Viktor Fanfic - Blog Posts

SOMFG YES so — since you take requests about a viktor x fem!reader who’s been super exhausted as of late, and hasn’t been frequenting the lab and she’s super exhausted, when she is there, and how he would like respond and try and care for reader. AHHH THIS TOTALLY ISNT SELF INDULGENT

— I will be the Mo, anon 😤

this is so cute i am working on this rn 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

yes i like the idea of simp viktor and what of it..

TA!Viktor who is just really enamoured with Arts!Reader

TA!Viktor who just finds you so interesting! the two of you are in completely different worlds but he can't help but want to get sucked into yours.

TA!Viktor who is definitely not in the same department as you, nor does he share any classes with you but he manages to pull some strings to work for your Calc 101 professor.

TA!Viktor can barely pay attention when he's in that Calc class with you that your professor quietly tells him off because he's just not as focused as he usually is.

TA!Viktor who for the first time in such a long time, finds himself distracted from his work, his goals, and his studies all because of you. (He doesn't hate it, at all)

chat i need viktor fic ideas…

Between the Lines

pairing: Viktor x fem!reader

summary: After enrolling at the Academy, you had managed to stumble your way into Viktor's life, and he isn't very keen on letting you go.

wc: 7.5k

a/n: This is my first viktor fic ever... please be nice </3 anw I hope you guys like it. I worked on it for like a week before I deemed it to be good enough for posting.

You were always an achiever. Ever since your parents had taught you how to read you were unstoppable, continuously striving to do more you found interest in a lot of things that the other kids your age never really thought about. It was inevitable that you would eventually become the top student in all of your classes, recognized by your peers and teachers to be one of the most intelligent amongst your age group. It was isolating, the kids around you continued to play while you read books, trying to figure out the meaning behind everything. 

You always attempted to excel at whatever was thrown at you and all your hard work only became more worthwhile the older you got. Getting accepted into the prestigious Academy of Piltover was one of your biggest achievements and every moment you spent within those walls felt sacred and special. Everything around you was a result of your hard work. It wasn’t long before you were introduced to the dean of the Academy, professor Heimerdinger, who was quick to offer you various opportunities that would skyrocket your success. Hesitant, you denied the offers, choosing to focus on your studies instead. 

It took a few months of persisting from the aged yordle, eventually you warmed up and he jumped the gun, immediately offering you an internship with his current assistant, who just so happened to be a pretty renowned researcher and engineer within the Academy. You couldn’t help but take on the offer after reading the researcher’s scope within the field of science he practiced, it was interesting and promising. 

It wasn’t long before you were introduced to the researcher himself. Viktor was his name. He said it with such assurance too, curling around the syllables with a hum and an accent you couldn’t name.

“Viktor.” He held out a hand, the other one was curled around the head of his cane, leaning most of his weight on it. You placed your hand in the empty space he offered. His fingers, thin and calloused, wrapped around yours, engulfing it fully and giving it a firm shake. 

He was lanky and quite frail looking but he held himself high with the confidence of knowing he was one of the best the Academy had to offer. 

“Your reputation precedes you.” He continued, looking down at you with his chin held up high. “Professor Heimerdinger speaks of you often.”

“I hope it’s only good things.” You replied, heart thrumming in your chest. You felt scrutinized under the older man’s gaze, stripping you apart until you stood bare in front of him. It was a challenge. No one had ever thought anything but good things about you. This was different and you were more than eager to prove to him why everyone thinks the way they do about you. 

“Oh, yes. Only good things.”

—------------------------------

It had been a couple of months since then. You had eased into the work environment at the laboratory. It was undoubtedly stressful but you had managed to prove yourself, intelligence and all, time and time again. Working closely with Jayce, Viktor’s research partner, and Viktor himself as his assistant had really set your sights onto the realities of working in science. It wasn’t glamorous, no. In fact it was the complete opposite. There were moments where the three of you had failed to accomplish the simplest of mathematical problems, Viktor had even forgotten his times tables at one point, and Jayce, well, he once somehow forgot the answer to (5+5). Throughout everything, you had developed a close relationship with the two researchers. You felt it was safe to assume that you and Viktor were friends, at the very least. You were really much closer to Jayce, taking into consideration the fact that the larger man was a lot more approachable than the former. The two of you often talked and met up outside of work, finding new things to bond over such as your favorite music, cooking recipes, and somewhat similar personalities. 

Though ever since Jayce had taken up an interest in counselor Medarda he had been spending less time in the lab and more time showing his affections elsewhere, leaving you and Viktor to spend hours alone at times without end. Which was fine, maybe a little awkward but that could be easily pushed aside. You had grown used to the fact that Viktor always had his walls up. Guarded and unwilling to let anybody closer than they should be.

