in his complex mechanics — He kisses you again, again, again.

All of this, it isn't meant for him. It is unfathomably human, from the way you breathe fervently against his mouth; stuttered breaths, quicker than his, heavier than his own could ever be. To the way he touches you, a half-machine's best imitation of intimacy. His still-human palm moves to brush your neck, then glides further to hold the back of your head. Your body is all awkward limbs and soft edges and smooth skin, but you fit underneath him oh-so perfectly.

He can't stop. It doesn't seem real; Viktor imagines he must have fallen into a different reality, he's in a different body with a different, mortal heart. None of this makes an ounce of logical sense otherwise. Then again, when do you ever make sense?

He can't focus on anything but your lips on his — because for a few fleeting moments, he isn't defined by metal and machinery; he is himself. He is a mess of muddled thoughts and imperfect touches. Your legs around his back pull his figure closer to yours, and you have him wondering what it might entail without any steel in the way. Just skin against skin.

It'd be impossible for him to feel such a thing, when there's little skin left. His entire arm, his legs, his torso, his spine; they've since been replaced, improved upon. Is this the closest he'll ever get to you, to love?

Waves upon waves of warmth wash over you, they drown you, they envelop you. Even once Viktor has finally pulled apart from you with one last soft kiss, you still aren't able to breathe. Your heart pounds against your ribs, so fiercely it almost hurts.

He settles back above you, and as you calm again, he holds your gaze. His slender fingers move to trace the column of your throat, where they not-so-subtly seek out your pulse. It's racing for him. He looks remarkably composed now, compared to how disheveled you're sure you appear.

Gently, he trails his hand upwards. His thumb swipes your kiss-swollen bottom lip. Your mouth parts instinctually, allowing him to carefully press the digit into your warm mouth, onto your wet tongue.

"Do not leave," Viktor murmurs, an analytical edge already returning to his tone, in spite of what transpired between you. He pulls his thumb from your mouth, brushing it over your bottom lip again, smearing your lips with your saliva. "Stay for tonight."

"Are you asking? Or is that a demand?" Your breath on his skin is foggy and hot. When it's clear he isn't going to answer, his gaze regarding you inquisitively, you propose another question. Your hands clench, they briefly push against the unyielding grip of his Hexclaw. "Will you let my hands go now?"

"Tsk. Only if you are capable of keeping them to yourself."

"C'mon…" You hum disappointedly. He appears routinely unaffected by your pouting. So, you change your approach.

You shuffle, trying to get more comfortable. The table beneath you feels especially firm. "What if I say please? Is that what you're looking for?"

"Go ahead. It will not affect my decision."

"Seriously? But I want to touch you. You're so pretty."

Viktor hesitates, but only briefly. He senses the whirring in his chest, the usual hum of his augmented components. Substitutions where imperfect pieces should be, strength replacing frailty, mechanics coming to life once more as his mind becomes forcibly unclouded. His systems are working as usual again. All it took to experience a malfunction was your lips on his, and all he needed to do to rebuild his composure was pull away. And you are still a gasping, heavy-eyed mess.

Still, there is something troubling him. The same illogical functions that've been prodding at his mind since the very beginning. Lingering errors. Faults in his perfected frame. When he looks at you now, he strongly senses the push and pull of those inaccuracies.

If he allows you to touch him, each framework, every mechanism — Everything he's been carefully constructing might come crashing down.

Would that be so bad?

Pretty. How ridiculous. Viktor scoffs, his jaw tensing up, his next words arbitrary. "Most are afraid when they look at me."

Perhaps they should be. Perhaps you should be.

But you just smile, your expression growing soft as you tilt your head, and you answer in earnest: "I don't think I've ever been scared of you."

Again, there goes his worthless, thrumming, obsolete heart.

You should be afraid of a man who's designed himself to fit an image you no longer recognize. You shouldn't try to get so close to him, when his compulsive obsession to destroy and remake borders on a clear line of danger. This new chassis embodies perfection. It has long since relinquished any weaknesses, but if you detested him, he wouldn't blame you. Others are reluctant to embrace his vision, save for a select, fortunate few. You and him have history. History that would make seeing him like this rather difficult, he assumes.

Usually, Viktor is able to keep any oversights from throwing him off course. He can't be distracted from achieving his goals. The people of Zaun need him. This new body poses no hindrances. Pain doesn't disrupt him; it can be turned out, like anything else. Pain of the body, and pain of the heart.

You, though. Any thoughts he has of you start as small blips. Tiny, persistent sparks. They build overtime, burning brighter, hotter. Until he sees you, and you look just like how you did back then, so, so long ago. There are tired lines on your face, faint scars, and he knows they're his fault. All at once, his mind is threatening to become a mess of discordant, fraying parameters, of processes that are refusing to function in the manner they should.

He wants to keep you far, far away; far from him, from this lab. Far from this terrible, awful place you both grew up in. If he could, he'd have you go somewhere so very distant, where you couldn't distract him — where you could be happy and free. You will see the sky, feel the sun's warmth, and breathe fresh, cool air. It'd be what's best for you. And he will continue to further his endeavors in evolution. Alone, as intended.

But ultimately, no matter what he winds up doing to his mind or his body, he would think of you. Of holding you or unmaking you, sometimes he isn't sure which. If you were truly afraid, if you ran, he wouldn't follow on your heels. But along with you, you'd take a piece of himself, a faint trace he would never get back; for better, or for worse.

Viktor listens to the sound of your breathing: steady, deep. His gaze studies you, but it lingers on your eyes for longer than intended. You are still looking up at him, smiling, sparkling like a sky full of stars. As though he is a sky filled with stars.

Your breaths become heavier when he presses his palm to the center of your chest. He drags his touch down, down. You are more sensitive this time, he notes. You lean into him once his hand caresses your pelvis, your waist, and you loosen your legs from around his back to become more comfortable. His fingertips trail up your inner thigh, and you shudder, you shiver.

He thinks of kissing you once more. A couple times more, maybe. Proper judgment tells him he should resist. The thought remains there, lingering and burning between you.

"Viktor…" You murmur, your voice a bit broken, but he's hanging onto every word. "Touch me again."

Pleasant sensory inputs glow within him; tingling veins, reverberating wires. Overwhelming heat fills his shoulders, the back of his neck, his head — the heat of machinery, the warmth of his soul.

Viktor grabs your waist assertively, metal fingers digging into your hip. His gaze doesn't waver from yours as he guides your thighs to spread. Suddenly, he pushes himself against you, until you are hopelessly pressed between steel and metal. Between him, and the worktable.

You feel his weight, you feel the intricate ridges of metal plates and hard edges, the artificial heat of his much larger body radiating against your bare skin. Now, you are completely pinned, practically chest to chest, pressed underneath the Machine Herald so closely it's enough to make your head spin. You wonder if he can feel your heart beating. Perhaps he can hear it. Or maybe, he just knows your heart must be pounding for him, as it always does.

Your limbs tremor with excitement. As his palm squeezes your thigh, you can't help but arch into his touch. Thin, skillful fingers press close and feel how wet you are — still so sensitive, already dripping out onto him. You aren't teased, you aren't even able to catch your breath, because two of his fingers are swiftly dipping inside you, giving you exactly what you need.

It feels so right. Viktor reaches for your cheek. He encourages you to continue meeting his gaze when your eyes flutter and nearly close.

Your gaze on his, you let his name leave your mouth in a series of sharp gasps, and desperate pleas. He fills you slowly, but wastes no time building a rhythm; his fingers pump into your sensitive cunt gently, then methodically. Satisfied, Viktor hums, and he carefully shifts his other arm down. He holds your back as it arches, further pressing you against himself.

Now, the way he pleasures you is deliberate, it isn't enough, but Gods, you'll take anything he gives you.

"That name," Viktor starts, speaking in a smooth, level tone, perfectly contrasting the airy huffs and whines you utter for him. The name he hoped to relinquish, his name. "It sounds best when you are pleading it."

You smile through a soft moan. "It's my favorite. Such a sweet name."

Precisely, determinedly, his fingers crook into the spot within you he knows all too well, and you crumble, you sob.

"The tech you brought to me will accelerate the completion of our latest prototype," Viktor is explaining, matter-of-factly. As though the conversation is as simple as it is necessary. Like he doesn't have his large body shoved against you, and his fingers knuckle-deep inside you. It just serves to excite you further, honestly.

"I will install the heat core, and adjust its interior components accordingly. We could have its systems operational by tonight. However, I doubt I will be able to focus."

You take a forced, deep breath. "Yeah? Because of me?"

Obviously, he wants to say. You'll be here, staying in his lab, as you usually do after a tough afternoon or a previous sleepless night. He doesn't mind. Your chatter might occasionally be disruptive to his work, but your voice is nice, it is calming. Your presence itself might be a distraction, an interference that his mind tells him he should discard, but having you here is a nice change of pace, compared to the long, lonesome hours he's grown used to. He has never minded.

Sleep is less of a necessity for him. Resting for a handful of hours a few times per week is usually enough to keep himself operational. The torn leather couch he keeps in his quarters is there just for you. He no longer needs to eat in the typical sense, although he still needs to recharge burned energy. He keeps stocked up on the foods he remembers to be your favorites.

It's strange, out of everything he's forgotten, he still remembers such useless, trivial details. Each and every detail about you.

Without you, this space — the adjustments he's made to accommodate your presence, the dip in the couch from where you always sleep, your articles of clothing strewn over the floor and the couch arms. His lab would feel so empty.

His next words sound much gentler than usual. Warmer, more desperate.

"Because your voice will not leave my mind. Begging for me. Breaking for me," Viktor murmurs. He nudges his fingers against your walls, testing, teasing you. "Pleading my name."

Once more, he challenges your limits; his fingers slide into you deep, so deeply you can feel them everywhere. Nudging at your core, filling you perfectly. As if on queue, you whimper a broken plea of yes, and as your eyes flutter, you're cascading into a needy mess of pleasant, shaky gasps. You writhe, your pinned hands trembling, wishing for something to hold onto. Though, he keeps you in place underneath him, blissfully unrelenting.

"Say it," Viktor demands, "My name. Tell me who it is you need."

"Viktor," Your voice is light, clumsy and slurring slightly, but in the way you say his name, there's an unmistakable lilt of pure adoration. You need him, you need to feel him everywhere: his practiced touch, his soft skin, his steel-built anatomy. You want him to not have to leave you, to not need to choose between you and the Undercity's future.

You feel completely, utterly dizzy. You want so much. You want his hands, flesh or metal, to study every intricate inch of you. You want him to stop holding back, you need the both of you to make up for the stupid amount of time you've lost — "I- hhah- I want…"

With your eyes nearly shut, static and stars flickering at the edges of your vision, you hadn't noticed how close he'd become until Viktor's voice echoes warmly, right against the shell of your ear.

"You want me to fuck you?"

And holy shit, his tone is sultry, his accent is thick — you shiver so hard you're sure he's left feeling the aftershocks, your body still pressed up right against his, even through his layers of metal armor. Viktor doesn't stop the steady pace of his fingers, pumping and arching and working you so well. Nor does he quit speaking, simply because he knows this is what you want to hear. What you need to hear.

