midnightcrush - Tumblr blog

midnightcrush · 7 months ago

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absolutely beautiful read

forwards, beckon, rebound. / machine herald!viktor x reader, 18+, reader is fem bodied, angst, size difference, fingering, choking, dry humping, praise, russian terms of endearment, somewhat toxic relationship, mild augmentation kink, way too many emotions, mix of arcane + league lore / spoilers. word count: 16.2k

read on ao3

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Viktor enjoys making you feel helpless.

Technically, it isn't enjoyment so much as it is a responsibility; you'll repeatedly show up at his secluded lab in the Undercity, and as he does with everyone who comes to his doorstep worn and destitute, he'll take it upon himself to give you what you need. You are like the rest of his endeavors — meticulously examined, ambitiously furthered. But unlike his various grandiose experiments and his pursuits for evolution, it isn't just his mind you occupy.

There is some dusty, disregarded hole in his once-perfect mechanical heart, and if the hypothesis he's formed but doesn't want to acknowledge is correct, you are the most probable cause. Or perhaps, you'd be the cure.

Carefully, with his usual amount of precision, Viktor pulls his leather glove from his hand. He allows his fingers to flex: scarred skin improved by intricately-crafted metal joints. He's positioned above you, large and imposing while he keeps you pinned beneath him. The firm, steel surface of his giant worktable feels cool against your bare back. The room itself is dim, worktable lit by an overhead lamp that burns when you happen to look directly at it. Thankfully, Viktor's armored form above you, encased in dark shadow, blocks out most of the light.

The Hextech third arm on his back grasps your wrists unwaveringly, and keeps them in place above your head, utilizing an exorbitant display of strength. You can't move a muscle, not even if you tried. Lingering heat sears into your skin, radiating from the metal — from where the laser he's perfected could easily sever your wrists from the bone.

What's more, you can hardly think. Your head is spinning; your heart pounds from between your ribs, fiercely yet uselessly. You can only stare at the glowing, emotionless eyes of Viktor's mask, and wait for him to decide what he plans to do with you. Gentle. With the way you're looking at him, you need him to be gentle, this time.

He presses his palm to the center of your chest, where he can feel the erratic beat of your heart. Slowly, he begins to drag his hand down. It's a knowing, practiced motion — not as soft as it ought to be, considering his cold, purple-veined hand and calloused fingers. As his touch is brought down to your stomach, your waist, you shiver, and your body relaxes. Finally, fully.

It doesn't take long for you to arch into his touches, just as he predicted, just as you always do. Your flesh loves to sing for him.

This dance has been performed by the both of you numerous times beforehand. Viktor questions if you'll ever grow tired of it. Of the pirouetting, of revolving constantly around unspoken, trembling complications, just to return, to let your mind and your heart reel all over again.

What he feels for you — what he has evaluated from you, because machines do not feel — is something unexplainable, foreign, futile. He knows this, this dynamic you've fostered; it hardly makes sense. You are allies with no common goals. You were friends, some disregarded years ago. Every other night, you stumble into his lab to interrupt his work, and he lets you.

No, he indulges you.

"You are quivering," Viktor hums, voice muffled and deepened by the mask's filter. A usual, matter-of-fact statement, but the edges of his tone sharpen in the wake of a held-back, dark chuckle. "You want me to touch you. Say it."

The powerful, vastly-superior Machine Herald already has you right where he wants you.

Slightly riddled with static, the way his thick accent curls around the words only serves to make you shudder more. Your breathing is choppy, your chest rapidly rising and falling.

Not from fear, if Viktor had to guess. His scans of your heart rate would come across much differently if that was the case. This is from arousal. Clear, easily definable arousal. Just from his thick voice, his soft touch, and the imagery provided by his large body above yours.

The sight of you is addictive. Addiction isn't a sensation built into his mechanical repertoire, but it's the best word he can think of to describe this. You are small when you're underneath him. So malleable, so fragile. So human. How abnormal. The compulsive surge that runs through his veins should not, according to all of his tests and conclusive research, be occurring.

Viktor supposes this type of behavior would be more fitting of the past version of him. Presently, he doesn't have room to let time go to waste. His vision is all that matters. The old him, though, the Viktor you once knew would've given you whatever you desired without a second thought, even though he hardly deserved it.

He was weak, once. For you, perhaps a part of him still is.

You are intelligent, you always have been. He has cast away much of his past in pursuit of chasing a better, more important future, but still, he remembers each and every moment he shared with you quite vividly. They play in the background of his mind sometimes, persistent like a system error, recurrent like a late-night looping television program.

Your inventions often kept pace with his. Your smile was bright, brighter than the pillars of light that shone from Piltover's grandest lighthouses. Starry-eyed and driven, you wanted to improve, as a person and as a scientist. You challenged him to push further right alongside you.

Of course, you knew him better than most, but Viktor wonders: did you ever expect him to go this far? Did you ever plan on retreating back to Zaun with him, to fall further into madness together?

By now, you must be smart enough to know he is different. What you might've had, a friendship or a partnership or something delightedly improbable, it is now nothing. Nothing more than another one of his shed weaknesses and old, discarded memories.

Perfect machinery does not feel. Not even for you, no matter what it once felt. Scientifically, it can't. You should understand this relationship is not beneficial. He could and would gladly break you, it's what he built himself to do. And yet, as he's starting to realize, perhaps being broken by him is exactly what you want.

"Please touch me," You're begging, as his palm caresses the all-too-human curve of your side. Your voice is warm, lustful. A sweet, familiar taste settles in the back of his throat, as you coo the old nickname you still reserve just for him. "I need you to, Vik."

And just like always, because of you, because of his predisposed sense of responsibility, or perhaps because of an unrecognized fault in his complex machinery — Viktor gives in.

He revels in your vulnerable, quivering limbs and your heavy, desperate gaze. The grip of his Hexclaw tightens on your wrists, your hands closing, fingers tensed. He drags his palm down your stomach slowly, carefully. His gentleness is calculated, but it is yours, all the same.

Your legs spread for him on impulse when his hand reaches your thigh. He squeezes, before he brings his hand between them, allowing the end of his index finger to brush your clit; his touch is precise, with all the efficiency and learned confidence of a flawless, apathetic machine. He could make you fall apart for him so easily, every part of you perfectly attuned to his touch, and his touch alone.

Yet, he's teasing you, careful and slight touches barely grazing where you're oh-so sensitive for him. Your thighs shake, and spread wider; your body is exposed to him, soft and sweat-soaked expanses of skin contrasting splendidly with his bulky, armored chassis of metal. Now, instead of his index, Viktor uses his thumb, providing more friction and a slightly firmer touch. You squirm, the pretty features of your face washed over in pleasure, before you breathe a small, satisfied whine.

"That's it," He murmurs firmly. "To think this is all it takes to make you submit."

Viktor allows his thumb to trace circles onto your swollen, needy clit, and your breath proceeds to hitch so deliciously for him. An action, and reaction. Repeated experiments make for predictable results. Hextech hand practically digging into your wrists, Viktor brings his free, metal hand to your cheek. Oddly tender, his cold palm cups your face. He isn't surprised at the response it gets out of you, your chest heaving with a deep, trembling sigh. Every part of your skin tingles, as you lean into his faux, steel touch.

"Earlier, you wished to be defiant. Disobedient." Viktor scolds, his thumb flicking over your clit while his fingers brush your cunt, gathering your dripping slick on the digits. He takes his metal hand away from your cheek, and he presses it flat to the table, right beside your head. Your brows pinch disappointedly, clearly unsatisfied with his subtle form of punishment.

"And now look at you. Wet and desperate."

He's barely touched you, barely even begun with you, and you're already dripping.

"I wasn't- I'm not disobedient," You're countering, although it's damn near impossible to keep your voice sounding steady when his persistent touch is toying with you. He's teasing, circling your clit agonizingly slowly, just to make you squirm. "I brought you everything you asked for. Like always."

"Yes, and you did well," Viktor praises flatly. As though he's reading off a trained script, rather than watching the way your eyelids flutter as his knuckles brush your entrance. "Our current project will run smoothly now, utilizing the tech you acquired for us. But when I told you to wait, to bring the tech after I had finalized our plans, you did not listen."

You admit simply, foolishly, "I missed you."

Those words are familiar. You'll often tell him you missed him when he returns to the lab, home at last after finalizing a few affairs elsewhere. You said you missed his face the first time you saw it, your hands gently holding his cheeks, caressing metal and skin — despite how different he looks now. Despite the scars, the mechanical parts.

He knows you missed him. In a soft, delicate way. In an indecent, desperate way. His form of longing is much, much different. When the mortal matter and fraying wires of his brain yearn to have your presence beside him, with him, under him, it is strong, it is carnivorous. It is encompassing.

"You nearly comprised everything we've been working towards." Viktor's third arm tightens even more, making your wrists and arms go nearly numb. "There is only so much I can do to protect you. I disposed of the last enforcers to attempt tracking you down, but if you were to lead them here, you will not just be putting yourself at risk. You are threatening our entire vision with your recklessness."

Carefully, his index finger finds your entrance: sensitive and wanting. He deliberately pulls his hand away when you whine, instead placing his palm back on your inner thigh. Your skin is soft to the touch. Your gaze stays steady on him, on the unflinching shape of his mask, your eyelids heavy, pupils blown with clear arousal. As though he encompasses all you need, anything you could possibly want, and everything that could devastate you.

You are frustratingly beautiful.

Viktor hums, the sound low, somewhat mechanical. He gently guides his hand over your neck, just how you like, until large, metal fingers are wrapping around your throat. Not squeezing, just tightly holding. Enough to ground you, to remind you of who you belong to. You let go of a sigh, your eyes growing heavier. Your heart is skipping, and with his hand around your throat, the subtle vibrations of your quick pulse shudder through his complex machinery.

"Viktor-" You start, voice weak, barely there. "I'm-"

"I know you want more." He squeezes your thigh, applies just enough pressure to your throat to make your mind go fuzzy. "Tell me what you have been waiting for me to give to you, what you desired so strongly that you ran to me, instead of following the plan. And perhaps, I'll let you have it."

You tremble: a full-body, tingling shudder. Viktor — the Machine Herald — is so much larger, so much stronger than you. He's augmented himself to be significantly taller, significantly more imposing, and underneath him like this, you must look meager. Pathetic. Fully bare, your legs spread open for him. Giving yourself to him so easily. Your chest heaves, your mortal heart skipping and wavering at the sight of him above you, pinning you beneath his heavy, metal form.

"Breathe, zayka," Viktor murmurs, his grip on your neck loosening up. "Your heart is racing. Focus on me."

Taking in slower, deeper breaths, your mind quiets, your pulse calms. Stars and static thrum in the corners of your vision, your thoughts a knotted up blur. Viktor — his touch is all you can focus on — traces his fingers further up your thigh in approval.

"There. Very good. You're alright."

"Your fingers," You pant, "Please."

Viktor scoffs, his tone mechanical and rough, "You can do better. Try again."

Huffing, your head knocks the firm worktable when you toss it backward.

"Bastard." Your hands clench and unclench, your wrists giving a poor attempt at struggling against their hold. To no avail, of course. "Are you at least going to let me touch you?"

"No. Answer me. Do not make me repeat myself."

You briefly gnaw on your bottom lip, your jaw tense, thighs shaky. "I need your fingers inside me, Vik. I've missed you, I need you, please. I'm going fucking crazy."

Viktor's unmoving, glowing eyes examine you carefully. "That's it. That is much more sufficient. So exquisite, when you are begging. Take what you need, then."

You're well aware he isn't the same man you once fell for, nor is he the soft-spoken, bright scientist you once knew. Rumors paint him as a maker, a monster, a machine. He is cold to the touch. He isn't supposed to feel, he removed such functions ages ago; they were useless to him. As were his failing lungs, his weak legs, his heart. A heart made from machinery never skips. It can't be blinded by love, or lust. It cannot be distracted by old, unkindled flames, in the same way you often are. You envy him, somewhat.

But Gods, when it's just you and him in his lonely little corner of Zaun, and when you are at the pleasant mercy of his perfected touch, you swear, he feels more human than anything. Nothing else truly matters, because still, he is yours.

Viktor's index finger slides inside you slowly, just barely stretching you around its thickness. You're wet enough that he could press it in easily, could have you melting and drooling over whatever you're given — but instead, he chooses to let the digit fill you languidly. The feeling is slight, enveloping and enthralling and familiar, yet not enough to make you feel full, at the same time. His fingers are long, dexterous. Pretty and scarred.

You've watched him work on plenty of augments and automatons, hands tightly grasping a wrench to turn it, fingers carefully holding the ends of thin wires to thread them together. Each action swift, exact.

With the same level of precision, Viktor presses his finger deep inside you, and crooks it upward to nudge it right against your sweetest spot — and you whimper, your whole body shivering, collapsing.

"One is never enough to satisfy you," He asserts; he gently pumps his finger into you to a steady, easily manageable pace. "Isn't that right?"

If his mask weren't there, you're sure you'd see him speaking through a slight grin, maniacal and crooked, impossibly him. Your heart pounds. You're doomed, you must be.

In response, you nod your head fiercely. Another shaky moan tears through you as he works you on his slender digit. Pressing in, dragging out. Calculated and perfectly steady, like the continuous beats of a metronome.

"Or," Viktor questions, "Should I have you come undone around just one?"

"No," You snap quickly, although you're obviously in no position to be making demands. Your eyes flutter open, your face contorted in a mix of pleasure and frustration. He finds your desperation strangely satisfying. All for him. It's the same sort of hungry satisfaction that comes with working on an automation, striding closer and closer to a job well done. He adjusts, pushing your legs apart with his large knees when they tremble and threaten to close.

"Give me two," You're pleading, "Please."

Viktor hums, the sound low and vibrating.

"Guiding you to your peak would prove trivial, even without the means of penetration. You are simple. Easy to unravel." His low, intimidating voice effortlessly sends goosebumps careening down your spine. "You could most likely be led to cum against my shoe or my thigh, from modest friction and my voice alone."

"Viktor," You almost wince at how pathetic you sound. "Stop talking."

Viktor eases his index finger as deep inside you as you can take, and heat surges across your form in thundering, breaking waves. "Why would I stop when you are enjoying it?"

Oh, he knows you far too well.

"Dammit, at least-" You exhale, trembling through a moan, and Viktor's Hextech arm holds onto your wrists impossibly tighter as your hips roll into his hand — desperate to feel more of him. It works, momentarily. Until he is using his free hand to firmly grip your waist: thick metal fingers digging into warm, pretty skin. He pushes you back against the worktable, holding you in place.

You groan in frustration. "At least quit teasing me."

"Such impatience. I am working you upwards, gradually conditioning you to take higher levels of stimuli. It will make the process as a whole much more pleasurable."

"Gods if you weren't wearing that stupid mask, I would shut you up in no-"

"I always satiate you, milaya," Viktor answers calmly, as he slowly drags his finger out, leaving you quivering and empty. The nickname he uses is tender, familiar. It reminds you of your once different life. Vividly, it forms blossoms in your chest, unfurling flowers and delicate petals. Tugging sweetly at your thudding heart, despite the cold artificiality of his manufactured tone. Milaya. His darling.

Though, the Machine Herald does not covet. What he desires, he takes and makes his.

"Interesting," He's muttering, seemingly mostly to himself. "Your neediness has greatly increased since the last time we convened. Normally, you are capable of controlling yourself. To a certain extent."

He tsks, metal hand caressing slow, reassuring circles onto your waist, while his other palm dives back between your legs. His fingers drag over your cunt with an irrational sense of clumsiness, considering the motion is coming from him. He lets his fingertips search for nothing in particular, getting them slick with your arousal, nudging your clit carelessly with his knuckles until your back is arching, and your sighs are sharpening.

"Sorry." You mumble a half-hearted apology, eyelids softly fluttering.

"It was not a complaint." Viktor presses his fingertips close, dangerously closer.

Your body needs him, needs what only he can give to you. His hands, his fingers inside you. Every inch of you screams for his touch. As though you are a solved puzzle, a piece of technology broken down to let him understand each individual part. Your thighs shake, and that's part A. Your chest heaves, your shoulders go tense. Significantly human responses. Components labeled B, C, D, V. Your lips quiver, before they mutter another breathless, desperate plea of his name.

Predictable, and understandable. Yet, for certain, you are a delight to decipher. Those pieces and budding sensations come together as he thought they would, and they — and you, are primed to be bent at his will.

You expect him to tease you further. When he falls silent, becoming more impossible to read than he already was, you feel your arms and your thighs tense with what must be anticipation. Surely, he can sense how eager you are.

But Viktor doesn't falter, he does not hesitate. He guides his metal hand underneath your back, predicting its arch, and he presses two of his fingers, his middle and ring, to your drooling entrance. They slide into you with a filthy, wet noise; it's almost obscene how eagerly your cunt accepts them. How you plead with whiny utterances of yes, yes, your voice breaking, eyes closing. He eases them inside you slowly, fills you with them completely — until his scarred knuckles are nudging against you, and you're sobbing through a half-sigh, half-moan.

He doesn't wait to hear you beg for more. You're given a calculated amount of time, just enough seconds to catch your breath and get used to the stretch of both digits inside you. He fucks you on his fingers, pumping them in and out to the tune of your broken whines and gasps for air. It's a gradual process. A coded, mastered technique well-baked into his mind, his heart, and his hardware.

Of course, he's long since learned just how to make you fall apart. He has studied you, he's proceeded to subconsciously store your data in the most important vault in his mind. It is simply a matter of getting you there, of drawing out your pleas for him and your tremors and your pulses, to push you even further past your previous crescendos.

You can always be louder. Finish harder. You deserve to. And when it comes to any and all of his endeavors, including this one, he is persistently, unquenchably ambitious.

"Vik-" You're babbling, in a wavering voice he might logically, astutely label as precious. His quiet lab echoes with the whirr of various displays and devices. With your soft noises, echoing alongside the wet squelch his fingers make each time he presses them deeper. "Please, I just- I'm so- I want you so much-"

"You have me," He answers rigidly. Prepared and intentional, his fingers move slower, drawing out your moans and your shudders of pleasure. "Or were you demanding more?"

"I always want more with you." A faint, endearing pout forms on your features, the kind of look only he can draw from you. "Want- I want you to fuck me."

It isn't anything of importance; just an aimless, desperate plea. The kind you might be expected to ask of him when you're in this state — your mind wandering, your body relaxed. You need fuel for your building fire, you need to hear him outline through words what he can't through actions. You cannot make him feel as you do, but Viktor is kind enough to let you play pretend.

Though, for whatever strange, unrecognizable, illogical reason, he goes against the fixed line of actions he was previously adhering to, and he hesitates. He contemplates. He twitches, circuitry briefly inoperable, fuzzy and working against him. His center, his self-regulating core, hums with marginally more force than it did before. The hand he has pressed to your back trembles. It thrums with artificial, built-up heat, before he grips you much tighter.

Fortunately, he rediscovers his composure as quickly as it waned. Viktor quirks his fingers into your sweet spot to make you cry out for him, and then he drags them half-way out — every moment agonizingly slow, so he can admire the way the digits glisten in the lamplight.

"Filthy little thing." His voice is thick. His words are stern, making you picture how his jaw might be tightened. "I am already providing you everything you asked for, and yet still, you act greedy. Human desire is terribly intemperate."

"As if-" You're squirming, sweating, your hair a mess, warm gaze and moon-wide pupils locked onto his obscured face. "As if you feel nothing from this."

"I cannot feel. You are well aware of this reality. I suggest you do not continue to persuade yourself otherwise."

"Bullshit."

"In fact, I do feel nothing." Viktor brings his thumb to your clit on his next press in, rubbing it roughly, circling it precisely. "I am incapable of experiencing desire," His fingers crook and spread. "Nor enjoyment." They pump slowly, while they stretch you around their shape. "Or affection."

"But you were worried about me- fuck- when I went off on that stupid mission," You're mumbling, barely able to speak through ragged gasps for breath, "You were fretting over my safety. You- hah, you stopped everything you were doing just to check on me, because you felt relieved, you felt happy when you saw me walk in, didn't you?"

Did he?

Hours earlier, you returned to his doorstep, and he knew it was you from the way you knocked; he put aside the small automaton he was working on, and hurried to meet you at the door. He gave you a quick once over — in this form, he is vastly larger and taller than you, to the point where you have to crane your neck to look up at him — but you assured him you hadn't been injured. When you fell against his armored chest in something of an embrace, he didn't push you away. Nor did he protest when you pulled his heavy, bulky shape on top of you as you fell back against the nearest surface, his additional sensors picking up your already increasing breathing and heart rate.

He recalls your arms around him, hands tugging at his cape, removing sections of his armor, fingers threading through his hair. Soft lips pressing to cold steel —

Viktor tenses. You are plenty capable on your own, capable enough that he rarely considers whether or not you'll return. You always do, after all. This mission was considerably riskier, though. Considerably more worrisome.

If anything had happened to you, if he discovered you were injured or captured or worse, his subsequent reaction would be less than logical. His mental processes would malfunction, and he would lose the ability to think rationally. The stifling, unstoppable force that would build within him could be compared to something like rage, something like love.

You swallow thickly, and the room swirls around you in a dizzy haze as Viktor slowly pulls his fingers from you. Leaving you empty.

He murmurs, "Look at me."

It's a little difficult of a command to follow, with your head spinning and your eyes all heavy. Still, you force yourself to breathe deeply, to steady, in the wake of the sudden lack of attention.

You look up, and his hand, fingers slick and filthy, momentarily moves to grasp your chin. He tilts you towards him, to make sure you're watching. Viktor reaches up, and he presses a mechanism on the side of his mask. It hisses, releasing air, small puffs of steam streaming from either side.

He removes it tentatively. He tosses it aside with a bit less caution, causing it to clink, spin, and nearly fall when it hits the upper edge of the table.

You're met with messy brown hair, scarred skin, and familiar moles. The entirety of his jaw is made of metal, reconstructed into intricately crafted steel that continues down his neck and underneath his armor. His skin is overly pale, to the point where you can notice deep eye bags, and the criss-crossings of several individual, purple-hued veins. His expression is stern and deadpan, his brows slightly creased. He takes you in, gaze flickering down for a moment, then back up — and searing eyes, dark purple pools and bright orange suns, finally meet your own.

"Your legs," He's instructing; his voice, no longer filtered through the mask, sounds warmer, clearer, a little less deep. Despite everything, terribly familiar, and blissfully human. "Place them around me."

Unable to stifle a smile, you lift your thighs, casually locking them around his back at the ankles. You rarely get to see his face, and it's impossible to keep your eyes off of him, nor can you stop your heart from pounding. Viktor returns your gaze, cold and unflinching. It's like he's examining you, regarding you with the same restrained interest as he'd have for the subjects of his experiments.

"There you are," You're cooing, head tilting, "Vitya."

Viktor's expression finally shifts from his usual indifference, his brows scrunching up to form a slightly irritated scowl.

"Defiant again. As expected."

"You used to like it when I called you that. Am I not allowed to tease you now?" You're laughing, and your smaller frame, still pinned underneath him, shifts somewhat when he loosens his grasp on your wrists. A faint amount of mercy. You offer him one of those radiant smiles he can't stand — can't resist. "You can be such a hypocrite."