Spending more time with Viktor, one on one, had without a doubt helped a lot in cultivating a better work relationship between the two of you, and sure, maybe you found the older man to be extremely attractive to the point where it was becoming difficult to focus on work but that was besides the point. It was nice spending time with Viktor, despite it mostly being through work, however Jayce’s lack of presence at the lab had fostered some annoyance from the lanky brunette, always muttering under his breath about ‘priorities’ and ‘the future’. You always pretended like you didn’t hear it.

As time went on, work only became more difficult. The rose tinted glasses were harshly torn off your face and you were left fumbling around in the dark, but you had Viktor and Jayce by your side, who were more than willing to aid you in this path. Despite your urge to prove yourself there were moments where you truly needed guidance. The harder the days were, the stronger the urge was to overstay at the laboratory, trying to work out an equation or whatever it may be. Viktor was more irritable in these difficult times, grumbling in a language you didn’t fully understand and becoming extremely pissy when he couldn’t find his pen or a screwdriver.

“M.s Y/L/N.” Viktor called out from where he was sitting. His tone was all too familiar, it was not shy of kindness but you could already sense his growing irritation. He had his back turned to you, numerous papers and blueprints scattered over the desk he slouched over. 

“Yes, sir?” You replied from the other side of the room, your attention on the equation presented to you on the chalkboard. You had been mulling over it for a few minutes now, maybe hours, but you had lost care in keeping time when you’re in the lab. You looked over but he said nothing, not even bothering to turn away from his desk. He beckoned your presence with two fingers. 

Your shoes clicked and clacked against the tile floor as you approached him.

“I’m finding it quite difficult to work efficiently when I cannot find my tools.” Viktor explained quietly, gesturing to his work desk with open hands. You glanced over, not a tool in sight. Nervous, you looked around the room, the days had been blending in together and hours felt like mere minutes. You could not recall where Viktor’s toolbox was. A weird churning feeling began to grow in your gut.

“I’ll bring them right to you, sir.” You mumbled quickly before scurrying off to the other side of the room. You began to peer into any space you could possible. The box was old, janky, and a lot of other unpleasant things. Viktor could replace it if he really wanted to. Something nice that doesn’t squeak awkwardly every time you open it, but was the kind of person who liked to keep his hold on things that are his. 

A little desperate, you began to crawl around the laboratory. Maybe you left it underneath a desk somewhere. The lab was by no means organized. It was hard to keep clean when you had three active brains attempting to break past science and discover something the world had not seen just yet. A stupid excuse but it worked just fine, except for times like these. 

After looking around like a cat chasing a mouse, you had finally found it. The stupid old toolbox that should have probably been tossed into an incinerator by now. It had managed to hide itself underneath a pile of papers, behind a few more boxes of old contraptions and failed projects. Now why would it be there? You pulled it out from its hiding spot with a small yet proud ‘Aha!’, a grin growing on your face. 

“Aha, indeed.” You looked up at the voice. Viktor was standing over you with a small smirk, cane in one hand and the other leaning on the desk you were looking under. You were so engrossed in your task that you didn’t even hear Viktor approaching you. Your position was quite unbecoming, on your knees with some rusty toolbox in your hands, not a very ‘top student’ position.

You flustered under the man’s gaze. You’d never thought that you’d be on your knees in front of the man. Well, you had thought about it but realistically it would never happen. Until now.

“I found your toolbox!” You exclaimed happily, raising it up to the man with flushed cheeks. There weren’t many times where you had Viktor’s full attention. He was a busy man, always on the edge of the breakthrough that continued to distance itself the closer he got. He had no time to dabble into other things when his success was right in front of him, but in the times where you had his attention it was almost daunting.

He plucked the toolbox from your hands with ease, placing it on the desk beside him. Before you could push yourself up from the ground, Viktor held out a hand, pausing your movements. 

“Allow me, please.” He reached down and offered his hand to you while the other remained on his cane, as always. Your eyes flickered from his face to his outstretched hand. His eyes met yours for a split second and you willed yourself to look away. He looked like a prince, a knight in shining armor who was prepared to whisk you away and ride off into the sunset – The blue glow from the hex core only added to this daydream you had. 

Your cheeks flushed into a deeper colour and thankfully you could blame your little side quest for this. You placed your hand in his and the older researcher helped you up from the ground. Once you rose to your feet you couldn’t help but look into his eyes once more, and there he was again with those stupid amber eyes that made you feel like he was looking straight into your soul. 

“Thank you, sir.” You cleared your throat awkwardly and pulled your hand away, tucking it behind your back. You turned back to the desk and pretended to busy yourself by arranging the papers and stacking them into neat piles. 

“It’s really no problem.” Viktor replied, you could hear the smile in his voice, how annoying. “And I would like to believe we are past all this, eh… ‘sir’ nonsense. Please, call me Viktor from now on.”

He truly is annoying. 

It was another long day at the lab. Jayce and Viktor had recently received a letter of approval from the council allowing them to engineer one of their proposed designed models for a new invention involving hextech and they did not want to waste any time. Your shoulders and many other parts of you were aching for rest but you ignored your muscles’ cries for help as you fetched probably your 5th tray of tea for the day. 

