#viktor fanfic

[ihopeinevergetsoberr]

— i’m in love with a dying man

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

word count: 4,1k

pairing: viktor x gn!reader

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your tear catches in your bottom lashes. 

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

You don’t. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Unfortunately.” 

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

“I’m afraid so.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“But its success is… highly improbable.” 

“Yes, but there’s still hope—“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s right. He always is. 

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

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

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

So Viktor continues.

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

“But what if we manage to cure you?!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The figurative knife in your stomach twists anticlockwise. 

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

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

— 

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

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

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

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

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

Or is it? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

[spatialwave]

Hi!! For the kiss prompts, I’d love to read something Reader x Viktor with the scenario ‘kisses meant to distract’ + the dialogue “i think i deserve a kiss” 🥹 thank you!!

tysm for sending this ask!!!! this was so cute to write and it healed me ahaha

➸ pairing: viktor x gender neutral!reader ➸ word count: 680 ➸ tags: mdni! fluffy, hurt/comfort, soft kissing, guilt, sweet ending, reader is in a long-term relationship w/ viktor, no use of y/n. ➸ notes: asked from this prompt list!!

Hextech was a blessing and a curse. It’s components to better society had been coming to fruition, but at the expense of Viktor’s sanity. Hexgates weren’t enough, all they had done was progress the city of Piltover. Nothing had been done to help anyone else. The people in Zaun—himself.

The pain in his body had become unbearable most days, his body frail and weakening with every passing moment.

He wondered why you stuck around all these years, staying at his side as his health deteriorated. You weren’t married, children weren’t on the agenda, and all he did was spend countless hours in his lab with Jayce and Sky.

It wasn’t fair to you.

Yet, you stayed.

Stopping by with a home cooked meal that he picked at, or offering your presence for a few hours while you silently read at the table in his lab while he studied the glowing hexcore.

There was a particular week when Viktor lost all hope. Jayce, now head of the council, had spent less time with the research–in favour of protecting Piltover. A drastic turn of events from their previous shared hopes and aspirations, a way to help rather than hurt.

He sat at one of the aqueducts that sent water from Piltover into the fissures, looking out at the skyline and holding his weight onto his cane. His eyes were tired and cold, souless.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” you said calmly, causing Viktor to jolt and glance in your direction from the sudden intrusion, “Am I interrupting?”

“No,” he cleared his throat, attempting to sit up straighter with his hands still holding tightly to the handle of his cane, “needed some time to, eh… think.”

Sitting next to him on the ledge, you rested your cheek against his shoulder and a hand curved over his slender thigh.

“...about us?” Your voice was hushed, eyes watching the water stream below you.

Viktor’s eyes widened, shaky as he stared at you. You were nuzzled against him, the look of a sad pout covering your face. He could sense the insecurity radiating from you.

“About the hexcore,” he answered honestly, sighing as he pressed his lips against the top of your head, resting there as a fragile hand held the small of your back, “about hextech… I can’t seem to figure it out. It’s been weeks of nothing. It’s… it’s…”

You lifted your head up, lips twitching as you pressed a finger to Viktor’s lips, shushing him. Your eyes flickered between his.

“It’s eating you alive,” you finished his sentence, but not in the way he had intended.

Your heart was heavy for him. Any insecurities of yourself were long gone, and you understood the pain that Viktor was experiencing. It was defeat, feeling unworthy—terrified of death.

You felt terrible for even thinking it had anything to do with you.

“Kiss me,” you mumbled, the finger placed against his lips replaced by your thumb as you grazed it along his bottom lip. Your intent to distract him from the thoughts that weighed him down.

Viktor bore a quizzical look, brows knotting together as he blinked at you.

“Come on,” you murmured, “I think I deserve one. I haven’t seen you in days.”

The corners of his lips twitched, for once, his mind not clouded by thoughts of the hexcore. Instead, fixated on you and the way you looked at him so lovingly with your big doe eyes. How was he so lucky to have someone like you?

He dipped forward, your thumb dropping as his lips pressed to yours. A soft kiss, one that bridged the gap that had begun to split you apart. They moved together fluidly, one of his hands cupping your jaw, as yours pressed against the front of his shoulders.

“I love you,” Viktor murmured, breaking the kiss as your lips brushed together, “thank you… for staying.” His thanks were genuine, you could see the way the guilt flickered in his golden eyes.

“Kiss me again, and I’ll forgive you,” you smiled, closing your eyes as Viktor obliged, smiling against your lips.

[ambitiousmars]

.☘︎ ݁˖ GENTLE precision

.☘︎ ݁˖ summary: viktor works in his own way. on the floor, in the dark, sometimes even in his sleep. but no matter the circumstances you'd hate for him to miss his morning coffee.

.☘︎ ݁˖ pairing: viktor x gn!reader

.☘︎ ݁˖ genre: fluff

.☘︎ ݁˖ warnings: no use of y/n, pure fluff, not proof read, based on season 1

I'll gently graze you, so you'll remember my touch. I'll softly speak to you, so you'll remember my voice while it's coaxing you rather than haunting you. And I'll remember you, so when you remember me, we'll remember us.

"Morning, Viktor." You greeted yourself as the door of the darkened lab clicked behind you, hand grazing against the wall to find the light switch.

"Keep them off," Viktor would urge, "Please." He'd mumble politely as a blue light sparked from the floor beside his chair.

"What are you working on?" You'd ask, making coordinated steps with coffee in each hand towards the sparking light.

You didn't know it could be so dark in a light room. The window looked as if it was the dead off night, and you clearly wouldn't know any better if he told you it was, in fact. Even if you were outside ten minutes prior.

One step: lies a cord notorious for being tripped on.

Picking your foot to place three more steps.

Where a table clock laid, broken glass facing down that no one bothered to pick up.

Picking up your foot, you took a few more steps before standing beside the busy man.

"I hope that's coffee I smell." Viktor whispered, not because he didn't want you to hear but because of how gentle he took your care. Whispering was a sign of vulnerability, not even he noticed about himself.

"Well, you always did get what you hoped for." You responded in the same tone, a smile evident in your voice as you lowered yourself to sit beside him.

He pulled away from whatever he was working on and removed the goggles he placed on his eyes to the floor beside him.

He reached a hand out to you, noticing you couldn't see him in the dark and you weren't even looking at him. He located your wrist to grasp lightly and slide the coffee from your hand before letting go.

"What are you working on?" You asked, moving your eyes back to him. As your eyes found his, you noticed the glisten in his eyes that still glowed through darkness, something you'd hate to miss.

He hummed through his sip off the hot beverage, letting you know he acknowledged your curiosity.

"Same thing I was working on yesterday,  and the day before..." He spoke, although not great with humor, you could hear the smile in his voice when he spoke. As if he wanted you to laugh at the thing he found frustrating,  maybe to make it less frustrating for him.

"And why are we on the floor?"

'we.'

A simple word, a simple pronoun aimed at the two, now sat on the floor together.

"You can sit on a chair if you'd like." Viktor suggested.

'we.'

No one told you to sit on the floor.

"Then you'd be the only one sitting," You shook your head even when you knew he couldn't see it.

"And you'd be the only one standing." He whispered, more to himself than anything.

"Presicely."

Being alone was what he wanted, but being with you is what he craved. He didn't mind being accompanied on the floor by someone who doesn't mind accompanying him.

But it was far more than his presence, you'd hate to remember him by the man who was all alone unless you asked. You shouldn't have to ask, and he shouldn't have to answer.

Your hand found the air, with what you could see you brought it towards where you thought the shoulder of the man was. You were a bit far off until it landed on the fabric of his vest.

He didn't say anything, although he was curious he knew once you'd find what you were looking for, he'd know. Like now, when your hand glided across his chest to his right shoulder--letting your face follow where your hand went, you rested your cheek on his empty shoulder.

Which he allowed, as he sipped his coffee and thought about the question told once today.

"And why are you on the floor?"

[machineheraldcommune]

I Mindreader - Viktor x f! Reader

Synopsis: It would be an understatement if I said I just had a little crush on Viktor. Daydreaming was a cool escape from the harsh realities of the undercity- even after the war. If I had known he could mindread, I would have been a bit more careful with my thoughts.

Words: 1,172

Warnings: f! reader x Viktor, 18+ light SMUT, LoL lore (sort’ve), Arcane season 2 spoilers

Author's Notes: I don’t write scenes like this very often, so bear with me 😭😭!! Also somewhat inspired by the Roswell TV show hehe.

I had been working for Dr. Raveck and Viktor ever since I was caught stealing mechanical equipment for personal projects. I had no means to support myself, which is why when Dr. Raveck offered, I couldn’t refuse. Luckily, a shimmer project wasn’t what he needed me for. He was too busy with other experiments to devote all of his time to Viktor after his second resurrection.

“Viktor-“ A clang sounded as I knocked on his metal lab door before entering.

“I brought the liquid and metal you asked me to get- I have to say, it was quite a challenge…” The room was dark, but I could make out his silhouette lounging on a chair on the far side of the room. The lab was messy, spare parts and miscellaneous papers and schematics in piles all over the floor. I start to set the canisters down next to the wall nearest to me, but I swiftly turn as I hear him rise from his chair. Suddenly, and rapidly, he was the closest he had ever been to me. I felt a blush spread across my face.

He had began to become more metallic in the last few months. His once luminous black skin now had a golden hue. A machine-like armor and mask sat in the corner for whenever he went out sparingly for whatever reason. His face was still human.

“Viktor, what are you…” He suddenly grasped my chin with his cold fingers and pulled my face towards his. He was so close I could feel his long black hair brush my neck, and his breath on my face. My hands came to rest on his chest.

“Human emotion is a volatile thing-“ He starts to say before his other hand touches the wall next to my head. I was frozen in place. He then leans his head to one side and positions so that his next words are reverberated as a whisper directly into my ear.

“You suppress your thoughts in my lab so that it not be revealed on your face- but your thoughts linger like a scintillating light from the back of your mind.” I quickly process what he means, and I can feel my heartbeat start to pound against my chest.

“I don’t know w-what you-“ I then feel his breath travel down to my neck.

“As soon as you entered this lab you had a failed attempt at scrubbing your mind of the thought of my lips on your skin.” I let out an audible gasp as I felt his lips graze my skin, and I uncontrollably imagined what I had been earlier in the day.

He repositions his face in front of mine and pulls my chin once more so that I’m looking directly into his iridescent eyes. I noticed his breath become slightly uneven.

“I-“ As soon as I started to speak he replaced his hand on my chin with his lips on my mouth, and tingles spread through my entire body. I felt as if I might melt onto the floor.

He broke the kiss after a few seconds, and glanced from my lips and into my eyes. “I haven’t healed you, so the question is- why can I feel your emotions as if they were my own?” Both of his hands then trail down from the wall to my sides. I was comfortable with Viktor and the others in the lab, so I was just wearing loungewear- a short-sleeved shirt and loose pants. I had never thought they may not be thick enough that I could feel Viktor’s hands directly on my skin through the cloth. I began to imagine where else his hands may explore before my thoughts were interrupted, by them sneaking under the hem of my shirt. They begin to wander, as his lips find its way back to mine once more. This time- his kisses felt more deep and urgent.

My mind was a mess- it felt scrambled like eggs. The more we kissed, the more I couldn’t believe this situation was even happening.

Slowly one of his hands trailed further down to the hem of my pants, and then my underwear, leaving small vibrations in its wake. He stopped a few inches below my belly-button when I released his kiss and started to speak.

“Viktor-“ I managed, before my imagination was let loose once more- I wanted him in any way possible.

“I must warn you that I might not be able to hold back-“ I thought quickly of what he meant by that, we couldn’t go much further than this could we? He didn’t have certain human organs anymore- but my mind agreed to his terms before my mouth.

His hand trailed further down, and as soon as he started to touch- my body felt as if it was ignited in flames. It was different than I had ever felt before with any other partner, and the feeling was instant.

I felt as if time was incoherent. Immediately I felt a release, and I couldn’t remember when we had began kissing again. I opened my eyes for a second to look into his, and I could’ve swore I saw them glowing for a second.

Soon, he slipped his hand from my pants and placed it near my hip. In an effort to catch his breath, we both sank to the floor, he laid his head to rest on my shoulder.

“It will be more enjoyable with the proper equipment next time.” He says after a few minutes. I didn’t know what that meant, but he was incredible.

“Next time?”

—

Eventually, I managed to find my way back to my room. Immediately I threw myself onto my bed and hid my face in a pillow. I still couldn’t believe all that had happened. After a few minutes, I decided that I should probably change clothes for bed.

I gathered my pajamas from my dresser, and caught a glimpse of my reflection in an old cracked mirror in the corner of my room. I looked like a disheveled mess. My hair was tangled somehow, and my clothes were in a disarray even though they never had been removed. I then caught a glimpse of something.

“What is-“ I peeled off the top layer of my clothes. I widened my eyes as I looked at where Viktor had touched.

He had left a subtle, slightly noticeable, glowing handprint.

[mx-pastelwriting]

Sickness and in health

Viktor x GN! Reader

Summary: Taking care of Victor when he’s sick.

Warnings: Fluff, Sick Viktor, Cuddles & Snuggles, Established Relationship

Echoing coughs filled the bedroom, accompanied by a pitched wheeze, hearing how Viktor's lungs fought for air as you washed away his forehead sweat.

Brows frowning in response to hearing and seeing Viktor's state of health, working his body away in the lab, only coming home to rest at your persistent word. Viktor, having come down with a nasty cold that hadn’t been taken care of, turned to his current state, bed-bound with only the help of you to heal him.

“Here, drink,” speaking softly while holding a glass of water close to his dry lips, taking a sip with the help of you and some propped pillows. Drinking half of the glass, his rough throat still unsatisfied, having given every at-home remedy and medication under the doctor’s orders, yet still his body struggled to fight.

