#r x viktor

[bratdotcom]

Look of Love

viktor x glasses!reader ⋆

"Tired?" Viktor asks as you mush your nose into his shoulder, eyes closed tightly.

You reply with a non-committal hum, carelessly tossing your glasses onto the side table. One wrong move, one slight push of a muscle too far, and you'd be complaining to him about how flimsy the hardware was to break so easily as it could bend.

Not that he minded. Hearing you complain about the smallest things reminded him about what he was trying to accomplish. Though, he couldn't think much of those dreams right now. Nor could he read his book with your face squished against him like that, in the same manner a cat would press against its owner to show affection.

Your face migrated from his shoulder to the crook of his neck, making him shake his head and close his book shut.

He doesn't put it away as he responds. Instead, he keeps it laid neatly in his lap, bookmark sticking out of the pages so he wouldn't lose his place. "...maybe one day I will figure out a way for you to wear glasses without you tossing them like trash." He suggests amused, as if his ideas were a mere afterthought to him in the long run of his career. He sinks his weight into the couch, waiting to see what you'd do. Every action had a reaction, after all.

In reaction to his words, Viktor feels you lightly punch him in the shoulder, which he gladly returns back with a laugh. "I see you aren't tired enough to completely go lazy on me."

You respond with a huff, both arms wrapped around his shoulders. "Not lazy, just tired of seeing." You reply back, eyes still closed.

"Aren't we all?" He jokes with a light roll of his eyes, laughing again. A small snort came from him at how certain you sounded with your answer.

Viktor stretches an arm to grab your glasses, examining them as if he were checking their integrity.

He holds the pair by the edge of its lenses, not wanting to smudge the glass with the oils of his fingers. "You dropped them again, didn't you?" He asks aloud before placing them back on the side table. You pull away from his shoulder to look at your glasses, placed neatly on top of a decorative lace doily. "Yeah, why?" You ask in reply, eyes narrowing as you look at him.

Without your glasses, Viktor was the only thing in the room you could see clearly.

Everything else was a blur. An out of focus, unimportant, blur. You only had eyes for him. Nothing else.

"The scratches on the bridge." He answers, pushing hair out of your face with his thumb, a wordless sign of intimacy between him and you in the confines of his closed off study. It was just you and him here, nobody else. He draws out his words as he speaks.

Slowly, he says, "They're chipped. Right down the middle." As he says that, he slides his finger down the bridge of your nose, finger flicking up into the air playfully. He smiles at you again, seeing the way your eyes light up, a reflection of him in them.

[milkcurdles]

Speaking my truth: I love jayvik

[shikamaruuu]

tfw when ur so devoted to each other that ur relationship transcends all possible definition and u find unconditional love forever

[fahrenlegt]

domestic

[camp-vamps-radio-b1tch]

HE MISSES HIS BOYFRIEND LEAVE HIM ALOME 😭😭

Urhrgrgrhrgrh I can’t with them ur telling me they’re soulmates

I LOVE THEM SM

[timeladix]

Ok i may be projecting like crazy but here me out: viktor is aroace and is in a qpr with jayce. TwT

[terrminal]

⠀ જ⁀➴ ⠀ׂ ִ ⠀ Jayvik disc layout⠀, ⠀f2u

  ◡◡⁠　 ⠀ no credit ⠀, ⠀reblog & like 2 use

[lslehmon]

sorry to L***** O* L****** post on main but i cannot believe these are now his official voice lines. someone has GOT to put me down.

differentiating friendship / love to jayce. partners. the "when you're going to change the world, don't ask for permission" line taking on a completely diff tone coming from machine herald vik. reluctance to continue alone after they've both changed so much. im gonna be SICK riot wants me GONE!!!!!!!!!!

AND THESE AREN'T EVEN ALL THERE'S ALSO THE ARCANE SAVIOUR VOICE LINES

(audio ripped from the League wiki)

[uncaffeinatedbirb]

|| In the aftermath of the disaster and bloodshed, following the mourning and fixing and cleaning up the streets of Piltover and Zaun, when they ultimately decide to finally breach the confines of Jayce and Viktor's lab, seizing all of their research on Hextech, do you think that, if they dive into the pages of jayce's journals, they would discover amongst the various calculatioms and prototype sketches are the annotations made by the two?

