#viktor fanfic

[hivemuthur]

Hi Anons! Happy Freakday! Taking this amazing opportunity to mingle two into one:

Lips Where Lips Were

viktorxfemale!reader explicit. What's in here? Perverted yearning, panty theft and face sitting :v I'm sure the day was stressful for him :< Never lose sight of your laundry, folks!

word count: 3K

author’s note: I listened to Smoke City Underwater Love. @rennethen beta-read and she was sick doing it so double thank-yous! And as per schedule, I name Fridays Freakdays, and on most of those you can expect some Freaktor action.

—

It wasn’t planned at all when you stepped into the laundry room with a basket full of clothes. Pure coincidence—or call it fate, if Viktor dared to entertain such grand notions when it came to something so utterly embarrassing.

He had just been loading the washing machine, half full with his meagre three white shirts and a few undershirts, when the door swung open. You entered backwards, nudging it open with your ass, your face obscured by the tall basket cradled in your arms. But he recognised you instantly—by the back of your head, the curve of your neck, your ankles. Again, utterly embarrassing.

“Oh my God, are you washing whites? Please tell me you are washing whites,” you asked, not bothering with a hello.

Viktor eyed the laundry in your arms, picking up what you were putting down, but simply replied, “Yes, I’m washing whites.”

"Mind if I invade?" you asked, already shifting your weight forward, basket pressing into your stomach. "I’ve mostly got darks, but I’m running out of underwear."

Viktor swallowed, considering. Having your underwear washed with his­—pretty good. You having no underwear to wear? Significantly better. Being unable to come up with explanation to denying you, he forced a nod, stepping back from his machine as if giving you space might help untangle the sudden knot in his throat.

"Be my guest," he said, voice steady despite the way his pulse stuttered.

You wasted no time, setting your basket down and beginning to sort through your clothes. Viktor watched as you moved, as your hands fished out a bundle of whites and dropped them in beside his. Then, with the ease of someone used to efficiency, you loaded a second machine with your darker clothes.

It should have been a nothing moment—mundane, forgettable. But when you leaned forward, he caught sight of a bra slipping from the heap in your arms, a delicate thing edged with lace, straps tangled. His mouth went dry.

A thought, insistent and utterly filthy, flashed across his mind—quick, scorching, and impossible to ignore. He almost turned away, almost shut the machine door to spare himself from his own treacherous imagination. But then, right there, in the tangle of fabric, were your knickers.

White as snow. Thin as paper. A tiny, pretty bow crowning the hem.

His fingers twitched. Good with his hands as he was, before he could think better of it, before his brain could catch up to his body, he snagged them—swift, seamless, a movement so smooth it almost convinced him it hadn’t happened at all. But the fabric in his pocket was real as day whenever he reached to check if it’s still there.

And now, Viktor has a problem.

He’s thought about returning them—washing them by hand and slipping them in with the rest of your white clothes. He’s also considered getting rid of them: throwing them away, tossing them out the window, burning them—anything that might make him stop. But whenever he comes close, he falters.

At first, just the thought of having a piece of fabric that was so intimately close to you is enough. Clutching onto the last ounces of self-respect he has, Viktor does nothing beyond tucking the knickers into his chest pocket, carrying them close to his heart whenever he feels like it.

The idea nearly backfires when Jayce asks him for a pen—the little metal loop catches on the fabric, almost pulling them out and exposing him for the depraved pervert he is.

From that point forward, Viktor says goodbye to your underwear every time he leaves his dorm. They lay splayed flat on his bed when he returns, and his mind instantly drifts to which parts of you they clung to. The curve of your ass, hugged tightly as you pulled them on. The waistband, with its little bow resting just beneath your belly button. And his favourite part—the delicate pouch fabric kissed by your sweet lips.

Then it happens again that his body overrides his mind’s restraint, compulsive in its betrayal. It’s a compulsion, yes, when his fingers unbuckle the belt, his hand palming his aching cock. It’s compulsive yet again when he undoes his fly, rubbing himself through his boxers, thinking of you. It’s compulsive when he pulls himself out and smears the precum pearling at the tip, pretending it’s your gentle fingers touching his heated skin.

And it’s utterly deranged when he reaches for your panties and brings them to his face. If he could snort it all up, he would. Instead, he holds it against his nose, inhaling deeply, greedily. It’s dizzying—the smell of you, sweet and intimate, proof that this was yours.

His fingers tease the head first, gliding over the aching spot just beneath, and he twitches in his own hand. His mind, corrupt and rotten, throws him the worst of images for this occasion—or the best, depending on how he looks at it. You, bending over, the seam of your underwear glaring at him from beneath your skirt. Your mouth, speaking his name. Then moaning his name as his hand is buried between your thighs.

His grip tightens around his cock. At first, slow, as he breathes in the remnants of you. He strokes himself languidly, knees bent over the bed’s edge, feet pressing hard into the floor. His hips thrust up, chasing more—more of anything to quell the ache inside him, the iron grip that coils low in his belly.

Your name spills from his mouth, ragged and desperate. He imagines you here, above him, thighs caging his head as you press down onto his waiting tongue. The thought alone has his cock twitching in his hand again, and he lets out a filthy groan, gripping himself harder.

And even though shame still lingers somewhere in the periphery of his thoughts, he cannot help himself. He splays the fabric over his face and licks where your lips have been cradled. And kisses there. And takes it into his mouth, sucking on it—the poor substitute for your soft pussy.

“Ah—fuck—” His breath stutters, muscles winding tight as he fucks into his own hand now. Fast and hard. His imagination runs wild—your taste on his tongue, your fingers tugging his hair, the way you’d roll your hips to use his mouth like you need it. He lets himself drown in the fantasy, slutty moans spilling from his mouth so loud he doesn’t hear the knocking. Or the door to his dorm room creaking open. Or the soft sound of feet shuffling on the floor.

You do knock. And you do call out, until you mistake a noise coming from his bedroom for one of pain. You rush in, clutching a shirt he mistakenly gave you with your batch of white laundry to your chest. And then you freeze by the door, when you hear the sound of your own name stumbling from Viktor’s lips in the filthiest, most sultry tone you’ve ever heard from him. Oh—the door is ajar.

Not that you haven’t imagined him doing it. Many times, possibly too many to count. But to imagine it and to hear it—raw and real, seeping into your ears so sweetly—is a completely different thing.

For a moment, you squeeze your eyes shut before holding your breath and stepping in carefully. Viktor is writhing on the bed, unaware, unseeing, his trousers slipped down his thighs, and his face covered with—oh. One hand pushes the fabric into his nose and mouth, and the mere sight has your thighs clenching under your skirt as you step closer, transfixed.

Heat floods your cheeks when your gaze drops to his other hand, to his cock—hard and flushed at the tip, sliding in and out of his grip as his hips thrust helplessly. He looks so absolutely, utterly hot like this, you almost want to let him finish—just to see the vulgar act of him cumming all over his stomach. Until, again—oh. You notice it—the panties are yours.

"Viktor," you whisper, bewildered.

He freezes. "Fuck!" The curse rips from him, loud and raw as he throws the underwear away from him like it burned, rolling onto his stomach with light speed. "Fuck." Again, muffled against the mattress. Then your name, a plea. "I'm so... so sorry."

You step closer, gaze flicking to where the discarded fabric landed. Slowly, you bend down and pick it up between two fingers, holding it up as you muse, "I thought I was missing a pair."

Viktor drops his forehead to the mattress and groans, frustration and shame bleeding into the sound. "I can't believe this is happening, I—"

"For how long have you had them?" you ask. There’s no accusation, only curiosity.

He says nothing. You bite your lower lip, eyes drawn helplessly to the curve of his bare ass, the tension in his shoulders, the way his entire body seems locked in mortification.

"Viktor," you try again, softer this time. "Look at me. Turn over."

"I beg you, spare me," he rasps. "I promise I will apologize properly, but please, please, leave."

But you don’t. You see it now—clearly, undeniably. Viktor has been pining for you as much as you’ve pined for him. And so you dare, your mind stunted with the sight conjuring ideas beyond the realm of reason, as you crawl onto the bed. The mattress dips beneath your weight and you settle beside him, sitting on the balls of your feet. Viktor presses his face harder into the sheets, as if willing either himself or you to disappear. "Please," he mutters, your name a breathless sigh, "this is mortifying."

You reach out, running a hand up his leg, fingertips tracing along the muscle, up to the swell of his ass in a gentle caress. Where you touch goosebumps prickle on his skin and you really, really have to resist the urge to bite on his pale cheek. "Viktor," you murmur, voice coaxing, "please look at me. I beg you."

He sighs into the bed, then slowly turns his head to face you, though he avoids your eyes. His face flushed all the way up to his cheeks, shame bleeding into skin. Swallowing hard, he says, “I am so sorry. I wasn’t… This is not—”

"Hey," you say softly, brushing the hair off his forehead. His eyes squeeze shut at the touch. You shift closer, lying on your belly beside him, and blow gently on his face. A breathy chuckle forces its way out of him, and finally—finally—he opens his eyes.

"Hi," you whisper.

"Hi yourself," Viktor murmurs, calmer now.

"I, uh—" you start, then bite your lip. "Can I… see you?" The words come out shyly, your breath held as you wait for his reaction.

"W-what?" Viktor turns, startled—only his torso, though. His hips remain stubbornly pressed to the mattress, much to your disappointment. His brows knit together as he waits for an explanation.

But you have no idea what to say, so you let your body speak for you. You exhale, closing the last bit of distance between you, wrapping your arms around his waist and pressing your forehead to his. "Please," you whisper, "you looked so… hot."

Your cheeks scald as you wait for his reaction, but disappointment and fear flee the moment Viktor's tongue swipes over his lips and—oh—he rolls over, revealing his pretty cock to you. It had been trapped in the crease of his thigh, held there by the dampness of his skin, still achingly hard.

You reach for him slowly, and he moans—his brows knitting—before you even touch him. Your fingers, palm facing down, trace over his balls before gliding up, the heel of your hand pressing along his length, your thumb circling beneath the head.

“Your cock is so pretty,” you whisper a quiet praise, and he shudders, pressing his nose into your cheek, his lips brushing yours, mouths hanging open. As your hand moves in tender strokes, Viktor can’t help himself, it’s invitation enough. His fingers tangle into your hair, and he presses his tongue between your lips, kissing you sloppily, desperately. "Oh God, yes," he mutters into your mouth.

The sound alone makes you moan, spurring you to move with more intent. In no time, you have him so worked up that the neglected dampness between your legs almost doesn’t bother you—but then Viktor’s tongue grows more insistent, his hands roam your body, and your hips buck involuntarily. He clocks it immediately, rasping into your mouth, “Sit on my face. Please.”

You choke on a sound between a gasp and a moan, barely having time to process his words before Viktor’s hands find your hips, guiding you forward. He shifts beneath you, pressing his back flat against the mattress, and tugs at you again, insistent and needy. His breath is hot against your skin as he urges, “Come here, please.”

Your legs tremble as you move, suddenly all shy and hesitant. You come to straddle his chest first, but oh, Viktor’s shame has melted into impatience once encouraged—his hands slide up, gripping your thighs to pull you the rest of the way until you hover above his face. His parted lips are so close that you can feel the ghost of his breath and it’s so unbearably warm you barely resist the urge to sink into him.

What’s in front of you, is his cock, still flushed and leaking, laying thick on his navel. Swallowing your nerves, you lean forward, bracing your hands on his sharp hips as you lower your mouth to him, wrapping your fingers around the base. Viktor groans beneath you, the vibration rippling against your skin and you can feel yourself leaking obscenely when he whines out his famous last words—“Fuck, you are so wet,” and his hot mouth meets your sex.

It's a sinful swipe, that first one. Has you gasping and gripping his cock tighter, before you remember what is it that you are holding. Your eyes widen, mouth huffing warm air over his length as you try to regain your bearings. But Viktor is relentless, thorough, as if he’s intent on devouring the very essence of you, memorising every crevice. His hands tighten on your thighs, pulling you down, grinding you against his mouth, burying himself in you.

It’s a thousand times better than a mouthful of your underwear—no comparison, really. Not that Viktor can think straight enough to measure the difference, not when his tongue finds its rhythm, plunging in and out of your hole. His head wrenches back into the mattress, chin teasing your clit, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thighs. And then—he groans, a loud, wrecked sound, because your mouth has just wrapped itself around his cock.

Your lips part around the head, tongue flicking over the slit as your hand works the base, thumb pressing along the thick vein running underneath. He twitches so beautifully under your touch that you pause, pulling off with a quiet pop. Watching him glisten in your palm, this time it’s you who can’t help yourself—you glue your torso to his stomach, bury your face against his cock, and inhale long and deep through your mouth and nose.

Viktor shudders beneath you, a deep, broken groan muffled against your cunt. As if this were a conversation, you moan back, the vibration sending a shudder rolling through his muscles. Emboldened, he buries himself deeper, rubbing his chin against your sweet spot, fucking you with his tongue until your hips begin to move on their own, grinding down onto his face. And you—oh, you take him back into the warmth of your mouth, sinking down past the barrier of your throat. Drool spills down his length, slicking the ridges with every bob of your head.

What was merely an ember when you walked in on him now burns bright and hot in his loins. He snorts up whatever air you grant him between your movements, bracing himself for the blinding twist in his stomach that he knows is imminent. His muscles flex under your hands, and for a moment, he loses rhythm, parts his lips from you—and then he cums with a throat-wrenching moan, hard and heavy, spilling thick white into your mouth. You lick it all up, gulp on it, letting him make as many sounds as he likes, lifting your hips just enough so that your clit stays pressed against his chin.

When his cock begins to border on overstimulated, his hand finds your hair, and he tugs you gently, guiding you back to where you were—pressing you down onto his tongue. And you are so, so close. You straighten, brace yourself on his chest, and rut against him without restraint, dragging yourself over the flat of his tongue.

Viktor groans into you, his fingers digging into your thighs, keeping you where he wants you, letting you use him, consume him. Heat gathers and pools over in waves, tipping you beyond that edge—your body seizing as a raw, broken moan tears from your throat. With the sight of his pretty softening cock in front of you, his name spills from your lips, over and over, as you tremble and grind against his mouth. He holds you through it, drinking in every last shudder and cry until you finally collapse against him, spent and trembling.

Your ass slides off his face, splayed in front of his very eyes and Viktor suddenly realises something—all this time you’ve had no knickers on. “Why are you not wearing any underwear?” he asks, voice hoarse.

“Hmm, I thought I miscalculated, but turns out you took my last pair,” you smirk against his hip where your cheek is cradled. You place a soft kiss there to the peak of his bone and whisper, “You can keep it.”

[system-to-the-madness]

Slipping through my Fingers - Viktor x Reader

Pairing: Viktor (Arcane) x Reader (can be read as any gender, no pronouns used) Genre: angst/fluff Word Count: 7 449 Warnings: no use of (y/n), Viktor behaves like an ass in the beginning, self-doubts Summary: Your routine of checking up on Viktor, who fell asleep in the lab takes an unexpected turn Prompts: enemies (not really) to lovers A/N: For @spongelll (let me know if you want to be tagged in any future Bucky and or/Viktor stuff) Before writing: I have so many long ideas, but I know I can’t finish them, so I’m trying to write something short and sweet here.

You feel like an intruder in your own laboratory, as you quietly crank open the heavy, double winged door, peeking inside. The lights are turned off, safe for the one on the wide desk at the far end of the room. And there, in the halo of a lamp that bravely beats on against the oppressive push of the darkness of the late hour, sits Viktor. His back is to the door, his cane leaning against the table next to him, and his head? hanging so low over his notes that you know he must be asleep.

The smile on your lips is accompanied by a tucking in your chest, that is not entirely positive. Another night he spends in the lab, another night he misses out on his soft bed, doubtlessly the same academy-sponsored bed sheets in his dorm room staying cool for another night, just like the ones in your own dorm room.

The thought, that it probably isn’t good for him to never take off that chest brace, or the one for his knee, pushes into your mind, and for a short, delirious moment you consider waking him, walking over, shaking his shoulder, telling him to go to his room and rest properly. Sitting like that can’t be good for his neck either. It isn’t. You’ve seen him enough times, after nights like this one, how he spends the next day rolling his head from left to right, shrugging his shoulders, hoping to get rid of the painful tensions in them.

But before you even step into the room fully, you already know that you will not wake him, less for his sake than for yours. You’re selfish, maybe, not wanting to be met with the harsh and unforgiving stare and a scoff that tells you not to bother him while he is working. You have enough of these reactions memorized as it is, and each one feels like the sting of a needle in your soul, needles that get pushed in a little further each time another one gets added, another scoff, a dismissive wave of his hand, a gaze averted too quickly, as if he couldn’t stand looking at someone he so clearly deems below himself by so much.

And it hurts. You wish it didn’t, that you could be indifferent to his jabs and degradations, but you aren’t. Maybe, because you don’t understand why he is like this towards you. Everyone else he treats with the respect any living being inherently deserves, everyone, without exceptions. Sure, he rolls his eyes at the naive questions of first year students, but he answers them patiently. He sometimes assumes too much experience from his assistants and shakes his head at them when he has to explain again. But you, who is not his assistant but his equal in the laboratory, you he treats as if you should know every one of his complex thoughts and understand them without him having to explain.

Maybe it was a compliment, and you really try to see it as such, but somewhere along the line his reactions to your questions become a painful sting, an experience you try to avoid. Where he is kind a gentle with others, he is harsh and prickly with you, his patience thinning into anger as if you were intentionally not understanding his leaps in thoughts. You have gotten better at finding the thin lines that connect one idea to the next inside his mind, but sometimes you still have to ask, lest the situation become dangerous while working with something as powerful as HexTech, and each of his annoyed reactions is another needle added to your heart, which feels like a pincushion by now.

It irritates you, his insistence to keep you at arm’s length, ensuring you can never become more than a co-worker, even though you try, try becoming something like a friend, the way you became friends with Jayce and Sky so easily. Even when friendship isn’t what you wish for, deep down in your heart, not when you look at his whiskey-golden eyes or his tousled hair that refuses to obey the restrictions of any product he ever might have tried using to flatten it down, not when you see the adorably delighted grin on his lips whenever an experiment ended up working out the way he had planned it. His distance irritates you all the more, seeing how he tries to engage with everyone else, trying to find a place to fit in, with his science and HexTech-experiments, a place that accepts him for him, and not a crooked, perverted version of himself, made to fit into the tight frame of societal expectations. You wonder what it is about you that makes him push you away, if it is a misunderstanding, or just you as a person. You wish he wouldn’t look down on you, shush you harshly, ignore you, make you feel like you are worth less than you are, but whatever it is about you that makes him act this way, even if you knew, you would not change it. You like the way you are, and even if he hurts you, maybe more than he is aware of, maybe even more than he could forgive himself for, you would rather stay true to yourself than let him bend you into a person you do not wish to be. 

Which leads you here, standing in the dimly lit lab holding a thin blanket, instead of waking him and sending him to his room to sleep. A thin blanket, which you have gotten used to keeping around for moments like this, moments when Viktor falls asleep in the lab as if it were the only place that offers him the peace to shut his eyes. Quietly you walk over to him, careful to keep the clicking of your hard-soled shoes to a minimum, vigilant not to disturb him. 

His head is sunken to his chest, chocolate-brown strands of hair having fallen into his face, and your fingers tingle with the urge to brush them away, out of his eyes, tuck them behind his ear, or maybe just to feel them against your skin. Of course you don’t reach out, instead take a moment longer to admire his sleeping form. For once the crease between his brows has smoothed out, the problems in his experiments and equations forgotten momentarily while he has escaped to the realm of dreams, and you wonder which pictures paint themselves behind his eyelids. You catch yourself wishing your portrait is hung in his mind, not even big, you know it wouldn’t be, but maybe a small acknowledgment, a footnote in his memory of the work you accomplished together.

You shoo the thought away, reaching past him, and move the cup next to his notebook a safe distance away from his hand and the edge of the desk. You have seen Viktor fall asleep at his desk often enough to know that sometimes he flinches in his sleep, and you don’t want to risk him pouring the remaining contents of his cup over his notes.

For a moment you linger, hesitate as you look at the pen in his hand. It’s still touched to the paper, already having left some lines that don’t belong between the neatly written calculations. A glance at his face, and you make your decision, very slowly reaching out. You almost hold your breath as your fingers close around the back end of the pen, and- you’re lucky, Viktor’s hold on the pen isn’t tight. Carefully you pull the pen out of his hand, his fingers only twitching once, trying to grasp at what is no longer there, but then his hand relaxes and falls to the desk, more relaxed than before.

Quickly you check to see if the intrusion into his space has woken him up, but Viktor’s eyes are still closed, his breath still deep and even, blissfully unaware of the care he receives by the very same hands he so often refuses to acknowledge. His long lashes rest against his faintly freckled cheeks, and for a moment you can’t help but think that the ladies of Piltover would certainly kill for lashes as full and long as Viktor’s. Maybe it’s for the best that he hides away behind books and lab equipment; you’re certain he could throw the high society of the city into love-drunk chaos if he used the charms, you know he possesses, for evil.

You know he has charms because you have been unfortunate to have witness him weaponize it during a meeting discussing the funding for future HexTech funding, and in equal parts shock and amusement you found his charms had worked. So, he can be charming, you concluded afterwards, and simply consciously decides not to be with you.

Jerk.

The word pushes so close to your lips, tinted with unjustified admiration, that it almost spills over, before you swallow it back down into a hidden place in your chest, the deepest part of your heart, where you never have to acknowledge it again.

Taking a deep breath, you turn away, unfolding the thin blanket next to Viktor. This is the most difficult part - covering him with it, without him noticing. But not once in the many times you have done him this favour has he ever woken, so your nerves are not nearly as on edge as the first few times. Indeed, this time too, he doesn’t even stir, just keeps breathing, keeps dreaming of you-don’t-know-what. And maybe you don’t even want to know. 

For a moment you stand and look at him, wondering why after all this dismissive behaviour towards you, you still care, still try to melt the ice he has piled up in blocks between you.

Maybe it’s because you feel attracted to his brilliance, you think. But then again, Jayce is brilliant too, and what you feel towards him is so different from the gravity Viktor’s character exerts on you. Maybe it’s because he is beautiful, not like a fairy tale prince, but more like the brilliant scientist who struggled his whole life to be allowed to conduct the studies his heart aches to perform with the goal to acquire the knowledge to help the people. Well, he is that scientist, isn’t he. Or maybe it’s his kindness, the one he shows everyone but you, the one you almost enviously watch him hand out to the people in his life, while you hide in the corner with a smile on your face, like the child that snuck in to see a play, hiding under the seats while watching their favourite fairy tale unfold before their very eyes, maybe the one about the kind scientist. 

In the end, you conclude, it doesn’t matter why you ended up with your feelings so entangled in non-sense, the answer to the why wouldn’t change the fact, which is that you care for Viktor and he not for you. But you are not yet ready to let go of that care, even when you long have given up hope.