“Ah yes, thank you Y/N.” Viktor mumbled absentmindedly as you placed the tray on the far end of the desk, he gave you an appreciative wave but his focus was primarily on the contraption in his hands, it seemed to be a smaller model of the hex core with a case around it. Jayce looked away from the chalkboard and mumbled a quick thank you as well. 

“Y/N, would you be so kind and–” Jayce was quickly interrupted by an annoyed cough. 

“Eh, last I recall, Ms. Y/L/N is my assistant, is that correct?” Viktor turned around in his chair, eyes locking straight into yours. He had a pointed look, a singular eyebrow raised and a small quirk on his lips, almost as if he was taunting you to try and deny his claims. You could only nod your head, unsure if you could even offer a rebuttal to any of this. “That’s right.” He hummed and turned back to his work, the sound of the wheels of his chair filled the growing silence in the room. 

You turned to look at Jayce who, bless his soul, wore his heart out on his sleeve and had a very confused look on his face. You could only shrug with an awkward smile. 

You attempted to ignore the interaction, sipping your own cup of tea in the meantime. Viktor was probably itching with pettiness and could barely hold it in any longer. Maybe it was reasonable. Jauce had found love, one of the biggest distractions to the progression of science as Viktor would say. Those words would always find him late at night, when his eyes were heavy with sleep but Jayce would not entirely be at fault, maybe Viktor just needed to loosen up a little. 

“If you wish for my assistant to do anything for you, then you must ask for my permission, yes?” Viktor added, the hextech model long forgotten as he scratched the nib of his pen against some scratch paper. 

Jayce could only roll his eyes, “Vik, may I ask Y/N to do something for me?” He was now fully turned away from the chalkboard, equation be damned. 

The lanky man swiveled on his chair once more, his index finger and his thumb curled around his chin, feigning deep thought, Viktor looked up at the ceiling and let out a sweet hum of random notes, “No.” The older man quipped monotonously and swiftly turned back to his desk. “I would like for Ms. Y/L/N to stay put. I may need her assistance and I would hate for her to be distracted with other unnecessary things.” 

Jayce sighed and turned back to the chalkboard. He had bigger problems to solve. 

That was weird.

It wasn’t unusual for the two to have a few petty fights which were quite literally childish most of the time but this felt different. An odd feeling began to stir in your gut as you glanced between the two researchers. Ignoring the gnawing feeling at your gut, you decided not to pry. 

Once the conversation had properly died and down and had been forgotten, Viktor took a small glance at you from over his shoulder. Your eyes met and he beckoned you over with a small gesture, his index finger pressed against his lips. How childish. You couldn’t help the small smile that grew on your face at his antics. As quietly as you could, you made your way to his desk, occupying the empty seat next to him. 

“What do you think of this equation, hm?” Viktor asked quietly, practically whispering the words into your ear. His warm breath brushed against your cheek sending shivers straight down your spine. You straightened up in the chair and cleared your throat. You looked down at the paper but it was hard to look over the math when Viktor’s arm was pressed right into yours. Despite the four layers of clothing that separate your skin from his, you could feel your cheeks burning up from the contact alone. 

Without even thinking about it, you shifted your gaze from the paper to Viktor. Thankfully, his eyes were trained on the paper, lost in his own world. You took advantage of that fact and really soaked in all the little details because when would you have another chance to be this close to the brunette?

His cheeks were angular, eyes sharp and he lacked a lot of body fat but he was never ugly, no. Despite all of the things that your peers have said about him, you always thought he was attractive. The small crease in between his eyebrows, the moles he had scattered around his skin. You took the risk and took the smallest glance towards his lips. He always had a habit, unconscious maybe, where the corners of his lips would quirk up when he was deep in thought. 

“Did it stump your brain as well?” Viktor mused, putting a halt to the Viktor Express going around in your brain. He leaned even closer and nudged your arm with his elbow, a small exhale of a chuckle leaving through his nose. 

“I’m sure it’s correct.” You whispered back breathlessly, cheeks flushed a dark hue of red, you could only hope that Viktor didn’t notice it. 

“I want your input.” He insisted, urging you even, with another nudge. Your resolve was slowly breaking, this proximity was in no way good for your heart, which was already threatening to beat out of your rib cage and present itself on the desk in front of you. As you gnawed anxiously on your lower lip, you looked at the equation again. It was solved… but something felt off. You pointed at a part of the equation and glanced at Viktor. 

“You could change the variable here.”

Viktor hummed, content with your answer. He snatched back the paper and began to write up a new equation. You dropped your shoulders and let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding in. The distance helped calm your thumping heart. There were moments where you felt like Viktor knew what he was doing. Aware of his effect  on you and deciding to play around with it – but as he solved that stupid equation it felt nothing more than a friendly interaction.

