#arcane viktor x f! reader

[thehistoriangirl]

The Tides Have Veiled [Fifteen]

Viktor x Fem! Reader-----/Gothic AU/Haunted Sea/---5K----SFW*

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Synopsis:  Piltover the Old has an old lighthouse that looms over an abandoned port. From the house in the wailing cliff’s edge, the lighthouse owner watches that the beacon is being lighten up each time darkness arrives, so that monsters wouldn't dare to crawl inland, or so legends say. Both buildings are haunted, maybe even the man himself, by both past and present ghosts. Surprisingly, the keeper’s work is beyond turning on the beacon every night— but the rest is on you to discover.

Chapter Summary: You see the world beyond the veil, though something is lurking beneath...

Tags: Strangers to Lovers | Ghosts | Slow Burn | Some Lore | Mentions of Blood* | Mentions of Death* | Sorry for the ending 😬 | There are surely typos but I caught a cold so go easy on me pls

Taglist: @lunar-monster @local-mr-frog @bittercyder @blissfulip @ihopeinevergetsoberr

Fifteen: Cold Embrace

There was a moment in the night when the world painted grey lead, almost transformed into a ghostly realm, blurry lines between the mist floating above the sea and the infinite sky. Barely the sketch of a world.

It was when the veil between worlds thinned enough for the spirits to crawl into ours, and for you to enter theirs.

If you so wished, of course. And you longed for it every night, thinking about what you would wish to say to the woman who gave up on life as soon as she created a little one. Why didn't she take you with her?

Why the sea refused, again and again, and again, to claim you. Too starving of revenge and the blood of this forgotten town, and yet, only those closer to you kept dying.

The image flashed, as quick as lightning. Cold sand pressed against your back, small pebbles trying to incrust inside your skin, the rotten stench of death as the sharp edge of a rusty knife pierced the surface at barely centimeters away from your cheek.

“If the water won’t claim you,” a voice said, face covered with thin, soaked blonde hair. The woman took the handle of the weapon with her broken fingers, nails black and long as she pulled the knife off the sand to raise it above her head. You gasped at the sight of half-eaten grey skin, barnacles, and moss growing on the hard edges of the bone. "Blood will. And how much blood I'm going to draw…"

The knife sang against the air, falling with mastery toward your heart.

By the time you tiptoed your way back to the beacon room, the rain had died down to a breeze; freezing wind sneaking its way through the boarded window. Such opposite of the warm embrace of your now not-so-fake husband—that if his gentle kisses were proof concrete enough.

Though tearing yourself away from the warm embrace of the couch and the sweater Viktor thrown over you was almost a herculean task, but you didn’t wish for him to cover your duty, though by now your rest had been disturbed by the recurrent nightmare, better said, the recurrent memory.

Your weeks as the keeper had turned you nocturnal, another spirit keeping watch by the cliff—a chill running down your spine when you realized you weren't that different from the other ghosts roaming the coast, wailing at the foot of the cliff.

Except today, it seemed. Just as everything seemed different with him around.

Viktor was posted by the uncovered section of the glass, his cane leaned against the wall, a figure so still you thought you were still dreaming, that he had become a new prop of your foolishness at imagining that last night had been real.

A mask melting into the disgusting face of the bloated woman. Another knife was hidden inside the handle of his cane.

"Viktor?" Your voice broke the stillness of the early morning, the fuzzy edges of the world becoming solid once his golden gaze broke between the foggy morning like a victorious sun.

Your steps were annoyingly noisy against the creaky wooden floor of the beacon room, the cold, salty air filtering through the boards as the roaring of the sea dwindled to a simple, constant growl.

“You should’ve woken me,” you said, eyeing the disarray on the table; with open journals and yellowish pages scattered everywhere, tiny, and hurried calligraphy strangely familiar. “Keeping watch isn’t your job.”

His cane tapped against the floor when he turned toward you, a sheepish smile on his face. "It's been a while since I got to see this view." Long, sinewy fingers traced the length of the boards, as if the view he was referring to had been now carved into the wood instead of appearing in the wild. "Accompany me. We need to retrieve some tools from the house today.”

Why he had been by the window all night? If certainly the seascape was stunning during dawn, by night everything was just a world of mist and darkness.

"Did you see her?" you muttered once out of the lighthouse tower; fingers still freezing over the door bolt before pulling out the lock. Part of you hoped you didn't have to say who—not only because of the uncertainty, but also the dread of voicing it, such action pushing the memory of it not like a dream coated in guilt and frenzy, but a real affliction.

Viktor called your name, metal shrieking with accumulated rust once he pulled the gate open. "There's a legend," he trod with caution, words stumbling against each other once the house's façade started looming on the horizon. "About her."

“Well, what is it?”

He smiled at your interest, opening the door of the house that always remained unlocked while he beckoned you inside a spotless foyer. Almost eclipsing the scene, you saw upon your return to the city. If it weren’t…

Everything could be done with step following another, and another; as easy as that, as you’ve done all your life—as you got near your uncle’s funeral.

But then, the pull.

You stood like an alien on the threshold, noticing the elongated shadows seeming to devour any trace of sunlight that could enter through the open door. The silence was broken only by the waves down the beach.

“Miss, we ought not to talk about it here, unless we wish to summon them,” Viktor said, leaning closer to you to whisper such words that left goosebump flesh to crawl up your arms. “That’s what all ghost stories say, does it not?”

No, it wasn’t a pull. It was a gaze.

Old and unmerciful and unwavering, coming from the empty corner down the first floor’s hall. There where only the amorph shadow of the dissected mermaid had been once.

Was it her? Was hers the cave you discovered yesterday? Was she—

"Then, when do we talk about what's happening in here?" you whispered, hoping your front of bravery would be enough for the house to stop staring at you with the feeling of inferiority blooming out of your chest. "I’m tired of thinking I’m out of my mind. I don’t want to run anymore. Because ignoring it won’t make it go away.”

Just like you pretended those muddy footsteps were a result of your vivid imagination. Barely daring to remember there here, where the horror had taken place—though you had to admit it hadn’t been the worst.

His eyes darkened, from sunny to burned honey. Viktor passed next to you, side-gazing the staircase up to the first set of stairs toward where his underground office was located. His fingers surrounded one of your wrists, pulling you away from the entrance and into the depths of the house.

His back and open coat brought you protection as he guided you toward the kitchen, covered from the gaze you were sure was still piercing his back.

“In open waters, where nobody else but ourselves can hear,” he whispered, pulling back in such a swift move you were almost convinced his words had been a delusion. “Alright. I'll bring the notebooks to my bedroom desk. Can you bring the books on the table down to my office?” He pointed toward the first-floor hallway. “I need to pack lightly for this excursion.” Viktor chuckled. “The boat isn’t that big, and now I’ll have company…”

Now was the cave, but before had been those damned footsteps, mocking outlines of a presence that shouldn't be there—and you weren't sure if you preferred it to be a simple joke from Viktor or an intruder from town.

