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nokwisi · 3 years ago

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bear witness—viktor x fem!reader warnings/tags; nsfw, 18+, dom/sub dynamics (dom!reader, sub!viktor), he's a little bratty, praise kink, hair pulling, pegging and edging and begging (oh my!) note; listen, I know. first thing I've posted in a while, and it's literally pegging viktor? and to that I say: *throws fic at you and runs away* wc; 4k

stunning art by @arcanescribbles VA accompaniment by @kikorenart, do it, get the full experience. —huge, massive thanks, you guys are fucking phenomenal. ♡

"You're beautiful, you know that?"

Your tone is wistful, melancholic in the way an artist might sound admiring the masterpiece of another, and it directly contradicts the erotic image reflecting back at you through the mirror.

"Everything about you is so...pretty."

Viktor finds the compliments split in equal measure between his chest, and his groin; a lovely fluttering of his heart, and a responding twitch of his cock. Dichotomous, and a pleasant warmth simmers beneath his skin, despite himself.

"In truth, I have never considered myself...pretty." He admits dryly.

You harrumph softly, following the prominent track of his spine down his bare back with your fingers. He arches just slightly inwards, turning his head against the bed to peer back at you sidelong.

"Pretty enough it makes me want to ruin you." You muse, a contemplative smile curving your lips as your fingers ghost further, past his tailbone to the cleft of his backside. "But then again, you could make ruin a thing of beauty, too."

Viktor's breath shudders at your touch, his long, pale fingers curling into the duvet. There's a nervous, jittery energy to him right now, and you suppose you cannot fault him for it, not when considering this night—how it leaps past a line neither of you have crossed.

You are both stripped bare, but that isn't of great importance, not when you know each other's bodies as intimately as you do. What makes this a pivotal moment is the fact that Viktor is pressed face-first into the mattress, the long line of his spine curved just enough to accommodate the stretch of his legs as he kneels on the bed.

You'd taken advantage of the multitude of pillows he hoards, cushioning his bad leg with one, and using two others beneath your own knees, elevating you just enough to level the height difference. He is a bloom of pale skin against the dark sheets, inlaid with the faintest of cerulean veins and flecked with a dusting of well-placed freckles. There's an inherent grace in the way he's situated; feline, almost.

It's a position you're personally familiar with, accompanied with Viktor behind you, driving you into the mattress with steadfast thrusts and reedy moans. He has a tendency to dig crescents into your hips with how he grips you—driven by a carnal passion that hardens the usual tenderness of his touch, and a swoop of excitement carves through you at the prospect of doing the same, to him.

Indeed, it's a sure turnabout—he is waiting for you to return the favor, periodically stealing glances at your reflection through the mirror on the wall before you.

His skin is already blushed pink; his eyes pre-emptively lust-heavy, and it's almost hard to believe the sly coercion it took to get him to this point. But, despite his initial hesitance, you saw in Viktor's eyes the answer before he'd even given it—he wanted to please you, and if witnessing himself in the throes of passion was what you wanted, then he will give it to you.

Or, more aptly put, you will be giving it to him.

A smile presses the corners of your mouth at the thought.

"Is that what you wish to see?" Viktor asks with a tone of sarcasm, but he's betrayed by the breathy quality in his throat, "to see me ruined?"

"In a sense, yes." You answer listlessly, sweeping your thumb over his hole with a casualness that belies the palpable tension in the air. You marvel and smile at the way he pushes back and gasps—you're beginning to think his reluctance was simply a front. "But I want you to see, too. See what I see."

"Right now, all I see is you teasing me." You glance once more at the mirror, and yes, he is watching you; rapt, his cheek pressed against the bed, the angles of his face framed with wild chestnut curls. He looks exceptionally delectable. "Am I to be reduced to begging?"

Your heart does a little pirouette in your chest at that.

He's edging impatient, and you know him well enough that that brazen, sharp tone of his is rooted in something far more akin to anxiety than bravado. You would drag the moment out more, just to redeem the promise of him literally begging you to fuck him, but you're not that cruel.

No, he's already giving you everything, placing his body and his pleasure in your hands with the trust that you would cherish and not abuse him—not yet, at least. Not until he asks for that, and you're very nearly positive that he will.