"You are insatiable," He scolds, although there's little emotion in his level tone. Just an obvious, already-known sense of acknowledgement. His voice is a thousand times more intense when it is curling directly into your ear; "You wish for me to render you even more weak than you currently are, so you can be shown exactly who you belong to? Oh, and how I'd fuck you. How I would take you. I would make a mess of you, I'm sure. You'd be begging to be given all of me. To be used by me."

It's merely theoretical, a set of fake promises and dirty words to put pleasant visualizations into your mind — calculated, like everything he pursues. And it works. Predictably, your entire body shudders with pure, forceful need. You pulse around his fingers, throbbing like a heartbeat. You sob, and try to twist to face him, although it's impossible, considering you're still tightly pinned beneath his figure.

You want to see his face, he figures, so Viktor shifts up. He re-puts himself in the center of your vision, and you glance towards him, eyes flickering across his face; your gaze on his is practically teary-eyed. Desperate and eager, you find ways to plead without words.

You want to let go. Of course you do — always forced to be strong, you need nothing more than to melt at the hands of the last person left in Zaun that you trust. Even if he is more machine than person. Even though he is not right for you.

For a moment all too brief, Viktor wonders what it would be like to push those boundaries. To truly have you, beneath his hands and in his heart, to feel you resounding beside him like the echoes of a rippling, rolling wave.

How would he take you? No, how would you want him?

He formulates a few possible outcomes. Perhaps you'd want him hard and desperately. You need to be put in your place, to feel him as close as he could possibly be while he molds you to his shape. You want to be obedient. A good little subject. You want to be called good, very, very good for him while he pounds you into the table, or maybe while he leans back, glowing, masked eyes focused solely on you, your hands gripping his armored shoulders so you can bounce on his lap however you'd like. The Machine Herald's perfect little pawn. He wagers with such filthy actions and words, he could make you even louder than this.

You'd be pinned underneath him, and instead of his fingers, he'd fill you with all of himself — carnal and raw. Warm and sweat-soaked. Yet still, your body pressed to his would be agonizingly tender.

Or maybe you'd want him in a different way. In a much softer way.

Tenderness has never been afforded to him, it's hardly a concept he knows, but perhaps it's what he once hoped for. With you, it's what he once pictured.

Every touch would be slow, delicate. Your hands interlocked. Bodies pressed together, galaxies against galaxies. So close, they could be mistaken for the same shape. He would learn you truly, and honestly. Warm and gentle, you would touch him soft enough to make him human again.

Your voice would beg for him, whispering sweet nothings into his ears, against his form. Useless, perfect declarations of love. Viktor shudders. He imagines your hands, pretty and delicate, brushing the space between his shoulder and his steel spine. Feeling his scarred skin, alighting fiery sensations he assumed he'd long since lost.

Compared to who he was before, he is much stronger. He must be strong, must be forged of grit and iron, he must not submit to worthless, human desires. But you make him oh-so weak.

He isn't supposed to be weak.

"Please," You're gasping. You are barely able to speak at this point, babbling sweetly between broken noises as he fucks you on his fingers; it's just enough to make you shut your eyes and imagine more. "Fuck- Vik- Oh, p-please…"

Splintering, throbbing with mechanical heat, his inner workings surge with a sublime abundance of molten, unbridled energy. Burning, it's burning him up from the inside, melting him down and making him fragile.

You've gone fuzzy beneath him — No, his vision is fuzzy. Your edges are blurred, your chest is heaving as his fingers barely leave you before pressing back in. His hand adjusts, allowing his thumb to brush your puffy clit on the next press in. When you whimper his name, as you've done countless times before, he swears he sees nothing but flickering, colorless static.

Burning and heightening and building, he must be malfunctioning, experiencing crucial gaps in his design. This shouldn't be happening. He should not feel, and this isn't feeling, but there is something building inside of him, something with your name on it.

No, no, your name is flickering through him, pounding against his mind like a drum, and he has to establish control. He has to fucking fix this.

He needs to be closer, so much closer. He needs you in an unexplainable, all encompassing way. In a way that shouldn't be occurring. He doesn't want anything, he can't experience the sensation of wanting because it isn't meant to exist.

Truthfully, he's past the point of no return, and you might be all that's left to hold him in place. Impossible. The only thing he's ever desired is progress, evolution. Improvement is what matters. Improving, fixing, augmenting.

You are going to be the death of him. He needs to be pressed against you, holding you, in you, examining your inner workings, guiding you to reach your true potential —

Something snaps.

"Do you know," Viktor grasps your face, roughly tilting you in his direction. The newfound harshness to his tone is exhilarating. "How impossible it is to resist breaking you?"

He laughs, the sound sharp, almost chilling; his smile is crooked, barely recognizable, showing off even more crooked teeth. His gaze holds your own until it practically burns into you. His body is hot. To the point of overheating. You feel the heated metal against your skin, pressing to your chest, your thighs, faint puffs of searing steam pouring out from gaps in the plating.

The grip his Hexclaw has on your wrists is so tight it nearly hurts. But it's faltering, his hands are twitching. He seems to recognize he might be hurting you, and so he lifts off of you slightly, he forces himself to loosen his hold.

There's a sound coming from him that echoes like grinding gears, like the hiss of burning filaments. Like something is crumbling. Fighting against itself.

"It is all I have ever known, milaya." Viktor lets go of something akin to a sigh, although he has no need to breathe. He is utterly ruined — the poor excuse for a heart he once placed between his ribs is aching, shuddering with the anticipation of a touch, soaring with the softness that comes with a kiss. Is this what it feels like to be dizzy, to be lovesick?

You shudder as his thumb rubs your clit, and he digs his metal fingers into your side, feeling the space just beneath your ribs. "You will soon understand," He murmurs, "And if you are incapable, I am still willing to teach you. To make you into so much more."

There's a stirring in his chest at that, at the thought of completing you; a deep-rooted abnormality he can't quite pinpoint. Is it excitement? Guilt? Lust?

You swallow. You're crumbling, as he sends tingles through your veins in the wake of more enthralling words.

"You are mine. Your fundamental place is at my side." Viktor senses the building heat of his inner workings, a deep wave rolling up from his constructed spine to settle onto the back of his neck. Building, burning, breaking. "I cannot wait to unmake you."

Pulling you apart would be delightful.

Your pieces would be disassembled, separated by each individual, pretty, dizzying section, so you could be redone carefully, gently, with a sense of tenderness only he could manage. He wants to understand you. To know exactly what makes you tick, down to your most basic of functions. To be close. Indistinguishable, the both of you made from the same materials. If you were constructed in his image, your components marked by his influence, there would be no doubt who you belong to.

Through breaking you and mending you, he wonders if he could find new ways to make you sing. You'd relax under each touch, shuddering and breathing his name as he completes your newfound enhancements. Gazes locking. Touches lingering. Metal soldering. Viktor trembles. Gods, how he wants you.

Furthering your potential and heightening your pleasure both require similar sentiments. Trust, and vulnerability. Opening your chest to watch your heart pound for him is the same as measuring your hitching breaths, growing heavier the deeper and faster he presses his fingers into you.

Because delicately pulling you apart just to put you back together is some metaphor for intimacy. Carving out a space for you within the confines of his fake heart is some synonym for tenderness. Holding onto his memories of you, replaying everything he can't quite forget to the point of near insanity — to the point where he attempted to forcibly remove you, by removing those emotions. Only to fail. Feeling these sensations for you when he shouldn't is some form of devotion.

You shouldn't feel for him either, right?

Having you there from the very beginning meant something; you were beside him when he only dreamed of becoming someone greater. When his ideas for evolution were just prototypes, when he first put the full extent of his weight onto both his legs. Didn't it mean the world to you too?

You were equally misunderstood. By your peers, by the world. Just as you believed in him, he saw light in you, from the very start. He thinks you could burn bright enough to melt anyone who stands in your way. And now, years down the line, when he is seen as less than human, you only see him. Not what he's become. It's infuriating. It's unmistakably loving.

You are panting. Getting close. Your bottom lip quivers, and your body tenses, each shudder more forceful than the last. His fingers echo a filthy, wet sound each time they pump into you, and your back is arching, you are simply begging to fall apart around him. For him, because of him. You deserve to.

And you sing, voice trembling like plucked strings, "Just p-please. You can do whatever you want to me, I trust you- I've always trusted you. Vik, I need you. I'm yours. All yours."

All his.

Whatever he turns into, whatever becomes of his body, memories, and heart, you would still follow. No matter what his goal might be; to destroy this city for what it did to the both of you, or to work in unison to try and remake it. Or perhaps, he plans to become more. An example of perfection. A God. As if he isn't one already.

The first time he touched you, when he felt the softness of your skin and heard the plea in your voice, and knew you were in his heart still, still, wasn't it akin to a prayer?

Oh, he is going to unravel you.

Viktor allows his grip on your wrists to finally, fully loosen; his Hexclaw presses flatly to the table, helping to support his weight. Relaxing, you exhale a deep breath, but you don't hesitate for long. Your arms waste no time wrapping around him, pulling him close. When you kiss him, a hand cradling his cheek like he is something breakable, and not a perfected piece of unstoppable machinery, the tender press of your lips to his feels undoubtedly inevitable.

All he knows is since the day he pretended to forget about you, when he decided to become something more, his new heart beat steadily, his enhanced mind was clear. But his systems wouldn't stop buzzing.

When he hardly knew where you were or what state you'd return to him in, the noise grew sharper. Fervently pulling, Hextech whirring, unsated electricity sizzling like fireworks underneath his skin. Having you in his arms once more only made the static form so thick, he thought his mental processes might completely go haywire. All he knows is that now, as he's kissing you, feeling your lips on his, your body against his own, and your hands tangling through his hair — for once, the static is silent. Blissfully silent.

And he kisses you, harder than before. Softer than anything and everything.

"Faster-" You're pleading brokenly against his mouth, between breathy kisses, your voice echoing through him, "More."

Faster, harder, more. Whatever you desire, he's going to give it to you. Viktor mumbles, "Of course."

Finally able to move, you hook one leg around his waist, you use it to drag him in even closer. You rock into his hand when his fingers spread and crook inside you, and you grab tight, messy fistfuls of his hair. His lips on yours, kissing you over and over, leave you little room to breathe.

Once you've pulled away, you're gasping for air, and his gaze fixates on yours: examining, devouring. Viktor takes note of your every movement. How you grind into his fingers when his thumb teases your clit, your bottom lip caught between your teeth, brows pinched. How you fall back against the table when the sensations overwhelm you, eyes shut and limbs weak. Pulsing and tensing around him, so sensitive. So close to falling apart.

Your arms wrap around him again, and he tries to keep the pace of his fingers steady, while you begin placing hurried kisses to his cheek, his neck. You kiss the side of his face, soft lips on soft skin. Then, your lips continue down, they press to his steel jaw. He tilts his head to let kisses fall over the expanse of metal that runs down his neck. Tingling phantom sensations curl into him and split him open.

"Close," You're muttering, so quiet he nearly doesn't hear. You hold him as tight as you can manage. Your breath is warm on the side of his face, tickling his skin, making him feel even warmer within.

"You are close?" He repeats for confirmation; his hand finds your side, and you grip his shoulders, hands brushing over thick plates of metal, desperately searching for something to hold onto. Your nails dig in, firm enough that he thinks the steel might chip. Viktor breathes a slight laugh, "You sound so sweet."