Pushing his hair back once again, having been thrown about from the cough fit, hot skin contrasting against your cool skin earning a hum of enjoyment from Viktor. Taking your hand back, dipping it into the cold water bowl before going back to slicking back his curly tuffs.

Not stop there, running your hand down pressing it against his cheek and neck, hoping it would help lower his body temperature as just days before having to put ice bags all over his body.

Thankfully, having gotten better since then, though very slowly, and not without a bit of pushback. Hearing him worry over new research over and over, even begging you to bring notes from the lab.

Though it sounded horrible, you were thankful that he could get up from bed, as he would have walked there, breaking down his body more.

Intent on keeping your Viktor alive, dismissing his unneeded worry for Hextech research, reasoning Jay can work in the lab just fine by himself. After a few days, the worry came to a stop, leaving Viktor to rest in silence, mostly sleeping thanks to the medication or your filling food. Though of course, not without you, having afternoon naps in the curtain-closed bedroom.

“Lay with me,” his voice hoarsely begged. Without any hesitation, you moved away the bedding, cuddling up to Viktor's shaky body. With cold hands, he cuddled you, welcoming the love and relief it brought to his body. Quickly, the fight for rest dissipated, causing a light snore to sound out, looking up to see Viktor asleep at last.

Hello, I hope you enjoyed if there is any grammar mistakes or misspellings sorry about that feel free to let me know in the comments, have a great day/afternoon/night!

𝙏𝙖𝙜𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩: @scrunkalicious @sophieissleepy

[thehistoriangirl]

If You Hadn't Left (Me) [Chapter 2]

I live!!!

Viktor x Fem! Reader-----2.1K----SFW

// M A S T E R L I S T

<- Previous Next ->

Synopsis:Viktor was never supposed to see you again, just like you had promised that evening when you both ended up heartbroken and bitter toward destiny and all its twisted ways. So twisted as to put you back into his life not only as a temporal working partner to cover Jayce’s absences, but also as the maid of honor in the wedding where he’ll be the best man. Hypothetically, it doesn’t have to be that difficult to find a way around the river of memories flowing between you both. Though, of course, hypotheses are flawed. Just like that part of him that still craves another ending to this story. 

Chapter Summary: People say things look better under a new light. But once you step inside Viktor's lab, Viktor discovers that the view isn't just striking, but also very troublesome.

Tags: Second Chance | Angst | Exes to Lovers | Denial of Feelings | Viktor's pinning | Reader is pissed | | Eventual Smut | Eventual Happy Ending |

Taglist: @ihopeinevergetsoberr @syren201 @slycazzz @jourlinemaktan @seraceres @m1dnight-artisan

Viktor was no stranger to sleepless nights.

Most of them could be excused by incessant workload lined up on his desk in the form of blueprints and pages filled with scribbles of ink where equations hadn’t resolved in a positive way.

It wasn’t about rushing thoughts of the future looming over his shoulder either; the time when his conscience whispered that he couldn’t be good enough. That he’d never be, as progress is a fleeting, moody thing.

What an unbreakable riddle were you. Your words haunted him; your kiss… soared his heart. Guiltily so; flown at the past he promised couldn’t revisit. And not only because digging out the tender flesh already buried would mean expose the wound again, risking of bleeding out.

I want to be the Interior Design’ Teacher at the Architecture Faculty.

He laid in his bed, covers barely thrown open, his mind filled with the million possibilities about the future, once hopeful and bright with all the new inventions he could create with Hextech, to the one where he had to walk carefully across campus to not take a glimpse of you passing by.

Get over it, get over it.

He wished it’d be so easy. Guilt gnawed at him, now already broken free from the depths of the drawer where he kept your photo. The ring he never gave you, that he’d been fool enough not to return. A treacherous mind he had, repeating old routines as his personal condemn.

Sighing, he incorporated at the edge of the bed. Pitch darkness looked back from every corner of the quiet room. His fingers grabbed the handle of his crutch, the familiar leather creaked under his unrelenting grasp once he hauled himself up.

He should have left right away, as he did when the strain in his muscles didn’t allow him any rest. But something stopped him.

His reflection in the mirror showed what he most tried to hide. Deep eyebags, messy hair, wrinkly clothes.

Viktor didn’t wish to give you reasons as to think he was so unkept because of you. Because he wasn’t—it was only a bad night sleep. Not the first and either the last.

Groaning, he took the dubious decision to bathe in the middle of the night. Seeking the refuge of the cold water to calm the cascade of thoughts sieging him. It was like any other day back at the Academy, when he was Heimerdinger’s assistant. Time had gone backwards.

Replaced rolled up dress-shirt’s sleeves with proper cufflinks. His creamy vest now gray with ash and oil stains replaced by a clean one, just as his pants. Untamed hair controlled with luck.

The way back to the lab was calmer at night, with only the cold hitting his face during his journey up the hill. Empty boulevards whose metallic details shone silver against a crescent moon in a clear, starry sky.

He wondered, for a moment where his mind forgot to close the floodgate, if the sky looked the same in the place you had being for the last decade. That—if the tawdriness of those novelists wasn’t tricking him—the moon had watched you built who you were now.

He couldn’t stop the stab of jealousy that coursed through his bones.

The walk cut short after that, dipping his face to the ground until the had to look up toward the guards appointed at the entrance of the research building. A simple nod. At least he didn’t have to break in again, though he thanked those days where lies had flown out his tongue so easily.

Viktor presaged he would need the practice.

*~*~*~*~*~*

At first, he heard the echo of your heels against the desolate hallway.

The familiar whirring mechanism of the door that both Jayce and him had forgotten to oil up.

Then, he must fill the uncomfortable feeling that the lab was shrunk up.

“You’re late.” As an answer, you put a cup of steaming coffee at his left, right where there weren’t any papers that could be stained. “…thank you.”

Finally, he saw you.

A loose, airy blouse and a fancy skirt that hugged your legs up your knees. Perfect for a space this enclosed where the heat of the machine motors warmed it up by noon.

“You can’t wear that,” he stated, meeting your frown with his own. “Where’s your safety equipment?”

“Where’s yours?” you said back, crossing your arms in signal of victory when Viktor got out of excuses.

“I have deep understanding of safety measures in a space such as this, whereas you do not.”

“What? Do you think I’m going to lay on the desk while you tinker with a machine?” You huffed. “Have more faith in me, Viktor.”

You shouldn’t say his name so nonchalantly, especially when Viktor could never mask his reactions to your keen eyes.

“I’m going to attempt to fix this faulty prototype, so you’ll have to wear at least a lab coat if you want to enter the lab.”

“Really now?”

Grunting, Viktor stood up toward the closet at the far left of the room, grabbing two of his coats—because you wouldn’t let him alone if he didn’t abide by his own rules. “Take this one,” he said, throwing you one with his free hand, plopping in the stool back again.

“Don’t you have a smaller one?” He saw you, with the grey clothes almost serving as a robe. One of the sleeves was burned, with a hole the size of the Hexclaw’s laser.

“It’s the only one we have here,” Viktor lied. Well, only a half-truth. Jayce’s clothes wouldn’t fit you, and Sky kept them locked inside her workstation in the annex room.

“Something more I need to wear? Or can you signal me Jayce’s drawing table?” You said instead, leaving your bag at one corner of the hexagonal forge in the middle of the room. Right next to Viktor’s bag where he had shoved the jacket he wore to come here at the dead of night.

“It’s the only one next to the chalkboard.” They shared worktable for all the times Jayce was pondering about designs while Viktor looked at the sketches to make modifications. He had all night to clean it, stacking the papers in Jayce’s desk that wouldn’t be used in a while so you didn’t have another reason to criticize him. “You can use the chalkboard if you want.”

“It’s alright. I’m only drafting planes with the sizes they provided.” You voice sounded absent, muffled once you crouched to lift your map case, getting out your usual tools of mediation, escalimeter, and set squares. The gigantic T ruler, slid smoothly over the worn-out wood. Every movement seemed so easy to emulate, the way your fingers flew across the surface to set the plan in front of you, getting out all kind of pencils that for Viktor looked all the same.

“Do you need something?” Your voice tore him away whatever place his mind was wandering.

“What?”

“You’re staring.”

He blinked, using his left leg to turn the stool around. “Of course I wasn’t,” he snapped, followed by the sound of your unamused hum.

After all, you promised to maintain peace, and so you did during the excruciatingly long morning.

Viktor had his back sore from being hunched down toward a pile of scribbles that made no sense; unconclusive theories and half-done equations. Yet he didn’t dare to look away the paper in front of him, no matter how much his eyes blurred and his muscles ached. He could hear the friction of the pencil against paper, the eraser’s circular motions and the soft blow coming from your lips.

Years ago, all you had was the familiar table at the third story of the library. Next a window so you both tracked the time by the change of light. He still remembered the hues over your hair, like a kaleidoscope. By the time darkness had arrived, he was tugging at your hand over the table to wake you up.

Since when reminiscences sieged him? It was so usual for Piltover to always look toward the future that attempt to look back would endanger one into tripping and being left behind. This felt wrong, stuck in a past that no longer mattered.

You were only classmates, after all.

“This is the design.” Over his numb hands, the paper of your plan was sturdy and rough to stop the abrasion of the eraser from making a hole in it. He was thankful for the hiding spot once he felt his right hand twitch by instinct, just awoken by the familiar, now fancier, milk and lavender scent of your hair.

His eyes swept over the drawing; thin, delicate lines showed a slick tower mirroring that of the Hexgates, curved and unbalanced in an amorph geometrical pattern. Behind it was the complement, so at the distance it would look like one.

He observed you. Dangerously close. You had changed, blooming even prettier with age. Contemplative eyes used to take every detail in, new marks of wrinkles of your smiles and beams. Yet the same lips and cheeks he loved to caress.

You arched your eyebrows. “So?”

You’re precious. “I don’t favor any of these design in particular.” He shrugged, trying to get off the weight of your attention. “They’re not my taste.”

“Then you have terrible taste.”

Oh, truly? You wanted to pick a fight? He had some time to spare, then.

“Alright. Do you want an honest opinion?” Viktor sighed, as if he were exhausted by this conversation and not having his heart working overtime. “They’re ugly.”

You smiled at him; an ironic grin but a smile after all. “Thank you. I won first place in the contest with this one.”

Viktor extended a hand toward you, fingers pointing in an accusing manner. “Now you see? You can’t handle constructive criticism—”

“What constructive criticism?“  you hissed, but he ignored it. Taking a deep breath, you plastered a kind smile on your face that almost made him chuckle. “Why are they ugly?”

Viktor hummed. “Severe. Pretentious.”

“You don’t really recognize who the clients are, do you?”

“I know who are the clients, which is why I’m saying it.” He reclined in his seat. “This aren’t how your designs usually are.” It wasn’t a question, as shameful as it may feel, with his cheeks burning and eyes averting, he remembered the vision you once shared.

You retreated one step, a futile attempt at building a fort.

“You don’t know my designs,” you said, your tone cutting like a knife’s. “Not anymore.” You were already walking toward your bag, and Viktor cursed in a hushed breath. This wasn’t what peace supposed to be.

You loved curves and simpler facades, towers with gigantic windows so the residents inside could feel they touched the sky, small houses to hide a precious treasure in the form of a cozy living room to cuddle in a cold winter.

“Wait—” he called your name, and it sounded so wrong. Tasted bitterly when once had been the sweetest.

“What?!” you snapped. “Just give it to Jayce so he can show it to the Council. Roll it if you don’t want to see it.”

Viktor stood up. “You’re trying to pick a fight.” And he understood. You left without the chance to free all that built up inside of you the moment you got apart, and time had only harvested that sadness into pure wraith.

You huffed. “I don’t even know why I bother to ask your opinion.” You signaled the whole lab. “Do you want to know why you never won any Inventor’s Contest in your time as student? Because your designs were ugly.”

Viktor frowned. “Now who’s bringing the past? My prototypes worked perfectly—more of what I can say to the many winners whose inventions never saw the light of day outside the award.”

“Functionality and aesthetics must be interwoven, Viktor.” You felt as if teaching a stubborn child. “This is what I’m referring to when I say you have bad taste.”

“I would love to differ,” he said, his mind clouded by irritation, nervousness, and the ever-present reminders of another life. “How would you accuse me of having horrid taste when I dated you once?”

The silence hung heavy and charged between the two. You looked as if he had hit you with his cane, and he didn’t feel any better.

What have you just done?

“You’re impossible,” you just said with a tired sigh. Turning your back toward him and almost running out the door.

[nausicaaandhermouth]

Quandary & Retribution in F#

masterlist

professor!viktor x violinist!reader [6k] [AO3]

mdni

cw: nsfw, blow-job, piano witnessing oral sex i'm so sorry

summary: being neighbours mean being mindful of the noise you make - though, you'd been set on being a nuisance through violin solos, bringing Viktor to your doorstep to plead for silence. You decide to apologise.

tags: modern au, physics professor viktor, gn!reader, neighbours, nsfw, sexual tension, suggestive physics & music talk, blow job, fat set up beforehand, not betad

a/n never written comedy nor smut but at some point a girl's gotta try (why are both almost equally difficult) - but here ya go (plops down this mess). also, i'm more familiar w music than physics, i 3rd page googled the latter so there's def smth not quite right. if u know physics, no u dont.

and ty to an anon ask for pointing out a mistake in the pronouns. i intend one shots to be gn but i write back and forth from an f!oc fic, resulting in she/her ending up in one shots and they/them on the other :')) entirely on me for not catching those before posting though - but thank you for notifying me, i appreciate you!!

btw requests & taglist are open!

Viktor had repeated it ad nauseam—keep the overtures to a minimum.

His days are a gruelling marathon of lectures and lab work, stretching from the crack of dawn at 6 AM to the academy's closing bell at 10 PM. This self-imposed siege isn't mandated by the university—no, they frown upon such academic masochism.