"I'm not opposed to hearing you beg." You say playfully, removing your hand from him to sweep up a bottle of lubricant from beside you. The sound of the container opening makes Viktor visibly jump; you reach out and place a placating hand on his lower back.

"For more..." you lean in conspiratorially, "and potentially, for mercy."

"I never knew you to be so deviant." Viktor exhales, "should I be worried?"

Tilting the bottle, you slant your attention back to him, catching his keen gaze. You smile sweetly, as though assuring him when he tenses up at the cold, viscous liquid drizzling onto his backside. How you can actually discern the blush on his face darkening stirs up your own arousal, a rising thrum between your thighs.

"Of course not." You say easily, capping the bottle and placing it aside. "You trust me, don't you?"

Letting your fingers glide down once more, wetted and slick now, you rub broad circles around him, avoiding direct pressure as your other hand smooths down the back of his now trembling thigh.

Viktor clutches the bedspread, a bracing motion, "yes. I trust you. I would not have agreed to this, o-otherwi—ahh," his mouth suddenly drops, that sharp diction of his scrambled as you tighten the spiral of your fingers to press directly against him.

"O-Oh, that is...that...hnn—" His words dissipate in the air as you apply more pressure, your forefinger threatening to push past that tight ring of muscle entirely—he tenses in response.

"What, Viktor?" Your tone is saccharine, and you want to look once more to the mirror, to ensure that he's watching himself, to bask in the vision of him debauched yourself, but you don't. You push your wants aside, and you focus on the small twitches of his legs instead; the discomforted bend of his back, which you soothe with a gentle palm against his lower spine; and the stretch when you carefully, steadily, push a single finger inside him, "tell me what it is."

Viktor's voice catches in his throat, the sound of his nails burrowing into the bed a whisper beneath the response he chokes out as you push deeper. "S-Strange."

"In what context? Good, bad?" You query, pushing and pulling gently now, easing the incredible tightness of him open with patient, tender movements.

"You e-expect semantics from me—mmmh—right n-now?" He trips over his words with incredulity; but you know him, perhaps more than himself in this instance, in that he will benefit from a distraction.

"I expect you to tell me what is too much, and what is not enough." You supply gently, feeling confident in the thrusting you've built up to, to sneak a glance at him through the mirror.

His brows are furrowed, eyes screwed tight against the intrusion; or perhaps against the raw exposure of seeing himself in such a vulnerable state. There's a sheen of sweat building on his forehead, hells, his entire body, and you think he might not be capable of forming an answer, when suddenly, he forces one out.

"Both—it's both."

"Do you want to stop?" Gentle, but direct. You punctuate the question with the addition of a second finger, pressing it against him each time you sink into the velvet heat of him.

Viktor replies with a short, forceful exhale and a single word: "no." and it rings of that staunch determination reserved for nights when he is far too invested in a project to back down.

"Do you want more?" You ask, despite already knowing the answer.

You want to hear him say it; you need to know that he wants this.

"...yes."

It's just above a whisper, but there is conviction there, and trust runs both ways in that you know he wouldn't have said so, if he didn't mean it. So, you give him more. You ease in your middle-finger alongside your index, slow in a way that avoids agony, but still torturous if Viktor's reaction is evidence enough: breath catching in his chest, stilted and strangled as his entire frame draws rigid with tension; from his blanched knuckles fisting the bedspread, to his toes curling into the soles of his feet.

When your knuckles are pressed flush against him, fingers buried deep, you mercifully still and let him adjust. He's vise-tight around you, his baited breath finally releasing with choked out groan.

"Are you okay?" Eyeing him carefully, you use your free hand to smooth out the tremors that rattle him, caressing from his thigh, over the round of his ass, to his spine and then back down.

Viktor swallows thickly, "t-that is a rather tedious question to ask, when you are...inside me." He sounds ruffled; you can't help but smirk.

"You don't seem to hold that opinion when the roles are reversed." You lob out playfully, to which Viktor clenches around your fingers with a stifled noise, "I'm going to move, now."

"Yes—please, I insist." He grits out, and manages to sound believably testy while he's at it.