Why had Viktor decided to make you company in the lighthouse? It went further than empathy, or even, the craving of being closer to each other when the whole world faded. But the starlight sphere hadn’t been built yet. And while shadows rested for their hauntings, you could wander freely.

You remembered the stagnant air filling your nose as you hoped your uncle to pass by after their break inside Viktor’s house, fearing the vivid memory would materialize into his ghost again.

Or whoever would be wearing his face this time.

 “I—I would prefer to go for the books on the second floor, so you won’t climb too many stairs,” you said, your face hot once you met Viktor’s attentive gaze, an eyebrow elegantly arched. “Not to be meddlesome, of course.”

Viktor nodded, a half-smirk pulling his lips. “If you say so." He hummed, taking some keys out of his pockets; between all the golden, the one to open the underground office was big and heavy, silver, and with a slight tint of green from rust. “I’ll see you by the office, then.”

His steps quickly disappeared, your curiosity peaking as you climbed the stairs, almost picturing the rainy night you had met him, so many weeks ago.

Perhaps you’d be more familiar with the house if this marriage were conventional—if this house were conventional, too, without charged silences and acute shadows looming around the corners.

Without muddy footsteps guiding the way toward Viktor’s room.

He didn’t have any servants employed on the daily, with dusty corners and spiderwebs growing from the small crevices between the wall lamps and the roof. Excepting the quiet cook who came once a week to deliver food, Viktor lived all alone.

Until you, perhaps.

You would never know how he could stand it, the endless, empty hallways, still corners as if waiting for something to break such consistency with a humanoid shadow suspended above the ground. Such a big house, so lonesome.

Many corners watching your every move, so many shadows lurking nearby. It was maddening, as if you were a prey expecting to be hunted at every turning corner.

And then, it was your shabby cabin, too small for five people and yet, just as solitary.

Cursed or not, the walls are always whispering, bleeding the time it has seeped into them when the wallpaper isn’t changed regularly. The dark spots of humidity, creaky floors, and shrieking doors.

This house was alive, just like a guardian for its secrets, and right now, you were an intruder.

Would there be a place where you weren’t one?

Viktor’s door was unlocked when you entered, the familiar, cold handle quickly turning. Inside, everything was untouched, as you would expect a hostel’s room to look. So… abandoned.

The morning sun painted the white walls light yellow, staining your vision that was now so used to the dim orangey hues from the oil lamps lined up along the hallway. His bed was kept, blankets tucked neatly under the pillows that you know smelled like him; old pages of books, coffee beans, and the marine breeze filtering through the window.

With careful strides, wishing not to disturb the quietness of the place that was cut only by your slow breaths.

There it was his desk, the pile of papers and notebooks with wrinkly edges covering the wooden surface. Absentminded, your fingers passed through the pages, observing ink stains seeping through the reverse of its surface, crossed-out words gone unreadable. Diagrams of different sea creatures signaling with arrows are parts you couldn't make sense of.

Except… these… some of these drawings were familiar, or illustrations you'd found in the tales' books your grandparents kept by the side of your cot. Mermaids—all kinds of creatures with human heads, arms, and torsos, yet infinite classes of lower half.

Click. You heard, the hairs in your nape raising once the door in front of his bedroom started creaking.

Wood wept as the darkness spilled into the hallway, acute shadows seeming to lurk closer. His notebooks crackled when you pressed them against your chest in a stupid attempt to soothe your frenetic heartbeat.

Curtains were drawn, windows boarded; the inside of the adjacent room looked like a dark maw. You wished to tear your gaze away from the void, but curiosity prickled your brain, wishing to guess which amorph figures you could peek from the shadows.

Which one was the cause of your horrors?

You got closer to the hallway—you didn’t have another way to walk toward the exit, taking steps backward steps in an attempt not to turn your back to the darkness.

From the poor illumination from the oil lamp next to the door, you observed the outlines of a four-poster bed, a thin veil covering the mattress to protect it from the dust that permeated the forgotten, locked-away room.

 It was then when your gaze flashed down, gaze focused on the large, solid mass of shadows sitting at the edge of the bed, half-body tucked inside the veil.

Your feet stumbled, almost tripping by the wrinkled edge of the carpet; knees converted into molten wax.

A trail of mud looked like drying blood inside the room, ending at the foot of the bed.

The sketch of a humanoid figure—the ghost bared its teeth in a lazy grin. Human teeth.

The air got stuck on its way out of your lips.

But no, you have pledged enough mercy that night at the cave, and you knew ghosts would be restless anyhow, as unmerciful as the heartbroken wails from the cliff.

You felt the heavy weight of the shell in the depths of your pocket, a somewhat comforting presence when your hands slid along the wallpaper wall, cold and rugged by time, to touch the level of the sconce.

Light filled the room like a yellowish afternoon, showing you a bedroom that was probably decorated by and for a young woman. With its tall closet and books collecting dust, discolored bedsheets covering what appeared to be a lounging couch posted by the window. A vanity whose mirror had been missed.

Covered with a soft-looking cotton blanket decorated with a knitted pattern of flowers laid the mattress, ruffles of lavender fabric covering the rest until it grazed slightly against the wooden floor. And yet despite all the details, no matter how hard your eyes tried to scan the surface, the bed remained empty.

Though a mark was half hidden beneath the ruffles, like a mocking gesture.

The outline of a footprint, still wet and muddy staining the fabric’s edge.

Newly made.

Swallowing a lump down your throat, which could be both panic and nausea, you held your breath while taking the door’s knob, cold and solid and grounding.

I won’t fear anymore. You thought, knuckles white from your forceful grasp. I won’t fear anymore.

Accommodating Viktor’s notebooks under your arm, you ran your finger to meet with the light’s flick, the movement more unconscious than you'd imagined as your finger simply ran down the button's surface to fill the room with shadows once again.

Instinct called you to look at the bed once again, which remained empty.

Yet still, while you closed the door with a slam, the hairs around your face moved by the breeze, accompanied by a distinctive human sigh.

It smelled like stagnant air, like the rotten stench of death.

When you tore your hand away from the knob, your fingers were stained with mud and traces of coagulated blood. An ominous mark, and an open challenge, perhaps.

It hadn’t been disgust. It wasn't a lack of bravery that made you dash down the stairs either, but the feeling that preceded closely behind after the sound dragged too long and with an impossible origin in this solitary hallway. Chills covered your skin with goosebumps, the heavy feeling of your nausea climbing up your empty stomach, the sick sensation of someone—something—watching you close.

Mid-way to the first landing, you started humming, a coping mechanism you developed since your uncles loved to tell you horror stories. To let your mind wander, filled with a long-forgotten song you tried to resurrect. Hum the same song in a loop until your brain tired itself out, forcing you to slumber.

This time, an echo answered your unconscious call for a duet once you stepped onto the ground floor, the sound floating along the wood, originating from under the door next to Viktor’s office.

“Viktor?” you muttered, though the voice wasn’t the same. It was a childish attempt to conceal the fear that this house enjoyed tied into your ankles and arms, like a puppet.