"Open your mouth," Viktor sneers coldly, "So it can be put to better use."

With a firm, metal hand, he holds the curve of your soft side, measuring your individual tremors, paying attention to the steady movement of your lungs. His gaze flickers between your eyes, your lips. Your breath hitches, and your mouth forms a line. You can't help but roll your eyes.

"I can just leave, you know," You mutter, your voice still playful, yet noticeably a few volumes lower. "But I'm guessing you don't want me to."

Funny. You seem to think you could escape from his grasp.

"Open. Your. Mouth. Before I give in, and do something I shouldn't."

"I'm not-"

Your protest fizzles out into a surprised noise and a subsequent sigh; Viktor grabs you, he pulls you closer in tandem with surging forwards, and his mouth promptly crashes into yours.

Finally.

The kiss tastes sharp, like iron and ash, like something distinctly him when his tongue slowly brushes against yours. You allow your eyes to close — but Viktor hardly leaves you any room for air as he practically devours you. It's deep, enthralling, and clumsy. Needy, on your end, and hungry on his. The kind of kiss that possesses you, consumes you. Your mind is dizzy, your breath is gone, but you need to kiss him more than you need to breathe.

You melt into him gently, naturally. Like you were always meant to. His hand cups your face, his thumb brushing your cheek: a motion far too soft, far too important.

When he pulls away, finally giving you some breathing room, your eyes immediately meet. Your chest is heaving, your heart warm and pounding to a tempo made just for him. His gaze is once again sharp, once again perfectly composed.

You miss the softness of his lips already. "Vik."

And he needs you, needs more of you. He's wanted to feel your lips against his for far longer than you or even he could have realized. Since those days when you were both young and stupid, when you vowed to achieve your dreams together. As though your gentle voice pleading his name is just tender enough to push him over a metaphorical edge, to flip some hidden switch in his complex mechanics — He kisses you again, again, again.

All of this, it isn't meant for him. It is unfathomably human, from the way you breathe fervently against his mouth; stuttered breaths, quicker than his, heavier than his own could ever be. To the way he touches you, a half-machine's best imitation of intimacy. His still-human palm moves to brush your neck, then glides further to hold the back of your head. Your body is all awkward limbs and soft edges and smooth skin, but you fit underneath him oh-so perfectly.

He can't stop. It doesn't seem real; Viktor imagines he must have fallen into a different reality, he's in a different body with a different, mortal heart. None of this makes an ounce of logical sense otherwise. Then again, when do you ever make sense?

He can't focus on anything but your lips on his — because for a few fleeting moments, he isn't defined by metal and machinery; he is himself. He is a mess of muddled thoughts and imperfect touches. Your legs around his back pull his figure closer to yours, and you have him wondering what it might entail without any steel in the way. Just skin against skin.

It'd be impossible for him to feel such a thing, when there's little skin left. His entire arm, his legs, his torso, his spine; they've since been replaced, improved upon. Is this the closest he'll ever get to you, to love?

Waves upon waves of warmth wash over you, they drown you, they envelop you. Even once Viktor has finally pulled apart from you with one last soft kiss, you still aren't able to breathe. Your heart pounds against your ribs, so fiercely it almost hurts.

He settles back above you, and as you calm again, he holds your gaze. His slender fingers move to trace the column of your throat, where they not-so-subtly seek out your pulse. It's racing for him. He looks remarkably composed now, compared to how disheveled you're sure you appear.

Gently, he trails his hand upwards. His thumb swipes your kiss-swollen bottom lip. Your mouth parts instinctually, allowing him to carefully press the digit into your warm mouth, onto your wet tongue.

"Do not leave," Viktor murmurs, an analytical edge already returning to his tone, in spite of what transpired between you. He pulls his thumb from your mouth, brushing it over your bottom lip again, smearing your lips with your saliva. "Stay for tonight."

"Are you asking? Or is that a demand?" Your breath on his skin is foggy and hot. When it's clear he isn't going to answer, his gaze regarding you inquisitively, you propose another question. Your hands clench, they briefly push against the unyielding grip of his Hexclaw. "Will you let my hands go now?"

"Tsk. Only if you are capable of keeping them to yourself."

"C'mon…" You hum disappointedly. He appears routinely unaffected by your pouting. So, you change your approach.

You shuffle, trying to get more comfortable. The table beneath you feels especially firm. "What if I say please? Is that what you're looking for?"

"Go ahead. It will not affect my decision."

"Seriously? But I want to touch you. You're so pretty."

Viktor hesitates, but only briefly. He senses the whirring in his chest, the usual hum of his augmented components. Substitutions where imperfect pieces should be, strength replacing frailty, mechanics coming to life once more as his mind becomes forcibly unclouded. His systems are working as usual again. All it took to experience a malfunction was your lips on his, and all he needed to do to rebuild his composure was pull away. And you are still a gasping, heavy-eyed mess.

Still, there is something troubling him. The same illogical functions that've been prodding at his mind since the very beginning. Lingering errors. Faults in his perfected frame. When he looks at you now, he strongly senses the push and pull of those inaccuracies.

If he allows you to touch him, each framework, every mechanism — Everything he's been carefully constructing might come crashing down.

Would that be so bad?

Pretty. How ridiculous. Viktor scoffs, his jaw tensing up, his next words arbitrary. "Most are afraid when they look at me."

Perhaps they should be. Perhaps you should be.

But you just smile, your expression growing soft as you tilt your head, and you answer in earnest: "I don't think I've ever been scared of you."

Again, there goes his worthless, thrumming, obsolete heart.

You should be afraid of a man who's designed himself to fit an image you no longer recognize. You shouldn't try to get so close to him, when his compulsive obsession to destroy and remake borders on a clear line of danger. This new chassis embodies perfection. It has long since relinquished any weaknesses, but if you detested him, he wouldn't blame you. Others are reluctant to embrace his vision, save for a select, fortunate few. You and him have history. History that would make seeing him like this rather difficult, he assumes.

Usually, Viktor is able to keep any oversights from throwing him off course. He can't be distracted from achieving his goals. The people of Zaun need him. This new body poses no hindrances. Pain doesn't disrupt him; it can be turned out, like anything else. Pain of the body, and pain of the heart.

You, though. Any thoughts he has of you start as small blips. Tiny, persistent sparks. They build overtime, burning brighter, hotter. Until he sees you, and you look just like how you did back then, so, so long ago. There are tired lines on your face, faint scars, and he knows they're his fault. All at once, his mind is threatening to become a mess of discordant, fraying parameters, of processes that are refusing to function in the manner they should.

He wants to keep you far, far away; far from him, from this lab. Far from this terrible, awful place you both grew up in. If he could, he'd have you go somewhere so very distant, where you couldn't distract him — where you could be happy and free. You will see the sky, feel the sun's warmth, and breathe fresh, cool air. It'd be what's best for you. And he will continue to further his endeavors in evolution. Alone, as intended.

But ultimately, no matter what he winds up doing to his mind or his body, he would think of you. Of holding you or unmaking you, sometimes he isn't sure which. If you were truly afraid, if you ran, he wouldn't follow on your heels. But along with you, you'd take a piece of himself, a faint trace he would never get back; for better, or for worse.

Viktor listens to the sound of your breathing: steady, deep. His gaze studies you, but it lingers on your eyes for longer than intended. You are still looking up at him, smiling, sparkling like a sky full of stars. As though he is a sky filled with stars.

Your breaths become heavier when he presses his palm to the center of your chest. He drags his touch down, down. You are more sensitive this time, he notes. You lean into him once his hand caresses your pelvis, your waist, and you loosen your legs from around his back to become more comfortable. His fingertips trail up your inner thigh, and you shudder, you shiver.

He thinks of kissing you once more. A couple times more, maybe. Proper judgment tells him he should resist. The thought remains there, lingering and burning between you.

"Viktor…" You murmur, your voice a bit broken, but he's hanging onto every word. "Touch me again."

Pleasant sensory inputs glow within him; tingling veins, reverberating wires. Overwhelming heat fills his shoulders, the back of his neck, his head — the heat of machinery, the warmth of his soul.

Viktor grabs your waist assertively, metal fingers digging into your hip. His gaze doesn't waver from yours as he guides your thighs to spread. Suddenly, he pushes himself against you, until you are hopelessly pressed between steel and metal. Between him, and the worktable.

You feel his weight, you feel the intricate ridges of metal plates and hard edges, the artificial heat of his much larger body radiating against your bare skin. Now, you are completely pinned, practically chest to chest, pressed underneath the Machine Herald so closely it's enough to make your head spin. You wonder if he can feel your heart beating. Perhaps he can hear it. Or maybe, he just knows your heart must be pounding for him, as it always does.

Your limbs tremor with excitement. As his palm squeezes your thigh, you can't help but arch into his touch. Thin, skillful fingers press close and feel how wet you are — still so sensitive, already dripping out onto him. You aren't teased, you aren't even able to catch your breath, because two of his fingers are swiftly dipping inside you, giving you exactly what you need.

It feels so right. Viktor reaches for your cheek. He encourages you to continue meeting his gaze when your eyes flutter and nearly close.

Your gaze on his, you let his name leave your mouth in a series of sharp gasps, and desperate pleas. He fills you slowly, but wastes no time building a rhythm; his fingers pump into your sensitive cunt gently, then methodically. Satisfied, Viktor hums, and he carefully shifts his other arm down. He holds your back as it arches, further pressing you against himself.

Now, the way he pleasures you is deliberate, it isn't enough, but Gods, you'll take anything he gives you.

"That name," Viktor starts, speaking in a smooth, level tone, perfectly contrasting the airy huffs and whines you utter for him. The name he hoped to relinquish, his name. "It sounds best when you are pleading it."

You smile through a soft moan. "It's my favorite. Such a sweet name."

Precisely, determinedly, his fingers crook into the spot within you he knows all too well, and you crumble, you sob.

"The tech you brought to me will accelerate the completion of our latest prototype," Viktor is explaining, matter-of-factly. As though the conversation is as simple as it is necessary. Like he doesn't have his large body shoved against you, and his fingers knuckle-deep inside you. It just serves to excite you further, honestly.

"I will install the heat core, and adjust its interior components accordingly. We could have its systems operational by tonight. However, I doubt I will be able to focus."

You take a forced, deep breath. "Yeah? Because of me?"

Obviously, he wants to say. You'll be here, staying in his lab, as you usually do after a tough afternoon or a previous sleepless night. He doesn't mind. Your chatter might occasionally be disruptive to his work, but your voice is nice, it is calming. Your presence itself might be a distraction, an interference that his mind tells him he should discard, but having you here is a nice change of pace, compared to the long, lonesome hours he's grown used to. He has never minded.

Sleep is less of a necessity for him. Resting for a handful of hours a few times per week is usually enough to keep himself operational. The torn leather couch he keeps in his quarters is there just for you. He no longer needs to eat in the typical sense, although he still needs to recharge burned energy. He keeps stocked up on the foods he remembers to be your favorites.

It's strange, out of everything he's forgotten, he still remembers such useless, trivial details. Each and every detail about you.

Without you, this space — the adjustments he's made to accommodate your presence, the dip in the couch from where you always sleep, your articles of clothing strewn over the floor and the couch arms. His lab would feel so empty.

His next words sound much gentler than usual. Warmer, more desperate.

"Because your voice will not leave my mind. Begging for me. Breaking for me," Viktor murmurs. He nudges his fingers against your walls, testing, teasing you. "Pleading my name."

Once more, he challenges your limits; his fingers slide into you deep, so deeply you can feel them everywhere. Nudging at your core, filling you perfectly. As if on queue, you whimper a broken plea of yes, and as your eyes flutter, you're cascading into a needy mess of pleasant, shaky gasps. You writhe, your pinned hands trembling, wishing for something to hold onto. Though, he keeps you in place underneath him, blissfully unrelenting.

"Say it," Viktor demands, "My name. Tell me who it is you need."

"Viktor," Your voice is light, clumsy and slurring slightly, but in the way you say his name, there's an unmistakable lilt of pure adoration. You need him, you need to feel him everywhere: his practiced touch, his soft skin, his steel-built anatomy. You want him to not have to leave you, to not need to choose between you and the Undercity's future.

You feel completely, utterly dizzy. You want so much. You want his hands, flesh or metal, to study every intricate inch of you. You want him to stop holding back, you need the both of you to make up for the stupid amount of time you've lost — "I- hhah- I want…"

With your eyes nearly shut, static and stars flickering at the edges of your vision, you hadn't noticed how close he'd become until Viktor's voice echoes warmly, right against the shell of your ear.

"You want me to fuck you?"

And holy shit, his tone is sultry, his accent is thick — you shiver so hard you're sure he's left feeling the aftershocks, your body still pressed up right against his, even through his layers of metal armor. Viktor doesn't stop the steady pace of his fingers, pumping and arching and working you so well. Nor does he quit speaking, simply because he knows this is what you want to hear. What you need to hear.

"You are insatiable," He scolds, although there's little emotion in his level tone. Just an obvious, already-known sense of acknowledgement. His voice is a thousand times more intense when it is curling directly into your ear; "You wish for me to render you even more weak than you currently are, so you can be shown exactly who you belong to? Oh, and how I'd fuck you. How I would take you. I would make a mess of you, I'm sure. You'd be begging to be given all of me. To be used by me."

It's merely theoretical, a set of fake promises and dirty words to put pleasant visualizations into your mind — calculated, like everything he pursues. And it works. Predictably, your entire body shudders with pure, forceful need. You pulse around his fingers, throbbing like a heartbeat. You sob, and try to twist to face him, although it's impossible, considering you're still tightly pinned beneath his figure.

You want to see his face, he figures, so Viktor shifts up. He re-puts himself in the center of your vision, and you glance towards him, eyes flickering across his face; your gaze on his is practically teary-eyed. Desperate and eager, you find ways to plead without words.

You want to let go. Of course you do — always forced to be strong, you need nothing more than to melt at the hands of the last person left in Zaun that you trust. Even if he is more machine than person. Even though he is not right for you.

For a moment all too brief, Viktor wonders what it would be like to push those boundaries. To truly have you, beneath his hands and in his heart, to feel you resounding beside him like the echoes of a rippling, rolling wave.

How would he take you? No, how would you want him?

He formulates a few possible outcomes. Perhaps you'd want him hard and desperately. You need to be put in your place, to feel him as close as he could possibly be while he molds you to his shape. You want to be obedient. A good little subject. You want to be called good, very, very good for him while he pounds you into the table, or maybe while he leans back, glowing, masked eyes focused solely on you, your hands gripping his armored shoulders so you can bounce on his lap however you'd like. The Machine Herald's perfect little pawn. He wagers with such filthy actions and words, he could make you even louder than this.

You'd be pinned underneath him, and instead of his fingers, he'd fill you with all of himself — carnal and raw. Warm and sweat-soaked. Yet still, your body pressed to his would be agonizingly tender.

Or maybe you'd want him in a different way. In a much softer way.

Tenderness has never been afforded to him, it's hardly a concept he knows, but perhaps it's what he once hoped for. With you, it's what he once pictured.

Every touch would be slow, delicate. Your hands interlocked. Bodies pressed together, galaxies against galaxies. So close, they could be mistaken for the same shape. He would learn you truly, and honestly. Warm and gentle, you would touch him soft enough to make him human again.

Your voice would beg for him, whispering sweet nothings into his ears, against his form. Useless, perfect declarations of love. Viktor shudders. He imagines your hands, pretty and delicate, brushing the space between his shoulder and his steel spine. Feeling his scarred skin, alighting fiery sensations he assumed he'd long since lost.

Compared to who he was before, he is much stronger. He must be strong, must be forged of grit and iron, he must not submit to worthless, human desires. But you make him oh-so weak.

He isn't supposed to be weak.

"Please," You're gasping. You are barely able to speak at this point, babbling sweetly between broken noises as he fucks you on his fingers; it's just enough to make you shut your eyes and imagine more. "Fuck- Vik- Oh, p-please…"

Splintering, throbbing with mechanical heat, his inner workings surge with a sublime abundance of molten, unbridled energy. Burning, it's burning him up from the inside, melting him down and making him fragile.

You've gone fuzzy beneath him — No, his vision is fuzzy. Your edges are blurred, your chest is heaving as his fingers barely leave you before pressing back in. His hand adjusts, allowing his thumb to brush your puffy clit on the next press in. When you whimper his name, as you've done countless times before, he swears he sees nothing but flickering, colorless static.

Burning and heightening and building, he must be malfunctioning, experiencing crucial gaps in his design. This shouldn't be happening. He should not feel, and this isn't feeling, but there is something building inside of him, something with your name on it.

No, no, your name is flickering through him, pounding against his mind like a drum, and he has to establish control. He has to fucking fix this.

He needs to be closer, so much closer. He needs you in an unexplainable, all encompassing way. In a way that shouldn't be occurring. He doesn't want anything, he can't experience the sensation of wanting because it isn't meant to exist.

Truthfully, he's past the point of no return, and you might be all that's left to hold him in place. Impossible. The only thing he's ever desired is progress, evolution. Improvement is what matters. Improving, fixing, augmenting.

You are going to be the death of him. He needs to be pressed against you, holding you, in you, examining your inner workings, guiding you to reach your true potential —

Something snaps.

"Do you know," Viktor grasps your face, roughly tilting you in his direction. The newfound harshness to his tone is exhilarating. "How impossible it is to resist breaking you?"

He laughs, the sound sharp, almost chilling; his smile is crooked, barely recognizable, showing off even more crooked teeth. His gaze holds your own until it practically burns into you. His body is hot. To the point of overheating. You feel the heated metal against your skin, pressing to your chest, your thighs, faint puffs of searing steam pouring out from gaps in the plating.

The grip his Hexclaw has on your wrists is so tight it nearly hurts. But it's faltering, his hands are twitching. He seems to recognize he might be hurting you, and so he lifts off of you slightly, he forces himself to loosen his hold.

There's a sound coming from him that echoes like grinding gears, like the hiss of burning filaments. Like something is crumbling. Fighting against itself.

"It is all I have ever known, milaya." Viktor lets go of something akin to a sigh, although he has no need to breathe. He is utterly ruined — the poor excuse for a heart he once placed between his ribs is aching, shuddering with the anticipation of a touch, soaring with the softness that comes with a kiss. Is this what it feels like to be dizzy, to be lovesick?

You shudder as his thumb rubs your clit, and he digs his metal fingers into your side, feeling the space just beneath your ribs. "You will soon understand," He murmurs, "And if you are incapable, I am still willing to teach you. To make you into so much more."

There's a stirring in his chest at that, at the thought of completing you; a deep-rooted abnormality he can't quite pinpoint. Is it excitement? Guilt? Lust?

You swallow. You're crumbling, as he sends tingles through your veins in the wake of more enthralling words.

"You are mine. Your fundamental place is at my side." Viktor senses the building heat of his inner workings, a deep wave rolling up from his constructed spine to settle onto the back of his neck. Building, burning, breaking. "I cannot wait to unmake you."

Pulling you apart would be delightful.

Your pieces would be disassembled, separated by each individual, pretty, dizzying section, so you could be redone carefully, gently, with a sense of tenderness only he could manage. He wants to understand you. To know exactly what makes you tick, down to your most basic of functions. To be close. Indistinguishable, the both of you made from the same materials. If you were constructed in his image, your components marked by his influence, there would be no doubt who you belong to.

Through breaking you and mending you, he wonders if he could find new ways to make you sing. You'd relax under each touch, shuddering and breathing his name as he completes your newfound enhancements. Gazes locking. Touches lingering. Metal soldering. Viktor trembles. Gods, how he wants you.

Furthering your potential and heightening your pleasure both require similar sentiments. Trust, and vulnerability. Opening your chest to watch your heart pound for him is the same as measuring your hitching breaths, growing heavier the deeper and faster he presses his fingers into you.

Because delicately pulling you apart just to put you back together is some metaphor for intimacy. Carving out a space for you within the confines of his fake heart is some synonym for tenderness. Holding onto his memories of you, replaying everything he can't quite forget to the point of near insanity — to the point where he attempted to forcibly remove you, by removing those emotions. Only to fail. Feeling these sensations for you when he shouldn't is some form of devotion.

You shouldn't feel for him either, right?

Having you there from the very beginning meant something; you were beside him when he only dreamed of becoming someone greater. When his ideas for evolution were just prototypes, when he first put the full extent of his weight onto both his legs. Didn't it mean the world to you too?

You were equally misunderstood. By your peers, by the world. Just as you believed in him, he saw light in you, from the very start. He thinks you could burn bright enough to melt anyone who stands in your way. And now, years down the line, when he is seen as less than human, you only see him. Not what he's become. It's infuriating. It's unmistakably loving.

You are panting. Getting close. Your bottom lip quivers, and your body tenses, each shudder more forceful than the last. His fingers echo a filthy, wet sound each time they pump into you, and your back is arching, you are simply begging to fall apart around him. For him, because of him. You deserve to.

And you sing, voice trembling like plucked strings, "Just p-please. You can do whatever you want to me, I trust you- I've always trusted you. Vik, I need you. I'm yours. All yours."

All his.

Whatever he turns into, whatever becomes of his body, memories, and heart, you would still follow. No matter what his goal might be; to destroy this city for what it did to the both of you, or to work in unison to try and remake it. Or perhaps, he plans to become more. An example of perfection. A God. As if he isn't one already.

The first time he touched you, when he felt the softness of your skin and heard the plea in your voice, and knew you were in his heart still, still, wasn't it akin to a prayer?

Oh, he is going to unravel you.

Viktor allows his grip on your wrists to finally, fully loosen; his Hexclaw presses flatly to the table, helping to support his weight. Relaxing, you exhale a deep breath, but you don't hesitate for long. Your arms waste no time wrapping around him, pulling him close. When you kiss him, a hand cradling his cheek like he is something breakable, and not a perfected piece of unstoppable machinery, the tender press of your lips to his feels undoubtedly inevitable.

All he knows is since the day he pretended to forget about you, when he decided to become something more, his new heart beat steadily, his enhanced mind was clear. But his systems wouldn't stop buzzing.

When he hardly knew where you were or what state you'd return to him in, the noise grew sharper. Fervently pulling, Hextech whirring, unsated electricity sizzling like fireworks underneath his skin. Having you in his arms once more only made the static form so thick, he thought his mental processes might completely go haywire. All he knows is that now, as he's kissing you, feeling your lips on his, your body against his own, and your hands tangling through his hair — for once, the static is silent. Blissfully silent.

And he kisses you, harder than before. Softer than anything and everything.

"Faster-" You're pleading brokenly against his mouth, between breathy kisses, your voice echoing through him, "More."

Faster, harder, more. Whatever you desire, he's going to give it to you. Viktor mumbles, "Of course."

Finally able to move, you hook one leg around his waist, you use it to drag him in even closer. You rock into his hand when his fingers spread and crook inside you, and you grab tight, messy fistfuls of his hair. His lips on yours, kissing you over and over, leave you little room to breathe.

Once you've pulled away, you're gasping for air, and his gaze fixates on yours: examining, devouring. Viktor takes note of your every movement. How you grind into his fingers when his thumb teases your clit, your bottom lip caught between your teeth, brows pinched. How you fall back against the table when the sensations overwhelm you, eyes shut and limbs weak. Pulsing and tensing around him, so sensitive. So close to falling apart.