Some stray jokes and hilarity, reminders of their kinship? maybe a few little back and forth notes accompanied by a cartoony doodle of their Yordle professer expressed in humor? maybe the stray scribbles and doodles of Viktor's face and features? will they find some tucked away secret sketch of a portrait of the man who caused so much destruction? will that be one of the few moments where they will remember the existence of the second creator of Hextech? will that portrait be the only existing one of the man? the only evidence of his humanity?

Will they write him as the "dark mage" that took over the city, that led an army hellbent on putting Piltover to her knees and is responsible for the lost of so many lives?

Will the citizens of this city decide to forever scratch out Viktor's name in the legacy of Hextech? destroying any evidence of him they could find and leaving Jayce Talis as the single creator of Piltover's greatest achievement? The true Man of Progress.

And when decades down the line some Academy student is elbow deep in the city archives accidentally stumbles upon a surviving journal from Piltover's "dark age" will they wonder about who this nameless man—drawn with the softest expression— on the pages is? will they question why the legendary Jayce Talis has their portrait on his journal?

"You sign your name in every page"

Jayce Talis will always be in the light, will always be a known name, and Viktor—always kept in the shadows.

[baitcritter]

hiiii okay SO!! (he/they). pls read before flirting/following/sending hc requests

IM 20

switch + verse, don’t flirt with me if ur older than like let’s say 40ish and don’t dm me immediately assuming a role, we have to negotiate but don’t be shy to ask me for what you want

👍: friends w benefits, just friends, casual kink partners

👎: romantic partnership, assuming we’re in Any kind of dynamic without discussing boundaries with me, 24/7 d/s, “situationship”

MDNI

dms allowed but don’t be weird if i don’t reply.

👍 terms: cunt, hole, boycunt, boypussy, boyparts, puppyparts, puppycunt/holes anything degrading or praising that’s masc/neutral, anything condescending, when domming i’m open to daddy, sir, dad, dada, master. when subbing im open to. most things.

👎 terms: anything referring to my chest, any fem terms, “cunny” (idgaf if u post this word just don’t use it on me)

my boundaries include: don’t interact without your age listed on your profile (no minors allowed), if i block you do not reply on a different blog asking why i truly dgaf i do not have to justify my boundaries, women + fem aligned can interact but don’t flirt

divider credit to @bernardsbendystraws 🙏

my limits: feederism, detrans, scat, emeto, ed stuff, vore

CONTENT WARNING FOR HEAVIER KINKS THAT WILL FREQUENTLY APPEAR ON THIS PAGE: cnc (including the r word), fauxcest, daddy/sir/dad/brother/master titles, heavy degradation, humiliation, piss, dacryphilia, blood, spanking, disciplinarian dynamics, fetishizing age gaps

other kinks that will be present: petplay, praise, wax, spit, gags, drool, marking, cigar service, other stuff probs idk i’ll tag it

BUT YEAH!! please req :)

NSFW HEADCANON REQUESTS OPEN!!

i only do male characters :)

how to req: tell me what character/ship you want, if you want them to be top or bottom (or if you don't mind), if you want them to dom or sub (or if you don't mind), Imk if you want them trans or cis (and what genitalia you'd like them to have) LIST YOUR LIMITS, yeah literally drop any kink that's not on my limits list i'll just delete it if im uncomfy no harm done

[latinokaeya]

meljayvik canonically not having big beautiful doe brown eyes is so crazy to me those three are like tailor made to be brown eyed beauties. why didn’t arcane give it to them. they stole this power from them!!!

[bratdotcom]

Life Goes On

( viktor x reader - pre!arcane )

Upper-class chatter has never made Viktor feel so out of place until now. Professor Heimerdinger wanted him to branch out and get to know the people of the city. Not only for his sake, but for the sake of the academy's name being known.

After attempting to give a coherent speech about his newest invention, he grabs his crutch and walks off stage as professional as he could, Viktor could feel the disapproving eyes of potential investors on him already. Perhaps it was because of his origins from Zaun. Or the fact that he needed a cane to support himself.