Rather, it’s Viktor's desperate attempt to squeeze productivity from the fleeting moments of silence. The irony? The moment he shuffles home, key turning in the lock, his apartment transforms into an impromptu concert hall.

Attempting to grade papers? Constructing intricate lesson plans on quantum mechanics? Preparing for the department's annual "Explain Your Research to a Five-Year-Old" challenge? Hah. Another pipe dream of this beleaguered professor.

No, instead, he’s treated to a violin solo that would make Paganini nod approvingly in his grave, some overture to madness waiting to ambush Viktor the instant he dares to sit down and tackle his workload. And the cherry on top? The virtuoso had chosen the room directly behind his study as their personal rehearsal space.

Tonight, Viktor's reaching his breaking point.

One more pluck of that violin string, and he might just snap (hopefully with more panache than his freshman physics students' failed bridge-building projects).

He's hunched over his laptop, a harsh '02:24' glowing on his wall—a neon reminder of how little he's accomplished in far too many hours. And there it is again, that infernal violin leaping across frets, notes ping-ponging between octaves with reckless abandon.

This time, it feels personal. A taunt aimed squarely at his last shred of sanity.

Viktor's fingers rake through his dishevelled hair, tugging in sheer frustration. His other hand thunders against the wall—once, twice, thrice. Stop. Stop. Stop.

For a blissful moment, the last note wavers, then fades.

Silence descends. Relief washes over him.

But his reprieve is short-lived. The melody resumes with a vengeance—louder, closer, more petulant and frenetic. It's as if the laws of acoustics themselves have conspired against him.

God, if you’re there…

Viktor can feel his grip on rationality slipping. Perhaps it's time to conduct an experiment on the effects of sleep deprivation on a physicist's patience. For science.

Your paths had crossed in the hallways, a silent slide of avoidance. You’d exchanged fleeting glances, loaded with unspoken frustration, before hurrying on your separate ways.

Viktor had made the pilgrimage to your door three times, his voice dripping with forced politeness as he implored (bordering begging, not his finest moment) you to relocate your impromptu concerts or, at the very least, reschedule your sonic assaults to more reasonable hours.

You’d exchanged names, plastered on smiles that never reached their eyes—and yet, your solos persist.

In moments of weakness, Viktor's traitorous mind can't help but wonder what camaraderie you might have shared in an alternate universe where you weren’t the bane of his existence.

He finds himself muttering a desperate prayer to the gods of acoustics: "Grant me the strength not to bash my head against this wall." He pauses, another side of his brain kicking in. "Although, the resulting concussion might make for an interesting case study."

A groan escapes him as his forehead meets the desk with a dull thump. (Might you want percussions, he could supply his head banging against his desk)

His mind, addled by sleep deprivation and the constant assault, contemplates the unthinkable—actually standing up for himself. God forbid.

He envisions marching to your door, pride in tatters, ready to beg, plead, perhaps even grovel for a moment's peace.

The image of his students receiving paper feedback that reads like the ravings of a madman flashes before his eyes. No. Nope. This cannot stand. Something must be done.

Then another image invades his mind: your door opens and there you are face to face once again.

He grudgingly admits you’re… aesthetically agreeable. He supposes. Mathematically pleasing. Something about proportion, bone structure, genes, something, something, and—no, there is an undeniable artistry in your relentless dedication. Which he respects.

Even through the wall, he can discern the masterful control of your bow, a testament to hours of practice that simultaneously impresses and infuriates him.

If he could be granted such hours to achieve his own goals, he'd surely rule the world (or at least figure out how to soundproof his apartment).

There'd been one night—one treacherous, sleep-deprived night—when his exhausted mind careened off the rails of rationality into dangerously uncharted territory.

He envisioned himself barging into your apartment, a perfect storm of righteous fury and academic gravity. In this fever dream, he demanded silence with an authority cobbled together from an unlikely triumvirate: his stern Professor alter-ego (complete with imaginary tweed jacket), the ego-inflating gravitas of his hard-earned Ph.D., and the bizarrely suave confidence that only exists in the realm of 3 AM delusions.

But in this warped fantasy, instead of blessed quiet, he encountered something far, far worse—a scenario that defied even the uncertainty principle in its improbability.

Sharp gasps cut through the air. Delicate moans rolling against the nape of his neck that it sent shivers down his spine. And then—oh, sweet laws of thermodynamics—his name. His name in repetition, wearing the throes of... No. Stop. Abort mission.

Viktor's eyes snap open. Heavy breaths. His heart rate approaches escape velocity, threatening to launch his ribcage into orbit.

He shakes his head violently as if the motion could dislodge the inappropriate thoughts from his brain.

"Fuck off," he mutters to the empty room, to his unfaithful imagination, to the persistent violin notes that seem to mock his predicament. Fuck it all. And fuck you. Well… No—(he means yes (no)).

A few times since your initial encounter, Viktor had been subjected to a different kind of midnight sound through the walls. These weren't the familiar strains of a violin, but rather... a more primal composition. Something more akin to pleasure than anything Stradivarius could have conceived. 

The truth was, these… vocalisations had rearranged his synapses, had opened up an entirely new neural pathway in his brain, one he had staunchly refused to acknowledge before. It was a new theorem of attra—intrigue he wasn't quite ready to solve.

Each breath, groan muffled, was a data point on his imaginary graph. To study the patterns, the crescendos, the duration. The other man in him... well, that was a variable he dared not allow to factor into the equation.

He found himself both dreading and anticipating these unintentional (at least he surmised so) performances. He'd catch himself straining to hear, then immediately feel a rush of guilt and self-loathing.

He reaches for his coffee mug, grimacing as he swallows the cold, bitter dregs. Clearly, this is what happens when a brilliant mind is deprived of its required REM cycles. Yes, that's it. Just the cruel tricks of an overworked, under-rested brain. Exactly.

His mind kicks into overdrive, frantically scribbling a mental grant proposal: "The Effects of Sleep Deprivation on Auditory Hallucinations and Improbable Fantasies: A Case Study." Purely for academic purposes, of course. (his mind lingers on improbable)

It's not like he's terrified these forbidden thoughts might return, more vivid and enticing than a perfectly aligned experiment. And it's certainly not because he's afraid he might enjoy—no, no, no. He minds. He minds with the intensity of a supernova. 100%. No, make that 100.1%, just to be safe. Exactly. Precisely. Quantum-mechanically determined.

Now, if only he could convince his subconscious of that irrefutable fact…

His eyes dart to the wall—that infuriating barrier of plaster and wood—separating him from the object of his des... deliberation. No, that's not right. The source of his frustration. Yes, frustration. A frustration so profound it could light up a small city.

He groans, burying his face in his hands.

The things sleep deprivation does to a man. It's enough to make even a rational physicist question the very fabric of reality.

But admiration be fucking damned—his frustration reigns supreme.

Viktor straightens up, a manic glint in his eye. Perhaps it's time for a little experiment in human behaviour. After all, every action has an equal and opposite reaction, right? Let's see how you’d like a taste of your own medicine—played back at 3 AM through a wall of subwoofers tuned to the resonant frequency of your floorboards.

No, no—Viktor, don't stoop. Just knock on their door.

A grin spreads across your face when a comically polite knock interrupts your crescendo. Ah, the sweet sound of success—or is it the dulcet tones of a professor’s patience snapping?

Oh, he's ever so gentle, even when he's one decibel away from a meltdown. You can practically hear his teeth grinding in perfect harmony with your last note.

You settle your violin and bow on the couch like a general laying down arms after a victorious battle. One palm reaches to massage your jaw, soothing the tender spot where your instrument has been resting. Who knew revenge could leave such visible marks?

Note to self: next time, consider a less physically demanding form of payback. Maybe take up the theremin? Start haunting him.

Though you're getting the creeping suspicion he doesn't know what he did—and it's entirely plausible that you just look like a nocturnal nuisance with perfect pitch and an impressive bruise. But hey, what's a little psychological warfare between neighbours?

Besides, it's fun crossing him in the halls, eyes following each other like two notes slowly coming in accordance, like a particularly flirtatious harmony. You're both knowing, sharing a secret thing. Well, as secret as a loud violin solo at 2 AM.

You reach the front door and turn the lock, swinging it open with a dramatic flair.

Leaning on the frame, you plaster on a grin that could outshine the brightest spotlight—and is sure to make the dear professor's blood pressure skyrocket. "Viktor," you greet, your voice a perfect pizzicato of feigned innocence.

As expected, he's the very picture of academic despair: dark under-eyes that could rival a raccoon's, hair ruffled in a way that screams ‘Sleep? What sleep?' (who knew sleep deprivation could be so becoming?), and a brow so furrowed it could host its own mountain range.

Huh. Interesting. Seems like the composed professor facade has taken an unexpected intermission.

You force yourself to keep your eyes on Viktor's face, resisting the urge to conduct a full-body visual scan. Tonight, you're oppositions. Stubborn ostinato. O-ppo-si-tions.

Oppositions don't ogle each other's physiques or linger on sartorial choices. That would be absurd, a complete discord in your carefully orchestrated revenge. Which is why you don’t see that he’s wearing a thin tank top, and why your eyes don’t hopscotch across the vague outlines of his chest.

Viktor grumbles your name with a frown, his accent turning the syllables into something between a growl and a plea. It's music to your ears, really—a different kind of melody, but no less satisfying than your midnight sonatas.

You wonder what else he could do with that voice. No—you don’t wonder. O-ppo-si-tions don’t wonder.

Rather, you flatten your lips, desperately trying to hold back a laugh that threatens to escape.

"Please," he breathes, the word carrying the weight of a thousand sleepless nights.

You cock a brow. "Please?"

He glares, his eyes boring into you with the intensity of a conductor silencing a wayward orchestra. Not finding me funny, you note mentally.

Well, tough crowd. But then again, you didn't take up the violin for the standing ovations, did you?

"How can I help you, Professor?" You smile sweetly, crossing your legs. "You're looking positively... nocturnal," Your eyes dance over his dishevelled appearance, drinking in every delicious detail.

You know that he knows that you know what you're doing. It's a duet of mutual awareness—simple, really—and satisfying.

He squeezes his amber eyes shut, his mouth a taut line of frustration. You half expect his hair to stand on end. Orchestra on their heels after a baton’s click-click-click.

That little mole above his mouth twitches, and you imagine it as a staccato note. There's a twin on his right cheek. You wonder, idly, if they'd dance a jig if you played just the right jaunty tune.

"Why," he begins, his voice a crescendo of exhaustion, "Are you doing this? I can't keep my head in tune with you behind that wall, turning my brain into jelly with your... your..." he gestures wildly at your apartment, as if trying to conduct your imaginary orchestra into silence.

"Oh? And what's wrong with exploring some alternative fingerings now and then?"

His eyes lock onto yours, widening slightly. He blinks, frozen—a maestro who's just realised he's forgotten his baton.

Ah. Are there actual discordant thoughts lurking in that brilliant mind of his?

What's a little push? You lean forward. "Care to demonstrate these unconventional techniques of yours?"

A gulp rides down Viktor's throat. A nervous glissando. A viola quivering. His eyes suddenly find your front door fascinating. "Look, I just want to be able to do my work, finish what needs to be finished, and get some actual sleep. Aren't you tired of this too?"

Your mouth pitches downwards in mock contemplation. "Mm... I get plenty of sleep in the day. Unemployment generally gives you a lot of time. Besides, payback is payback. This is simply the retribu—"

"Payback?" His face contorts into a mask of confusion that would make Picasso proud. Ah. So the maestro doesn't know his own composition. Tsk.

You straighten yourself, arms still crossed sternly. "You—" you sigh, brows pulling together.

"What," he huffs, clearly lost. His mouth slightly gapes open, eyes glancing to the side as if somehow the answer will appear.

lLast month. Seven PM. You're home with what I assume were your students," you gesture at his door. "Don't know what you were doing, none of my business. However, it does become my business when they stay over until four," you hold up four fingers at his face like a metronome gone mad, and he backs away. “In. The. Morning. You try sleeping with rowdy, hormonal young-adults screeching about the universe and quantum-this, quantum-that,"

He brings his hand up and rubs at his neck, looking everywhere but you.

"And I, not having slept in god knows how long at that point, had an audition for an orchestra later that morning," at this point his expression is completely soured, realising where this is leading. "And guess who bombed that and missed a potential orchestral debut?" you point at yourself with both thumbs, "First chair of the Insomniacs Anonymous Symphony,"

He brings his thumb and pointer to the bridge of his nose, worrying at his bottom lip.

You can recall a few times you’d burrowed your teeth in such a manner. Recitals. A particularly tricky passage in a Paganini caprice. On your couch with hand at the crux of your thighs rubbing gently to some fantasy. Nothing specific.

You stare for a moment, mentally composing a scream for the cosmos. How dare he look like a dishevelled maestro when you're trying to channel your inner fury? Not the time, brain. Not. The. Time. File that image away for later...

“I..." he begins, but the words seem to have gone on strike, leaving his mouth hanging open. Forgotten fermata.

A furrow grows on your brow, deep enough to nest a whole string section. His guilt-ridden silence gives you ample time to become distracted. Truly not the fucking time. But your eyes—oh, what rebellious instruments.

But fret not (hah), as you don’t discern much of his arms—not lean, nor precise. Not those fingers either, no. They’re not that long. You didn’t even notice. And not the slow rise and fall of his chest, rhythmic as a metronome in a world where time has suddenly become very, very interesting.

He says your name—it’s a baton raising in the air—and it wrangles your attention. “I truly... I apologise. I do admit... that night was foolish. I'd lost control of my class. I'd invited a few over since they wanted a discussion on quantum entanglement,"

Yeah, I know entanglements. What.

Your brain performs an emergency shutdown and reboot. “Uh-huh," you manage, trying to sound like you absolutely know what that means and aren't at all imagining him demonstrating the finer points of entanglement. Because you aren’t. O-ppo-si-tions.