Instead, you adjust the blanket a little to cover him fully, and step back. Tomorrow morning, when you come in to resume your work, your own equations and calculations, the blanket will sit neatly folded on the corner of Viktor’s table, while he is leaning over his notebooks, pen in one hand, a steaming cup of hot tea in the other. He will not mention the blanket, not even when you grab it on your way to your lunch break. If he will acknowledge your presence beyond the discussion of his latest findings, it will be to tell you to close the door, or to demand you should breathe more quietly.

An inaudible sigh frees itself from your throat without your permission, and then you reach to his desk lamp, dimming the light. It’s too dark now to work, but just right for napping. Should Viktor wake up before the sunlight of a new day floods the laboratory high above the city, he will neither wake to darkness nor to blinding light.

With a last glance you check the still peacefully sleeping Viktor and his desk. The cup is safe from being pushed over, the pen no longer drawing lines over his notebook, the blanket covering Victor to keep him warm though the night. Everything is as it should be. Well, should be beyond the fact that Viktor is sleeping here, instead of his bed.

You turn to leave, are halfway across the room, when suddenly the sound of your name being spoken breaks the silence and makes you freeze.

~*~

It’s the distinct feeling of something slipping through his fingers, something intangible, something he cannot put into words. Maybe it’s not even something physical, never was, just a feeling, but Viktor’s fingers try to keep holding on, try to keep this something in his palm, but it slips, slips away beyond where he can reach it.

No, he realises with the panic setting in of a realisation that comes too late, not something. It’s you, he’s losing. He knows it. Isn’t this what you wanted, a part of his mind mocks him. He isn’t sure why he would ever treat you with anything but the purest affection, the gentlest words, the most heartfelt reassurances, but he does. He never lets the warmth in his heart bleed into his words, much less his actions.

You irritate him, with your sweetness, how you never treat him like someone who needs help, but rather someone you care for. It’s dangerous, why can’t you see that? You wouldn’t want him, not really. He knows this much. Why do you keep being so kind to him, when all you do, knowingly or not, is bind his heart to you, each understanding word, every question about his work, even the smallest gestures of holding open a door, not to mention the big ones, the blankets you cover him with when he fell asleep at his desk, and the lunchboxes you put next to his notes, are one sling of the rope after the other binding his heart to you, a tangle of his soul to your very being.

He tried to keep you away, a wordless warning that you wouldn’t want him, not with his unrelenting focus on his work, not with his broken body and his distracted mind, not with how much less he is of what you deserve. But you stay around, and it kills him inside every time he forces himself not to react to how sweet you are to him, instead of taking your face between his hands, which - he is sure - could cover your whole face.

He wishes he could be delicate with you, as soft and caring as you are with him, but to keep you safe he grows thorns and sharp edges, and even when he scratches you, you still push through.

Things get even more difficult, infinitely more torturous when you stop being sweet. When the caring, human side of you melts away into the cool, analytical side that juggles formulas and theories and numbers and ideas through the room as if you had never done anything else. Underneath your hands working chalk against blackboard walls, brilliance takes shape in the form of equations. The way you write them down is like light, refracting in a drop of water, making what seemed dull and well known suddenly like an explosion of colour and possibilities, and Viktor hates himself every time he doesn’t tell you that without your approaches to HexTech he never could have made progress in his own work.

But between the sweetness of your character and the brilliance fall a million other things that make him want to wrap his heart around you and never let you go. The way you laugh, especially when you feel like you don’t have to hide it for reasons of politeness. The way you jump up stairs or storm down corridors when you have an idea you need to write down. The way you explain, gesticulating, voice tight with excitement. The way you respect and admire the people you work with, encouraging, supporting, ever curious for new insights, new approaches. And there is so much more of you, things Viktor can’t even begin to understand while he keeps himself at arm’s length.

Last week you brushed his arm by accident, and the short contact, really just the sensation of his shirt being pressed to his skin for a split second has made him strangely aware of your physicality- you are real. You are human. Your skin is soft, even though he may never touch it. Your hands might be warm, like his, or maybe they’re cool. They might be cool, considering you often wear a layer more than him, as if you’re cold. He suspects the clean smell of simple soap to cling to you, even though he has never allowed himself to lean in far enough to inhale it. Beneath your skin there is blood rushing, breath filling your lungs, a heart beating in your chest, and it hurts knowing those are parts of you he will never feel. Even if you were to let him, he can’t let himself. For your sake. For your safety. 

Then why- then why is there panic now in the way his fingers tighten around nothing, grasping for you, the thing he has sworn himself to never reach for? Why is his heart racing, why does the warmth that suddenly engulfs him feel like it’s the last time he will ever feel its comfort?

Panic surged through him, and rises, rises, constricts his breath, claws at his throat, makes him gag and thrash against the darkness that swallows him. It’s dark and warm, but soon enough the warmth will fade, and you will be gone.

And then?

Then what?

What is he without you but a heart unravelled, torn to pieces by his own cowardice? Why does he have to be the strong one, he wonders, his head light as he drowns in dark warmth. Why does he have to protect you? Can’t he let himself fall into your arms, which you have been holding out so willingly for so long? You offer him your arm, offer yourself as a crutch, so when you offer, why does he insist on refusing to lay his weight on you?

He sputters at the despair filling his lungs, reaches and reaches for what has slipped through his fingers.

Why can he not allow himself to accept your offer? Because he thinks there is nothing he can give you in return. But can he not support you, too? You help him walk, and he catches you, should you ever stumble. He will carry his weight, not put more on you than he must, but he can accept your help, can he not? Can he not put his heart into your hands? Would you let him hold yours in return? He would hold it carefully, the way one holds a baby bird in the hollow of their hands. He would hold your heart, and if you let him, he would hold you, too.

All of you.

Not just the parts he sees now, not just the parts he likes, the parts that fit him.

All of you.

But you’re slipping through his fingers, just as he allows himself to feel, just as he allows himself to tear down the walls he tried to build. And his fingers close around nothing, his chest fills with warmth he knows will evaporate soon enough into the darkness beyond his eyelids, and in one last, desperate plea, your name falls from his lips.

~*~

It’s just a whisper, your name spoken in the silence of the dimly lit laboratory, and for a moment you think you just imagined Viktor’s familiar voice sounding out your name. He hardly ever uses it, the times he does, so rare and few between, you sometimes wonder if he even remembers it. But now it bridges the short distance between where he sits, and where you are on your way towards the door. It reaches out, brushes against you and then evaporates into nothingness, but is enough to make you halt your steps, wondering if maybe you yourself have fallen asleep and are dreaming up a world in which he cared enough to know your name. 

Just as you come to the conclusion that your own, sleep-deprived mind played a trick on you, there is the faint sound of fabric rustling, before your name is spoken again, clearer this time, more than a whisper, almost desperate, Viktor’s accent wrapping thickly into the vowels and consonants, as if making it his own, something only he gets to call you. 

You want to stand your ground, refuse turning around and tell him “You shouldn’t sleep in the lab, Viktor. Go to bed.” But you don’t. Maybe you can’t. You can’t ever be strict or curt with him, even when he deserves it. So instead, you turn around, your heart hammering hard in your chest.

Why?

Because you have been caught in the act of caring for someone who discards every service as irrelevant, worse, less than that? Or because his voice sounds so frail, so scared, but is still enough to make the air around you vibrate, fill the high-ceiling room with the sudden awareness that it is just you and him here, him wrapped into the blanket you put over him, your name wrapped in his gentle voice. Gentle… something he has never been with you. It makes alarm bells ring in your mind, and your racing heart is over-written by sudden concern. 

“Viktor,” you breath the quiet reply as you twist, turning to look back at him. 

He has sat up in his chair, turned enough to look at you over his shoulder, his face shrouded in shadow, his expression unreadable. The blanket you so carefully pulled over his shoulders has slipped down to where it catches in his elbows that remain propped up on the table.

For a moment you just look at each other, hesitant, neither of you sure where this is going, a confrontation you had attempted to avoid, one Viktor couldn’t deny having anticipated. But you don’t know that, don’t know of the panic that surged in his chest at the thought you might slip from between his fingers, not even aware that was where you had been, thinking you were separated by oceans he had filled with buckets upon buckets of indifference.

You expect a scolding, a scoff, a “you’re too loud” or “why’d you wake me”, at least a roll of his eyes and him to turn away, so when he lifts his hand of the table and reaches out, a feeble attempt to bridge the meters between you, you are not sure what to make of it. All you do is stare at his hand for a moment, stare at the way he stretches, reaches for you, a silent, unvoiced plea that you almost swear you just imagine in the gesture.

Hesitating another moment, you finally turn around fully, slowly walking back over, but when you reach him, his eyes never leaving your face, you don’t take his hand, just consider it for a moment before abandoning the idea. He makes the decision for you, wrapping his fingers, long and warm and blotted with ink stains, around yours, pulling you closer. There is a tension in his shoulders, that begins to fall away as soon as his skin is against yours, a tension that loosens with every inch you close.

“You’re still here,” he observes, looking up at you from where he sits, his head finally turned enough towards the light to have his face lit up.

His eyes shine golden, but they lack the sharp edge he usually considers you with. Instead, they are open, like he forgot to lock the gates to his soul this time before looking at you. Behind them, there is vulnerability you are not used to seeing from him, and even after years of knowing him, you are not sure you have ever seen him like this, laid bare, every feeling in the open. But you don’t know how to read him. You know the closed version of him, and the carefully friendly version he shares with the others close to him, but this Viktor is a book written in a language you have never seen before. It is all right there, right before your eyes, pleading you to understand, and you lack the experience with him to do so. It’s painful and frustrating, because you are certain, in this moment, that you will never get another chance, will never get the time to decode the signs that put together the emotions he shows you now. 

A flicker of understanding brushes over his face, his lips lift in a small smile, as if he had heard your thoughts, your internal scolding of not holding a dictionary for his most inner motions ready at hand.

“You’re still here,” he repeats, and you don’t know what to answer.

It doesn’t seem like he expects an answer though, because he gets up from his chair, his hand still closed around yours, and stands before you. The blanket you so carefully had wrapped him in unravelled itself, slipped from his lap, caught against his trousers in something that made it almost seem reluctant to follow the physics of gravity, before piling at his feet.

Now that he stands, Viktor is taller than you, and you almost have to tilt your head a little to look into his face. His expression is still open, still unguarded maybe for the first time since you met him, and his mouth opens as if to say something, maybe explain himself.

And then he falls forwards. 

At first you think he lost his balance, or collapsed, but the moment his body comes to meet yours, you realise it’s none of that. He still stands, carries his own weight, but is leaning against you, his arms, thin but surprisingly strong, come around you, pulling you into him. Not harsh, not oppressive, not in a way that wouldn’t allow you immediate escape, but steady, present, intentional.

He knows what he’s doing and he’s doing nothing he didn’t mean to, and he lets you know, let’s you take in the shock for a moment, before his arms wrap tighter around you, his feet move him closer, and one of his hands travels to the spot between your shoulder blades, holding you against him, his hands warm enough to bleed unfamiliar comfort through your jacket, right into your skin.

You’re still hesitating, completely overwhelmed and so confused. What is this, what does this mean? Why does he let you in, searches your touch?

You give in without meaning to, let your own arms circle around him, not as tight as he holds you, but with just enough strength to signal him you want this, want him. Slowly, almost hesitantly, you let your head fall against him, let your temple rest against his vest.

He’s warm, you realise the longer the contact gets drawn out. Even the parts of his body where you feel the rigid brace over his torso are warm, hard metal digging into your stomach, and doubtlessly into his as well.

You can’t help but allow yourself to be overwhelmed by the sensations attacking your senses, the shape of his chest against yours, uneven and interrupted by metal hidden underneath the silky fabric of his shirt, adorned with hard, metal buttons, the weight of his arms around you, the caress of his hands, holding you, confident in a way you hadn’t expected him to be. The fabric of his vest is smooth under your fingertips, the buttons on the back stretching the fabric around his slim waist, a waist that now, that you got your arms around it, you realise isn’t really that slim, only in comparison to the rest of the body. Something to hold on to, someone to sink into. Somehow you had always imagined Viktor to be more fragile than he is, now, that his arms are holding you to him. But there is nothing fragile about his body, only lean muscle and soft skin and warmth that engulfs you in way you hadn’t even dared dreaming about.

Then you feel his lips against your forehead, plush and soft, the brush of his nose against your hair, the tickle of beard stubble he ignored for a day too long on the skin underneath. His lips linger, make your breath hitch, and then stop as your hold your breath, waiting, not capable of imagining what could possibly have tempted him enough to do that. But his lips stay pressed to your skin, soft, caressing, his breath fanning over your face, reminding you to take a breath of your own before your lungs ache for oxygen.

You could swear you feel a soundless chuckle in his chest, as if it amuses him that you cannot fathom what is happening, that he holds you as if he intended to never let go, but what you don’t know is the pain that makes his chest ache along with his amusement, pain over having made you believe he could ever want anything other than being this close to you. 

You stand like this for a long time, his body steady and warm against yours, while you are stiff from surprise and disbelief. But he waits, waits for the tension to fall away, waits until you relax enough to let your body melt against him. And finally, finally it feels like he is complete. Your touch, the way you mould yourself against him, fills every creak and crevance in his torn, little heart and he holds you a little tighter, breaths a little deeper, and closes his eyes so tight he thinks he might never get them open again. He wouldn’t mind if he didn’t, as long as it meant you never had to step away from him.

But you do eventually. Not before not a long while has passed, not before not your hearts have gotten so used to feeling each other’s rhythms against ribs and metal braces that they calmed down to a calm duet of affection that doesn’t need words to make the other body understand.

You do understand, at least that’s what Viktor hopes, because he isn’t strong enough to find a verbal language to express the fear he holds so tight in his chest. The fear that he is too much trouble for a free soul like yours, or maybe not enough of everything you desire. And he most certainly doesn’t know how to tell you that despite every word and every gesture, every action and rejection he used to make you believe he wouldn’t care, he loves you.

He will figure out that it takes just three words, but sometimes the simplest solutions seem the most difficult to find under the rubble of grand declarations and impossibly tight-wound feelings.

So, he doesn’t have the words to answer the questions that swim in your eyes when you pull away to look at him. Your hands are on his waist, pushing yourself away from him, like he once pushed himself away from you, but now the stuffy air that separates you from him, even if it’s just a few inches, feels like a cruel abyss, cold and insurmountable.

He knows you deserve better, deserve to know why he was once so distant and what made this distance turn into a burning fire of need to feel you by his side, but he doesn’t know how to do better, and you don’t demand him to be better either. You search his face, for something he wishes he could phrase, but you don’t need words it seems, finding your answers in his eyes, because you reach up, cupping his cheek in your palm, just a short contact of your fingers against his skin and- you smile. Viktor swears the sun just rose right in front of him, warm and gentle and so absolutely necessary for life as he knows it, beautiful enough for him to be able to push aside the fear of getting burned. 

Your fingers drop away again, a chill replacing their brushed caress, and finally Viktor can speak, even if it’s not what you deserve to be told, only what he selfishly wants to take. 

“Stay with me,” he breathes, and a shiver runs down your spine as you look up into those golden irises that have burned themselves so deep into your mind you can even see them when you close your eyes. “Stay with me.”

You blink, slowly regaining a sense of your surroundings, which had melted away the moment Viktor’s hand had met yours, and you remember where you are, why you are here, the blanket pooling around Viktor’s ankles. 

“Not here,” you tell him, and he almost startles, you feel the shock ripple through his body as if coming to the same realisation as you: You’re still standing at his desk in his lab. He looks like he has been torn out of a dream, blinking at you before suddenly looking away, his eyes scanning the walls of books and windows and blackboards. “Not tonight.”

When he looks back at you, his gaze has changed, and you brace for what you had been waiting for the whole time: him pushing you away again, reeling back in the vulnerability and shutting the gates to his soul, never to open them for you again. 

When he reaches back out to you, mirroring the way you hold him by the waist, you can tell he relishes in your surprise. 

“Not here,” he repeats your words back at you, his eyes still soft, and he leans in a little closer. “Not tonight. Not here tonight. Where then?”

You understand what he’s going for, even if it’s not what you had meant. At the same time, you cannot deny that what he’s asking is what you want to ask but haven’t allowed yourself. Instead, you had tried making it sound like it’s about the time rather the place. But Viktor sees through you, even through the mask you put on so that what’s inside your soul doesn’t scare him away. Either he has sharper eyes than you had realised until now or he simply knows no fear. While for now you assume the latter, the truth lies in the former.

His question still hangs between you, his “th” more a “d” due to his accent, and even though the familiar sound of it tries coaxing you to speak your mind, you cannot admit that right now all you want is to curl up against him, or around him, on your bed, so you remain silent.

He looks at you, as if your reply is written in your eyes, and maybe it is, because he nods, as if to agree, or maybe he decided for himself what he wants to do, because he pulls away and reaches for the button of the desk lamp, switching it off.

In the darkness that engulfs you instantly your ears feel like their hearing has improved a hundred-fold, hearing him move as he picks up the blanket from the floor and throws it on his chair, even when all you can think about is how cold you feel where his hands had rested moments ago.

In the absolute dark Viktor’s hand finds yours, not unlike the first touch he shared with you tonight - no, not just tonight, but ever. You hear the clicking of his cane, as it hits the floor and then he tucks at your hand, guiding you towards the door you slipped through like a thief in the night. The only thing you have stolen though is Viktor’s heart, but that was long before tonight. Although perhaps it could be said that tonight’s loot is nobody other than the brilliant scientist himself, stolen away from his desk by the realization gained in a nightmare that he must not let love slip through his fingers. 

As Viktor leads you through the corridors of the Academy, you barely pay attention to anything but his hand in yours, larger, with long fingers that close around yours in a certainty and confidence you find yourself admiring. Perhaps it’s simply the fact that you admire him. You don’t pay much mind where he brings you, trusting him, knowing he wouldn’t harm you or do anything you object. 

When he stops in front of his dorm room door, you’re calm, almost as if the way he had held you before had drained all the nerves from your body, and so you let him lead you inside, kick your shoes off next to the door, and follow him to the bed, onto which he pulls you down on top of him. His arms come back around you, holding you in place when you try shifting off him, worried you might hurt him with your weight. 

“Stay,” he whispers, his lips brushing against your ear, his breath like an intoxicating mist on your skin.

“I’m heavy,” you attempt to argue weakly, “I’ll hurt you.”

His arms tighten on you, pulling you closer, and you can hear more than see him shake his head.

“Stay.” A single word, a command, a plea.

“Your braces-”

Viktor sighs, and for a moment you wonder if this is where he kicks you back out of his life as his arms loosen around you, and you push up to lean over him.

“You care-” 

too much, is what you’re certain he wanted to say, but he just stares at you, as you’re propped up over him, and if you weren’t waiting for rejection, you might have closed the gap and kissed him. 

But the last two words never come, swallowed up in affection and disbelieving bliss as his aureate eyes read the concern in yours. Concern that shifts as you get distracted by the specks of bronze in his irises, the light freckles that dot over his nose and cheeks all the way down to his neck, where they disappear under the collar of his shirt. They’re so faint you never noticed them until you almost had your nose pressed to them, and you find you love every single one of them, wish you could lean down to show them - show Viktor - your affection with the brush of your lips.

“You care.” Viktor’s mind feels like a scratched record, unable to come up with any new words, only repeating the ones his throat had already fought to rasp out, and he regrets the way your eyes jump from where they were running over the skin of his neck back to his eyes. Their caress was soft and appreciative, and he vows to himself to ask you to do it again, just not tonight. Maybe under bright sunlight where he can see your eyes shine and make out the baby hair that grows where your face ends and your hair begins. 

It is as if his words have torn you out of your stupor, and quickly you sit up.

“You have to change out of the braces,” you tell him, and Viktor shakes his head in defeat, before obeying your order, limping to the bathroom to change.

You watch him disappear, and suddenly you feel too awkward to move. Your body suddenly is heavy with sleep, but you resist the temptation of his soft looking pillow, the one that is sure to wrap you in his scent, and instead stay seated, waiting for him to come back.

When he does, his hair is tousled from pulling his shirt over his head, the clothes he is wearing now looking soft and comfortable, not unlike the ones you had thrown on before sneaking into the laboratory to take care of him.

The memory of how the evening started makes a smile tuck at your lips, and Viktor raises an eyebrow at you, in equal parts amused and curious.

“Won’t you share your thoughts,” he asks, glad to finally have access to his vocabulary again. Most of it anyways.

“Just-” You watch as he sits down next to you, before laying down and reaching his hands out for you; an invitation to come back into his arms. You don’t hesitate. “When I came into the lab, I wanted to make sure you would sleep at least a little more comfortably.”

Viktor pulls you against his chest, now a lot softer than a few minutes ago with the brace. His chest expands and deflates evenly as he shifts you to lay half on top of him. It is the first time you are so close to him, so intimate in his bed even before having tasted his kiss or spoken words of confessions. Still, it feels natural, like you belong, like you are meant to be in his arms. He feels the same.

“I’m sure I’ll sleep more comfortably tonight than any night before,” he admits, an affectionate glint in his eyes that makes your knees weak. “And…” he hesitates, his eyes flickering away, his tongue coming out to wet his lips, “I do hope it’s just the first night of many.”

Your heart jumps and your cheeks heat up, so you drop your head to his shoulder, hiding the embarrassment of hearing words you had dreamt about hearing for so long. His hands rub your back in slow, firm circles, but the quiet laugh that rumbles in his chest gives away not just his amusement at your reaction but also his melting anxiety about your answer.

“Fine,” you agree, your words muffled against his shirt. “Only the first.”

A shimmer of fear remains as you bid your good night to him, curled against his warm body, that things will be different in the morning, that his resentment will have returned, that he might kick you out or have disappeared by the time you wake. But Viktor still holds you tight when you wake up, brushing his nose against your cheek and smiling at you as if there’s a secret only the two of you know.

Brushes of his nose against your cheek that morning turn to brushes of his hands against yours throughout the day and the next weeks, then to brushes against your elbow, brushes of his nose against your hair, his lips against your cheeks and finally an explanation of what had changed so suddenly before you take the leap and press your lips to his in a kiss that neither of you would have dared hoping for three months ago.

It’s easy to take your time, to slowly work up from one display of affection to the next, because you know you’re in the right place, and there is no haste.

And life goes on.

Different, and yet the same. Still equations and formulas paint themselves against the blackboards in the laboratory, directed by your hand, and still Viktor watches you, watches the brilliant colours of unlocking nature’s secrets coming to life through you, but he no longer turns his gaze away, when you look over to him. He no longer sends you away when you offer him lunchboxes, but invites you to sit with him, or even joins you for lunch outside in the gardens.

He lets himself lean on you, even if it’s not much, it eases the weight he sometimes feels on his shoulders, and he catches you, when you stumble through nights of little sleep or low moods. And even though it is perhaps the one thing nobody else notices, it's the one thing that makes the biggest difference to him, and to you: he no longer sleeps in the lab. Even when he stays late, there is always a point in which his body aches for sleep, sleep in the arms of the one person he trusts most, the one person he loves with more of his heart than he ever thought was possible to give.