And right now, the house wanted you to play, prickling your curiosity enough to open the door. The locked door whose key remained inside the breast pocket of Viktor’s coat, the closed door that upon your intense gaze wasn’t locket at all, lock rusty and empty, yet not sealed.

Perhaps this one would also open unexpectedly if you hovered nearby long enough.

If you want to know, open this door, the house told you, making its walls loom closer, to trap you inside this moment when the sun hid behind a cloud, perhaps fearful of what your decision would be.

Open it. Open it. Open it.

You stood in front of it, torn between going down the known path, where Viktor’s door pooled light under the door, safe company, or following this one where the cold breeze came from. The door looked back at your indecision, impassive and old. All-knowing.

Open it. Open it. Open it. Don’t you want to know if you’re crazy? If you’re both crazy?

With your jaw clenched, you hugged Viktor’s notes closer to your chest, a sharp inhale as if you were about to dive underwater.

I know you won’t dare to open it, you coward little girl.

The iron was freezing to the touch; the slight creak between the floor and the door filtered cool air toward your legs, around your ankles like a lasso—which made you aware that this wasn’t a sealed room.

What was on the other side?

I know you won’t dare to open it, you coward little girl.

THUNK.

“Miss, what are you doing?” Viktor said when he saw you running down the steps of his office, hands pressed against the door as if a monster were trying to enter. “Are you alright?”

“Viktor,” you breathed, feeling your legs shake from the strain and the adrenaline still coursing through your veins. “Viktor, what is this?” you said, tumbling down the stairs and pushing the mermaid’s diagrams on top of the desk.

Viktor looked at you with wide eyes, some hairs prickling his forehead when he shook his head. “Pardon? Were you looking into my things?”

“Of course not,” your rebuttal was sharp and dry, humorless. “These are the notes you wanted to retrieve for the expedition. Why?”

He started by calling your name, but this wasn’t time to play with niceties. It wasn’t the first time you were haunted in this house—much less in this damned town; your old shell as a scared person had slowly been replaced by a harder, boldest one.

Viktor sighed, rubbing his right temple. “It’s… complicated,” he ventured. Words died in his mouth when he looked away in shame. "I don't think you'd believe me."

You extended your left hand, showing him the rest of the mud and blood starting to peel off. "If you believed me, why shouldn't I believe you?"

His eyes traveled toward your fingers extended toward him, his hand swiftly enveloping your stained digits with his own, dismissed the idea of caring about getting his hand dirty. You saw his expression shift; knitted eyebrows and a slightly clenched jaw, lips pressed on a line.

“Come with me,” Viktor said, standing from the desk and grabbing a valise that looked both full and heavy. “Let’s get out of this house.”

The afternoon was fading away when you helped Viktor push a fishing boat toward the shallow waters of the beach, almost not feeling the freezing weight of the water lapping at your ankles for the tall boots you decided to wear.

Your tummy was full of an extensive meal, arms burning from the effort of a whole day full of duties, feeling the rattling of the wooden boat scrapping the rocks in your bones.

“It’s ready,” Viktor grunted, ignoring the beads of sweat running down his forehead. “I’ll help you up first.” He extended his hand toward you, using it as leverage for you to step into the wobbling surface of the vessel. “There you go.” He used his upper body strength to sit against the edge of the boat, using your arms to rotate himself inside it, only putting down his legs over what would be his seat for the rest of the expedition.

The lighthouse waved you goodbye when you started paddling, wanting to keep the motor in case of emergency—besides, Viktor had said that the rain would come only after sundown.

"This is the fishing boat of Mr. Calis," you told him, passing your hands over the half-scrapped-down painting of its name Norina. It was, better put since Mr. Calis had died years ago.

“Yes. I bought it from his son when Mr. Calis moved with him to the city,” Viktor said. “It’s said to be the only fishing boat that didn’t suffer losses even during the fishing shortage years ago.”

You remembered, around ten years ago when your grandma told you that story while you promised you wouldn't repeat it.

It happened when she was still young, blessed with a reliable memory. Like all the other families from Piltover the Old, they must carry the familiar tradition of fishing as the only job people from this town could have—they were favored by the mermaids, or so the legends said.

And yet, all that terrible winter brought were merciless storms, destructive floods, and blobs of rotten fish washed ashore. All unconsumable, all unsellable.

It went for all winter, using the arrival of spring as an excuse to offer tribute to the sea, a custom you could still appreciate from the elders' survivors of the town leaving offerings at the foot of the cliff, washed away by the sea.

"People said he cut half the catch of each day and dumped it overboard in open waters," you hummed, just like your grandma did when she reached that part of the tale. "To feed the mermaids that helped him fill his nets."

“This town had always been tied to mermaids," Viktor said, enjoying the view of the lighthouse making itself smaller and smaller, a thin veil of fog starting to cover the sea as the sky turned dark blue. "Its designation as the largest, richest fishing zone all along this coast; it's downfall, and now even its remains are still tied to it."

“That’s why you’re interested in mermaids?”

"Yes," Viktor said, his body leaning backward and onwards with each forceful paddle, the tides growing impatient by the calling of the full moon that could barely peek down at you from between the thick clouds. "Many scientists still don't understand what phenomenon occurs in these waters. How there are so many flashing floodings, uneven patterns of raining seasons, and, well, this." Viktor signaled around you, the world becoming blurry and grey in the middle of the mist. "Look over there, where the sun dipped down."

With his cold hand, he guided your chin toward the west, where the continuous path of mist broke with a blue patch of sky.

“Is that…?” But it couldn’t be.

Viktor nodded. "The night sky. Nobody knows why only this part of the beach fills with fog and storms at night. There are dozens of papers theorizing about it, but alas, nothing is concrete yet."

“And do you think this is the product of mermaids?”

“There was a brutal hunting episode near this shore,” Viktor gestured to where the lighthouse was observing them like a gargantuan cyclops with its unwavering gaze, golden like its owner. “Folklore says that the fishermen killed mermaids once their revenues plummeted at the sudden shortage of fish—their pact with the mermaids already broken. But scientists say they killed large mammals instead, perhaps manatees. Such massacre would've created an unbalance in the ecosystem that still affects us today."

You paddled quicker once the night sky grazed you with its twinkling stars, a clean fabric of navy blue where the moon looked so big and full you could almost extend your hand and cup it, letting her tint you with its silver hues, to make you all moonlight. Perhaps that way you could float away from the dreary coast, always grisly and hopeless with its freezing rain that had seeped your bones with the same disillusion.

“Of course, that doesn’t explain the meteorological phenomena surrounding the town, either why there are people who refuse to leave it despite its conditions,” Viktor continued, stretching the sore muscles of his back once you broke over the unfoggy, calm open waters.

“Maybe they can’t,” you replied, your mind lost in the memories of your trip to the city.

Viktor gazed at you, seemingly thinking the same in the way he nodded, lips ajar as if trying to say something else.

“Perhaps they can’t,” he agreed, voice barely above a whisper. “His name was Gavin. Gavin Stell. He built the house—and many say, he haunts the house.”