Your arms wrap around him again, and he tries to keep the pace of his fingers steady, while you begin placing hurried kisses to his cheek, his neck. You kiss the side of his face, soft lips on soft skin. Then, your lips continue down, they press to his steel jaw. He tilts his head to let kisses fall over the expanse of metal that runs down his neck. Tingling phantom sensations curl into him and split him open.

"Close," You're muttering, so quiet he nearly doesn't hear. You hold him as tight as you can manage. Your breath is warm on the side of his face, tickling his skin, making him feel even warmer within.

"You are close?" He repeats for confirmation; his hand finds your side, and you grip his shoulders, hands brushing over thick plates of metal, desperately searching for something to hold onto. Your nails dig in, firm enough that he thinks the steel might chip. Viktor breathes a slight laugh, "You sound so sweet."

"So- I'm getting so-" You swear, "Oh, f-fuck…"

The only way he might quench what's come over him and steady his systems is by watching you come apart. Pleading his name, while you melt into a needy puddle of all the emotions and pleasant sensations he could never let himself have. Brought to your peak by his touch, his voice, because you are his, all his.

Viktor's free hand traces up, cool steel carefully finding your collarbone, your neck. Then, his fingers are wrapping around. He squeezes your throat just barely, just how you like, enough to make you fall back with your arms sprawled above you. Your head is perfectly dizzy, as his fingers work you steadily, his thumb flicking your needy clit much faster. Pushing you closer, closer.

Until it's far too much, and you are at his mercy, guided right to the edge of an exhilarating, electrifying precipice.

"Let go. I have you," Viktor instructs, "Let yourself submit."

Everything you've been building towards, all of his touches, all of this ecstasy, and how terribly you've missed him coalesces into this. Into a single, shuddering moment, waves upon waves of pleasure pushing you over the waterfall's edge. You're melting, cumming hard for him, your arms shaking, until he's removing his hand from your throat and giving you something to grab onto — delicate fingers laced with thick, strong, metal ones. Perfectly contrasting.

Your vision goes white. Your body tenses and then goes limp, like you've been shut down. The high is forceful, before it becomes soft, ebbing over you with gradual warmth, his hand in yours enough to steady you. Heart pounding, you take quick, loud breaths.

You can't help but feel disappointed when Viktor's hand releases yours to return to your waist. He holds you carefully, cold fingers brushing your skin reassuringly. Every touch feels deliciously raw, alight and sensitive.

Your eyes open slowly. Viktor's hair is a mess in his face, likely caused by you. He seems flushed, if only slightly. His unflinching gaze flickers across your form, before it settles back on your eyes.

"Breathe," He instructs carefully, gently. His hand grips your side a bit tighter; he's clearly affected by the way you sigh. You do your best to follow along, the aftershocks fading as your pulse slows, and as you start to calm.

"There. Excellent, you have done so well," Viktor praises. He smiles slightly in satisfaction. "You have never been this breathless."

Whatever words you could've formed in response don't come. They can't, not when his fingers are still inside you; not when Viktor is pressing them into your sensitive cunt just barely, squeezing your side as he delights in the way you whine. Pleasure, white-hot and familiar, surges through you fiercely.

It's so much, it's so much, it's too much, he's already fucking you with his fingers, and before you can fully wind down, you're swiftly building towards another high. Your body needs this. You just aren't sure if you can take it.

"Ah- shit," You murmur; reaching up, you tangle both hands in his hair, gripping tight for leverage. His expression remains infuriatingly calm. "I want- I need more. It feels so good, Vik," You're practically purring those last words, your whole body shuddering through another wave of ecstasy. "But I don't- I'm not sure if I-"

"You can." Viktor interrupts, assured and composed. "You can cum for me as many times as I dictate."

You're smirking now, obediently spreading your trembling thighs wide, while you roll your hips into his touch; his fingers are so thick, so impossibly, perfectly deep — "Hah- and you said I'm the insatiable one."

"Yes. You are the most insatiable human I have ever known. And it would seem you are particularly insatiable with me."

"You were once- Oh-"

Your head falls back as Viktor nudges that sweet, tender spot inside you, and your body becomes limp once more.

He takes the opportunity to bring the Hexarm's hand to your cheek. It's large enough to eclipse your face, the same way it was big and strong enough to easily pin both your wrists in its grasp. The heat radiating from the metal makes your eyes briefly flutter, before he trails it down to your throat. Perfectly responsive, your eyes grow heavy. He provides you with your favorite, much-needed pressure.

You've watched him use this very same hand to solder metal and create machinery. The device could heat to a temperature a thousand times hotter than it is now, it's capable of firing off a single ray of concentrated energy potent enough to slice through steel. And he has that hand wrapped right around your neck.

Fuck, that shouldn't excite you. It shouldn't have you quivering more and whimpering, shaking while you try your best to keep meeting his eyes, all because you so desperately want to hear him speak again. Praising you — You are doing so well for me, so pliant, so adorable. Or scolding you — Pathetic, aren't you? Quivering like a rabbit, and all it took was a little brush with danger. You are amusing.

Whichever he prefers. Because Viktor is so much stronger, so much smarter, and it hardly matters what he chooses to say, when any and all of it still gets you off.

Deep within your heart, you know he'd never hurt you. He would take away your pain if you asked it of him, so you wouldn't have to feel it again. His words can be sharp, simply because he wants to protect you. He wouldn't even attempt to put his hand on your throat like this if he didn't have complete, total control over the Hexclaw's laser. Carefully, he observes your every movement for any sign of discomfort, calculating and controlling each aspect of your pleasure — and it only serves to make your heart pound faster.

Of course, he can tell when you start to truly shake. He knows every inch of you is melting with overstimulation, and he's going to give you more.

"Take it. I know you are capable." His voice gives you goosebumps, while his fingers press into you shallowly, but the smallest movements are more than enough to make a mess of you. "There, perfect, you are performing excellently. Relax. Continue breathing deeply, nice and slow breaths. I will take care of you, love."

Love.

"Don't-" You choke, trying to keep your eyes on his despite the way your vision wavers and blurs; your reaction is immediate, predictable, and instantly satisfying. "Don't stop…"

You're beautiful like this, when you're underneath him. Since his enhancements, compared to his new body, you are now much smaller. He had to learn to adjust to the touches you need, to be gentle. Like you once were with him. Your roles, reversed in such a crucial way. You are undoubtedly strong in your own right, but when it comes to him, you are as sensitive as you are receptive. He needed to study how to keep from holding you too tightly, how to regulate his temperature to not burn your skin underneath his hands.

You are a pretty sculpture of quivering limbs and glistening skin. Your chest heaving, eyes fluttering. As beautiful as you were back then, before this. Before he lost the warmth he felt in his chest every time he saw you, before feelings on their own became mere faded memories. His iron consequence, locking away his dying love.

He gives you another. Three fingers press inside your dripping cunt, stretching you, filling you. A hand grips your side, his third lightly squeezing your throat — he works your pleasure for all it's worth, and has you gasping as he wrings out your aftershocks.

Viktor's mouth can't help but twitch into the slightest smile. "Look at you. You are worthy of the world."

He would give it all to you.

The Machine Herald will have this city in his hands. His vision is moving fast and accomplishing much, so it is only a matter of time. If you wanted more, he'd just have to reach even further. Relinquishing his human emotions left him without the need to be happy, nor content. But you, your happiness, keeping you safe, seeing you smile. It is stupid, foolish, doesn't make sense; his mechanics stutter, until he thinks he is choking on his own contradictory tenderness.

His body is betraying his mind. There is heat at his center, more than the normal amount emitted by his internal components. A very human, very filthy amount of heat. His skin underneath his armor is flushed and warm, his chest is aching from the weight of your heavy destruction. You are destroying him, and he can do nothing but allow it.

"I missed you," You murmur earnestly, voice weak, close to shattering. Your eyes are closed. Why, why are those words making his hands and his limbs and his heart shudder? "I missed you so bad- don't stop, keep fucking me Viktor- don't, please don't stop talking…"

Is that what you're imagining?

So he doesn't stop.

As you fall back against the table, Viktor removing the Hexclaw and letting go of your neck, he leans in to speak right against your ear. "I am proud of you, lubov. Infiltrating Piltover must not have been simple. You brought me more than I required, you did so with much efficiency. And you returned to me safely. Allow me to reward you. Fall apart for me, cum like I know you so desperately need to."

Your body curls, your hands move to his shoulders and grip them impossibly tight in an attempt to keep yourself steady. "Vik- Viktor-" You're gasping, you're close, "Kiss me, please kiss me-"

His hand holds your chin, the cool, rigid steel of his thumb swipes over your bottom lip; teasing you, making you whimper. Sliding further, into your mouth, until you're tasting the sharpness of metal. Until you're gently sucking, feeling the intricately crafted notches and joints on your tongue. When he pulls it out and kisses you hard, when his lips press to yours and your high-pitched moans become muffled on his mouth, you cum on his fingers hard enough to see the afterimage of stars.

He's trailing kisses down your jaw while you pulse around him, your thighs shaking, your head tilting to let his mouth find your throat. In the wake of his soft kisses, his foggy breath, you melt, and fully succumb to your shuddering high.

Working you back down is a slow, patient process. A kiss onto your neck for every gasp you take in, the feeling of gentle teeth once your body starts to fully relax. Everything you've wanted, everything you missed; far too tender for who he's become.

There are faint marks on your neck by the time he pulls away. Signs he was there. Proof he is softer than he is meant to be.

You could stop here. Instead, the next few moments happen in their own special space of reality.

Away from this city, away from his lab. A different plane made for just the two of you. Your mind feels dizzy, heavy. Viktor meets your gaze, momentarily scanning your face, waiting to make sure you've calmed.

He is all you can think of, all that has ever mattered. And even when he is right here, you miss him so, so much.

You tremble from the end of your spine to the top of your shoulders when he carefully pulls his fingers from you. He brushes his palm from your thigh to your side in one steady, soothing motion. You can feel the scars on his palm, the slight hesitant tremor to his still-slick fingers. You're reaching up, palm pressing to his chest. You absently feel the various ridges of metal. Smooth to the touch, armor radiating the faintest flickers of heat.

He glances down, watching your movement as your palm brushes further, further. Delicate fingertips trail the dips and outlines that continue down his stomach. Eventually, you reach as far as your arm will let you, your fingers drawing circles onto the rib-like sections of steel crossing just above his hips. As he glances back up to you, he finds your soft, pleading gaze to be already looking at him. As sweet as he's always remembered.

Your breathing is heavy. "Vik," You're begging, "We shouldn't- I'm sorry. This is stupid. I know we should stop, but…"

He is going to regret this.

Before he can stop himself, before his mind and his systems can even be led to form a single rational thought, Viktor is pressing the palm of his Hexarm just above your head, flat to the table. He is leaning over you, he is finding your cheek with a soft hand and a gentle touch. He's pulling you in, crashing his lips against yours, and he knows you're right — you shouldn't continue. He shouldn't allow this.

Machines do not feel. The Machine Herald feels nothing, and wants for nothing besides evolution. But Gods, you're kissing him like his lips are a drug, all you need after wanting to kiss him for so, so long. Since before you both became dim shells of what you once were. Your legs are wrapping around him, your fingers are brushing his face with such devastating tenderness, and Viktor believes he is feeling everything.

He's reaching down between your gasps for breath that make gaps in your kisses, and he's deftly activating a set of small, circular mechanisms on either of his sides. The armor on his chest unlatches with a clicking noise, platings becoming loose, unaligned.

The larger, more cumbersome sections of his armor, including his gauntlets, cape, and shoulder pieces have been discarded from the start, making the portion of chest armor come off as two simple halves. He has to pull away, sit up straight, and partially slide off of you to remove it all the way. Both pieces of armor hit the ground with a particularly heavy thud.

Most of his body has been replaced. Underneath the metal armor, there's just more metal; sections of iron that've been fused to replace muscle and skin, alloyed parts that reinforce his thin frame.

You have only seen him like this once. He was fixing some miscalibrated platings on his side, a wrench in one hand, the Hexclaw's laser busy welding a suitable replacement. Two thirds machine, and one part still human, he was definitely much different from what you remembered. Still, there were small sections of pale skin on his back, split where his spine had been reconstructed. And jagged scars, adorned by faint, dark moles. His messy hair still falls around his face just like you remember it.

You wanted to touch — he says he can't feel, but would he sense your fingertips as they traced his scars, would he shudder as your hands felt his skin? If you kissed what remained of him, his hand and each of his fingers, his back and each of those pretty moles, his chest down to his stomach, could you alight new sensations in him?

You've never wanted to touch him more than in this moment.

The bottom portion of his armor comes off much easier, leaving just the thick sections that cover his thighs down to his legs, including the steel brace mechanism. You're only able to catch the faintest glimpse, before he's pulling you into another deep kiss — a kiss that burns with every moment lost, his body pressing you against the table and beneath him. Your arms wrap around him, palms trailing across his back.

As they've always longed for, your fingertips feel the back of his neck: the ridges and hard edges of his spine, the solid base of the Hexarm, his soft skin. Viktor physically shudders. When one of your hands tangles in his hair while the other falls, landing upturned beside you, he kisses you harder, he absently finds your hand and holds it in his. Your fingers lace together. His hand feels so warm, still slightly larger than yours. His skin is scarred, your thumb brushing over calloused knuckles and thin, purple veins. Every touch is so tender, earnest, human, it's nearly unbearable. Your hand was meant to be in his. Even if it won't last.

It's a strange sensation, when his body presses ever closer to your own. Metal leads down from his navel, across to his pelvis, trailing underneath the armor on his thighs as one smooth, solid construction. Partially welded into his skin, but seemingly designed to make some sections removable. It is warm like the rest of him, designed with faint ridges and indents.

Your legs, locked around him at the ankles, encourage him to press ever-closer. He devours you, kissing you deeper than you thought possible. You sigh against his mouth, and hold on tightly to his hair. His body rocks against yours in an instinctual, clumsy motion. Close, pressing, grinding. Warm metal and those perfect little ridges grind between your legs, against your core, against your clit. And you practically jolt.

Oh. You break away from the kiss to toss your head back with a breathy, pretty noise. Pleasure threads through you, thick and unrelenting.

Viktor mumbles something that barely registers in your ringing ears: Should stop, you manage to make out. And then, Are you alright?

"Yes, I just-" You mumble, panting hard, "Don't. Don't stop."

So Viktor grasps your waist in a tight, yet careful grip. His eyes never leave yours, gaze burning with a fire you've never once seen. He guides you to press against him, grinds his body against yours until you're making a mess of the metal. Until the faint ridges are nudging your swollen clit just right, until the heat of the iron is burning through you, into you, and your slick arousal is glistening on the steel.

Your mind and heart are racing.

"Oh, fuck-" You're swearing, your words surely seeming broken; he finds your cheek, he tilts your head up towards him, and you can't decide if the gesture is tender, or possessive. "I need you, I really, really do."

His body feels as though he just touched the surface of the sun, and Viktor hardly knows if the warmth is coming from his overloaded systems, or if it's surrounding him, heat drawn thickly from the friction between the two of you. Perhaps it's a mix of both.

Either way, he is losing himself. It's all happening so terribly fast; when his body rolls against yours, and you whimper through a filthy utterance of his name, there is a clear, undeniable response. A tingling in his veins, an eager sensation that shoots from his back to his chest to his core, consuming everything like a wildfire, and threatening to envelop all of him.

He doesn't even know what to do with this. How to silence these disruptions, how to get his stupid brain to stop picturing you shuddering beneath his form as he presses against you, presses inside you, and brands every inch of you with his own name —

"Milaya," Viktor hums, and you swear, his tone sounds lighter, his voice sounds strained. "I have always needed you. I'm not- No, I want- I shouldn't…"

Trailing off when you cry out, he swallows. His thumb brushes your bottom lip as he continues to guide you towards him. Sweat beads on your chest, your thighs. He instructs, partially shakily, "Keep looking at me. Please."

You've rarely heard him stutter or falter, never seen him anywhere close to worked up. You hardly knew if he had the capacity to feel this way, even though he certainly wasn't built to, even though he definitely isn't supposed to. And isn't it all because of you?

The way your gaze locks with his as he rhythmically rocks against you has your heart skipping beats. There's a slight softness to his cold eyes, to his expression, that you're sure no-one else has seen before. Not since back then. You are impossible to resist, and this definitely needs to stop, this is definitely too far — it's going even further when your hand reaches down, fingertips clumsily tracing the edges of the metal seared into his navel.

He knows what you want. You're greedy, a glutton for punishment, a sweet, terrible fool. But if he's honest with himself, perhaps he is worse. You are pleading his name again, the sound echoing unendingly in his ears, and Viktor is removing the front-most section of the metal enhancement: a thin plate that forms a triangular shape from his hips, all the way down.

When he presses against your form, the next sensation to bleed into you is much different. It's smooth, soft latex, shoving against you. The last layer remaining between you and him and —

And you can feel him. Straining hard and heavy against his underclothes. Firm and warm as he rocks into you, grinding all of him onto your throbbing cunt. You aren't thinking, you can't think anymore. Not when Viktor is hard, and when your heartbeat is so damn loud in your ears, you couldn't possibly hear anything else.

"Viktor," You're murmuring, your chest pleasantly aching. Pleasure welds with emotion, walking the same shaky line, until your heart is unfurling with delicate petals that fill your throat sweetly, consuming you wholeheartedly, "I love you."

If Viktor's mechanized heart was still capable of faltering from its pre-programmed rhythm, he's sure it would be fucking pounding.

Every part of him is set alight. Burning, he feels smoke in his throat, and swears he tastes fire. He's overloading, practically overheating, like a fragile body trembling with need and want, like a system with too many programs open at once — and oh Gods, it just keeps opening more. His vision has long since gone blurry, and every sound in his ears is thick, as though he's been submerged in deep water.

How long have you wanted to say those words? He thinks of quiet days spent with you in Piltover, the lingering glances and faint touches he tried his hardest to forget.

How long has he needed to hear you say them?

Honestly, he could cry, if he was at all still capable of crying. His mind is a mess. Heat is threading through his circuits, devotion and desire, a terrible softness; he's so soft inside, it hurts. It actually hurts, and he believed he taught himself how to forgo any pain.

Electricity and faulty Hextech sizzle in his core, radiating, echoing. His damn foolish, worthless, synthetic heart. He needs to hold you, fuck you, break you. To encode this sensation into his head and his blood, because forgetting the way your voice strummed those words would be worse than admitting he is too weak to discard them.

I love you, I love you, I love you.

He doesn't deserve this. He was not built to love. Love should be thrown out, along with everything else. Love is a weakness. You may be fine with placing your heart on railway tracks, you might not think twice before putting yourself in danger, but if anything were to happen to you, he might be entirely consumed.

With his mechanized existence, he could soon become immortal. This longing would surely stick with him after you're gone, an eternity of something he could never understand. Swallowing him whole, holding onto him tight. Endlessly painful. But right now, when he is here and stuck in a dream at the same time, when he is more of himself than he has ever been, and you are all that exists in his veins, could he ever manage to stop?

You are so close to so much more. So close to ruining everything — just one last layer, one more touch. One movement, one press of his palms to your figure before he slides into you, one last massive, unfixable mistake.

"Vik, please, please, I'm-" You can barely hold on anymore, as much as you've been trying to. You curl into him, grinding back against him hard; "I can't, I can't fucking- hhah- I'm so close-"

Your bodies rock together desperately, beckoning and wanting more of what they shouldn't have. His heat radiates into your skin, and your breath fills the air in thick, heavy huffs. You're still so wet, and it makes every movement slick and simple. Your hands feel his back, his shoulders, his steel jaw, his face. Anywhere you can touch, you're making the most of it.

Viktor finds your chin, he holds it delicately, and when he says your name, it feels personal; devastatingly so. Like he could make a home with the familiarity laced through each syllable. He breathes them like he did back then, coveting you so deeply. Muttering it as one final plea.

If he can't fix this, perhaps you can reconstruct this part of him. Could you show him how to live again, could you instruct his mechanized heart, and finally teach it how to skip?

"I have you," Viktor sighs, because he's sure you want to hear his words as much as he needs to say them. He doesn't require a working heart, when he can let all of himself echo through his still-human soul. "I love you."

Your chest bruises with sparks in the wake of his gentle voice. Still somewhat robotic. Spoken as though each individual, inevitable word is one he is learning to speak. I. Love. You.

Your legs and arms wrap around him, holding him as close to you as he could possibly get. Exhaling shakily, your whines are broken, your nails digging into his back. They'll leave red marks onto his pale skin; he hopes they do. His chest is pressed right up to yours. Viktor allows his forehead to rest just barely against your own, utterly tender, and he melts, as your thudding heartbeat echoes through him. Body to body, scarred skin on softer skin. Delicate limbs held around a partial chassis of firm, strong metal.

Helpless. Perhaps for you, he is the helpless one.

It doesn't matter; everything is crumbling away, and the both of you are thrown right back into reality, because you are falling apart for him at last. One last time.

You shake, liquid hot pleasure drips over you like burning wax, and you're left at the mercy of your blistering, final high. Another few deep grinds into each other are all you need — the both of you throbbing, his jaw tensing, Hexclaw twitching, stiffening, and radiating a powerful amount of heat. His eyes flutter, the artificial glow behind them flickering like a dying lightbulb. You hold onto him tighter, and he lets go of a slight noise. A quiet, shaky, all too desperate moan.

You stay rocking against one another even while you're cumming, even after your voice is sore from chanting Viktor's name so loudly, you briefly worry that anyone just outside of his lab might've heard you.

Finally stopping, you only begin to relax once your whole body is entirely spent.

You breathe slowly. In, and then out. Deep, calming breaths. Your heart pounds with force. The room refocuses around you, the harsh light of his various lamps burning into the back of your eyelids and making you see colorful spots. Viktor waits a few moments, before he shakily pushes up to prop himself above you.

There's a hum of ambient, grinding metal coming from him. The hiss of steam. The echo of small shudders, and forceful gasps. Your vision is still fuzzy, your limbs incredibly weak, but you notice when he reaches for something; the thin metal plating, which he secures back onto himself.

Once your eyes are completely clear and your heart is beating to a normal tune, you're finally able to focus on him above you. In barely any time, with a half-machine's perfected efficiency, Viktor has already regained every last aspect of his composure.

"Stay. You require rest," He instructs matter-of-factly, his tone filled with his usual sternness. His gaze scans you up and down methodically. "I will supply you with a change of clothes."

Right. Viktor's heart can't shudder like yours. Soft sensations have no need to linger. You'd almost forgotten. This is what you were always bound to return to: you, an ally. And he is just a machine.

Through heavy, lovesick eyes, you admire the sight of him above you. His thin figure, enthralled in shadow, light reflecting off of the metal sections of his outline. He runs a hand through his hair to push it from his face, a gesture you find particularly endearing and human.

"Oh, don't worry," You hum casually, stretching your arms and legs out. Your voice is light, foggy and still weak. The table beneath you feels firm against your back, but with how lightweight your whole body feels, you couldn't care less. "I don't think I'm moving even if I wanted to."

Viktor raises a brow just slightly. He taps your neck with a single smooth, metal finger. "And something needs to be done about these."