You want to strip those vestiges of his ego away; piece him apart with the same deft precision he employs with you, until he's rendered to a blissed-out variation of himself—a man he will not recognize when he looks in the mirror.

Curl your fingers, pull them back, push them forward, spread them—

Viktor vocalizes his rapidly fraying thought process with a series of breathy noises, spilling through his grit teeth, low and husky tones that pitch infrequently to something dangerously piteous when you actively begin searching for that one spot you know will crack his resolve right down the middle.

Flicking your gaze to the mirror, you feel a glowing pride when the knot of his brow loosens, arching with repose, and the tight clench of his jaw slacks enough that his breath no longer comes out in pained hisses, but open-mouthed pants.

"Viktor," you call softly, heat stippling your own cheeks at the obscene, wet clicking that coincides with the now steady thrust of your fingers, "look at yourself."

Contrary to being the one pleasuring him, you feel a bit like a voyeur when his eyes crack open to slits, glassed with a haze of debauchery as he stares at his reflected counterpart. He doesn't look away like you half-expected him to; he lets out a soft moan, and he clenches tighter around your fingers.

"See how pretty you are?" It comes out as a statement more than a question, one that Viktor cannot possibly refute; personal bias be damned, he looks like an erotic vision. "And you're doing so well, too—you're being so good."

He moans, tightens, and rocks his slender hips back against your hand, seeking more from you, and whether that be those walls of his crumbling to pieces, or simply a baser lust that muddles his ever-intricate mind, you cannot be certain—you give him more, regardless.

You glide your hand to the cusp of his hip, digging your fingers into him right above the jutting bone with your thumb pressed into his lower back, and you push deep, pivot your wrist, hone in on a part of him that has never been touched by anyone before.

He gasps loud enough it pierces through the room, so cuttingly sharp and shocked, you're momentarily worried you might have hurt him.

But then Viktor starts pushing back against you with purpose, and you seek him out in the mirror through instinct, see that his face is awash with arousal-tinged rose; twisted with that unmistakable iteration of pleasure that looks like something akin to agony when he wears it.

"P-Právě tam—a-ano—yes, t-there—"

A full body flourish of goosebumps prickles your skin at the sound of him, at the way he falls into the familiarity of his mother tongue in concert to the foreign, intense pleasure you can only imagine is spiking through him.

You let your hand on his hip glide further, along the taut plane of his lower stomach to seek the hard, throbbing heat of his cock between his legs, leaning over him carefully while wrapping your deft fingers around the base of him. He's close, and the sob of a noise that escapes him when you give a single, loose-fisted pump of his length is enough to tug you down with him—

but you let go instead, slow your movements to a crawl, and you nearly feel remorseful at the way Viktor hisses out a string of foreign swears, rolling his head and pressing his face into the mattress to muffle the frustrated groan he gives.

You soothe him with a kiss to his sweat-dampened back, easing your fingers out of him as you settle back onto your haunches behind him. "Not yet, Viktor. I promise, it'll be worth it."

Viktor's still chasing down his breath, visibly trembling as he turns his head enough that his eyes pierce into yours through the mirror.

He replies with an intense urgency that darkens his gaze further, "then please, do not torture me any longer, and fuck me," and his tone is stripped down now; vulnerable and shaken and desperate.

It's everything you wanted to hear, and anticipation is a hungry beast within you, clawing at your insides, because you know that this is just the beginning; you can hardly wait to watch him fall apart, completely.

You make quick work of shimmying into the contraption that had sat beside you during this entire exchange; like a trophy earned for patience—silicone and veined, with a girth and length that rivals that of the man eager to take it before you.

Viktor watches your movements through the mirror, shifting and positioning himself, hissing under his breath at the ache in his joints, but refusing to complain about it. The simple action is more telling than anything he could ever say—he wants this, he wants you to ruin him, he wants to see.

"Eyes on yourself, Viktor." You remind him, sweetly, and he promptly does as such, not daring to look away as you press the lubricated tip against him. "And do tell me if it's too much."

He cants his hips back in lieu of a response; you smile fondly and take hold of his waist with one hand, the other steadying the length of the toy. Your attention is split between wanting to see his expression, and gently easing the tip inside him, stretching him in a way that your fingers could never replicate.