You felt cold despite the layers of clothes you had wrapped yourself into, the marine breeze making you believe the ghost was still behind you, whispering things into your ear.

“A man covered in mud…”

Viktor nodded. "He died inside his house during the devastating first flooding. Thinking his house was high enough that nothing would happen to him, he boarded the windows and sealed the doors to prevent the water from entering; and yet, she still found him and claimed him and the house. They had been the highest tides ever recorded; around sixty feet tall and seventy feet in range—of course, many say folklore exaggerated them. There’s no way to know for sure.” Viktor took the anchor and let it sink overboard once you were all surrounded by inky waters. “His spirit is locked inside the house, wanting his revenge from the mermaids that made his most precious project go to waste.”

You bit your lip, tasting the copper stench of your blood. The words were too scary to let out. This is real. That night was real. “Then the woman on the beach is a mermaid, perhaps? The one he’s trying to take revenge on?”

 “No. Mermaids can’t be ghosts because they have no soul, no real body that remains after death.”

“But… the one in the museum—”

“It’s a fake. A wonder of mythical taxonomy, but it’s made up with human rests and other marine animals to match. It was discovered years after the flooding and after Gavin’s death. I suppose it was the last reason to abandon any hope to recover Piltover the Old’s once splendor.”

“That’s why you say you’re cursed?” you mumbled now that his attentive gaze was drawn away from yours, his fingers expertly aligning bottles to collect the bioluminescence algae and the water. “Because if so—and I know this may not help at all—but we’re all a bit cursed, too. But maybe together we can find a way to get out of the mist for good.” Shyly, you took the small tests he handed you, scribbling down what he instructed you to label them correctly and put them inside the box made of wood and leather.

Viktor tried to smile, observing the calm water that started to form foam with bioluminescent blue and green, ready to scoop part of it into his sterile bottle. "I've lost count of how many times I've tried, that I'm trying not to get my hopes high, Miss. The sea is unforgiven, and it seems that I still owe too much for her to let me go."

You stayed quiet for a moment after that, not knowing how to feel, or what to say. You felt it, too. The tug at the bottom of your heart that called to look out the window, even now, challenged your best senses to look directly down into the abyss. To watch and tell her, I’m here.

"Mermaids may have no soul, but where do you think all those people killed by the sea went?" Viktor's question surprised you, his profile bathed in moonlight while his eyes squinted in focus toward the coast that had been left behind. "Sometimes, I think that they're, perhaps, in the mist that surrounds the town at night."

That she had taken too much from you, to confront her; sinking into the green-blue waters and glaring into its unbounded limits.

I’m here. What more do you want from me? You thought, settling another sample of bioluminescence inside the chest and dipping your hand into the water to erase a blotch of ink from staining your sweater.

"But then, why do they haunt us?" you whispered, the ghost wearing your uncle's face appearing in your mind. Your eyes locked into the water to try erase such happening from your memory.

What more do you want to take to let me be free?

From the infinite black of the ocean's waters, you saw a glimpse of white move below the boat, pale and quick and giant like lightning.

The boat rippled, with Viktor almost lost balance while trying to catch his cane about to fall overboard.

“Vikt—" you started, looking at him with eyes wide with terror, your grasp on his shoulders forceful and your breathing so quick it was creating clouds of steam from the lower temperature creeping into the night. “There’s something under the boat…”

From under the boat, you saw the flash again, a large, massive eye peeking from under the ocean surface directly at you.

A scream bubbled up its way out your throat, drowned by the sudden movement of the water below swaying violently to the side, toppling the boat upside down.

Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist! And what do YOU think is lurking beneath! 🤗💙🤍

[ihopeinevergetsoberr]

A quick meal

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

word count: 1,5k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But not all wishes were meant to be fulfilled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Save the swearing,” utters the pretty tempter.

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

“That vocabulary is only appropriate for an orgasm.”

[autumnalmoons]

Truth or deal (sfw)

this was hard to figure out kldjfjf perhaps i'll do a second part with explicit rating, but for now :D

Viktor x fem!Reader | 1.4K

Notes: Academic rivals to allies to lovers, Fake dating, Mutual pining, Allusions to spiciness but nothing descriptive, Pre-Arcane timeline.

If it’s an arrangement simple enough, then why it's getting so difficult to follow through?

Viktor looks toward you, feeling the faint touch of your arms around his neck. You’re dancing too close to his body; not that he minds.

Not that he’s going to tell you so, of course.

Viktor can’t say he fully trusts you—after all, your charms are the reason why he sought you out after the Student Knowledge Contest last year. He can’t help but gaze at your eyes and get lost in them sometimes, perhaps more than he’s willing to admit.

 You’re a brilliant student whose name has appeared in the first places of the grading rank since your enrollment to the Academy. Sometimes atop his, sometimes under.

This reminds him of what you two were doing last Friday night…

“Viktor?” you hum, snatching him out of his fantasies—his memories. “You’ve stopped dancing.”

His grasp on your waist relocates on your hips, feeling the supple skin underneath covered by the soft silk of your green dress, so familiar by now.

“I just saw Robert Yean passing by,” he says. One of your failed suitors, now that he’s here with you. It isn’t possessive behavior, Viktor repeats himself between mumbles against your hair.

“Very insistent man,” you mutter with a smile, sensing Robert’s gaze glued on your back as Viktor and you gently sway side to side with the music flowing around the ballroom.

“Luckily I am one, too,” Viktor says teasingly, his thumb brushing along the apple of your cheek before leaning toward your lips. He understands the nerve of the man wishing to whisk you away, with such a newly established family, a whole future ahead more than the dark, smoky sky in Zaun could ever offer you.

For the deal to work, Viktor had to convince you that trust could run both ways.

Sure, you were competing to be the top of the class, but contrary to the rest of Piltovans side-eying Viktor—silently reminding him of his place under all of them, back to Zaun—you have such soft, caring eyes. Curious, even, once he took a seat next to you at the table in the library.

“I talked with Mr. Xilas about your prototype to clean chemicals from the dam,” you say, taking a glass of wine from a passing waiter, your eyes sweeping over Viktor’s features, to the pearls of sweat sticking to his forehead.

You offer him a sip, rotating the rim of the glass where you left a stain of your red lipstick.

“Thank you, moje sluníĉko.” He takes a sip, locking eyes with you as he places his lips in the mark of your lipstick over the rim’s glass.

Feeling you all flustered, you settle your hand atop his over the cane’s handle. “You should go and talk with him,” you add. “Sweet-talking him a little, hmm?”

Viktor sighs. “Unless it’s you, I don’t think I can do it that well.”

Your giggle makes him smile, loving the way your eyes crinkle in happy crescent moons, a warm feeling of pride extending inside his chest.

"Ow, my tooth hurts!" you say, fingers pressing your left cheek. "From so much cheesiness."

Viktor pokes at your sides, holding you close to feel the curves of your body against his when you try to wiggle out of his tickling grasp. "You little troublemaker, you scared me."

“You’re so silly.”