You shake your head, imagining your thoughts like shaking a tambourine. Focus. Revenge. Missed opportunity. Right. But why does righteous indignation have to be so hard when he's standing there looking like Einstein's hotter, sleep-deprived cousin?

“And the discussion just… I wasn’t careful with the time,” he leans forward, mouth downwards in apology. His fingers tap on his cane, mouth sucking on one side of his bottom lip.

He looks miserable. And worse, genuine. Two things that never sit right with you when they happen at the same time. A string just slightly off tune that it settles as unease in your stomach. It gives you the itch to fine-tune it, put it back how it should be.

You give Viktor a resolute nod, blinking away. “I accept your apology,” you say shortly, gaze lounging on the hallway and making sure they don’t linger on his misery.

But he searches for you eyes first, and by obligation you look back. “And have you, has there been any opportunities after then?” he asks, leaning forward, brows tilted in genuine, apologetic curiosity (your heart decides it’s now a great time to perform an accelerando. 95 bpm, if you’re counting). “Auditions and… orchestral… things? Sorry, I’m not too knowledgeable on these,”

What’s good: he’s genuinely apologetic, which may herald the end of your musical tyranny.

You lean your head backwards, aware of the distance (What’s not good: he seems unaware of the distance he’d taken up). “Uh, no. Well,” you shrug, shoulders bobbing in reminder. “Not since then. But there’s one next week. Piltover Grande Hall,”

His brows raise, seemingly in recognition. “Oh? Highly-esteemed,”

“I know. I’ll probably need a good sleep before then,” you grin, watching his face go from confusion, to apologetic, to relief in mere seconds.

“I also… I assigned some heavy research work last week to my class, which’ll be submitted tomorrow, so I’ll be grading those next week,” he added, now fully leaning on your door frame as if his upper body were trying to slink inside slowly. “We’ll both need much rest before then,”

Your eyes meet his. Face fully facing face. “Mhm,”

Prelude: “An observation of observation of observation”. String section, sweet, curious, and swelling with playful remarks. Interrupted by staccato heartbeats, conflicted by seductive cello whines.

You don’t move. Not an increment. You stay as still as your body allows, suspended in time. So does he. His eyes flicker between your left and right, expressing nothing but obvious observation of you. Your stomach breeds a butterfly when you catch his gaze dropping briefly to your mouth before flicking back to your eyes.

Interesting.

100 bpm.

No. I, “Where The Gaze Lands Will Determine The Night’s Fate”. A languid 4/4. A lone marimba begins—blithe. The chirp of a güiro.

“And what do you propose?” you tilt your head up. Are you challenging him? Depends, you suppose. Depends if he tilts his face down.

But he stays in position. Instead, brings a hand out, palm open. “A truce,” his breath brushes against your chin. Hot. Temperaturally. Temperamentally.

Does he know what he’s doing to you? There are desperate sax whines in your head. Supposedly they sound similar to the human voice.

You take his hand and shake firmly. But you don’t let go. “What are the terms?”

A soft huff of a laugh escapes him, eyes slightly narrowing. “But you’ve already agreed,” his fingers tighten slightly around your hand. Warm. Long.

“Confident in the final piece,” you assert, letting your eyes drape with leisure between his eyes and to the bone of his cheek, the mole, the mouth. And you hope he notices.

The sax is breathy. It’s now a smoky jazz riff, painting dimly lit rooms, whisperings of sweet-nothings, a daring foot hiking up another’s thigh.

Your travelling eyes seem to catch his breath.

No. II: “Where Silence Is Relative”. Strutting 2/4, beginning with a sultry glide of an accordion. A conversation between the cellos and violins.

“Does that mean you’ll rest your little concertos?” his head tilts. “Giving me peace, finally?”

You play up a pout. “Shame, I thought you were a fan,”

“As I am of quantum tunnelling through a brick wall,” he responds, the brief questioning curve of his brow indicating this was not a good thing.

“Surely my playing isn’t that bad?” a smirk.

“Not the quality, no,” he gives a small shake. His thumb softly brushes your hand. “It’s the quantity. And the timing,”

You soften your fingers, letting the tips of them brush at his wrist. “I was trying to be helpful. Heard scientists appreciated background music while working,”

A glint of something playful in his eyes. “We do. Just not at 3AM when we’re trying to grade important papers,”

“Grading?” you quirk your brow and smile. At this point, it’s far from grating to him—he’s even looking at it. “I thought silence was overrated in the pursuit of knowledge,”

“Silence is relative when you’re next door,” he gives back. His hand is now shameless, inching your closer and closer to your wrist.

You wet your lips and hum. “Relative, right. Like, whose is that—like Einstein’s?”

“Like the relative pitch of a jackhammer compared to your violin,” his expression flattens sardonically, still maintaining that disarming smile.

“I’m touched,” you lean your head on the door frame. “You think I’m as powerful?”

“Enough to redefine my understanding of ‘noise cancellation’,” he retorts, eyes rolling. What a pretty expression that is. You wonder how else you can evoke that same reaction in other contexts.

“If you ever want a demonstration…”

He laughs. “I think I’ll stick to my textbooks. Much quieter,”

You feign a mask of disappointment, gaze sharpening and hooking his eyes in for your next few words. “Pity. I was hoping to show you how good I am with my fingers,”

His mouth parts. Surprise? Temptation? But he’s hooked in and it’s all you care for. “I… uh,” he blinks, hand still around your wrist. “That’s…”

His face fills with a slight impassive contemplation, thoughts seeming to run amuck in his head as he looks down at your growing, teasing smile.

“You’ve been hearing me practise, no?” you smirk. And you can tell he knows that you know that he knows what you mean. “The violin’s not an easy instrument. Unless you’re thinking of something e—”

He diminishes the space between you with his lips on yours.

No. III, “A Swing in A#”. 113 bpm. A confident, gritty trumpet reels you in.

The door shuts and is immediately faced by Viktor’s back. His neck bends to accommodate the difference in height, his free hand at the back of your neck to press you closer to himself. Your hands find purchase around his shirt, curling around the fabric, pulling and pulling—but as he’s leaning, only his hips jut forward. Good enough.

Your mouths move in tandem. He’s occupied with your bottom lip in a sort of desperation that speaks of practise—or at least imagined practise.

You nudge upwards, hip bone meeting his in soft collision, which coaxes a filthy, back-of-the-throat grunt from him. You smile. And as you feel his other hand snake around your waist, you hear the metallic thnk of his cane against the floor.

You jerk away to look down at it. Briefly, you assess its importance and his dependence on it. “Your leg,” you breathe, breath barely allowing your real voice to pierce through.

He’s nuzzling at the side of your face, gaping mouth at your cheek as he catches some air. “I’ll manage,”

When you turn to him, your heart jumps at the sight of him. Dishevelment caused by your hands, a slight flush from arousal, eyes rounded and trained on your mouth. You don’t look but can’t help noticing the hardness pressed against your lower belly.

“It doesn’t hurt?” you ask.

He shakes his head and finally draws his eyes back to yours. “A… discomfort. But not pain,” he dips in for a kiss, hand sliding up to tilt your jaw towards him.

A smirk becomes of you. “Mm… about the, uh… retribution. I do admit, I took it too far,”

His eyes widen in mock surprise. “Did you? All those unproductive nights, I truly didn’t notice,”

You roll your eyes at his quip. “But I was thinking of how to properly apologise,”

He quirks a brow, thumb tracing at the border of your lip and chin. “And how will you show your remorse?”

“Ah, well, I’m just like you,” a soft laugh escapes you, and you lean towards him to hide the slight embarrassment rushing to blush your cheeks. “Thinking all about… entanglements,”

“Do, please, demonstrate your version,” his accent noticeably makes ‘demonstrate’ even sharper and more pronounced.

“Only if you talk about yours,”

With a swift kiss, you silence him, lips capturing his words. Your hands grip his body, gently guiding him away from the door. Viktor's eyes, intense and unwavering, remain locked on you as you lead him a few feet to the side to the upright piano.

In one smooth motion, your foot hooks around the piano bench, sliding it out. Your hands, warm and certain, travel up to Viktor's shoulders, guiding him down onto the seat with a gentle and firm pressure. His gaze never falters.

For a breathless moment, you tower over him, drinking in the sight of him. He's even more deliciously undone—hair tousled, shirt askew, lips slightly parted.

The room seems to shrink, the world narrowing to just the two of you. You're minutely aware of every shallow breath, every subtle shift of his body, each time the muscles in his neck form a 'v'.

Something all-consuming takes root in your core, to hear his voice wearing your name—not just spoken, but gasped, moaned, worshipped.

“So?” you prompt. “Begin,”

No. IV, “Viktor’s Recitative”. An accented voice searching for focus. Punctuated by gasps.

“It’s, ehm, quantum entanglement. Imagine two dancers, perfectly in sync no matter how far apart they are. When particles become entangled, they share a quantum state. If you measu—”

With your leg you push his knees apart.

“Uh, if you measure one, you instantly know about the other. As if… as if connected by an invisible thread of… mm, cosmic intimacy,”

You kneel slowly, gaze locked onto his as he searches for his next words. “Rather romantic,” you add.

He swallows. And you take it as a suggestion.

“I think so, too. Two particles, forever intertwined,” his eyes fall to your hand as you palmed one knee, your head resting on his other leg. “Fates… linked across the, the vast…ness of space and t—time,” he jerks forward as your hand pressed a little too near his centre.

The sound makes your breath hitch. More. Your cheek’s brushing against the cotton of his pants, your other hand cradling around his calf. The hand on his knee roams further upwards, thumb applying more pressure on the ins of his thigh.

“Regardless of distance, still they influence each other in ways we can’t f—” he breaks off with a whine as your palm grazes the growing swell beneath his pants. It takes every ounce of self-control not to grasp him fully, to feel the entirety of him at once. “Fully…” his eyes follow where you press harder, your mouth curving into a smile. “Comprehend,” the word falls with more breath.

He leans back against the piano, elbows weighing down keys and sending a jarring, discordant chord alongside his sighs.

You straighten, bringing your other hand to the knot of his waistband. Your finger hooks onto it, thumb caressing the single button. Your gaze travels upward, admiring the sight of him leaning back, his shirt riding up to reveal a tantalising glimpse of hair trailing downward.

His breathing slows, becoming deep and measured as your finger grazes the skin of his stomach, the fine hairs tickling knuckles. For a moment, you imagine yourself above him, watching him squirm as his eyes fixate on the point where your bodies would join. Another day.

With a deft movement, you pop the button free. Leaning in, you catch your lower lip between your teeth as your hands gently guide him from the confines of his boxers.

His form arches slightly to one side, living sculpture of desire. Delicate ridges trace his length, and at the apex, his glans gleams like a ripe cherry. Tempting fruit begging to be tasted.

Deep, methodical breaths, you remind yourself. Deep and methodical. And oh so deep. You wrench your thoughts from this enticing path, lifting gaze to meet his. Your eyes seek permission, finding his half-lidded stare heavy with want.

Your palm, warm and inviting, glides along his length with exquisite slowness. The motion elicits a shudder that ripples through his hips, a breath catching in his throat like a trapped butterfly. His head falls back, unveiling the elegant lines of his neck.

Emboldened, you repeat the caress, this time allowing your grip to ascend until it reaches the pinnacle. There, with deliberate tenderness, you gather the pre-cum with a slight swipe. The touch brings a cluster of stuttered gasps and half-formed words. His body, as if magnetised, curls towards you, hands grasping the edges of the bench, white-knuckled, anchoring himself.

Your name escapes his lips in a plaintive groan, lust renewing his voice with a gravelly quality.

Responding to his unspoken plea, you stretch upward, capturing his mouth with yours. A reward. A prelude. Your lips, soft yet insistent, trail a path down to his chin, then along the sharp line of his jaw. He tilts his head back, an offering, granting you unimpeded access to the column of his neck. You accept the invitation eagerly, pressing a kiss to his bobbing Adam's apple, and leaving a trail of lilac.

Your hand torments him with a slow ride down, grip tightening incrementally with each kiss. But there's a yearning for more, craving something more substantial. Not that this isn't intoxicating—the pulsing in your core is evidence enough.

The moment a more desperate whine unfurls from his lips, a ribbon of pure need, drawing you in. It's the tipping point. As if thanking him for the sinful sound, your lips abandon the canvas of his neck, attention now wholly focused on his full, flushed hardness.

You level with the sight of his arousal, standing eager, tip glistening. Your breath ghosts over his sensitive skin, eliciting a shudder that courses through his entire body. You hear the complaint of squeezed leather beneath his grip.

“Show me how you like it,” you breathe, letting the little puffs of air tickle at his reddened shaft.

Seemingly overwhelmed, he remains answerless, eyes resting on your blushed mouth. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, as if reciting an undeniable truth, akin to the blue of the sky or the firmness of his length. His thumb traces the contours of your mouth with gossamer lightness. “Indulge as you please,”

At that, you smile, gently guiding his hand away and pressing a kiss tender on his knuckles. And with a final, heated glance up at his face—flushed with want, eyes dark with need—you lower your head, lips parting.

With a delicate grace, you envelop him, your lips forming a perfect crescent around his crown. Slowly, deliberately, you welcome him into the warmth of your mouth, one hand gliding to his base with tender precision. The other, seeking purchase, finds his chest, gently urging him backward to grant you greater freedom of movement.

He yields without resistance, acquiescence punctuated by a cascade of desperate, breathy whimpers as he reclines against the piano. The instrument protests beneath his bones, dissonant notes plunking out objections at the sin unfolding before it.

You savour him—heady salt and warmth. His velvet glides across your palette, your lips tightening in counterpoint. Your tongue laps and flattens against him in a rhythm that plucks a brief grunt from him. Curiosity compelling you, you lift your gaze to meet his. In that fleeting moment, his eyebrows arch—whether at the feeling or the sight, you prefer the idea of the latter—a wordless expression of awe at the vision before him.