Briefly, your expression shifts into confusion. You tilt your head, allowing his fingers to trail further, and they examine the base of your neck down to your collarbones; the marks he left on your skin are swiftly darkening, forming blotchy, pretty bruises.

Realizing what he's getting at, you smile smugly. "Worried someone's gonna ask questions?"

"Half of Zaun acknowledges you as my right hand. I am not worried. But they will ask. It could prove arduous." Viktor explains, his tone exceedingly controlled. "Come. Hold onto me."

When you don't immediately move, he stares at you expectantly. So, despite your tiredness, you listen, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and your legs around his middle loosely. Viktor lifts you with ease. His heavy boots clunk with each step, and he carries you just a few paces from the table, setting you down on your back, and onto the familiar, ripped-up leather couch. It shifts, accommodating your weight and his. Compared to the worktable, when your back hits the soft yet worn cushions, you feel like you're resting on clouds.

Viktor shifts, starting to move away, but you keep your arms wrapped around him, and speak before he has the chance.

"Vik…" You're purring, "Stay here."

A brief look of contemplation crosses his face, categorized by the slightest pinch in his thick brows. You smile, and nearly wind up kissing him again. He doesn't attempt to pull apart from you when you drag him closer to yourself, your lips gently brushing his cheek.

At first, he's overly stiff. His arm fits underneath your back to hold you out of mere obligation. In contrast, his metal arm is kept beside you, refusing to touch, steel-jointed fingers flexing absently. But once your hands trail up, your fingers tracing the back of his neck, before they run through his hair, he honestly, earnestly relaxes.

Your body underneath him is comforting. Limbs entangled, your legs brushing steel and the rigid metal brace. His head leans gently into the crook of your neck, almost hesitantly, as though he isn't entirely sure where to place it. He can't help but fall against you, bodies pressed into one another naturally enough to form the same grave. If he ever came face to face with death, he would refuse to accept it, unless it was just like this.

You let your tired eyes close. You allow yourself to focus on his warmth, on the weight of him, and you can almost pretend this is natural. That you are in the past, or perhaps residing in a much different future. You are both lovers, as you wished you would be; simple and uncomplicated, nothing more, resting together in the dizzying comfort of your afterglow.

It'd be nice. Nicer than anything you've been afforded. The only problem is Viktor is all firm steel and hard edges. His metal hand shifts to hold your side, and his fingers are digging into your skin, gripping a bit too tight. His weight on yours is making it damn near difficult to breathe. And right now, he is very, very hot.

You frown, your eyes fluttering open again. "You're overheating."

"My internal temperature is regulated by a liquid cooling apparatus," Viktor murmurs, after a moment. "It seems to be malfunctioning."

His voice is smooth, as it always is, but it sounds much warmer, much quieter, when it's spoken this close to your ear. You sigh softly, and shuffle a little under him, trying to get more comfortable.

"Ah. That sounds concerning."

"The device will adjust itself in time," Viktor clarifies. "If it does not, repairs will take a few minutes, at most."

Your fingertips brush over his back. They feel the thick ridges of his spine, and the thin steel shape of the Hexclaw's base. It feels cool and lifeless under your palm. "This is cold, though."

"It is inoperational. It stopped responding, I will need to reset it individually."

"That so?" You huff in response, laughing a little. You hold onto him tighter, and lean your head into his shoulder. "Whatever. Just don't let go of me."

He doesn't. You exhale a long, weak breath. Your hands tremble slightly, as they uselessly grip onto the sections of cold steel that frame his shoulders. Viktor stays perfectly still, and he allows you to hold onto him as tightly as you need to. This might be the last moment you'll have together. For a while, at least. He has much to attend to, after this. Some tasks he can work on at your side, with your assistance, preferably. Some missions he must complete alone.

The next time you speak, your voice is so fragile, he thinks he should be holding it in his palms. Or else it'll break.

"We shouldn't- or, I guess I shouldn't have said… you know." You shudder, shaking all over before you tense. You're holding him too close to allow him to see your face, but he can picture your expression: slightly playful, to attempt to hide your uncertainty. "Gods, I'm so stupid. But I meant it. And I just-" You laugh, "I'm sorry, Viktor. Maybe you were right. I've been way too reckless."

Viktor has no need to ponder his answer. "I know. Don't apologize. You should be resting, our conversation can continue tomorrow."

You breathe deeply, and he quietly murmurs, his voice echoing through your ears, "I love you, milaya."

Fake. Expected. A ghost of choked-back emotions, of all-too tender moments already slated to become forgotten memories. But something is there, something that tells you he's trying. For now, you'll take it. It's more than enough.

You are close to falling asleep; every one of your nerves, washed over by warm, inviting waves, enveloped in his persistent heat. As though he can sense your building exhaustion, Viktor rubs your back with slow, reassuring circles — as best he can manage, considering your shapes are pinned too close together. Your breathing evens out, and you relax into his touch. Your mind feels as heavy as your weary, weak limbs.

Your love would be soft, he considers, distracted. Gentless personified, warm like your smile, like the radiant sun shining down on one's skin. Patient and alighting. Like being pulled by the wrists, wrested out of a rocky, dark sea — finally alive, and finally able to breathe. The still-human part of him feels in measures of softness. The mechanical part is much, much different.

Heat is running through his veins. It's racing through his system, and he knows it isn't from any sort of malfunction. It burns. The taste of it is like sharp blood on his tongue, it spins in his head like the dizzy grinding of gears, sears through him with fraying wires and sizzling static. Pain and softness, forming a mix he might certainly call love, but might also swear to remove.

There's a certain sharpness gnawing at him. A flickering, raw bruise, brutalizing him from between his ribs, regardless of his attempts to try and ignore it. Your efforts are failing. You are feeling, and that means you have failed. Even dying embers burn out the same as raging flames.

You've drifted off, it would seem, your breathing slow, your body limp. So Viktor holds you just a bit tighter.

For once, for the first time since he truly decided who he wanted to be and what he wanted to accomplish, he is lost.

In the end, he is going to have to make a decision. One that will benefit his vision. Or one that will destroy him from the inside out. He must carve out these distractions, remove the sections of his heart that are faulty, or he must learn what it would mean to embrace them.

It scares him, truly. Viktor, the Machine Herald, genuinely scared over something meant to be so trivial. Fretting over the one person he never wanted to lose, even though he was sure he'd already lost you. He wonders what his opposition would say, what those who view him as soulless might think, if they knew the truth. And if you knew?

Just having to tell you, forcing himself to push you away, or coming face to face once more after he's altered his brain to completely forget you — No, the thought alone might be enough to seal his fate.

He'll make up his mind before you wake. His head will become clearer, eventually. When your voice is gone from his ears, when your phantom touches tracing his skin have finally disappeared. Besides, this moment won't last, and he wants to savor what's left of it.

Whatever happens next, wherever he takes this, he knows you will follow — to a different path, to a better future. Or to the ends of the earth.

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midnightcrush · 8 months ago

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something i didn’t know | modern au | part one

Pairing: Dark!Perv!TA! Viktor x Fem!Reader (NSFWish)

Series Synopsis: Jayce’s roommate has a reputation as the coldest person in Piltover’s University, but there’s a side of him that people just don’t know.

Chapter Summary: Jayce seems to struggle for the first time in becoming friends with someone: his roommate Viktor. Getting drunk and dragging you with him may or may not have been a good idea.

Warnings: perv!viktor, dub-con touching (she isn’t opposed to it & is also tipsy), cussing(?, alcohol consumption, dom & sub undertones, lazy ah ending

Word Count: 2.1K

Jayce’s frustrated footsteps echoed across your living room while you munched on a blueberry muffin. You had gone over this maybe a thousand times but he still seemed to not be over the situation.

“I swear to god, I don’t get why he doesn’t like me” You leaned back on the sofa as you watched him pace angrily. “I mean who wouldn’t accept this gift?” The fresh batch of muffins he had baked earlier sat on your coffee table looking as miserable as Jayce right now.

Ever since your friend had joined the University’s dorms he had been facing the biggest of problems: his roommate Viktor. Despite all of Jayce’s attempts to befriend the guy, everything he planned seemed to backfire. Today’s failed attempt had been the muffins.

“Why didn’t he accept them?” You asked while watching Jayce unceremoniously sit on the floor.

Keep reading

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midnightcrush · 11 months ago

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"The Claim"

Armand x Daniel Molloy

NSFW

Warnings: Semi-public sex, bathroom sex, rough sex, size kink, anal sex, blood play ig, a minute of dub/non-con if you squint, mentions of substance abuse.

Polynesian Mary’s meets "You're mine now, beautiful boy"

Disclaimer: I don't own any recognizable character, and for legal reasons I won't be accepting tips for this story or any story set in Anne Rice's Immortal Universe. Thank you!

I said it on AO3 and I'll say it again here: Thank you for the beta work @serpentarius, you are the bestest💖

MY MASTERLIST

Daniel felt like a mess. Objectively he knew he was attractive, that was probably the only reason he was able to get away with half the shit he did. How he was able to pull guys and girls at the bar almost every night. How he was able to get free drinks, free dinners, free dope, and occasionally free smack. He had been called pretty more times than his own name, and whatever insecurities he might have (and he had many), his looks were not one of them. That night though, as he splashed cold water on his face in the bathroom at Mary’s, he felt ugly. More than that, he felt like something dirty and disgusting, like something one might find stuck on the soles of a shoe, like something slimy and crawly. He felt like an insect.

And wasn’t exactly that how that guy had looked at him? That tall, dark and handsome guy that had seemingly materialized out of nowhere while he was talking with Louis -gorgeous Louis- only to check him out from head to toe, reject him and then vanish into thin air again? And Daniel wasn’t stupid, he knew that he, they, were totally out of his league with their almost preternatural beauty, but still, it had stung.

Now, his own reflection in the dirty mirror appeared to him dead-eyed and sallow, his strategically messy curls, untidy, his battered jeans unkempt instead of rebellious.

He had half a mind to get out and leave through the back door, but no. Louis liked him. Louis wanted him, he had come onto him, not the other way around, there was no reason this night had to be a loss. If nothing else, he would at least get himself an interview.

He was still giving himself that pep talk, whipping his hands dry on his jeans, shouldering the bathroom door open when he collided face-first with an unexpected obstacle. He recoiled, stumbling a little with the force of the impact. It took him a too long moment to realize it wasn’t a marble column he had run into, but a surprisingly solid torso, one belonging to the very man he had been thinking of not two minutes ago.

Rashid - Daniel was pretty sure Louis had called him Rashid- squeezed his way into the tiny room, locking the door at his back. He stood there, staring at him.

“Hey, man,” Daniel greeted. Rashid didn’t reply. “Everything okay?”

Nothing. Rashid was a statue, cold, unblinking, and unmoving. It was eerie, making the hairs on his arm stand on end. Daniel’s senses were choosing a hell of a time to play tricks on him.

“L-look… I don’t want any trouble, man. If you don’t want me to go home with Louis, just say the word.” Still nothing, not even a twitch. Daniel tried to resist the urge to squirm under that intense gaze, “I’ll fuck right off, I promise. You’ll never see me again, just tell me fuck off and I will!”

The guy finally moved at that, tilting his head in confusion, and there was something birdlike, something not quite right about it,

“Now why would I do that?”

It was Daniel’s turn to be confused,

“Well, if you’re not here to kick my ass, what do you want?”

There was one last moment of stillness, a considering look, before Daniel found himself pinned to the wall by Rashid’s hard, hard body, soft lips moving eagerly against his own, demanding entrance. Daniel could do nothing but yield.

It was like kissing lightning.

Rashid’s mouth was cool, and didn’t actually taste like anything but it had his brain firing signals to his body, going haywire. Daniel could feel his own heart running amok inside his chest. He was breathing fast, the flutter of butterflies in his stomach turning to snakes, coiling at the base of his spine, tightening it up. It was a rush unlike anything he had ever had before, his veins overflowing with adrenaline. And Daniel, addict that he was, instead of running from it, wanted more.

Meanwhile, Rashid’s tongue against his own was nothing short of wicked, mapping every inch and crevice of his mouth, caressing teeth and palette only to go back and massage Daniel’s tongue again. Rashid kissed slow and sensuous, thorough. By the time he let him catch his breath, Daniel’s bones had turned to jell-O.

"I thought-" Daniel gasped as Rashid's lips found the spot under his ear that made him shiver, "I thought you weren't interested."

"Oh, I am interested," Rashid breathed against his throat, "I simply don't want to share," He spat the world bitterly, "Not you. Not tonight."

And fuck, Daniel had never had a possessive kink but the greediness in Rashid’s voice sent a spark of pure, unadulterated heat to his groin.

"And my name," How was he able to talk while sucking bruises on his pulse point??, "is Armand."

"Armand!" Daniel moaned as deft fingers unbuttoned his shirt as easily and quickly as if they were slicing it open, and was rewarded with a thick, muscular thigh sliding between his knees, spreading his legs and pushing against his already hard dick just hard enough to send a shock of pleasure through him. Icy but satin-soft fingertips began tracing a path up and down his body, mapping his abs, his ribcage, teasing at his nipples, making him whimper and moan. Armand’s mouth returned to his to eat up the sounds, those wicked fingers playing with the waistband of his jeans, dipping inside just to retreat again, teasing him. Daniel whimpered against Armand’s lips.

"Is there something you want, beautiful boy?" The little shit asked, running a sharp nail down the fine trail of hair on Daniel’s navel, stopping right above the place he wanted that hand the most.

It took everything in Daniel to find the coherence to string his ideas and words together again in a breathless "Please," but it seemed to be all Armand required.

"So polite… you really are perfect, aren't you, Daniel?" He praised, before finally, finally popping the button of Daniel’s jeans open, undoing the fly, and sliding his hand inside to wrap around Daniel’s cock. It felt gelid against Daniel’s feverish flesh, making him jump, but there was nowhere he could go, trapped as he was between the wall and Armand.

He probably shouldn't have liked it as much as he did.

"That's right, my lovely one," Fuck, Daniel could swear Armand’s velvet voice was inside his brain, "there's no escape. Tonight you are at my mercy… and I am not a forgiving creature."

True to his word, he started pumping Daniel’s cock ruthlessly, offering no warm-up, no building up, it was dry, and hard and fast and rough and just fucking perfect, forcing Daniel to bite his lips in order to keep in the pornographic sounds that threatened to escape his mouth. Armand tsked disapprovingly.

"No, Daniel, don't hold back. I want to hear what pretty noises you can make."

He didn't. He couldn't. If he opened his mouth he was going to scream, and if he did, there was no way the people outside wouldn't know exactly what they were doing inside that bathroom.

"I promise you, Daniel, no one is going to disturb us." Something was becoming loose inside Daniel’s mind at the other man's soothing tone, reverberating through his suddenly very light skull, and Daniel found himself believing Armand’s words "Now be a good boy, and let me hear you…"

Armand twisted his hand softly on the upward stroke, thumb finding the pearl of precum at the tip and smearing it on the tiny slit, and Daniel finally cried out, his head falling back against the cold tiles with a hard thump, but he barely even noticed. Because Armand’s other hand was caressing the delicate skin at his balls, teasing giving way to kneading, until his dick was pulsing, purple with blood, scorching hot in Armand’s firm, unrelenting grasp.

“I- I’m gonna…” Daniel gasped, the familiar tension building up, his balls tightening in his sack until he came with a wounded sound. Armand didn’t even wait for Daniel to fully come back into himself or catch his breath before raising his hand and making a show of licking his hand clean of Daniel’s cum, cleaver tongue lapping between his fingers before sucking them into his plush mouth one by one, never once breaking eye contact, making the last of Daniel’s synapses finally short circuit and die.

“Exquisite,” He said, “Are you this delicious everywhere, Daniel?”

It shouldn’t have been possible for Daniel to want with such intensity after what had to be the best handjob of his life, but he wanted. God dammit, he wanted. He wanted the stranger in front of him more than he had ever wanted anything in his life.

“Why don’t you come and find out?”

A bronze hand shot up, too fast for Daniel’s sluggish, sated eyes to see, capturing his jaw.

“You test my self-control, boy,” Armand all but growled into his ear, “I thought I could wait until we arrived at the apartment to have a little taste of you, but I don’t believe I can refrain for so long,” faint tone of surprise, “I don’t want to.”

Daniel almost asked what he meant, but Armand was already manhandling him, turning him around and bending him over the sink with startling ease and the simple realization of how strong Armand was, was enough to send a thrill through him.

Once Armand was satisfied with his position, Daniel’s jeans and underwear were around his knees in a blink, and a pair of cold hands were feeling up his ass, palming and spreading the cheeks apart. An appreciative hum left Armand at the sigh of the pink ring of muscle, which quickly turned into praise as he probed at it with one of those long slender fingers, tracing the rim methodically, testing it, finding it pliable and relaxed, and Daniel was glad he had popped his last Captain Rush right before coming to the bar.

“You’re a naughty, wanton thing, aren’t you beautiful one?”

Armand’s voice was anything but reproving, the tip of his finger working his hole oh so delicately until it slid inside almost all of its own. It was swiftly followed by a second one, and soon Armand was rocking his fingers up to the hilt, scissoring Daniel open. He let himself fall forward, hiding his face against his folded arms, overwhelmed. It was an exquisite torture, the drag and spread of those shameless digits stretching him, prepping him expertly, almost clinically. Daniel knew he must have made an obscene picture, bent over a dirty bathroom bar sink with his jacket still on and his pants down, drooling over his own arms, undulating his hips back into a stranger’s fingers, silently begging for more.

“Yes,” Armand confirmed, “You look stunning like this, thoroughly ravished. And I haven’t even started yet…”

Had Daniel spoken out loud? He must have been more out of it than he thought, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered as Armand withdrew his fingers and Daniel felt something cold and wet falling on his ass, dribbling down his crack and dripping on his hole, and then those coveted fingers were on him again, smearing that viscous liquid around, pushing it in, until Armand was pleased with the mess he had made.

And then he felt it. Blunt and wide, pressing in slowly but steadily, unescapable, stretching him, spearing him open. Even loose and prepared as he was, it was almost too much. Daniel wanted to roll his eyes, of course the brown-eyed Adonis at the bar was hung, of course he was. Another little push and Armand bent closer, wrapping himself around Daniel’s back to whisper,

"That's it, Daniel, you're doing so well for me, beautiful boy… just a little bit more… there, I knew you could take it all.”

Armand’s praise was all that kept him centered at that point, the man was splitting him in two on his engorged prick, but Daniel wasn’t the only one affected, he could feel Armand resting his forehead on the curve of his neck, his breathing ruffling the soft hairs at his nape, he breathed Daniel in, needing a minute to collect himself.

Then he was straightening himself up, running a possessive hand down Daniel’s leather-clad back, finding his purchase on Daniel’s slim hipbone to start carefully withdrawing, inch by agonizing inch until only the head of his unholy length remained inside. He chuckled a surprised little sound at Daniel’s noise of complaint,

“Greedy boy,” He muttered, almost awed, and started the slow rocking motion that would bury him back into Daniel’s velvet heat. It was almost too much, more than Daniel could handle, when he finally felt Armand’s hips against his ass, he was sweating, worn out just from the strain of shaking, of trying to relax, of trying to make room inside himself for all of Armand.

But it was worth it, fuck it was so worth it, just to feel the cold burn as Armand filled him up to the brim, every secret, sensitive crevice he never knew he had hit at once by the enormous cock of the most gorgeous man he had ever seen. Daniel almost couldn’t believe it was happening.

“I find it hard to believe, too,” Armand confessed, sounding breathless, as he moved his hips tentatively, deliberately, “the way you feel… the way you look like this, impaled on my length… you are a vision, Daniel.”

He started a slow, measured pistoning motion with his hips, letting Daniel savor the push and pull, letting the waves of sensation linger and converge into each other. In and out. In and out. Daniel’s prostate was grazed every other stroke but never hit directly. He tried to shift, to adjust the angle, but Armand’s heavy hand on the small of his back kept him stuck in place, tried to reach for his own cock, already full and leaking again, but found himself restricted, both wrists firmly imprisoned in Armand’s free hand.

“You have to ask for it, Daniel…” At his frustrated groan, Armand encouraged, “Beg me for it… you beg so divinely…”

Daniel shivered.

“Please… give it to me… Please, Armand.”

An almost inhuman growl resonated through the bathroom and then Armand was thrusting in earnest, and Daniel, held down on all angles, couldn't do anything but take it. Take the monstrous cock fucking him so good, so deep, he could feel it in every inch of his body, take every delicious stab of pain intermingling with the cruel pleasure Armand was bestowing upon him. He was helpless, held down and expertly used, everything Daniel had always secretly wanted but never dared to dream of. Above him, Armand was hissing, gnashing his teeth, hips snapping against his, fingers clutching at him with bruising force, as ravenous for it as Daniel was feeling.

And Daniel was ravenous, delirious with it, reality melting away around him. He could feel the cold porcelain sink dig into the front of his thighs with every brutal thrust, but the bathroom bar was fading away, the familiar and unpleasant smells replaced by the perfume of a thousand unknown, long extinct flowers, the pounding of the music replaced by the joyous and dulcet notes of foreign voices laughing and singing, images of lavished palaces, luxurious gardens and ruins alive with ghosts flashing before his closed lids. A litany of “Armand” and “please” and “yes” flowing past his lips, unbidden. His cock, heavy and neglected, throbbing in time with every new influx of sensation. He was going to come again like that, untouched, just from being pushed and shoved back into Armand’s thick cock, he could feel it rising, higher and higher, unbridled, the inevitable fall almost terrifying in the sheer intensity of the feeling.

“Yes, let it go, precious one, let me feel it,” Armand was babbling, “I want to feel your insatiable little hole flutter around me, I want to feel you fall apart in my arms… Look at me, Daniel, let me see those beautiful eyes of yours… such a unique color, almost violet…”

What could Daniel do but obey? It took everything in him to focus enough to meet Armand’s eyes through the haze in the dirty mirror, but it was worth it. Armand looked glorious, panting open- mouthed, eyes ablaze and pupils dilated, curls a messy halo around his head, inky black strands falling on his glistening forehead, the tiny droplets of sweat almost red under the tungsten light.

“Yes, just like that, I want you to look at me when I take you apart… come for me, Daniel. Come for me now.”

Daniel did, pearly white ribbons spilling over the sink. Armand fucked him through it, no reprieve offered, hips hammering viciously against his faster and faster, iron arm snaking around his waist to drive him back into his dick as far as he could go when the over-stimulated boy tried to scramble away. His left hand came around his neck, pulling him up and back, until Daniel’s back was flushed against Armand’s chest and his head was resting on Armand’s shoulder, long line of his neck exposed and vulnerable for the taking. Armand licked a long, filthy stripe on it, right before Daniel felt a shock of sharp pain pierce through him.

It was pure ecstasy.

If kissing Armand was an adrenaline rush, being bitten by him was better than heroin. Absolute euphoria. Daniel came again, shaking and screaming, but then Armand started to drink from him, and Daniel started floating.

He was soaring, boundless. Shapeless, and bereft until Armand took him into his veins and into his mind, and they were one. Daniel could see himself from afar as he was when he entered the bar, feel the gravity shift as the vast, eternal, immortal being holding him captive zeroed on him, and he understood then. Every single moment of his life, every minute, every choice, every step had led him to this single, inexorable moment. This was his destiny fulfilled, the meaning of life and the universe and everything else. He was Armand’s. He was created for him, for his life force to feed this magnificent, demonic god.