Viktor sucks in a hearty breath, ostensibly holding it as you sink into him; a quick glance upwards, and you can see the vigor with which he grips the sheets, the tension that pulls the muscles in his arms taught, the discomforted expression on his face; pained, concentrated, dazed, a stunning amalgamation of them all—and not once does he look away from himself.

"Almost there," you breathe, "gods, Viktor...you're so beautiful."

Viktor exhales with a punched-out sigh that pitches on a whine, and that sound tangles up in his mouth when you sink the last few inches inside him on a quick stroke; the cradle of your hips flush against him, now. He writhes at the sensation, dragging his hands across the bed to brace them palm flat, as though readying to push himself up.

"Please," he gasps out, "I need you to...need you to move."

The temptation to note that he is, in fact, begging you to fuck him scratches behind your teeth; you revel in it with a private smile instead, and indulge in your earlier fantasy of grabbing Viktor by the hips, and fucking him tenderly into the mattress.

It's a patient process, but the fruits of labor are dipped in the gold of Viktor's gaze: peering back at himself, at you, at the obscene portrait you two paint with a look that resonates awe. He is enthralled, beyond the rattled moans and the cracked sighs and the heat of arousal that colors him in hues of vermillion, Viktor cannot seem to look away from your reflected counterparts.

"You..." Viktor tries to speak, but you've managed to pick up a relatively steady pace, scattering his thought process like papers in the wind, "feel...good, yes—hnn,"

You hum, pleased, relinquishing his hip in favor of tracing the prominent notches of his spine. You fingers stop occasionally in their trek, tracing absent circles around the smattering of freckles you can reach; feeling the shift and roll of lithe muscle under his ivory skin with each forward thrust of your hips.

Following the graceful line of his body upwards, you catch his reflection, his gaze flicking to you through the heavy fan of his lashes.

The shuddering breath he gives, coupled with the blissed-out smile that curves his mouth just so, is all the go-ahead you need. You shift, changing the angle a fraction that is monumental, and you push forward, hard.

It has the desired effect.

His breath catches like you've shoved all the air from his lungs, raw pleasure contorting the twist of his brow and the wide part of his lips, "yes, that," he hisses sharply, "do that again—fuck me harder."

The urgency in his tone lances through you, "mirror," you breathe, and it's like an afterthought, your brain suddenly misfiring with the way Viktor sewed together pain and pleasure so seamlessly, as though it's a normality.

You've never heard him talk like that—but then again, you've never done this before.

Scintillas of excitement flutter inside you, and you dare to smooth your hand further up, gliding between the blades of his damp shoulders, sinking into the soft hair at the back of his head.

"I want you to watch yourself cum." You state, firm as you can, but it's difficult to keep any semblance of composure with the way he looks right now.

"I will," he sounds nearly servile, like making a promise in the face of a god, "for you, I will."

"No," you give a neat tug of his hair, testing, arching his head back enough to expose the long, pale line of his throat; the notch of his Adam's apple bobs when you assert: "for you."

Viktor moans, loud, unabashed and telling, and you pull his hair harder in response, back the stuttering piston of your hips with enough force that his legs shake; that your movements are punctuated with the obscene smack of skin, against skin.

As though following the tension of your fingers in his hair, pliant and eager, Viktor pushes himself up onto his hands with trembling arms, curving his back in a way that cannot possibly be comfortable for him, but differentiating the grimace on his face—pain, pleasure, quite possibly both—is even harder.

"Víc, prosím," he groans, and quickly tacks on, "m-more, please—"

The way his voice cracks is a clear indication that he's close, his gaze lust-laden and fixated upon himself through half-mast lids. With his hair in the steel-grip of your fist, a nearly opaque blush dusting his cheeks and a sheen of sweat on his brow, he looks nothing shy of sinful.

"Tell me what you see." You prompt him with a breathlessness derived from just this—being the one to do this to him, to bear witness to him in a moment so cuttingly vulnerable—and you hastily, perhaps a touch clumsily with the adrenaline that sings in your veins, reach around his narrow waist once more. "C'mon, Vik..."