"So- I'm getting so-" You swear, "Oh, f-fuck…"

The only way he might quench what's come over him and steady his systems is by watching you come apart. Pleading his name, while you melt into a needy puddle of all the emotions and pleasant sensations he could never let himself have. Brought to your peak by his touch, his voice, because you are his, all his.

Viktor's free hand traces up, cool steel carefully finding your collarbone, your neck. Then, his fingers are wrapping around. He squeezes your throat just barely, just how you like, enough to make you fall back with your arms sprawled above you. Your head is perfectly dizzy, as his fingers work you steadily, his thumb flicking your needy clit much faster. Pushing you closer, closer.

Until it's far too much, and you are at his mercy, guided right to the edge of an exhilarating, electrifying precipice.

"Let go. I have you," Viktor instructs, "Let yourself submit."

Everything you've been building towards, all of his touches, all of this ecstasy, and how terribly you've missed him coalesces into this. Into a single, shuddering moment, waves upon waves of pleasure pushing you over the waterfall's edge. You're melting, cumming hard for him, your arms shaking, until he's removing his hand from your throat and giving you something to grab onto — delicate fingers laced with thick, strong, metal ones. Perfectly contrasting.

Your vision goes white. Your body tenses and then goes limp, like you've been shut down. The high is forceful, before it becomes soft, ebbing over you with gradual warmth, his hand in yours enough to steady you. Heart pounding, you take quick, loud breaths.

You can't help but feel disappointed when Viktor's hand releases yours to return to your waist. He holds you carefully, cold fingers brushing your skin reassuringly. Every touch feels deliciously raw, alight and sensitive.

Your eyes open slowly. Viktor's hair is a mess in his face, likely caused by you. He seems flushed, if only slightly. His unflinching gaze flickers across your form, before it settles back on your eyes.

"Breathe," He instructs carefully, gently. His hand grips your side a bit tighter; he's clearly affected by the way you sigh. You do your best to follow along, the aftershocks fading as your pulse slows, and as you start to calm.

"There. Excellent, you have done so well," Viktor praises. He smiles slightly in satisfaction. "You have never been this breathless."

Whatever words you could've formed in response don't come. They can't, not when his fingers are still inside you; not when Viktor is pressing them into your sensitive cunt just barely, squeezing your side as he delights in the way you whine. Pleasure, white-hot and familiar, surges through you fiercely.

It's so much, it's so much, it's too much, he's already fucking you with his fingers, and before you can fully wind down, you're swiftly building towards another high. Your body needs this. You just aren't sure if you can take it.

"Ah- shit," You murmur; reaching up, you tangle both hands in his hair, gripping tight for leverage. His expression remains infuriatingly calm. "I want- I need more. It feels so good, Vik," You're practically purring those last words, your whole body shuddering through another wave of ecstasy. "But I don't- I'm not sure if I-"

"You can." Viktor interrupts, assured and composed. "You can cum for me as many times as I dictate."

You're smirking now, obediently spreading your trembling thighs wide, while you roll your hips into his touch; his fingers are so thick, so impossibly, perfectly deep — "Hah- and you said I'm the insatiable one."

"Yes. You are the most insatiable human I have ever known. And it would seem you are particularly insatiable with me."

"You were once- Oh-"

Your head falls back as Viktor nudges that sweet, tender spot inside you, and your body becomes limp once more.

He takes the opportunity to bring the Hexarm's hand to your cheek. It's large enough to eclipse your face, the same way it was big and strong enough to easily pin both your wrists in its grasp. The heat radiating from the metal makes your eyes briefly flutter, before he trails it down to your throat. Perfectly responsive, your eyes grow heavy. He provides you with your favorite, much-needed pressure.

You've watched him use this very same hand to solder metal and create machinery. The device could heat to a temperature a thousand times hotter than it is now, it's capable of firing off a single ray of concentrated energy potent enough to slice through steel. And he has that hand wrapped right around your neck.

Fuck, that shouldn't excite you. It shouldn't have you quivering more and whimpering, shaking while you try your best to keep meeting his eyes, all because you so desperately want to hear him speak again. Praising you — You are doing so well for me, so pliant, so adorable. Or scolding you — Pathetic, aren't you? Quivering like a rabbit, and all it took was a little brush with danger. You are amusing.

Whichever he prefers. Because Viktor is so much stronger, so much smarter, and it hardly matters what he chooses to say, when any and all of it still gets you off.

Deep within your heart, you know he'd never hurt you. He would take away your pain if you asked it of him, so you wouldn't have to feel it again. His words can be sharp, simply because he wants to protect you. He wouldn't even attempt to put his hand on your throat like this if he didn't have complete, total control over the Hexclaw's laser. Carefully, he observes your every movement for any sign of discomfort, calculating and controlling each aspect of your pleasure — and it only serves to make your heart pound faster.

Of course, he can tell when you start to truly shake. He knows every inch of you is melting with overstimulation, and he's going to give you more.

"Take it. I know you are capable." His voice gives you goosebumps, while his fingers press into you shallowly, but the smallest movements are more than enough to make a mess of you. "There, perfect, you are performing excellently. Relax. Continue breathing deeply, nice and slow breaths. I will take care of you, love."

Love.

"Don't-" You choke, trying to keep your eyes on his despite the way your vision wavers and blurs; your reaction is immediate, predictable, and instantly satisfying. "Don't stop…"

You're beautiful like this, when you're underneath him. Since his enhancements, compared to his new body, you are now much smaller. He had to learn to adjust to the touches you need, to be gentle. Like you once were with him. Your roles, reversed in such a crucial way. You are undoubtedly strong in your own right, but when it comes to him, you are as sensitive as you are receptive. He needed to study how to keep from holding you too tightly, how to regulate his temperature to not burn your skin underneath his hands.

You are a pretty sculpture of quivering limbs and glistening skin. Your chest heaving, eyes fluttering. As beautiful as you were back then, before this. Before he lost the warmth he felt in his chest every time he saw you, before feelings on their own became mere faded memories. His iron consequence, locking away his dying love.

He gives you another. Three fingers press inside your dripping cunt, stretching you, filling you. A hand grips your side, his third lightly squeezing your throat — he works your pleasure for all it's worth, and has you gasping as he wrings out your aftershocks.

Viktor's mouth can't help but twitch into the slightest smile. "Look at you. You are worthy of the world."

He would give it all to you.

The Machine Herald will have this city in his hands. His vision is moving fast and accomplishing much, so it is only a matter of time. If you wanted more, he'd just have to reach even further. Relinquishing his human emotions left him without the need to be happy, nor content. But you, your happiness, keeping you safe, seeing you smile. It is stupid, foolish, doesn't make sense; his mechanics stutter, until he thinks he is choking on his own contradictory tenderness.

His body is betraying his mind. There is heat at his center, more than the normal amount emitted by his internal components. A very human, very filthy amount of heat. His skin underneath his armor is flushed and warm, his chest is aching from the weight of your heavy destruction. You are destroying him, and he can do nothing but allow it.

"I missed you," You murmur earnestly, voice weak, close to shattering. Your eyes are closed. Why, why are those words making his hands and his limbs and his heart shudder? "I missed you so bad- don't stop, keep fucking me Viktor- don't, please don't stop talking…"

Is that what you're imagining?

So he doesn't stop.

As you fall back against the table, Viktor removing the Hexclaw and letting go of your neck, he leans in to speak right against your ear. "I am proud of you, lubov. Infiltrating Piltover must not have been simple. You brought me more than I required, you did so with much efficiency. And you returned to me safely. Allow me to reward you. Fall apart for me, cum like I know you so desperately need to."

Your body curls, your hands move to his shoulders and grip them impossibly tight in an attempt to keep yourself steady. "Vik- Viktor-" You're gasping, you're close, "Kiss me, please kiss me-"

His hand holds your chin, the cool, rigid steel of his thumb swipes over your bottom lip; teasing you, making you whimper. Sliding further, into your mouth, until you're tasting the sharpness of metal. Until you're gently sucking, feeling the intricately crafted notches and joints on your tongue. When he pulls it out and kisses you hard, when his lips press to yours and your high-pitched moans become muffled on his mouth, you cum on his fingers hard enough to see the afterimage of stars.

He's trailing kisses down your jaw while you pulse around him, your thighs shaking, your head tilting to let his mouth find your throat. In the wake of his soft kisses, his foggy breath, you melt, and fully succumb to your shuddering high.

Working you back down is a slow, patient process. A kiss onto your neck for every gasp you take in, the feeling of gentle teeth once your body starts to fully relax. Everything you've wanted, everything you missed; far too tender for who he's become.

There are faint marks on your neck by the time he pulls away. Signs he was there. Proof he is softer than he is meant to be.

You could stop here. Instead, the next few moments happen in their own special space of reality.

Away from this city, away from his lab. A different plane made for just the two of you. Your mind feels dizzy, heavy. Viktor meets your gaze, momentarily scanning your face, waiting to make sure you've calmed.

He is all you can think of, all that has ever mattered. And even when he is right here, you miss him so, so much.

You tremble from the end of your spine to the top of your shoulders when he carefully pulls his fingers from you. He brushes his palm from your thigh to your side in one steady, soothing motion. You can feel the scars on his palm, the slight hesitant tremor to his still-slick fingers. You're reaching up, palm pressing to his chest. You absently feel the various ridges of metal. Smooth to the touch, armor radiating the faintest flickers of heat.

He glances down, watching your movement as your palm brushes further, further. Delicate fingertips trail the dips and outlines that continue down his stomach. Eventually, you reach as far as your arm will let you, your fingers drawing circles onto the rib-like sections of steel crossing just above his hips. As he glances back up to you, he finds your soft, pleading gaze to be already looking at him. As sweet as he's always remembered.

Your breathing is heavy. "Vik," You're begging, "We shouldn't- I'm sorry. This is stupid. I know we should stop, but…"

He is going to regret this.

Before he can stop himself, before his mind and his systems can even be led to form a single rational thought, Viktor is pressing the palm of his Hexarm just above your head, flat to the table. He is leaning over you, he is finding your cheek with a soft hand and a gentle touch. He's pulling you in, crashing his lips against yours, and he knows you're right — you shouldn't continue. He shouldn't allow this.

Machines do not feel. The Machine Herald feels nothing, and wants for nothing besides evolution. But Gods, you're kissing him like his lips are a drug, all you need after wanting to kiss him for so, so long. Since before you both became dim shells of what you once were. Your legs are wrapping around him, your fingers are brushing his face with such devastating tenderness, and Viktor believes he is feeling everything.

He's reaching down between your gasps for breath that make gaps in your kisses, and he's deftly activating a set of small, circular mechanisms on either of his sides. The armor on his chest unlatches with a clicking noise, platings becoming loose, unaligned.

The larger, more cumbersome sections of his armor, including his gauntlets, cape, and shoulder pieces have been discarded from the start, making the portion of chest armor come off as two simple halves. He has to pull away, sit up straight, and partially slide off of you to remove it all the way. Both pieces of armor hit the ground with a particularly heavy thud.

Most of his body has been replaced. Underneath the metal armor, there's just more metal; sections of iron that've been fused to replace muscle and skin, alloyed parts that reinforce his thin frame.