“You hurt me, my love.” He says, giving you back the glass of wine, brushing your fingers with his in a premeditated movement that makes your stance feel all wobbly. "But perhaps you could help me with the sweet talk, hmm? I don’t think it’ll be a good idea to call the merchant ‘my sunshine’, or ‘my love,’ don’t you think?”

“Hmm. No, unless you’d want me to be jealous?”

Viktor kisses your temple. “Perhaps later tonight. I might need some nibbles.”

Taking him by the hand, you two settle on the windowsill overseeing the balcony, with the breeze of the afternoon making contact with the bare skin of your back. Viktor’s right hand rubs gentle circles in there to soothe your shivering.

“You should’ve brought a sweater,” he muses.

You look at him, eyes pleading and mouth in a pout. “Aren’t you going to give me yours?”

He smirks. “No. I’m cold, too.”

"Such a meanie." Viktor laughs, opening his coat to envelope you within, almost against his chest. "Mmm, better—some nibbles, you say?” You smile, your lips brushing the edge of his collar, putting a red mark of your lipstick over the ivory dress shirt.

“Don’t,” he muses, pretending to be annoyed, yet his heartbeat jumps at smelling the sweet perfume of fruits and lilies. His hands shake slightly the stem of his wine’s cup. “Those stains are difficult to wash.”

“What can I say? You look handsome, Vikky,” you say, playing with the congratulatory badge reading 1st place Engineering Contest: 45 Edition. “I’m lucky for you to be my fake boyfriend.”

“You’re also breathtaking today." Though he doesn't repeat your phrase. He can't still decide if he tells you that.

At first, it’d been a clear enough arrangement—a fake boyfriend to keep you away from the annoying suitors, and for him, a charming socialite who could push his ideas around the wealthy Piltovan minds sponsoring the Academy. But the simplicity had worn out as month passed and Viktor wanted to invite you out to more dates.

To simply sit down outside the library to talk until the sun dipped in the horizon. And it didn’t help you let him get so close Viktor has memorized the features of your face so he could imagine it at night when you’re not in his bed.

Because it wasn’t part of the deal, you’re lovers only when the doors are open and the curtains withdrawn. And yet that faithful rainy day, you two stumbled over the threshold of his apartment soaking wet, the fine-crafted clothes of the academy uniform glued to your curves.

He couldn’t look away, and you didn’t mind it, either, settling your back against the cold entrance door as Viktor’s lips sought out yours, trying to impregnate himself with your taste.

"Perhaps we should return home today?" he says before he's even able to tell what just got out of his mind. Not that he could lie to you, only hide.

"Before Heimerdinger' speech about the Academy Anniversary?"

“I’d rather hear your voice.”

You laugh. “Vikky…”

“Everyone here thinks I’m whispering loving things to your ear,” Viktor says, nuzzling his nose against your neck when he sees one of the suitors sent by your mother watching you from afar. “Might as well sell the part.” So much, he’s starting to believe it.

“You do sell the part really well,” you mutter, liking how his now familiar hand always cradles the small curve in your back.

It's a straightforward deal, really. Even if you come from the Undercity, your parents had built quite a reputation behind them; not only a family rising from the abyss to the riches above by mere luck, no, this was a hard-work endeavor paired with an endless list of qualities you must master if wishing to have the family last name.

If it's so easy, why does Viktor dread the day when the deal will end?

Even when he wishes to hold you forever…

“Alright,” you say, looking at the sky turning orange. “Let’s go to your place, maybe? I like your mattress the best.”

Viktor chuckles. “It’s not like we’re going to have much sleep tonight, I assume.”

You poke his cheek, Viktor’s fingers wrapped along your wrist that he slowly drags toward his mouth, where he settles to brush his lips against the sensible skin there.

“You’re taking advantage of my inability to say no to you.” Your hands are by now yearning to cup his cheeks, reminiscent of how the amber in his eyes becomes burnt umber once your body is flush against his. He cradles you between his arms as if you were made of porcelain; as if you were a dream that would slip with the first light of the morning sun. "Shall we go?"

Viktor settles your hand on the crook of his elbow, the movement fluid and gentlemanly mastered by repetition.

"Hmm, we shall, my love," he says, giving you a seemingly innocent peck on the lips, though, at the end of the motion, Viktor decides to get a playful nibble on your lower lip. A promise of what is to come. "We shall."

[ursawastricked]

Distracting: Part 2

Viktor has been harboring guilt over his accidental thievery of your used champagne glass. At least he had the security that you were none the wiser..that doesn't change that your even harder to ignore now that he spent the weekend studying your lip print 

warnings: More of Viktor's developing crush on you, lots of flashback to after the party, him being soft, some VERY mild suggestive stuff..don’t worry more is to come in the next part 

Read part 1 here

Word count : 2,339

“Is the sun always that bright?” Viktor whined, covering his gaze as he hurried over toward the window, leaning toward it and squinting disaprovingly at the sunny world beyond it, before pulling on the shades and banishing the light. His head didnt exactly pound anymore, but he had a way of ending up hung over whenever he drank, call it his low weight, or the fact that his anatomy consistently seemed against him, if there was alcohol, it hurts the next day.

“I think it always stays like that Vik '' you answer, earning an unimpressed glance your way as he limps toward his desk and places down his bag. You stretch your arms upward, humming lightly as you feel the satisfying crackle in your spine and knuckles. You personally, feel wonderful. After the party over the weekend, you peeled away your dress and were fast to slip into a hot bath, allowing for your sore muscles to relax and let you practically fall into a perfectly restful weekend. You dont recall too much other than resting on your couch, reading the current novel that had infected your every thought, one you had also slipped into your bag for today when the lab was getting a little boring.

“Ugh..” You hear Viktor let out a relch at the sound of your joints popping, “Why, every morning..That isnt good for you, and it is worse to listen to” He lectured, placing himself in his chair, slowly turning to face you so that his point would get across. You mimic him immedietly, a practiced motion, turning to face him, and mirroring his posture and how his fingers laced together on his knee. He flashed yet another disaproving look, this time punctuated with a, “Rude”.

You snicker lightly, returning yourself to face your desk. Unpacking your bag only takes another minute or so, that moment remaining silent as you and Viktor set up for today's work load. The silence was normal, especially with Viktor, but that's why you liked working with him. While you could spend hours talking with Jayce, bouncing back and forth in a hyper focused frenzy, you much more enjoyed the comfortable silence of working next to Viktor. You had developed a ritual of passing back and forth materials and tools as you worked simultaneously on projects.

He was always respectful, never intentionally touching you without reason, and if he did bump you, he was quick to apologize, which you enjoyed only because of how flustered he got when he began to stumble over words so fast he began to slip into his native language. Or when he would tap you lightly with a pencil, and you would turn to see what he needed, only for him to lean over your notebook and scribble something down, like a warning before he did so.