This silent exchange ignites a fervour in you. You increase your tempo, sound of saliva blending seamlessly with his escalating pants. His voice, once controlled, now tumbles in a torrent of incoherent, keening pleas. His fingers now tangle gently in your hair, curling and uncurling in unconscious rhythm. When you dare to take him deeper, his grip tightens ever so slightly.

A deep groan reverberates from the depths of your throat, setting off a cascade of reactions that ripple through both your bodies. The raw sound triggers an involuntary response in him; his hips stutter and twitch forward with barely restrained urgency, cock brushing dangerously far back in your throat.

This sudden intrusion causes your body to react instinctively. Your grip on him tightens, fingers digging into the soft flesh of his thighs, pliant tongue pressing fully against him, cheeks hollowing with increased suction.

The sensation brings tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, threatening to spill over. Yet, you hold them back, your focus entirely consumed by the incoherent, mangled words tumbling from Viktor's lips. His loss of composure only serves to fuel you, ushering more strangled moans from you.

With a deliberate leisure, you pull him out of your mouth, slight, wet ‘pop' punctuating the action. A grin plays across your lips as you lick them slowly, savouring his taste and the way his eyes track the movement of your tongue.

Leaning back in with renewed purpose, you flatten your tongue against the sensitive underside of his length. You drag it upwards, feeling every ridge and vein. As you reach the tip, you linger at the frenulum, that exquisitely sensitive spot just beneath the head. Your tongue dances there, teasing and tantalising, while your hand presses firmly against his abdomen, pushing him back slightly, maintaining control.

This calculated move elicits a pleased hum from him, a sound that vibrates through his body and into yours. Encouraged by his response, you repeat the movement, each pass of your tongue a perfect mirror of the last, building a rhythm that teeters on the edge between pleasure and sweet torment.

You revel—the choked desperation emanating from the back of his throat, the frantic rise and fall of his chest—tempestuous sea. His jaw, slack, burns into your imagination, conjuring tantalising visions of how it might feel nestled between your trembling thighs. Pure masterpiece before you.

A thought dances through your mind: how differently might he approach his little entanglements if it were you sprawled across his desk instead of the mundane paperwork? The notion trails a delicious shiver down you.

The tip of your tongue traces feather-light around his sensitive crown. Slowly, teasingly, you envelop his tip between your lips. Tongue, emboldened, finds its way back to the frenulum and lingers there. Your hands continue to glide in smooth, quickened motions, descending and rising fluidly. His breaths grow increasingly laboured as you continue, his hips jutting and twitching. You apply gentle pressure, guiding him downward.

With a filthy cry that escapes him, you feel the hot release at the roof of your mouth. Encouraging him further, you draw him deeper, welcoming the spill into your throat with a rough hum. His voice breaks as he calls out your name between ragged gasps. It sounds almost like prayer.

Further sinful whines fall out of him as you continue to swallow and lap him from inside.

As you feel his tension finally easing, you slowly withdraw, your tongue tracing the pearlescent spill. His sharp, staccato breaths punctuate the silence, and he brings his hand to your chin, lifting your attention to him.

You smile, swallowing, though proving futile, his release unrelentingly coating the back of your throat.

“Will I get to demonstrate?” he breathes, voice hoarse.

He smirks. The fucker.

You shake your head. “Not tonight. Tonight’s my repentance,”

[mackbethart]

I really wanted to draw some more shy but sexy Viktor, and this fic written by @ursawastricked was like the perfect inspo. GO READ IT cuz it's cute af!!

[bloodykora]

Drunk Walk Home

My first actual Viktor fic, yayy!!

Summary: After a celebration at the lab, you and Viktor have been left together. He tries to plan a way for you to get home however will you make it there?

Mentions of alcohol and drinking

I try to keep my fanfic gender neutral, there's no fem or masc description and there's no use of y/n.

Vik Masterlist

“You’re so pretty, do you know that?” The lab is quiet, streamers and confetti over the floor. Balloons beginning to droop down from the ceiling, the lights once bright and vibrant now dimmed down.

“Remind me to tell Jayce when you are sober, never let you celebrate with him by bringing vodka.” A giggle escapes your mouth as you remain laid down on the cool floor, the brunette sitting as usual.

“God, he is such a lightweight! I wouldn’t have brought such a big bottle if I knew he’d tap out at like what, 3 shots?” You reminisce about the night that had just happened, knowing it will be some of your favourite memories of the group for months to come.

“For someone who cannot get off the floor you do speak a lot of uh, what���s the slang you use? Shit.” You ignore his mocking mostly, deciding not shoot a line back at him.

“You were supposed to drink with us but no. Mister, I am too good for that and someone has to be responsible in the group. Even Sky had a drink with us, but only a teeny sip of the champagne for you. Also, you deflected my compliment.”

“Well, look who was the one that called transportation for the other two while you decided to take a seat on the floor.” You lift your head to look at Viktor who stays seated at his lab placement. The world around you swaying, almost to a hypnotizing degree. You narrow your eyes at him, setting yourself on a mission.

“Did you know that I can’t black out?” You state, while slowly getting up onto your hands and knees. Stumbling some of your way to the chair Viktor was sitting in.

“Why is that?” He watches you, ready to have to bandage your face from falling but you surprisingly don’t even trip over your own feet.

“I do not know! I have mixed alcohol types, had way too many shots, blah blah blah and nothing. I mean don’t get me wrong, it’s a talent and I appreciate it but I just want a fun story from someone about me blacking out.” You moan as you place your hand on his shoe as you reach him.

“Blacking out is not what you make it seem.” Viktor mumbles to himself.

“Viktor!” He looks down at you, as if he doesn’t know that you heard him.

“Have you ever been, has the uhh minister, whatever yordle’s dude, has been blacked out before? How will the academy react?” The words ramble out of your mouth, every new thought grabbed onto and then let go as another goes by.

“Heimerdinger but ‘uhh minister, whatever yordle’ also works.”

“More like… Heimerslinger.” You mumble to yourself other rhymes of his name, seeing if any fit.

“Hmm, good one.”

“Wait, you avoided the question.” You grab a piece of his leg brace, near the bottom of his pant leg.

“Yes but that is a story for another time. When you’re sober.”

“I am so sober, the soberest I have ever been.” You smile wide at him as he raises an eyebrow.

“Yes, that is why you are holding my leg brace like how a toddler holds a chip.”

“Am I hurting you? Pulling on it?” Your eyes wide like a child’s, concerned about his safety and well being while hammered. Like you couldn’t even think to hurt him, even if it’s accidental. He feels your grip loosen, ready to let go at his command.

“No.” You bite your lip subconsciously, smiling at him while doing so. A habit you had normally while concentrating but the alcohol made you not able to feel your teeth and lips. Tongue and gums also numb from the booze seeping through every vein of yours.

“Now how are we going to get you home?” He asks himself, eyes looking away as he thought of the quickest and cheapest way. You make a pouty face at him, disappointed he wanted you gone that fast. Holding it too until you got to see his reaction to it.

“You sick and tired of me Viktor?” His eyes look back to you, greeted by the look you had. He smirks lightly, eyes rolling at your feigned sadness.

“Is someone a pouty baby now? Clearly you need to go to bed.”

“Nooo, don’t call me a baby. Unless I’m your baby.” The line comes out before you even think about the implications. You chuckle a bit to yourself, finding it funny how naturally the flirts and teasing come out now.

“You are a handful. Do you know that?” You nod at Viktor, staring at his face to an unsettling degree. Taking in his features as he studied you back, wondering what you were going to do next. You think of going home, to the lonely and cold apartment the academy covered for you. Then you think of Viktor going home, if he would,

“Are you going to stay here and work?” You abruptly ask him, not wanting the already overworked man to again over work himself.

“I had thought about staying here earlier today and getting some research done while you all were home but then something came up.” He pauses, thinking over whether it would be treacherous in the cold weather to make it home. It wasn’t like it was far or even intimidating at this time of night but it didn’t mean he’d enjoy the cool with his aching leg and back.

“I could totally walk you home. Be like your really scary guard dog.” You suggest, sensing his hesitancy about going home. He was always so dedicated to learning and notes that you were semi surprised at his response.

“Your comments as always are amusing. However, my first concern is getting you home.” You lift your hand to make a thumbs down at him, disapproving of his choice.

“What if I die on the train home?” You joke however honestly putting that fear into Viktor’s head. His brain now thinking of all the accidents that could happen, he lets out a sigh. You pick up on the signs and immediately feel regret for the comment you made.

“Hey that was a joke, you ain’t gotta worry so much dude. Worst case scenario is me falling on my face but that’s like a 2 percent chance.” You try to comfort him, gently lifting your hand to pat his knee. Still sitting at his leg.

“You could always just bring me home, walking home is safer in pairs anyway. I wouldn’t want anyone to snatch you up for your juicy brains.” You see him crack a small smile and feel a little relief in your chest. You sit thinking for a minute, wondering if Sky and Jayce had made it to their homes alright. Playing the thought of them walking out of the lab doors together, Viktor insisting they both take a cab together to save money. Your face begins to fall and your brows furrow together. Viktor realizes it’s been too quiet for too long and looks down at you.

“You okay? What’s wrong?” Your gaze moves to meet his.

“Sky took my coat.” At a fun turn of events, Sky had forgotten to bring a proper coat to work, and you very knightley offered yours. To defend her from the cold and with all the sweaters you left in the lab you thought you’d be fine.

“Yes, why is that bad?” He prompts you, encouraging you to spill it out.

“My keys were in my chest pocket.” You state simply, looking up to him with slight glee on your face. You giggle quietly, bewildered you had gotten yourself into this predicament.

“Are you joking?” He asks, stern in his voice. Clearly, not in the mood for joking about this topic. You shake your head no, dropping the smile so he knew you were not playing around. He takes a breath in and you feel like a burden.

“I can stay here, find a way to meet with her tomorrow.” You suggest softly, not wanting to bother the man any further.

“No, it’s okay. I promised the professor after the good news that we would be out tomorrow morning which is why Jayce had planned this for us today.” He explains to you, you nod as you listen along. The info being sobering to you, you let go of his brace placing your hands behind you on the floor.

“I can probably just find a friend’s house then, or something. I can figure something.” You mumble off again, wondering what you’d be able to conjure up this late in the night. Maybe sneaking your way through a window into your building, hoping the spare key was around somewhere.

“No. You can come home with me, if you’re comfortable.”

“I can’t Viktor, that's too personal and I don’t want to intrude on your personal home space.”

“It’s too late for you to be able to call anyone or you won’t be able to get into your door. In these circumstances, you may come back to my home with me. I’m sure it may be awkward but it will be fine.”

“I will be the best guest ever, I swear. I won’t be loud and I don’t think I snore and I won’t touch anything.” You say, springing up from the ground. Ready to follow him wherever he had planned to go.

You both walk out of the room, your pace being a little more slow than usual to not rush Viktor. You close the doors and lock it, wiggling the door handle before turning to Viktor. He had his hand out, similar to yours just moments ago. You shake your head while smiling, putting the keys into his hand which he slips into his coat pocket. The beginning of the walk is silent, getting out of the academy building as quietly as you could to not disturb students in dorm rooms. A blast of cold air hitting both your faces as you step out of the door frame, the wind was always colder coming off all the water around Piltover. Your breaths coming out in puffs of white clouds, like you were one of the pipes that came out of a building for the laundry dryer.

“You’re so excited to leave, minutes ago you were whining.” You scurry to your desk, grabbing the nearest hoodie you could find. A blue thick wooly one, with a hood, perfect for the adventure ahead. You turn back towards him, lifting your hand and mimicking him talking with it. He chuckles at the action, rolling his eyes slightly. Leaning forward on his crutch he stands up, grabbing his things and readying to leave with you.

“Do you have lab keys? Cause ha, we both know I do not.” You ask, walking up to him with your hand open to receive them.

“I do not know if I trust you with keys at this moment.” You scoff and roll your eyes at his comment.

“You’re right here, it’s not like I’m gonna chuck em.” You state, still waiting for him. You hear the familiar jingling that echoed yours, the cool metal being set into your hand gently. You smile and close your hand around them, bringing them close to your face to find the one that locks up the lab. 

“It’s not too bad, but then again I probably feel it less than you right now.” You state, looking at the man walking beside you.

“I am just lucky I brought a jacket today, honestly if the walk was longer I would have wanted a cover for my face.” He replies, seeing the change of your skin already with the weather. Your cheeks and nose begin to get just ever so slightly paler than the rest of your face. Your gaze meets his, the tips of his ears turning red at the coolness as well.

“Do you ever cry in the winter?” You ask him, thinking of walking in the blistering cold.

“Where the wind just howls straight at your face and you can’t see. Your eyes water up and begin to freeze on your eyelashes?” You clarify, imagining just a woman standing in the snow sobbing, at the way you phrased your words. Your eyes fall down to the sidewalk in front of you, watching your feet move along beside Viktor’s.

“I’m not one to go out when it’s snowing, I normally stay at the lab when those nights happen. But on the off chance, yes it has happened to me.” He answers diligently, always working with him. Always on his mind, even when it’s not supposed to be. The thoughts of him circle your head, quieting the convo again.

You hadn’t been too explorative of Piltover when working at the academy, all the homes and lights illuminating the streets. The new places held a wonder and excitement, even alleyways and garbage cans had ignited child-like comments.

“It’s so pretty here, I still sometimes am amazed that I can see the night stars. And everything is so tidy, and I know a part of me is supposed to be mad. I should be so upset that the Undercity is treated with ignorance, and annoyance but. I mean, look at the moon and the water. All the boats. I never imagined the place I had hated so much could be lovely.” The words flow off your tongue, you knew Viktor had been from the same place as you. Both lucky with the smarts to get out of the actually toxic home. Yet you still missed it, jumping in piles of leaves when the Upper city dumped them down, how when the snow melted it would wash away some of the muck that had been there for the year.