An infinite amount of possibilities that he didn't need to think about. That he didn't want to think about.

Either way, he found more comfort outside than inside, his cane resting against smooth stone to support his aching back. The garden's calming ambiance soothed his nerves.

Viktor lets out a sigh,using his pointer and thumb to rub the tiredness from his heavy lids.

"Do you know who's statue you're loitering against?"

The voice's suddenness almost catches Viktor off guard. He sits up more properly now, his right leg pointing outward on the heel of his shoe.

His left leg in front of him to make him seem more proper in front of this unassuming stranger.

Although he felt like an absolute fool, he wasn't going to look like one in front of Piltover's elite.

He scans your face with those eyes of his. They narrow as he searches for some sort of familiarity in your features. Surely, he recognized you from somewhere. Viktor felt like he's seen you before.

He replies back cautiously, pulling his gaze away only to look at the sculpture. "No, I don't...care to enlighten me?" he tilts his head as he stares holes into you without knowing.

"Well," you tilt your head to the side and shrug.

"That's why I asked you."

Viktor huffs in amusement at that, disarmed at your honesty. That was something he didn't see every day.

"You're definitely smarter than most of the people back there." You say back instead of answering his question properly. He can already tell you had a knack for avoiding questions, which intrigued him greatly.

You tread closer to where he sat, dress shoes clunking against the cobblestone floor.

Just who were you exactly?

He perks up in posture as you plop down next to him onto the raised pedestal. He grabs his cane and keeps it close to him, putting it in between his knees.

"You don't have to do that." You say, eyes going from his shoes to his face. "I'm not like them."

Your words linger in his ears. They ring as though in tune with the chimes of the bell tower just beyond the garden gates, signaling the passage of another hour within the City of Progress.

"Like them?" he repeats, looking at your face again. Still, he can't remember where he's seen you. "I don't think you're any much different from us. We all share one thing in common, don't we?"

"That being..?" he trails off expectantly, more intrigued than before.

"The desire to do good." You reply simply, once again, catching him completely off guard. Viktor watches as your eyes shine as you ask him a question he doesn't quite catch. "You have it, no?"

When he catches himself staring, Viktor fixes his gaze onto something else. He stares at a nearby street sign that he's seen millions of times before.

"You're odd." he says in response, flattening out the collar of his shirt.

"So? You're odd, too."

Viktor scoffs again, his tired gaze softening. You were right. You, a complete, utter stranger, were right.

He finally says the question that's been on his mind the second he's laid eyes on you. He had to know.

Instead of saying it the way he thought of it in his head, his words come out much more rude than intended.

"Just who are you anyway?" He asks, still trying to recognize your features. To his surprise, you take his question well.

Your family name alone probably had more influence over him any day of the week. Compared to you, he was a nobody.

And yet here you were, talking to him as though he were your equal.

"A silk merchant in training." You answer the tips of your dress shoes pointing towards the floor.

Viktor recognizes you now, his tired eyes widening.

He asks another question quieter now, looking down at his shoes and yours. His scuffed ones and your cleaned ones. "You were there, weren't you?" He says softly.

"Where?"

"When I did my first speech. The one where I accidentally erased an equation on the board with my sleeve. You were in the crowd."

You let Viktor go on, you listen intently, palms pressed against the clean marble of the pedestal. Fingers on the edge, just as you were, as you waited for Viktor to piece two and two together. Like a true inventor.

"You looked at me as though..." Viktor pauses, staring down at his shoes. “As though I was a person. A real person. Not an investment to be made."

Viktor finally looks at you again. His eyes wander in an attempt to find his words.

"You actually...listened to me. You..cared. You cared about what I had to say."

His eyes set on you again.

"And I still do."

You reply, the memory of that day still fresh on your mind. You remember it vividly, the fervor in his tone, as he explained the mechanisms of a device you really didn't understand. His sleeve, accidentally brushing away hours worth of important equations and diagrams. You remember the way his eyes stopped shining when the room filled with small, barely hidden laughs.

Just as you did in that room, you listened. Just as you were doing now.