You had caught yourself memorizing his little mannerisms over time, keeping a small tally at the top corner of your pages for every time he had tricked you into letting him fix a note, or murmured a word you didnt recognize when fidgeting with a new project. It relaxed you, like a little grounding tool to keep your mind occupied when you had tired yourself with your work, a healthy distraction. So you lazily flipped open your notebook to the current page, doodling a little box for today's tallies before pulling the sheet off your current project and beginning your busy work. Viktor sat quietly as he began his project, as usual. He had just gone for his wrench when he caught movement in the corner of his eyes, a familiar motion he had memorized, you're playing with your hair again. His gaze tracks the motion, how the tufts flutter about, if he was closer like last time, he was sure he would be able to smell the shampoo you used again..if he was correct in assuming, it smelt like honey. He didnt notice he was staring until you turned your head and caught him. Your eyes lock with his golden gaze for a short moment, a blissful second of eyecontact between you, before he caught it and you watched his gaze flicker around, his head turning swiftly before settling back on his work and his form shrank down far too close to his project to be safe, but successfully he had avoided the chance of you seeing how harshly his face darkened red. His breath was shaky, as he struggled to keep it low enough that you coculdnt hear. How frustrating, it had been getting harder to avoid your prying eyes, more tedious to avoid you catching him logging your smiles, and even harder to keep up conversations without smiling too much, and you had only added another level to it with that damned glass. That weekend, he had smuggled that stupid glass away from the party. He didnt know why, in fact he was sure it was a trance when he walked into him and Jayce shared an apartment, only to find the empty champagne glass still tucked in his palm. Jayce locked the door as Viktor considered what could have happened to end up here, now a thief..through the glass couldn’t be too expensive, it felt rather cheap.

“What's that you got there?” Jayce asked, leaning over Viktor and causing him the flinch, almost hard enough to send the delicate glass shattering across the floor. He gripped it tighter, giving one of his famously annoyed glances. Jayce lifted his brows, motioning specifically toward the rouge lipstain at the edge.

“Oh? Oh hoho..that color there looks pretty familiar” Jayce had started to tease, his chest was starting to bob with a deep chuckle, the kind he had always given when he was preparing to tease him.

Viktor felt the stab of anxity in his stomach, looking quickly between Jayce’s knowing gaze and the glass before he squirmed a bit away, trying to hide away in his room, fast.

“I dont want to talk about it.” He insisted, tucking away into his room and quickly hiding away the used glass in his closet with a slam.

“Talk about what? Did they give it to you or did you mean to steal it?” Jayce practically howled as he leaned into Viktors room, watching as his friend as he struggled to undo his tie with furious aggression, only getting more incense the longer he struggled. With a loud huff he finally undid it, now wrestling with his shirt vest,

“I didn’t mean t- I didnt steal it from them” He insisted, pulled off the vest before landing on his bed and taking off his shoes, “Oh..so you're not denying it anymore?” Viktor froze, his hands ceasing shakily over his cufflinks. Jayce smirked teasingly, suppressing another laugh until Viktor flung a loose shoe toward him. He quickly took the hint, “Okay! Okay! Good night loverboy-” He laughed, slipping away and leaving Viktor flushed violently and gripping his hair as he fell back into his bed. 

At least now he could let his face cool down now that you were no longer watching him, it of course was easier to work and ignore you for a few minutes at a time. Until..

“Hey guys! Sorry I'm late,” Jayce hollered, bursting through the door, nearly tripping over the doorway and spilling the offering of coffe for the trio.

Yes, Viktor was screwed now. Jayce knew, he dditn know to what extent, but he did know. He knew about the glass.

“Here ya go,” Jayce chirped, handing you a coffee with that stupid winning smile.

“Aw, thanks ya goof. You know, you could just not be late, then you wouldn't need to get us coffee every monday.” You explain, sipping the drink as you watch him float off toward Viktor who had frozen solid since the door opened.

“Then I would miss out on your winning smile, you have a very special smile when you get surprised by coffee” He replied, twirling around to the other side of an unresponsive Viktor. He placed the cup beside his friend's hand, leaning over his shoulder to whisper where you couldnt hear.

“I got you the same order, in case you want to ‘swap’ cups again,” He hummed, almost getting hit as Viktor swatted him away. Jayce snickered quietly, slipping away to his own work.

Viktor sat staring at his coffee for a few moments, regrettably reaching for it. Coffee was essential, how unfortunate that it was a gift from Jayce..he drank it non the less, pressing his lips to the lid and gulping down a few mouthfulls and returning finally to an average working pace.

“Vik? Are you there?” Viktor snapped out of his focused state, turning toward the sound before pulling off his goggles and finding you much closer than he expected you to be. You stoof next to him, leaning a little over his side after spending the past minute or so trying to get his attention. You tilted your head, giving an amused huff as you slipped some papers to his desk. “Thank Janna the fire alarm wasn’t going off, you would be cooked by now.” He blinked, glancing from you to the papers a few times before turning to read them better. He pulled them from the table, acutely aware of the fleeting warmth your hands had left. 

“Hmm..yes, and I'm sure in wouldn’t notice the heat or pain either,” he replied, looking over your notes with a similar, less intense, focus.

“I wouldnt be surprised, you kinda run on autopilot when you're zoned out. Once you stole my pencil for the day after fixing my notes”, You pull yourself up on the desk, crossing your legs and watching as he scribbles down corrections to your equasions. “And you have yet to return that novel I let you borrow, you're kind of a clepto.” 

“I am not a ‘clepto’” he huffed, adjusting one of your notes, biting on the edge of his pencil,

“That's my pencil..”

He pulled it away from his teeth, inspecting it for any signs he may recognize. He flipped it in his hand, finding your initials etched into the wood.. 

“Ah..so it is..” he muttered, finishing his edits before offering you the pencil. 

“No, you keep it.” You say, declining the chewed on pencil and snatching up your papers. You hug them to your chest, walking a step or two before leaning down close to his ear, “Add it to your little collection,” you purr, straightening up and hurrying toward Jayce for a final opinion.

Viktor stills in his seat, holding the pencil loosely between his fingers and staring blankely at the edge of the desk. He twitched his hand lightly, unable to do much more after that. 

You were so close..he still felt the warmth of your breath across his throat, the memory of it sending a static shiver down his spine, causing him to lean over his desk and place his head againstt his hands. You were warm, even though you hadnt touched him, and being so close, he could confirm..your shampoo smells like honey.And when you sat on his desk, he had fought every instinct in his body not to look at you, not when you sat above him like that. Your legs crossed, leaned over his work. If he reached over, he could have confirmed another theory, whether or not your thighs were as soft as they looked- Damn it, focus. He coudln’t be doing this, not here. You were no less than a yard away and all he couldnt think about was how good you smelt, how your breath felt against his neck..how your lipstain would look against his skin. He had noticed you were wearing the same color as before.

‘Stop it. They work with you.’ 

He grabbed his coffee, sipping it aimlessly.

The night after the party, Viktor had sat staring at the single stained glass on his desk. He had pulled it out to clean it, thinking at least he could put it in the kitchen and just forget all about his accidentale thievery. Instead, he had ended up watching it, as if it would squirm or come to life if he only watched for long enough. 