"I...I am—ah!" He's cut short when you envelope him in your soft, sweat-slick palm, his hips bucking forward and nearly offsetting your rhythm. You pull his hair again, harder this time to drag his head back up to a point he can't look away from himself.

"I'm c-close," he gasps hotly, his mouth perpetually open to let spill the choppy, staccato moans that reverberate in his chest. "Can't...I..."

"Do you see, now?" You tighten your fist on the upstroke, smear your fingers over the wet tip of his cock, drag the slick down and repeat, adding another chord of pleasure to the lewd cacophony, "do you see how fucking pretty you are, Viktor?"

"Yes, yes, yes—!"

He stalls out; like the nerves in his body have all short-circuited, all at once, his voice streamlining into a strangled groan as he falls into his release.

You feel his cock pulse heavily in your hand, see the rush of pleasure hit him in the way his face twists; brows drawn tight, mouth dropped open, eyes barely a sliver beneath the heavy weight of his lashes. He cums hard, spilling over your hand as the lithe frame of his body stiffens and shakes, like the pleasure permeates him down to his bones.

Rocking against him gently, you lull your movements with a steady wind-down, coaxing him down from his high gradually until his sounds of pleasure tinge with a whine of discomfort. Viktor's head drops between the shelf of his shoulders, clearly spent and exhausted to the point he can barely hold himself up.

You loosen your grip in his hair, comb your fingers through the tousled mess in a soothing gesture as his torso follows suit; dropping down with stilted breath that echoes pleasure in low, rolling rasps.

"You were amazing, Viktor." You whisper, tenderly easing out of him with a caressing hand on his lower back. "So good for me."

He exhales shakily at the sensation; you quickly rid yourself of the contraption, smiling fondly when he rolls, and still with that ingrained poise of his, onto his back.

With a fluidity that is enrapturing, Viktor stretches his arms above his head, pulls the length of his body in a way that pushes his ribs out, accentuates the jut of his hips; the coiled, sinewy muscle in his thighs; and then he drops back down with a heavy, shuddering exhale that rings of finality.

His hair splays in a crown of wild curls, sticking to his forehead and temples as he finds a steady rhythm in his lungs; eyes closed, mouth open, highlighted with a glean of sweat and mottles of residual heat against his cheeks, throat, and chest...he looks, to be candid, entirely fucked out.

But there's a sense of tranquil bliss about him right now, one that has become increasingly rare as the days pass, and you're not entirely ready to break the trance with words. You move carefully to his side, fitting in the space there with ease: slithering your leg over his left, laying your arm across his now-steadily rising and falling chest, and placing your head on the hard plane of his sternum.

His heart beats against your ear. With a contented hum that rattles in his chest, he lazily drags his hand through your hair, coaxing a smile to your lips.

You can't help it, you need to ask: "did you like what you saw?"

Viktor huffs out a laugh through his nose, "what was it that you said? That I could make ruin a thing of beauty?"

You blush, turning your head to press your face against his warm chest. "It's true. I wanted you to see it...how you look."

He curls his fingers in your hair, softly tugs in a silent beckoning, and you follow the movement, lift your head and square your gaze with his; his eyes are softened with an ardor like that of adoration.

"If so...I will say that you ruin me, entirely."

#no excuse and no regrets #viktor x reader #viktor x you #viktor arcane #arcane #fanfiction #viktor #league of legends #i wrote this in a possessed state of thirst pls enjoy #my writing

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kikorenart · 2 years ago

Note

Roses are red

Kiyna is more purple

Though she gets redder

The more Silco's arms encircle ❤️

Happy Valentines Day!

And a late Valentine’s Day to you, Sweaty ❤️

#kikorenart asks #my art #silki #young silco #silco #arcane #silco x oc #kiyna x silco #kiyna #young revolutionaries #got me feeling soft in this chillis tonight

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kikorenart · 3 years ago

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Let’s go skanks ✨

Rb if you want all the hcs people have about you in your inbox

#ask game #kikorenart asks

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caitlinsnicket · 3 years ago

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˚꒰ jinx being supportive of you working out

╭・characters; jinx, reader, mentions of vi.