So, he sneaks down the corridors on those nights when he hasn’t pulled you back into his own room, tries to mute the sound of his cane against the tiles as he moves towards your door and slips in, like an intruder. But he isn’t. Not when it’s your arms he falls into, not when it’s your body that presses to him and tells him he is home.

A/N: This turned out not short (for me) and only sweet towards the end. Also, I feel like I was on drugs while writing this (I promise, I wasn't).

[thatwishfulthinking]

a wretched flower

my last one shot skipped viktor giving head… rest assured that is not something i plan to let happen often… and here, neither do you

wc: 3.5k

summary: after years of avoiding his feelings for you, viktor has finally turned a corner— though you’re still unsure if he’ll stumble back into the bear trap of all-consuming work. not too keen on neglect, you decide to make sure he’s sticking to the right track. newly established relationship. f!reader

warnings: smut, desperation, dirty talk, choking

btw— i kind of have no idea what’s going on here. dom!vik, sub!vik, then angst, then metaphors, then clichés, then more sub!vik, and straight smut, and a little fluff? idk this has been making me insane for like a month

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Clothes are left in a trail, leading from the living room into the bedroom. You're both on the bed, limbs tangled as you cling to each other. He's whispering sweet nothings into your ear. Things, of course, you’d have appreciated to hear scattered across the day instead of sewn together and adhered to one single moment.

It was a reality that you hoped for at the beginning of your relationship, only to soon declaw each finger from, one at a time, until you let it go. After yet another dinner at your kitchen island alone, accompanied by the somber tap of an expectant fork, heating up the remenants for a stony soul when he finally decided to cross through the front door. Things had been better; you basked in his attention for some time. It was only recently that he had backslid into the same depths that pooled at the most tormented part of your mind. 

Improvement wasn’t linear, of course, but god, could the ebbs and flows of it all be nothing less than excruciating. A garden, tended to and watered, would not continue to flourish if suddenly neglected. And oh, were you in trouble if came winter’s first frost. 

He moans softly, his hips thrusting upwards to meet yours, nipping at your earlobe. "I could do this with you for the rest of my life, and it would never be enough." His kiss is stinging with the sweet affection you’ve sought for fruitlessly for days now.

You grab his hips and needily move them faster for him. You knew he wouldn’t last this way, and the dichotomy of not wanting it to be over and desperately needing to take what you could, in the fleeting moments you had it, festered low in your abdomen. 

Another moan is blooming on his lips, and you register it in blissful slow motion. "You're so impatient, my sweet girl.” It’s a breathless, low sound, reverberating light into that dark place in your brain. He relents, his hips snapping with intensity. "Like this?" he groans, the bulb in his throat tremoring deliciously as it his voice travels up his esophagus in offering.

“My sweet boy” you whine back insistently at the use of the name: The very phrase he had decided to comandeer, your favorite endearment for him. Shame on you for sharing it with him, because the cheeky thing loved it so much that he was compelled to make it yours instead. You wrench his hand off of your waist, placing it on your neck. 

The sly smirk that plays on his face is one of prideful understanding at your nonverbal prompt. He grips your throat gently, his hand wrapping around the eloquent column as he applies a slight pressure. His gaze is one of communication, searching, silently asking, Is this what you wanted?

“Harder, love,” you declare, because after ample days of not enough, too much was more than welcome.

A tightening feeling at your trachea. The intentional shift of his position. The subsequent heightening the speed of his movements, it all hits you like three successive strikes. “This okay?" he asks, his breathing ragged but his voice weighted by feathers as he monitors your reaction. 

He leans in, hand brushing over your cheek as he were thumbing layers of dust off a forgotten bookshelf. "Look me in the eyes," he commands gently, and you realize that as your face twisted and contorted under his, he had been absorbing the tiny details that spoke to something else battering at you. A somber note between syllables of your words, the very corner of your mouth, where your lips discolored at the transition to skin, curling downwards ever so slightly. Subtle, but there all the same.

When you meet his eyes, he settles at a conclusion to the very research he had been conducting from aereal view. He presents a hopeful, apologetic solution— it pains him to think of all the time you’ve spent utterly hollowed by his absense. 

"No matter how busy I might be, you're always on my mind.”

The reassurance swaths across your collarbones, fizzling out delightfully somewhere at the peaks of your shoulders. A sharp grin appears across your face. “I know it’s worse now.” A calculatedly vague statement, of course, baiting him. 

He furrows his brow, slightly concerned by the change in your demeanor, and oh, the poor thing falls into your trap. "What are you talking about, love? What do you mean it’s worse now?" he asks softly, releasing your neck and letting tentative fingers pass across your brow, pinky pressed to your temple.

You laugh mischievously— he was completely correct in his sentiment, and for this you were well aware. 

“You couldn’t stop thinking of me… compromised, before,” you grab his neck instead, causing his jaw to jerk forwards. “But now that you’ve had me, you need me. You need this, love, and now it’s even harder to wander from because you know exactly what it’s like.”

His eyes widen, mystefying golden caches that you’d love to curl up inside of. His bleached clavicle warms with something that resembles sun kisses, washed with a soft flush. 

He swallows hard, his gaze locked with yours. “That is something I cannot deny,” he admits, almost solemnly, eyes pacing back and forth pensively to find the subtext. "You're right. It's harder now. The lab, the separation, it is… challenging.”

You purse your lips, still holding a bit of teasing bregrudgement. “Tell me you love it then, Viktor. Speak to me, for god’s sake, forget all the pleasant—“

"Your pussy is divine," he cuts you off, the words rolling off his tongue, and it’s almost without second thought. Someone so pretty uttering such filthy words like a confession is a sight to behold, and your breath catches abruptly.

You bring a hand to his face, and he closes his eyes, his exhales growing stronger at the thought, offering more. “I dream of it, fantasize about it, obsess over it. I stare at the chalkboard and try to conjure up the taste of it in my mouth." 

“You must be parched,” and you sigh passively, as if isn’t the most seductive statement his eardrums could manage with currently.

His eyes fly open and he groans loudly, heat coursing through his body. You can feel the boiling froth in his stomach seeping through his skin into yours where you lie against one another. How enjoyable it is to peer at him now, avoiding eye contact, staring up at the cieling and squeezing his eyes closed in heavy blinks.

“You’ve been rude, baby.” You tut.

His chest swells with a large inhale before slowly looking down at you once again, raising an eyebrow. You can’t miss the immistakeble hint of a grin playing on his lips. "Have I? And what did I do exactly?”

He leans in closer, his hand trailing up the side of your leg, pressing a thumb into the dip below the jut of your hipbone. "I'd hate to think I've offended you, love."

”I’ve just noticed,” you lift your chin and angle it upwards towards him. “You skipped what you claim to crave.”

“Sounds like a terrible oversight on my part." He tilts his head, his eyes gleaming with playful corruption. 

He leans in, lips ghosting against yours, amber irises bleeding into one another centimeters from your eyes. A painting set to still, knocked sideways by the soft underbelly of your spite, just before it could dry. 

"Allow me to rectify that," he whispers, before gently placing a kiss on your collarbone, starting his descent.

You’re shaking your head as you watch him move towards your legs. ”I don’t know, I can’t help but think you don’t appreciate it.” Appreciate me. “Is that it?” You tease, feigning mock sadness, the real version holding real space in the real lonely moments you’ve endured without him lately.

He looks up at you in an emotion so passionate it may be offense. “Love,” he murmers, his voice low, now swinging his head back and forth as well. "You know that simply isn’t true. Don't make the mistake of doubting that." He’s nudging your legs apart, and the sick, scorned thing in your mind jumps at the opportunity to interject.

“Maybe I shouldn’t let you.” You grab his chin, pulling it away from where his face has become situated between your thighs so he looks up at you. “Maybe I shouldn’t let you discover what it tastes like after the fact. You think you deserve that, hmm?”

He stills, and his brows furrow in dismay. You swear you see his lips beginning to tremble. "No, please," he gasps, his voice barely above a whisper. He sucks his cheeks in and bites, creating a pronouced hollow on either side of his slim face.

You scan his expression, completely enthralled in the fact that you’ve never seen him do that before, but he’s still trying his best at persuasion. “Please, I want to taste us, together. I do.”

You nod, acknowledging his plea, your grip on him firming slightly, fingertips pinching and propping him up by the jaw, snared like a spider’s catch. “You forgot all about it, my sweet boy. I can’t help but think you’ve been negligent, and just started fucking me. That doesn’t seem fair,” you tut once again.

He whimpers, his body trembling without inhibition now. "I'm sorry," he chokes, his voice ragged, spitting out fragments, as if otherwise he would be forced to swallow splinters chipped from feeble teeth. “Never that. I couldn’t forget. I simply lost track of my thoughts. I got carried away, I got distracted, I’m sorry." 

It may be a bit deranged, but you see yourself frolicking around, victorious, in your mind’s eye. There, you are clutching his reassurance— though product of an entirely different conversation— in a tight, delighted fist. Despite it all, your expression remains stoic.

"Please, just one taste. Just let me have one." There’s a low urgency in his voice that you haven’t heard before.

You spread your legs wider, immediately yanking his chin back up away from you as he tries to drive for a lick. His neck is now rendered taught again, poised back up towards you from your own manipulation. “I think that’s disingenuous, love. I think you know that one taste isn’t enough for either of us.”

He moans in frustration that somehow he’s saying all the wrong things, scrambling for any words that will earn clemecy. You can see the gears turning, conjuring up a response— another of which, you know, and perhaps he does too, that you will easily meet with the tortourous fortress of your acidity. “You're right," he gasps hopelessly, giving in, and he makes sure to echo himself over and over. 

“Repetition doesn’t denote sincerity.” You patronize, to which you can nearly see beads of sweat born above his brow. He buries his face into your inner thigh, shameful, disheartened. 

“I want you to look,” you say, your grip loosening, allowing his neck to relax, throwing a leg over his shoulder, a coaxing heel following the path of his spine up and down.

Arousal spattered across your thighs, parted and reddened from him fucking you. Swelling like a flower at daybreak. He desperately wants to put his tongue where his cock had just been and—

You cut his thoughts off. “Why did you sabotage yourself, my love?”

He looks up at you, his eyes wide and bewildered. "Sabotage myself, darling?" he murmurs, his voice dragging with grief. "I don’t understand. What do you mean I sabotaged myself?"

You give him a stern look, heel settling against vertebrae for a moment while you readjust your expression. “Is it not my responsibility to make sure you take care of yourself? That you don’t starve yourself of your wants, of your needs? I forbid that. Though your actions suggest that this isn’t something you need.” You draw a jagged inhale.

“Or rather, that I am not.” 

And the bitter words finally find soil to take root here, stretching upwards and outwards, a wretched flower themselves.

He shakes his head vehemently, his eyes clouding with the pain of finally understanding. “No, please, don’t say that.”

You break, reverting back to the discouraged version of yourself that you’ve had to be for weeks, and you’re gazing at one another, palms stretched outwards, showing your hand, each card a compliment to the other’s misfortune.

“Do you doubt what I feel for you?” And he says it as if he fears the letters that comprise the words themselves. 

“No,” you say meekly, and his nose wrinkles slightly, not entirely convinced.

“It—“ he sucks in a sharp breath. “Consumes me while I’m away. You. I’m never without you in thought, you need to know that. Please, I can’t have you thinking otherwise. You don’t understand, I used to sleep in the lab, because that was what would consume me, but now, every night, I come back. I come back to you. I know it isn’t much, but come back.” His eyes search yours with a wildness to be heard. 

You swallow at the guilty knot of bile in your throat, tear ducts miraculously stirring awake for duty.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers. “You’re right,” There it is again. “It has been worse lately— thinking of you, in all regards. Just as my absence has worse. It’s ignorant for me to think that simply picturing you is enough. I know it isn’t. I need to be present, I need to just be with you.”

Here he is, Viktor, taking a sledgehammer to those walls, the ones you didn’t use mortar to build because you hoped that he would knock through them in the first place. Here he is, Viktor, crushing that wretched flower under the sole of a worn dress shoe, hurrying it into a paper bag which he takes to the lab and promptly incinerates so that its pollen is to never spread again. 

His gaze softens, thankful, when he observes that the downwards draw of your lips, where they discolor at the transition to skin, have pulled back to equilibrium. Subtle, but still there all the same. He takes another breath, now slow, much more assured. 

“And I will be, just, please.” 

You give him a weak nod, you find no skepticism for what he’s saying, and so, you take him up on his offer, you do not speak, you just be.

You sigh softly as he presses his chin to your mound, looking back up at you with adoration in his eyes, rubbing your thighs and sides and pulling your legs apart, before pressing a soft kiss to your clit. His eyes shine with desperation, one that lusters with the earnest need to convince. “Now, may I?”

A bashful smile is what he gets, a hand cupping his face, which is the most you can give while all of the solitude-driven uncertainty dissipates from your soul.

He pushes your legs apart, settling between them, his mouth hovering over your folds, bathing it in warm, billowing breaths. He plants soft kisses against your clit.

You grab desperately for a fistful of his hair. 

He gasps, his mouth already parted, tongue lolling, desperation turning into something much deeper. His tongue is hot, the suction of his mouth nearly unbearable, he’s being sloppy, abandoning his practiced nature simply for this.

He pauses and looks at you, his eyes locking with yours, his breaths coming in sharp pants against you. "I need you," he shudders, his voice ragged, bearing the weight of deeper meaning. 

There’s something so endearing about stopping what he’s doing to ask for more when he could just continue and take it for himself, but god, he’s worked himself up now, your foot twitching against his back. 

“Look at me,” you murmur, and he stops abruptly mid stroke, tongue out and glued to you, massive needy eyes, hazy with both sickening lust and pleading awe. You stroke his temple with your knuckle, murmuring his name breathlessly, and letting out a strangled cry as he cages his arms around your legs and pulls you up to his face, the back of your thighs locked against his collarbones, simultaneously held up and pinned down under his lips. The sensation of fabric tugging under your spine catches your attention, your gaze moving to angular shoulders, down his back, decorated with quaint little moles. You jump from one point to the next, where you rediscover the dimples at the base of his spine, just above where he’s moving his hips in slow, uncoordinated circles against the sheets. Hands, satisfied with how your thighs have found balance on his shoulders, shift, thumbs coming to massage where your skin meets your core, pulling it apart softly so he can lick his own whimpers into you, nose nudging at the underside of your clit.

Utterly helpless, the two of you, as you tug and chocolate tendrils and every muscle, every tendon, every capillary goes stiff. 

He moans, his hands grabbing at your thighs and pulling you even closer, giving you no escape. He's panting and sweaty, hair stuck to his brow, ears slightly flushed. It’s just about the most beautiful thing you've ever seen. "Please love," he whines, his voice ragged and urgent, “Please, love, please come. I need it. I need to.”

His face nods rapidly as he speaks into our flesh, and you cry out, his tongue lapping now with a preciseness to cultivate your orgasm and care for it like it’s precious. And your body feels like it’s accelerating, through all the seasons, the biting of winter in the jolts of adrenaline coursing in between your thighs, the mugginess of summer in his hot tastebuds. His dark eyelashes flutter like birds migrating, and his noises are like the groan of an old tree’s branches resisting torrential rain. His eyes are as captivating as golden hour, the sun begging you to follow it down the edge of the earth so that it can illuminate you all over again at the next hemisphere, pleading that you come with him. So you do. Hard, and he follows suit, straight into the duvet.

You’re stretching for him, reaching out and staring until your hands wrap around his shoulders and you inadvertently dig your fingers into his armpits, pulling him up on top of you and holding his waist with your thighs. He nuzzles into your neck, bracing a few moments too late for the shockwave. Your stroke his hair and tell him it’s okay, and you nearly want to sob, trembling against one another, willing your nervous system to still. And he nods into your throat, soothing you back, clutching at you tightly, whispering it’s okay back to you softly.

He grounds you without thinking or trying, just being, adorning your neck with tender kisses. You kiss his temple back, tilting your chin down against your throat to look at him as he draws his head to the side to peer back up at you. And you’re faintly aware that the angle of your face is abysmal, probably, but you don’t care.

“Are you okay?” You both ask, simultaneously, and your arms tighten around him affectionately.

You both chuckle when you speak at the same time, and it’s such a silly, wonderful thing, a small, soft smile budding on his lips. He’s so still, simply watching you, like you’ve just watered his soul. 

“Love…?”

“Yes, my sweet?” You whisper quietly, pecking his nose.

He shushes you softly, presses a finger against your lips. “Let me. Let me tell you…” 

You laugh at whatever strange force has corralled you two into pleasant delirium.

“Tell me.. what?” You murmur.

He whispers, slowly bringing himself up onto his elbows, his breath warm against your cheek, “Everything.. just...” he trails off and presses a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth.

You rub his temples gently with your thumbs, fingers stretching over his ears and playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. “I know, love. You know that I know,” you coo. You let out a bashful, affectionate giggle as he rolls to the side, bringing you, your legs, still twined around him, with you. You kiss his mouth softly, then the spot between his eyebrows. “Do you know? That I also feel.. everything?”

“Yes… I do,” he sighs, and his eyes close, grazing the tip of his nose up and down the bridge of yours. It’s all so nonsensical, but the mutual understanding prevails.

“Then maybe we shouldn’t even attempt to find the words” You whisper, feeling some gravitational force pull your face right into his neck.

He nods, his hand coming up to swipe your hair out of the way, exposing the flesh of your shoulder, and he kisses you there, trailing kisses across your collarbone.

“You’re right,” he murmurs, just one last time.

You copy him, kissing his collarbone back, then his shoulder. He kisses your pulse point, so you do the same. When his lips land on your nose, it only takes a few seconds after they retract for yours to find his. And you continue this little exchange, the only language you need, back and forth, until drowsiness retires the two of you for the night. In your dreams, you weed out vines and thorny stems with gloveless fingers, vowing to only let the good things to grow.

[vanillabeanbabe]

the most beautiful flower from my garden.

[ihopeinevergetsoberr]

playing with this bow (and arrow)

— chapter 2

author’s note: narcoleptic shenanigans. slightly suggestive, but mostly sad and reminiscent. i’m teasing the hell out of this slow burn, i’m sorry.

word count: 3,3k

— The crumbles of instant coffee swirl at the bottom of his paper cup—a diluted, tepid mess spinning in a circle. It reminds him of a hive of ants, or rather of the plant you’d knocked over in your vertigo, its sticky soil sneaking inside the parquet joints. The latter ignites a shudder. It comes with the sight of you lying supine, calloused grip mellowing around the bow. The heel of your shoe, broken at the base and slipping off one bare foot. The ambulance siren wailing in the distance as he hovers above you, face to pallid face.

He chooses to stick to the ants. 

You don’t stir when he comes back. The static of your heartbeat does the animate honours when Viktor bends over your cot. He fluffs your pillow, accepts a Ritalin-tasting kiss, and wriggles backward into the chair, his best shirt shrivelled like a soggy fingertip. 

The nurse kindly leaves in a knowing haste. He thanks her with a smothered smile and sets his cane aside, weary gaze turning rigid as he counts the band-aids on your fingers and sighs when the bloodied ones prevail: three to one in crusted, brownish favor. 

“I’m narcoleptic,” you deadpan. Viktor’s good leg stops bouncing. 

He wants to ram you into the squeaky headboard and drain his voice hoarse with desperate accusations—how come you didn’t tell him sooner? What else are you conveying? Instead, he shrinks inside his tux and swallows a nervous cough. This isn’t the time, nor the place. Frankly, this isn’t even about him. 

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, and tries to mean it, but his hurt is hissing in every syllable. He fails to hide it, even in the effort with which he’s struggling to catch your eyes from beneath the tousles of his hair. And you don’t buy it one bit. There’s never tenderness in betrayal. 

“Don’t start. I’ve only just found out.”

“I’m not starting. I really am sorry.”

“You look like you’re about to start.”

“I do not. Forgive me for assuming, but you’re not exactly famous for confiding in me when it comes to your ailments.”

“Viktor.” 

“Milackú.”

He veers closer and pries your fist loose, his careful, well-kempt phalanxes falling atop your crust-speckled ones. Viktor is all about hands, both his and those of others. It’s a curse of a pianist: to endlessly scrutinize cuticles, corns, and calluses, more so when he gets to trace them after softly peeling off the old band-aids. It’s a calming routine: he sanitizes and kisses you through your wincing, then gently wraps a fresh tape around each swell. 

“It makes sense, you know,” you mumble, more to yourself. Viktor looks up, still holding you by the wrist. “The sleepiness. That fucking, ah… cottony feeling in my legs, every time I laugh. Like they’re about to keel over or something.”

“Right. The horrific sleep deprivation, or did you leave that one out on purpose?” 

“I don’t think that counts. It’s self-inflicted. You know I can’t sleep until I’m done rehearsing.”

“Yes, but for thirty hours on end?”

“The Autumn Festival is no joke. I don’t want to half-ass it in front of the royal orchestra. They’re coming all the way from Liverpool, for god’s sake! It’s called dedication.” 

Viktor scoffs, swatting your hand away. His eyes light up, sad and jaded—a fleck of burnt ochre on the tapestry of grey, yet not nearly as rest-insolvent folds. 

“Try insanity. That’s a better-fitting word.” He sinks, head in hands, a low groan bouncing off his palms like a muffled plea.

You stare at his wedding band, blindly groping yours—like the ring might comfort you, still warm from his loving ministrations. Instead, your stomach twists. What if it’s the only thing keeping him at your side, a golden obligation forcing him to put up with all this? You shoo the thought away, but it lingers, glinting on your finger. The augury of your guilt, of two more miserable years to come: but you don’t know it yet. Neither of you does.

“I just want to be perfect,” you wheeze under your breath, and the room blurs into an astigmatic flick—the sheets, the screens, the teal, the white, the translucent. The single black speckle of his tux—your only bit of kindness in this entire medicine-drenched world. And god, does it look handsome.

“If health is the price you must pay for perfection,” murmurs the black tux, “I’d say its tariffs are inhumane.”

You fall asleep mid weak, throaty laughter.

—

Two days later, you’re playing Haydn with the royal orchestra and your heavily medicated head is thrown back, undone-like. It’s his C and D major concertos—tedious pieces, much too baroque for your liking. Viktor knows that much: his eyes haunt you from the audience, framed by a worried frown, his cross-armed, lanky stance clad in the very suit he was wearing when he’d found you unconscious. 

When the performance is over, you can barely stand up to accept the ovation. The people start spinning, besieging you with their menacing, blurry faces, and you can’t tell who is whom—the violins, the flutes, the fellow cellos. A distant murmur of the host’s praise, somewhere at your left. Professor Knirsch, our pride and joy. Something, something, the pinnacle of dedication. Viktor with pink peonies, in your peripheral. Stealing a discreet kiss on the mouth and whispering some indistinguishable adjective—either immaculate or impeccable. You lean on your cello and gasp when he places the bouquet in your hand, its weight like that of a kettlebell.