[ihopeinevergetsoberr]

academic rivals request! viktor x fem!reader, nsfw

request: @4-leafed pls... if u have time pls write a viktor x reader that r both geniuses at the academy but very much toe the line of rivalry and sexual tension...i love competitive smart people that fall in love when the rivalry becomes respect ... and they FREAK IT!!! possibly in a lab ! up to you : 3c

i liked this request so much that i ended up writing a decent-ish one-shot….

rating: explicit

word count: 3,5k

warnings: academic rivals. LOTS of dialogue and bickering. dubious science because i skipped it in school, had to do some basic chemistry revision to write this pornographic catastrophe, so please pat me on the back. rough sex? rough… foreplay, that’s for sure. dirty talk, if you can call bickering that. penetration. reader tries to slap viktor, spits in his mouth and he cums in his pants. normally, i only write vanilla stuff, so i have no idea how it turned out THIS kinky (at least for me okay). not proofread (yet). nsfw under the cut:

—

“How do you take your coffee?”

His voice betrays the feeble intention of civility, fusing that polite inquiry into a hiss—a phonetical torture you didn’t even know could occur before. So much for killing you with kindness. Outstaging quips by desecrating courtesies. 

“I don’t care,” you mutter on autopilot. Can’t let him in on any personal preferences, no matter how insignificant. “Just don’t put arsenic in it.” 

Viktor scoffs. Puts the kettle away and peers at you over his shoulder, all wretchedly complacent. 

“So the rest of the periodic table is welcome, I presume?” 

Viktor. The local Nikola Tesla knock-off. Never a moment of peace with him; and the fierce taste of competition grows coppery in your mouth whenever he’s in your sight—the most handsome trigger of your cheek-biting reflex.

His name is an insult on your lips and you want to taste it. Chew it, crush it with your teeth and spit right out, preferably aiming for those poignant eyes seeking you in every classroom—so eager to light up with objection the second your opinion differs from his. 

Always the first prick to disparage your input. A never-resting generator of all the meticulous ways to denounce your projects. 

“If I may.” 

Sickeningly polite, too. With that lithe finger pointing in the air— so irritatingly comical. He may not, but there isn’t a chance he’ll shut up, now, is there?

And so he’d clear his throat, straightening his tie in that ridiculously solemn fashion. As if stepping on a pedestal to deliver a life-changing speech—not some shallow nitpicking regarding your circuit breakers. All eyes on him while his kept staring only into your soul. Special treatment, if you will. 

You will not.

“Using magnetic frames is careless,” he’d state. With his hand imposingly pointing to the blueprint on your slide. “Copper coils may oxidize. Not to mention the overheating. I would use thermoplastics. They’re significantly more efficient. And heat-resistant.”

Oh please. Like someone here gives a shit about what you’d use. 

But you can’t say that. Not in a room full of professors. And, judging from the countless nods of approval, the shits were, in fact, being given. 

“Too risky,” you oppose. “Thermoplastics often degrade at high temperatures. Electric insulation is not worth the damage of releasing hydrocarbons. I assumed that you’d be aware of that, Viktor. But I suppose that was an omission on my part.” 

More nods of approval, now in your favour. Here it goes again—the ever-lasting spectacle of hatred. Elegant, when entertaining the audience. Anything but discreet, in private. A perpetually drawn game of chess. By repetition, not agreement. Both of you refuse to retreat until checkmate. 

Oh yes, the sentiment was mutual. You and Viktor were notorious for tearing at each other's throats. The things you’d sacrifice to make that more than a mere metaphor, though. To pull him by that neat tie to sweet asphyxiation and hear him rasp for mercy with eyes full of pathetic condemnation. And he dreamed of that, too. His cane was itching to give you a smack—to paint your behind a plum so deep you’ll have troubles sitting without wincing. When it came to making metaphors literal, he’d pick being the pain in your ass.

However, your mentors couldn’t care less about the rivalry. The Collegiate Inventors Competition was coming up. And who could possibly make better candidates than two greatest minds of the engineering department, with academic excellence so accurately neck and neck that both of your names now occupy the honorary first place in every ranking table? 