┊ warnings; talks of low self esteem.

╰・ a/n; this was a 'thank you' for a ko-fi that was sent to me. feel free to like, reblog, and comment! comissions are open!

︶꒷꒦꒷︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶꒷꒦꒷︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶꒷꒦꒷︶꒷꒦꒷︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶꒷

"you want to spar with me, toots? hell yeah!"

gets super excited when you start to work out with her

helps you out and rewards you with kisses

wakes you up in the morning so you two can go in runs together and do some push ups

if you want to change your diet, she'll change it with you, and will make sure that you both still enjoy it!

as you're passing by to grab some water, she'll slap your ass and tell you how good you're doing

praise queen

if you ever get self conscious, she'll hug you tightly and pepper your face with kisses

"i'm here for you toots. whatever you need. you're delicious"

will cheer you on if you get tired

says random stuff all the time

"i wanna lick your pecks"

"your sweat smells nice"

makes you do push-ups as she lays beneath you, rewarding you with kisses

showers showers showers

loves when you wash her hair

loves washing your body

but most of all, loves you

entirely

asks vi for advice on how to help you

keeps getting distracted by your body

playful, needy jinx is the best jinx ♡

taglist

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#imagine #arcane preference #arcane imagine #arcane #arcane x reader #jinx x reader #jinx imagine #jinx

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ink-and-dagger · 2 years ago

Note

Do you happen to also be a Silco x Vander x reader throuple enjoyer like myself? Lol

I don’t seek it out, but I wouldn’t scroll past if it appeared on my dash.

I very much enjoyed @chickenparm’s fic Forever and @kikorenart’s accompanying artwork

But if we’re talking Silco x Reader x ? throuples then my vote is gonna go to sad pathetic loser Marcus every time.

If what you’re actually asking is would I consider writing any… maybe. I’m not against the idea, but I have a lot of other things I’d rather write first. If I ever open for commissions then that’s probably the most likely chance of me writing any Vanco x Reader.

#inky answers #would there be interest if I opened commission slots?#even if I’m a slow writer?#vanco x reader

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inkinflux · 3 years ago

Text

Pillow Talk

Viktor x f!Reader | 2K | 18+

Viktor uses his assortment of pillows to get comfy in bed, but finds they feel a little too good on against his crotch when he starts thinking about you. [pillow-humping, titty-fucking (kinda)]

This exists thanks to @arcanescribbles @chickenparm @kikorenart because each of them inspired an element in this fic (PLEADING thanks babes)

🚫 I DO NOT CONSENT TO MY WORK BEING USED TO TRAIN AI 🚫

Over the years, Viktor had accumulated a large assortment of pillows that boasted elite comfort. Bamboo, viscoelastic, body pillows and yoga block alike; they had all coalesced atop his mattress in a heap he never tidied whenever he went off to work in the morning.

Whenever he’d worked himself to a brain-numbed state he’d return to his room, unbuttoning his shirt and slouching it off along with his pants, smelling of over-ripened fruit and with the scent of stale coffee on his breath, and he’d collapse into the mountain of comfort, adjusting the pillows around him until his hips and legs were at the right angle.

Too often he awoke with cramps and sore muscles from the weight being placed incorrectly, thus his collection had grown until he was at a point where all he had to do was push into the crowded bed and find the right resting place. Tonight was no different, apart from the odd digging sensation by his chest.

He groaned, pulling out the hand-sized notepad that must’ve tumbled out of his vest-pocket after haphazardly throwing the article to the side. Viktor was about to chuck it into the pile of his clothes when he noticed that it wasn’t his.

Turning onto his back with a hiss, his leg giving a tight twinge at the movement, he flipped the pages up to identify the handwriting as yours.

Viktor’s heart skipped a beat at the implication of this being in his hands – was his somewhere with you? His barely legible chicken-scratch that embarrassingly deliberated on the smallest aspects. It was his designated place to be dumb, asking the stupid questions, doing the simple math in the margins. What would you think of the esteemed scientist if you had a peek at what he wrote when he thought no one was looking?