—------------------------------

It had been a month since Viktor had you ‘secretly’ help him on an equation. The entire scenario had plagued your every waking moment, the vision of Viktor so close to you that it was burned into your eyelids. The smell of his cologne was so subtle, you didn’t even know that he wore cologne before that moment, but now, it was all you could think about. You attempted to keep your distance after that day, not wanting your little crush you had to foster into something more. You had to remain professional, this was a work setting, but Viktor was persistent, almost as if he had begun to enjoy your company these past few weeks — Besides the fact that you were his assistant. 

Viktor started requesting your presence more consistently at the lab. At first you understood his request. Things were only getting busier and the man would surely need some help during these times but it looked a little suspicious when he would ask you to complete the most mundane of tasks that, despite his schedule, he could accomplish himself. 

“Could you arrange my pens?”

“I need your help erasing that chalkboard.”

“I need you to sign these papers. Yes, just forge them, no one will know.”

It was confusing. You didn’t know what to think of it, really. You were just trying to survive every interaction at the lab and hoping you didn’t die from heart failure. Despite everything, you did not want to assume that he reciprocated even an inkling of your feelings – it was just highly unlikely. No hypothesis needed. No tests or observations. It was never going to happen, and you knew that. So you continued to push that thought to the back of your mind and buried yourself in work. 

You had stupidly hoped that after all this time, your feelings would dwindle. It was merely a crush at first sight. Viktor was undeniably a good looking man. All angles and sharp edges but it only added to his charm. Amber eyes paired with his boyish smile, the moles that decorated his skin like stars on a clear night sky and that stupid accent that always got your heart racing. Evidently, those feelings had not even diminished in the slightest. 

You needed a break from him. A break from the laboratory. A break from the hours that you would spend alone with that man. Some time away to allow yourself to really bury these feelings deep inside you and never to be found again. So you called in sick.

—------------------------------

You woke up the morning of your so-called ‘sick day’ feeling peaceful for the first time in a long time. You had planned to stay in your dorm room, read a few books, work on a few assignments, and figure out a way to find Viktor as unattractive as possible. That would be the hardest task of the day.

Maybe it could be the way that he closes himself off when he’s working, or the way that he blatantly ignores you when he’s too focused. No person would want that right? It was reasonable, your scapegoat into finally getting out of this scrappy mess of feelings that made you feel like a child, yet it only fueled your attraction even further. Your brain travelled to the way Viktor would play with the ends of his hair when he was deep in thought, twirling the messy strands of hair with his index finger. It all went downhill from there. Your mind raced with the thoughts of his long hands, calloused fingers, the way his Adam’s apple would bob when he fought irritation. Sometimes, when you were lucky enough and stuck around long enough at the lab, you would get to see a sliver of Viktor’s chest, his frustrations leading him to loosening his usually tightly knotted tie and unbuttoning the top of his blouse. Those days felt more worth it.

You were pulled away from your thoughts by a series of knocks on your door. You weren’t expecting company but you assumed it was one of your classmates passing by to borrow some notes. You got up and moved to answer the door. 

“Hello, Ms. Y/L/N.”

Shit.

“Viktor! What’re you doing here? Did you receive my letter? I called in sick today.” The words rushed out of you before you could even think. You faked a cough to try and support your case further, hoping that the taller man was oblivious enough to believe it. 

“Yes, eh… I did receive your letter. I simply wanted to check up on you.” Viktor said in a matter-of-factly tone, waving his hand around. The brunette gave you a once-over and the horror of realization settled itself deep into your skin. It was pretty obvious that you weren’t planning on leaving your dorm room today, so you hadn’t bothered to change out of your sleeping clothes – which in hindsight was quite revealing in a lot of areas. This was more than embarrassing, more than humiliation. This was hell.

Viktor placed a hand on the door, leaning on the hard wood slightly, “May I come in?” His cunning eyes bore into yours, practically towering over your height. You spluttered over your words, your brain had long melted into a puddle as you looked up at the older man. It’s that damn accent. In an attempt to salvage the situation you simply nodded your head, not trusting your mouth to listen to your brain. You stepped to the side, giving the man some space to enter. 

Thump. Tap. Thump. Tap. Thump. Tap. 

He looked around the room once before turning back to you. 

“How are you feeling? Hm?” Viktor voiced out with a worried look. Both hands were laid to rest on his cane, favoring his weight on his good leg. 

You swallowed in an attempt to release the growing knot in your throat, “I’ve got the flu.” The words came out quieter than you expected it to. You weren’t looking at Viktor, in fact you were looking past him and favoring the posters behind his figure. Despite this, you could feel his gaze burning into your skin, maybe he didn’t favor the fact that you were revealing more skin than he had ever seen from you. You wrapped your arms around yourself, feeling a little self conscious. 