You have only seen him like this once. He was fixing some miscalibrated platings on his side, a wrench in one hand, the Hexclaw's laser busy welding a suitable replacement. Two thirds machine, and one part still human, he was definitely much different from what you remembered. Still, there were small sections of pale skin on his back, split where his spine had been reconstructed. And jagged scars, adorned by faint, dark moles. His messy hair still falls around his face just like you remember it.

You wanted to touch — he says he can't feel, but would he sense your fingertips as they traced his scars, would he shudder as your hands felt his skin? If you kissed what remained of him, his hand and each of his fingers, his back and each of those pretty moles, his chest down to his stomach, could you alight new sensations in him?

You've never wanted to touch him more than in this moment.

The bottom portion of his armor comes off much easier, leaving just the thick sections that cover his thighs down to his legs, including the steel brace mechanism. You're only able to catch the faintest glimpse, before he's pulling you into another deep kiss — a kiss that burns with every moment lost, his body pressing you against the table and beneath him. Your arms wrap around him, palms trailing across his back.

As they've always longed for, your fingertips feel the back of his neck: the ridges and hard edges of his spine, the solid base of the Hexarm, his soft skin. Viktor physically shudders. When one of your hands tangles in his hair while the other falls, landing upturned beside you, he kisses you harder, he absently finds your hand and holds it in his. Your fingers lace together. His hand feels so warm, still slightly larger than yours. His skin is scarred, your thumb brushing over calloused knuckles and thin, purple veins. Every touch is so tender, earnest, human, it's nearly unbearable. Your hand was meant to be in his. Even if it won't last.

It's a strange sensation, when his body presses ever closer to your own. Metal leads down from his navel, across to his pelvis, trailing underneath the armor on his thighs as one smooth, solid construction. Partially welded into his skin, but seemingly designed to make some sections removable. It is warm like the rest of him, designed with faint ridges and indents.

Your legs, locked around him at the ankles, encourage him to press ever-closer. He devours you, kissing you deeper than you thought possible. You sigh against his mouth, and hold on tightly to his hair. His body rocks against yours in an instinctual, clumsy motion. Close, pressing, grinding. Warm metal and those perfect little ridges grind between your legs, against your core, against your clit. And you practically jolt.

Oh. You break away from the kiss to toss your head back with a breathy, pretty noise. Pleasure threads through you, thick and unrelenting.

Viktor mumbles something that barely registers in your ringing ears: Should stop, you manage to make out. And then, Are you alright?

"Yes, I just-" You mumble, panting hard, "Don't. Don't stop."

So Viktor grasps your waist in a tight, yet careful grip. His eyes never leave yours, gaze burning with a fire you've never once seen. He guides you to press against him, grinds his body against yours until you're making a mess of the metal. Until the faint ridges are nudging your swollen clit just right, until the heat of the iron is burning through you, into you, and your slick arousal is glistening on the steel.

Your mind and heart are racing.

"Oh, fuck-" You're swearing, your words surely seeming broken; he finds your cheek, he tilts your head up towards him, and you can't decide if the gesture is tender, or possessive. "I need you, I really, really do."

His body feels as though he just touched the surface of the sun, and Viktor hardly knows if the warmth is coming from his overloaded systems, or if it's surrounding him, heat drawn thickly from the friction between the two of you. Perhaps it's a mix of both.

Either way, he is losing himself. It's all happening so terribly fast; when his body rolls against yours, and you whimper through a filthy utterance of his name, there is a clear, undeniable response. A tingling in his veins, an eager sensation that shoots from his back to his chest to his core, consuming everything like a wildfire, and threatening to envelop all of him.

He doesn't even know what to do with this. How to silence these disruptions, how to get his stupid brain to stop picturing you shuddering beneath his form as he presses against you, presses inside you, and brands every inch of you with his own name —

"Milaya," Viktor hums, and you swear, his tone sounds lighter, his voice sounds strained. "I have always needed you. I'm not- No, I want- I shouldn't…"

Trailing off when you cry out, he swallows. His thumb brushes your bottom lip as he continues to guide you towards him. Sweat beads on your chest, your thighs. He instructs, partially shakily, "Keep looking at me. Please."

You've rarely heard him stutter or falter, never seen him anywhere close to worked up. You hardly knew if he had the capacity to feel this way, even though he certainly wasn't built to, even though he definitely isn't supposed to. And isn't it all because of you?

The way your gaze locks with his as he rhythmically rocks against you has your heart skipping beats. There's a slight softness to his cold eyes, to his expression, that you're sure no-one else has seen before. Not since back then. You are impossible to resist, and this definitely needs to stop, this is definitely too far — it's going even further when your hand reaches down, fingertips clumsily tracing the edges of the metal seared into his navel.

He knows what you want. You're greedy, a glutton for punishment, a sweet, terrible fool. But if he's honest with himself, perhaps he is worse. You are pleading his name again, the sound echoing unendingly in his ears, and Viktor is removing the front-most section of the metal enhancement: a thin plate that forms a triangular shape from his hips, all the way down.

When he presses against your form, the next sensation to bleed into you is much different. It's smooth, soft latex, shoving against you. The last layer remaining between you and him and —

And you can feel him. Straining hard and heavy against his underclothes. Firm and warm as he rocks into you, grinding all of him onto your throbbing cunt. You aren't thinking, you can't think anymore. Not when Viktor is hard, and when your heartbeat is so damn loud in your ears, you couldn't possibly hear anything else.

"Viktor," You're murmuring, your chest pleasantly aching. Pleasure welds with emotion, walking the same shaky line, until your heart is unfurling with delicate petals that fill your throat sweetly, consuming you wholeheartedly, "I love you."

If Viktor's mechanized heart was still capable of faltering from its pre-programmed rhythm, he's sure it would be fucking pounding.

Every part of him is set alight. Burning, he feels smoke in his throat, and swears he tastes fire. He's overloading, practically overheating, like a fragile body trembling with need and want, like a system with too many programs open at once — and oh Gods, it just keeps opening more. His vision has long since gone blurry, and every sound in his ears is thick, as though he's been submerged in deep water.

How long have you wanted to say those words? He thinks of quiet days spent with you in Piltover, the lingering glances and faint touches he tried his hardest to forget.

How long has he needed to hear you say them?

Honestly, he could cry, if he was at all still capable of crying. His mind is a mess. Heat is threading through his circuits, devotion and desire, a terrible softness; he's so soft inside, it hurts. It actually hurts, and he believed he taught himself how to forgo any pain.

Electricity and faulty Hextech sizzle in his core, radiating, echoing. His damn foolish, worthless, synthetic heart. He needs to hold you, fuck you, break you. To encode this sensation into his head and his blood, because forgetting the way your voice strummed those words would be worse than admitting he is too weak to discard them.

I love you, I love you, I love you.

He doesn't deserve this. He was not built to love. Love should be thrown out, along with everything else. Love is a weakness. You may be fine with placing your heart on railway tracks, you might not think twice before putting yourself in danger, but if anything were to happen to you, he might be entirely consumed.

With his mechanized existence, he could soon become immortal. This longing would surely stick with him after you're gone, an eternity of something he could never understand. Swallowing him whole, holding onto him tight. Endlessly painful. But right now, when he is here and stuck in a dream at the same time, when he is more of himself than he has ever been, and you are all that exists in his veins, could he ever manage to stop?

You are so close to so much more. So close to ruining everything — just one last layer, one more touch. One movement, one press of his palms to your figure before he slides into you, one last massive, unfixable mistake.

"Vik, please, please, I'm-" You can barely hold on anymore, as much as you've been trying to. You curl into him, grinding back against him hard; "I can't, I can't fucking- hhah- I'm so close-"

Your bodies rock together desperately, beckoning and wanting more of what they shouldn't have. His heat radiates into your skin, and your breath fills the air in thick, heavy huffs. You're still so wet, and it makes every movement slick and simple. Your hands feel his back, his shoulders, his steel jaw, his face. Anywhere you can touch, you're making the most of it.

Viktor finds your chin, he holds it delicately, and when he says your name, it feels personal; devastatingly so. Like he could make a home with the familiarity laced through each syllable. He breathes them like he did back then, coveting you so deeply. Muttering it as one final plea.

If he can't fix this, perhaps you can reconstruct this part of him. Could you show him how to live again, could you instruct his mechanized heart, and finally teach it how to skip?

"I have you," Viktor sighs, because he's sure you want to hear his words as much as he needs to say them. He doesn't require a working heart, when he can let all of himself echo through his still-human soul. "I love you."

Your chest bruises with sparks in the wake of his gentle voice. Still somewhat robotic. Spoken as though each individual, inevitable word is one he is learning to speak. I. Love. You.

Your legs and arms wrap around him, holding him as close to you as he could possibly get. Exhaling shakily, your whines are broken, your nails digging into his back. They'll leave red marks onto his pale skin; he hopes they do. His chest is pressed right up to yours. Viktor allows his forehead to rest just barely against your own, utterly tender, and he melts, as your thudding heartbeat echoes through him. Body to body, scarred skin on softer skin. Delicate limbs held around a partial chassis of firm, strong metal.

Helpless. Perhaps for you, he is the helpless one.

It doesn't matter; everything is crumbling away, and the both of you are thrown right back into reality, because you are falling apart for him at last. One last time.

You shake, liquid hot pleasure drips over you like burning wax, and you're left at the mercy of your blistering, final high. Another few deep grinds into each other are all you need — the both of you throbbing, his jaw tensing, Hexclaw twitching, stiffening, and radiating a powerful amount of heat. His eyes flutter, the artificial glow behind them flickering like a dying lightbulb. You hold onto him tighter, and he lets go of a slight noise. A quiet, shaky, all too desperate moan.

You stay rocking against one another even while you're cumming, even after your voice is sore from chanting Viktor's name so loudly, you briefly worry that anyone just outside of his lab might've heard you.

Finally stopping, you only begin to relax once your whole body is entirely spent.

You breathe slowly. In, and then out. Deep, calming breaths. Your heart pounds with force. The room refocuses around you, the harsh light of his various lamps burning into the back of your eyelids and making you see colorful spots. Viktor waits a few moments, before he shakily pushes up to prop himself above you.

There's a hum of ambient, grinding metal coming from him. The hiss of steam. The echo of small shudders, and forceful gasps. Your vision is still fuzzy, your limbs incredibly weak, but you notice when he reaches for something; the thin metal plating, which he secures back onto himself.

Once your eyes are completely clear and your heart is beating to a normal tune, you're finally able to focus on him above you. In barely any time, with a half-machine's perfected efficiency, Viktor has already regained every last aspect of his composure.

"Stay. You require rest," He instructs matter-of-factly, his tone filled with his usual sternness. His gaze scans you up and down methodically. "I will supply you with a change of clothes."

Right. Viktor's heart can't shudder like yours. Soft sensations have no need to linger. You'd almost forgotten. This is what you were always bound to return to: you, an ally. And he is just a machine.

Through heavy, lovesick eyes, you admire the sight of him above you. His thin figure, enthralled in shadow, light reflecting off of the metal sections of his outline. He runs a hand through his hair to push it from his face, a gesture you find particularly endearing and human.

"Oh, don't worry," You hum casually, stretching your arms and legs out. Your voice is light, foggy and still weak. The table beneath you feels firm against your back, but with how lightweight your whole body feels, you couldn't care less. "I don't think I'm moving even if I wanted to."

Viktor raises a brow just slightly. He taps your neck with a single smooth, metal finger. "And something needs to be done about these."