He didnt clean it..he let it sit on his desk and continued on with his day. On occasion he would glance at it, sometimes walking over and holding it to closely inspect the print of your lips left on its crystal edge. He always rounded back to it, replaying the memory of you in that dress, giving him the rest of your drink..you smiled..maybe you knew- of course you didnt. Why would you know? He was good about hiding it, right? He didn’t think he made it too obvious, maybe stareing a bit longer than he should have, or that one instance where he had to hide the smile tally from you when you had seemingly manifested beside him.

 Before he had slept that night, he absentmindenly brought it with him to the kitchen..he ment to clean it..but instead he had filled it, nursing down a bit of wine to trick his brain into sleeping. Maybe even allow for a dream similar to the events of the party..with less of him standing alone. 

He groaned lightly to himself, standing and grabbing his crutch before walking across the room toward the door. 

“Everything ok Viktor?” Jayce asked, pulling his attention away from the blackboard,

“Just need some fresh air..” Viktor replied, escaping the lab, and making his way down the hall. 

After a walk his head would be clear enough to work again. He would be able ti at least make some progress on the assignment without his thoughts drifting back to how your uniform looked against your skin, or how pretty your voice sounded when you gifted him your stolen pencil..

“Add it to your little collection..” 

He paused..eyes wide. “Oh..no..” 

[valaruakars]

Baby, You’re the Cure (Part 1)

Viktor/F!Reader || 2.4k ||  NSFW

Anon requested: i would love to see viktor as like an apothecary and he makes a bunch of medicines and tinctures and reader comes in for something and they get flirty it can be sfw or nsfw

Warnings: AU in which Viktor stays in Zaun, apothecary!Viktor, accidental aphrodisiac use, brief heavy petting, frottage, overstimulation, a stupid amount of ellipses :/

It's a shame he’s always so busy—one of the few apothecaries Zaun has to offer. 

Reliable ones, at least. 

Viktor wishes, each time the door chimes and you flit in to brighten the dim, dusty shop, that he could spare more time for you. Reciprocate your shy, sweet flirtations or fully convey his gratitude for the home cooked meals you pay him in beyond a paltry thank you. Really, they do not need to be that good; you put in far too much effort for the likes of him.

But he can only spare a few quick words before it’s on to the next customer or back to the careful task of brewing someone’s medicine.

He’s been searching for the right words to ask, perhaps even beg, to see you outside the shop, but he just hasn’t found them yet. He suspects they’re hiding out amongst his frayed nerves, his mouth dry and useless each time the chance comes and goes.

You’ve already been by for the day, hours ago during peak time, so when the shop bell chimes and he wheels around the corner to warn this last patron that he’ll be closing up momentarily, he doesn’t expect to see you.

But there you are, looking rather like you’ve sprinted here—messy, sweating, your hand braced on the door as you try to catch your breath.

He gets to his feet quickly, fumbling for his crutch. “Is everything alright?”

“Do you, um… want me to lock this…?” you ask instead, breathless and strained. 

“Yes, but—” The concerned furrow of his brow deepens, eyes ticking over every inch of you, looking for something, anything that might indicate the problem. “I would also like you to answer my question. Please.”

“I—I don’t know…” As you come closer, your expression becomes increasingly pained until you stop all together on the other side of the counter. You can’t meet his eye, wringing your hands as you whisper, “I don’t think so…”

Embarrassed. You are embarrassed.

This is why it’s wrong to be overly familiar with patients, he scolds himself. He tries to be clinical, to stuff down all the personal concern as he asks, “Can you describe your symptoms?”

“I’d rather not,” you say, so soft he hardly catches it, “But I think it has something to do with this.” A shaky exhale, and you pull something out of your pocket and hold up your fist closed around it, shaking too and clammy. So, so clammy as he has to pry whatever it is out of your hand.

And it is a vial, one of his, with nothing but a little heart drawn on the label.

“Viktor…” you choke out as he pales visibly, “What did you give me?”

You look like you’re about to cry and, frankly, he wants to vomit. Never has he ever fucked up so badly as to give someone the wrong elixer. Of course, it had been busy when you came in, but he had clearly instructed you that your package was on the left—was sure that it was your medication in it.

Oh. Oh wait.

His left.

Your right.

“Why… why did you take this?!” he asks, harsher than he means to in his panic, “It’s not your usual bottle, (y/n)!”

“I—I thought you were trying to be sweet!” you shout back, shifting and shuddering for it, trapping a little groan in your throat that isn’t lost on him. Your hands grip the edge of the counter, white-kunckled. You shrink into yourself as you dare ask again, though you must know the answer by now: “What did I take?”

“It’s an…” He has to force it out, the word feels thick and stubborn on his tongue. “…Aphrodisiac.”

And as if to declare its presence—thrilled to be acknowledged, that concoction in your bloodstream—a shudder wracks your body again, a breathy whine leaves you. He knows it to be entirely against your will, but for shame, you hang your head miserably.

“It’s, ah, very strong—made for a Vastayan twice your size. I can make something of an antidote, but it wont purge the effects entirely. They will… linger. It can take anywhere between 6-8 hours to completely clear your system.”

As much as he is soothed by a scientific explanation, you, clearly, are not. You stare up at him hopelessly through your lashes, wielding your watery eyes like a weapon of his destruction, whether you know it or not. The guilt could bring him to his knees.

“Please believe me,” he says, his voice thin near begging, “I am so, so sorry.”

“You… You didn’t do this to me on purpose?”

“That is deeply unethical, I would never.”

“But you’re going to help me… Right?” you ask, starting to squirm so restlessly where you stand, victim to an itch you can’t scratch—can’t satisfy, more than likely. 

“Yes, as I said, I can make something to alleviate the effects. It requires thirty minutes, if I—”

Your hands fist into his shirt; you practically haul him across the counter, eyes wild and blown so wide your lovely irises are nearly eclipsed. Ah yes, the sweating, the dilated pupils, both are common side effects. Aggression too, though it’s favorable to some more than others. He’s not sure how to feel, himself.  

“I can’t wait that long, Viktor, you have to help me,” you whine, craning your neck toward him, angling to catch him up in a kiss he’d very much like to share. But…

“I can’t,” he breathes onto your lips, resisting half-heartedly, “That would be—I cannot take advantage of you in this state.”

“Why is it taking advantage?” you ask with that soft, siren’s voice, and he finally realizes you’re not holding him forward anymore. It’s all him who’s leaning in, loving the way you lavish him with the desperate rake of your nails down his neck, beneath the collar of his shirt. “You like me, I like you… It would’ve come to this, eventually.”

He laughs, such a nervous sound, and his tongue grows thicker, the accent with it, as he begins to accept what is happening—that he is hopelessly willing to help you in all the ways he knows how. “I would have liked to take you out first, you know.”

“Later,” you’re quick to promise, regretfully letting him go without his kiss, “Right now, I need you to touch me. Please.”

“Just once, do you understand? Then I’ll need to make the counteractant.”

You nod your agreement vigorously, and already he fears you’re going to make it hard to stick to that resolution.