“I have to apologize.” Viktor took a step towards you and it took everything in you to not take a step back. “It seems that I have, eh, overworked you… But I couldn’t help myself, you make a perfect assistant.” He continued on. Viktor tucked a hand into his pocket and tilted his head to the side. Was he trying to seduce you? Your heart thumped harder in your chest, sweat began to pool in your palms and around your temples. Maybe you really did have the flu. 

You didn’t skip over the small compliment Viktor had tossed to you. In fact, the words bounced around your head like an echo in a large cave. You had spent so many months trying to prove yourself as an intelligent colleague, that it wasn’t a mistake that Heimerdinger so kindly offered you up to Viktor. It seems to have paid off.

“It’s alright. I think it’s the weather.” Your voice wavered and you let out another cough in an attempt to cover it up. A big mistake. The cough had seemingly activated something inside Viktor. He walked over to you, worry written all over his face. Before you could react, he had reached out and placed the back of his hand against your forehead. The touch was gentle, barely even there – as if you could feel the molecules between the two of you creating that barrier of separation.

“You are quite warm.” Viktor commented quietly, almost as if he was talking to himself. Just as if his hand had a mind of its own for that moment, Viktor abruptly pulled away, clearing his throat awkwardly and tucking his hand straight into his pocket. “My apologies, that was quite forward of me.” 

“It’s alright.” You repeated dumbly. Your brain was mush. It seemed no longer viable to consider yourself one of the top students at the Academy when your brain seemed to run away whenever in the presence of an attractive engineer. Any other normal girl would be ecstatic in this situation. Any other normal girl who had a crush on Viktor would rejoice, their minds going a mile a minute on how to take advantage of the fact that he was in their dorm room, a proper place of privacy – unfortunately you were not like other girls. 

“Thank you for checking up on me.” The words came out so quiet. You couldn’t believe how shy you were at that moment. You were so confident. Going in head strong no matter what situation you were thrown in. Viktor may be right, love is the biggest hindrance for the progression of science. With how close Viktor was standing next to you, you had no choice but to crane your neck to look up at him. You don’t recall the researcher being this tall before. 

“It is, eh… no problem. Don’t mention it.” Viktor mumbled quickly. He gave you a curt nod and began to rush out your room. He was out of your dorm before you could realize it, the moment your door clicked shut you were pulled out of your trance. 

What just happened?

—------------------------------

You had tried to ignore whatever thoughts you had about Viktor from that day forward. You had pushed the memories of the day he visited your dorm into the pits of your mind. It was all a distraction. If you weren’t so persistent your grades would have started slipping by now – thankfully they haven’t. Viktor was simply expressing his care for a colleague. Surely he had done the same and then some for his beloved research partner, right?

Though it only got more difficult to ignore these thoughts when he suddenly started to push you away. 

Your days at the lab were cut short with a curt, “You may go home now, Ms. Y/L/N.” He would barely even spare you a glance, his attention solely on whatever he pleased on doing, which apparently was anything but looking at you. It hurt. The same way an injection would feel. It was quick and subtle, but you could feel the imprint somewhere on your body. 

You had lost your voice. Your arguments and small little conversations to attempt to stay for even a few minutes longer would die down before the syllables had even formed. Shadowed in defeat, you would quietly leave the lab. 

Had Viktor changed his mind about you? Did he find a better student for the job? Or did he realize that having an assistant hinders his progress more than it should aid? You could do nothing. The days were cut shorter and shorter until there was nothing left. Until Viktor himself had requested that you, “Focus on your studies, your presence is no longer needed at the lab.” 

His words felt like a knife into your chest, or worse, it felt like he had physically reached into your ribcage, wrapped his lithe fingers around your heart and yanked it right out of you. You didn’t know what to think, so you followed his orders. Just like you always did.

Your days became less exciting. You had adapted back to your usual routine of attending your lectures and heading to the library to drown yourself in your studies. Viktor’s words would replay in your mind like a broken record. He sounded so cold, so closed off. You thought that you had at least breached through his walls and found your own place by the outskirts of his own mind but he had abruptly pushed you away and placed brick after brick to keep you out. You couldn’t help but wonder if he really only saw you as an assistant. 

It had been a month before you were reminded of anything hextech related. You had managed to distract yourself enough that you barely even thought about the lab, which was great, until you saw Jayce at the library.

Without a thought, you approached him. You were starving for answers, anything to explain why you had been basically fired.

“Jayce.” You called out, a little louder than what you intended which earned you a few hushes from the students who were probably cramming three month’s worth of information in their head. The midterms were coming up, which led you to the library as well.

“Y/N! It’s been a while!” The bright man had leaned over and engulfed you in his arms. He never really knew of the idea of personal space but you had always appreciated the warmth and comfort he would so freely give you, so you selfishly accepted it.

“It has been.” You mumbled, a little sad at that. Aside from the fact that it was a great opportunity to work with the two creators of hextech, you had also just missed the presence of the two men. They were practically a constant in your life, something that you looked forward to every day, all that just to be yanked from you with a cold tone. 