That’s how you ended up with your sentence—three weeks of after-hours cooperation in the lab with the incorrigible bastard himself, a quarter of which you’d already successfully wasted on pointless bickering. Well, not without achieving some common grounds. The choice of prototype landed on one of your personal ambitions—a wearable exoskeleton for post-surgery rehabilitation, with plenty of robotics involved. Endorsed by Viktor, for once. The greater good must have swallowed even his dispute. Off to a nice start, if someone were to ask you.

However, the first issues struck early: on the very stage of development. Viktor volunteered for modelling: meaning, the framework would be custom, to accommodate his spine specifically. An object lesson for everyone involved, it would seem—but only in an ideal world. Which, considering what you had at hand (acrimony, bitterness, an entire picky bit of gall), was filtered out by default.

Now, five gruesome days and who’s-even-counting-anymore restarts later, you’re nowhere near close to at least a draft, yet borderline keen on murdering each other. And you’re certain the latter is approaching. He did just contemplate putting arsenic in your cup, after all. 

Viktor stirs the coffee. Watches his reflection smudge in the dark, whirly water, shooting you an askance glance from beneath thick brows when you start stirring yours—the spoon clanking a tad too loud, as if you were doing it on purpose. Which, you undoubtedly were. 

“Stop that,” he groans, almost leaping out of his chair. Heavy, disturbed gaze meets your cheeky simper. “You don’t have to stir it so thoroughly. It’s not like you take it with sugar anyway.”

“Of course.” You shrug. “I don’t drink slop.”

“Oh, I figured. There’s nothing sweet about you, so why would your coffee be any different?”

“There’s plenty of sweetness about me. I simply don’t squander it on entitled pricks.” 

That finally grounds him. And you’re giddy for the way his sturdy hand grips the cup so hard that it almost shatters into his palm, knuckles growing pale enough to match the porcelain. More so when you take a loud, languid sip, feigning innocence. Fully wallowing in his darling, defeated speechlessness. 

“Excuse you,” he mutters. “Entitled?!” 

“So you agree with the ‘prick’ part?” 

“Yes, and I take great pride in it. You may mark me flustered.” 

“Don’t forget to bust in your pants.”

Viktor sneers: chapped lip twitching, scowl growing defensive. Lanky legs untangle as he rises to his feet, towering above you in an angry lean on his cane—long frame transforming into your personal, scrawny menace, pissed exhale sharp and nasal above your head. And you admit to looking small beneath him—all hunched shoulders, weak smile finally tumbling lopsided. 

“Don’t you dare call me entitled,” he demands—and means it. It’s palpable in the way he twists the handle of his cane, the squeaky sound violently scratching your brain. “I sweated blood to achieve my privileges in this establishment.”

You huff, rolling your eyes. “So did I, and yet you keep ordering me around as if I’m some braindead apprentice. We’re counterparts, Viktor. You’re supposed to be mindful of my perspective.”

“I never see you being mindful of mine,” he counters.

And, well. You can’t argue with that. 

Your coffee break continued in avoidant silence, but the ambience simply reeked of hostility—stifling enough to make you leave the lab feet first. The deadline’s chokehold besieging your neck wasn’t of any help, either—you had to submit the draft for approval by Sunday. And, so far, you haven’t even agreed on the design plan. 

You shoot Viktor a reluctant glance. Pensive, he sat slouched over his parchment, emitting pure peril. Like his shoulder blades might stab you if you attempt a single tap, belligerently peeking through the thin shirt. You tucked your lip under your teeth, chewing hard, tongue running over every small, neurotic wound inside your mouth. Fruitless negotiations held a special spot amongst your least favourite endeavours, but this conundrum called for a desperate measure.

“Viktor.” You winced at how chocked up it came out. He noticed that, too—because of course he did—turning in his chair to nod at you, ever so shit-eatingly. Lancing eyes scrutinised their way up to your face. What an affront. 

“Yes?” Always chiding in that condescending tone of his. Hissy ‘s’ echoed in the lab, gnawing at your nerves. 

“We have to submit something by the end of this week. Let’s at least decide on the blueprint.” 

“Fine.” He shrugged, returning to his sketch. “We’re going with mine.” 