Viktor admires you and your openness, not able to talk to anybody else about his home. He smiles, watching your gaze being locked up into the sky.

“I think I drew them the first night I was here.” He confesses to you, thinking back to the same excitement he had felt when he first arrived. The buzz of the city and the positive attitude of the people. Don’t get him wrong, people did give mean looks but they at least didn’t then trip you and steal whatever you may have had on you. Viktor recognizes his home, 2 blocks up the road from where you both were.

“I have to admit, it may not be necessarily tidy when we arrive. I wasn’t expecting anybody.” He sheepishly says, now thinking of all the clothes and glasses around the place.

“It’s okay, mine is pretty messy too right now. I’m not one to judge.” You reassure him quickly, knowing how busy the life of a scientist, an inventor can really be. 

You follow him up the front steps to the building, watching him use his keys to open the lock and get inside. You found yourself in a hallway, realizing it was an apartment building with neighbors. You remain silent as you follow him up another set of stairs and another locked door. You follow him into the apartment, closing the door behind you and locking it for him.

Slipping your shoes off, the warmth overheats causing you to begin to strip off the sweater. Viktor peels off his coat, walking into the home and placing it on a chair nearby. Turning on a lamp nearby for you both to see. You walk in after, looking at the space. It was a lot bigger than what you had at home. And open as well, huge space for a small little thing, too big for it actually.

“How is it, this is big.” You comment, slowly walking around a table that was placed and towards the black board near the opposite side of the room.

“Oh uh, well. The owners found out I worked at the academy, and the landlord would always see my mess of papers. I desperately needed the space so I actually own both the apartments up here. I took out a few walls to open it, voila.” He talks while undoing his vest and red tie, getting comfortable after the long day. You continue to ponder around, looking at the writings on the board. A dark brown wood as the floor, almost no carpet except one little one under a coffee he had in front of a sofa chair. Books littered throughout the living room, even into the kitchen and dining area. His curtains pulled to avoid any peeks in, mugs scattered too.

You approach the kitchen, dishes neatly organized in the dish dryer thing he owned. A window right in front of the sink, for what you can assume is the morning sun. Two little dishes sit on the sill, one full of water and the other empty.

“Do you have a kitty?” You turn to him, socks now pulled off and joined with the rest of the scatter. He lifts his head up to look at you.

“No, just a stray that pops in from time. But she never lets me pet her.” He says, smiling at the thought of the skinny black tabby that visits his window sill.

“I have a cat, her name is Barbecue.” You state before peaking your way around down his hall. You could see the door to his bedroom cracked open, you decide to sneak away while his attention was on something else. Creeping your way down to the door quickly, you could hear his voice.

“Barbecue, why?” He pauses in his words before continuing. “Hello? Where did you go?” 

You barely hear it however, in his room and looking around. Clothes thrown around and his bedding all messy, slept in. The bed is soft, a comforter big enough to topple over the edges of the already king sized bed, the pillows being more than anyone could ever need. You reach down, following the steps of Viktor and taking off your socks. You knew this was surpassing a boundary but considering you had sat at his foot about an hour ago holding onto his knee, hopefully this wouldn’t startle him too bad.

You creep into his bed, getting comfy under the sheets.

“Dude you have so many pillows!” You yell out, hearing the approaching footsteps. You watch the door frame, seeing his head look in and then at you.

“They are for my body, I have heating and cooling ones as well. And you are not supposed to be in here.” He speaks, his shirt now untucked and the top unbuttoned. You smile sheepishly at him, wiggling in the bed a bit.

“But it’s so cozy and so big.” A grin is plastered onto your face, and he looks too tired now to complain or argue.

“You really are a handful, 2 handfuls.” He walks to the other side of the bed, throwing the top blanket back and crawling in. You could tell it for a moment was painful for him, his eyes closed and brows furrowed but his face soon relaxed. It remains silent between you two for some time.

“I can feel you staring at me.” His accent becomes heavier as tiredness takes over, he peeps open one eye to look at you.

“Do you want me to turn off the light? Is there any pillow you want specifically?” You go into caretaker mode, making sure his comfort was met before you actually settled in. He smiles at your need to impress him.

“I’m fine but yes you can turn off the light, and for the morning. I have some pain meds in the bedside table next to you, feel free to take one when you get up.” He says and you nod, getting up to shut off the light before snuggling back in on your side.

The room again dies down, sounds of crickets outside filling the room. You lay there smiling, too giddy to sleep yet you yawn. You blink your eyes, focusing on the sight before you. Easing into a state of rest and slumber, already planning for the adventure that had awaited you tomorrow. You hear Viktor’s breathing slow and you decide to close your eyes. Falling asleep with the man of your dreams. 

[pixieswashere]

GLORIOUS - Prologue

VIKTOR X F!READER

SUMMARY: In a city thriving for progress each day, it's only natural to aim towards greater heights for the sake of progress, but leaps can be taken too high when an explosion and disarray occurs

𝐀𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐔𝐍'𝐒 𝐆𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐍 𝐑𝐀𝐘𝐒 shone over Piltover, I swiftly exited a small tool shop down across from the apartments and workshops near the Academy uphill. The tool shop was one that I frequented on certain occasions for better materials, new gadgets, or for a discount that offered a fair bargain even though it technically didn't have the most wide variety or was the rarest quality in products. Regardless, it had its unique perks just as any other shop in the market and one that an inventor could ever need as their saving grace in the centre of abundance to work their way above. Passing by some people on the busy streets, I scanned the tools inside the chest cradled in my arms before coming to a halt. Retrieving the note from my Academy uniform's pocket with one hand, my eyes skimmed through it before they fell onto the familiar closing signature at the end.

Whatever he is up to...it better be worth the risk and journey.

I rolled my eyes inwardly at my well-acquainted peer's ambitious yet concerning delusions...whilst my feet began moving at the same rate, before my eyes narrowed in confusion at the crowd of people in front of the apartment. As I kept marching up north, I noticed a crowd of people circling in front of my destination. With Furrowed brows, I parted through the masses gently as I stood before the building. Many murmurs and gasps of shock exclaimed like a haunting chorus as my perplexed eyes widened at the sight.

From a distance, there was a young girl being escorted away from the building, officers behind her as she hesitated moving forward away from the building. Seeing her turn her head to look at the crowd with a distressed look on her features, I finally recognized her. 'The Kiramman's Daughter...?', I thought in recognition yet with silent surprise as the enforcers both pulled her away from the scene.

"Did you see anything out of the ordinary, ma'am?", I heard an officer ask a shaken woman as he held a notebook in his hand, interviewing anyone who was willing to give away details as to what had transpired. Another one asked an older man, "Three suspects....from the Undercity...?Are you sure?", the older man only had a long pensive look, scratching his beard not too sure if that's what he saw or not. Regardless of the exact event, It's clear that what happened was all out of the blue....

A robbery? How could that have happened? I pondered to myself knowing that the Northern parts of Piltover around the Academy was one of the most secure places to let thieves let alone anyone through the Kiramman's or any patrons luxurious apartments without so much as a notice......and from the Undercity after so long ago.....

"Calm down everyone." A warden came out calling out to all of the people who were outside circling as they looked towards the building in confusion. "We need everyone to evacuate the building as quickly as possible. This is a closed area..."

As the warden's words blurred with each second, my mind drifted away and my heart thrummed in my ears....with heavy, struggling breaths as my eyes flickered to the dark, blue smoke, the broken debris..... Then to the injured enforcers being carried away....When the sudden realization hit me, I quickly regained my focus a bit before, my fleeting eyes searched around the crowd for any familiar faces or hint of....Jayce. The looming thought began to bite at me before I then started to approach the building with cautiousness yet hurriedly.

Before I could enter, a young officer not too far from my age stepped before me as he instructed with a harsh tone, "This is a restricted area." As he said this, I stared at the officer a bit appalled before then saying,

"There is someone I know in there, that I need to see...."

The officer stared at me sizing me up with calm, cold eyes and tense shoulders. "Do you have a warrant", The officer questioned standing his ground in front of the entrance with a cold glance at me. I narrowed my brows at him about to speak in response to his interrogating, not planning on leaving the area before a familiar voice of relief interrupted us.

"(Y/N)?"

My head quickly landed on the person who spoke, my shoulders slumping before approaching him. "Jayce!", I called out after him as I saw the two armed guards at each of his side and Sheriff Grayson, while Jayce looked down at his cuffed hands, the guards then urged him to walk as they both led him out of the apartment building. (E/Y) irises flickered over his saddened face and figure with self-reassurance before they fell onto his cuffed hands while two guards appeared by his side, my shoulders tensing at the sight. "I can explain-", Jayce started to say before he was cut off by a woman with an authoritative tone...her uniform and familiar presence made me perk up, at the Sheriff's words.

"...Your friend here is under arrest for possession of illegal equipment, and unauthorized research.", Sheriff Grayson explained, while I observed Jayce glancing at me before his face fell silently to the ground away from me with an angered yet conflicted look.

"But it was a break-in, was it not? his patrons are well aware of his endeavors... I'm sure," I responded a bit confused yet frustrated at this statement, glancing at Jayce knowing he must've had some plausible explanation for this whole thing going awry,"...Surely, this is all a misunderstanding."

"Listen Miss, I understand your concern, but mistakes like this cannot be left unchecked...", She replied her voice while stern with a tired rasp held a bit of a sincerity as she added, "Whether he is to be released or pay for his crimes is not my place."

A scoff left my lips in disbelief, Jayce despite his venturing ideas and bruteness at times would never think of harming anyone...and he made sure of making that clear on many circumstances not only as a tolerable, yet hard-working pupil praised by the Academy's Professor and Dean himself but with what he strived to achieve in goodwill.... "Under whose order?," I inquired still irked that Jayce hadn't explained himself and wondering who could've ordered his imprisonment despite his innocence in the matter. My arms crossed in defiance and eyes flickering to the Sheriff as well as Jayce, unwilling to leave until a just explanation was given in favor of this unexpected decision.

"The Dean and the Council."

My eyes followed towards the blunt response and I couldn't help but narrow my eyes at him.....He had a very sharp complexion, striking brown; amber eyes that stared into mine with nonchalance but in sternness. In his left hand was a metal cane, his slender fingers grasping the handle with care as it hit the floor with each step. Among other things, He wore a uniform strikingly similar to mine and Jayce making me ponder aloud in a blunt retort....

"And you are?"

"I'm the Dean's assistant....," the young man replied his voice and accent laced with preciseness yet elegance, "...And rest assured on your beliefs, excuses are not wholly justification for a grave matter such as this. His dangerous actions will be left for the Council to decide."

My skin turned a bit paler at the revelation, whilst my eyes stared appalled and in irritation. The Dean's....Assistant?....I stood in denial before the Sheriff instructed with a nod towards an officer who had begun to approach me and lead me to the side by shoulders gently.

She then nodded at the two wardens and walked alongside them as they led Jayce away from me. Before they were, I noticed Jayce turn his head back to look at me one last time before they led him away. "Marcus!", Another male warden called out to him, the young man from earlier being called in question giving me one last piercing glance before walking towards the group.

"Right this way, Ma'am", The kind yet elder officer with a southern accent told me, standing close beside before guiding me out the door as I then looked towards the same man with the cane, seeing him holding Jayce's journal. With a furious stare and huff, I rid myself from the enforcer's hold dusting my uniform's vest from any grime or even so a mark left on it.

"I can walk...myself out.", I commented, storming off and leaving the apartment's entrance in fury, feeling a pair of eyes on me as I strode out of the restricted area.

Despite my irritated state, I peered behind me, at the group as they marched onward farther and farther away before they fell to the metal box on the ground that I had dropped unbeknownst to me, standing there silently unsure of what to make of everything in disappointment and worry...

Jayce, What have you done....?

[ihopeinevergetsoberr]

A quick meal

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

word count: 1,5k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But not all wishes were meant to be fulfilled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Save the swearing,” utters the pretty tempter.

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

“That vocabulary is only appropriate for an orgasm.”

[spatialwave]

you had always been viktor’s favourite. you were a sight for sore eyes—glowing and oozing with so much optimism it drove him mad. how on earth was he so lucky to call you a friend? a business partner? a lover.

you’d snuck your way into his life all because of your friendship with jayce. he often remembered the first day he met you, your eyes bright and hand reaching out eagerly for a shake.

he felt love and affection for you so deep it twisted his heart and stomach with the ferocity and sharpness of a knife. your love was his favourite pain.

fate wasn’t an ideal viktor often thought back on or believe it, but if he had to reason with it — you were his fate.

your red strings tangled together until you met, crossing paths as children careening the darkened alleys and fissures from below. two zaunites trying to make the world a better place, to make zaun a better place for those who called it home.

you made the darkest of nights illuminate. when jayce left to be a councillor, you remained by viktor’s side.

you both spent countless nights awake over diagrams of hextech, studying the core and surviving on tea and biscuits to curb your appetites because what else was more important than helping others?

there was no one else in the world who could love you as much as viktor. you were his shining star.

[blissfulip]

Dopamine

On AO3

Viktor x f!reader

Rating: Explicit

Tags: enemies to lovers, slow burn, angst, idiots in love (?) dubious science, mostly canon compliant, no use of y/n, chemist!reader, eventual smut, masturbation, angry sex, unprotected sex,

Cw: slight spice if you squint, mentions of blood

Words: 2.27k

[A/N: Sorry for taking a century to finish this, I was humbled byt the AO3 writer curse for like a month, thank you for reading! (also, let me know if you want to be tagged in future fic updates!)]

Tags: @ihopeinevergetsoberr @chemical-killjoy @jinxed-jk @bobobomao @queen-of-elves @thedustybunny @syren201 @thayfass

Previous

Chapter 9 (final): can't think of a title

It’s because everything has its own tailored little space, everything is where it’s supposed to be, and I can find every object with a swift look from anywhere within the small cubicle. But to the unknowing eye, the unfamiliar person, this is a faraway place where thoughts can’t sleep and where one needs to swim through a river of trinkets to get to a firm surface. Should I bother to completely clean up or not was a discussion from the past, Viktor will be at the threshold of my domain in less than an hour.