“Y’finally decided you had enough of the lab?” Jayce chuckled with a shake of his head. He wouldn’t blame you if so. It was strenuous and anything but glamorous. He had figured that you had gotten your fill and decided to spend the remainder of your youth doing other things rather than slave away at a secluded lab. 

“Uhm, no? Viktor told me to stop coming.” 

Jayce blinked at you awkwardly and you blinked back. An odd feeling tugged at your heart, maybe it was a touchy subject but you were completely and utterly desperate for some sort of closure. Something that could make letting everything go a little easier than it was now. 

Jayce let out an awkward chuckle, lifting his arm and rubbing the back of his neck. “Oh, he did? That’s weird.” 

“He never told you?” You inquired with a lift of your eyebrow. Jayce simply shook his head, doing as much as he could to avoid your gaze. A weird tension began to grow in the space between you, and Jayce, as much of an image he is for Piltover, simply could not handle awkward situations. 

“That’s crazy! Anyway, I have to go.” Jayce plucked a book from the shelf in front of you, seemingly at random and scurried off. You turned to chase after the man but he practically ran out of the library. You thought you were confused before this, but now it felt as though you didn’t know anything. 

As much as you wanted to study for your midterms, your brain was more focused on the sudden shift in your conversation with Jayce. You had run through all the possibilities in your head. Perhaps Jayce was feeling awkward now that you had been fired or maybe he was embarrassed that he was left out of the loop with the endeavours and plans of his very own research partner. You tried to entertain the thought that Jayce attempted to sway Viktor’s decision and the latter simply went behind his back – but even that sounded stupid. 

You looked up from your textbooks to where the ghost of Jayce’s presence once stood. Nothing was making sense. 

This was stupid. You were supposed to be studying for your midterms, you should be worried about your grades and your academic standing — but you were always terrible at following your brain instead of your heart. 

You were pacing around the entrance of the lab. You had been for the past five minutes. You wanted to speak with Viktor or better yet, you wanted to wrap your hands around his throat and beg the man to just speak to you, but that simply couldn’t be no matter the circumstances. Maybe in a perfect world. The bigger concern was if this really was a good idea or if you were about to make a complete fool of yourself — but the latter was a fleeting concern. You had probably made a fool of yourself in front of Viktor numerous times, this could be an exception, right? It’s not like you weren’t allowed to speak with him anymore, and if that was the case, well, you wouldn’t know what you would do. 

You ran your fingers through your hair for the nth time and decided to just go for it. 

Knock. Knock. Knock. 

Jayce had answered you at the door. He was barely peeking out the door, almost as if he was hiding. “Vik isn’t here.”

“I didn’t even…” You stopped mid way. You could hear the distinct sounds of tools hitting metal. That couldn’t be anyone else. You attempted to peer past Jayce but he was a large man, his chest covering what little opening the door already offered. 

“Jayce, please. Let me talk to him?” You pleaded quietly, placing a hand on his arm. 

Jayce sighed and dropped his head, allowing it to hang low from his shoulders. He looked back into the lab, anxiously chewing at his lower lip before he reluctantly agreed. He pushed the door open and let you pass under his arm as he stepped out — before you could ask why he was leaving, he had shut the door behind you. 

You turned around, heartbeat loud in your ears. There he was. He had his back turned to the door, hovering around the chalkboard. You could sense the frustration growing from him and he was definitely too engrossed in whatever he was doing to notice that you were not Jayce.

Your heart ached, the numbing feeling spreading from your chest until your fingertips. Just seeing the tuft of his unruly hair had you missing him more than you ever had. He was right in front of you, you did not need any further proof of that fact, but in that moment it felt like he was a million miles away.

“Jayce, excuse my language, but what the fuck is this math.” Viktor sighed in annoyance, running a hand over his face before he turned to look in your direction. Viktor’s eyes widened in realization the moment they landed on your figure. Almost as if he was caught in the act, the man did not move a muscle, simply staring right at you like he had just seen an apparition of Janna herself. 

Viktor cleared his throat and straightened up, “What are you doing here?” 

You shook your head and took a step forward. You were having none of this nonsense anymore, “Viktor, what’s going on?” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Viktor sounded so calm that it infuriated you. How could he act so normal, so nonchalant, after everything that had happened? You shook your head again and looked away. You could feel yourself wavering, tears brimming in your eyes and your lips had begun to wobble. This conversation could have gone a million different ways but no matter what, it felt like you would eventually end up just like this. 

“Please just talk to me.” Your voice cracked but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. This was more than begging for your position back, you at the very least, just wanted to be able to talk to Viktor again. To go back to the way things were before. The rift that grew ever larger between the two of you had you resisting the urge to reach out like a pathetic child. 

The engineer simply sighed and tilted his head to the side, shifting his weight onto his healthier leg. “I’d like to believe we are talking right now.”