“No!” You snapped. “We’re coming up with a new one. Together.” 

Viktor hummed in mock consideration. The strand of hair he’s been twirling unraveled, claiming more attention than you deemed him worthy of. Sighing, he lazily reached for your graph, frowning as his eyes started skimming over the scribbles. You made your way to the desk, claiming a spot behind his shoulder. That required a tacit truce. 

“You really want to wield… hydraulic actuators?” He winced, looking up at you. Had your breath hitching at that respectful attempt, the effort prominent in the very way he uttered those words—as if struggling to filter out swear ones. 

“Yes,” you mustered. “For high power.” 

“But they’re so heavy.”  

“Well, what would you use?” 

He chuckled—rich and malicious. Flipped the page and finally averted those curious eyes, arching a bushy brow. 

“I thought no one gave a… crap about what I’d use.” 

Oh, well. It felt nice while it lasted. 

“How did you even—“

“You ought to be more discreet with your vitriol,” he retorted. “I’ll let you know that I’m a decent lip-reader.” 

“Then don’t stare at my mouth next time. What would you use, Viktor?” 

Now that left you both startled. His fingers stilled above the diagram, flexing in disbelief, hollow cheeks hued a puzzled rouge as you almost chomped your tongue off, showing an embarrassed curse back into the depth of your throat. 

“Ahem. Electric motors,” he chanted, pretending to overlook the slip-up. And for once, you were grateful for his tact. 

“I see. Well, er… put that down, please.” 

He instantly complied, fetching a pen. Left you to reflect on your misery to the rhythmic sound of his scrawling, pressing a sweaty palm to his forehead. 

“Right.” He sighed. “What about the power supply?”

“Rechargeable batteries?” You suggested weakly. “Lithium-ion.”

“Very well. Frame?”

“Something durable. Titanium?” 

“Absolutely not,” he scoffed, pushing the notes away. “Why must you always insist on using the heaviest equipment?”

“I don’t know, corrosion resistance?” You muttered back, hovering over him. “Biocompatibility?”

“That’s perfectly manageable with carbon fiber!”

“So it shatters after the tiniest bump? Bravo, Viktor, how ingenious.” 

He lurches forward—rigid breath quivering over yours. Close enough to crush that thick skull with your forehead—if only you ventured, that is. But, alas, you’re not as brave just yet. Some brief eye-stabbing is about all you’re good for. 

“Fine,” he agrees, pulling away. “We’ll use aluminium alloys. Corrosion resistant and easy to machine. No one wins. Does that suffice?” 

“Yes. Now will you finally let me take your measurements for the sketch?”

He doesn’t answer—at least not verbally. Merely stands up and nods to the measuring tape, face still heavily contorted with displeasure. But you don’t oblige just yet. How can you, when Viktor’s fingers suddenly reach for his collar, fumbling with the button? And—oh no—now they’re sliding lower, reiterating once, twice, thrice, until his chest (flushed, but that might just be wishful thinking) is fully peeking out, teasing the smooth scrap of ivory skin. 

“What… are you doing?” You mumble, utterly startled. 

“…Undressing?” He says matter-of-factly, looking up at you so askance as if you’d just asked him if the sky is blue. One more ministration and the shirt is neatly folded next to the parchment—waiting for you to be through with the measurements to be slid back on his bony shoulders. 

“That, I can tell,” you mumble. “Why did you undress?”

Viktor’s gaze daggers into you again. “Don’t tell me you were actually intending to measure me clothed? Can you not comprehend precision?”

“Precision?”

“The prototype is expected to cling to me. I don’t see how that’s achievable with my shirt on— I assumed that was rather obvious.”

“Shut the fuck up.” 

“Ah, sweet civility. I even started worrying that other entitled pricks must’ve depleted your decorum, but it seems like you saved some up for me after all. I’m flattered, really—“ 

You don’t even register when it happens.

Next thing you see is Viktor seizing your wrist—sternly yanking your slap off his face before it gets the chance to land there in a flared handprint. Nothing but pure rage and prickliness—right where his short nails are lancing your skin, engraving an ugly bracelet you’ll wear for hours.