“I think I’m dozing off.” 

Your voice is foreign when you mumble it, slurring the diphthong like the ability of language is gradually leaving you, too. Viktor straightens, his grip alert around your waist. The chandelier above him hazes like a pretty halo, and you put the last capacity of your muscles into a weak smile, staring up at him from the nadir of already bent knees. You want to reach for his face and squeeze it between your mellow palms, to let it become the last thing you see before your inevitable collapse. 

“Do you need to go home?” His question is warm in your ear, a ticklish little worry against your temple. You stare past him until the audience blends into a single smear and the murmurs in the orchestra merge, crashing down, miserably failing to reach you. 

“Yes.”

Viktor anxiously looks around. 

“I’ll take you home.”

“No!” You shake your head, but it comes out like an unwieldy bob. “You’re… Fuck, you’re going on stage. S…So soon.” 

“Not until after the intermission. Surely, I can make it. I’ll ask to—“

“No.”

“Yes. Someone, please, take her cello— Yes, just like that. And make some room. Yes, thank you. Now, could you please help me walk her down the stage? I’m afraid I can’t manage with the cane— Yes. Thank you, sir. Thank you. That way, milackú. Go ahead...” 

—

In the cab, you can barely keep your lids open, and Viktor has to tuck you against his shoulder. The concerned first flute—your serendipitous helper—is hovering over the car and babbling something terrified in his thick Liverpool accent. 

Professor Knirsch, is the other Professor Knirsch going to be okay? 

Should we call an ambulance?

Is she about to faint?

You find it in you to laugh—the other Professor Knirsch never fails to ignite a giggle, but Viktor doesn’t look as amused. He’s a mess of cold sweat and peeled eyes, his shaky fingers holding onto you vice-like. He smells of that spicy cologne you don’t like—a stifling, leathery thing that doesn’t go with the scent of his skin, and so you cling off his neck and melt into the headrest instead, bloodshot eyes pondering the grainy ceiling. How many more ceilings will you stare at like this, limp and half-conscious? How long until you don’t have to flee the scene to urgently fulfill your most loathed need? 

The cab takes off with a buzzing sound. It rings in your ears—a harsh, flinch-kindling screech, lingering long enough to subdue Viktor’s question. He has to repeat it thrice until it finally gets to you, limpid, loud, and lucid.

“How do you feel?”

You turn your head and watch him loosen his tie, his trembling hands fondling the knot until it’s lax enough to let him clear his throat. You close your eyes again.

“Like I’m about to shut off.”

“Can you postpone that until we get home? It shouldn’t take too long. I paid this gentleman here a little extra so we can jump some red lights—“

“I don’t know.”

“Well, sadly, I can’t carry you. Please, hang on for me, and then you can hit the wall right in the corridor.”

“I’ll try. Just, please, keep talking to me.”

“I can do that.”

The vice-like grip slips to your thigh and shackles it to the seat. It’s pressing down hard enough to keep you awake for a few more minutes, the tender power of human contact circling above your knee. You watch his thumb twindle with the run in your tights—prying it wider, spindlier. Just like pianists, cellists have their little curses too—though theirs are hardly as neat. A cellist's hands are always string-stained and sore. A cellist’s nylons are never intact. 

“I’m sorry I won’t hear you perform tonight.” 

You buck sideward to ruffle his hair. It’s a little harsh to the touch—a crisp casualty of too much styling gel. But you’re toying with it anyway—pushing a strand here, tucking a lock there, breaking the pattern, backing off, starting over. And Viktor lets you, pliant as ever, his patient smile crooked to the right.

“And why is that?”

“It’s not often that I get to drool over you playing Liszt in that suit. No one does it like you do.”

He laughs—a rich, hearty chuckle. “You had your chance, you know. You missed my Saturday show. It’s just that you were too busy rehearsing yourself to death.”

“Is that why you were wearing this at the hospital?”

“Mhm. It’s truly a pity you didn’t come. No one in the audience had guessed my favorite flowers correctly.”

“I’m so sorry, Viktor. You know how I get when something important is coming up—“

“Oh, so your weekly workshops are events of utmost importance now? Forgive me, honey. I was not aware that anything on your schedule demands uninterrupted rehearsals.“

Your hand falls boneless into his lap, meek fingers spread out like you’d forgotten how to clench them. The muscle stupor strikes again: springing in a tiny, angry tic on your mouth and locking your every limb in a fuzzy confine. 

“I asked you to talk to me,” you hiss, wanly. “Talking doesn’t imply arguing.”

Your tongue goes numb, too. You can barely feel it, awkwardly flailing under your palate, and the murky vision comes back a hundredfold, dismantling everything into those familiar, minuscule mottles—like the beginning of a bad, lucid dream.

Viktor softly slams you into his lap, his thigh a lean, bony pillow. His hand is on your back, rubbing clockwise and counting vertebrates—up and down, neck to tailbone. 

“I’m sorry,” Viktor sighs from above you. “I shouldn’t have—“

He sounds like he’s in a jar, strained and a bit stuffy-nosed. And it’s a funny timbre—like that of the Lady in the Radiator from a Lynch movie you both like. You try to laugh at it, but nothing comes out—only a bizarre wheeze against his trousers. 

“Mhm,” you hum, meaning, ‘Don’t worry about it.’ You hope he gets the translation right: ever since you were discharged from the hospital, he’s learned the difference between all kinds of mhms—yeses, nos, bring-me-thats, love-yous, fuck-yous. 

Your blurry husband smiles.

“When I come back—“ he leans closer to your ear, his tie swinging before your face, “—I’ll play some Liszt for you. And I won’t change out of this attire until I’m done. Would you like that?”

“Mhm.” Now, this one is a love-you. 

The car finally stops, and Viktor lifts your head, looking you in the half-lidded eye.

“I love you more.”

—

Later that night, he keeps his promise. He’s playing the second Hungarian Rhapsody, your favorite C-Sharp minor one—grim, solemn, and full of crispy tremolos.

You sit on the bed with your chin tucked under your knees, and your mind feels clearer now: the sporadic naps had paid off, fuelling you with enough power to wash the daunting day off in the shower and change into a meshy chemise. 

Viktor is a vision when he plays, more so in a suit. You watch his hands flee from key to key, in that perfectly curved stance, plucking one galloping staccato after another. It’s a sequence of sounds unraveled, then masterfully merged again into something mighty and prancing. He’s careful with his crescendos, a tad too mindful of disturbing the upstairs neighbor—and, in a way, that’s terribly charming. But he has a wife to please. And there’s nothing you hate more than half-cocked dynamics.

“Louder.”

You slip off the mattress and shuffle closer, rising behind him on bare tiptoes like a ballerina. Viktor leans to the left, stammering down the bass register, and you spin—once, twice; arms up in the air, fingers clasped together. He grins at your reflection in the lacquered deck, then proceeds to tap out the climax, his gelled hair bouncing with each aggressive nod.

You stirr mid-spin and bump into his stool, your bandaged index pointed to the keyboard. 

 “Louder!”

“It’s late,” Viktor yelps over the sforzando. “I’m not particularly keen on dealing with an angry old lady at this hour.”

“Oh, she’ll be fine. It’s not like we’re having a blaring orgy here.”

“That can be arranged.”

When he’s done, there’s sweat running down his face—all pearly little droplets clinging to his nose before he wipes them with a crumpled cuff. Feverish cheeks and unfastened, damp clothes—the disheveled victims of the radiator. 

A round of applause for the maestro; an amazed bravo scratching his earlobe with a husky twist bordering on a taunt. He bows for you with a bashful smile, one talented hand cupping his heart as if it might hop onto the keyboard and slam out an encore. And oh, does it hop when you wobble betwixt him and the instrument, throwing yourself around him like a warm full-body shackle: your thighs astride his, your nose in his hair—a gentle, sweet-stifling quell.

“That was beautiful, Professor Knirsch.”

“Why, thank you, Professor Knirsch.”

You laugh into his mouth, sucking in a sloppy, agape kiss—no teeth, just tongue and saliva, smothering you like obscenely thick treacle. A fistful of your nightwear tangles in his fingers and gathers into a crinkled pattern above your waist. Now you both look a mess, breathily gripping your ways through greedy handfuls and lewd suckles, arching back, back, back, until you’re finally pressed between the piano and its panting owner. A blaring orgy alright. 

And then, he falters—a brisk, terrified pendulum. Glassy eyes the size (and color) of a ten-koruna coin, looking into you like two gentle devotees. His voice box bobs, swallowing a lump. You trace it, cautious not to press, and the virile thing moves again—a shy, languid waver. 

“What’s wrong?” You peck him on the forehead, then slip down to the bump on his nose: nudging it with yours and kissing from bridge to tip. 

“I—“ He licks his lips. “Perhaps we shouldn’t…?“

Oh. That.

You grab his wrist and lead his fingers lower—cup the swell of one breast with your-his skittish hand. He fondles the mesh, reluctantly ignoring the protruding nipple, heavy eyes already filled with whatever acquiescence he’d dealt himself. 

Your mouth opens on his again, beckoning into another kiss. This one proves tamer, devoid of impatient licks—a press of gentle smiles, a plauditory, child-like collision. His fistful of your nightgown tumbles, and you both watch it unravel around your thighs, restoring flimsy decency. 

“You’re right—“ You gasp into him, “—we shouldn’t. We absolutely have to. Unless you don’t want to, of course.”

Viktor chuckles.

“It’s not that I don’t want to. You collapsed today. Are you absolutely certain—“

“Viktor, my collapses will become a regular occurrence. Are we to stop having sex forever?”

“Of course not. I am merely being reasonable—“

“Let me put it this way: do you hate me treating you like glass when you’re having a flare-up?” 

“That’s different. I’m in no need of pointless precautions, since I’m intimately familiar with my… irresolute capacities. I know how to manage my bad days. When to adhere to obstinacy.”

“But—“

“You, however, are notorious for pushing yourself, narcolepsy or not. I was born with my pain, milackú. And you’ve been aware of yours for roughly fifty hours.”

You lean into the instrument, haphazardly pressing on the screeching G-sharp. Viktor’s legs weaken under yours, the evidence of his yearning already half-soft, apologetic. He leans after you, all gentle hands and pleading, open mouth, fingers brushing thin air when you all but crawl on the keyboard, hitting a whiny triad with your hip.

“This isn’t a competition, you know,” you grumble. It’s hard to be mad at him from this altitude, with his palms resting so invitingly on lean thighs, but you turn away and trade that temptation for the sight of sleepy Brno in the ajar window. Out of sight, out of mind. If only. 

“No one’s claiming that.” He sounds defensive, strained and a little accusatory. But you’re already drawing copper-tasting anger out of your bottom lip, slurping hard. 

“You are.”

“I assure you, I am not.” Viktor catches your chin and pries your mouth open, wetting his thumb with your frothy, pinkish saliva. “I’m sorry. I should’ve been more careful with my semantics.” 

“You really should’ve.” 

“Yes. It won’t happen again.”

The truce comes kissing you senseless—face, and neck, and shoulders, and you slide back where you belong, heartbeats mangled together inside your chests, Viktor’s hands still hesitant on your hips—more to keep you in place than to claim a selfish squeeze.

“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry,” you chant, suffocating, “I’ve been an ass. I don’t know why I’m like this.”

“Apology accepted,” he whines back, heedless of the things that rhotic promise does to your underwear. And you don’t have to wonder if he means it. His eyes are evidence enough. “I’m not one to hold grudges. I’ve been an ass too.”

“I don’t mind it. You’re my ass.”

“Oh, hardly. I could never compete.” 

When the laughter dies down, he slips his fingers under your chemise and teases your skin to excited gooseflesh, little hairs standing on end under his sweet touch. His nape copies that contingency, dark strands spiking into your palm, gorgeously untamed. You rake through them, brushing out the ossified gel: little shiny pieces raining down his shirt like sprinkles of stardust. Viktor sends them to the floor with a blow—and off they flee, lingering in the warm air. 

“Forgive me,” he whispers, watching the dust lash around, “for being so cautious. You must understand; I’m worried sick about you. You simply have to go easier on your body. What are you going to do when I’m not around to offer a helping hand?”

You ponder him, pensive and visibly wan—the flit of his lashes, the furrow of one bushy brow, clutched in an arched tic. Not around? What’s that supposed to mean?

“You’re talking like you’re going to leave me.” It comes out with a nervous chuckle—a sound more strangled than it is amused. The brow under your finger relaxes only to arch again—but it’s trembling in confusion now, a prelude to his hoarse, darling laugh.

“God, no. Can you imagine?”

“Well, there’s no need for that. I’m going to get better. No more neglecting myself. And your shows. And, well… Us. I promise. Do you believe me?”

He turns to you, staring skittish daggers, and for once, his eyes tell you nothing, his sad pupils widened as if to swallow you whole. 

“Mhm,” he lies. “I believe you.”

But you don’t speak the language of his hums. 

[http-tokki]

“god, he’s just so…ugh fuck…you know?” you curse through gritted teeth, hands held before you in a choking motion.

jayce stares at you from across the room, brows furrowed in confused concern. “I-“

“it’s like he does it on purpose. he knows what he’s doing when he walks in all good morning lásko, how did you sleep?” you voice drops a few octaves as you imitate your lab partner. “it’s infuriating, i just want to grab him and shake him but i’m scared he’s gonna break.”

“hey, maybe-“ jayce unsuccessfully tries to pipe up again.

“and i get it, it’s not appropriate but it’s either gonna end with me kissing or choking him out next time because i can’t do it anymore.” your rant ends with a huff as you drop your head to the table on defeat.

“you can kiss or choke me, either way i don’t mind but please, do not be gentle” the accustomed accent floats through the room and you feel the weight of the universe crash down upon you at the realisation viktor had heard everything. “i will not break but i’m touched to know you are concerned.”

you feel a hand brush against your shoulder as he passes, the familiar patter of his footsteps and cane simultaneously calming and quickening your pulse. the heat of his body warms your bare arm as he leans over, lips now at the shell of your ear. “good morning lásko, how did you sleep?”

[corinthianism]

SOMETHIN' STUPID || VIKTOR

pairing: viktor (arcane)/fem!reader additional tags: viktor's pov, viktor is a certified yearner, maybe ooc, unrequited love that's actually requited, no physical descriptions for reader other than having dainty fingers and being shorter than viktor, hopefully correct use of czech pet names, barely proofread synopsis: the ever-brilliant viktor finds himself drowning in feelings for his colleague, so what does he do? bury them, of course.... until he learns that love is not something you can just ignore.

author's note: hello everyone! it's been a long, long while since i've written anything so i thought i would try and see if the ol' writing machine (aka my brain) still works lol. this is more of a blurb than anything so please go easy on me. also trying out something new by writing in present tense (lmk if it flows well!) viktor might be a little ooc but i'm still trying to fully understand him. hopefully my characterization of him in future fics (if any) will be more faithful to the viktor you're all familiar with. anyways, enjoy 2k words of viktor yearning like CRAZY 🫶🏼

Viktor doesn’t know how much more of this he can take. How many more times would your eyes meet from across the room at one of those parties he never really wanted to attend in the first place? How many more times would your fingers brush in the early morning, when he accepts the steaming sweetmilk that you so kindly got for him? How many more times would your laughter intermingle softly late into the night, when exhaustion took over and your writing started to look more like chicken scratch rather than letters?

He might just go insane.

How was it possible to want someone this much? Maybe he’s experienced something like this before, in tiny amounts, for people he hasn’t thought about in years. Deep down, he knows that even if he added all of those fleeting romances together, it would still only be a fraction of what he feels now. For you.

He can’t pinpoint that exact moment in time when everything changed. There were definitely a few of those moments that stood out more than others, but none of those instances were the catalyst for whatever this is. But they certainly don’t help his case.

A few words of encouragement.

A book recommendation.

A smile— so soft, so intimate, he briefly allows himself to believe that it was meant just for him. Something precious for him to keep, to be his and his alone.

In the dim light of the lab, he finds you asleep on your desk. The humming glow of the hex crystals leaves you blanketed in a gentle blue. He’s heard tales of this before, from when he bothered to listen to such things. It would happen just like this, they said: his heart would beat so fast, it threatened to leave his chest entirely. His skin would burn with something unmistakable, a feeling that left one in a state of simultaneous confusion and clarity.

He feels it all now and he finds it polarizing. It’s too much and not enough. He chases and runs away from it at the same time. A part of him wants it to stop, to go away and leave him forever for the sake of ending this game he’s painfully losing… but a greater part of him hopes that it will grow and grow to the point where maybe you’ll notice and do something about it. His palms get a little sweaty just thinking about making the first move. Symptoms of a lovesick fool.

The soft sound of your breathing quiets the pounding of his heart, prevents the wretched feelings from overflowing and spilling everywhere. Even if it was just for tonight. Tonight, he keeps his lips sealed, fights to keep himself from reaching for you. It would be unbecoming of him.

His eyes land on you again, observing how your head rested on your arms. Understanding hits him then, why you’re so bothered by seeing him stay at the lab so late that he ends up falling asleep. That position couldn’t have been comfortable. Of course, he knew that from experience, but it’s your comfort he’s thinking about right now. He wonders if this is what you felt whenever you woke him up and implored him to go home.

Surely not.

No, he can’t wrap his head around you possibly viewing that act the same way he does. Not when he wants to bottle this moment, wants to capture the preciousness of seeing you like this. It just can’t be the same.

So can you really blame him if when he finally rests a hand on your shoulder to wake you gently, he lets it linger there for just a little longer? An infinitesimal piece of time that he claims for himself. He never thought himself to be the sentimental type, but he cherishes it all: he cherishes the way you blink slowly as you returned to the waking world, and your tired murmur of his name that makes his chest tighten.

It’s just a wisp of a moment, never really tangible enough for him to hold in his hands, but he cherishes it all the same. It’s burned in his memory, in his very being, the same way everything else about you is. Every piece of you that you so generously gifted him.

“You should go home, darling.”

The word slips past his lips before he could even think about it. But he allows himself this one indulgence. He can’t help it. He’s always been a bit greedy.

“What time is it?” you ask.

“Far too late for you to be here,” he answers.

You huff out a breath of a laugh, “That’s rich coming from you.”

He finds himself smiling. How does someone manage to be so endlessly endearing without even trying?

It takes an embarrassing amount of effort for him to pull back his hand from your shoulder. Had you been more awake and had the room been brighter, he might’ve schooled his expression into something more neutral. Something to hide the unbridled adoration in his eyes. He doesn’t do that now. With the shield of darkness to protect him, he lets the mask come off. He lets his affection for you wash over him in waves. It would’ve been liberating, if it wasn’t for the tiny detail that that affection was unrequited.

Still, he says your name with utmost care. “You must go home and rest.”

To his surprise, you listen. You mumble a tired "okay” and gather your belongings, slipping on your coat. “You should go home, too, Vik.”

“I will. Soon. I just need to finish a few things.”

Your face twists into a frown, “No, you’ll do that tomorrow.” Before he can interject, you speak up again, “Just… come with me? It’s late and I don’t want to walk home alone.”

His brain refuses to reconcile with what his eyes see: the trepidation written all over your features, the way you clutch the lapel of your coat just a little tighter. He knows it’s a trap, you just want to get him out of the lab but how could he possibly reject the promise of a few more minutes with you? The chance to pretend, even if it’s just for those precious few minutes, that he was taking you home as someone more than a colleague? More than a friend? Only a fool would say no to you. Or perhaps he was a fool either way. He really must be going insane.

He says yes almost instantly.

It’s cold in Piltover tonight. It makes his bad leg ache more than it already does, and so his strides are a bit more careful. He doesn’t say anything about how you also slow down to match his pace but he appreciates your considerate gesture nonetheless.

The moon hangs in the sky big and bright, making everything around you seem softer. It’s picturesque. Almost romantic. He tries his best not to entertain that thought for much longer. Instead, he focuses on what you say to him so he could ignore the traitorous thoughts his mind conjures up and the way his knees were protesting because of the cold.

Conversation with you is easy— terrifyingly so. It was one of the first things he noticed about you when you first met.

Early on in the process of finding sponsors and securing funding, him and Jayce quickly realized that they needed help. Yes, Jayce is a friend of the Kiramman family. Yes, Viktor is Heimerdinger’s protégé, but they’re academics. At the end of the day, Jayce’s warm personality could only do so much when he was still greatly inexperienced with navigating these more political spaces and for all of his experience and perceptiveness, Viktor knows he’s no good at sweet-talking sponsors, either.

Enter, you.

Caitlyn Kiramman was the one to recommend you, her former tutor. Jayce was quick to back her up, remembering that you were also Academy alumni; a particularly strategic businesswoman. Viktor was hesitant at first, knowing that a third party could complicate things. Hextech was born out of the dream to help people. He worried that bringing business and politics (even though he knew it was necessary) into the mix would warp Hextech into something it wasn’t. Jayce convinced him to take a gamble, and it seemed that the potential of Hextech was enough to bring you back to Piltover from your travels across Runeterra.

It took him a while to warm up to you. You weren’t nobility, but most definitely well-off. Even more so after your years as a business consultant to organizations all over the continent. He respected you, sure, but Viktor had a hard time trusting someone who was so… privileged. How could you possibly understand how important it was that Hextech remained a beacon of hope for the less fortunate? Perhaps it was naive of him to think that way, as much as he hated to admit it.

But true to your reputation, you delivered exactly what they needed. You bridged the gap between Viktor and Jayce’s hopes for Hextech and the support they needed from sponsors, protecting them and their inventions from being taken advantage of.

Suffice to say, you earned his admiration.

Never in a million years would Viktor imagine that you would captivate his entire being, too.

It was daunting. Scary, really. Especially now that he’s beginning to understand the full extent of his affections. Years and years of burying that softness from his youth deep beneath the armor of his intellect— all that hard work diminished by a pretty girl. Gods, he really is just a man. Not even that. With you, he feels like a highschooler with a crush. It’s painful. Downright humiliating. But he wouldn’t trade it for anything. Not when you link your arm around his, laughing at something he said. Was he really that funny? Probably not. He’s just happy to make you laugh.

“You don’t have to be nice about it. Salo is a grade-A asshole,” you grinned. “We both know it. If I have to spend another dinner with him present I might actually stab a fork in my eyes.”

He smiles, “Ah, but that wouldn’t save you from his incessant chatter.”

“I’ll stab the fork into my ears too."

“I might just follow after you,” he hums, “you’ll have to check if it works first, though.”

Your friendship blossomed when your visits to the lab became less for work and more for leisure. You wanted to visit, wanted to learn more about what he and Jayce were working on and why. Everything after that was just dominoes. You, with all your fiery passion and sharp wit, have become a permanent fixture in his life and now? He could hardly imagine life without you in it. You're one of his dearest friends and, much to his dismay, that makes his current predicament even more challenging than it already is.