Briefly, your expression shifts into confusion. You tilt your head, allowing his fingers to trail further, and they examine the base of your neck down to your collarbones; the marks he left on your skin are swiftly darkening, forming blotchy, pretty bruises.

Realizing what he's getting at, you smile smugly. "Worried someone's gonna ask questions?"

"Half of Zaun acknowledges you as my right hand. I am not worried. But they will ask. It could prove arduous." Viktor explains, his tone exceedingly controlled. "Come. Hold onto me."

When you don't immediately move, he stares at you expectantly. So, despite your tiredness, you listen, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and your legs around his middle loosely. Viktor lifts you with ease. His heavy boots clunk with each step, and he carries you just a few paces from the table, setting you down on your back, and onto the familiar, ripped-up leather couch. It shifts, accommodating your weight and his. Compared to the worktable, when your back hits the soft yet worn cushions, you feel like you're resting on clouds.

Viktor shifts, starting to move away, but you keep your arms wrapped around him, and speak before he has the chance.

"Vik…" You're purring, "Stay here."

A brief look of contemplation crosses his face, categorized by the slightest pinch in his thick brows. You smile, and nearly wind up kissing him again. He doesn't attempt to pull apart from you when you drag him closer to yourself, your lips gently brushing his cheek.

At first, he's overly stiff. His arm fits underneath your back to hold you out of mere obligation. In contrast, his metal arm is kept beside you, refusing to touch, steel-jointed fingers flexing absently. But once your hands trail up, your fingers tracing the back of his neck, before they run through his hair, he honestly, earnestly relaxes.

Your body underneath him is comforting. Limbs entangled, your legs brushing steel and the rigid metal brace. His head leans gently into the crook of your neck, almost hesitantly, as though he isn't entirely sure where to place it. He can't help but fall against you, bodies pressed into one another naturally enough to form the same grave. If he ever came face to face with death, he would refuse to accept it, unless it was just like this.

You let your tired eyes close. You allow yourself to focus on his warmth, on the weight of him, and you can almost pretend this is natural. That you are in the past, or perhaps residing in a much different future. You are both lovers, as you wished you would be; simple and uncomplicated, nothing more, resting together in the dizzying comfort of your afterglow.

It'd be nice. Nicer than anything you've been afforded. The only problem is Viktor is all firm steel and hard edges. His metal hand shifts to hold your side, and his fingers are digging into your skin, gripping a bit too tight. His weight on yours is making it damn near difficult to breathe. And right now, he is very, very hot.

You frown, your eyes fluttering open again. "You're overheating."

"My internal temperature is regulated by a liquid cooling apparatus," Viktor murmurs, after a moment. "It seems to be malfunctioning."

His voice is smooth, as it always is, but it sounds much warmer, much quieter, when it's spoken this close to your ear. You sigh softly, and shuffle a little under him, trying to get more comfortable.

"Ah. That sounds concerning."

"The device will adjust itself in time," Viktor clarifies. "If it does not, repairs will take a few minutes, at most."

Your fingertips brush over his back. They feel the thick ridges of his spine, and the thin steel shape of the Hexclaw's base. It feels cool and lifeless under your palm. "This is cold, though."

"It is inoperational. It stopped responding, I will need to reset it individually."

"That so?" You huff in response, laughing a little. You hold onto him tighter, and lean your head into his shoulder. "Whatever. Just don't let go of me."

He doesn't. You exhale a long, weak breath. Your hands tremble slightly, as they uselessly grip onto the sections of cold steel that frame his shoulders. Viktor stays perfectly still, and he allows you to hold onto him as tightly as you need to. This might be the last moment you'll have together. For a while, at least. He has much to attend to, after this. Some tasks he can work on at your side, with your assistance, preferably. Some missions he must complete alone.

The next time you speak, your voice is so fragile, he thinks he should be holding it in his palms. Or else it'll break.

"We shouldn't- or, I guess I shouldn't have said… you know." You shudder, shaking all over before you tense. You're holding him too close to allow him to see your face, but he can picture your expression: slightly playful, to attempt to hide your uncertainty. "Gods, I'm so stupid. But I meant it. And I just-" You laugh, "I'm sorry, Viktor. Maybe you were right. I've been way too reckless."

Viktor has no need to ponder his answer. "I know. Don't apologize. You should be resting, our conversation can continue tomorrow."

You breathe deeply, and he quietly murmurs, his voice echoing through your ears, "I love you, milaya."

Fake. Expected. A ghost of choked-back emotions, of all-too tender moments already slated to become forgotten memories. But something is there, something that tells you he's trying. For now, you'll take it. It's more than enough.

You are close to falling asleep; every one of your nerves, washed over by warm, inviting waves, enveloped in his persistent heat. As though he can sense your building exhaustion, Viktor rubs your back with slow, reassuring circles — as best he can manage, considering your shapes are pinned too close together. Your breathing evens out, and you relax into his touch. Your mind feels as heavy as your weary, weak limbs.

Your love would be soft, he considers, distracted. Gentless personified, warm like your smile, like the radiant sun shining down on one's skin. Patient and alighting. Like being pulled by the wrists, wrested out of a rocky, dark sea — finally alive, and finally able to breathe. The still-human part of him feels in measures of softness. The mechanical part is much, much different.

Heat is running through his veins. It's racing through his system, and he knows it isn't from any sort of malfunction. It burns. The taste of it is like sharp blood on his tongue, it spins in his head like the dizzy grinding of gears, sears through him with fraying wires and sizzling static. Pain and softness, forming a mix he might certainly call love, but might also swear to remove.

There's a certain sharpness gnawing at him. A flickering, raw bruise, brutalizing him from between his ribs, regardless of his attempts to try and ignore it. Your efforts are failing. You are feeling, and that means you have failed. Even dying embers burn out the same as raging flames.

You've drifted off, it would seem, your breathing slow, your body limp. So Viktor holds you just a bit tighter.

For once, for the first time since he truly decided who he wanted to be and what he wanted to accomplish, he is lost.

In the end, he is going to have to make a decision. One that will benefit his vision. Or one that will destroy him from the inside out. He must carve out these distractions, remove the sections of his heart that are faulty, or he must learn what it would mean to embrace them.

It scares him, truly. Viktor, the Machine Herald, genuinely scared over something meant to be so trivial. Fretting over the one person he never wanted to lose, even though he was sure he'd already lost you. He wonders what his opposition would say, what those who view him as soulless might think, if they knew the truth. And if you knew?

Just having to tell you, forcing himself to push you away, or coming face to face once more after he's altered his brain to completely forget you — No, the thought alone might be enough to seal his fate.

He'll make up his mind before you wake. His head will become clearer, eventually. When your voice is gone from his ears, when your phantom touches tracing his skin have finally disappeared. Besides, this moment won't last, and he wants to savor what's left of it.

Whatever happens next, wherever he takes this, he knows you will follow — to a different path, to a better future. Or to the ends of the earth.

#viktor x reader #viktor x you #arcane x reader #viktor smut #machine herald x reader #don't. perceive me #runs away so fast

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kingtomura · 8 months ago

Text

Arcade

Summary: There's nothing worse than getting ditched by your so-called friends on a Friday night. Well, maybe the asshole complaining about your skills at the arcade has that beat. Tomura Shigaraki knows how to make one hell of a first impression. word count: 8.5k Part three to Good Girl and Bloodline Content: Tomura Shigaraki x female reader, quirkless AU, fluff, angst, virginity loss, virginity kink, corruption kink, mutual masturbation, vaginal fingering, oral (f! receiving), praise, strict parents, toxic parents, smut with plot, protected sex, piv, overstim, tomura talks you through it, if you know what i mean, reader is kinda bad at games sry, mdni crossposted to ao3 | Part 4 is here!

You meet him on a Friday.

The mall is crowded and filled to the brim with groups of friends, chattering, laughing – wondering what to get into for the night. You’re just trying to find your group. They said that they would meet you here almost an hour ago, but no one has shown up.

Bitterly you kick the small rock in front of you, officially accepting the fact that you had been ditched and decide it’s too early to go home. It’s a Friday night for pete’s sake. You walk aimlessly through the mall, only pausing when the noises of video game lasers and hyper dance music flood your ears.

The arcade. Of course you could kill some time there, people go there alone all the time. No one would think you were out of place and effectively ditched.

You make your choice, beelining for the upgraded rendition of Pac Man and slipping in a coin to start it.

The excitement was short lived as you remembered that the game isn’t as easy as you remembered. Whatever, you take your leave and try for a game you hadn’t played before. Something simple with muted colors. It’s fun, but a little difficult. You find yourself getting lost in it, the sounds drowning out the bustling of the arcade.

You huff as you lose another round and reach down, ready to drop a coin and start up again when you hear an annoyed groan coming from behind.

“Can I help you?” You ask, giving the guy a once over. He wore all black with ashen hair and ruby red eyes that shone with annoyance.

“Yeah, you could find another game to suck at.” He scoffs, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

Irritating.

You take the challenge. “Oh yeah? Well let's see you try it then, since it’s so easy.”

He shrugs, brushing by you and inserting his own coin into the machine, the beeps of the game starting up and filling tension between you.

This guy… was good at the game — as much as you hated to admit it. He blew through the enemies with little to no trouble and easily passed your place in the game. Ending it all with one final blow to the boss and snagging the new high score right before your eyes.

To say you were embarrassed was a little less than an understatement, but you wouldn’t let him know that. So, you double down, brows furrowed and standing proud.

The mystery man turns back to you, carmine eyes gleaming in triumph over his easy win. “See? You suck.”

You bristle at his blunt insult and bite back. “Yeah, well I only tried this game today! You think you're so good, why don’t you try to beat me at a game I'm good at.”

He looks you over, eyes dragging from your head to the converse on your feet, before turning back around towards the game and dropping another coin into it.

“No thanks.”

This asshole… you don’t know why you're fighting this battle, you don't even know this man! But it would be a lie if you didn’t think it was entertaining —- in an annoying way, of course.

But you take your loss and give up, moving on to the next game. It is something silly and bright, but also difficult. It's easy to get lost in and you find yourself aggressively tapping the buttons, inevitably losing the game and huffing off to find the next one.

You choose a first person shooter this time. Originally a two player game, but you play on your own — taking down zombie after zombie as you try (and fail) to progress to the next stage.

You groan as the game over screen mocks you for what feels like the thousandth time that night and fight to keep from banging your head against the screen in frustration.

“You’re doing it wrong,” a low voice speaks from behind you and you can already feel your anger flaring. “It’s all in the aim.”

“Yeah, well, what do you know?” You ask bitterly, watching as the same asshole from before puts a coin in and starts the game up again.

He makes it look so easy, getting headshot after headshot as he easily advances to the next rounds. There was a moment you swore he would lose as a mob of zombies crowded him, but he hit a flammable container in the background, causing an explosion and killing all of the zombies.

The winning screen lit up his pale cheeks in a red hue, giving him a faux flush of color making the butterflies in your stomach go wild.

You can’t bite back your sigh of defeat this time, the losing streak getting to you. “Did you come over here just to show off? I can do without that, thank you.”

He only shakes his head, putting in another coin and starting the game up again. You stare blankly as he hits the two player button and hands you a gun.