Thankfully there was nothing more detrimental than rambling equations in his notepad, though, he was now curious to see if you kept the same mentality, or if anything more personal was inscribed in this little piece of you.

No, he thought to himself, his thumb and forefinger stilling halfway up, the thin paper curled tantalizingly. He had to respect your privacy.

That’s when he sniffed, fully intending to put your notepad to the side to return in the morning, but instead caught a whiff of your perfume. Orange and amyris, so distinct and so you, mingling with the muted yet striking hint of crude oil.

Sure enough, as Viktor flipped the page up, imprinted on the page was your fingerprint in black, a smudge of oil from today’s work, dried with all the ripples and whorls of your unique thumb pattern. Viktor traced it with his own, larger thumb, eyes darting to read your scribbled calculations and notes, recalling the barely tolerable conditions in which he was forced to work in today.

It wasn’t your fault; it had been hot in the lab – a humid day with no wind to save it, the windows shut to the skull-vibrating noise of construction occurring below. You’d stripped down to your undershirt, on your knees before the platinum-plated drill you were working on. Despite being powered by a hexcrystal it was needing an extra hand to get started, since the pistons had rusted over due to the increased humidity over the week.

Viktor had offered to oil it himself, since it required a manual prod before you could turn it on, but you’d taken one look at his leg and insisted that you do it. You had to arch up into a strange angle to encourage the machine to pump, your thighs tensed against the thin fabric of your skirt.

The memory of you had him turning onto his side, drawn into further comfort as his fatigue sunk in, mingling with the compromising image of you. He shoved a body pillow between his legs to set his legs parallel to aid in keeping his hips in a neutral position, startling himself with a gasp as the stuffed mound brushed against his crotch, rousing a dull ache.

His cock started rearing against the now-tight fabric of his briefs, struggling against the memory of how you’d oiled the large piston underneath the belly of the drill, both hands working tirelessly, eyes flitting back to Viktor every now and then, silently asking for direction.

Then the machine had burst to life, excess oil splattering over your cleavage and face as the piston started pumping eagerly, sliding smoothly in and out of its chamber. Viktor had rushed forward to make sure you were okay, and you had been laughing, yes; he recalled the airy, frightened laugh that choked its way up your throat, and the way you’d laid back on your legs, panting on the floor, wiping your face with the back of your arm, thick black liquid trickling down into the valley between your tits.

His hips acted of their own accord as he replayed the memory, his mind taking liberties with the details. His hand tightened around the notepad, bringing it to his nose, his mind helpfully reminding him of the times you’d shoved it into your bra whenever you urgently need both your hands for something. That’s why the paper smelt so vividly of you, so clear that the scent was drawing him into a dream, falling into a half-sleep where he played out the following events of the day differently.

With his other hand Viktor shoved the pillow more firmly against his swollen cock, a whimper sinking into the oil-stained page of your notepad as his lower half gyrated against his pillow. He imagined what it would have been like to have your hands wrapped around him in place of the piston, your brow furrowed in concentration, boobs bouncing from the energetic movement.

Viktor bit down onto his palm, his moan muffled into his skin as he continued shoving himself against his pillow, needing more. He reached forward, grabbing another and shoving it against the first, needing more friction, more pressure.

His mind fast-forwarded to another mental image, his hands pressing your breasts together, shoving his lengthy dick in between and fucking the soft flesh.

“(Y/n),” his dream self whimpered, and as did he, his desperate tone soaking into the pillows surrounding him.

Sweat coalesced against his skin and the rustling cotton pillow covers, and he found himself needing even more, a clumsy hand tugging the front of his damp underwear down, his hot cock now sliding against a cold, unforgiving pillowcase.

Viktor grunted, annoyed that he was too horny to sleep now, rolling on top of his pillow seeking more contact. It was almost painful, the dry chafe of the cotton against his leaking cock, but he was far too tired to get up and do anything about it. No, his mind was too far gone now, your notepad pressed against the soft pillow and his nose, kept in place as he indulged in your scent, imagining you begging for him to cum into your mouth as he fucked your tits.

His lower half began to tremble, light with a prickly energy that was slowly building up. The ache in his leg was similarly growing, and now it had become a race to see which would win out – his orgasm or his pain. Viktor’s desperation coaxed louder and louder moans from him, which was dangerous, considering your academy quarters were situated next to his.