Before he knew it, the two of you were standing in front of your apartment building— one of the most luxurious in Piltover. He could only imagine how much it cost, though he knew for certain that your penthouse probably barely made a dent in your wealth. He’s gotten somewhat used to your differing lifestyles, but he’s never completely able to not marvel at it. A gust of wind kissed his skin once more as he turned to look at you.

“This is me,” you say, gloved hands in your pocket and your lovely, lovely face framed by your hair and ruby red scarf. He recognizes it as the gift he gave you a year ago now. A spur-of-the-moment purchase on one of the rare occasions he was actually outside Academy grounds. He remembers thinking that the color would look nice on you. He was right. He finds himself holding onto the seconds before he has to go. “Thank you for walking me home, Viktor.”

“Of course,” he nods but the calmness of his voice don’t match the way his eyes bore into yours. “It’s only proper.”

“Proper?”

“Yes. Proper. I am a gentleman, after all.”

His accent comes out thicker, emphasizing the words more than he means to.

“I didn’t take you for someone who cared much about propriety,” you tease.

“Is it because I’m from the undercity?” he deadpans and he relishes in the look of horror on your face that replaces your grin.

“What? No!” you exclaim, smacking his arm when you realize he’s just joking. “You. Are. Impossible.”

A laugh bubbles out of his chest, “Oh, that’s cruel. You would hit a defenseless man? How heartless.”

“Shut up. That cane of yours is a weapon of war. Don’t think I haven’t seen you smack Jayce with it.”

“If I hit him with it, he probably deserved it.”

“Poor Jayce,” you laugh as well. “Remind me not to get on your bad side.”

Viktor smiles.

“I do not think you could even if you tried, lásko."

He freezes and so do you. The laughter—the music—that you shared for the briefest of moments was thoroughly snuffed out, leaving you both in a silence that threatens to swallow him whole. He didn’t mean to do that. He didn’t mean to speak so gently, but there is not a part of Viktor that could withhold this sincerity from you. Specks of the truth, of the confession he’s barely managed to wrangle into submission and lock away somewhere dark and unreachable.

He pulls back on instinct. He’s shown too much, said too much. You don’t move. He is petrified.

Your eyes widen and he sees his reflection in them, staring back at him. This is it, he thinks. He’s crossed the line and he’ll have to deal with the crushing blow of your rejection.

You manage to compose yourself and what you say next is… well, unexpected. Your tone is light, clearing the air and allowing him to breathe again.

“Do you say that to every woman or am I a special case? I’d hate to be part of a roster.”

He’s taken aback, but he feels a weight lifted off his shoulders. You are a miracle in his eyes. Washing away his worries with a kind smile and a few choice words. He laughs again and this time, he doesn’t stop himself from speaking the truth. It’s now or never.

“Surely you know by now that you are singular,” he whispers, his accent a pleasant drawl in your ears. He takes a step forward. It is gravity that pulls him in, not the Earth’s, but yours. A force that he can’t help but be drawn to. Not that he would ever dare to resist it now that his fear has shrunk down to something a little less debilitating.

His face is inches from yours. You don’t move. He gets a little braver.

“I do not appreciate your implication that I would pay attention to anyone else,” his voice is low, honest. “As if anyone could compare to you. As if you don’t hold my very being in the palm of your hand. Miláčku, I adore you. Don’t you know that?”

There is a hint of pleading in his tone, begging you to understand the full scope of his feelings from those few words so that he wouldn’t unravel before you, a bundle of nerves and petals the same shade as your scarf.

“Say something. Please,” his fear rears its ugly head once more. “Say the word and we’ll pretend this never happened. I will remain your colleague and nothing more. A friend, if you would allow it.”

“What if I don’t want that?” you ask, your own voice a little shaky with uncertainty. Maybe it was also fear. That, he’s not quite sure.

Viktor doesn’t fully trust what he’s hearing, thinks it to be a figment of his deluded imagination, but his heart is screaming at him now to push forward.

“What is it you want, lásko? Tell me and it shall be yours.”

You're almost breathless when you finally respond, “You. I want you."

The world stills. Time itself screeches to a halt. There is only you and him, together in this moment that he knows will be woven into the threads of his soul. He has never known euphoria quite like this. He can’t name it yet, doesn’t know if this is love. He can only hope that it will be.

When he looks into your eyes again, he does not see his own terrified reflection. He just sees you. And the sheer intensity of your gaze that rivals his own. Have you always looked at him that way? Was he just too blind to see it?

“Do you mean that?” he finds himself asking. He has to— has to make sure that this is real.

You smile again, dainty fingers intertwining with his. It is a gentle smile, a hopeful smile that answers his question before you even open your mouth.

“I do,” your voice is so gentle and yet it squeezes his heart. “I’m yours, Viktor, if you’ll have me.”

He brings your knuckles to his lips, places a reverent kiss on them like you’ve given him the world. In a way, that’s exactly what you did. Maybe his lips were always meant to be on your skin, worshipping you like the goddess you are. It feels too natural for it to mean anything else.

And for the first time in a long time, he allows himself to hope.

“I would love nothing more.”

[spatialwave]

pretty little thing.

➸ ask: “❛ i need you. please. i'll be quick. ❜ with Viktor and a usually bold reader, but who’s right now just so needy for Viktor 👉👈” – ➸ pairing: viktor x fem!reader ➸ word count: 1.2k ➸ tags: mdni! nsfw, fxm, shameless smut, porn w/o much plot, masturbation, oral sex, facials, submissive viktor, bold reader. ➸ notes: i genuinely never felt filthier writing something fjgnsdjfg–don’t LOOK AT ME. 😳 ask came from this prompt! askbox is temporarily open...currently taking a few modern au requests!!

Everything about Viktor drove you fucking crazy.

Those narrow eyes that pierced through you, sending cold shivers through your spine when they flickered up and down your figure. Slender, nimble hands that worked tirelessly to please you, fingers flitting between your legs, pushing inside you and curling against the bundle of nerves that had you crying out. His lips that praised you with words and left heady kisses along your skin and cunt, your thighs clenching on either side of his head as you rode the waves of pleasure coursing through you.

But–you drove him crazier.

A cocky smirk would creep to your lips when you sat idly next to Viktor, both silent as his free hand that wasn’t hastily writing notes over parchment danced along your thigh. Slow, meticulous movements that dipped between your legs, fingers running along the edge of your panties. He was good at silent asks, not much for words or begging, and you were always quick to indulge a man so deserving.

Bold enough to force him back on the bed, riding him until the early morning hours as the warm sun sprawled along your naked bodies and your hips ached and thighs cramped. Until he was a whimpering mess underneath you, strangled groans caught in his throat as he filled you.

You were much better with patience. You preferred waiting for his actions that indicated his desires, absent-minded touches that wouldn’t cease until you were on your knees blowing him. 

Viktor had been preoccupied all week, focusing his energy on the research with Jayce and leaving you to your own devices. The days blended into the next, and tonight, you were a pitiful mess. You hadn't felt this way in a long time. As you sank into the couch, book clutched tightly in your hands, you squeezed your thighs together, and you ached longingly—desperate.

You fixated on the words, but they danced along each page, twisting into an indecipherable mess and leaving your mind as quickly as they came. Pages and pages were left unread as frustration bubbled up in the back of your throat and a loud groan came through. 

Fuck this.

In a swift motion, the book was discarded to the floor and your hand slid between your legs, eyes falling shut as they slipped into the fabric of your underwear with familiarity. Tentative touches, gentle fingers circling your clit that was throbbing. Your other hand slipped into your shirt, fondling your breasts and pinching your nipple, wishing so badly that it was Viktor’s hands making you feel so good.

It was easy to fall into the rhythmic motions, an idyllic smile lifting the corners of your lips as your desires were met. Not in the way you would have preferred, but taken care of nonetheless.

Two fingers slipped inside easily, your cunt eagerly enveloping the digits. Not quite long enough to make the lasting impact Viktor could.

The click of a lock snapped your body upright.

Widened eyes shot to the door that creaked open, and your heart soared. A rare occurrence that Viktor would make it home before you had fallen asleep. Adjusting yourself, you pulled your hands from your body and stood up, the slick between your legs coating your panties and seeping through to the satin fabric of your sleep shorts.

“Hi, baby,” you chirped, voice laced with lust as hands haphazardly fixed your hair that knotted from your position on the couch. You were uncertain why physical presentation mattered when your lover’s face was covered in signs of exhaustion. Dark under eyes, tousled hair, and buttoned shirt untucked.

He looked far too good to remain casual. Fuck, you were feral.

Viktor locked the door behind him, a smile gracing his lips as soft eyes settled upon you and his weight shifted back to his cane, “Still up? I hope you weren’t waiting for me.”

Your eyes flickered to the clock, it was well past midnight.

“No,” you shook your head, wondering if your hot cheeks and heavy breaths hinted at your previous state. Surely, he noticed. “Just… couldn’t sleep,” you lied.

Oh, he noticed.

Interest flickered in his eyes, and a curiosity settled in his chest, but gods, he was tired. He couldn’t even think straight, surprised that he hadn’t fallen asleep at his desk in the lab like he had two nights before.

Viktor stepped forward, cane clicking along the wood, and he pressed a chaste kiss to your cheek, “I’m sorry, love,” his gentle words heavy on your heart, “I’m exhausted.”

Two impatient hands flew to his vest, fingers toying with the buttons eagerly.

“Viktor,” you whimpered, pulling your head back so you could look into his eyes, pleading.

It was an unusual act to see you standing before him with your knees quaking as you begged. His cock stirred in his slacks, hardening at the mere sight of you acting so pitifully, ready to do whatever you needed to earn his attention. 

“I need you,” you mewled, fingers beginning to undo the buttons of his vest. Shaky fingers expertly removed each one with practiced ease.

“I–shit,” he hissed, cheeks burning a deep red as you began to sink onto your knees once his vest popped open.

“–Please, I’ll be quick.”

Viktor didn’t make any moves to stop you, his free hand lifting to cover the bottom half of his face as you dug past his belt. A moan muffled behind his fingers when his cock sprung free from the layers of clothing that had felt far too restrictive, and he fell back against the closed door. Your eager hands stroked him, milking out the pre-cum that you lapped up greedily on your flattened tongue.

He whimpered, cane discarded to the floor as he worked hard to keep his knees from buckling beneath him. Your only response was to keep going, lips wrapping around his cock as you took him in as far as you could. A repetitive movement as you bobbed your head and swirled your tongue around him, and fuck, you loved his moans.

“Fuck,” he mumbled, eyes fluttering as they rolled back, a hand reaching down to grab at your hair to coax you along him. Pushing himself down your throat, knowing very well you could take it.

You choked on him, the gags and whines from your throat sending heat right into his gut. The coil in his abdomen tightened as you swallowed around him, trying to milk out his cum that you were desperate to taste on your tongue. 

You were deserving of it, weren’t you?

Two hands pressed to his bare thighs, scratching at his pale skin as tears stung your eyes when he hit the back of your throat. You were greeted by a pleasantly hard tug in your hair, yanking your mouth from his cock just as he felt himself hit his release.

Groaning deep in his chest as he grabbed the base of his cock with his other hand, stroking as the splattering of hot cum decorated your face. He had been pent-up for so long that it didn’t seem to end, strings of it clinging to your tongue that you had cheekily stuck out, over your closed eyes and down your chin and jaw.

A pretty little painting.

Viktor was rendered breathless, his hand slowing as his cock twitched, and the remaining cum he pushed out dripped down to the floor between your knees.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, hardly able to make the words come to fruition through his heavy breaths.

Your eyes opened, smiling blissfully up at your lover.

“Let me fuck you, and I’ll forgive you.”

[madschiavelique]

𝐀 𝐂𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐎𝐟 𝐈𝐧𝐤 — 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

summary : you have always been an excellent student in the Academy, getting the best results and always being first in every class. but it all changes as soon as you see your name in the second place, the first being occupied by a certain Viktor. "Rivals? Yes, rivals, so be it, that is what you will be."

status : on going

✦．　𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟎𝟏 — 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫

✦．　𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟎𝟐 — 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐄𝐦𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐫

✦．　𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟎𝟑 — 𝐓𝐰𝐨 𝐨𝐟 𝐂𝐮𝐩𝐬, 𝐑𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐝

✦．　𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟎𝟒 — 𝐒𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐖𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬

✦．　𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟎𝟓 — 𝐓𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞

✦．　𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟎𝟔 — 𝐒𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐂𝐮𝐩𝐬

✦．　𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟎𝟕 — 𝐅𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐖𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬

✦．　𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟎𝟖 — 𝐊𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐏𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐜𝐥𝐞𝐬

✦．　𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟎𝟗 — 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡

✦．　𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟎 — 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐂𝐮𝐩𝐬

✦．　𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟏 — 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐄𝐦𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬

✦．　𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟐 — 𝐒𝐢𝐱 𝐨𝐟 𝐂𝐮𝐩𝐬, 𝐑𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐝

✦．　𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟑 — 𝐅𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐎𝐟 𝐒𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬

✦．　𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟒 — 𝐄𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐖𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬

✦．　𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟓 — 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐭

✦．　𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟔 — 𝐓𝐰𝐨 𝐨𝐟 𝐂𝐮𝐩𝐬 & 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐫

[fushiguro-megloomy]

Strawberry Wine

Pt 2. After the Distance

[part 1] pairing: modern au!viktor x artist!reader Tags: porn with plot, viktor is a tease (ツ), lots of buildup, smut, no use of y/n, afab!reader wc: 3.8k  notes: It’s here :’) i went over this like 25 times and got a friend to read it to make sure it was good enough so don't let it flop yall asjhashg art from pinterest, dividers from chachachannah, cafekitsune & nicodefresas

The next couple of months were… interesting. While you thought you knew Viktor—at least as well as someone could after a few months—you were quickly discovering that beneath his easy charm and quick wit lay a patient, calculated man, with a streak of something far less innocent. Slick, greedy even. And that side of him was making it increasingly difficult to keep things under wraps.

You’d laid it down early on that this thing between you—whatever it was—would stay between the two of you. Not that you thought Jayce would care, necessarily. If anything, your reasons for secrecy stemmed entirely from your own reservations. You were both workaholics, after all. Your galleries were finally gaining more traction, and Viktor had his research and the lab. Not to mention you’d promised yourself long ago that your career would come first. No distractions, no derailments—especially not for a man.

And yet, your resolve was starting to crack.

Again, you were learning Viktor to be a slick man, one with nimble fingers, skilled not just in tinkering with tech but in unraveling you entirely. Fingers that found their way under the table at dinner, brushing lightly over your thigh and leaving you fumbling for words mid-response to one of Jayce’s questions. Fingers that pinched your ass when no one was looking, the sudden assault making you glare at him—only to catch the smug tilt of his mouth.

But it wasn’t all teasing. Those same fingers smoothed your hair back from your face in the aftermath, his cool, calloused thumb tracing over your kiss-swollen lips with a tenderness that left your heart beating recklessly. His touch was addictive, and you were a hopeless addict.

Of course, like any addict, withdrawals were inevitable.

The boys had been called away—a business deal overseas that was only supposed to last a weekend instead turning into a nine day ordeal. You’d kept yourself busy with work, trying to throw yourself into painting and coordinating for another upcoming gallery showing. But your thoughts had a nasty habit of drifting, especially every time Jayce would video call with a trip update. You smiled, nodding along as he happily recounted the details of their successful presentations and the eventual closing of the deal.

It wasn’t Jayce’s enthusiasm that distracted you—it was the figure in the background. Viktor, half out of frame, often hunched over a small workspace or absently flipping through pages of a notebook. His focus, sharp as ever, made your pulse quicken despite yourself.

Once, during one of these calls, Viktor looked up. His eyes flicked toward the camera, meeting yours for just a fraction of a second. It was nothing, really—just a glance. But it felt like a spark, sending heat crawling up your neck and pooling low in your stomach.

You tried to ignore it.

“...And then Viktor had the most insane suggestion about combining thermochemical—oh, speak of the devil!” Jayce’s voice pulled you from your thoughts.

Viktor leaned into frame, his lips curling into a faint smirk. “I’m sure it wasn’t that insane,” he said smoothly, his voice making your chest tighten.

“Uh-huh, sure,” Jayce replied, rolling his eyes before glancing back at you. “Anyway, the good news is we’re wrapping up here. We should be flying back the day after tomorrow. You’ll finally get some peace and quiet without me bombarding you with updates!”

“Peace and quiet? Jayce, I’d hardly call your calls a disturbance,” you replied lightly, ignoring the sudden spike of anticipation at his words.

Viktor spoke up again, his voice smoother this time. “I’m sure it’ll be good to get back. Familiar surroundings and all that.” His eyes flicked to you briefly, and something in that gaze made your breath hitch. Jayce was oblivious, grinning and nodding along, but Viktor’s yellow gold eyes lingered just long enough to make your stomach twist.

“Yeah, definitely,” you said, forcing yourself to keep your tone even. “Safe travels when the time comes.”

“Thanks! Anyway, I’ll let you go. We’re calling it an early night over here,” Jayce said, stifling a yawn.

The call ended shortly after, leaving you staring at the blank screen. You sighed, leaning back in your chair, fingernails tapping anxiously against the edge of the desk.

-

The gallery buzzed with energy, the hum of conversation weaving through the air as you moved from piece to piece, guiding potential buyers with practiced ease. Your smile was poised, your tone professional as you answered their questions and described your work, but the sting of your bitten cuticles betrayed the nerves you kept buried under layers of polished charm.

Despite your best efforts, your thoughts occasionally wandered. Viktor and Jayce were due back tonight—late, you’d told yourself more than once. You’d have time to finish the showing, decompress, and slip into something casual. It was fine. You were fine.

Still, your mind conjured flashes of Viktor's teasing smirk, the low timbre of his voice in your ear, and—

“You’ve created such movement here,” a man’s voice broke into your thoughts, gesturing at a vibrant abstract piece nearby. “It feels alive.”

You shifted, regrounding yourself. “Thank you,” you said warmly, stepping closer. “That was the intention—a sense of fluidity and life, as if it’s always in motion.”

His smile was appreciative and you slid into explanation, gesturing with your hands to emphasize the piece’s details as you settled back into your element.

The man nodded thoughtfully, offering a few more comments before excusing himself to examine another painting. You exhaled quietly, straightening your shoulders as you turned your attention back to the gallery space. 

The evening had gone smoothly so far, but then your gaze swept toward the entrance and the world seemed to narrow to a single point.

Viktor.

His posture was composed and confident as ever. The low, warm light caught the angled lines of his face, and his eyes were already fixed on you. Your pulse quickened as he began making his way across the room. He moved with deliberate grace, the tap of his cane almost rhythmic against the polished floor.

You swallowed, willing yourself to remain composed as he closed the distance between you. He looked every bit as devastating as you remembered—perhaps even more so after days of his absence.

When he reached you, he didn’t greet you with words right away. His eyes swept over you, lingering as though taking in every detail.

“You’re not supposed to be here yet,” you said, your voice carefully steady despite the racing of your pulse.

“Plans changed,” he replied smoothly. “We caught an earlier flight.”

“And Jayce?”

“Jetlag,” Viktor said with a shrug. “He went home. I thought I’d make better use of my time.”

His tone was calm, his words innocent enough, but the way his gaze dipped to your lips and then back to your eyes betrayed the true intent behind his presence.

“You didn’t have to come.”

His brow arched, and he tilted his head slightly. “And miss seeing you command a room like this? Never.”

Your cheeks warmed under his scrutiny, but you quickly diverted the conversation, gesturing toward the artwork nearby. “Here for the paintings, then?”

“Here for you,” he corrected, his tone sending a shiver across your skin.

Before you could respond, a passing guest offered a polite nod, drawing your attention away just long enough for Viktor to step closer, wrapping an arm around you in what seemed like a polite, casual embrace. 

To anyone watching, it was nothing out of the ordinary—a perfectly respectful greeting. But as his arm pressed against your back, his fingers slid lower, tracing a line down your spine. The movement was slow, deliberate, and his fingertips dipped just beneath the waistband of your skirt. You held your breath.

“I’ll let you get back to work,” he said, his voice carrying that infuriating mix of control and amusement. 

But before he fully stepped back, his lips brushed near your ear, his breath balmy against your skin. “I missed you,” he murmured. “Malá hvězda…”

Little Star—he’d first called you that in passing, after Jayce had teased you about becoming a celebrity in your field. It had been a lighthearted comment, a playful quip that Viktor had picked up on. But over time, it stuck and became something far more intimate. 

As the evening wore on, you felt the weight of his gaze wherever you moved. Whether you were explaining a piece to a potential buyer or exchanging pleasantries with a collector, you were keenly aware of him in your peripherals. He never lingered too close, always giving you space to work, but his presence was impossible to ignore.

By the time the gallery emptied, you felt wrung out—by the crowd, by the evening, but mostly by him. The cab ride was quiet, the only sound was the hum of the engine and the occasional crackle of the driver’s radio. You sat beside Viktor, close but not touching, though the air between you felt suffocatingly warm. Every bump in the road jostled you, and every brush of his leg against yours set your nerves fraying.

You glanced at him, trying to gauge his mood, but his expression was maddeningly calm, almost unreadable. He leaned back against the seat, one hand resting on the door, the other draped casually over his knee. But his eyes—his eyes betrayed him.

Dark and glinting, they flicked to you, and the corner of his mouth twitched, the barest hint of amusement at your visible tension.

The driver spoke up, asking Viktor something about the best route, and he replied smoothly in that light, accented voice that had been driving you mad all night. You caught his profile in the dim light—sharp lines and soft lips—and you had to look away, your nails digging into the edge of your seat.

“Are you always this restless?” he murmured suddenly, his tone pitched low enough for only you to hear.

You swallowed, the flush creeping up your neck. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

His smirk was a flash of teeth, quick and dangerous. He shifted, his leg pressing more deliberately against yours, the subtle movement enough to make your pulse skip.

“I think you do,” he said, his voice almost teasing. He let his hand drop to the seat between you, his knuckles brushing your thigh. It sent a jolt through you.

You shot him a look, your jaw tightening as you leaned slightly closer, your voice a low hiss. “Do you ever get tired of your games?”

His gaze flicked to your lips before dragging slowly back to your eyes. “Not when I’m winning.”

Before you could reply, the cab took a sharp turn, throwing you slightly off balance. His hand caught your leg to steady you, firm and sure. He didn’t let go.

Instead, in the shadows of the backseat, his fingers slid upwards, the warmth of his palm scorching through the fabric of your stockings. You sucked in a breath, barely audible over the noise of the engine, but your heart raced.

His pinky finger grazed the edge of your underwear, teasing the barest edge of lace. The movement was deliberate, slow, and utterly torturous. He kept his eyes forward, his expression calm, as if nothing were happening.

Your pulse thundered in your ears, and you pressed your knees together instinctively, but his hand didn’t budge. His thumb stroked a slow, lazy line against your inner thigh, just shy of the place you needed him most, and it was all you could do not to squirm.

When the cab slowed at a red light, he leaned in, his breath brushing hot against your ear. “Careful, malá hvězda,” he whispered, his voice a dark, velvet tease. “We wouldn’t want the driver to notice, would we?”