“No, let me show you why you’re not winning.” It's spoken like you asked him for advice and you know damn well you didn’t, but you take the gun anyway because you had no reason not to.

Muttering a taut fine and gearing yourself up for more humiliation, you stand tall and hold the plastic gun up to the screen, ready to shoot incoming enemies.

You jolt when you feel the guy come up behind you, placing his hands over yours and moving them so that you have a better grip on the weapon.

It was so quick and so natural your cheeks began heating for a reason completely different from your earlier embarrassment.

He was so warm, his hands were warm and calloused and you could feel the heat of his body radiating onto your back as he invaded your personal space to show you how to hold the plastic gun.

Your heart hammered against your chest but you forced yourself to keep your eyes forward and face neutral.

It was much easier said than done, you realize as he leans in, his soft hair tickling your ear as he spoke, guiding you through the mini tutorial of how to shoot the zombies.

Everything he said went in one ear and out the other as you could only focus on the low vibrato of his voice, explaining as his fingers ghosted over yours, casually helping you shoot.

The smell of fresh linen and what you could assume was citrus shampoo flooding your nose, making you dizzy as you struggled to listen. You wanted nothing more than to lean back into this stranger, fully feel the warmth of his chest against your back and run your fingers through his soft locks. But you didn’t.

You will yourself to focus on the sounds of the game and his technique, knowing that you will probably be playing the game soon and didn’t want to look silly if your skill remained the same.

Unfortunately, he pulled away sooner rather than later, taking all of his extra warmth and citrus scent with him.

“Do you get it now?” He asks, rasp in his voice having genuine curiosity and you nod, ready to try your luck at the game now.

It seems like his tutoring wasn’t in vain and you both pull out a win, scoring high enough to place your names on the screen.

You can’t hide your excitement from your first win of the night, turning to your new companion as he looked over the other high scores on the board.

“So, what’s your name?” You ask, riding the high of the win and letting the confidence of it guide you. “Because I don't think it would be DustKing like your high score says.”

He gives a small laugh, something tiny and barely there – a mere blow of air through his nose — and looks at you. Those carmine eyes send heat rushing to your cheeks again and spreading to the tips of your ears.

“Tomura.” Is all he gives and you nod, giving him your name and turning back to the arcade game again.

“Wanna give it another try?” You offer, and he gives you a small smile back, dropping a coin into the machine and starting up another round.

“Sure.”

And suddenly, being ditched on a Friday night by your so-called friends isn’t so bad.

—---------------------

The next time you meet Tomura, it is on a saturday afternoon.

The arcade is already bustling with people and the noise almost makes you turn on your heels and walk away. But you don't, instead white hair and dark clothes catch your eye and your feet move before your mind can catch up with the actions.

“Hey!” You greet, a little too chipper and a little too close.

Tomura looks down at you, eyes dropping to your shirt and then back up again. You weren't sure if he had been checking you out or trying to size you up. It makes you falter a bit as he goes back to his game, effectively ignoring you.

The behavior is odd, but you try not to let it bother you. The last time you met the both of you played the silly zombie game until the arcade closed — there was no way he didn’t remember who you were.

You feel a little out of place and the tiniest bit hurt as you take a step back, ready to find any other distraction in the arcade to erase this from your brain.

“Um, okay, bye then—” You start, but you’re cut off by Tomura’s groan. He lost the game and it's difficult to hold back the laughter.

“God, you’re such a distraction. You made me lose!” He barks, riling you up.

Your brows furrow in frustration, you’ve barely said two words to the guy. “How did I make you lose? I just got here!”

“Yeah, and you're being all distracting, with your little shirt and your jeans. What do you want?”

What the hell was that supposed to mean? The statement is lost on you as your anger takes the forefront. “Don’t blame me because you’re off your game today.”

“I will blame you, because it’s your fault.”

“Whatever, Tomura. Since you’re done losing at this game, why don't you try one you;ll need real skill to play?” you challenge and hope he takes the bait, the irritated narrowing of his eyes shows that he will and you bury your giddiness inside.

“Fine, I'll try it.”

Tomura loses. Bad. And you can't stop the tears from crowding your eyes as you laugh at his misfortune.

“No, why did you rush out so fast?” You hear Tomura’s low growl of annoyance and continue, “This is not that kind of game! Slow and steady wins the race, you know.”

Wiping the tear from your eye, you try again, dropping a coin and gearing up for the next round while Tomura sits beside you, seething. The game starts up again and it's bright and inviting. You strategically tap at the buttons, ensuring that your duck character can make it across the street safely.

It's only when you hear the splash of the fallen duck next to yours that you break out into laughter once more, accidently tapping the button and sending your duck into the open road, ending the game for you both.

“This game is rigged!” Tomura protests, frustration palpable and scowl deep on his face.

You only shrug, knowing it's not an easy game, “Well, I'm sure you’d say that about any game you aren't good at.”

“That's a lie.” He states. Blunt and firm. This guy… He’s so rude, but so cute. You want to bite him.

“It's not,” You keep your voice light as you tease, not wanting to push him too far. “You don’t have patience so of course you would lose.”

“I could beat you at other games.”

This piques your interest, brows flying up. “Oh, yeah? Like what?”

He shrugs, irritation all but dissipated. “Mario Kart. 200cc. It takes patience and it’s not rigged.”

You take the bait, fingers twitching in anticipation, “Sure, but look where we are. There is no Mario Kart here.”

The look tomura gives you makes you wonder if you’d asked if the sky were blue. “I have Mario Kart at my house. Stop by and I'll kick your ass at it.”

You are stubborn, and decide fine. If he wants to be cocky, then you could bring him down a notch. “Alright, let's go and we'll see.”

He nods and you both take off, leaving the noise and excitement of the arcade behind.

Tomura was not lying when he said Mario Kart required patience.

You were currently in his room, on his bed as you try and fail to correct your character's position on the race track. You were stuck against a wall and slowly turning the opposite way, meanwhile, the other karts whip past your character — mocking while you firmly sat in dead last.

The small laugh Tomura gives is enough to send you into a rage. Standing up, you grip the controller with force, twisting and turning with it as if it would give you more control over your character. It did not.

“Oh, come on!” You shout.

“You have to use your brakes at this speed.” Tomura supplies, his character crossing the finish line and cheering at its win.

Your frustration is blinding because once again, those large, warm hands were covering yours, Tomura’s low voice filled with amusement as he guided your character to the finish line.

Embarrassment wasn’t enough for what you were feeling. Not only did you talk shit and lose, but you needed help from him again.

He pulls away and you fleetingly think it’s too soon, watching as Tomura grabs his own controller and flips through the options. “We could try a slower cc. 200cc is brutal to newer players.”

“You knew that and you still let me play it?” He clearly set you up, you bitterly realize as you sit next to him on the bed, watching the screen.

“Yeah, for all I know you could have been a prodigy. You weren't though, so it’s nothing I have to worry about.”

“Hey!” You scold, smacking his arm and grabbing the controller. “Fine. Let's do 50cc and see how good you are.”

Tomura shrugs, plucking the item from your hand and getting more comfortable. “Sure, but don’t think slower races will mean you’re better.”

The next race goes about the same as the first one, but at least this time your character sticks to the road and you’ve even placed higher this time. Eighth place! Take that.

“Impressive,” Tomura drags, voice stripped of malice and insults. It was a small feat, but still better than twelfth place.

It's hard to keep your excitement down, a stark contrast to Tomura’s reserved demeanor. You’ve only met him recently but he's already perfected the way to get your feathers ruffled and rile you up.

“Yeah, well I'm going to buy the game and practice on my own. Just wait, you’ll be in last place soon.” You had the gaming console, but never this game. It wouldn’t be too steep of an investment.

Tomura hums, pondering a moment before responding, “You could always just come over and practice. No need to waste the money when I have it.”

His words make you pause, slowly realizing where you are and who you're with. Some guy you met at the arcade — in his home, in his room, playing video games. How did that happen so fast? Your parents would kill you.

“I guess.” You look around, suddenly wanting to find anything else to focus on that isn’t the man beside you. Now that you think about it, you’ve never really been alone with another guy before. Especially not in his room. Sure, you had all kinds of male friends, but never any this close. It made you… nervous. And warm.

Very warm. Something that spread from the pits of your abdomen and crawled its way back up into your cheeks.

You hoped Tomura wouldn't notice your blush and searched your brain for any way to get out of this situation.

But then he was speaking again and god, was his voice always this low?

“Do you want to go another round?”

“Huh?” You stammer, looking over and it was a mistake because you were forced to notice how close you two were sitting, on his bed of all places. You shake the thoughts from your head, “y-yeah, we should play another round.”

You reach for the controller and Tomura stops you, grabbing your chin, forcing you to look him in the eyes.

“Hey, what's your problem?” Blunt. Rude. Fucking cute.

It's settled. You hate this man.

His brows furrowed as he moved closer, examining your face as if he could peer into your mind with his eyes alone. It made you want to shrink away, but that would only make his observation worse.

“Are you... getting nervous?” Your eyes widen at the words and you pull away completely, shaking your head,

“No! Of course not.” You cross your arms in a huff and absently wonder if you could take your leave now.

“You are,” he decides, a slow grin creeping across his face, “Why?”

You're sure the ground will open up and swallow you whole if you just wish hard enough for it. Maybe then Tomura would back up out of your personal space and shut up.

“I'm not nervous.” You bluff, praying he won’t see through you.

“I know why.”

You brace yourself for mortification.

“It’s because you know you’re going to lose.”

He has that smug smile on his face and it hits you.

He has no idea. Tomura doesn’t get it — he thinks you’re upset about the game and not the fact that you can smell the citrus of his shampoo and see the flecks of black in his red eyes.

God, maybe he’s an idiot.

You want to kiss him.

“Don’t be nervous,” he assures, giving you a little smile and grabbing the controller again, “I’ll walk you through it.”

There was something about Tomura’s choice of words that made you think maybe, just maybe, he had a little more of an idea about your mood than he let on. You press your thighs together, praying it was subtle, and mentally push away the arousal you began to feel at his low tone of voice.

“Sure.”

The next round you both play goes the same as the others. Tomura winning and you barely breaking the top ten. Your frustration was becoming palpable as it no longer was fun to see your character cry at the end of the match.

“We don't have to play anymore.” You look over at Tomura’s words and he’s stretching, eyes closing at the movement. You can't help but notice the sliver of his exposed abdomen as he reaches up.

You get a glimpse of his lithe figure and feel your mind begin to wonder what the rest looks like, but cut your thoughts short as he adjusts and meets your eyes again.

You should get out of here before you embarrass yourself.

“Where are you going?” Tomura questioned, the minute you stood to leave.

“Um, home? It’s getting late.”

“Not that late. C’mon, it’s a Saturday. You have somewhere to be or something?” He’s getting up and you can only assume it's to get another game. You are correct because he turns to show you the case and it’s of a white goose. “This game is more fun.”

You look at the time on your phone and shrug. He's right, it's not that late — there should be no harm in staying a little longer.

So you do.

And it’s worth it as you both watch two geese in the game with excellent teamwork terrorize a farmer.

“Okay, you distract him and I’ll take his hat.” You were on a mission and Tomura indulged you, making his goose honk while yours swooped in, effectively stealing the hat and allowing you both to progress to the next level.