But then Armand was breaking apart, separating himself from Daniel’s neck even as he was pumping his seed straight into his insides, flooding him with it.

Daniel’s heart broke.

“Hush, my sweet child,” Armand soothed, holding his weakened body up, and re-dressing him, lovingly rightening his clothes and his hair before tucking himself back in, “There’s no reason for such sorrow.” He kissed Daniel’s lips, his cheek, his hair, his nose, his hands. Then turned him to face him and pushed down on his shoulders, bringing him to his knees in front of him. He bit on his own wrist, ruby red nectar flowing down his hand as he pressed it to a still dazed Daniel’s lips, “You are mine now, beautiful boy…”

Fifty years later, and eight-thousand miles away, Daniel Molloy woke up with a start.

To continue in 2023

To continue in 1973

145 notes · View notes

midnightcrush · 1 year ago

Text

this story fkn slaps. reread it as soon as i finished it. such good writing

The Heart's Filthy Lesson - Seonghwa x Reader (NSFW)

🪓Summary: Your best friend has always been dedicated to you. But isn't everyone's best friend like that?

🪓Word count: 15k

🪓Playlist for this fic can be found here.

🪓Genre & warnings: one shot smut. (twisted) best friends to lovers. unreliable narrator. elements of horror. descriptions of stalking against the reader, violence against others (not the reader), unhealthy relationship dynamics. dom hwa. dirty talk. underwear is torn off reader. oral sex, reader receiving. choking, reader receiving. unprotected sex. creampie.

this fic is not meant to represent seonghwa in any way, shape or form.

You’re fumbling with your keys, trying to get it into the lock without dropping your overstuffed bag. Why do I overpack so much? You curse inwardly. Every time, you swear that only essentials will be packed. Somehow, that ends up meaning enough underwear for a month and clothes for three different outfits a day even when you’re just visiting family.

You manage to get the key in the lock, practically tumbling inside your small apartment on the third story. Unceremoniously dumping your bag on the floor, you let out a long sigh. Like all family visits, you’re glad for them but also socially drained.

Padding into your living room, you wince a little. Way too much light in here, you think, I thought for sure I closed the blinds when I left. You turn around, fighting off the urge to take a nap. The trip is catching up to you, leaving you tired.

But you stand in the middle of the room, feeling a strange sense of unease. The living room looks entirely the same yet you cannot shake the sensation that something is different. It’s just cuz I thought I had closed the blinds. But the words ring hollow in your head.

In the quiet atmosphere of the apartment, you can distantly hear the traffic outside and the neighbor upstairs moving something heavy around. Your eyes slowly look across your kitchen counters before landing on a small pile of mail.

Curiously, you walk towards it, picking up the stack. There is a small sticky note stuck to the top with just a quickly drawn smiley face on it, the ink smeared into the paper on one side. Frowning, you peel it off and go through the mail. All of it is from when you were gone –

A knock on the door makes you jump, pressing your hand against your chest for a second. The pile of mail drops back to the counter, scattering across it as you go to the door. You don’t check who it is. You already know.

Opening the door, you find yourself face to face with your overly enthusiastic best friend.

“Hey, I remembered you were supposed to be back around this time so I figured I’d come over to say hi.”

“Hi, Seonghwa,” You say, already moving to the side to let him in.

He glances over his shoulder at you while heading into the living room. “How was the trip? How was your family? Did you tell them that I said hi?” Every word is said quickly, as if they are all fighting for importance and can’t decide what order to pop out in.

You push the door closed, trailing after him. You’ve known Seonghwa longer than anyone else in your life – he used to live next door where you befriended one another at just six years old. You went to the same high school, even the same college and when you decided to move to the city, so did he. You lived on different sides of the city at first until a year ago, when the apartment building finally had an opening and now he lived just one floor under yours. The two of you were a team – you knew everything about him and he never forgot a detail about you. Things were comfortable…although maybe a little too comfortable.

You cross your arms, leaning against the wall. “You brought my mail in.”

He turns to look at you, smiling brightly. Seonghwa always had the same countenance – pleasant and happy. “Yeah, of course.”

“I don’t remember giving you a key.”

“Oh, your plant needs watering.” He leans over and touches the wilting leaves gently, already moving past the fact he let himself into your place without asking. “Want me to do it?” He looks up at you.

You sigh, walking towards him. “Seonghwa,” You touch his hand gently, trying to get his attention.

His expression falters just for a moment before guilt pops in behind his eyes. Seonghwa looks tired, although that isn’t new, because he’s always on his computer at all times of the day and night. He glances downward at where your fingers had grazed his skin for a split second. His profile is so familiar to you – the sharp curve of his jaw, the long nose, his perfectly plump lips hiding perfect teeth. This is the same man you’ve grown up with your entire life. You know objectively he is beautiful but you’ve known him for so long that it no longer catches your notice. From the time he got in trouble for pushing a kid bullying you at the playground when you were both eight years old to sneaking out while in high school to go drink to this very moment, he’s always been there. That’s why you dislike whenever you come off as though you’re lecturing him.

“It was from two weeks ago. Remember? I had to let the plumbers in for you,” Seonghwa protests.

“You’re supposed to give the key back,” You hold out your hand, wiggling your fingers.

He ducks his head, some of his hair falling in front of his eyes as he looks down at the sagging plant. “It’s in my place. I don’t keep it on me.”

“Fine,” You sigh, “Next time, okay?”

Seonghwa bites down on his bottom lip for a second before his eyes lock on yours. “It happened six months ago. I mean, don’t you think – I think I’ve done a good job at not crossing a boundary since then.”

You hadn’t been expecting to have this conversation today. But maybe that is your own fault for constantly putting it off. It isn’t even that you’re mad at him anymore. But coming home late one night to find him passed out drunk in your bed after using your key to get in just felt like shattering a boundary. You took your key back after that, giving your best friend a dressing down even though he was apologizing profusely.

“I mean, you technically weren’t supposed to use the key to drop off my mail,” You point out.

His cheeks flush. “I was trying to be helpful,” He mumbles, eyes darting away from your face.

You sigh, knowing you’re going to give in. That is how it usually worked with Seonghwa. He was always the overzealous best friend, eager to help you even to the extent that it resulted in too much on his own plate.

“I know,” You reply, “And I appreciate it.”

His face lights up, all earlier guilt and tension erased immediately. Seonghwa immediately begins to pepper you with questions about the trip back home, leaving the earlier conversation about boundaries long passed. You aren’t sure if anything you said even sunk into his head. Likely not, you think.

After all, you know Seonghwa so well. You know what sticks to him.

“Hey!” The familiar chipper voice snaps you out of your mindless phone scrolling.

It’s two days later, after work, and you’re meeting Seonghwa for a coffee. The key issue is long forgotten, overtaken by the daily events of life that naturally take more importance than your best friend helpfully bringing in your mail.

He’s pushing through the crowd of people that have formed looking for a late afternoon caffeine boost. It had begun snowing earlier and there are a few snowflakes melting in his hair. His brown jacket hangs off his thin frame, the same jacket he’s had for easily a decade because he doesn’t care enough to buy a new one. It’s well worn, fraying at the seams near the elbows, and you’ve seen it against the backdrop of a multitude of different coffee shops.

“Am I late?” He stands by the table, looking down at you, not paying attention to the man trying to get past him while carefully balancing two cups of coffee in his hands.

“No. Even if you were, it’s okay. I was waiting for you before I got anything.”

You move to get up but Seonghwa shakes his head quickly. “No, no,” He nudges you back in the seat gently, “I’ll go order for us. It’s too crowded.” He is looking in your eyes. “I know what you like.”

He’s gone then, back in the crowd, moving towards the counter. You watch him go, turning your attention back to your phone. Ten minutes later, Seonghwa returns, handing you the coffee and sliding into the seat across from yours. The table is crammed in the corner, a clear attempt to try to fit more seats inside since the snow is coming down.

“I’m getting sensory overload in here,” You remark when someone smacks your arm with their laptop bag on accident.

“Do you want to go?” Seonghwa leans forward, “We can go if it’s too much.”

“No, it’s fine,” You shake your head, “I should have given more consideration to the time, I guess. How are you?”

He drums his fingers against the table while answering. “Fine. The usual. How was work?”

“The usual too. That project I’ve been stuck working on finishes next week – ow,” You wince as someone else hits your arm while squeezing through the tight space between your table and the next.

Seonghwa reacts like lightning, too quick for you to even say anything. His hand reaches for the strap of the man’s bag and he gives a sharp tug on it. “Hey!” He snaps and the man looks over his shoulder with wide eyes, “Pay attention to where you’re going!”

“Seonghwa, it’s fine –”

“I’d rather walk in the snow than be in here,” He says curtly, grabbing his coffee cup and gesturing for you to follow.

You do, and out in the cold, let out a small sigh of relief. Alright, maybe the idea of leaving the crowded coffee shop was the right choice. The soft layer of snow that is forming across everything is ruined by the many feet trampling over it hurrying to get home after work.

But you walk slowly along the sidewalk with Seonghwa, neither of you speaking for a few minutes. You glance out of the corner of your eye to find him looking at you.

He clears his throat quickly and asks, “What were you trying to say in there?”

“Oh, the project. It’s winding down next week. I’m relieved.”

Someone cuts in between the two of you and when Seonghwa moves back closer, he is no longer looking in your direction. “Is the project leader still texting you outside of work?”

You blink, a little surprised he remembers such a small detail from a few months ago. “Yeah, sometimes. But it isn’t anything unprofessional.”

Seonghwa’s cheeks are slightly red from the cold. He is holding the coffee cup tightly for warmth. “He might ask you out when the project is done.”

“Maybe,” You reply with a shrug, “We’ll see.”

Your best friend falls silent. The look in his eyes is from a thousand miles away for a couple of seconds before it snaps back into focus. “Would you say yes?”

“I don’t know. I guess I’ll see how I feel when it happens.” You hadn’t given it a lot of thought.

There is another silence which is unusual for Seonghwa who usually fills the conversation easily. But he seems to be mulling something over and is lost in thought – a rarity.

“What about you?”

His head snaps up, looking at you. “What do you mean?”

A lone snowflake lands on the bridge of his nose. You lean forward and brush it off. The gesture comes automatically, instilled from years of friendship. You’ve brushed a thousand snowflakes off his face and shoulders over the many winters spent hanging out.

“That woman at the coffee shop was flirting with you a few weeks back,” You then frown, “But we haven’t been back since. We could’ve gotten you a date.”

Seonghwa turns his face away from yours, slowing his pace down a little while watching the rush hour traffic grow larger on the road.

“No, I’m good.”

Coming to a stop at the crosswalk, you nudge his shoe with yours. “You haven’t been on a single date in ages.”

“So?” He turns to look at you, his eyes wide and questioning.

“Nothing, you just work a lot from home, that’s all. I wouldn’t want you to miss out something fun because of that.”

“Trust me, I’m not. I just am not interested in awkward dates.” He bounces on the heels of his shoes for a couple of seconds until the crosswalk turns green and he takes off like a shot.

This is typical of Seonghwa’s walking speed and you try to keep up. “Was I overstepping?”

“No,” He replies swiftly, his energy bubbling underneath the surface, “But I had a string of very awkward dates all last year and I need a break from them.” He runs his fingers through his hair, still walking at a brisk pace.

“Right, I get that. I didn’t mean to come off like I was lecturing –”

Seonghwa stops suddenly, so abruptly that you almost trip over your own feet. “You never come off like you’re lecturing,” He says, reaching out to help steady you, “I understand you just want what is best for me.”

“Right,” The word sends up a tiny puff of air from the cold, “You’re in your apartment a lot except when you’re with me. That’s all.”

Seonghwa’s hand is still on your arm but the grip is so loose that you can’t even feel it through the thick jacket. His nails are bitten to the quick. He lowers his hand once he knows you’re not going to fall over.

He flashes a quick grin, the same expression you’ve seen a thousand times. Your shoulders relax, knowing he isn’t upset with you.

“Is that so bad? Maybe I just wanna hang out with my best friend right now.”

“No, there isn’t anything wrong with it. I just need to make sure you’re doing alright though. You’d do the same for me.”

Seonghwa’s grin softens and he gently punches you on the shoulder. “Yeah, of course I would. I’d do anything for you. You know that.” He straightens up. “Now, come on. Enough discussing how I prefer to be indoors all day. Mental check-in complete. Ask me again in six weeks.”

“Right,” You are smiling, your concerns about Seonghwa spending too much time alone now allayed.

“Let’s get home, alright? I’m freezing.”

The conversation resumes, the ebb and flow always the same, some topics circled back so often over the course of time that they feel more like well read books with their spines bent than anything exciting. But you like that with Seonghwa.

With him, what you see is what you get.

“Nope, not Mario Party,” Seonghwa shakes his head, stretched out on the couch in his apartment, “You turn into someone I don’t even know when you play that. Half the time, I think you’re gonna tear my face off.”

You scoff. “Come on. That isn’t true.”

“Yes, it is. Think about last time.”

Shifting awkwardly on the couch, you avoid his eyes. “Whatever,” You mumble, remembering cursing him out for stealing your star.

It’s a week later and you’re trying to unwind from the stresses of work. The project finished yesterday which meant some relief. It is almost a routine now to pop over to Seonghwa’s, play a video game and unwind – to the point where neither of you ask to confirm, it just happens.

His place is organized and tidy, in a way that you could never hope to replicate. A shelf lined with books is next to the TV, with another one filled with his Legos he builds to unwind. His computer with dual monitors is in the corner, the chair pushed out from where he hastily got up once work finished for the day. The apartment is comforting.

Seonghwa gives you a knowing look and you drop the subject, aware he is right. He runs his fingers through his hair before turning his attention to the TV, leaning forward to grab the remote off the coffee table.

“You hear from that client? The one who is clearly interested in you?” He asks suddenly, staring at the TV while booting up Netflix.

Surprised, you glance at him and shift a bit in your spot on the couch. “He’s been texting me a bit.”

Seonghwa makes a noncommittal noise although for one second, you swear his grip on the remote tightens. When he doesn’t say anything further, you’re unsure of where to take the conversation. He’s never shown much interest in who you’ve dated before – in fact, he’s always seemed bored hearing about them, to the point that you barely mention it. You wonder what makes this guy different but something in you holds back asking.

“I gotta pee,” You say instead, and he just nods, swept up in whatever he’s thinking about.

You head down the hall and into the bathroom. You’re about to sit down when you notice there is no toilet paper on the roll. Rolling your eyes, you open the cabinet under the sink and rummage around. Why does he never pay attention to this stuff? Better yet why are you surprised?

The cabinet is as organized as the rest of his place but there is no sign of toilet paper. You try to remember if he stashes it elsewhere but nothing comes to mind. You think of your own cabinet under the bathroom sink and wince. Seonghwa has always been the more organized of you two. You’re lost in thought, pushing aside some cleaning supplies when your eyes land on a strange small black box pushed all the way to the back.

It’s slim and almost glossy, completely out of place to be shoved underneath the bathroom stick. You chew on your bottom lip, curiosity nipping at your brain. Seonghwa isn’t the one for secrets. There’s probably Pokémon cards or something inside that he misplaced.

But you still reach for the box, sitting down on the bathroom floor and opening it quietly. Guilt is poking at you for snooping through your best friend’s stuff. You can’t explain what is even driving you to open something personal that belongs to Seonghwa.

But you do.

There isn’t a lot inside.

One pair of underwear. A house key. A small bracelet.

Your pair of underwear. Your house key. Your small bracelet.

You stare at the items, not comprehending what is in your lap. The pair of underwear is green lace, one of your cuter pairs, and it went missing months ago. Around the time I found him passed out drunk in my bed, a small voice in your head points out.

The memory of the night replays. Coming home late, finding Seonghwa fast asleep in your bed, flopped on his stomach, wrapped up in the bedsheets as if it was his own room. You were frustrated at the lack of respect for your personal space. Seonghwa always had a tendency to do such things; back in college, more than once you’d wake up to him in your dorm with a cup of coffee in hand, somehow getting past security.

But you snapped that night, under a lot of work pressure and startled at finding a shape in your bed in the middle of the night. Waking Seonghwa up, you angrily asked him what he had been doing. Seonghwa slurred his words, said he was drunk and apologized. He sounded panicked and ashamed but that didn’t stop you from demanding your key back. You hadn’t talked to him for three days while he left you a ton of texts and messages apologizing and explaining himself. It was the longest you had gone without speaking to him.

Back in the present, you gingerly reach for the pair of underwear. Why would he take this? Your cheeks feel hot looking at it. Was he…doing something with this? Surely, that would be impossible. For a split second, your brain flashes a mental image of Seonghwa with his hand wrapped around the underwear as he – nope, no.

You drop it back into the box, opting for the bracelet instead. It’s a thin fake gold band with a tiny cubic zirconia diamond in it. You wore it over ten years ago, one night at the summer festival. Your boyfriend at the time just broke up with you and all you wanted to do was stay inside until Seonghwa prodded you to go with him. You wore the bracelet then, with a sun dress, trying to make an effort to look presentable. Seonghwa won a stuffed animal at one of the booths and gave it to you. You don’t remember misplacing the bracelet.

The house key winks knowingly at you.

You shut the box, shoving it hurriedly back in its spot as your heart threatened to explode in your chest. Your head is spinning, wondering what the hell to do. Do you confront him about it? That is what you’re supposed to do. But what do you even say?

You turn on the faucet, splashing cold water on your face while trying to gather your thoughts. Could it be that Seonghwa had some sort of crush on you? That is absurd. Keeping the bracelet would mean it has been a minimum of ten years he’s been pining for me. It could be longer. That’s enough to drive anyone mad.

In any case, you needed to get out of his apartment and try to calm yourself down. You had a tendency not to think very rationally when emotional and it would be better to put some space away from Seonghwa until you figured out how to broach the subject.

You open the bathroom slowly, trying to collect yourself and steady your breathing. When you enter the living room, Seonghwa is idly watching TV. He glances over at you and then frowns.

“What’s wrong?”

So much for looking casual.

“My boss texted me and there’s some crisis with another client. I need to pop back home and get on a Zoom meeting.” You don’t even know where the lie came from but it leaves your mouth smoothly.

Seonghwa sounds exasperated when he replies with, “You’re kidding.”

“No, sorry. You know how it is. Big girl job.”

“Yeah, fine, I get it.”

You are trying to get to the door without asking him what the fuck but he meets you there, his hand on the door knob. You force yourself to look at him directly – this face you know so well, this face you’ve stared at a thousand times. The same face that won you a stuffed animal at the festival ten years ago. Nothing has changed.

“I’ll message you later,” You say.

“Alright,” He opens the door, “Later.”

It closes behind your back, leaving you alone in the hallway. You stand there for a few moments.

You have no proof but there’s the sensation of Seonghwa looking through the peephole at you.

Not seeing your best friend for two days does nothing to help you figure out how to broach the subject of the tiny black box underneath his bathroom sink. By the time you see Seonghwa Sunday afternoon, the only idea you have is to avoid the discussion completely and opt to veer the conversation into you going on a date with someone.

The sun is lazily cutting across the floor of your living room while you pretend to be making coffee in the kitchen. Seonghwa is talking animatedly from the couch about something that happened the day before. You’re not really paying attention. Your mind keeps flashing to the night he fell asleep in your bed, picturing him rummaging through your underwear drawer to take a pair and slipping it into his pocket. You’re remembering the way he comforted you after getting dumped, convincing you to go to the festival. You can see him against the backdrop of the small white bulbs that were hanging off the booths, running his fingers through his hair while explaining with easy confidence how he could win a stuffed animal.

“Hey,” Seonghwa’s voice cuts through the memories and you blink, looking up from your place at the kitchen counter to see him standing in front of you, “Are you even listening to me?”

“I’m going on a date Tuesday night,” You blurt out without preamble, “With the client. The project that just finished.”

Seonghwa looks thrown before clearing his throat and replying, “Alright.”

But you keep going. “I think we have a real connection. It could turn into something.”

For the briefest moment, Seonghwa’s face goes startingly blank. There is nothing behind his eyes, and no expression on his face. Then he snaps back into focus, his hands pressing flat against the counter. “That’s good.”

You’re lying, of course, you doubt anything will come from this date. But if Seonghwa is harbouring some sort of intense crush on you, maybe showing him you’re into someone else will fix things. Knock the thoughts out of his head, redirect his focus to something else. Anything to get out of having a horrible discussion with him that could ruin the most solid friendship you’ve ever had in your entire life.

“Yeah, I can let you know how it goes,” You say a little too quickly, “Might be good for me. Like, I haven’t had a relationship in a couple of years. I feel ready for one now.”

Seonghwa pushes himself away from the counter, turning his back to you. “That’s great.” He plops back down on the couch. “Remind me again what I know about this guy.”

You decide to take this opportunity to really sell this man, to truly drive it home that this could be someone that you will be smitten with. You spend the next five minutes prattling on about him. At one point, you sit on the couch, on the opposite side of where Seonghwa is, still enthusiastically talking about a man you’ve barely thought of the entire time you worked with him.

Seonghwa’s face is slightly tilted with his arm propped up on the side of the couch, hand resting against his cheek. He’s looking at the wall, eyes distant. You’re trying to stay the course and see your speech through while at the same time studying his face for any sign that this onslaught of information is settling in. But there isn’t anything, not even a clenching of his jaw.

Running out of breath, you stop speaking and the room lapses into silence. Seonghwa stirs, turning his face in your direction. There it is once more – the same blank stare from earlier. Nothing behind his eyes, gone in a flash, replaced with the same Seonghwa you knew. You swallow hard, suddenly feeling a little off kilter. There is something unfamiliar in that blankness, something that is brand new ground in the relationship with your best friend.

“Well, you sound excited,” He says casually, “You’ll have to let me know how it goes.”

Your shoulders relax slightly. Are you overthinking everything? If Seonghwa was upset, you’d notice, right? You’ve seen him angry or annoyed a thousand times before. But the box still tugs at your sleeve. There’s a reason he has that. There is a reason he kept the underwear, the bracelet, the key. But the idea of asking your best friend why he has a box with such contents makes you want to jump off a cliff.

And Seonghwa is…comforting. Maybe it is selfish to think of him that way and to want nothing to change, especially if things are different at his end. But he’s been in your life for so long that the idea of him potentially not wanting to be around you anymore due to a crush forming makes your anxiety spike. He’s been there through everything…You can get stuff back on track. You can fix things without mentioning the box.

You’re sure of it.

Typically, the process of getting ready for a date is somewhat fun and enjoyable. You tend to overthink your outfit but other than that, you like listening to music, doing your makeup and wondering how the night will go.

This date doesn’t feel like that, mostly because the entire time you’re getting ready, your mind keeps going to Seonghwa.

You’ve been overanalyzing his behavior since your Oscar winning performance convincing him this date is important. It’s been a few days since your speech and he seems exactly the same. Maybe a little more reserved if you truly look at the small details. But that could be work related, you argue, maybe I need to stop being so self-absorbed and think that everything has to do with me.

But then you think back to the box with your underwear, bracelet and key. Any rational person would just talk to their best friend about it. Instead, you’re forcing yourself to go on this date in hopes of avoiding it because you’re being selfish, putting your feelings before his and wanting everything to remain normal.