Your teeth sank into your bottom lip to stifle the sound that threatened to escape. He finally withdrew his hand, the loss both a relief and an ache.

The cab rolled to a stop in front of your apartment building, and you practically bolted out, desperate for the cool night air to calm your overheated skin. Viktor was right behind you, but you didn’t dare look back at him.

The elevator ride up felt like an eternity. Each passing floor seemed to stretch on longer than the last, the tension between you thickening with every second. Viktor didn’t help. He stood next to you, but the air around him seemed to thrum with barely contained desire. His once teasing touches were growing bolder, and his breath seemed to waver every time he ebbed closer, his body pressing into yours ever so slightly. The subtle shift in his posture was enough to let you know just how much he was also losing control, how much he wanted you.

The elevator doors opened with a soft ding, and your apartment was only a few steps away. You barely made it to the door before he was there, crowding you against the frame. His fingers slipped from your arm to your waist, tugging you closer, pulling you in with an urgency that sent a shiver through your entire body.

The key turned in the lock, and you barely had time to step inside before Viktor followed, the door closing behind him with an almost predatory click. In one swift movement, he had you pressed against the wall, cane clacking to the floor and his lips on yours. There was no hesitation now—no games, no teasing.

His mouth was hot, claiming, and you couldn’t help but respond in tandem, body arching into his. 

“Its been too long," he practically purred against your clavicle, the vibrations of his voice going straight to your core.

"Too long," you agreed, though the words came out hoarse, breaking into a soft whimper as his teeth nipped at your skin.

The sharp edge of his bite was quickly soothed by his tongue, a slow sweep that had your knees threatening to give way. His hands slid under your shirt, fingers skimming over your bare skin, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. He groaned softly, his breath warm against your neck when his hips pressed into yours, a deliberate grind that stole the air from your lungs. Your hands weren't idle, either, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, desperate to feel more of him. 

Your fingertips dragged over the expanse of his chest, and the subtle hitch in his breath sent a rush of satisfaction through you. His lips never left your skin, trailing fiery kisses along the column of your throat as his fingers tugged your shirt up and over your head, discarding it without a second thought.

He took a moment to drink you in, his amber eyes dark with desire, before his hands were on you again, possessive and unyielding. With a sudden shift, his grip tightened around your waist, and before you could react, he spun you around. The cool press of the wall against your chest was sudden as he caged you in.

His fingers traced the curve of your back, then moved to the clasp of your bra, sliding it from your shoulders.

"Viktor," you breathed, your voice shaky with anticipation as his hands roamed over your now-bare skin, pinching your nipples and mapping every inch of you like he couldn't get enough.

Your hips moved instinctively, grinding back into the rigid buldge of his slacks seeking out friction. His low, guttural groan in response sent a fresh wave of heat pooling in your core, surely staining your panties. His touch, ever restless, slid down your sides and found its way to your thighs, the rough glide of his palms pulling your skirt up around your waist.

The cool air of the apartment prickled your skin as he moved and his fingers curled around the delicate fabric of your stockings. A sharp, audible tear filled the room as his impatience got the better of him, the fragile material giving way beneath his touch. The sound was quickly accompanied by a gasp from you, although it was too late to protest as his hand slid over the bare skin of your ass, his touch unapologetic.

“I'll buy you a new pair.”

His tone was sharp, yet quickly drowned out by the metallic clinking of his belt buckle. It was a wonder you'd made it this long, your head practically swimming, knees trembling as his slacks hit the floor. You wanted to see him, craning your neck in a pathetic attempt to catch a glimpse of the body you'd been craving for a week and a half, but he was quicker. 

His grip found the nape of your neck, pushing your cheek back against the drywall while his other hand snaked its way between your legs. A mewl escaped you as those same slender fingers pulled the now sticky lace to the side, wasting no time proding your entrance before pushing two digits inside. Your eyes squeezed shut and you heard him exhale, clearly satisfied with the way your greedy walls practically sucked him in. His fingers flexed, curling a few times in a weak attempt to stretch you out and earning a few muffled whimpers from your shaky form. 

“Please-” it was all you could manage, squirming under his hold, feeble hands reaching blindly for him. 

He was certainly in no place to deny you, especially not as his cock grew angrier by the second, flushed and leaking with precum. When he retracted his fingers it was audible, a squelch that made his mouth water, but there was no time. His hand left your nape, moving to the base of your spine to coax you into a deeper arch and you eagerly obliged while he lined himself up. 

That first languid roll of his hips was pure bliss, the slight burn as his cock stretched you out left you slack-jawed and all the time apart was suddenly forgotten, instantly fucked out of your brain. Viktor was no more immune, a whiney moan tumbling from his mouth as you clenched around him. It was clear neither of you would last very long when the energy quickly became feverish, all semblance of control lost with hips desperately rutting together as pleasure seared its way through every nerve in your body. 

This time when you craned your neck towards him, he relented. His body pushed impossibly closer, chest flush against your back while a possessive hand caught your jaw, reeling you in for an open mouthed kiss. It was messy and unrestrained, his hips never slowing. 

“I missed you-” It fell past your lips into his mouth before you could stop it. 

There was a tiny stutter in his rhythm, almost unnoticeable as his brows pulled together in surprise. It was out of character for you to say such things, raw and unguarded, but tonight felt different— like the time apart had stripped away your defences. 

His grip on your jaw tightened, firm but not cruel, just enough to remind you who was in control. A tiny smirk of satisfaction crept onto his mouth as he pulled back just enough to look you in the eye. “I missed you.”

The sincerity of the moment cut through the heat just for a second before his lips were on yours again. This kiss felt deeper, more deliberate as his free hand skidded down your stomach before landing between your legs. You broke from the kiss with a shaky moan, head falling forward against the wall as he began smooth circles over your neglected clit. His lips trailed the crux of your jaw, down the back of your neck as his movements became rougher. He ignored the pain threatening his leg, breath heavy and uneven as he bit on the curve of your shoulder, his own wanton moans vibrating off your skin.

You could feel your orgasm creeping in, white hot and consuming in the pit of your stomach. The dual sensation of his hips grinding against yours and the quick motions of his wrist between your thighs had your vision blurring at the edges. As if he sensed it, he adjusted his angle, moving deeper and more intentional. His focus was now singular, chasing every reaction you gave him, determined to push you to your limits.

Your body contorted into his, a ragged cry escaping you as the tension coil in you tightened. He grunted lowly against your shoulder, his own voice taking on a wobble as his own orgasm loomed not far behind. 

“Let go for me”

It was all you needed to tip over the edge, toes curling and your body going rigid in his grasp as pleasure rolled over you in unrelenting waves. The sounds spilling from your lips were downright shameless, and you were certain your neighbors would despise you for it.

Viktor wasn't far behind, his rhythm faltering as he chased his release. His hips stuttered against yours, a broken groan tearing from his throat as he came, your body greedily pulling him deeper and milking him for every last bit. His body slumped against yours, both of you trembling, a tangle of shaky limbs held upright only by the support of the wall.

For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of labored breathing before Viktor straightened up, gently slipping out of you. The absence of his touch left a lingering ache, but as you turned to face him, the sight of his disheveled hair, the sheen of sweat on his skin, and the smirk tugging at his lips had you smiling—soft, dazed, completely spent.

You laughed softly, a breathless sound, leaning against the wall for support. He chuckled in return, winded but fond, before stepping closer to cup your face. His thumb brushed over your cheek, his gaze softening as he drew you into another kiss.

This one was different. Slower. Softer. As always. That was the first time you let him stay the night.

The next morning, you woke to a tangle of sheets and the soreness of a night well-spent. Viktor was still sleeping soundly beside you, his face half-buried in your comforter, dark lashes fanning against his cheek. He looked so peaceful that it made your chest ache. A sharp knock at the door pulled you from your leering. Groaning softly, you slipped out of bed, throwing on a robe and tying it hastily. The moment you swung the door open your heart nearly stopped.

“Morning,” Jayce greeted brightly, a fast-food bag in hand. Before you could say a word, he stepped inside as if he owned the place. “Hope you don’t mind me dropping by. Thought I’d bring you breakfast.”

Your stomach flipped in panic as you quickly moved to block his path, though he was already surveying the room with his usual casual ease.

“Jayce, uh, now’s not really—”

He stopped mid-step, his brow furrowing as his gaze landed on the floor. His lips parted slightly, confusion flickering over his features.

“Is that… Viktor’s cane?”

©lilsworks 2024

Taglist: @im-just-a-simp-le-whore @thatlittlered @itsjustbell @sseleniaa @theepitomeofswag @jupiteress @rattini @milwaukeeslush @catedunlapgodu @worldseer

[xetlynn]

arcane imagines- viktor/jayce

caught in the mix

[arcane] [main page]

🔞⚠️CONTENT WARNING⚠️🔞: SMUTTTTTT SMUT

Prompt: Viktor and you think you have an hour until Jayce shows to work on a project… turns out you were wrong.

Contains: oral m!and f! Receiving, double penetrating, riding, overstimulation, crack smut, Idk.

“He said he’ll be here in an hour, he’s caught up with something.” Viktor speaks up from your shared bedroom as you’re taking a bite of an apple, walking in from the kitchen. “An hour, you say.” You wiggle your eyebrows causing him to scoff out a laugh. 

“Such a perv.” He tosses his phone on the bed, standing up to stretch out his torso. “Only for you.” You swallow the food in your mouth. “I’m going to take a shower… if you want to join me.” He winks your way as he walks past you to the bathroom. You take one last bite of the fruit before throwing it in the trash. Eagerly following after your boyfriend. 

You sit on the counter beside the sink as you watch Viktor start the water then begin to undress. Your mouth salivating at the sight you could never grow tired of. “Love, you’re drooling.” He motions to your face and you scrunch your nose with a smile. “I can’t help it, you make me feel such lewd things.” You defend yourself, leaning back against the mirror. “I guess I can’t be too hard on you. I’d be lying if I said you didn’t do the same to me.” His naked form makes its way over to you and you spread your legs so he can stand between them. 

“Really?” You place your arms over his shoulders. “Mhm, let’s get in the shower and I can show you the things I think of.” He pats the outside of your thigh and you squeal excitedly. He reopens the class see-through door, stepping inside. You hurriedly take your clothes off, almost tripping over your own pants. 

He laughs as you are rushing to join him, slamming the door behind you once you’re inside. “You’re so impatient, dove.” He sighs and you shrug your shoulders, pulling him into a kiss as water beats down on the both of you. 

What the two of you failed to realize was that the message Jayce sent was a mistake, he reinstated that he was wrong and he was actually on his way now. A five minute drive away. 

The two of you carelessly making out, hands roaming over one another as if this isn’t the umpteenth time doing this with one another. Your hand palming his painfully hard member, he whimpers into your mouth. His fingers dance down to your core, dipping in and out of you teasingly. 

“I know-” you pull back from him, letting out a small pant. “I know you said you wanted to show me, but I need to suck your dick.” You inform him boldly, slightly catching him off guard. “Need to?” He looks down at you. “Mhm, an urge, an urge I can’t subdue any longer.” You dramatically say, crouching down before planting down on your knees. 

“By all means, take it like it’s yours, hun.” He feels the water dripping down from his hair, staring down at his partner stroking his length. You eye it, admiring what’s yours. “I plan to.” You hum, your tongue flattening around the red, precum dripping tip before slowly inching it into your mouth. 

Viktor lets out a low groan, grabbing a fistful of your hair as your head begins to bob. He leans on his left leg as you swallow his cock down your throat. Your nose touching his pelvis. “F-uck, love.” He stammers. 

You moan from hearing his voice, a hand going up to fondle his balls. Knowing it was something he enjoyed. He gasps, letting out a whine. Your eyes gaze up at him, having to blink repeatedly from the drizzle of the shower hitting off of him and onto you. 

“So pre-pretty like this.” He caresses your face as you slurp and guzzle around his dick. Sounding so messy for him. 

He was loud, something you enjoyed. Something you’ve repeatedly told him to be. Vocal and a whiny mess just for you. To encourage you and let you know you’re making him feel good. 

Only this time it’s heavily against the both of you as your mutual best friend walks into your apartment, unlocking it with the key you had given him a few months back. Your bathroom door wide open and allows Jayce to hear every single noise the two of you are making. 

He didn’t notice it at first, placing his stuff down on the kitchen counter, taking one of your apples from the fruit bowl. As he takes the first bite the noises finally hit his ears. Viktor moaning out your name. “Fucking hell, [Name]. Tongue is ‘s good~” He huffs. Jayce’s eyes widened in shock. 

He drops the apple, going to pick his stuff back up and leave the apartment so he doesn’t have to hear this. Unfortunately he trips over said apple. Dropping his very heavy briefcase that held all the information for your three’s work assignment. “Shit!” He mutters, picking it up. 

He was too late to leave before you were covered in your towel running out with a baseball bat, water dripping on the ground. You go to swing, “Who the hell!?” You automatically drop your stance when seeing your best friend. “Oh, hey Jayce.” You laugh, leaning the bat down. Going over and giving him a hug. Still soaked from the shower. 

“Thought you said you were caught up in something?’ You ask so nonchalantly as if you weren’t just giving the best head ever to your boyfriend in the other room. His face was beat red, even through his dark tan you could tell he was extremely flustered. He can’t even stutter out an answer. “You okay?” You cross your arms. 

“Love, you’re still in your towel.” Viktor comes out of the bathroom wearing only boxers and sweatpants. Using his cane to walk into the scene. You purse out your lips, looking down at yourself then back to Jayce. 

“Never seen a naked woman or something?” You raise a brow and he squeezes his eyes shut, begging that this was a dream or some made up thing in his mind. “Don’t tease him.” Viktor chuckles, looking his best friend up and down. “He heard us.” He simply says, picking up the apple from the ground, throwing it into the trash. “I-I was trying to leave! I didn’t know that’s what-” Jayce panics, trying to explain himself. 

“Eh, we had the door open. Wasn’t your fault.” Viktor shrugs his shoulders acting as if Jayce hearing the two of you wasn’t something incredibly inappropriate. “Even with the door open Vik here would still be sounding through the room.” You tease, standing on your tiptoes and kissing him. 

“Guys, please.” Jayce meeps out with an embarrassed look. You smirk over to him. “What? Us having sex turns you on or something?” You inquire, stepping over to him, your wet feet papping against the hardwood floors. “[Name]!” He steps back, shocked by what you just said. 

“You aren’t denying~” You sing, poking his chest right as you look down and then flicker back up to his face. Doing it a few more times with a smug expression adorning your face. “Your cock’s sure saying so.” You laugh, he covers himself with his briefcase. 

“[Name], leave him be.” Viktor attempts to hide his amused smile, crossing his arms over his naked chest. You pout. “Okay, okay. Sorry, Jayce! Let me go get dressed.” You excuse yourself from the room. Jayce lets out a sigh of relief once you’re gone. You were too bold and confident for your own good. 

“Sorry, you know how she is.” Viktor rubs the back of his neck, Jayce only nods his head. Still covering himself. “You okay, over there?” Viktor asks in a worried tone. “Yeah, oh yeah I’m fine. Just seemed like I was about to be pounced on.” He awkwardly laughs. “Mm, she probably would’ve.” Viktor lets out a small breath. Sitting down at the counter stool. 

Jayce furrows his brows, confused. “She would’ve? Are you two on some weird break?” He questions the guy in front of him. “Hah! No, we’ve been talking about… threesomes. If you’re up for it I’m sure it’d happen in a split second.” Viktor explains, Jayce chokes on his own spit. His best friend was just so casual… about him joining a threesome. 

“This is an awkward topic, Jayce. I’m sorry to bring it up so… broadly.” The accented man apologizes. “No, no, it’s okay. I guess I asked.” Jayce shrugs his shoulders. 

“I’m back!” You sprint over to the boys wearing a simple sweater and shorts. Loungewear for a boring thing you’re about to do. “Ready to get started on this stupid assignment?” You not-so-enthusiastically say, plopping down on the stool beside Viktor. “Sure.” Viktor hums, “let’s get to it!” Jayce accidentally says a little bit too loudly. Causing the two of you to wince. “Sorry, just excited about this project.” He murmurs, opening the case to all the informational papers. 

He passes out the packets he had printed for the both of you. You boredly skim through it. Viktor thoroughly read it. As Jayce wasn’t even looking down at it, his eyes burning into the both of you. 

Repeating what Viktor had said to him just moments before. A threesome? With the both of you? His coworkers he’d grown so close to? His best friends? 

It’s not to say he hadn’t thought about something like that before. Because trust, he most certainly has. 

He bit his bottom lip, and you glance up. Right as you do he changes his posture. “Reading” the packet at a different angle. You knit your eyebrows together, giving him a look before going back to your own packet. Leaning your head on your boyfriend’s shoulder as you do so. 

“This is soo boring!” You dramatically slam the packet down on the counter. Startling the two boys in the room. “I want to get to the fun stuff.” You groan, leaning over your lover’s body, your hand palming his face. Shaking it around. He just boredly lets you do so. 

“Fun stuff?” Jayce asks. “Yeah, the experimental part of the project.” You wink, laughing as his ears grow red. “You’re so fun to mess with!” You shrill, sitting back up on your own seat. “You’re oddly jumpy today too, us having sex really bother you that much?” You cock your head to the side, curious. “N-no, not at all. It’s a human thing!” He shakes his head vigorously. 

“Then why are you acting like we scare you?” You frown, “I’ll knock off the teasing. I promise I didn’t mean to be too much!” You assure him, giving an apologetic smile. “Ugh, no [Name], you’re not too much. I just- I don’t know!” He exclaims, punctuating a little more with gesticulation. 

“We can take a second from the project if you need to collect yourself.” Viktor offers, worried that he had caused a short-circuit to go off in his best friend’s brain by what he told him earlier. “No, no! I’m fine! I promise.” Jayce swears. “Then what’s up, J?” Your eyes were filled with concern. 

“I want to have the threesome.” He spits out now the two of you were left thunderstruck at his words. Your jaw slacks open, slowly turning into a smirk. “For real?” You rasp out, looking back at Viktor who was still a little bewildered. “Yeah- I mean, if it’s still okay? I don’t know. You guys put me in the spot before.” His voice trails off. “But now after the ten minutes of thinking time you’re sure you want to have sex with us?” Viktor queries, teasing him. 

“I mean it’s sex! What really is there to think about?” Jayce juts out his bottom lip for the judgement he just received. “A lot.” Both you and Viktor say in unison. “Our friendship is something to take into account. A threesome isn’t a permanent thing. This is temporary and to still manage a friendship afterwards could be difficult if all three parties aren’t positive that this won’t mess anything up.” Viktor explains, you nod your head in agreement to his words. 

“We’ve talked about this, the two of us know how we feel. How do you feel, Jayce?” You question him. 

“To be honest, I’ve thought about hooking up with you guys before. A drunken thought. Then a sober one. It passes, I’m not going to lie. And honestly I’m perfectly fine with it. Just a hookup. I don’t want a relationship and to be quite frank I couldn’t be in a polygamous thing.” He admits bluntly, the anxiety of it all releases from all three of your shoulders after his assurement. 

“That’s good to hear!” You snicker. “We’re all three on the same page then?” You point to the two at the same time. The both of them nod their heads. “Okay, gonna fuck me right here in this kitchen or are we gonna go to the bedroom? Spice it up and all three fit in the shower?” You joke and Viktor rolls his eyes. “I didn’t really get to shampoo my hair so if you pick the shower I will not complain.” You put your hands up. 

“[Name].” Viktor starts. “Sorry.” You chuckle. “Living room it is!” You stand up, heading to the comfortable space, Viktor watches you flop down on the couch, getting comfortable. “Is she always this… vulgar before you have sex?” Jayce asks, Viktor gets up as well, pressing his lips together. “Yeah, pretty much.” He nods. 

“I didn’t put on panties so do what you will with that information.” You smirk, trying to do a sexy pose as you laid on the sofa. Viktor snorts as Jayce covers his mouth. “You’re such an idiot.” Viktor sits down beside you. “Mm, you love me for it.” You peck his jaw, getting up to your knees. 

“Come sit, Jayce.” You pat the spot beside you. “Wanna kiss you.” You confess, he fidgets with his hands but does as you say. You gently grab onto his collar. “You’re okay with this right?” You triple check with the guy who seems like he’s going to explode from nervousness. “Yes.” He nods, letting out a shaky breath as you lean in. “Good.” 

Your lips land on his, you press onto him and his hand falls to your hip. Indicating that you can touch him more. In your head at least that’s what it indicates.

Viktor observes from the sidelines, licking his lips. Your hand goes behind you and you grab onto your boyfriend. Wanting him to join. He meekly got on his left knee, his right was off of the couch. Disengaged the kiss you boop Jayce’s nose, leaning back into your boyfriend’s chest. “He’s a good kisser. Your turn!” You look at him, almost hanging your head upside down. Viktor’s eyes meet with Jayce. 

“You okay with that?” More consent questions. Jayce was beginning to feel annoyed by it. He wanted whatever you guys were willing to do. Why couldn’t you guys get that!? “Yes.” He aggressively answers. “Woah, little eager there.” You joke with a loud laugh. “Sorry, just please. I want whatever we’re going to do.” He promises. 

“Okay boy kisser, get to it.” You pull him into a chaste kiss yourself before allowing the two to do it as well. Sandwiched in between the two, their heads leaning in and now you get to watch. They meet over your shoulder and you get the gift to grope the both of them as they sloppily make out with one another. Sneaking your hand under Jayce’s shirt, feeling his unflexed muscles. Your cold skin against his makes him groan into your boyfriend’s muzzle. Viktor uses this to prod his tongue in between the boy’s lips. Your arousal was growing with each noise they mustered out. Voices turned you on, what can you say? 

Well, boys whimpering did. You loved a man in distress. 

“Alright, alright, I’m getting jealous.” You pull them apart. “I want you both butt booty naked and kneeling before me.” You take off your shirt, Jayce gives you a look and you give one back. “I said what I said.” You roll your eyes as he goes straight to your bare chest. “Just kidding, I do want you to undress though.” You press your pointer fingers together, pretending to act shy. “Ew, that cringed me out.” You wave your hands out in disgust with yourself. 

The two laugh at you, Jayce doing as told though, throwing his shirt off with ease. Having to stand up to unbuckle his pants. You turn to Viktor who was slipping his sweatpants off but leaving his boxers. 

“Awe, the one’s I gifted you for your birthday!” You coo, your face was littered over the boxers, a little comment bubble pointed toward the crotch that said: “I fuck this dick every noight!” 

“Only ones cleaned.” He mumbles. Partially lying. They were the first ones he spotted when he thought the house was under attack. Not wanting to confront the robber wearing only a towel like you. “Sure.” You kiss him roughly. You get up from your spot and peel your shorts off, not wearing panties like you said. “Man, two dicks. All to myself.” Your tongue drags over your teeth. Jayce does what Viktor did, leaving only his boxers on. 

“Sit down, I need to plan what I’m going to do.” You faintly push the bigger man beside your boyfriend. You stand over them, naked, leaving nothing to the imagination. Jayce’s cock was throbbing against the tight fabric. Chambering him. 