“Hah! I knew that would work.” You feel elated as you watch the geese move on, waddling across the screen and into the next area, “And you’re not so bad yourself, for a goose.”

Tomura huffs a laugh, shallow and light before turning to you, “I carried you that round, but okay.”

You haven't known each other long, but he already knows his way around getting you riled up.

The comment makes you turn so that you are better positioned on his bed, one leg still hanging off the end of it while trying not to puff your cheeks. You would be fighting a losing battle if he saw how riled up you were.

“Hey, I’m the one who told you where the picnic blanket was!”

“Okay? And who brought everything to the blanket?” he leaned forward, invading your space and challenging.

You didn’t back down, both of you so close, almost nose to nose. “You. but only after I found everything.”

The distance between the two of you was slim, and the air was heated, his crimson eyes looked down at you with that smug smirk on his lips and you wanted to bite him.

Or kiss him.

Whichever came first.

Tomura followed your line of sight and it only made his smug expression worse, if that were even possible — yet neither of you backed away. His lips parted like he was on the edge of saying something, but was cut off by the peppy chime of your phone’s ringtone.

That seemed to dissipate some of the tension between you two as it caused you to back away and scramble to find your phone on his bed.

Once you’ve gotten it and answered, there’s the familiar voice of your mother on the other end, worrying about where you are and questioning when you would be home, standard practice for her. After many reassuring yeses and “i’ll be there soon”’s you are finally free of the call, now knowing that you have to wrap this up and head out.

“Who was that?” Tomura questioned and his voice seems loud in the quiet of the room.

You turn back to him and his eyes are waiting, expecting. He’s not doing anything but looking at you and it still feels like he can see all of you, as if you’re naked and bare, exposed completely.

“My mom.” You can’t help the small shrug of your shoulders, feeling a little embarrassed at how uncool it could look to have your parents keep tabs on you all the time.

“Aww,” Tomura coos, and it's said more like an afterthought, something to fill the air as he leaned forward — finally, finally closing the distance between you both and kissing your lips.

It shocks you as you feel the soft cotton his duvet hit your back, Tomura’s lips still pressed to yours as he pushed you down. They were rough but so warm, just like the rest of him, and your hand seeks his hair, finally indulging in the urge you’ve had to touch it since you’ve met him.

He groans when you give it a tug and you whimper when he bites your lip a little too hard. It drives you crazy and Tomura wastes no time in deepening the kiss, his tongue swiping over yours as his hands slide up your shirt. You let out a gasp when he cups your breast, taking a sensitive nub between his forefinger and thumb. The feeling has you mewling into his mouth and arousal soaking your panties.

It doesn’t take much to get you riled up, especially since the furthest you’ve ever gone with a guy is a kiss here and there.

Tomura crowds your senses as he hovers over you, caging you below him as he sits between your spread legs. Your heart races as you keep your eyes squeezed shut, you don’t know how far you’re going to go, but you definitely did not think you would be losing your virginity today.

He pulls away, lifting his shirt up and over his head, tossing it somewhere on the floor of the room. You waste no time taking in the new sight of his exposed chest, desperate to reach your hands out to touch.

But Tomura was back down again before you had a chance to, his mouth making its way down your jaw and neck leaving kisses and licks in its wake. It’s sensitive, especially when Tomura sucks right on a particular spot on your neck, making you cry out.

“D-don’t leave a mark.” You stutter, words nearly lost to the pleasure.

“Why not?” The warmth of his tongue licking the area he’d just sucked on was making you shiver.

Your hands were gripping his shoulder, desperate for any kind of grounding. “Because my parents. They would k-kill me.”

Tomura hums, seeming to take your concern into consideration before pulling away. You’re worried you’ve blown it and ruined the mood, but he just tugs at your shirt.

“Get this off.”

You can feel the heat on your face, from the kissing, but now you feel it burn more as you gaze at the man above you. The words make you stall, process what's going on — what you should do.

No one’s seen you without a shirt, especially not in this situation, but honestly? Who cares. You’re an adult, you can and will make your own choices.

There’s no one else in this room but you and Tomura, so when you sit up to remove your shirt and bra, catching Tomura’s eyes scan your newly exposed body, you can’t help but smile at the chill of excitement that dances down your spine.

It makes your heart flutter so you pull him back into a kiss and back down onto the bed, fisting your hands in his ashen locks again and savoring the groans he made.

Tomura makes his way down again, taking your right breast into his mouth and tweaking the nipple of your other with his free hand. The sensations are overwhelming and you moan, arching your back and trying with all you had to pull Tomura closer.

He obliged by lowering his hips and grinding down against you, the press of his erection against your clothed cunt drives you wild. Tomura comes back up, claiming your mouth again and he is demanding as he deepens the kiss, giving you everything you wanted and more.

You wanted to take it further, needed to take it further, but you weren’t sure how to progress from making out. Telling Tomura you were a virgin would probably make things awkward and you were going to lose it if everything ended here.

Tomura pulls away to look at you, flushed and red while you ponder what to do with your hand placement. You decide to wrap them around Tomura’s neck, pulling him close enough that he rests his forehead on yours.

Your breaths intertwine as you both stare at each other in a daze.

“What?” He asks first, breathless and curious.

You cut your eyes to the side, hoping your scoff came off as unconcerned instead of wildly nervous, “Nothing! Nothing..”

Your tone is not lost on Tomura as he narrows his eyes, gears turning in his head and piercing gaze seemingly looking through you and into your deepest thoughts. “Why are you being shy like a virgin?”

The way you purse your lips gives you away and you do everything to avoid his gaze, which is hard when you’re both so close to each other.

“Oh my god, you are.” There’s a whimsy excitement in his voice and suddenly, embarrassment is creeping its way back into your mind, “why didn’t you say so?”

You look up as Tomura pulls back, his smile open wide on his face, ill hidden elation buzzing in his words.

There’s your innate need to defend yourself and your honor rising up again and you can’t stop yourself. So what if you’re a blushing virgin. “Yeah, so? Aren’t you?”

His shoulders give a small shrug, “Maybe.”

Then he’s down again, lips next to your ear as his hands trailed down your waist, leaning goosebumps in their wake.

“Have you ever made yourself cum before?” He asks and you can feel his smile against your ear.

Embarrassment has officially taken the forefront of your mind as you weakly shake your head no, “I’ve tried, but when I get close the feeling goes away.” Might as well be honest since it can’t get more vulnerable than this.

Tomura hums, one hand reaching to take your hand in his, “I could show you how, if you want.”

You feel his hand drag yours lower, down your body and to the hem of your pants and stop, waiting for a response. It feels like your nerves are in overdrive and you writhe below him in anticipation, nodding your head, “P-please.”

Tomura pulls away, taking his warmth with him as he reaches down to unbutton your pants, removing them and leaving your panties.

“You’re soaked.” He muses, causing you to whine in anticipation. “Show me how you do it.”

And you do, slipping your hand under your panties and biting back a moan as your middle finger rubbed circles on your clit. You were dripping wet so your fingers glide easily and the feeling makes your eyes close.

It's a song and dance you are familiar with in the heated nights of your bedroom. Trying and failing to make yourself cum because you’ve read about it, it’s supposed to feel good, but you just can't get there.

Tomura watches on, absently palming his erection and watching you touch yourself. As much as he wanted to reach down and help you out, there was something about seeing you whine and writhe in his bed that made his brain wild.

You were getting close and you knew because there was that familiar sensation of heat pooling in your lower belly, it was a pressure that got more and more intense as you chased after it, but every time, your hands would get tired and you would lose it. And with the momentum gone, you lose the orgasm.

Your furrowed brows went from aroused to frustrated within the span of a second as, once again you’ve unintentionally denied yourself release.

“Fuck,” Tomura breaths, hand now fully in his sweat pants as his breathing picks up, “you were close.”

“I know!” You whine, unsure what to do now, but Tomura has a few things in mind. He pulls his hand from his pants, not wanting to ruin his own orgasm and hooks his fingers on both sides of your panties, pulling them down and tossing them to the side.

You were fully exposed and the only thing keeping you from pressing your thighs together and holding your dignity close was Tomura between them.

You wish he wouldn’t look so much, but he does, drinking up the sight of your exposed cunt and licking his lips. You’re about to call him out of it before he dips back down, capturing your lips in his and it distracts you.

It distracts you so well that the press of his thumb over your slick nub makes you cry out, the pleasure sudden and better than you imagined. Tomura devours your moans, rubbing slow circles onto your clit and easily picking up where you left off. Your hands find purchase on his back and your toes curl at the sensation.

He had just started, but it was just right and you couldn’t stop yourself from arching your back, desperate for more and overwhelmed by the stimulation.

“T-tomu..” You moan as you feel the horizon of warmth again and bury your face into his neck.

“Yeah,” his lips are by your ear again and you close your eyes, fully focusing on the feeling of his thumb working your clit and his low voice in your ear, “Just let go for me.”

And it all hits you, pussy pulsing in pleasure as you come undone, your cries muffled by your face in his shoulder. It feels like the end of a long marathon as the bliss spreads through your body like a warm blanket.

You could only lie there as Tomura pulled away, kissing your sternum and all the way down until he was at eye level with your cunt. The action confuses you because he had just made you cum so why was he..?

“What are you doing?” You ask, confusion muting the buzz in your head.

His eyes meet yours, mischievous glint in them sending the butterflies in your stomach wild. “We’re not done yet.”

And before you could question the man further he dips down, warm and wet tongue meeting your slit and diving into your slick entrance. The action makes you jolt, keening at the sensation and thighs reflexively closing against Tomura’s head. This action only spurred him on further as he lapped and dipped his deceptively long tongue in and out of your wet entrance, sticky slick walls clamping down on him as he sloppily ate you out.

He was relentless as he drove your pleasure up the wall — blowing your previous orgasm out of the water with this new sensation.

“Fuck, tomu — fuck its..!” You can’t form a coherent sentence because the pleasure was only building and building, giving your brain no time to catch up with your words. Your hands immediately found purchase in his hair, the soft ashen locks grounding you as he continued his actions, unbothered by your tight grip.

Tomura decided to move up, licking his way from your hole to your clit, the overstimulated bud was next on tomura’s list as he lapped and kissed your bundle of nerves.

The actions make you cry out, mind muddled as your body tries to figure out if you want to be closer or further away from the sensations. You don't have much time to reach a conclusion either as Tomura sucks your clit and your second orgasm of the night quickly builds up and spills over, making your back arch from the bed and your legs shake in pleasure.

It feels like your mind is completely blank as tomura gives your cunt a final lap and your clit one last kiss before returning to meet your eyes again.

You were face to face now and watching him grin down at you, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that you had made a deal with the devil himself as your mind swam in the pleasure radiating throughout your body. It all felt surreal, and your eyes naturally closed, enjoying the feeling of your second climax.

“Aw, don’t tap out on me now, I haven’t even given you the final boss yet,” you hear Tomura coo, finally moving to remove his sweatpants and boxers and oh—

You watch his cock bob between his legs and panic internally as you wonder how the hell that would fit inside of you.

It’s like Tomura could read your mind, because his laugh brings you back to the present, “don't worry about it, promise it’ll fit.”

You don't know if you should trust him on that, but you do — mentally preparing yourself as Tomura leans over you and into the drawer of his bedside nightstand. He pulls out a square foiled packet and it’s in that moment you realize – no, he was not a virgin and only humoring you.