How calm the air was in comparison to the dark storm clouds in my brain. If I clean too much, would it make it seem like I care excessively? But what harm can it do If it does, if I open up to the vulnerable display of cherish and treasure? It shouldn’t do any harm; it won’t. Unless this date and everything before and beyond are nothing but a cruel joke, I have been unfair to him; he would be justified to do so, yet, no, that’s not the type of person Viktor is; vindictiveness is not a proclivity he possesses. Is it? How would I know, really?

Two knocks on the door startled you, sharp yet timid enough to turn your anxious anticipation into longing. Before opening the door, you looked around at the barely cleared-up space going from the door to the bed, to the table, and to the small kitchen, forming a desire path that allowed transit but left the rest of the space surrounded by piles of carefully placed (and clean) but visibly amassed books, clothes, lab equipment, and small knickknacks and ornaments. This should be good enough, you thought. 

It was fun to fantasize about the worst, most terrible outcome. You always thought it was better to not hold any expectations; that way, everything good that happened to you would always seem like a pleasant surprise, but Viktor’s slight grin and warm eyes made you feel silly for thinking he would stand you up. He held up the hand that was holding a shopping bag to show you he was prepared and excited to cook you a meal. 

“Hey” was the only thing you were able to muster, and you smiled widely as you stood to the side to let him in. He immediately went to the kitchen and started to put away the stuff in the bag inside your fridge.

“Are you looking forward to getting back to work?”

“I was enjoying the unprompted vacation, to be completely honest.” You said with a good-humored chuckle.

“I can’t say I loved getting thwacked in the face, but what followed was surely worth the bloody nose.” You smiled to yourself at the memory of the brassy taste in your tongue.

“How does it feel? Has any of the pain subsided?”

“Barely a faint ache now,” he said, turning and walking to join you sitting on the edge of the bed. “Mostly a happy memory.” 

“I suppose it’s good that you won’t need to cross paths with that cretin now that we’ll be confined to our own labs again.”

“I’m not anticipating the interrogation Jayce is going to put me through either,” he said, throwing his body onto the mattress with a loud sigh.

“You can always lie.” 

“I suppose so.” He said with a lazy laugh, “Hungry?”

You nodded and extended your hand to help him up. 

As you stepped into the kitchen, you decided to step to the side and let Viktor do most of the cooking. The enticing scent of spices immediately enveloped you, and you watched him, already in full culinary swing, wielding a knife with the finesse of a seasoned chef. 

"Do you intend to watch me do all the heavy lifting?” he exclaimed, flashing a mischievous grin.

“You’ve worked beside me for long enough to know that if I get involved, I’m going to want to do things my way.”

“I’m fine with that.”

“Are you really? Because I can point out at least three things you’ve done wrong so far.” You say gesturing with your head in the direction of the onions he was chopping (incorrectly, in your humble opinion). “Is the secret ingredient a dash of blood?”

“You say that like you mind the taste.” He teased, earning a playful eye roll from you in return.

As the sunlight shone through the kitchen window, casting a mosaic of patterns on the checkered floor, Viktor hopped between tasks on the limited counter space, going from roughly chopping up potatoes to mixing up a fragrant concoction to marinate the meat in. The rhythmic clinking of utensils and the occasional sizzle of ingredients meeting the hot pan creating a symphony of anticipation. You reveled in the skill and delicateness of his hands and the comforting cadence of his quiet hums. As the finishing touches were added to the pan, Viktor stepped back to take a final look before closing the oven door. 

“Thirty minutes should do it,” he said, walking over to sit at the small table.

“Whatever shall we do with so much time?” You said playfully.

“Eh, we could tidy up the room a bit.”

He was met with a grudge-bearing look. “I did; everything has a purpose, and it has been placed in its current place after careful consideration.” He looked around with an ironic guise and then picked up a small pile of puzzle pieces.

“Even this?”

“I’ll need them when I find the box with the rest of the puzzle.” You said confidently.

You found yourself on the defensive as he continued to pick up things and you offered feeble excuses for the chaos every time he looked back at you with a raised eyebrow. The room seemed to echo with your silent protest as Viktor's eyes lingered on a precariously stacked tower of books.

"And what about this?" He pointed accusingly. "Are you trying to build a skyscraper?"

“Your room would look the same if there was a human inhabiting it.”

“I…eh, have slept there every single day for nearly a month.”

“And that was thanks to my monumental mishandling, as you so graciously claimed after we almost blew up, so you’re very welcome.” You said, giving him a teasing grin. 

“And I stand by that, but I am very grateful for it now.”

The bickering came to a halt when Viktor’s hand reached for yours and pulled you close to him. A subtle curve on his lips betrayed a desire for something other than argument, and you wondered how he always managed to go from antagonistic to the object of your deepest desires with such ease. You, too, couldn't resist the magnetic pull of the charged atmosphere, feeling the currents shift from discord to an electric anticipation that hung between you like a delicate thread. 

“Can you just flirt with me like a normal person? I don’t know; tell me I’m pretty, perhaps.” You said, lightly holding his jaw with one hand.

“Where is the fun in stating the obvious?” He straightened up to give you a peck on the nose. “But if you must know, I believe in the subjective realm of aesthetics that the coalescence of your beautifully crafted features has an unparalleled allure.” He said in a theatrical voice.

“Yeah, nevermind” You broke down into a full-chested laugh that brought tears to your eyes. You both laughed for a long minute before your giggles subsided into a comfortable silence where you just looked at each other and Viktor gently caressed the skin of your waist.

“Pretty merely skims the surface; I trust you know that.”

“You could stand to mention it more,” you said, already halfway through the distance that separated you. Your lips met in a fervent, teasing kiss that spoke a language words could not, and the tension dissolved into a delicate tango of tongues and whispered promises, momentarily eclipsing the cluttered canvas of the room. 

You didn’t feel the rush or urgency that plagued your choices the last couple of times you had done this. It felt deliberate and unworried, and you noticed the real taste of his lips, not concealed by conflicting tastes and circumstances this time around.

Just as the moment reached its zenith, an insistent, faint beeping sound startled the both of you, and reality crashed back into focus as the timer on the oven pierced through the haze. Breaking away reluctantly, you shared a rueful laugh and exchanged a quick, lingering kiss before dashing towards the kitchen. Viktor followed close behind to help you set up and smiled at the playful pout on your lips. 

“Don’t be sad, zaychik ; it’s better this way.” He said, bringing the missing cutlery to the table and sitting opposite you. 

“What do you mean?” You said already stuffing your mouth with some chicken.

“I wouldn’t want to rush it; I fully intend to, eh, take my time with you next time.”

Under your initial disbelief, a thrilling warmth unfurled, coloring your cheeks with an exhilarating blush. And in that moment, as the echoes of his words lingered, you marveled at the boldness that had momentarily shattered the boundaries of polite conversation, leaving behind a residue of exhilaration and the promise of an uncharted, alluring territory. 

As you both sat across from each other at the table, the aroma of Viktor’s homemade meal wafted through the air, and the flickering of the last lights on the dusking sky cast a warm glow on the scene, creating a canvas for the intimate moment you were sharing. You caught a glimpse of an affectionate smile on Viktor's face, his eyes reflecting a quiet contentment that echoed your own. 

You had a lighthearted conversation throughout, talking about Jayce and Moira and your expectations for resuming your tasks at the labs, but as the remnants of the meal disappeared from the table, you exchanged teasing glances, the air heavy with a flirtatious tension that built with every shared laugh and lingering touch. 

“We should have made desert,” you said playfully. 

“If you taste as sweet as I remember, I’m sure I can make do with that.” Suddenly, the once cozy room became a haven of intimacy, beckoning you both as you walked the short steps needed to get to the bed.

However, as soon as you found yourself in Viktor’s arms, your noses touching each other in delicate butterfly kisses, the conversation mellowed into a gentle hum, and as your eyes met, a silent agreement passed between you. The fatigue of the day, coupled with the satisfying indulgence in the hearty meal Viktor had made, weighed down on both of you. The soft caress of his fingers along your spine slowly gave way to the soothing rhythm of shared breaths, and the initial spark of desire transformed into a tranquil embrace as you drifted into sleep in each other's arms, an unexpected twist sealing the night with sweet and tender serenity.

-----------------------------------------------

As the first rays of dawn peeked through the curtains, you both stirred from the embrace of sleep, realizing that the night had woven its own kind of magic. The initial confusion melted into shared laughter as you exchanged sleepy glances when you rolled over from the position you had woken up in to face Viktor, discovering that the allure of rest had triumphed over whatever intentions you had when you got to bed. Despite everything, a warmth lingered in the air. 

“Is this what you meant when you said you wanted to ´take your time´?” you joked.

“Very funny.” 

“Well, getting you to sleep for a couple of hours is always a win in my books.” 

“That is quite an unfair assumption,” he said as he stretched. “Do you think one of your uniform shirts would fit me? I am dreading having to go all the way to my dorm to change.”

“Probably a little loose, and it’ll smell of my perfume.” 

“Neither sound like a problem.” He said, placing a small kiss on your forehead and walking over to the closet. He turned around briefly with a slightly disapproving look when he saw the piles of tangled clothes, but quickly found one of the shirts. You sat on the edge of the bed with both arms resting behind you as you observed him attentively. He propped his cane on the closet door for a short second to take off the gray t-shirt he had slept in, and he smiled at you when he noticed you staring. 

“What?”

You hummed and shrugged casually. “Can I not appreciate the view?” 

“There’s nothing to look at.” He chuckled as he put both arms in the maroon sleeves. You frowned.

“There’s plenty to look at, and I frankly do not care if you disagree.” You said playfully as you walked over and started buttoning the shirt so he could hold onto his cane again. “In fact, I’m very much looking forward to seeing the rest of you after work.”

“Can we go to my dorm? I feel claustrophobic here.” He said with a teasing smirk, clearly cut to annoy you. 

The hasty donning of work attire and the quick fix of disheveled hair continued after a quick scoff on your part, punctuated by lingering glances and soft touches. As you stood together in the doorway, you made it a point to plant a kiss on the corner of Viktor’s mouth, leaving an intentionally placed imprint of cherry lipstick that you were sure Jayce would not fail to irritate him about. A small punishment for being incorrigible, or perhaps a clear claim to him for any curious eyes.

[hyperesthesias]

Can you actually write something smutty for Viktor? Or just a guide on how to? I really want to write some Viktor smut, but I'm worried I won't do his disability justice as I'm able bodied and a dumbass

Of my twelve years on this webbed site, this has got to be the best ask I have ever received lmao

I would be happy to help, friend. I'll answer this in two parts.

Yes, I am planning on writing Viktor smut for Viktor x Anya. I had a lot happen in the year since I made the post you're referencing, but I've finally been able to get back into fandom stuff. I wanted to lay some backstory with them first though, as I am apparently a PWP kind of person lmao. It's coming soon! (No pun intended).

You've taken the first great step in recognizing that your experience and knowledge may not be congruent with potential portrayal, and therefore asking for advice. I don't mean to sound patronizing at all. I am an author and I have seen many professional authors that don't do this, so you're already ahead of the game! I wouldn't consider that dumbassery in any way, shape, or form.

I'll put the rest under a cut due to the nature of this post.

*Disclaimer to this is, of course, I don't speak for every disabled person, this list isn't extensive, and these are my opinions.

I, personally, operate under the assumption that Viktor has Post Polio Syndrome. Looking at photographs (x, x, x) it's pretty clear the animators used PPS as a framework for Viktor's movements and posture, as well as his mobility and assistive devices. People with PPS often develop need for braces, canes or crutches, and treatment for scoliosis -- all of which Viktor has. You are more than welcome to headcanon something different, as I don't believe the writers or animators have ever confirmed or denied PPS, but based on my own experience and research, I would bet money on it.

That being said -- regardless of PPS, or otherwise -- the first thing to consider when writing smut for any disabled character is fatigue. It may not be the obvious thing, as mobility devices often are the first thing to catch an observer's eye. But there is so much that goes on beneath mobility devices. Fatigue is a big one.

Consider the worst flu you've ever had -- all the time, every day, even in your sleep. It can be maddening, like you can't get any relief -- even if you take pain reliever or use other analgesics. Most people with a severe flu aren't exactly in the mood to be frisky, especially spontaneously. Many physically disabled people rely on preplanning. Having a date night where they can plan for extra pain reliever, or where they can schedule the rest of their day or week to conserve energy for a special night. The psychological energy that people need to conserve alone can take a lot of effort. Being disabled is also mentally exhausting, especially when you have a partner and their needs to consider. Giving a disabled person time to prepare for sex (or other tasks) is essential.

Related to that, is the fact the energy levels aren't always consistent. A disabled person and their lover could be going at it like rabbits for a while and then suddenly the disabled partner may need to stop because their "battery" (their physical energy levels) has run out. They may need a break for a few minutes, or they may just need to end the sexual encounter altogether.

The worst thing you (or your character) could do is take this personally. It has nothing to do with their partner, it's their body that is (frustratingly [on many levels]) not cooperating.

Something to toy with (no pun intended) when writing characters with energy level deficits is vibrators. Twice the work with half the effort. Don't be afraid to write smut with toys and vibrators -- it doesn't even have to be kinky. Toys and vibrators are normal and vanilla, all things considered. The only reason they haven't been normalized is because of patriarchal standards as to what sex is and is supposed to be.

The second thing to consider is physical limitations of positions and potential discomfort. I've seen several fanfic writers describe situations and positions that Viktor simply would never be able to do (e.g. lifting his partner onto a table or desk).