“Why did you tell me to stop coming to the lab?” 

Viktor simply turned back around and resumed his work. “I would rather not discuss that now, Ms. Y/L/N.” 

You were at a loss. There was no use in being rational now. You walked up to the chalkboard, right behind him and wrapped your arms around his torso. If he did not want to talk, then so be it, but you were not leaving the lab without at least letting him feel what you wanted to say. Your heart was pounding, maybe it had never stopped. You feared that it was strong enough that Viktor could feel it through all the barriers between you.

Viktor tensed underneath your touch. The sound of chalk scratching against the green board had come to an immediate halt. 

“I don’t think you understand.” Viktor whispered after what felt like minutes of silence, forehead pressed against the chalkboard. He didn’t dare look at you, not right now. Not when he felt so weak. One look from you and he was fucked. Viktor was a selfish man. He had grown up with nothing, he was nothing. Even after making a name for himself at Piltover, no one would pay him any mind. No one except you. You and your expressive eyes, kind words, and just how much you cared. It scared him. How could he face you when you had managed to peel through his carefully decorated façade?

You were nothing like the rest of them. You had looked past his physical being, you had seen him more than his weak leg, his cane, and the back brace embedded into his skin. It was a part of him now. It had always been, yet you had managed to strip that away from him. It was odd for Viktor to claim that you had treated him like a real person, the syllables were foreign on his tongue, but his lips were prepared to curl around them and proclaim to the world that you were perfect — and that was the problem. You’re young, intelligent, talented, beautiful, and so much more than what he could ever be, so why would he allow himself the privilege of being selfish and keeping you all to himself? You deserved so much more, more than the world and all the stars — how could he give you any of that?

“Let me understand.” You mumbled, nuzzling your face into his back. Your words were muffled and it tugged at the strings carefully wrapped around Viktor’s heart. You were so endearing, there was so much to love — Viktor could be dubbed a crazy scientist and an overachieving engineer, but he would toss that all away if it gave him the possibility of holding you close at night. 

Silence grew in the lab once more. It was cold but with your arms around Viktor that hardly felt like a problem. You were afraid that maybe you were pushing him too much, but the longer you stayed like this, you could feel him slowly letting go. 

“It seems that I have grown affectionate towards you.” Viktor explained quietly, hesitantly. You had never heard him sound so unsure of himself. “It’s quite bothersome. I cannot focus on my work like this.” You couldn’t stop the small giggle that escaped your lips. His words were soft, syllables pronounced but it was oozing with emotion. 

You shifted around, loosening your arms around the man’s torso in favor of wanting to see his face. “Is that so bad?”

You looped around but Viktor kept himself still. Eyes closed and forehead against the chalkboard. It looked like if he had even bothered to move the whole world would collapse in on itself. Viktor could feel your gaze burning into his skin. He scrunched his eyes shut even further and shook his head, turning to look the other way. You placed your hand on his arm, fingers wrapped around the fabric of his buttoned up shirt. You tugged on his shirt. The engineer let out a shaky breath and reluctantly turned to look at you. 

Viktor reached out, cupping a hand around the side of your face. “Eh… maybe not so much.” His thumb smoothed over the apple of your cheek. His touch was so light, so soft — almost as if he pressed any harder, you would break. You leaned into Viktor’s touch, humming softly. 

“I like you too, you know?” You mumbled. You lifted your gaze to meet his eyes. It felt as though you were melting under his gaze, you didn’t think it was humanly possible to look at someone with so much affection and care — Viktor was more than human anyway. 

It may not have been the right place or time, hell, the two of you were practically professing your love for one another at the goddamn lab. Viktor had always said that the lab was where miracles happened and you guessed that he wasn’t so wrong with that. The two of you remained like that for a few more moments before the brunette pulled away. The ghost of Viktor’s touch was burned into your skin and you were reluctant to admit that you had already missed it. 

He took a step forward and placed a gentle hand right by the crown of your head. 

“I may have picked up on a few hints.” 

Viktor leaned in and pressed his lips on your forehead. 

Your mind was racing and your heart was threatening to beat faster and faster until you died of heart failure right then and there. You scrunched your eyes shut and allowed yourself to really soak in the moment. This was what you had been waiting for, craving even, since you had met the man. You resisted the urge to pinch yourself, wondering if this all may be some fever dream. Despite feeling like you were on top of the world, Viktor’s touch kept you grounded. 

The man pulled away and cupped your face once more, this time with both of his hands. Cane discarded to lean on the side of the chalkboard. His gaze was almost scrutinizing, as if he himself was assessing if this was real or not. After a few moments, he pulled away and cleared his throat. 

“I hope that answers your question sufficiently.” Viktor adjusted his uniform vest and grabbed his cane. “Now if you don’t mind… I would, eh… like to return to my work. I think I had gotten enough inspiration to continue for the day.” He simply nodded and picked up a piece of chalk. You didn’t miss the fact that his cheeks were dusted with a soft pink hue. 