You don't have much time to dwell on it though because in no time he has the condom on and is lining himself up with your entrance.

The nerves are making themselves known as the reality of your situation starts to set in. The thoughts don’t flood your mind for long because Tomura takes your chin in his hand, demanding your undivided attention as he slowly pressed into your cunt.

The pressure of the stretch makes you whimper and your eyes reflexively close, but he was only getting started. It was the somewhat soothing feeling of Tomura’s thumb stroking your cheek that kept you grounded and able to withstand more of the stretch.

Little by little, Tomura pushed on, guiding you with his words and reassuring you that it wouldn’t hurt for long. He was right up against your ear, the familiar smell of his shampoo bringing you comfort as your bodies intertwined.

“That it,” he guided, voice low and hips still as he bottomed out. You felt so full. It was a sensation you’ve never imagined and could only whine as tomura started to pull back. “I’m gonna move now.”

Even though the pain was there in the initial thrusts, there was also the feeling of dull pleasure, slowly growing and growing until the previous pain had all but gone away and now you were floating in ecstasy as Tomura’s thrusts began to speed up.

You gripped at his forearms as he gained momentum, hips rocking into yours and making you moan.

“You like that?” he husked, lips brushing your throat as his hips snapped forward and hit a particularly sensitive spot inside.

“F-fuck, again, do that again,” you cry and Tomura focuses his attention right where you want him to. The feeling is euphoric as you feel a different kind of coil tightening in your lower abdomen. A feeling that makes your toes curl and your thighs tense and it's hit again and again.

Tomura lets out a low groan, his own pace becoming unsteady as time went on. “You’re so tight..” he murmured, reveling in the feeling of your slick walls clamping down on him, “‘s like you’re sucking me in.”

You’re nearing the end again, you can feel it, but you don't want to be. This all felt so good. “Tomu, I-I’m—”

Tomura cuts you off, pulling away to look you in the eyes, his ruby red gaze was hypnotizing. “Just let go, I’ve got you.”

And you do, that’s all it takes for you to tip over — mind rushing in bliss as your heart fluttered at his words.

You felt this orgasm deep in your bones, the overwhelming feeling of clarity and contentment settling within you as you were now along for the ride, enjoying Tomura’s increasing erratic pace while he chased his own orgasm.

“Oh, fuck—” he pants, following behind you with his own climax. His eyes were squeezed shut as he rode it out, slowing to a stop and dropping his head onto your shoulder.

The heavy breaths between you were the only sounds in the room as you stare at his ceiling — noticing the faded out green stars above. So faint you were sure they had been placed there years and years ago. It brings a warmth to your chest, something new among your many new feelings you’ve felt today.

“Next weekend,” Tomura starts, still sounding a bit winded as he pulls out — and you wince at the soreness, the pain not really something you were prepared for — and lays next to you, “Next weekend we’ll rematch in Mario kart. I’ll help you get better.”

You smile, the buzzing excitement making you flush, “Okay, let’s do it.”

The next morning is one that leaves you with a forming pit in your belly. It is a Sunday morning, and Sundays are the day’s your family loves to enjoy a homemade breakfast and sit together at the table like a loving family.

And they were loving! Loving and observant.

You felt as if your parents knew. Like they knew where you had been yesterday — somehow seeing through your foolproof lie of hanging out with an old school friend, but things were quiet.

Everything on this Sunday morning had been proceeding as normal. Your parents were sitting across from you, none the wiser and laughing about a show they watched last night while you were out.

It did not feel real. It felt like there was something you were missing, as if they were omnipotent and knew your every move. Knew that you were no longer their shining star child, that you had been up to things that were everything but innocent.

You feel the same, physically. Maybe a little sore from how rough Tomura had gotten, but other than that, normal.

“Sweetheart,” your father’s voice calls you, cutting through your paranoia, “could you pass me the syrup, please.”

And you do, maybe with too much haste, but he does not comment on it. Instead he just pours the sugary liquid onto his pancakes and continues. “So your mother and I were thinking,”

Oh, god. They knew.

“We know you’re taking a semester off, but if you aren't happy with that college, we could look into other’s for you.”

Your shoulders relax. It’s just college talk, again. That was talk you could handle.

“Um, yeah. That’s okay with me. I could always use more options.”

Your father smiles, “That’s our girl. Always so flexible with her options. We know it takes a lot of strength to take a break, but you did. We’re so proud of you.”

The smile that graces your face is pitiful and filled with guilt that you prayed was not obvious. They really saw the best in you, no matter how suffocating they were. so it’s only right you follow the path that they lay out for you.

“Our girl could never do any wrong,” your mother chimes in, chipper and full of admiration, “you’re just so smart.”

You only nod, now trying to tune them out as they go back and forth, discussing possible college they believed would be best for you.

It really makes you wonder just how far that love and pride stretched when their angel of a daughter strays against what they expect of you.

—-------------------------

And not even six months later that same love and adoration is tested, put on the line and shown bare as your enraged parents look down at you.

The same parents who doted on you about how much you made them smile. You who had made them so proud and apparently brought them so much joy.

It’s suffocating as you sit right back on the very same couch where it all started, listening to a lecture from your mother about the woes and pains of having such a disobedient unruly child.

Even though you’re an adult.

Even though you can make your own decisions about your life.

It’s maddening having to listen to your once so meek and complacent mother go on and on about how she would have never snuck around with some boy she’s only known for a few months. How she would never lie to her parents about her whereabouts and how it’s just unheard of that you would turn your location off.

You shake your head, they wouldn’t understand. Your father wouldn’t even look at you. “Mom, please..” you start, wanting to offer anything to break up the nonstop lecture.

“I just don’t understand!” Her voice is so high it’s nearly a yell, and your mother makes it a point to never yell. “He’s just a man! Why would you put yourself and your future at risk for some guy?”

“He’s not just some guy.” You mumble and curse yourself for trying, they would never see it your way.

There is a buzz from the phone in your pocket and you habitually grab for it, pulling it from its place and you are not given a chance to check the notification before your mother snatches the device from your hand.

“And no phone! This damn phone is the root of all your problems in the first place.”

Disbelief mars your features as the constant drilling catches up with you. “You can’t do that!”

She only folds her arms across her chest, head tilted in challenge, “I can’t? Watch me. You’re lucky we haven’t put you on the street yet with how irresponsible you’ve been.”

It’s hard to understand what’s so irresponsible about taking birth control and practicing being safe. But you knew it was deeper than that. It was deeper than the boy and it was more than sex.

They hated the lack of control they had over you and how it waned with every passing day.

“So, what, was this guy supposed to be the love of your life? Someone you would just run away with and expect to support you?”

Your mother’s voice grates on your ears and you just wish for this conversation to be over, you want this entire thing to be over and done with. “I don’t know. Maybe.” The defeat is evident in your voice and you shrug. “Can I go now?”

They are beating a dead horse at this point and you’re over it.

To your surprise, no one stops you as you rise, allowing you to take your leave before the tears clouding your vision could fall.

The defeat you feel is deep and you can’t even muster the energy to slam your door shut, opting for a quieter close. The fragile click of your door was so soft and it felt as if you were made of glass. To slam the door would only make you shatter into a million pieces onto your bedroom floor.

How foolish of you to think there could ever be a world where you had autonomy in a house filled with hawks.

Your bed greets you with its cozy warmth and you allow yourself to fall apart there, letting out all of your despair and frustration into your pillow and leaving the pieces of your soul to be picked up in the morning.

It’s been a week.

A long, boring, drawn-out week.

You are without your phone, without wifi and without your parents car — so you couldn’t go anywhere if you tried.

It’s been a long week of nothing, not even from Tomura. You assume he can put two and two together and figure out something has gone wrong. The thought brings you a little peace, but not for long.

You barely leave your room and barely say two words to your parents. The isolation is… lonely.

Even if you went out to the living room to watch television, you run the risk of running into one of your parents — and you can really do without another lecture. The only thing on your mind this past week has been Tomura. What was he doing? Did he pick up on your silence? Last time he showed up at your house, but that’s not happening this time around.

You sit up from your bed, realizing that sitting around rotting away would drive you mad, and look to your window. The sun was setting and dusting the rest of the world in pretty orange and pink hues. It would be nightfall soon, and you don't think you could spend another night in this room, alone.

So, against all better judgment, you open your window, look back to listen for any suspicious footsteps — the lack thereof giving you the greenlight — and climb out of your window, stumbling on to the ground as you try to regain your footing from the drop.

You weren't sure where your feet were taking you, but you didn't care, the feeling of fresh air against your cheeks was all you really needed for a clear head.

Your feet lead you to the mall, the start of all your problems and the beginning of your independence.

It felt strange, seeing all kinds of happy faces throughout the mall. Blissfully unaware of their freedoms and enjoying their night. The jarring feeling pushes your feet to the familiar route, flashing colors and blaring music of the arcade greeting you.

It’s comforting, in a way. But you didn’t bring any money. You didn't bring anything but what you were wearing so you could only look around, watching friends and couples alike laugh together.

There's an area near the back of the arcade with tall barstools and empty tables. You decide to take a seat there and sulk on your own. At least you were no longer trapped in your room, forced to watch your four walls while the days passed you by.

You were in a daze, tracing the brown lines on the wooden table with your eyes, until someone interrupted you by sitting right next to you. You turn to face the culprit, less than friendly words on your tongue and ready to let whoever have a piece of your mind.

But you stop in your tracks as ruby red eyes look down at you.

Tomura.

He was here, next to you and your heart fluttered at the realization.

“What’s your problem?” He joked, rasp in his voice comforting to your ears.

You don’t stop yourself from pulling him into a hug, his black hoodie soft and familiar. “How did you know I was here?” You mumble into the fabric and miraculously Tomura understands you.

“I didn’t.” The admission causes you to pull back, looking up at him through your long lashes. “None of my calls or texts went through, and I tried to stop by but your dad was suspiciously outside.” He brings a hand to your head, brushing your hair back and giving you a small smile. “I still like coming here, so I did. Something to pass the time. Ironically, I saw you walk by.

You hum, fighting the pout that wanted to make its way onto your face. “They took my phone. They took everything, even the birth control pills. I can’t keep living like this, Tomura.”

“I know.” He responds, soothing your nerves even with his presence. “I can get you another phone.”

The suggestion only makes you shake your head, it doesn’t tackle the real underlying issue.

“It doesn’t matter. It’s only a matter of time before they find that too. We’ve seen that they aren’t above going through my things. It’s hell. I can’t do it anymore.”

This seems to make Tomura ponder, taking your words in and running them through his mind for a solution. His expression is fixed when he looks back at you.

“Then don’t.”

“What?”

“Don’t go back home.” He elaborates, “Come stay with me. My place is big enough, it shouldn’t matter.”

You are shaking your head before you realize, pulling away from him with a stern look. “No, no I can't do that. I can’t impose on you like that.”

Tomura gives you a halfhearted glare. “It’s not imposing if I'm offering. They’re assholes, and I'm usually home alone anyway. Well, besides Kurogiri.” He leans in, pressing his forehead to yours, “C’mon, just go home tonight, pack a bag and then meet me here tomorrow. Can you do that?”

There was no other option you would want more so you nod, giving a short okay as Tomura presses his lips to yours.

It's set — by this time tomorrow you will be free.

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