He wasn’t sure whether he was careless, or if he liked the idea of getting caught. He was normally quiet with his masturbation, on the rare occasion he indulged, though it was becoming a more frequent occurrence thanks to you.

You with your distracting smile, always trying to get him to laugh by acting stupid. He pushed himself onto his hands, rolling his hips down into his pillow as he flipped to the front of your notepad, frantic for any evidence that you thought of him too, a note, a bored sketch, anything – the thought of you wanting him drew out an arousal he couldn’t tide over.

All he discovered was a page filled with birthdays, one of them being his. It was pathetic, the way he tightened his grip on the pillows below him as his eyes followed each curve and angle of his name written in your handwriting, the way he wished to be the ink pressed between the page and the pen, your hand the maestro. He imagined how you’d sound screaming his name, panting it, whimpering it like he was whimpering yours now.

He could almost hear you now, his half-asleep state providing almost audible hallucinations of “Viktor, oh Viktor, yes.”

“That’s it, yes, y-yes,” he went back to the thought of your breasts, how his tip would poke against your face with each thrust, slick in crude oil, “Let me fuck your beautiful tits, yes, ye-yes, (Y/n)!” Viktor buried his face in his pillow as his climax closed in, his dick unbearably hot and wet against his pillow, humping like a rabid animal.

The smell of your perfume hit his nose again, and he was biting down onto his pillow, imagining it was your neck, imagining his cum shooting into your mouth, onto your cheeks, sliding atop your breasts, covering you in his disgusting, stuttering load as you sat there pretty, his good girl, his best girl.

Viktor let out a squeak, his voice breaking as his semen splattered against the cotton pillowcase, his hips jutting painfully hard into the folded pillow. His body was rocking on its own, back and forth, until he collapsed onto his side, panting, his forehead sticky with sweat, his hair uncomfortably flush against his face and neck.

His hips ached, and he was already regretting giving in to his whim to pleasure himself in such a manner when a soft knock came at the door.

He could have been imagining it – it had been almost inaudible, and he was in a slightly delirious, half-asleep, post-orgasm state. But then soft light filtered into the room as the door started opening.

Viktor scrambled to cover himself, which wouldn’t have been hard, since there was an abundance of pillows, but in his less-than-brilliant headspace he had grabbed the notepad instead, shoving it over his still semi-hard cock. It barely covered half of him.

“You okay Vik? I heard you calling me- Oh,” the door swung halfway back closed as you darted backwards. “Fuck, Viktor, I thought you were in trouble.” The harsh tone of your voice tried to cover your surprise and failed miserably. He could see your shadow lingering, your hand turning the door handle from side to side, questioning whether to stay or go.

“I- I apologize,” he croaked, pulling up his underwear before he struggled to sit up, “I was…”

“Don’t say it’s not what it looks like,” you whispered, your head peering back around the door with a cutting look.

Viktor swallowed, running a shaky hand down his face. “I’m sorry I woke you.”

“You didn’t,” you replied softly, the door creaking open a little more, “You-“ you blew out a puff of air, “You did keep me up, in a way. Anyway, if you’re okay I’ll just-”

“Wait,” he searched his mattress for a moment before he found your notepad. “I must have accidentally taken it from the lab.” Viktor’s heart lurched as you hurried in, barely looking at him.

He lifted it to give it to you, then promptly curled his fingers around it and pulled back after seeing the string of cum that now adorned the cover.

“Ah, apologies,” his cheeks burned as he wiped it on his mattress, then held it out to you. You took it quickly, Viktor’s eyes following you until they slunk down to your body, where you wore your silk robe inside out, hardened nipples poking against the fabric. “Are you…?”

“Goodnight Viktor,” you said curtly, then hurried out of the room, the door clicking with finality behind you.

Viktor’s heart was thudding against his chest, almost painfully, as he collapsed back into his mound of pillows.

He hadn’t imagined you moaning his name, had he?

#viktor #viktor arcane #viktor arcane x reader #viktor x reader #arcane viktor #writing #arcane fanfiction #league of legends

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