Your phone suddenly rings, startling you out of your brooding. It’s your client – no, your date.

“Hello?”

“Hey, listen,” His voice comes out fast and urgent, “I am so sorry but I’m going to have to cancel.”

“What? Why?” It comes out way more demanding than intended but you had been banking on this…

“Some fucking psycho ruined my car! It’s all smashed up! Like, it’s completely fucking ruined!” The client’s voice pitches higher in anxiety and an undercurrent of fear.

You grip the phone tightly while exclaiming, “What?!”

“My tires are slashed, my windows are blown out! The doors have these deep gash marks in the side like some lunatic took a fucking axe to it! Even the insides are cut up…Christ, I gotta go, okay? I’m really sorry. We’ll reschedule, I promise.”

“No, of course, I understand. I’m so sorry. I can’t believe that happened,” You say in shock, “That’s horrible.”

“Thanks. Again, really sorry. I’ll call you, okay?”

The call ends as suddenly as it began. You stare at your phone for a few seconds, feeling a wave of sympathy for your client. It would be horrible to deal with your car getting messed up like that. But this meant the date was pushed back…

Looking at yourself in the mirror, you wondered what to do now. Normally when plans fell through, you’d hang out with Seonghwa. If he found out the date got cancelled and you didn’t come over, he could think you’re avoiding him. But showing up all dolled up for a date that had nothing to do with him could be rubbing his face in things too, couldn’t it?

“I’m so sick of overthinking,” You mumble, leaving your bathroom and trying to find a hoodie to tug over your outfit, yanking it on over your head, adjusting it a bit and then grabbing your bag, “I don’t care.”

You’re lying – you care more than you’d like to admit, both about Seonghwa and whatever is going on with his feelings towards you and the fact deep down you’re aware that you are handling this poorly.

A few minutes later, you’re knocking on the front door of Seonghwa’s apartment. While you do have a key to his place, you weren’t going to violate that boundary even though you knew he wouldn’t see it that way.

No one answers.

You knock again but this time you go, “Hey, Seonghwa?”

Now, you can hear shuffling inside the apartment followed by a muffled, “Just a second!”

The door opens a second later. Seonghwa has clearly just gotten out of the shower. His hair is still soaking wet, dripping onto his black t-shirt. He runs his hands through his hair, trying to smooth it out but all that does is send some water droplets flying to the floor.

“What, were you taking a swim?” You joke.

His eyes land on you. “Wasn’t expecting you to come by. I thought you had that date.”

“I did but he had to cancel,” You reply as Seonghwa moves to let you inside, “He called me and told me like…his car got fucked up.”

“His car got fucked up,” He deadpans, raising one eyebrow, “Are you sure he isn’t lying?”

You scoff. “Seriously? Who would lie about that? He told me someone slashed his tires, broke his windows, banged up the doors and shit. So, he needed to go deal with it. We’re gonna reschedule.”

Seonghwa runs one hand through his hair again, seemingly unbothered by how wet it is. Even his t-shirt is damp, clinging to his frame. He flexes his fingers on his right hand, an action that is unfamiliar to you. The muscles in his arms move. You’re staring and don’t know why. It’s like he was mid shower when he got out or something, you think.

“So, I’m the backup plan?” He asks and there’s a strange edge to the sentence, stripping it of any humor.

You blink, thrown by the tone. “No, I didn’t…”

But Seonghwa smiles then, and his voice is back to normal. “It’s cool. I wasn’t doing anything tonight. We can hang out. You wanna watch TV?”

You nod, trailing after him into the comfort of his living room. He goes into the kitchen, opening the fridge and leaning forward to try to find something to drink. His t-shirt lays flat across his back, his black hair curling against the nape of his neck, still dripping onto the tile. You stare at him for a few seconds before settling in on the couch. You’re suddenly acutely aware of the dress you’re wearing although most of it is covered up by the hoodie. He didn’t seem to notice your outfit or makeup anyway. Be serious. He’s seen you on dates a lot of times.

There is the sound of a beer opening as Seonghwa returns to the couch, tossing you a bottle of water as he plops down next to you. You glance at him out of the corner of your eyes as he takes a swig from the beer, his Adam’s apple bobbing while swallowing.

“Aren’t you afraid you’re going to ruin the couch with your hair dripping everywhere?”

He tilts his face in your direction and then rests his head directly on the back of the couch. You roll your eyes.

“Get a towel.”

“Nah, I’m good.”

“You’re just trying to annoy me now.”

“Yup.”

The exchange is so normal and familiar that you don’t even realize you’ve sunken onto the couch next to him as he flips through the channels. The two of you lapse into a comfortable silence, so comfortable that you forget the box stuffed away in Seonghwa’s bathroom for the first time since discovering it.

Apparently, he is comfortable too because at some point, you realize you’re hearing soft snoring. Surprised, you look over at him. He’s dozed off, eyes closed, chest rising and falling peacefully. His mouth is open slightly, head to the side, blissfully unaware of his wet hair. Seonghwa often kept odd hours and it wasn’t so strange for him to fall asleep as soon as he got even mildly relaxed.

Mixed emotions are mingling inside your chest – a concoction of anxiety, peacefulness, and a sense of impending doom. In this quiet moment, it is as though you’re standing on a beach watching a tsunami approach. You’ve been trying so hard to run from the change that swept in with discovering that tiny box underneath the bathroom sink.

You want to lean over and wake Seonghwa up, just ask him what is going on. But you still balk at the conversation and at tarnishing this moment where everything feels so normal.

You wonder if the box is still under the sink.

Maybe you imagined it.

With one last glance at Seonghwa, you get up. Even though you’re walking to the bathroom, you cannot shake the guilt feeling swooping over your chest. You glance over your shoulder. He’s still perfectly asleep.

Seonghwa’s bedroom door is next to the bathroom, slightly ajar. You glance inside out of habit. His bed is perfectly made with a couple of framed posters on the walls. There isn’t anything out of place but…

Maybe it’s the way the light from the hallway lays across the carpet or maybe you’re spending too long looking inside but before you completely pass by something shines for a split second. You slow down and then stop, hovering in the doorway to his room. Your heart is beating quickly now.

One final look in Seonghwa’s direction to ensure he’s sleeping sends you into his bedroom. Now who is breaking boundaries? A little voice in your head remarks cruelly. You cross the carpet towards what caught your eye – the glint of something similar to a knife. The bathroom towel has been quickly thrown over whatever it is.

Bending down, your fingers hover over the towel. Your entire body is screaming for you just to leave and get out of there. You’re snooping, you’re keeping secrets, you’re posturing as if Seonghwa has done something unforgiveable but meanwhile you’re not doing anything better –

You snatch the towel off the object and your heart falls into a pool of ice water.

An axe is laying on the floor. You stare at it while the hair on the back of your neck stands up. “The doors have these deep gash marks in the side like some lunatic took a fucking axe to it!” The words of your date ring in your head with deafening volume. You think about Seonghwa asking for information about the client and how you babbled endlessly in order to convince him this date was real. You knocked on the door and he hadn’t been ready for you, soaking wet, barely toweled off as if he had been busy…what, hiding the axe under the towel?

This is insane. Do you realize what your brain is jumping to? What are you trying to suggest? That Seonghwa went out to this guy’s place and ruined his car? Do you know what that implies? It implies he’s not just crushing on you. It implies there’s something…wrong. There’s something wrong with him. That’s what you’re thinking about your best friend right now.

The anxiety hits you full force in the chest then. You can hardly breathe, quickly covering up the axe and stumbling to your feet. You didn’t know what to do. You don’t even know what to say to him. The most important thing is getting out of here –

“What are you doing?”

You almost jump out of your skin, whirling around to see Seonghwa’s figure in the doorway. His face is half in shadow and one hand is on the door frame. You take a step back, almost tripping over the axe while straightening up.

“I thought you were sleeping,” You mumble and all efforts to make your voice sound normal fail.

“I woke up.” His voice is different, altered.

Seonghwa takes a step into the room and his face is clearer now. Yet there is that same look you have seen flashes of before. The complete emptiness of expression, the utter blankness behind his eyes. There is nothing familiar about him now.

“Now,” He says in a cold voice, “Who is the one breaking boundaries?”

You swallow hard while your brain fumbles for an excuse. But instead of speaking one, what leaves your mouth is, “Why do you have an axe?”

“Is it illegal to own one?”

“No but it’s a little strange to have it on your bedroom floor underneath a towel.” You try to make it come out like a lighthearted joke but your voice quivers, giving you away.

Seonghwa takes another step. In exchange, you back up, over the axe and closer to his night table. It seems ridiculous to be afraid of your best friend. But it also is ridiculous to have a secret box in the bathroom and an axe on the floor.

His right hand flexes and his jaw is clenched. You get the feeling he is trying to wrangle himself under control – but from what? He has all the qualities of the Seonghwa you know but it’s like someone smeared him with a layer of paint and distorted him.

You try again. “Why do you have the axe, Seonghwa?”

He doesn’t answer. Just moves closer. You’re cornered now. He’s near enough to touch, to grab his shirt and demand he answer you – this man you don’t know, this man you’re realizing you might not know at all.

“Why are you in my room?” Seonghwa makes a small noise, a tsk tsk, before adding, “Gonna have to ask for my key back, I think. Didn’t we just discuss boundaries?”

Up this close, you can better see the blankness in his eyes. You can smell the familiar scent of his shampoo and body wash. Your mind is telling you to run but your heart is whispering that this is your best friend, just hug him and talk it out. You don’t know what to do.

You say Seonghwa’s name so softly, just a wisp of a thing against the boiling emotions that are brimming to the surface inside him. “Why do you have some of my things under your bathroom sink?”

Seonghwa recoils, eyes widening in surprise. Your brain tells you to push past him, take this chance and run. But your feet don’t listen. Even now, you want to hear him out. You’re desperate to prove this all some fucked up misunderstanding.

You keep going. “That bracelet. From the night of the festival. And my….my underwear. Why do you have those things? My date calls me, says his car got trashed and that it looks like an axe was taken to the sides and then you’re scurrying around when I knock, hide an axe under a towel. Where were you earlier? Seonghwa, where were you earlier? Why do you have those things? Tell me. If you don’t want me to walk out of here, tell me. If you don’t want to fuck up the friendship, tell me.”

He tilts his face away from you, eyes glassy, looking at nothing. He’s grinding his teeth, something else you’ve never seen him do. Seonghwa’s profile is striking but no longer comforting. When he looks back at you, your lower back nudges into the night table and your hands grip the edge, staring at him.

“I want to fuck up the friendship. I’ve always wanted to fuck up the friendship,” He declares.

You shake your head. “You don’t mean that. That’s not how things are with us –”

“That’s always been how things are with us!” He shouts suddenly, loud enough to make you flinch.

“No! No, Seonghwa, that isn’t true –”

“Don’t fucking lie to me!” His eyes are alive now, twisted, no longer blank but not belonging to him either. He’s so close to you now, dangerously so. The warmth of his body is seeping into yours. The rage is swimming off him, strong enough to knock you over. You have never seen Seonghwa so angry before…and certainly never at you.

“I’m not, I’m not lying,” You plead, wanting to touch him but too afraid of making things worse, “I’m not lying. I was just – I was just trying to understand. The box under the sink and the axe…”

“You’re a smart girl, stop pretending like you don’t know,” Seonghwa growls out, “You know why I have those things under the sink.”

“The bracelet –”

Seonghwa is bristling with an intense energy as he replies, “From the festival night! See, you remember. You knew immediately where it was from. It slipped off your wrist when you were at one of the games, landed in the dirt. I took it. I took it because that was the night I thought ‘maybe’. I thought maybe you’d realize how badly I wanted you. And I think you did realize it. But you looked the other way. I love you but fucking hell, you look the other way when anything might change. But I’m patient. I can wait. I can take care of things and I can wait.”

I love you he had said, so effortlessly, so easily. The air is knocked out of your lungs by his casual admission. Seonghwa doesn’t seem to notice nor care he said it. He just stated it as though it was a fact, like the sun rising every morning. He runs his fingers through his hair, his brow furrowed in memories.

“The underwear, do I gotta explain that? Like I said, you’re smart. You know. I didn’t think you were coming home that night. I thought you were out, picked up by a guy or something. I didn’t mean to fall asleep. I had shoved the underwear in my pocket before you got there and it just felt so damn good to be in your bed. Everything smelled like you and just…it was just a lot, you know?” His eyes land on you. “It was wrong to lie, tell you I was drunk. It was the fastest thing I could think of.”

“You lied to me?”

“I’m sorry,” Seonghwa says seriously and you realize he believes lying about being drunk was the worst thing he did that night, not using your key or stealing your underwear.

“You’re – you’re sorry? You violated my boundaries, you slept in my bed, you stole my…and then you lied to me,” You reply aghast, “It’s like I don’t even know you, Seonghwa.”

Seonghwa is starting to look anguished now. He goes to reach for you, thinks twice and drops his hands to his sides before taking a step back, carefully skirting around the axe. Then he stops, considering it before picking it up and tossing it onto the bed, making you flinch again.

“Don’t act like that,” Seonghwa says sternly, pointing to you, “Don’t do that. It’s me, alright? It’s me. You’ve known me since we were kids. I’m still the same person.”

You swallow hard, unable to reply.

He continues to talk, pacing the room. “Listen, for how long I’ve been in love with you, I think – I think I’m doing alright. I’ve never done anything bad to you. I have always had your back. That one asshole back in college – that professor. The science one. Remember? I made sure to stop that shit before it got out of hand. He was out of bounds asking you out. That’s wrong. You’re a – you’re a student.”

The floor is unsteady underneath your feet. You’re staring at Seonghwa as he paces, wondering if you’re going to faint. “That was you? He couldn’t even come back to work after that. He needed physical therapy. His legs…”

“Okay, in my defense,” He holds out one hand to ward off your criticism, “In my defense, I didn’t realize until later I maybe shouldn’t have brought the bat down so hard.”

Your eyes fall to the axe. You’re almost afraid to ask.

But Seonghwa follows your gaze and he immediately makes a noise of protest. “I didn’t lay a hand on that guy.”

“But…but his car…”

“So what? It’s a car. Which he thought was more important than you seeing that he cancelled the date, by the way,” He is talking so quickly that it is hard to follow his words, “You gave me so much information about him and this idiot – I mean, he’s a real idiot, alright? He had so much public information about himself. I found his address in like, two minutes. I mean, this is not the sort of guy you want to be with. He’s too stupid for you.”

You’re feeling dazed now like you got hit with the axe instead of the client’s car. “How did you not get caught?”

“He doesn’t live in the city. Lives in the suburbs, some big fancy ugly house with a private garage. Slipped in, slipped out.” A thought strikes him and Seonghwa moves towards you, holding his hands out to calm you down as if you’re a scared deer. “But I didn’t hurt him. I wasn’t going to hurt him. You seemed to really like the moron. I just wanted to see how badly he wanted to go on a date with you. If his material items were more important than seeing you.”

Thunderstruck, you reply, “Seonghwa, you trashed his fucking car.”

He scurries over, extremely close to you once again. He looks so warm and inviting again, earnest as ever as he goes, “And he picked it over you. He isn’t a good fit for you. Not like me. You get it? Not like me.”

You can only stare at him, unable to reply. Too much is happening. There is too much new information occurring at once. And the way Seonghwa is standing there, looking so open and honest – the polar opposite of earlier when he came into the bedroom, is making things confusing.

Seonghwa tilts his head to the side, his voice a soft murmur while studying your face. “Everything I’ve done, everything I’ve protected you from is because I love you. I’ve always loved you. The entire reason I exist is to love you. I’d follow you to the end of the earth. I’d follow you into hell. Some part of you had to know that. You felt it, didn’t you?”

Your breathing is quick and shallow. You’re grateful for the barrier of the hoodie because you’re acutely aware of how close you are to your best friend. You’re thinking about him moving to the city, and then into your building. You’re thinking of all the various strange occurrences you tried to steadfastly ignore – people getting injured after upsetting you, job interviews that felt horrible only for them to offer you a position, Seonghwa up all hours of the night on his computer looking exhausted and claiming it was just work, the beleaguered quick expression on his face whenever you mentioned him going on a date…

Seonghwa makes a small noise in the back of his throat. “You’re scared. It’s okay. You never liked change and you were never good with your feelings.”

You squeeze your eyes closed while saying, “I thought you’d think I was smitten with him. That you’d…you’d drop this. And we could go back to normal. I didn’t think you’d…”

“Go back to normal?” He scoffs, “What is normal for you? Ignoring what is right in front of you?” Very slowly and carefully, he brings the back of his hand to your cheek, gently brushing it along your skin. The touch makes your heart thud violently in your chest. Seonghwa looks at you tenderly. “I would be so good to you. I’m a perfect fit for you.”

“Seonghwa…” You aren’t sure if his name is a curse, a prayer or just a whimpered plea to let things stay the same.

He is close enough to your body now that you know what is going to happen next. You should push him away, get out of here and call the police on him.

But you don’t.

Instead, you allow Seonghwa to kiss you.

Your mouth opens underneath his, tasting your best friend in a way that is entirely new. The sensation of his lips on yours is dizzying in the most twisted way possible. Seonghwa’s hand goes to the back of your neck as the kiss grows more intense. His tongue is in your mouth and he makes a tiny noise – like some small bit of him is finally finding relief. You aren’t even sure if you’re breathing, too swept up by the mind-bending things that have occurred in the last ten minutes. As the kiss deepens, you tilt your head to the side, your tongue against his now.

There is a small voice in the back of your head quietly asking you what the fuck are you doing? Not only is this Seonghwa of all people but he’s obviously mentally unstable. But there is a heat swooping through your body and there is a need cracking through something inside you that is made worse by the fact you’re thinking about how he’s always had your back since first meeting.

Your hand is gripping the bottom of his t-shirt. You aren’t sure whose ragged breathing you’re hearing but certainly it cannot be yours because you must’ve died ten minutes ago. That’s the only logical explanation for why you’re now desperately kissing Seonghwa; it just simply couldn’t be happening like this.

The heat is unspooling in your chest now, dropping to your thighs. Seonghwa makes another quiet noise while kissing you, so fragile yet tense, and it is in that noise that the desire and fear smash together and overwhelm you.

You push him away with a small gasp, wiggling free from the confined space and placing your hand against the wall to steady yourself.

“I can’t,” You gasp out – although is directed to you or your best friend?

Looking over your shoulder at Seonghwa, he’s staring at you with blown out pupils while his chest rises and falls rapidly.

“You can’t what?” He drawls coldly, “You can’t what?”

You shake your head while saying, “I should be calling the police on you. You’ve hurt people. You’ve damaged people’s property.”

“Oh, please!” His mood shifts quickly again, his tone hostile. He approaches you, so close again, enough to see that his lips are slightly wet from the kissing. “Stop pretending. Stop pretending you don’t feel it.”

But it’s too much – all of it. You shake your head, afraid of…of what? Seonghwa? No, something else. Something worse.

You’re afraid of yourself.

“I can’t – I have to go,” You say, pushing past him, “I can’t do this.”

In all your years of friendship with him, you’ve never run out of his apartment. There has never been any reason to. But you leave Seonghwa in his bedroom with the axe on the bed, quickly scampering down the hallway. You cast a glance over your shoulder to see if he is following.

But he isn’t.

And you’re not sure how you feel.

There is no sleep that night, only replaying the entirety of your friendship with Seonghwa like a horrible movie in your mind. You try picturing him taking the bat to that teacher’s legs but it is an impossible thing to imagine. You wonder what else he’s done. He’s been off, slinking around in the night, breaking into your apartment, sleeping in your sheets.

You roll onto your side, staring at the edge of your bed. What is Seonghwa doing right now? Is he thinking of you? Most likely, since it has become clear that all he thinks about is you. He isn’t a good fit for you. Not like me. You get it? Not like me. His confession bangs around in your brain, refusing to give you any peace.

You’re back at the festival, watching him win you the stuffed animal. Seonghwa’s head is cocked to the side as he thrusts the stuffed animal towards you, grinning. You try to refuse it at first but he shakes his head, saying he has no use for it. His hair is softly glowing against the lights. His fingers brush against your wrist while accepting the gift. You feel a sense of contentment knowing you’re here with him and not crying in your room alone.

What happened the next day? Your ex’s dorm room goes up in flames due to an unattended candle left burning. You remember laughing about karma with Seonghwa.

But it wasn’t karma.

Unless Seonghwa is your karma.

Your brain circles to the one thing you’ve been trying the most not to think about: the kiss. It is something you’ve never ever considered. Kissing Seonghwa had always been something firmly planted in the realm of impossibility. Anyone of sound mind would have called the police on him, and what did you do? You kissed him.

And even worse, something that you can only admit in the dead of night when the world is still and quiet: you liked it. You enjoyed the small noises of relief Seonghwa made, how hot his body temperature ran, how his t-shirt was gripped in your hand. You enjoyed his desperation. You enjoyed his dedication.

What the fuck did that say about you?

You’ve never gone this long without hearing from Seonghwa. It’s been four days and you keep expecting him to show up. You think he might even be waiting in your apartment every time you come home from work. You almost wish he was. But he isn’t. His silence is throwing you off.

Maybe Seonghwa is going to skip town, you think in the silence of your bedroom one night. He might think I’m going to turn him in and he’s trying to get ahead of it. The idea of Seonghwa vanishing is eating you up inside. You just want to talk to him.

But now you feel like the stalker, taking the elevator one floor down to his place with his apartment key in your hand. Even if Seonghwa ignores me, I’m gonna go inside, you think, if he can do it to me, I can do it to him. I just want to talk to him. Your mind is flickering to the kiss. You’re thinking about staying up late with him watching movies over the years. You’re remembering how he stopped going to the coffee shop where that woman was interested in him. You can taste him in your mouth.

At the front door of his apartment, you knock. Softly at first. No reply. You knock again. You stand there, debating what to do. The key is heavy in your hand.

What Seonghwa has done is wrong. It’s not just illegal, it’s fucked up.

But no one in your life has ever looked out for you in the way he did and continues to do.

His hair, wet, dripping onto the tile in the kitchen. His right hand flexing. The blank look in his eyes. The axe on the bed.

Still no answer.

The key is heavy in the lock, and the tumblers sound like gunshots as you turn it. Quietly, you push open the door and creep inside Seonghwa’s apartment. There aren’t any lights on. Silence settles across the place like a blanket. You shut the door softly, wondering why you’re doing this.

But still, you continue, creeping down the hallway towards his bedroom. The door is open and moonlight filters in through his bedroom window, leaving a small band of white along the hallway floor. You hover outside Seonghwa’s room before pushing the door open wider to allow yourself in.

He’s sprawled out on the bed, asleep. You stand next to it, looking at the way the moonlight lays across his face. His black hair is messy, lips parted slightly as his breathing goes slow and deep. Some logical part of you knows it is bizarre to be watching your best friend sleep like this after using his key. You’re not any better than he is when you act like this, it scolds you.

But you study Seonghwa’s face. The moonlight washes his skin out. His bone structure is so familiar to you but tonight, you’re thinking that once again he looks like someone scrambled his face up with a large brush and showed you it.

You raise your hand to reach for his shoulder. You’re going to wake him up. To ask him…what? You’re not sure. You just want to talk to him.