Viktor was just as hard, needing to feel some sort of friction before he goes crazy. 

You then suddenly climb onto Jayce’s lap, kissing him before he can even process what’s happening. His hands on either side of him. You press your heated core against his member, grinding against him like a bitch in heat. Viktor helps out, directing his hands to your ass. “Squeeze it, she likes it.” He encourages, Jayce listens and you moan, pressing down harder on his cock. 

Earning a groan from him as well. Your tongues battle for domination. Surprisingly you lose, Jayce exploring the inside of your mouth as you were humping onto him. Viktor had pulled his boxers down, his dick springing out and slapping against his lower stomach. Dribbling spit onto his tip to use it as lube. 

Jayce’s eye peeks open, seeing it happen. His dick twitches against you. Closing the eye once again, smacking your ass and drawing you closer. You let out a small yelp, not expecting it from him. Jayce was going to retreat to apologize but you don’t let him. Almost to motivate him to do it again. 

Your wetness soaks the clothing over his girthy genitals. 

As you pull back, a string of saliva holds onto both of your lips and you grin at the nasty sight. You then look at your boyfriend. “You feel left out?” You pout, pulling him into a kiss. “Mhm…” He pumps his dick into his fist and you relish the vulnerable look he wears. “Sorry baby.” You muster against his lips. 

“Want to eat me out while I suck his pretty cock, hm?” You ask, still planted onto Jayce’s muscle, meaty lap. “Of course.” He nods his head for you, his eyes dark with lust. He was a munch for you. He loved making you cum over and over again all over his face. 

Now there you were, back arched, choking on Jayce’s girth master of a dick. Viktor behind you, slurping up all your juices that your pussy gifts upon him. Eating you out like a starved man. His swollen thumb teasing your muscled ring right above or normally below your pussy. 

Your hands gripped onto Jayce’s thighs as your head bobbed up and down on him. Attempting to take him all the way down each time. Jayce watched both of you, how you were so focused on his pleasure and Viktor seemed like he was doing it out of his own. Hearing Viktor whine and mewling into your sopping cunt. 

Your nails pressing into Jayce every now and then when you begin to gag on his length. “You’re ‘s good at this, ‘s good!” Jayce praises you, his hand going to your hair, moving it out of the way for you. Your eyes meet with his. You smile, now your attention grasping at his angry leaking tip. Hollowing out your cheeks as you suck it. His mouth gapes, his hips rutting up to where you have to shove him back down. “F-fuck!” He cries out, you were insanely good at this. Your tongue swirled and swiped at the mushroom top. One of your hands now squeezes his base, twisting and turning up and down. 

“H-holy shit! ‘M gonna… slow down!” He yowls, it was intense. Out of nowhere. 

Viktor breathes on your pussy as he stops to watch what technique you were doing to your shared friend. He hums at it. Good one. He goes back to your core, ambushing your clit. 

His lips latched and locked with your folds and your legs were starting to shake. Even he had to hump himself into the edge of the couch. Hearing everything going on in the room. He had to relieve himself somehow. 

You push your ass back on your boyfriend’s face. His nose is deliberately in your hole as his tongue works on your nub. Your free hand spreads your ass cheek allowing a different feeling to erupt in your stomach.

Your mouth paused for a quick second before continuing. “Gonna cum, pretty.” He grunts, struggling to keep his pelvis in place knowing he was just going to get knocked back down on the cushion. You let out a small noise, encouraging him to let go. His breathing was ragged and out of order. His chest heaving up and down. 

Ropes of the velvety white liquid shooting in your mouth, you fully sheath the cock inside, hitting the back of your throat so you’d have no choice but swallow what was given to you. He felt his tip being gulped down as well with the motion of your throat. He puffed out, his muscles getting to relax now. 

“Goood boy…” You grin up at him, letting his soft flaccid dick fall against his skin. His head laid on the arm of the sofa, closing his eyes. It wasn’t for long though as he lifts himself back up to watch Viktor going to town on your pussy. His hands holding onto your thighs. Your face hiding into the cushion as you let out little, “hah’s” and “fuck’s” sneaking his name in there as well. 

Jayce’s dick was already starting to grow hard once again. 

“Vik ‘most there, pleeeaasee.” You sob, clawing at the fabric underneath you. Viktor’s tongue repeatedly licking at your clit, his bottom lip hitting it as well each time he closed his mouth before re-opening, keeping this motion. His nose also causes gratification for you. Your muscles tremble, stomach tightening and recoiling as your first orgasm of the day hits you. “A-amazing, f-fuuuck! ‘Love you ‘s much, vikkie.” You hiccup, toes curling and your thighs accidentally squeezing close as your pussy squirts, sputtering out juices all into Viktor’s mouth. Swallowing it all gone. Even licking you clean afterwards. 

He finally shrinks back, sitting on his left calf with half-lidded eyes and messed up hair. His mouth coaxed with you all over. You lay there for a moment, taking a breather. You gather your energy, sitting up on your knees. “That was- so hot!” You clap your hands happily. Jayce nods his head in agreement. “Your mouth is really intense, [Name].” He holds his dick in his hand like it was a gentle being. 

You snicker, giving yourself a pat on the back at the compliment. “Thank you, I practice everyday.” You then wink over to your boyfriend whose face flushes. “Now, I need to give my baby some attention.” You crawl over to said boyfriend. Pushing him to lay fully on the couch. “Gonna fuck you, soooo good.” You tell him as you straddle his hips.

You grab hold of his leaky cock, it was covered in precum making your hand all sticky. You lowered yourself onto him, your wall fluttering over his inches. “Sooo good!” Your eyes roll into the back of your head. You could never grow tired of his dick. So perfect for your cunt. 

Your hands go to the top of his chest as you fuck yourself on him. Bouncing up and down, one foot planted on the ground as the other is on the couch. Your knee bent near your chest. You had a shorter sofa so it worked beautifully. Your boobs jiggle in front of his face, his lips perfectly latching onto one. 

You hover over his face, watching him suck on your nipple like milk was actually able to come out. You grinned down at him only to ruin his fun by sitting back up, bringing your leg back up on the couch, both knees bent and you held onto them as you widen your stance. Rolling your hips back and forth. 

For a moment you truly forgot Jayce was behind you, watching you fuck yourself on your boyfriend like a slut. “Hah- you’ll get your ch-chance soon, promise~” You look back at him after hearing him grumble something under his breath. 

You keep your position for as long as you possibly could but the straining in your thigh muscles were starting to bother you. You fall to your knees, well adjust yourself. Still keeping Viktor’s dick deep inside you. He pushes himself into a sitting position, you pant against his chest. Holding onto him. “Sorry, one second.” You tell him, perking your ass out a little bit, trying to make yourself more comfortable. 

Jayce was getting impatient now. Having to be a bystander to all the fun the two of you were doing. Without warning he spreads your ass cheeks, you snap back at him. “Huh?” Your eyes were wide. “I need to fuck you.” He admits, no shame though. His dick spurting out precum. Twitching at you as you stared down at it. 

“Okay.” You say, lifting yourself off of Viktor who starts to whine but you shush him. “I have an idea.” You whisper, turning around, sinking back down on your boyfriend's length. You sit down on Viktor, leaning fully back against his chest. “Are you comfortable like this?” You quietly ask him to which he nods, grabbing at your thighs as he understands what you’re doing. 

Your ankles now in the air, and one of your hands traveled down to your pussy, spreading your lips, showcasing everything. “C’mon then.” You smack your own cunt, your fingers brushing against Viktor’s base. He flinches at the touch. Jayce ogles at your already full hole. Wondering how this was going to work. How he was going to fit with Viktor. Instead of taking too long he presses his tip at the top of your hole right on top of his buddy’s dick steadily, painfully slowly pushing himself in. You grit your teeth together, feeling the stretch.  

“Fuckfuckfuckfuck…” You mutter, grabbing onto your boyfriend’s wrists that held your legs up. “Are you okay?” He stops himself mid-way. “Keep going.” You bleat. 

As he’s fully inside you make both of them stay very still. “So full! Holy shit!” You squeal, gawking down at your magical pussy that encased two rather plump cocks. “I’m going to cum if you move at all.” You stare up at Jayce with worried eyes. “Are you sure this is okay?” It was his turn to ask for consent and you nod your head. “I’ll be fine, I just need to adapt.” You huff, leaning your head back for a moment. 

“Okay-” And right at the word Jayce was pumping himself in and out of you. It wasn’t what you were going to say but at this point you weren’t going to stop him as you shrill out, clinging onto Viktor. Viktor’s face hides in your shoulder at the feeling of Jayce’s cock rubbing against his own. “Fuck, so tight.” Jayce grumbles, pistoning in and out of you. 

You let out nonsense babbles, wanting to cry at the sheer pleasure you feel. It was nothing like you’ve ever felt. “Doin so so so good, love.” Viktor tells you, kissing your sweaty skin. Looking over you to watch Jayce’s thrusts. 

Jayce’s mouth wide open as he’s relentless fucking you. 

“How does it feel?” Viktor asks and you shake your head. “I- d-d- Fuck!” You tremble, not able to speak. Your pussy squirts juices onto their dicks, making a mess all over them. 

Jayce only keeps focus on his dick rummaging into you like a meekly little fuck doll. Viktor’s veins add extra fulfillment for him. His brain was mush as all he focused on was getting the three of you to cum. 

“Need you to cum, both of you!” He grunts, pulling you into a kiss before retreating and doing the same to Viktor. Both sloppy and careless. “Almost there!” Viktor whines in response. “Mhm~ m-me… shhhii-” You babbled, not making any sense but they both understood. Jayce’s thumb goes to your clit, the palm of his hand holding onto your lower stomach. Rubbing your nub vigorously, instantly sending you over. Your cunt gushes, outflowing clear fluid drastically. Your pussy pulsating and screaming at the pleasure it’s receiving. You sob, tears streaming down your face as Jayce is still unyielding away from you. 

Sending shock waves through you as your legs shudder and tremble. Viktor crashes next, his thick semen entering you in such a deep manner as it was tucked right against your walls. His tip pushing onto your gummy mushy spot. 

Jayce didn’t stop, his hips ferocious and neverending as he raced to his own high. Overstimulating the both of you. 

His thrusts were finally growing sloppy and slow, his pants were hefty and loud. Full of whines and low grunts all the same time. Finishing inside you, all three of your cum mixing with one another. He easily slips out, your pussy cries at the sudden emptiness, now only having Viktor. 

All your fluids trickled over his cock, pooling onto his pelvis. Jayce was mesmerized. 

The two of you were completely fucked out. Holding onto one another. You lay your legs down slowly but stayed on Viktor. “Jayce… you’re one hell of a- fuck.” You heave out, clutching your chest. “Sorry, I kinda got ahead of myself.” He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. 

“Kinda?” Viktor deadpans. 

“I’m sorry!” He pouts. 

“It’s fine, it was so worth it.” You give a lopsided grin, tiredly staring up at the ceiling. 

Jayce helps you off of Viktor, all the juices flowing down your thighs leaving you to feel utterly dirty. “Let’s get you two cleaned up.” He announces, heading to your guy's shower and starting it. You glance back to your boyfriend who was covering his eyes with his forearm. “I can’t walk.” You tell him, your legs shaking as you stand there. He snorts at you, sitting up. Letting your guys’ cum spill onto the couch. It was a good thing you had covers on it. 

You were definitely going to have to deep clean it. Maybe get new covers. 

Jayce comes back, watching the both of you wobble like newborn giraffes. “Maybe I did go a little too hard.” He frowns, picking you up bridal style. “Stay here Vik, I’ll be back.” He promises your boyfriend who was too exhausted to not listen.

[novvav]

This is toe curling and soooooo good holy shit

Hi Anon(s)! I'm intermingling the request and prompt into one:

Filth, Unspoken

viktorxfemale!reader explicit! you know the drill, they end up doing stuff by the end of this. The premise is: Reader secretly writes love letters and poems to Viktor and one day she accidentally slips him some. From warnings: massive cringe warning regarding my attempt at poetry :v

word count: 4,1K

author’s note: Remember when I said that sometimes I need to remind myself that I can publish anything because nobody has my address and won't come and boycott me in real life? I had to do it ten times harder with this. You don't like my poems? High five, I don't either :') Viktor does tho, hehe :v @rennethen as usual thank you for beta reading and surviving :v

artist on X

—

Chaos. The only word capable of describing your day. From the frantic oversleeping—jumping around your bedroom while picking up yesterday’s clothes—to the rushed, half-hearted teeth cleaning your dentist would surely condemn, to breakfast consisting of a single apple, to bumping into Sky and painfully clashing foreheads, to nearly stumbling over the threshold of Heimerdinger’s classroom. And then, the realisation: you’ve forgotten your textbook.

You’re forced to borrow the classroom copy, the one Heimerdinger keeps for emergencies. Poor book—barely holding together, its pages threatening to break free from their loose stitching, stained and scrawled on by generations of equally forgetful students.

In the middle of a page, you spot a tiny drawing of Viktor, ink bleeding into the text you’re supposed to be reading. He’s hunched over a desk, his back abruptly cut off by the edge of the paper, his hair reduced to sketchy, heavy-handed strokes. And yet, it’s undeniably him. Signed J.T.—Jayce, you assume. Around the drawing, various hearts have been added in different inks and handwritings, a quiet chorus of affection from students past. No wonder the book is so worn. You smile to yourself—you’re not the only one, it would seem.

Your eyes flick to where he sits, finding him in the exact same position, only now with the full curve of his back visible. The eraser end of a pencil rests between his lips, his gaze blank as he stares off, lost in thought. You imagine it’s something else entirely that finds its way into his mouth.

Slowly, you draw your own heart next to his tiny, sketched lips.

The lecture blurs as the last of your adrenaline fades. Secretive yawns slip through as Heimerdinger’s monotonous voice grows heavier, pressing your eyelids shut. Eventually, you succumb, head resting against your hand.

The next thing you know, a warm hand presses firmly against your forearm, and your name is murmured close to your cheek, laced with the scent of coffee and something sweet. You lean into it before you can think better of it.

“I must admit, I agree with your review,” Viktor mutters, far too close to your lips for your pupils not to dilate.

There’s a stupid look on your face, and he must notice, because he adds, “Eh. Not the most thrilling lecture, I suppose.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t know. Damn, I barely took any notes,” you whine, rubbing the sleep from your eyes.

Viktor chuckles, clearly mistaking the heat in your cheeks for lingering drowsiness rather than the way his closeness sets your pulse stumbling. You’re still leaning toward him, caught between the haze of waking and the warmth of his voice.

“I have a free period now,” he offers. “We can go through them together.”

For a fleeting second, you consider lying—mumbling a heated yes, forsaking another lecture only to spend some time in his proximity and get a good whiff of his scent. But a nagging sense of duty wins over the frantic thrum in your chest.

You fidget, pushing yourself up from your seat too fast, nearly toppling over in the process. “Ah—next class—I have to—” Papers crumple under your fingers as you shove them into your bag with all the grace of a landslide.

Viktor watches you with quiet amusement. He has seen this flustered scramble before—usually when someone is running late or, occasionally, when someone is running from him. But he isn’t one to give up easily.

“If you do not have time,” he says smoothly, “I can review the notes myself.”

You pause, blinking at him. “You’d really do that?”

“Mm.” He tilts his head, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “I like collecting favours.”

Still not entirely awake, you dig through your bag and pull out a stack of papers. It’s not a particularly pleasant sight—edges curled, some pages crumpled beyond saving, a coffee stain blooming across the corner of one sheet like a spreading bruise. You give him an apologetic shrug.

Viktor takes them without hesitation, his smile turning playful. “I do like a challenge.” He taps the stack against the desk to straighten it. “I will drop them off later?”

Your brain is still catching up to the fact that you just handed over your notes—your disaster of a note-taking system—to Viktor, of all people.

“Uh. Yeah. Sure.” The words leave your mouth before you can rethink them, and by the time you do, Viktor is already slipping the papers into his bag with a satisfied little hum.

And so you go your separate ways, the needy thing in your chest both sated and still starving, your mind already drifting to what the evening might bring. You wrap your fingers around your forearm where Viktor’s hand rested for a moment, itching to roll up your sleeve and inspect the skin beneath.

All this time, you’ve been pouring your heart out onto sheets of paper that no one has seen. Technically, Sky once found one you accidentally used as a napkin—deeming it trash after you’ve read it back to yourself, mortified. You snatched it from her hand and shoved it deep into the bin. Thankfully, it was a tame one.

Love letters, poems, confessions—all of them left unseen. For someone so secretive about your little crush, you take surprisingly few security measures. You stuff them under your pillow, into your drawers, sometimes into your pockets, books, or notes you carry around in your bag. Or, they become an eventual napkin, but that has only happened once so far.

You should probably keep them safer. But the thought vanishes the moment you sit down for your next class, forcing yourself into the focused state you need to brace through the lab exercise. Occasionally, your mind drifts back to later.

Viktor, true to his word, spends the period back at his dorm, where all the notes he might need are. He sets up at his desk, intending to correct your scribblings and annotate what you might have missed, only to realise soon after that this won’t be a one-sitting job. How you’ve been passing your classes eludes him.

It’s pure chaos incarnate. What starts as notes on one page quickly devolves into a caricature of Heimerdinger, his poro gnawing at his foot, before abruptly resuming a page later. He chuckles at your commentary—hastily scribbled words underlined whenever boredom struck: yawn, no idea what this man is talking about, kill me.

Until it’s no longer chaos. His eyes fixate on a small sheet of paper wedged between your class materials. A poem. No mistake here. But what kind of poem is this? Has this bloomed under your pen? He reads the first two verses, convincing himself it’s to identify your handwriting.

when you brush my fingers I don’t wash my hands

And there is no mistake here either. He places the sheet face down on his desk, looking around as if anyone might be there to spy on him. He steadies himself with a deep breath before peeking back in.

your touch lingers, stains my skin seeps into every tender place I press against in the dark it’s cruel, how you favour my left hand how you never take the right— the one I slip between my thighs the one that does you no justice, I’m sure

Your words pour into him, his mind racing as he imagines you saying them. Writing them, tapping your chin with your pen at your desk—or better yet, in your bed. Or have you written this in class? Heart begins to thump loudly in his temples as he re-reads the poem a couple of times, each pass making his cheeks hotter. He tries to focus on the words, imagining you, wondering who you’ve written this for. By the time he’s forced to pack up for his next class, his hair is dishevelled from running a hand through it too many times. He eyes the rest of your notes suspiciously, his mind racing.

After lectures, he’d like nothing more than to run back to his dorm, but instead, he walks briskly, the thought of your writings nagging at him. The stack of papers teases at his mind, and as he turns the corner, a sudden impulse hits him—what if he searched the rest of the notes?

He sits down faster than he would admit to anyone and begins to go through the papers, one by one. It doesn’t take long to identify another hold-withered sheet, folded in half unevenly, which he opens with excited hands.

I fall asleep drunk on the whiskey of your eyes and the promise of your teeth I dream of the mark your cane leaves on my ass

Stop. Can’t be. He twists the cane in his fingers and falls against the chair’s backrest. Head lulls back on his shoulders and a hand comes to cover his mouth. Can’t be, so he reads the whole thing again.

I fall asleep drunk on the whiskey of your eyes and the promise of your teeth I dream of the mark your cane leaves on my ass make it red make it many every night, I regret that I cannot kiss where past life lovers have kissed you— under your eye, above your mouth

Zatraceně, Viktor thinks. He runs his fingers across the mark under his eye, then the one above his lip. Still, can't be, can it? Every blush, every fidgeting of hands he mistook for your general anxiety—was it all him?

Every time you’ve shied away from his eyes or slipped from under his touch. His mind races through your interactions, trying to remember how many times he’s touched your left hand. Countless. Unbelievable, how blind a smart man can be.

With trembling hands, he fumbles through the rest of the stack. And as if he weren’t sure enough already, a tiny piece of parchment, presumably ripped from one of your notebooks, glares at him with his name scribbled in loving letters.

Fuck me, Viktor. I don’t want to die— Untouched by you, Unfucked by you, Unruined by you, Unmade in the way only you could.

Such words, coming from under your wrist, unthinkable. He finds his collar tight and his mind foggy as he reads all three of them over and over. Images of your lips reciting the poems flood his brain. Then, images of your lips doing other things.

He loosens his tie, after a while discards it completely. Determined to finish what he promised, he goes through the rest of your notes, thankfully finding no other filthy scribbles. Or unluckily.

He considers completing the task tomorrow, but there’s no use. His cock is relentlessly stiff, and if he doesn’t hand you your filth back, he will most likely stay awake until the morning. When the knock lands on your door, it's late, but you’d be lying if you said you weren’t waiting.

“Hello,” says Viktor, and he looks… tired. His clothes are dishevelled, his hair a mess, and his cheeks are faintly flushed. He looks pretty, too.

“Hi, um… am I this unreadable?” You wince, eyeing the notes in Viktor’s hand, which look somewhat neater than you remember.

You have no idea, he thinks. “Eh, it was a little bit… challenging, but everything should be here,” Viktor says, hesitating before passing you the stack. “Can I come in?”

You step away faster than you can say yes. Then, you take the notes from his hand and put them on the table, looking at him expectantly. “Well?”

This time it’s Viktor fidgeting, and it gets you mildly self-conscious. He turns to you, then eyes the stack on the table. “You have an interesting way of cataloguing knowledge,” he chooses to say.

“What… do you mean?” you ask, and feel your heart stop, drop out of your chest, and stumble to the floor. For a moment, you feel bloodless, before all this blood comes rushing up to your face with an ice-cold gush.

“I might have stumbled upon some of your… eh, original work, so to speak?” he offers and smiles of all things. Curiosity lingers in his eyes, and you swallow, hard.

“Original… oh, fuck.” you exhale sharply, and your hand shots up to cover your mouth.

“You are very talented. I know not much of poetry, but—”

“Poetry?! Gods, these are the worst!” You rub your temples, mortified, eyes flicking to the floor, desperately trying to hide your embarrassment.

“There’s more?” he asks, bewildered. This is the most animated he’s seen you… perhaps, ever. Always quiet. Always shy around him. How interesting.

“Viktor, I beg you,” before you know it, you fist his shirt, and your face is inches away from his. Your cheeks burn and your temples hammer with the rhythm of your heart. “Don’t mock me. Which ones have you read?”

The proximity moves something within him, and suddenly, the images of your lips come back to him. Of you, begging for his cane against your ass and his cock in your mouth, and it’s thrilling.

His hands come to rest on your hips, and a chill runs down your spine when a smirk blooms on his face. “What can I say… forgive me for favouring your left hand. I shall fix my mistake.”

“Oh gods, I’m going to die,” you lament, covering your face and pulling away, but Viktor’s grip tightens.