Well, maybe there is something else. Something inexplicable, and tremendous—deep in the way your eyes keep drifting south—where his pants sling low on defined hips, and the pretty trail of dark hair runs from navel to waistband—no doubt circling exactly what you manage to make out in the convex slope of his crotch. And you want to slap him for that, too—sonorous, and frenetic. Going in again with full force, but his force always turns out to be fuller—and in an instance he firmly twists your arm, pinning it behind your back—pale face barely five inches away from your flushed one. 

What happens next is beyond any explanations. Later, he’ll blame it on inertia—that stupid urge to maintain the speed, to stay in motion with your messy antics until some external force stops him—a simple need to claim you before the inevitable collision.

But there’s no inertia in escalation. In the way his free hand grabs you by the nape and clashes agape mouths together, teeth bumping hard enough to make you consider booking a dentist appointment later. Not a sign of inertia when you grab him, either—a little clumsy through the sharp pain in your twisted arm—bold fingers raking his scalp in a vengeful tug on his hair. 

And it’s more than a kiss. If anything, it looks like you’re trying to eat him—tongue out and thrusting into his throat so fiercely that he gags on it, almost tearing up. Now you know what sheer desperation sounds like, and it’s grunting against your mouth, suddenly pitching to a pathetic moan when you grab a handful of chestnut hair and pull so hard that his eyes roll back, lean frame shaking under your violent approach. You use that startled momentum to try and pry your arm free, but he still keeps it in place. 

“You’re hurting me!” You hiss, attacking his neck—the very one you always shamefully admitted to finding the sexiest any man can possess, and your teeth roughly pinch at his voice box, coaxing another whine. 

“Good.” He groans with spite. “I hope I am.” 

And yet, he releases your aching arm, trading it for a calculated squeeze of your waist. But the audacity overshadows his little mercy. You instantly use the unrestrained privileges to force a finger into his mouth—astounded at the way he instantly opens up, almost mockingly pliant. More so when you spit on his tongue, sparing no shame—as if trying to rile him up beyond recognition. Grinning, when your saliva dribbles down his chin. 

“Ah.” He huffs, instantly licking up the remnants. “Thank you. Ever so disrespectful.”

“You haven’t earned my respect,” you lie, nudging him towards the chair. Not even bothering to wait until he lands, impatient hands already messing with his belt—so treacherously earnest as you shake, unfastening the buckle, and the bastard chuckles at that, looking down at your eager work. 

“That’s a new low, then,” murmurs coyly, helping you into his lap, heavy head leisurely thrown back. “Sleeping with someone you don’t respect.” 

“Fuck you.” 

“Oh yes. You’re about to.” 

You glare at him from under heavy lids, but the anger refuses to linger—not when he stares back full of indignant awe, so clearly basking in your attention. With his cock half-springing out of undone pants, shamelessly twitching against your palm. And not a single breath was hitched to conceal his excitement. 

“Must you always be so insufferable?” You reproach, pushing his hair back—too domestic for your own liking, and yet it doesn’t feel unfitting. Especially when he leans into your hand, welcoming your touch on his sweaty forehead—like he wanted you to feel it fever up with want.

“No.” He shakes his head. “But if it can grant me this, I’ll triple the effort.” 

“What happened to new lows? You don’t have a fraction of respect for me, either.”

“You’re right.” He shrugs. “Fractions could never encapsulate my tribute to you.”

And his hand slipped under your skirt, shakily crawling home—precisely where you’d never confess to needing him a mere minute ago. But the sentiment did a decent job at diluting your rancour. There came no protest when he introduced two long fingers into your underwear, openly gasping at the evident dampness. And you allowed him that with no regrets. Moreover, you helpfully sank yourself knuckle deep, wincing at the brief burn, arms wrapping around his neck as he sweetly looked up, seeking your  permission. Which was instantly found in the pretty moan you spilled into his mouth, slick tongues back at their futile attempts to strangle each other. 

However, your patience was running thin. As much as you wanted to indulge in proper foreplay, whatever masochistic dance he exposed you to had you in agony ever since it started—and it was getting unbearable to ignore the ache, no matter how bad Viktor  craved to postpone the main course. 