Viktor doesn't have a lot of strength. That's not to say he can't be rough or that all smut has to be vanilla. But realistically, it's absurd to think that he can lift someone else or manhandle them with any force, or thrust at the speed of light (💀). He also doesn't have any balance whatsoever post Act I. During Act I, he's able to hobble somewhat without his cane, as long as he has something to hold onto, as seen in episode three. But in Acts II and III, his balance issues combined with scoliosis would make any positions where he has to stand much more difficult.

Therefore, if you're wanting to write a scene somewhere outside of a bedroom (e.g. the lab, his office, etc.), he'd need something to balance himself. Seated sex is a great concept to play with -- very disability friendly and offers many options for all sorts of scenes. Desk/table sex is also realistic, as long as your character lifts themself onto the desk or table, and he's able to lean on it.

Scenes that take place in the bedroom also have their own limitations. He has zero use of his right leg, which means he'd need more time to get in and out of different positions. Missionary would take a toll on his back, I'd imagine, from being hunched over -- not that he couldn't do it at all, but that was more of a sidenote. Having your character straddle him, while his back was supported, is probably the most comfortable position I can imagine. Or spooning. Or maybe doggy, though I think his back and hips might get tired. But I'm just spit balling at this point. Utilizing objects from the setting is important -- pillows, having your character bent over the back of a couch, etc. This is where creativity comes in -- it's just important to keep in mind where his limitations are located on his body: his back and his leg/hip.

There are also adaptive devices for sex and disabilities.

One final thing I want to say is: don't overcorrect. This is common. It's one thing to keep a character's disability in mind, but it's another to make a disability the entire character. Just because Viktor is disabled doesn't mean he can't have the filthiest, most disgusting, raw, life changing, I-should-visit-a-confessional type of sex. However you headcanon him to be in bed is exactly how he can be. If you see him as a cruel Dom, he absolutely can slap the shit out of whoever has the pleasure of being beneath him, while he makes them beg for his mercy -- with his back and leg supported. If you see him as a bratty sub, he can be that, too -- while he lies there with a back pillow to relieve pressure off his spine. If he's the plainest, blander-than-vanilla type of lover, that's exactly what he is -- while he takes a few extra minutes to move from one position to the next. If he's any combination of those things, more power to you.

The point of writing a scene, is the point you're trying to make. Meaning: a lot of writers worry about conveying ideas and settings perfectly and with detail, while losing sight of the main point of their story. Rarely will you ever have to add paragraphs to a piece of writing in order to convey something, especially if it's not the main point. Often, it only takes one or two sentences. Keep the main point of the scene in mind. If you're writing a fic where Viktor and your character are secretly getting it on in the lab, then the point and the idea of that scene is the forbidden sex they are having. Not necessarily his limitations. You can easily acknowledge Viktor's disability by saying something like: 'Viktor sat on a chair at the far end of the lab, away from the door's line of sight. He leaned his back against the seat, allowing his spine to settle, before he coaxed his lover onto his lap. His lover straddled his legs, reaching to kiss his neck, while his hand trailed up their thighs...' You've successfully conveyed the limitations he has in two sentences, while maintaining the focus of your scene, and without reducing Viktor to a caricature of his disability. Less is more throughout your fic.

As a side note, which is completely my headcanon -- and something I've vaguely alluded to in my Viktor x Anya fics -- is that Viktor also has erectile dysfunction as a result of the PPS. Polio is a neurological virus, meaning is attacks the nerve cells, the main cause of the atrophy in PPS. It isn't common, but it's not uncommon for males with PPS to struggle with ED. As such, in my own personal stories, I have mentioned that Viktor takes medication to help with it. Sildenafil (the generic for Viagra) is a medication that specifically targets nerves.

That's my own person interpretation, though, and has no bearing on what we seen in Arcane lol.

To close this off for now, I want to reassure you that your efforts count and they matter. No one will write any depiction of disability 'perfectly'. Disability is unique to every person, and one person's spinal disability will look different to another's. Even people with the exact same diagnosis and prognosis will differ in how they experience it. You're not a dumbass. You're very intelligent to recognize the need for external resources. Enjoy yourself, enjoy the work you write, and keep asking questions.

If and when you decide to write your Viktor smut piece, I would love to read it. And likewise, if you'd like to read what I write I'd be happy to send it to you! If you're comfortable coming off anon, you can message me privately and we can talk more!

[mx-pastelwriting]

Fluffy Trim

Viktor x GN! Reader

Summary: Trimming Viktor's fluffy hair.

Warnings: Established Relationship, Soft & Sassy Viktor, Non Sleep Deprived Viktor, Fluff, Reader Cutting hair

Combing through the dense yet light-feeling hair that curled so cutely, Hearing a hum of enjoyment from Viktor meeting his breathtaking eyes looking up to you from his notes he had brought home.

"Why'd you stop?" He asks in a heavy accent, with a face turned in innocent confusion. Bringing a soft smile to your lips starting again bringing things back to how they were. Pulling softly a thick strain of his dark hair, seeing its long length. "Your hair is getting long," you say, though only getting a light hum as a response.

"I can trim it," you say, breaking his focus on his notes with a more confused look. "Do you not like it long?" He asks, reaching up to his hair, but you huff a laugh. "No, I just think it needs a trim," you say, still combing through his hair.

"Hm, it is a little long," he agrees, twirling the strain. "Come on before it gets late." Getting up from the bed making your way to the shared bathroom. Hearing no more questions, you take out the scissors and comb with a small towel, placing it near the sink.

Turning to Viktor, who was leaning against the door frame watching your actions, "Come here," you say, turning on the water. "What do I do?" He asks laughingly now in front of you, "Lean down under the water so I can wet your hair." You reply, guiding him down and under, then letting the water fill your cupped hand and working in the water quickly to not stress his back.

Finishing, you move quickly again to grab a high-seated chair to save his legs from further strain, taking the seat then putting his cane against the side wall of the bathroom. The small towel around his neck, you move it up and dry his hair a little. Taking the towel away, the sight of his messed hair made you laugh in turn, a smile grew on his face.

Grabbing a comb, then taming the lion mane, parting in the middle to start trimming the bottom up. Looking in the mirror, seeing Viktor focused on your technique of trimming, smiling as you go back to work, fluffing his hair seeing as it blends nicely.

Finishing up your work, looking in the mirror, seeing his shorter hair making you pleased with yourself, watching as he runs his fingers through his hair, pleased as well.

Leaning in, resting your hands on the open parts of the seat, resting your chin lightly on his shoulder, "What do you think?" smiling to your question as he plays with his hair, "Better." Kissing his cheeks, making them glow pink, you move away, starting your cleanup. "Let's get you a shower; all this hair must be itchy," you say, touching his neck covered in freshly cut hair.

"Yes, of course," he says, turning to you while closing the door with his foot. "Only if you join me," he says with his heavy accent again, making you melt.

Hello, I hope you enjoyed if there is any grammar mistakes or misspellings sorry about that feel free to let me know in the comments, have a great day/afternoon/night!

[thehistoriangirl]

Hi!

Could you write something for Viktor in this Father's Day please??

Thank you so much, have a great day 🖤

Hi anon! For sure :3 I hope you like it

Little Genius

Viktor x Fem!Reader---1.4K----SFW

Tags: Established Relationship (they're married) | Pregnancy | Fluff | Viktor would be such a great dad yall can't change my mind | Happy Father's day to all who celebrate :3 | This is not proofread at all bc Father's Day is over in less than an hour i'm sorryyyy ;---; |

Viktor felt your head nudging against his side, making him lower the book he was reading since yesterday—since you had finished it without waiting for him to read it out loud. A small betrayal Viktor washed away with your extra long session of kisses after dinner.

He reached to turn off the lamp, your hand brushing his before he could pull the tiny rope. Golden eyes took in your alert face, body wiggling closer to him so Viktor could rest his right leg over your hip.

His hum reverberated in your whole body due to the closeness of your cheek and his chest, heart beating content as you melted against the soft touches, the nonsensical patterns he drew against the thin, worn-out fabric of your pajamas.

“Not tired yet?” he asked, looking at the clock hung on the wall almost reaching midnight.

“I want to show you something,” you said, fiddling with the loose threads of his favorite blanket, the one he packed from his house in Zaun and kept in Piltover, even now.

He mourned the sudden loss of your warmth once you incorporated in your elbows, reaching for the nightstand on your side of the bed. Though curiosity made his golden eyes twinkle as your fingers scouted the insides of the last drawer.

“What is it?” Viktor peeked over your shoulder, seeing your hand gently cradling a small, white box tied close with a golden ribbon. “Are you going to propose, my love? Because I’m sorry to tell you this, but I beat you to it around two years ago,” he chuckled, rubbing with his thumb over the golden band decorating a finger in your left hand. Soft, slightly dry lips kissing the reverse of your palm once you glared playfully at him.

“You’re not funny,” you said, thought your curved lips testified completely the opposite.

“I hate to argue with the love of my life, but I am. Otherwise I wouldn’t have win you over.”

“Well, what if I say that you win me over with your terrible jokes?”

Viktor feigned a deep betrayal just like they were represented in the Opera House; hand clutching his shirt over his heart, closing his eyes while his face twisted in a grimace of hurt. “Your words break my heart.” His hands enveloped your waist, pulling you against his chest. “You better have a plan to wound up my poor heart. Your devote lover is very sensible.”

You beamed at him, eyes crinkled in crescents. “I do have one.” Wriggling against his tangled hug, you sat with your legs crossed, settled right in front of Viktor, putting the box on his chest. “Open it.”

The mysterious object was covered with a layer of paper, and for a few moments all that it could be heard inside your shared room was the wrinkled paper being pushed away to reveal the gift.

“Huh?” Viktor frowned, his fingers brushing the softest fabric as he raised the clothing out the box to see it against the light of the bright, golden lamp.

A vivid, burnt yellow bib made of crochet in a pattern oddly familiar for his own baby clothes kept inside a bag under his mother’s bed back in Zaun. The lettering read: Papa’s Little Genius.

He gazed at you, founding your expression of pressed lips about to burst into giggles. “My love?”

“Do you know what day is today?” you said, brushing the empty box away to straddle his hips.

“Sunday?” He could barely articulate any words with your comfortable weight pressed against him.

You lowered over his chest, nuzzling your nose in the crook of his neck and nibbling on his ear just for the fun to see his pale skin flush deep crimson every time. “It’s Father’s Day,” your voice sent shivers down his spine, goosebumps traveling all over his body as his body torn between your allure making pool molten desire down his stomach, and his brain scrambling around by your shushed words.

“Father’s…” he said, holding your shoulders as he looked down toward you and over the bib resting on the pillow next to him. His golden eyes opened, a gasp hitching his already quickening breath. “Are you… you… I… we…”

You burst out laughing, your vision became blurry with the halo of tears pooling in your eyes. “Yes...,” you whispered, as if it were such a delicate thing, a dream, almost, that if talking too loud about it would make it disappear. “You’re going to be a Papa very soon.”

His teary eyes matched yours as he hugged him flush against him, taking in the smell of your hair, how perfectly he feels blessed at just basking in your presence. And now, not only had you given him your whole body and soul and heart. No, you were about to give him a legacy—a future carved in his blood and flesh.

A child.

His child.

His rough fingerpads caressed your cheeks, wishing to take in every little detail about this moment so he could treasure it for eternity.

“I thought I was the luckiest person in the whole world when you accepted to be my spouse, but now?” He laughed, wiping your tears away. “Now words can’t describe how I feel knowing that you’re carrying our baby.”

Viktor chuckled, his smile that one of a child’s that had just discovered the wonders of life for the first time. His hand cradling your belly.

“Hi, little one,” he muttered, almost afraid to cause a bad impression to his unborn baby. Fingers gently caressing the soft skin under your shirt. “I’m your Papa. Hi,” Viktor repeated, finding himself in a loss of words. “I… I promise I’m going to read a lot of books about parenting, and that I’m going to come up with pretty toys for you, and I promise that I will make daily time to play with you… and sing to you… and tucking you to bed,” his voice broke, a knot straining his throat. “I don’t know anything about being a father, but I promise you I will be the best for you, little one.”

With a groan, he sat on the bed, lowering his head to kiss your belly, hands interlocked in the small of your back. “Only the best for you and your stunning mother. I hope you look just like her,” he said with a chuckle. “Though I will struggle to ground if that occurs… hmm, just be easy on me, alright?”

He looked up at you, eyes full of wonder and pure, unfiltered adoration.

“I just know about them, but I already love them so,” Viktor confessed, caressing your hair, his hands pulling down your chin so his lips could encounter yours. “Thank you. Thank you so much.” He mumbled between kisses of all kind—as soft as the brush of a feather, bold ones with his teeth biting your bottom lip, his tongue exploring your mouth in a slow, sensual dance. “I love you. I love you both,” he corrected, patting your belly.

“Do you like the bib?” you hummed, and he laughed. “Your mother scold me a lot because I kept getting lost while knitting the pattern.

“I knew I recognized that style.” He scanned the bib, arching a playful eyebrow toward you. “Little Genius, eh? Pretty high standards, don’t you think?”

You roll your eyes, swatting his chest lightly. “You say that as if you won’t let them see all your blueprints and chalkboards full of equations the moment they’re born.”

Viktor’s heart fluttered at the thought. He would have to babyproof his studio—and for sure his child wouldn’t step inside the lab without a full-body protective uniform, but the thought of sharing with someone else besides you about his vision of the world and the place he had in it made him feel like he was inside paradise.

A personal goal to make this world much happier, and safer, and fairer.

His baby’s world.

“I love you,” he said, kissing your whole face with delicate kisses that poured out everything words could never express. His devotion. His love. Everything. “I will never be able to pay you back for this…this miracle.”

“I don’t want you to pay me back,” you said, hands resting over his quickly-beating heart. “I love you, too. And your love for both of us is more than enough.”

He smiled widely, showing you that grin you adored so much, that made you melt and wish you could, too, give him the whole world.

“How lucky I am,” he hummed, settling you against his chest. “To have my whole universe safely resting in my arms.”