But before you can touch him, Seonghwa’s hand reaches out in a flash and grabs your wrist, his eyes startingly empty. You gasp in surprise and almost fall back but he is holding onto you too tightly.

“You’re creeping around my place again. I might start getting the wrong idea,” Seonghwa’s voice sounds taunting, almost venomous, “I might start thinking you want to fuck me.”

You’ve never heard him speak like that.

“I wanted to talk,” You reply but the words sound so absurd given you used his key and were watching him sleep.

“No, you didn’t,” He retorts.

No, you didn’t.

Seonghwa pulls you down and you kiss him again, open mouthed and desperate. You gasp from the force of his lips on yours as though he wants to devour you. He’s half sitting up, his hand on the back of your neck, and you’re getting in his lap now, straddling him as his tongue slips into your mouth. He bites down on your bottom lip, tugging it with his teeth until you make a noise and the kiss breaks.

His hands are cupping your cheeks. Seonghwa is looking at you almost deliriously. You hadn’t changed before coming over, just wearing a thin pair of sweatpants which means you can feel him stiff in his own pair, rock hard already, pressing against your thigh.

It’s you who speaks first.

“Why didn’t you talk to me the last few days?” It sounds almost plaintive.

He’s studying your face as his thumbs graze your cheeks. “I was waiting for you to either turn me in or come see me. Whatever ended up happening, I knew what it would mean.”

Breathlessly, you reply, “I wasn’t going to call the cops.”

His thumb is running over your lips. Seonghwa is looking at you mesmerized as if he has never seen something so wonderful as you in his lap. No one has ever looked at you in this way.

“Everything I did, I did because I love you,” His voice sounds like a raw wound, “Do you get that now?”

“I get it now,” You reply, knowing it’s wrong, knowing it’s fucked up, knowing you must have lost it.

His grip on your chin tightens ever so slightly as his eyes grow intense. “I was looking out for you from the moment we first met. I have always protected you. I’ve always made sure no one would harm you and if they did, I ensured they got what was coming to them. You deserve the best. You always have,” His voice is hurried, emotional, “I always have tried to give you the best because I love you.” His fingers dig into your skin. “Do you get that? Do you understand how much I love you? God, sometimes, you would look right through me and it felt like the entire world was ending. Like the ground was just shattering underneath my feet. But I never dreamt of leaving your side. I love you too much even if you didn’t feel the same. I told myself I would just protect you until I died.”

His voice is pure agony, a crackling and fizzling of the years that have gone by spilling out from in between his lips. “You looked at me with such fear the other day when you were in my room, staring at the axe. As if…as if I would ever hurt you. It’s so absurd. I would never do anything to you. Everything I do is because I love you.”

“Seonghwa,” You breathe out shakily, “Your hand…. it’s too tight…”

His eyes drop to the way he’s gripping your face and he releases his hand immediately, apologizing. Your head is swimming, torn between the logical mind telling you to leave and your irrational heart pulled by his words, his love, his promises and protection.

But he feels so good underneath you.

Your lips find his once more and whatever remains of Seonghwa’s speech dies in his mouth, lost in the groan he emits when you touch him again. He shifts slightly so that his leg is pressing against your pussy and you react by grinding down slightly on his knee, just enough to feel pressure against your clit. Your breath hitches as Seonghwa’s hands roam across your body – fondling your tits through your shirt, down across your hips before resting on your waist, pushing you down on his knee.

He’s kissing and biting your neck, hard enough to leave marks. Your hands are in his hair while you grind on his knee. At one point, he bites so hard that you gasp and you swear that he chuckles quietly. Seonghwa pulls away, looking at you with an expression of mingled lust and something more possessive.

“You’ll have to cover that up for your date.” His words are like stone but there is a flicker of toying amusement behind his eyes.

“What date?” You mumble, slightly dazed, too turned on by the way he’s touching you.

Seonghwa laughs, his teeth like daggers in the flash of moonlight before pulling you towards him. His kiss is greedy, one hand sliding under your t-shirt to cup your breast. You’re not wearing a bra, having come over here quickly without putting much thought into it. You can feel him smirk against your lips, as if the lack of one is telling him something you’re not privy to.

He pinches one of your nipples, making you jump. His other hand is on your lower back, steadying you on his knee as you continue to chase your orgasm. It’s evident Seonghwa isn’t going to try to stop you. He leans his head down, tugging your shirt up so that he can wrap his lips around your nipple, sucking on it hard. He switches to the other one, biting on it. You’re making soft noises, a cross between a plea and pleasure, dimly aware that to be doing this with Seonghwa means forever ruining the very friendship you were once so keen on saving. But maybe it never stood a chance. Maybe time just caught up with the dynamic.

When Seonghwa pulls away from your tits, he grabs the back of your head, forcing you to look at him while demanding, “I want to watch you cum. I want to see what you look like when you’re cumming. I’ve pictured it so many times in my head – no, don’t stop. Don’t slow down. There, good girl. Oh, do you like that? When I call you that? Is that gonna make you cum?”

You manage to nod even though his hold on you is tight. He looks different in the moonlight, different in the manner he’s openly staring at you without hiding his feelings. There’s an energy rolling off him that you’ve never felt before, something bubbling to the surface and spilling out – who he really is. Who he hid for so long. You feel like a small bug crawling into a Venus fly trap but you don’t want to turn away.

Your orgasm starts then, after Seonghwa calls you good girl in that voice of his that is dripping honey while hiding a dagger. You can’t believe that you just got off from grinding on your best friend’s knee but you barely have time to come down from the climax before he is slipping your shirt off over your head and tossing it to the side.

He’s groping your tits, rolling his thumbs across your nipples, in seemingly no hurry to fuck you. You thought the orgasm would bring clarity, give your mind release from the problematic thoughts you’ve been having about your messed up best friend and allow yourself to exit the situation.

But you feel no such thing. Instead, you find yourself removing his shirt as well before kissing him hungrily while your hands press against his chest. His arms wrap around your waist and in one swift motion, he has you against the pillows underneath him.

Seonghwa is hot to the touch, his skin almost feverish as your fingers trail down his shoulders and along his arms. He’s moving downwards, his tongue across your nipples, down your stomach, obscenely leaving a trail of his salvia until he reaches your sweatpants.

Hooking his thumbs into the band, he yanks them down, leaving you in just your underwear. He nudges your thighs apart, pressing one finger along your pussy.

“You’re soaking wet,” Seonghwa drawls, sounding both pleased and tormented, “Underwear is fucking glued to your pussy.”

There is something fucked up and thrilling hearing your best friend talk like this. Seonghwa has always been so nice, so thoughtful over the years. Even when he would discuss his dates, he never dove into any details that would come off disrespectful. But now, mask off, it’s evident he’s perverted and unhinged on top of being psychotic. So why do I like it so much?

Seonghwa abruptly grabs the sides of your underwear and rips it with his hands. There is a loud tearing of fabric, his eyes alight while doing so, and then you’re exposed to him. Instinctively, you squirm, trying to close your legs. But Seonghwa is faster and his hands are on your thighs, keeping you open in front of him. His eyes look upwards to meet yours.

“No, I want to see how wet your pussy is from me. No hiding now. I’ve daydreamed about tasting your sweet cunt for far too long.” He turns his gaze back downward, one finger against your wet slit. “God, look at how fucking good you look,” The desperation in his voice is obvious, “What a perfect pussy.”

Seonghwa leans forward and his tongue is in your hole with a pornographic slurping noise as he tastes you for the first time. His nose bumps against your clit as he buries his face in between your thighs, trying to get his tongue as far as possible inside you.

“Fuck,” His words are muffled, “You taste so fucking good. You taste exactly how I knew you would. Can’t believe it took this long to taste your sweet cunt,” His hold on your thighs tightens, “Drives me fucking crazy knowing others had it before me. They didn’t deserve it.”

His tongue drags along your folds until he places a kiss on your clit, just enough to make you shiver. You know that you shouldn’t look down. It will make the entire situation feel entirely too real. But you don’t listen and instead prop yourself on your elbows slightly, just enough to look down at Seonghwa in between your legs.

His eyes catch yours and he lewdly flicks his tongue across your clit just to drive the point home that this is happening and you’re enjoying it. You sharply inhale, your hand grabbing onto the bedsheet. He closes his eyes, focusing on rolling his tongue over your clit slowly, just enough to drive you crazy. You cannot tear your gaze away from Seonghwa of all people doing this to you, making you feel this good. In the moonlight, his shoulders almost glow, and some of his hair has fallen in front of his eyes.

While Seonghwa is working your clit, he slips one finger inside your hole, meeting no resistance from how wet it is. You squirm, head rolling back a little from the new sensation. Still, he doesn’t miss a beat, continuing his soft licks on your clit while pumping his finger. Your eyes flutter closed. It had been a long time since someone ate your pussy this good. It is just fucked up that it’s your best friend.

Seonghwa pulls his finger out of you, eliciting a whine that would be embarrassing in any other case but he quietly shushes you. “Needy girl, you want my tongue back on your clit? Look at me when I’m speaking to you.”

You look down at him, your cheeks warm. His eyes are devious, a smirk on his face, making his cheeks stand out more than usual as he shakes his head to get his hair out of his face.

You nod and he looks gravely serious. “No, tell me. I want to hear you tell me.” His voice is ice cold, allowing no argument. You’ve seen him this way a few times, always when he is angry and never at you. No, always at someone who did something mean to you though, the little voice whispers.

“I want your tongue back on my clit,” You say meekly because begging Seonghwa for such a thing is a foreign concept.

He stares at you for a second or two longer before suddenly spitting on your clit and smearing it in with his thumb. Your hips buck automatically from the sudden pleasure.

“You’re so sensitive,” He murmurs, “Gonna be so easy to make you cum again.” Seonghwa sounds lost in his daydreams and you cannot fathom how many times he’s thought about this.

His finger is back in your cunt and his tongue is flicking across your clit faster now. He adds a second digit, pumping them hard and fast, stopping occasionally to wiggle them deep inside you. His face is pressed against your pussy, sucking on your clit and sometimes stopping just to spit on it again. Seonghwa is groaning when he’s eating you out, as if he is driven to intoxication from the taste of you.

You can no longer prop yourself up on your elbows, instead sinking back down among the pillows. One of your hands reaches down for Seonghwa, his hair wrapping around your fingers as you desperately hold onto him so he doesn’t stop. He makes a noise of approval, fucking you harder with his fingers.

And it feels just too good and it feels even worse because it’s Seonghwa, the person you know the most and the person you don’t know at all. When your climax starts, his name leaves your lips broken and shattered, forever changed by what happened tonight.

When Seonghwa pulls away, his eyes are ablaze. You’re disoriented from cumming so hard two times already but he pulls you towards him. His lips crush yours in a sloppy kiss. You can taste yourself on his tongue. When the kiss breaks, there’s a long strand of spit connecting the two of you. He’s holding the back of your neck again, looking at you as though you’re trapped in his web.

“Oh, my name sounds so good like that.” He rubs his thumb across your lips, and the spit makes a mess, “You’re such a pretty thing.”

You like the way Seonghwa talks to you as if you’re the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen. But you suppose to him, you are. You’re feeling an aching desire to have him inside you, to know what it would be like to be fucked by him. Tentatively, you reach for his groin, pressing your hand against the tent. He inhales sharply but gives a firm shake of his head.

“Not yet,” He brushes your hand away, “You’re going to cum again.”

Surprised, you open your mouth to say something but before you can, he places two fingers on your tongue. Without questioning it, you wrap your lips around them and then immediately wonder why you didn’t even hesitate. You swirl your tongue around his fingers while he watches, entranced at the sight.

“Fuck, you’re so pretty. I can’t get enough of you. Now, sit on my face.”

Seonghwa pulls his fingers out of your mouth, snapping his fingers at you after he issued his command. You’re not even thinking anymore, lost completely to whatever pull you feel towards him and the promises of more pleasure. He’s on his back, motioning for you to hurry up. You try to carefully straddle his face but he makes a noise of impatience, reaching upwards to grab your hips and yanking you down so that your pussy is against his face.

His tongue dives into your hole and you make a noise of surprise, gripping the headboard of his bed. He’s eating your pussy like a man starved, not stopping to let you adjust at all. His hands are holding onto your hips, keeping you in place as he brings his tongue swooping up to your clit, swirling around it. This time is a lot more urgent as though it is more for him than you.

The sounds of Seonghwa eating your pussy sounds graphic but it is the way he is moaning while doing it that is turning you on. You like how he sounds, so desperate and his voice muffled, and when you move your hips gently against his face, he makes a noise to let you know to keep going.

So you do, grinding against his face. He moves his tongue back to your hole and you can feel his nose against your clit while rocking your hips. Your clit is growing sensitive from all the overstimulation and sometimes your hips bounce a little when it becomes too much. Seonghwa notices this and instead of giving you a break swoops his tongue back over your clit, flicking it hard and fast.

Your grip tightens on the headboard but you’re close to cumming again. Your thighs are shaking, panting with your tongue poking from in between your lips as you ride his face. With one last flick of his tongue, you moan out his name loudly, unable to stop from how much you’re working your pussy against his face. This orgasm is somehow even better than the earlier ones although it leaves your body shaking. You slide off him, falling onto the bed, trying to catch your breath.

Seonghwa sits up, kicking off his sweatpants. With relief, you realize he’s going to fuck you. You’re unsure that you could handle another orgasm again so soon after the others. Your head is dazed and thighs sore and you’re pretty sure that your pussy is a mess of your juices and Seonghwa’s spit.

He’s stroking his length, drinking in the sight of your naked body on his bed with the same fascination of someone viewing a beautiful painting. He shakes his hair out of his face again while getting to his knees, his hand still wrapped around his cock.

“You’re gonna cum around my cock next.”

You give a small shake of your head, out of breath. “I don’t think I can cum anymore.”

“Of course you can,” Seonghwa replies simply while positioning himself over your body.

His skin against yours is heavenly and hellish, weighted by the knowledge you’re tumbling into bed with your best friend who isn’t as stable as previously believed. But what does it say about you that it won’t leave your mind? He’s propped up over you, studying your face with such intensity that you break eye contact, feeling exposed. His cock is pressing at your entrance as your hands go to his sides, gingerly touching his hot skin.

Seonghwa lowers his face down to kiss you while sliding inside your wet entrance. You arch your back, fingers digging into his waist as he enters you easily. His lips are back on your neck, emitting a sigh that is a mingle of relief and tension all at once.

His words are muffled as he goes, “You feel so good. Your pussy is made for me. I was meant to be in this pussy every night.”

Seonghwa is curled around you, taking his time. He’s moving slowly, lost in the sensation of your walls tightening around his cock. Your hands glide upwards to his hair once again, bunching it in between your fingers as you wrap your legs around his waist.

When Seonghwa speaks again, he sounds lost, as if he isn’t even present in the moment. “I love you so much,” He grunts, going still for a second to collect himself before thrusting a little harder, “I love you so fucking much. I’d do anything for you, I’d do anything to be in your cunt like this. You just had to ask. But you never did.”

Your body is warm all over, each nerve in your body responding to his passion in a way that you didn’t think was possible. The voice in your head that has been pointing out how wrong it’s been all night is eerily silent. Instead, you tilt your head so that Seonghwa looks at you. Your foreheads are touching and when you speak, your lips graze his.

“Tell me what you’d do for me,” You plead softly.

His breath catches, his cock buried inside you to the hilt while he replies, “Anything. You know that. You already know some of what I’ve done. And I don’t regret any of it. I’d do it again,” He starts moving his hips faster now, plunging his length in and out of your soaking wet hole while his breathing grows laboured, “I’d do anything for you.”

The words make your head light. You’re moving your hips in time to his thrusts, tugging on his hair to let him know to keep going. Hearing your best friend make noises of pleasure, noises you’re not supposed to hear from him, is making you only desire more.

Seonghwa shifts positions, just enough so that your legs are bent back so he can hit your sweet spot with every jerk of his hips. Your hands fall to the bedsheets once more, digging into them as he fucks you.

“You look so fucking beautiful taking my cock,” He grunts and runs his hand through his hair quickly with one hand to get it out of his eyes.

The gesture, so familiar, one you’ve seen him do often, strikes you in the chest. His desperation is evident in his eyes, in his voice, in every action he’s taken since he grabbed your wrist earlier. This is still your best friend, the realization dawning, this is still Seonghwa.

You’re just seeing all aspects of him now.

You aren’t sure what compels you to reach for his hand but you do, sliding it up to your neck. His eyes light up at what you’re requesting, that shark’s grin returning so quickly that it sends a shiver down your spine. His hand tightens around your neck while he fucks you. The muscles on his arm tightens; he pushes you back against the pillows while fucking you hard and fast.

“I’d do anything for you,” He repeats, voice breaking, “I’d have done anything you ever wanted if you just asked.” The pleasure is overtaking him and his mind is wandering, jumping from topic to topic, telling you all the things he’s ever thought about. “Fuck, my hand around your neck…” He grips you harder and you make a small noise which only drives his cock harder in your hole. “You look like a ragdoll taking my dick with your lips parted like that. I watched you through your window last week. You looked so tired. I thought – fuck, I thought about my hands around your neck, choking you while I fucked you into oblivion so you could sleep.”

I watched you through your window last week.

The angle and his hand on your neck is bringing you to another climax which you didn’t think could be possible. You can barely breathe, can barely move your hips to meet his thrusts. You’re so close to finishing, watching how Seonghwa’s eyes never leave your face, how intensely he is staring at you, no expression on his face as he fucks you.

With the little air you have left, you ask the question again. “Tell me what you’d do for me.” The words are so soft that you aren’t sure anyone else but Seonghwa could have heard them – he’s just too in tune with you.

“I’d fucking kill for you.”

And you’re cumming on his cock then. Seonghwa releases his grip on your neck so he can hear your hoarse moans. He hasn’t stopped fucking you, moving his hips the entire time you’re orgasming. You keep saying his name, your hips moving to meet his thrusts, making more noise than you ever have before.

Seonghwa pulls out, wiping the sweat from his brow before leaning forward, grabbing your face and going, “Open your mouth.” You do immediately and he spits in your mouth lewdly before kissing you hungrily. When it ends, he says roughly, “I’m gonna cum in your cunt now. Get on your knees.”

Your body protests a little while doing so, tired and sore from cumming so much and being fucked so hard. But once your ass is in the air, Seonghwa’s hands are on your hips, pulling you back onto his cock. He doesn’t waste any time and you know he must be dying to finish. You’re not used to someone putting their pleasure last like this.

The change in angle feels so good and you moan, prompting Seonghwa to go, “You’re cock starved, I love it. I love hearing you want more of me.” His hands slide to your lower back. “I love hearing you want me and none of those idiots you’ve wasted time on. All those fucking idiots. Made me sick.” He’s slamming his hips against your ass, his balls smacking against your pussy with each hurried thrust. “Makes me fucking sick to think of them touching you instead of me. They never deserved you. They never understood you, not like I did.”

You’re sinking into the bed, the weight of his hands on your lower back giving you no choice, your ass high in the air now as Seonghwa fucks you mercilessly. His voice is slurring at the edges, his words hazy like small things being tugged towards the light for the first time.

“I knew they couldn’t fuck you like I could or take care of you like I could. Just idiots, circling around you and I tried so hard to be nice. I wanted to be nice to those idiots because of you. Everything I do is because of you because I love you so much. F-fuck,” He does a particularly hard thrust and groans, “I wasn’t perfect. I knew I was doing bad things. Getting them fired from jobs. Snooping through their emails. Slashing their tires. I knew –” His breath caught, and his hands move to your ass, gripping it hard enough to leave marks. “I knew it was wrong but I couldn’t help myself. I was in love with you for so long and sometimes it’s enough to drive a man crazy.”

Seonghwa is fucking you so hard that you can’t even move. You lay against the bed, taking his cock, your eyes almost rolling into the back of your head from how it good it is. You couldn’t speak even if you wanted to. The way he’s fucking you combined with his speech is making your head utterly blank – it just feels so good. All of it feels so good. You think your tongue might be poking out from between your lips. All you know is he’s going to make you finish again.

“I’m gonna fuck you like this every night, I’m gonna – fuck. I’m gonna take care of you and I’m going to fuck you and no one is ever going to bother you again because you’re mine now. Tell me you’re mine, I want to hear you tell me.”

Using the last of your energy, you moan out, “I’m yours, I belong to you, I’m yours.”

Seonghwa grunts, giving one last thrust while going, “Now take my load in that sweet cunt of yours.”

His cum is warm in your cunt as he empties his balls, filling you up until it’s leaking out of your hole. You’re finishing again as well, perfectly in sync with your best friend. You’ve fallen on the bed, making an unholy amount of noise from the intense orgasm, completely overstimulated. Seonghwa has pulled out of your cunt, leaving a long strand of cum along your lower back as he finishes.

Your eyes are closed, feeling completely fucked out. Your tongue is heavy in your mouth; you couldn’t speak even if you wanted to. Seonghwa shifts behind you, sliding off the bed, leaving the room. A few moments later, he returns and you can feel a towel along your back, cleaning you up before he shifts, sliding closer to your body.

Seonghwa’s arms carefully wrap around you, pulling your body towards him. You curl up against his chest, eyes closing. He’s kissing the top of your head, his fingers trailing along your back in gentle touches. All his earlier energy is gone, depleted, and now he is soft and inviting.

You tilt your face to look at Seonghwa, reaching upwards to graze his jawline with your fingertips. He kisses them too. Would it be so wrong to have everything with him? To be so adored and loved with someone who has known you forever? His eyes are cutting through your defenses, nuzzling into the soft spot of your brain that should know better.

Your lips find his.

A cloud covers the moon.

You’re wearing just one of Seonghwa’s shirts, sitting on the edge of his bed in the morning light. He left twenty minutes ago to get coffee from your favourite spot, leaving you alone in his apartment.

You’re thinking about him.

You’re thinking about the soft kisses he gave you upon waking, his smile that you know so well, the way he looked shirtless in the morning light.

He had cupped your cheek, said he was going to get coffee and you felt a pang at him leaving, even for just a little while. Even just for twenty minutes.

Relief swoops through you when the front door opens, and Seonghwa calls your name. He comes down the hallway and stops in the doorway. His jacket is already removed, just wearing a hastily thrown on Star Wars t-shirt and a pair of jeans. He places one coffee cup on his dresser, running his fingers through his hair with his hand. He’s smiling, sitting down next to you.

“I missed you,” He admits bashfully, holding onto your coffee, his eyes dropping to your lap, “Should I keep it?”

Your hands are curled around the handle of the axe. You look at the blade; your reflection is distorted. He rests his chin on your shoulder, peering at you, waiting for your choice. Everything with Seonghwa is your choice because he loves you so much. He doesn’t question that you’ve been sitting in his bed, holding his axe, lost in thought.

You’ve been thinking about what is right, what’s wrong and what you want.

You kiss his forehead, and he makes a noise of contentment.

“You should keep it,” You declare, shifting the axe into his lap carefully. “Just in case.”

Seonghwa grins cheerfully.

“Yeah, just in case.”

the end.