Your thighs clenched hard as you crouched above him, fingers wrapping around the hilt to awkwardly line the tip up with your cunt—the slick sound of it slowly sliding down suddenly igniting some tender bashfulness. Like you didn’t just spit in his mouth with a vile smirk. Like he never had to confine you from slapping him in the face. 

That stretch felt different from the one after his fingers. Significantly richer, it made you whine—a pitiful sound reverberating against his skin as you held on tighter and allowed him to bottom out, savouring every little crevice inside you. Raw, yet neither of you seemed to care—that concern was pushed alongside your underwear, then forgotten altogether when your walls clenched him, offering tight bliss. 

“Move,” you demanded, grabbing him by the chin. Viktor rasped something back, but you didn’t catch it—already too busy tongue-fucking his pretty neck, turning your teeth into sharp tools ready to stain it mauve with bites. 

And he complied again. One hand trembled on your hip while the other crawled between your legs—first missing your clit in the chaotic pace of thrusts, then finding it again as it grazed his fingertips. So cheeky when he dared to pinch it, avenging every pull on his hair. Though, he couldn’t gloat in your wince. Not when it clearly was one of the pleasured kind. 

But you didn’t feel like letting him regain composure. You already missed his husky groans—ached to test what else fucking you could make him mutter. Fogy gaze found his face again, softening at the sight—all wet forehead full of concentrated creases and thin lips bitten to bloodless paleness. 

You took over. Let him lean back and rest as you roughly rode him into the chair—and for that he gave you a grateful moan, the insistent thumb toying with your clit never stopping even for an instant. Good with his hands, and he knew it—proudly grinned when you struggled to keep going, taut legs treacherously giving up astride him. 

That didn’t please you in the slightest. You wanted him to be close, too: slid a hand up his chest and angrily tugged at one nipple—chortling when his mouth dropped in a stunned gasp. Bewildered, but he didn’t mind it—amber eyes squeezed shut when his head lolled, and you finally got his lovely moans back—raspier than before, ravenous enough to make your head spin. 

You could already feel it, pulsing somewhere deep within. Blurry vision couldn’t make him out anymore, the lab smudging into a mess of weird shapes—you were about to cum, hard, and Viktor threatened to follow suit any second—his thumb failing to hold steady, and yet the pressure was still there, courtlesly helping you chase that sweet relief. Such a gentleman. 

“Close,” you chanted. “So, so close.” 

“I know,” he answered, choking on a groan. “Me too.” 

And you melted, almost crushing him with your weight. Quivering in a spasm so intense that it had him struggling to keep moving, and yet he was mindful of the risk—used the last fractions of his brain capacity to gently nudge you off his cock and pump it fast and hectic. Cumming in one endlessly thick rope, with a moan so vocal that it reached you even through the layers of foggy, ear-buzzing aftermath. Had you shuddering when you clung off his shoulder, glassy eyes wide with trembling astonishment. You stared at him through the approaching wave of disbelief. 

No signs of regret so far, or maybe it was simply still forming—for now, you silently admired not a snarky bastard, but a pretty, fucked out boy beneath you. 

“Oh, would you look at that.” Viktor chuckled, sheepishly looking down. “I didn’t forget.”

“What?” You mumbled in confusion, following his gaze.

And when it finally caught your attention—sticky and relentlessly staining his pants—you slammed a hand over your mouth, muffling the hysterical laughter. 

“And here I thought I finally fucked your remarkable memory out.”

“Oh, by no means. As, eh… intense as that was, that misery of mine is not going anywhere. However,” he trailed off, his hand skittishly moving towards yours, “sex clearly proved beneficial for our… dynamic.”

You smile, sliding your palm into his warm grasp. 

“Can it ensure us enough civility to win the competition?”

And Viktor scoffs, coyly looking you in the eye. 

“Why should we limit it to just that?” 

[alscalaviccis]

newest ship

[i-have-the-best-url]

I HAVENT SEEN THE KLAUS X DAVE ONE TILL NOW AND WOW????? ITS SO GOOD???

Hargreeves’s boys and their blondes.

Bonus:

[camp-vamps-radio-b1tch]

Jayvik the ship that you are…