“Wait! Wait,” he pleads, pulling you close, cane pokes between your shoulder blades. “You cannot die yet,” he whispers, and it doesn’t take you long to connect the dots. All the blood thriving and gushing under the skin of your face immediately drains when his mouth comes to your ear and he hums, “Not before I touch you.” A breath gets trapped in your throat when his hand slides up your side to wrap around your neck. “Not before I… fuck you,” he whispers against your lips and waits for your reaction. “Or ruin you,” comes last and well, almost ruins you there, on the spot.

Then, he stills and just stares into your eyes. Wide and frightened, you search his—pupils black and huge, eating up the gold to the rim. “Unless… your writing is of the past. Or untrue.”

Feeling the weight of his scrutiny, you surrender. “It’s not,” you murmur, your voice so small it’s barely there. You don’t dare look at him, so you miss the way his lips curl into an amused smile. “Which ones did you read exactly?”

“Oh? Are the themes reoccurring?” Viktor asks, tilting his head, his tone deceptively innocent.

You let out a weak, mortified whine, and before you can fully process what’s happening, he pulls you in, guiding your head to rest beneath his chin. The scent of him fills your nose. When he speaks again, the low timbre of his voice vibrates against your cheek. “Oh hush, I’m only teasing you.”

“Well, have you considered stopping? I’m barely hanging in here,” you mutter against his throat. You feel the slight shift in his breath, and if you weren’t so dizzy with embarrassment, you’d swear you felt goosebumps rise under your lips.

“Why? It’s only me. You’ve known me for years,” he muses, his fingers tracing idly along your back.

“Yes, but—” you start, only for him to interrupt.

“But what? Am I so intimidating?”

“No, you are just so…” You hesitate, your breath hitching as you realise how close you are, how warm he feels against you. “Nice,” you whisper, barely able to force out the word. And then, quieter still, almost a confession: “And hot. I can’t think straight around you.”

Viktor tilts your chin up, gold eyes searching yours, his breath warm against your lips. “Do you mean it?” he asks, voice low. “This and everything you’ve written?”

You force yourself to answer with a weak, “Yes.”

Your lips brush his as you press forward, seeking out his tongue, inviting him in needily. He obliges, mouth breathing into yours slowly—a deep kiss that’s both cautious and wanting, melting the two of you together. It’s slow, and it grows, each inhale Viktor takes deep and measured, like he’s trying to memorise the shape of your breath. His teeth catch on your lower lip, and a moan escapes you when his hand moves from your chin to the base of your skull.

His thumb brushes under your hairline, almost soothing, when he asks, “Would you like me to touch you, then?”

When he pulls back, just enough to let you catch your breath, his lips are still ghosting over yours.

“Please,” you whisper, the word bouncing between you.

Wordlessly, he nods, takes your hand in his, and guides you toward your bed. Then he sits, props his chin on his palms resting atop his cane, and says calmly, “Strip for me.” His voice is steady, but inside, he is anything but.

With trembling hands, you undress, your skin prickling under his stare. Once bare, you clasp your palms at the bottom of your stomach, shifting from foot to foot as you await his next instruction. Viktor smiles—kind, knowing—and sets his cane aside before extending his arm.

His hands find your thighs, running up and down, leaving cinders in the aftermath of his touch. Then, he turns you around and pulls you down until your back is flush against his chest.

“Now,” he whispers into your ear, his voice a slow drag of heat down your spine as he spreads your legs, hooking them over his knees.

“I will touch you,” he murmurs, fingers tracing your bare skin, “and you will tell me what else you’ve written.”

His touch trails up your inner thigh, barely there, leaving only the ghost of warmth behind. The anticipation is unbearable—he enjoys it. Your breath stutters when he finally, finally brushes over where you need him, only to pull away just as quickly.

“Go on,” he prompts, voice smooth as silk, his mouth close to your ear. You swallow hard, heat coiling deep inside you. You shift uncomfortably on his lap, hook one arm around his shoulder before breathing your weak plea into his neck. "Viktor."

He hums in response, his hand returning, teasing, fingers slipping between your thighs but still refusing to give you what you ache for.

"Say it," he coaxes. "For me?"

You gasp when his knuckles brush against your centre, his second hand slipping up your other thigh, joining the right one—a promise of what awaits you if you share this with him.

"What if you come," you whisper, voice shaking, "into my throat?"

A sharp inhale from Viktor, his fingers playing at your entrance. He nuzzles into your hair, breath hot against your temple. "More."

"I’d eat mud to touch the root of you," you murmur, heat flooding your face. "I go hungry if you don’t feed me."

Viktor groans and plunges two fingers inside you, his right hand rubbing lazy circles over your clit. You can feel him, so painfully hard against the small of your back, and your head lulls onto his shoulder, a shuddered whimper slipping from your lips.

"More," he demands with a soft moan.

Your mind is slipping, drowning in the way he touches you, but you force the words out. "I kneel at the altar of your hands," you whisper, your eyes meeting his. "I part for them like a prayer."

Viktor swears under his breath, his mouth pressing a bruising kiss to your lips. His tongue parts them effortlessly, devouring your filthy testament to your infatuation straight from your throat.

"It tortures me," you say, voice hitching, "that I cannot mould the shape of your cock from the slope of your groin."

The wet sounds of his fingers sliding in and out of you, the feeling of them curving just right, the heat of his chest against your back, and his hair tickling your forehead—it all has you dizzy. You tighten your grip on his shoulder, fingers grasping his shirt tightly as you press your face against his.

"Good girl," Viktor breathes against your lips, each word a quiet indulgence. Something roars in his ribcage at the feeling of being this adored. His fingers push deeper, curling mercilessly, coaxing the slickest, filthiest sounds from your body. The other hand does a deft work of your clit, and you jerk, a breathy moan escaping into the open air.

"That’s it," he murmurs, nipping at your jaw, letting his teeth linger over your skin before soothing the bite with a kiss. "No more left hand torture."

His hips shift against you, slow at first, a teasing drag of his cock over the swell of your ass, letting you feel the hard, aching length of him through his trousers. He groans, a deep, broken thing, and his breath stutters when you push back, rolling your hips to match his movement.

"Fuck," he hisses, forehead dropping to your shoulder as he grinds against you more deliberately. "I could listen to you endlessly."

You whimper, arching against him, hand clutching at his shoulder as he builds the pressure inside you with every firm thrust. Your whole body is taut, trembling at the way his hips rut against yours, the way his breath catches when you moan his name.

"Will you come for me?" he rasps, lifting his head, catching your mouth in a kiss that’s hot and searching, swallowing every little sound you make. "Let me hear you. Let me feel it."

You gasp into his mouth, shaking, so impossibly close as his fingers drive into you faster, rub your clit harder. His legs spread further apart, keeping you open for him, guiding your pleasure. "You’re so lovely," Viktor whispers, breathless, voice thick with awe.

The coil inside you tightens, unbearable, your body wound so tight you think you might snap in two on his lap. And then Viktor shifts, bites down gently on your lower lip, and it’s too much—you break, gasping against his mouth as you come undone around his fingers.

And it’s so much more than you’ve imagined. None of your hands have done him justice. Nor your pillow, nor your shower head. Nothing could compare, save for the promise of his cock lingering in your mind.

"Yes," he exhales, pressing his forehead against yours, voice laced with something dangerously close to devotion. "That’s it. Just like that. Let me have it."

Your body trembles in his hold, pulsing around his fingers as he guides you through the aftershocks, his movements slowing, softening. He keeps kissing you, swallowing your ragged breaths, grinding himself against you as his own breath turns uneven, as his own restraint frays.

"Tell me," he pants, grinding harder, desperate, aching. "Tell me you’ll write more for me."

His cock throbs against you, his fingers still buried inside you, and you barely have the strength to whisper back—

"Yes."

And Viktor groans like he’s the one coming apart. You hook your arms over his neck and kiss him, grinding your hips against him. “Yes,” you say into his mouth again, breathless, fervent.

Slick fingers come to press bruises into the skin of your thighs as he chases the friction, the heat of you against him, edging him toward his peak. His hips jerk, rutting against the curve of your ass with a desperate, needy rhythm. You can feel him, so impossibly hard, straining against the fabric of his trousers, the damp heat of you seeping through to him.

"Fuck," he hisses against your lips, his voice wrecked. His forehead presses to yours, his breath shuddering as he thrusts against you, chasing relief, needing it like air.

Your hands slip into his hair, tugging lightly, and he groans, his body shivering with pleasure. "Come for me," you whisper, rolling your hips back, pushing against him with just enough pressure to tip him over the edge.

Viktor gasps, his hands flying to wrap around your stomach, pulling you flush against him as his body seizes. A guttural moan tears from his throat, his hips stuttering as he spills into his trousers, panting against your skin, trembling. His grip on you is bruising, grounding, as waves of his orgasm crash through him.

For a long moment, he doesn’t move, only breathes, his mouth brushing over your cheek, your jaw, your lips—soft, reverent touches. His hands ease their grip, smoothing over your belly, your waist, as if trying to memorize you by touch.

When he finally speaks, his voice is raw, ruined. "I fear you’ll be the death of me." “It’s only fair,” you say quietly, nuzzling into his neck. “You’ve been the death of me for the longest time.”

[kruegerspillow]

"My love?" Viktor called out to you.

His gaze shifted away from the Hextech gemstone and landed on you, who stood in the corner of the room with your back facing him. Viktor raised a suspicious brow, his head tilting to the side in a poor attempt to peek at what had gotten you so occupied.

"What are you doing?" He asked, curiousity evident in his tone.

Your shoulders shrugged as you leaned down, one of your hands were busy holding something while the other seemed to be holding some kind of... paper.

"Oh nothing." You brushed it off, your voice wavering—as if you were trying to contain your excitement.

"You're clearly doing something."

Viktor sighed, turning his attention back to the project he was working on. His hands carefully lifted the gemstone as he squinted his eyes, trying to get a better look at it. His brows furrowed before a sudden clank echoed through the lab.

"OW!" You yelled, lifting your leg in pain.

Viktor's eyes widened in panic before he placed the stone aside. He stood up, searching for his cane before spotting it on the ground—right in front of you. You sheepishly met his gaze from over your shoulders.

"And what do you think you're doing with my cane?" Viktor murmured, clearly unimpressed by your actions.

"Vik—ow, you should be grateful." You quipped, lowering your leg before taking the cane off of the ground. "Its design is way too plain, so, I decorated it f'you."

You held the cane in your grasp, walking towards him before offering him the now well-decorated cane. His gaze fell onto the cane, hands outstretched to take it from your grip gently. He twisted the cane to get a full look at it.

"Stickers? What..." he paused, taking in all of the stickers that you've stuck onto his walking stick. "Where'd you get all of this from?"

Clearly, he was impressed, you thought to yourself. There were little stickers of him and you, Hextech gemstones, and even his goggles pasted on it. You gazed at him with pride.

"Doesn't matter," you jested. "Whaddya think?"

He briefly paused, a look of appreciation evident in his face before he sat back down. "It's beautiful—no, that's an understatement. It's... quite magnificent. I've never seen anything as impressive as this. Thank you, my love."

kruegerspillow © 2024 ➵ do not feed my work into ai, repost or translate my work to post it around. Reblogs are much appreciated ୨ৎ

[butchvampireheimerdinger]

Arcane characters react to a bump in the night

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 🌙

Characters: Sevika, Vi, Mel, Jayce, Viktor, Caitlyn, Jinx, Isha, Ekko, Heimerdinger, Ambessa, Silco.

Warnings: SFW. Some characters are written as x reader where they’re implied to be sharing a bed/in a relationship. Jinx’s bit has a mentally unwell sort of vibe that could be interpreted as suicidal ideation.

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 Sevika:

Before you even get the chance to be scared, Sevika stirs and mumbles a bit, groggily sits up, and fully fires away in the direction of the noise blasting that corner of the room to holy hell. Then she collapses back down and promptly resumes snoring.

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 Vi:

You hear a sort of scratching noise and both of you wake up, but you don’t really gaf. Vi, on the other hand, springs into action and is all “Babe, get behind me, I’ll kick its ass,” etc. She tiptoes off to investigate and you’re all like “Babe its fine it was probably the wind I’m not even scared just come back to bed” and she’s like “NO! I will protect you” and it ends up being like a single emaciated rat in the garbage.

“Wow babe I’m so glad you were here to protect me from such a terrifying apex predator, that could’ve gotten ugly quick.”

“Can it, sleeping beauty.”

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 Mel:

This absolute princess is a really light sleeper, so she’s immediately up. But she doesn’t wanna wake you, so she ignores it. Then it happens again and she wakes you up gently and is all like “Darling? Would you check that out for me? The sound has just been persisting and I’m a bit nervous.” So you go and it’s nothing to worry about and she’s apologetic and you’re all “no worries love, better safe than sorry.” And she has you give her back scratches. Cause she’s a sensitive artist type and needs to chill out so she can go back to sleep.

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 Jayce:

Hears nothing, sleeps through it. He snores loud like a middle aged father in an armchair.

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 Viktor:

Viktor is probably up anyways, couldn’t sleep. He’s posted up at his desk reading by candlelight or reviewing notes/drafting something sciencey. He studies in silence so he hears it, assesses, and realizes its not a threat. Decides it’s not worth investigating unless it persists and becomes annoying.

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 Caitlyn:

I would say that Caitlyn sleeps through it because she’s lived a charmed life, but on second thought the Jinx shower kidnapping thing would probably give her a bit of a paranoid edge, especially regarding home invasions. In a sleepy daze, she reaches into the bedside drawer, grabs the glock, and tucks it in bed with her like a teddy bear. Also I think she goes to bed listening to NPR or some niche history podcast.

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 Jinx:

Her eyes open wide immediately, and the knee-jerk fear response gets her heart pumping. As we know, her stress reactions are a little inconsistent and she seeks out conflict, doesn’t like to let things rest. I think it would somehow excite her and she would sit up in bed, pick at her cuticles or play with a nearby weapon/gadget as she waits for either death or a brawl. Or she might seek out the source for violence purposes depending on what she’s feeling in the moment. Diva is combative. Actually, I take it back I think she would always go out and investigate every little bump in the night — one of the many reasons her sleep cycle is so inconsistent. She’d tear through all her belongings searching for it. There’d be audible crashes and she’d make a huge mess of her room. It’d drive her up the wall if she couldn’t find it. Until something distracted her enough to get her to return to bed.

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 Isha:

Isha wakes up and immediately thinks monster under the bed? She dangles a shoelace or a sock over the edge of the bed to see if the monster bites, cause she’s a smart kid. Nothing does and she tiptoes over to Jinx’s area (cautious and stepping lightly because you can never be too careful with these under-the-bed-monsters) and wakes her up by tugging gently on her braid. She points furiously to the closet and Jinx makes a big show of investigating every nook and cranny. She’s saying something like “Hereee furry monster. Pssst pssst… Come out come out wherever you are, ugly.” She sets up “monster booby traps” with bits and bobs and trinkets. “No scaly ne’erdowell is getting past the Fang Destroyer 5000, I can tell you that much.”

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 Ekko:

Ekko sleeps like the dead. And he wears headphones to bed and listens to metal and noisecore. He didn’t hear a damn thing. There could be a majorette kickline complete with a marching band drum sequence making its way through the tree and trust he would remain slumbered up. Snoozepilled to the max.

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 Heimerdinger:

He’s def got a white noise machine or he listens to whale sounds to get to bed. Yordles have excellent hearing though so he probably woke up immediately. Idk how this fits with actual lore but I feel like yordles would have prey instincts. Something tells me Heimerdinger burrows deeper in his blanket like he’s having a predator fight or flight response. And he’s like. Trembling involuntarily. However, he is a man of science, so he talks himself through it. “’Tis but a shifting floorboard! Perhaps some rowdy vermin. Nothing to obsess over — the likely scenario is that I am safe in my home, and should go back to sleep. I must get my rest so I can approach the morning with a healthy body and a fresh mind!”

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 Ambessa:

Ambessa hears it cause she’s got ears like a hawk (do hawks have ears…?) but she goes back to bed because she’s got people to handle that. And if someone surprise attacks her she can definitely take them in her sleep.

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 Silco:

“Sevika, investigate that for me.”

[yinemw]

𝐛𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞

context: taking a bath with bf Viktor (gender neutral reader) I’d also like to add that this is my first time writing for a disabled character. Personally I’m not disabled so I wouldn’t know how that feels like, and it is not my intention to offend anyone or make Viktor’s disability the main focus in my writing. If anything is offensive or you guys have any tips or criticisms, I am happy to learn and fix anything!

warnings: nudity, nothing explicit though

character: Viktor from Arcane

m.list

“Is it working?” you asked innocently from behind Viktor, hands on his shoulders as you gently massage his muscles. Maybe a bit too softly for Viktor, he knew why though, you were always scared to hurt him, ever since the surgery on his back you were always extra gentle during your massages. So he knew why your fingertips sometimes felt feather light against his muscles.

“Oh uhm, yes” he answers, having been lost in his own thoughts as he looked down at the floor. Thinking about hextech as usual, new ways to improve and understand it. Wishing he was at the lab with Jayce, he didn’t like when you and Jayce wanted him to rest. “I’m feeling fine, let’s go to the lab”

“Viktor no” a sigh slips past your lips as you hold him down by the shoulders, making sure Viktor didn’t get up from the bed. The room dimly lit by a few candles and the moon shining from between the curtains. “It’s late—”

“Jayce is probably there”

“So you’d rather spend time with Jayce than me?”

“No that’s not what I said, it’s the hextech”

Your eyebrows furrow and fingers stop working on his shoulders. “You’d rather spend time working on hextech then spend time with me then”

He could hear the hurt in your voice and regretted his words. This wasn’t the first time you two had discussed the lack of time you spent together as a couple. Yes you saw each other at the lab every day, but it wasn’t like you were spending time with your boyfriend, it was spending time with your co-worker. “That’s not what I meant, and you know that” Viktor looks over his shoulder at you, leaning his forehead against yours. “I just feel restless…”

You knew that, you always paid more attention to Viktor than anyone else. It wasn’t because of his condition or anything , your gaze often just naturally wandered over to the pretty man. It was hard to take your eyes off of him, so you always saw the change of body language, knowing when he feels restless. “I know a way you could relax…since this massage clearly isn’t helping”

★

“Are you…joining me?” Viktor asked softly, leaning on his cane as he looked down at the bathtub. A few bubbles covering the surface of the warm water.

You light the last candle, placing it by the sink before turning to him. “If you want”

“I want” was all he said, letting his cane lean against the counter as he started to undress. Feeling your soft hands graze his skin as you help him, not like he necessarily needed the help to undress, but it was much appreciated. Today was just one of those days where everything seemed dull and dark, his body and mind both tired and restless at the same time.

With a little more help, Viktor sunk into the warm water of the bathtub, eyes closing as his mind wanders back to hextech. “I should be at the lab…”

“I will drown you”

A small smile spreads to his lips as he cracks open his eye to watch you undress. His beautiful significant other, the person who had stuck with him through everything. Who puts up with him and his stubbornness every single day and turned it into something amusing instead. “You’re beautiful” he mumbles, the words said in his accent seemed to have an even bigger effect on you.

Clearing your throat to pretend like nothing, you slip into the water. Sitting on the opposite side of the tub, knees held to your chest due to the small space. “We need to get a bigger bathtub” you say after watching some of the water spill over the edge.

Viktor had closed his eyes again, the tips of his hairs also submerged in the water. He felt light, and warm. It helped soothe his aches and pains, even if it was only a little, it was enough to make him feel more laid back than usual.

Finding a wash cloth and some soap, you gently start to rub it against Viktor’s skin. Starting with his shoulders, you lift his arms slightly to make sure you get every part of his body. You knew Viktor liked when you did this, the smell of your body wash and the gentle touch against his skin was always comforting.

But it wasn’t enough, wasn’t intimate enough. Discarding the washcloth, you decided to use your hands only. Skin to skin contact, to feel his muscles and skin against your fingertips. The soap making little bubbles float to the surface of the water, covering up his bare body. Some of the bubbles getting stuck to his neck and chin, glistening in the flickering lights of the candles.

“You okay?” You ask, just in case. He hadn’t said anything and his eyes had been closed the entire time. The sound of his soft breathing and water droplets filling the room.

He opens his eyes slowly, golden brown eyes meeting yours. Eyelashes wet due to the steam. “Yes” he answered simply, lifting his arms out of the water and tracing his slender hands across your chest and stomach. Innocent and soft touches against your skin, he pulled you closer to him. Not satisfied until you laid down between his legs. “I want to stay like this…you must be tired too”

He was right, you were tired, you just didn’t seem to realize until you felt how comfortable it was to lay against your boyfriend. You settle between his thighs and get into a more comfortable position, back rested against his chest. Viktor’s arms circling around your waist, holding you close and making sure you don’t slip underneath the surface of the water. His chin resting on top of your head, your body felt so soft and warm against his.

When Viktor first moved to Piltover he never understood the pleasure in taking a bath. To simply sit and soak in the water when there was so much else to do. But his whole perspective changed when he started dating you. You changed him, made his life easier, made his life brighter. As much as he wants to work at the lab, to build hextech into something that can help people, you made him realize that’s not all his life is about. So he tries to soak up every moment he has with you, and baths became a frequent routine in your relationship.

“Vik, did you fall asleep?” You chuckle softly, hearing how his breath slowed and how his arms loosened around your body. “We are going to turn into raisins if we stay here any longer, come on mister scientist”

Viktor groans, mumbling something under his breath as you force him out of the tub. Though he had to admit the water was starting to get a little too cold for his liking. And even if he would have preferred to stay a little longer, he couldn’t fight his smile as you tease him about his grumpiness.

“Do you enjoy making fun of a burnt out scientist, hm?” He teases back, throwing his towel over your head before starting to make a move to the bedroom. Still butt-naked, taking only his cane with him, the door to the bathroom wide open as he walks out. “I can feel you staring”

“Shut up!” You yell, though he wasn’t wrong. Taking a few extra seconds to admire his back, the way some water droplets still slid down his skin from the tips of his hairs. It wasn’t a view you could get sick of seeing easily.

After getting ready for bed, you join Viktor in the bedroom, seeing him already lay on the bed. Covers pulled up to his chin and eyes closed, though you knew he wasn’t asleep, his little snores were hard to miss.

“Oh to be a pretty sleeper”

Viktor only smiles sleepily, feeling the bed dip underneath your weight. He didn’t have to open his eyes or do anything, you naturally moved between his arms, molding to his body like a puzzle piece.

“So the bath helped you relax?”

“It does every time”

“Mmm good” you nuzzle into his neck, breathing in the scent of your body wash. His skin still a little damp and warm, some of the wet strands of his hair sticking to your forehead. You could feel how Viktor’s body went limp in your embrace after a few seconds. The room filling with his soft snores. If he fell asleep so quickly you knew he wasn’t lying, the bath really did do wonders.

“Goodnight Vik…sleep well my love”

[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….

update: i wrote a part 2 because it was highly requested! you can read it here :)

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:

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“How do you take your coffee?”

His voice betrays the feeble intention of civility, fusing that polite inquiry into a hiss—a phonetic 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?”