1K notes · View notes

midnightcrush · 2 years ago

Text

sharp edges

{ series masterlist } . masterlist

☆ this series is for mature (18+) audiences. minors please do not interact with this series or this blog, thank you ☆

hyunjin x reader (f) | genre: non-idol au, painter!hyunjin au, romance with smut, slow burn, the love is obviously requited but they are fools (non-derogatory) | warnings: mc was in a toxic relationship that ended some time before the beginning of the story which left her with some residual emotional trauma, hyunjin also has a dark but mysterious past, ANGST, mutual pining, fluff, mentions of food and drinking, explicit smut, strong language, each chapter has its own individual warnings too.

On your left, a flash of orange catches your eye—you twist your neck only to witness the new guy carefully placing a mandarin orange on his side of the wooden table he shares with you. “It’s mandarin season,” he tells you very matter-of-factly, keeping his voice low while the teacher is greeting the class. “By the way, I’m Hyunjin.” After that day mandarins would never taste the same to you.

—part one: jeju mandarins —part two: light pink rose —part three: jade green photo album —part four: letters —part five: call from an australian phone number —part six: jeju mandarins (reprise) —epilogue: cashmere and forevers

#i reread this once a month at least #one of the favs #i can never remember the name #and it comes up in my feed and i read the first line #and just feel everything all over again #truly a beautifully written story

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midnightcrush · 2 years ago

Text

⚝ Verbatim

⚝ Bang Chan x (afab) Reader ⚝ 4.8k ⚝ Stories published on this blog are not exhaustively tagged for their entire content to prevent spoilers. Proceed at your own risk. — Established FWBs, free use, glasses fetishism, discipline.

❥ You both have a libido control problem around each other as it is, but when you show up at the university building with glasses for the first time, Chris becomes the human embodiment of the word unhinged.

Maybe in a little more wholesome manner than he let on.

“Good afternoon.”

Chris’ more-than-pleasant voice rang in your ear in the empty corridor, immediately causing a smile to climb on your lips.

“Good afternoon to you, too, Dr. Bang.”

“May I have a word?”

“Of course,” you responded without slowing your steps down, “It’s about our joint paper, I presume?”

“Yes,” he caught up with you and asked in a convincingly serious tone, “I was wondering if you needed any work delegated to some assistants.”

There was a reason he emphasized that particular word, of course. It was code.

The tension between you and Chris had already been dangerously building up for months, and it finally reached its peak at the autumn faculty mixer. One minute you were talking about your mutual research interests, and the next he was going down on you in the provost’s office. The orgasms you shared that night were a bit too memorable, naturally marking the beginning of your risqué visits to each other’s offices. These four walls were considered dominance zones, and whoever was the visitor had to follow one rule.

If you don’t own the key to the lock, you are the assistant.

The second you turned the corner of the desolate hall, you shoved him against the wall, and started declaring your demands.

“You stared at me a little too long at the faculty meeting this morning,” you whispered into his lips, “If you’re gonna get my pussy that wet, then you gotta come clean up your mess.”

“Are you wearing my favorite black garter?”

“Depends. Are you wearing the necklace I like so much?”

He shoved his hand inside his shirt and pulled out the long chain with a silver pendant. Your fantasies were practically flashing all over your face, and it slapped a pretty big smirk on his lips.

“I’ll stop by after class, professor,” he stressed his address.

“You’d better,” you tangled your fingers around the chain and yanked on it, “If I cum by myself, so will you, golden boy.”

As Chris watched you walk away with your heels loudly clicking on the marble floor, the only thing he could think about was what a magnificent woman you were, and whether he wasted all his luck by meeting his match three offices down at his place of work.

You were in the middle of an intense call pacing in the room when he knocked on your door an hour later.

“Sorry, professor. I heard you have some work for me?” he peeked inside your office.

Once you turned around, you noticed that Chris had actually changed, currently clad in standard douche sophomore attire with a hoodie and jeans. Anybody who didn’t know him would unmistakably confuse him with a student. He took your little routines so seriously that the way he stuck to his act was remarkable.

“Can I call you back? Okay, thank you,” you hung up and pointed at him, “Aren’t you supposed to be in class right now?”

“Yes, but I had to excuse myself.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think you perfectly know what I mean.”

He locked the door behind him and three long steps later he was right in front of you with his hands around your waist.

“You get me so excited, I get hard at the worst possible moments because of you,” he pressed his lips on your neck, “You don’t feel a shred of shame seducing your assistant, do you?”

Every time Chris kissed you, it felt like dropping a red hot branding iron on a block of ice. It didn’t even melt, it sublimated into thin air, and you hated he had this much of an effect on you.

“I cut class to see you,” his large hands slid down your ass, “Thought you might want to get your clit licked again.”

“You have a fucking problem, you know that?” you chuckled into his ear.

“Yes, I do,” he dragged your bottom lip down while licking his, “You should have thought about that before getting me fucking addicted to yourself.”

“Watch your language, Bang,” you issued a pseudo-warning and picked up the incoming call, “Hello, President Curtis. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

President Curtis?

You had indulged in pretty daring things all over the campus so far, but having sex in the almost-presence of the fucking president of the university was not one of them. Alarms immediately started going off in Chris’ head, and he started moving unbeknownst to himself. He was making you walk backwards to your desk, and once your hips hit the mahogany surface, he trapped you against it. You had nowhere to escape.

One button. Two buttons. Three buttons. Four buttons. Your breasts were now out in the open to be fondled to his heart’s content.

“Yes, we will be signing the protocol next week.”

His slightly squinted eyes were fixated on yours as one of his hands slithered between your legs to caress your pussy. Your eyelids fluttered shut when he covered his lips around your hardened nipples.

“We uh– we don’t anticipate any problems, sir.”

Chris couldn’t help his mischievous smile while sucking on the pebbled skin. You were getting distracted.

Fucking perfect.

“We can always create an addendum.”

“What a professional,” he whispered as he kneeled and pulled your pencil skirt up all the way to your waist while kissing your thighs, “God, you’re so fucking sexy in this garter.”

“Why don’t you send me an email of the revised TERMS?”

You didn’t even notice your underwear being slid to the side until you felt the warmth of his tongue on your clit, licking, licking, and licking some more, completely getting lost in your taste. You had some explaining to do to the other end of the line, but the convincing answers weren’t registering fast enough.

“Sorry, I uh– I thought I accidentally d–deleted something,” you started guiding his head to match a rhythm you enjoyed, “Yes, I’m listening.”

You were throbbing on his tongue already. Your fingers reached his neck, and you harshly yanked on his chain to make him lick you deeper. Chris was in two minds whether to make you cum like this or blow your back out while you were on the phone.

“You keep me up all night,” he spoke into your pussy loudly enough that you could feel his words all over your body, “I can’t get enough of you.”

The way you were dripping on his tongue was making him twitch in his pants, helping him make up his mind big time. He got back on his feet and bent you over your desk while unbuttoning his jeans. All he did was prod your entrance with his thick girth, but it was enough to make you noticeably raise your voice.

“I think it’s better if you SENT THIS t–to me in writing.”

“Oh fuck, that’s the stuff.”

Sliding into your sopping wet pussy so easily every damn time. Chris felt so full inside you that he didn’t even have to go hard to make your eyes roll back. The worst part was that he knew, and that was what got him so fucking cocky.

“I’ll… I’ll look it over and send it back.”

When you finally hung up the phone, that was his cue to turn you around and sit you down on your desk.

“Did you miss me, professor?” he smugly grinned at you while wrapping your legs around his waist, “Did you miss cumming around your boy wonder?”

“Someone’s horny out of his mind again,” you threw your hands around his neck and pulled him closer, “Your sorority girlfriends aren’t doing a good job satisfying you?”

“You fucking know no one compares to you.”

“Language, Bang.”

“Or what? You’re gonna punish me?” he squeezed your cheeks between his thumb and index fingers, “Are you gonna keep me here for detention making me eat your pussy again because you’d fucking better.”

Then all of a sudden he started fucking you so hard that your brain went fuzzy. You weren’t able to produce anything coherent besides the moans you were trying to suppress.

“Don’t even. You and I both know how much you like it when I go hard,” he started laughing deliriously, “Come on, baby, make a mess on me.”

With your remaining brain cells, you managed to yank on his chain again to pull him close, and Chris kissed you as hard as he could while spending you on that desk like some spare change. When he started sucking on your tongue, it was completely game over for you, but his orgasm always hit him harder than yours when you dragged your nails all over his back, tattooing abstract shapes on his skin.

“So about the paper,” you took advantage of his brain rebooting before post-nut clarity hit, “You’re cool with my name appearing first, right?”

It was grim as fuck outside with all shades of gray painting the sky, but the sight of Chris in the hallway brought a little splash of color to this bleak day. He looked so damn gorgeous as always, but he was in business attire today with his blazer and tie, probably about to charm his way through some funding committee or whatever ulterior motive he had.

“Good morning, Dr. Bang,” you called out behind him.

“Good morn—ing,” his voice trailed off when he looked to his left to face you.

You had never seen him like this before. His expression was stuck somewhere between aghast and completely awestruck, which made you utterly self-conscious for a second.

“Since when do you wear glasses?!” he finally shrieked.

“Since always,” you furrowed your brows, confused as to what he was getting so worked up about, “I forgot to buy contacts.”

Contacts. So all this time you were wearing fucking contacts when you were holding his kryptonite in a case somewhere. How fucking delightful.

Chris’ sharp features turned stern all of a sudden like he was getting angry, and he spoke in a low volume that didn’t lend itself to be heard by anyone around.

“From now on, you’re going to have these on when you spread your legs for me, got it? Non-negotiable,” he placed his hand on your arm and squeezed it.

You knew this specific tone. It only ever came out when he was getting turned on, and it involuntarily prompted your eyes to dart right to his crotch area. The strain in his slacks was so noticeable that you didn’t know whether to be surprised or laugh your ass off.

This early in the morning? Really?

“I finished the translations you asked for,” you showed him the folder in your hand.

“Uh huh.”

“We can go over them today if you want.”

“Uh huh.”

“You’re not even hearing anything I say right now, are you?”

“Not even a single word.”

Chris was just staring at your face like he was hypnotized, and it was so damn obvious he was playing some messed up fantasy in his inner mind theater. You had to admit though, you had never seen his brain short-circuit in real time before, and it was simply too much fun to witness.

“For fuck’s sake, my office. Now,” he held your wrist in a death grip and started dragging you towards the end of the hall, “You’re gonna be my allegedly shy pervert RA today.”

Again. This early in the morning? Because of some fucking glasses?

Really?!

He basically shoved you inside the room and tried his best to calm down his panting as he locked the door behind him. Then as if nothing happened, he walked to his desk and sat down on his chair comfortably.

“Did you finish the translations I assigned you?”

“Yyup. As I was saying—”

“I beg your fucking pardon?”

Oh, shit.

Chris was very particular about being in character. He was looking at you with such a death glare that you didn’t have it in you to retort with something funny. This side of him… It was always a delight to witness.

It excited you.

“Y-yes, Dr. Bang,” you bowed your head in quasi-embarrassment and sat down on the seat in front of him.

“That’s more like it,” he leaned back and sized you up, “We need to know our place, don’t we?”

You placed the folder you were holding onto for dear life on the desk and thought about this intimidating version of Chris for a while. It was his preferred persona within these walls. A control freak that got off on the prospect of punishment whereas Chris in real life was one of the most pleasant people you’d ever seen.

The contrast was fascinating, really.

“I learned some interesting facts during my research, you know,” you softly uttered while playing with your fingers.

“Such as?”

“Such as how sacred a Pharaoh’s semen was. Amulets and potions were created from it to use as a form of medicine,” you finally found the courage to look right into his eyes, “Did you know Ancient Egyptians punished adultery with death, but group sex was an acceptable practice?”

“It’s also rumored that Cleopatra herself created the first vibrator by filling a gourd with buzzing bees,” Chris informed you while swiveling in his chair, “One hell of a woman if you ask me.”

He was smiling at you, but it was overshadowed by something sinister. You smiled back.

“You think we could apply for funding for an excavation?”

“You can’t even look me in the eye and ask me to eat your pussy, but you want to go on an erotic excavation with me?” he scoffed, extremely entertained, “Indiana Jonesing for some adventure?”

“I’m just saying it wouldn’t be the worst thing if Lara Croft and Indiana Jones collabed for once,” you shrugged as nonchalantly as you could manage, “I’m assuming you’re familiar with Dr. Jones’ choice of weapon?”

“A whip,” he responded but couldn’t help his smile growing wider, “Am I to infer something from this?”

“Maybe you should.”

“Are you trying to seduce me?”

“I think try is a bit redundant here.”

This. This was how Chris knew you two were a perfect match. Any ball he would serve at you, you would slam it back to his court, and he got an inexplicable kick out of it.

“Being a teacher’s pet is about to come in so fucking handy for you,” he chortled and spread his legs wide in his chair, “Why don’t you come closer?”

You stood up and slowly walked towards him like you were in a trance, holding his gaze all the while. You took the liberty of sitting on his desk, and Chris pulled his chair closer. To touch you. To appreciate you. To properly play with you. His first move was obviously to spread your legs wider, and he was more than satisfied with the sight before his eyes.

“Wet,” he swiped his thumb on the moist trail on your underwear, “Did you touch yourself without permission this week?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I didn’t!” you protested, “That’s why I may be a bit… too excited.”

He was trying his best to restrain himself and just admire you, but you looking down at him with huge eyes, licking your lips in anticipation, legs spread, palms pressing on the desk, and wearing those glasses…

Oh fuck, the glasses…

Chris was so hard already, but he wasn’t going to pass up on the opportunity to tease the shit out of you. He hooked his fingers behind the fabric of your underwear and pulled it down in slow motion just to kiss your pussy. It was barely contact, but you did not lie to him. Chris being extra enthusiastic indeed got you too excited.

“Moan any louder, and the whole damn building will know what we’re doing in here,” he looked at you threateningly, “Nothing’s going to happen to me, but you will lose your scholarship. Is that what you want?”

“No, Dr. Bang.”

He placed prolonged kisses on your labia and mound but nowhere wet. Nowhere that would give you gratification. When the teasing got a bit too much, you instinctively moved closer to his mouth for some friction.

“No,” he firmly declined and pressed his hands down on your thighs to keep your from moving.

“Please.”

“Behave.”

“Please lick me.”

You suddenly felt a smack on your ass, and it sizzled so good that you couldn’t help the moan that spilled from your lips.

“I said behave and that’s an order. I don’t like repeating myself,” he menacingly spoke and squinted his eyes, “I think we need to go over your training today.”

Chris pulled his first drawer open and handed you a small folder. You knew it contained the original texts of the Ancient Egyptian poems you had translated for an actual presentation.

“When I take you to the conference with me next month this is exactly what’s going to happen. I’m going to be between your legs the whole time,” he wrapped his hands around your thighs, “You’re going to translate these for me out loud. No messing up, no moaning, and strictly no cumming if you’re not ready to face the consequences. Am I making myself clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good thing I skipped breakfast today,” he knowingly smiled and lowered his head between your legs, “Begin.”

It was so fucking hard to keep your wits intact when he started eating your pussy in earnest. His tongue glided in all the right places. His lips sucked on you exactly where you liked them. Your clit. Your folds. All the way down to your entrance to languidly fuck you with it.

But you had a mission to complete, and you needed to complete it now.

“You messed up,” Chris stopped all of a sudden and stared daggers at you, “What the fuck did I say about messing up?”

You bit on your lips semi-scared because Chris was always a bit too convincing with his threats. He unlocked his second drawer and picked up the bullet vibrator that actually belonged to you. You tried to muffle your moans when he pushed it into your dripping hole and turned it on. It could be somehow manageable if he left it like that, but if he started fucking you with it, you were fucking doomed.

Thankfully, all you received was an order.

“From the top.”

You refocused on the document in your hand and started over.

“I wish I were her Nubian slave who guards her steps. Then I would be able to see the color of all her limbs. I wish I were her laundryman just for a single month. Then I would flourish by donning her garment and be close to her body. I would wash away the unguent from her clothes and wipe my body in her dress. I wish I were the signet ring which guards her finger, then I would see her desire every day.”

“Very good,” he kissed your clit, “Gold star.”

He pulled the bullet out and sucked it clean while looking right into your eyes. It was torture in itself because watching those lips always did things to you. Chris unbuckled his belt while reclining in his chair and flashed his perfectly hardened cock for you. You gulped at the sight.

“Come sit on it,” he extended his hand to you.

You stepped down from his desk and settled on him. The way he stretched you was never not going to be fucking delicious even though you felt this way too many times already.

“Continue, baby.”

He was snugly fit in your deepest spot already, but he didn’t make a move to fuck you. He spread your legs instead and started to lazily rub clit while softly kissing all over your neck.

“I wish I were your mirror so that you always looked at me. I wish I were your garment so that you would always wear me. I wish I were… I were the water… that w–washes your bo— Oh, fuck!”

You felt a sudden slap on your pussy.

“You messed up again,” Chris spoke with palpable annoyance in his voice, “Are you doing it on purpose?”

“N-no, sir.”

“You know I have a thing for bad girls,” his hands groped your breasts as he whispered into your ear, “Are you trying to get me to punish you?”

“No, sir.”

“Then you know the drill,” he placed the tiniest of kisses on your earlobe, “From the top.”

The difference was that he had now started fucking into you, and it was almost impossible not to melt into him. You were cursing a mouthful at how he exactly knew all your hot spots. He kissed them. He touched them. His mouth was on your hardened nipples as if the torture itself wasn’t fucking enough.

“I wish I were your mirror so that you always looked at me. I wish I were your garment so that you would always wear me. I wish I were the water that washes your body. I wish I were the unguent, O Woman, that I could anoint you. And the band around your breasts, and the beads around your neck. I wish I were your sandal that you would STEP ON ME!”

Chris had lured you to the brink of insanity so very slowly that it wasn’t even noticeable until you looked down and saw an ocean of hellfire under your feet. It was still the very early hours of the day, but you were absolutely in love with how eager he was already just pleasuring you.

“I know I forbade you from moaning, but you sound fucking amazing,” he inhaled a lungful of your scent from your neck and put more pressure on your clit, “Do you like it when I do that?”

“It feels too good.”

“Too good,” he echoed in your ear then started fucking you faster, “You’re slipping.”

“Yes.”

“What did I say about cumming?”

“I don’t CARE!”

And that was all he needed to hear from you. Chris licked his fingers for more lubricant on your pussy, and combined with the fullness inside you, it didn’t take much to snap you violently around him.

“Enjoying ourselves, are we?” he chuckled against your neck, “You came so quick.”

“I’ve been waiting for this the whole week,” you broke into a fucked-stupid laughter.

“Then thank me.”

“Thank you, Dr. Bang.”

“Properly,” he squeezed your thighs, “Give me a kiss.”

He pulled your chin towards himself and kissed you deep, inadvertently moaning into your mouth. What could you do but reciprocate, really?

“But I told you I don’t like repeating myself, didn’t I? I told you not to cum if you weren’t ready to face the consequences,” he quietly threatened, suddenly wrapping his fingers around your neck, “Are you gonna behave like a girl who knows how to fucking say thank you, or do I have to make you?”

He wouldn’t do that. You knew for a fact that he wouldn’t do that, but Chris was so damn good at playing pretend that it was the fact that you could never be sure that got you keep coming for more.

“Apologize.”

“I’m so sorry,” you genuinely begged pardon, “Please let me make it up to you?”

You clenched around him as hard as you could, and even that much was enough to relax him and shut him up. It was kinda cute that he still tried to keep up his attitude.

“I might let you,” he fondled your breasts, “What’s the magic word?”

“Please?”

“Are you asking me or are you telling me?”

“Please.”

“There you go,” he stole a kiss from your lips, “On your knees.”

His crotch was wet and sticky through and through with you. When you took position between his legs, you noticed how fucking hard he was; so hard that you could see the bulging veins on his cock perfectly. You took him in your mouth and started tracing every single vein with your tongue.

“God, you’re so damn beautiful,” he tangled his fingers in your hair, “I fucking hate how you’re exceptional in areas more than one.”

“Then why don’t you give me a detailed breakdown of your grading rubric?” you involuntarily chuckled.

“So competitive,” he bit into his smirk, “Anything to keep her S-Class gold star status.”

The more he guided your head, the more he melted in your mouth. The way he was groaning and relaxing into his chair with his eyes closed was getting you more enthused over pleasuring him better.

“Incredible technique. Excellent use of tongue. Suction on point,” he acknowledged matter-of-factly, “But could use work on depth.”

The second he uttered those words, you started deepthroating him, and Chris threw his head back, moaning a bit too loudly for his own good.

“Shit, never mind.”

“Too much?” you giggled in between your ministrations, which only earned you a yank on your hair.

“Do you want to fucking fail?”

“No, sir,” you replied albeit without a trace of intimidation, still grinning at the reaction you were able to elicit from him.

“Then don’t fucking stop.”

You were absolutely going to town on him, sucking him as hard as you could to extract all his precum out of him. Chris’ moans were shapeshifting into something very dangerous, and it was getting more and more apparent that he was about to dissolve in your mouth.

“Yes. Oh god, yes!” he throatily moaned, “Get up. I’m gonna finish inside you.”

As crass as that sounded, you were never safe from getting attacked by his kisses. As wet as they could be. Full of passion. Full of lust. And maybe a tinge of something else stuffed in there, too.

“Bend over. If you mess up one more time, I’m not responsible for what’s going to happen to you,” he turned you around and pressed on your lower back to make you arch your ass for him, “From the top.”

Chris didn’t even give you a chance to adjust to his girth. After ramming himself in, he started fucking you so hard that you were barely in a position to utter comprehensible sentences, let alone translate ancient texts. You tried your utmost best to recollect your poise to be able to at least offer a few sentences.

“My desire is not yet quenched by your love, My wanton little jackal cub. My lust for you I cannot forgo, Though I be beaten and driven off”

“From the top.”

You didn’t mess up this time, but still… He wanted you to start over for some reason. He grabbed the bullet discarded on his desk and pressed it on your clit, not helping your already disheveled situation in the slightest.

“My desire is not yet quenched by your love…”

“From the top.”

“My desire is not yet quenched…”

“From the top!”

“My… desire… is not… CHRIS!!!”

You came so hard around him that Chris had no choice but to let go. You could feel the sheer volume of his load inside you, all warm and wet, and you were simply in love with it. Even after you extracted the last drop out of him, he didn’t pull out and plopped down on his chair while pulling you with him. You rested your head on his shoulder while attempting to come back to your senses.

“God, that was fucking amazing,” you managed to utter with a small voice.

You felt how his lips curled into a smile on your skin. Chris kissed your neck, then nudged you to get up so that he could sit you down on his desk and spread your cum-dripping thighs apart.

“What are you doing?”

“We’re not even slightly done,” he looked up at you, “What are you doing after work today?”

“I uh– I don’t have any plans.”

“Wanna come over?”

You were indulging in these workplace escapades for months on end at that point, but this was the very first time Chris had expressed his desire to carry this outside. He was actually inviting you to his bedroom rather than pursuing a thrill with you.

Your heart swelled in your chest all of a sudden.

“I’d love to,” you smiled at him.

He reciprocated the warm and fuzzy feelings first, then promptly proceeded to make you fully lie down on your back on his desk.

“Sing love songs to me again while I worship you,” he took position between your legs to lick you clean, “From the top, baby.”

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Nacific pictures dropped. No other reason really.

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