“Does this mean I can stay?” You hummed, arms wrapped around one of the poles that held the chalkboard up, a cheeky grin on your lips. 

Viktor turned his gaze to you, almost bashfully, and nodded his head. “Yes, if you wouldn’t mind. That would be quite pleasant.” 

You let out a pleasant hum, turning to head to the couch before you were interrupted by a cough. You turned your head to the side, curious and a little confused. 

“Actually, ehm… there are some papers over there that need sorting… And I would like a cup of tea.” Viktor confessed shyly, bringing up a hand to point at a desk on the far side of the lab. You followed his hand with wide eyes. It was definitely more than ‘some’ papers, as Viktor had mentioned. It was at least two tall stacks worth of papers sitting next to each other. 

You couldn’t help but let out a laugh, “Seems like I’m kind of important ‘round here, huh?” You nodded your head and walked to the desk, determined to get started. 

Viktor nodded his head with a small smile, “Yes. Very important actually.”

chat i think the viktor fic is finally done...

Me finally controlling my feed to show viktor fics

have you ever tried this one?

and it’s just you ontop of viktor

look, i’m not saying he hasn’t fucked (look at him, he has had partners before but never like you, never someone who puts his pleasure before their own) so when you slide a pillow beneath his hips and make sure he is comfy over everything else, oh how his heart stutters in his chest. Viktor already looks at you like you hold the universe in your hands but as you perch yourself above him, hands braced on either side of his head as you grind your sopping cunt over his cock before sinking down on his aching length, he swears you begin to fade into starlight. the edges of his vision blurs as heat blooms in his stomach, pure indulgent undiluted ecstasy fills his veins and tingles in the tips of his fingers. mans is TRANSFIXED on the sight before him as your hips begin to move, slick dripping down your thighs in pearls of opalescent blue in the lowlight of the hexcore (the cot that had been set up in the corner of the lab for when he is too tired to go back to his room has been getting a little more action that it had originally been intended for) Viktor has no idea where to put his hands, what to grab or how hard to hold so you guide his hands to your hips, squeezing his fingers beneath your own before settling your palms on his chest. his heart thumps beneath your skin in a steady rhythm, his breaths shallow as his body adjusts to pleasure coursing through his veins.

“are you okay? nothing hurts?” you’re quick to check in, brows furrowed as your eyes slip down the pillow beneath his hips.

he nods, pushing his head back into the plush cushions as you tense your muscles, squeezing him so deliciously tight he might pass out.

“don’t worry about me, love. just-“ words fail him as his breathing turns ragged, your hips grinding in slow circles above his. “fuck…i-“

Viktor has always been quick of wit, a retort poised on the tip of his tongue at all times but as you begin to drag your hips up and down, cunt sliding over his pulsing cock in slow strokes that has his jaw slackening and eyes rolling, the concept of language leaves him entirely. for a moment it’s as if it is his first time all over again. awkward hands and quick breaths, unable to tear his eyes away from your perfect form as you bounce and grind above him. it’s cute, how innocent he looks beneath you, how bright his cheeks blaze, how red his lips bloom as he bites on the flesh.

“you’ve never done this?” your question is breathless, cheat tightening as the angle has your stomach twisting.

Viktor shakes his head, afraid that if he opens his mouth it would be nothing but whimpers and moans.

“do you feel good?”

another wordless answer in the form of a nod and he thinks he has retained some sense of dignity for the time being, but as you tense your muscles again, his mouth opens and his answer is a whimper.

your body stills above him as your brain registers the sound that has just spilt from your lover’s mouth.

“did you just- was that-?”

“shut up. This is a new thing for me,” Viktor grumbles but he can’t stop the grin that has spread over his cheeks. his hand reaches for your, wrapping around the nape of your neck to pull your face to his. “no one’s ever treated me like this. I can’t expect to know how I might react.”

a/n: pls be nice this is my first arcane fic i just love viktor so much gimmie a hair tie, a pillow for his hips and five minutes i’ll show piltover the real arcane

this is eating me alive it's so perfect

— 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

academic rivals request! viktor x fem!reader, nsfw

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

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

rating: explicit

word count: 3,5k

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

—

“How do you take your coffee?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“If I may.” 

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

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

You will not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t forget to bust in your pants.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But they’re so heavy.”  

“Well, what would you use?” 

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

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

Oh, well. It felt nice while it lasted. 

“How did you even—“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Very well. Frame?”

“Something durable. Titanium?” 

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

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

“That’s perfectly manageable with carbon fiber!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Precision?”

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

“Shut the fuck up.” 

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

You don’t even register when it happens.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck you.” 

“Oh yes. You’re about to.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smile, sliding your palm into his warm grasp. 

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

And Viktor scoffs, coyly looking you in the eye. 

“Why should we limit it to just that?”