Viktor lifts the counter on its hinge for you to step through, and the old thing slams back down with a hard clap on account of you, quite literally, throwing yourself at him. He barely catches his balance, nearly topples over as you lay waste to his lips, sloppy and inelegant as you frantically jam your tongue into his mouth. Braces you by the back of the neck with one cold, calloused hand as he tries to pace you, but you’re far beyond that. No, you’re keening, a cloying, heedless sound, into his mouth when his tongue brushes back, and clawing at his chest like you mean to shred off his clothes. You probably do—but, again, not your fault.

Though… To be wanted like this, so base and careless and clumsy, he echoes a groan against your lips for the thought of it alone.

He breaks, has to pant breathlessly into your hair as your lips and teeth scrape down his neck instead, “Come, into the back, please.”

As he takes you by the sickly warm hand and walks you back into his private space, home and work in one, your grip tightens and you whimper into your other closed fist. Very suddenly, he understands what your initial pained expression was symptomatic of and, privately eager, his cock twitches against the leg of his pants.

He settles down on the stool at his work bench, needing off his sore leg. You stand between his spread thighs impatiently, practically rubbing your thighs together beneath your dress—he can see it, in the little wiggle of your hips. He smoothes a hand over your waist, fisting at the fabric as he elongates the column of his neck—a blank canvas—to look up at you.

“Show me,” he demands, and you don’t require elaboration.

You eagerly hike up your dress, bunching it just above your hips to let him see. You are not shy, knowing he is the solution. You do not care.

Well, maybe you do. Mostly because he’s not touching so much as perversely admiring the swollen, throbbing peek of your cunt between your legs—your clit so red and puffy where it protrudes, you’re likely to cum the moment he touches it.

“Where have your panties gone, hm?” he teases, slipping a hand between your thighs to part them.

They make a lewd, sticky sound when you widen your stance because you are dripping in thick, shiny ropes of your own slick. Some of it hits the floor between your feet. Overproduction of natural lubricant—yes, another side effect. He mentally notes to keep you hydrated, and then tries to turn off the clinical side of his brain. Not very sexy.

“They were… too much…” you finally confess, starting to shake as he pets your wet inner thigh in slow, sweet strokes.

“Did you cum? Without ever touching yourself?” he asks, and okay, fine, perhaps it is partly a professional curiosity. Partly. The rest is for his own sick knowledge, something to think about later.

“Twice,” you hiss, grabbing his wrist beseechingly—a mind to force it where you need it, but he doesn’t budge.

He never meant to be this teasing, but it’s so hard to stop when you’re like this. He suspects you’ll tell him anything, just to get off, which is fascinating.

“And did that satisfy you?”

“Not at all,” you whine, “Because it wasn’t you and I wanted you.”

He preens at the idea that you thought of him as you came—that you sought him out, desperate for his help in more than one way, as a result. “Mmn,” he hums lazily, his hand drifting higher, his own legs spreading wider, “You can have me, however you like. After I have you properly taken care of, yes?”

“Please.”

“Very good,” he hums. “Let’s start with this, then…” he says, and it’s just as he suspected.

The moment his hand slides over your clit, between your legs to cup your throbbing cunt, you’re finished. You are that overwrought from the aphrodisiac alone—and perhaps a little of his teasing too, if he’s being hopeful.

It shouldn’t take you by surprise, but it does. You keel forward with a delicious sound just shy of a punched out scream and brace yourself on his shoulders. Your nails dig in, fisting his shirt, as your body begins to quake and sing in stuttered, pitchy mewls that match the buck of your hips. Your knee is lucky to find purchase in the space between his thighs on the stool, all so your legs don’t give out beneath you.

Eyes shut against the onslaught of sensation, you can’t see the voyeuristic, fascinated way he watches your face contorted with pleasure. “Jsi tak hezká, miláčku, so pretty,” he coos, eager to comfort, to make sure you know it.  

He keeps his hand steady for you, lets you ride out your pleasure against the heel of his palm. Encourages you to do so with a grip on your waist that guides your hips to roll hard into his hand. He’s even able to give you a taste, a tease of what’s to come, dipping his fingers just barely inside of you when you rock back far enough. You’re so wet, so wanting, that your body offers little resistance. Oh, to sink his cock in instead; to watch himself disappear between your slick, swollen lips so slowly, so completely…

Viktor thrusts against the warmth of your thigh. Had you been lucid enough to press it closer, to let him rub up against it? Or had he sunk lower to seek it out? He’s not sure, but the heady friction makes him groan in chorus with you and the slick, lewd sounds of your cunt in his hand.

“Just like that, yes,” he whispers, and he’s not sure anymore if he’s soothing you or asking for more for himself, getting greedy when he knows you will give and give and give as you try to take what you want from him.

Another shockwave of pleasure wracks you and you’re starting to crumple, the buck of your hips erratic, as the force of your orgasm fades out. Even your voice tapers down into huffed little whimpers—frustrated, likely, that you’ve gotten what you wanted and still found no relief.

“No,” you whine, crawling into his lap, “No, no, no. That doesn’t count.” You are feverishly hot against his skin where you’ve wrapped your arms around his neck, buried your face into the crook of his shoulder. Hotter still and sodden, where you’ve seated yourself against the outline of his cock, looking for all the friction you can get.

“I think it does,” he tells you. Swallows thickly against the tempting writhe of your body and your lips, sucking open-mouthed kisses into his neck—so insatiable—but he promised to help you. Anything less than making that remedy right now would only be helping himself. There will be plenty of time for that later—all night, knowing the potency of that switched brew, but at a slower pace he’ll be able to keep up with. Hopefully.

Panting now, pressing harder into his lap, you lick a stripe up the column of his neck with the flat of your tongue. Beg him in one, demanding word: “More.”

“Moje milá věc,” he says, strained to be stern, resolute—it’s hard, when his cock is sliding raw and needy against the wet spot you’ve now soaked into his pants. “We agreed: Just once. There is a solution to your suffering and I am not all of it. Let me make you the counteractant and—”

But no. You shut him up with a filthy kiss to the bow of his lip, sloppy as your tongue brushes into his open mouth. It’s lewd, the way a gossamer fine string of saliva follows you away as you pull back, but he’s entranced—disgustingly so. But if he’s desperate, you are the walking incarnation of it.  

You whisper, harsh the way your teeth scrape across your bottom lip, “Fuck me,” and well…

There is a solution for that too.

[smol-lydia]

Salty Sweet: Viktor x Fem!Reader, SFW

Summary: You are set up on a blind date by Jayce’s sister, no matter how many times you tell her you have no time in your busy academic life for dating. Both Talis’ are determined to prove you and Viktor wrong, and you hate that they just might be right.

A slice of life fluffy oneshot that’s anime/school inspired that was heavily inspired by this recent anime artwork of Viktor that you can find here!

A/N: just a note that Jayce’s sister is absolutely a kogal/gyaru Aka a school gyaru and my OC is a jirai kei girl because my j-fashion bullshit strikes again. No y/n here; reader has a name! Hope that isn’t too off putting

“I don’t do blind dates!” You hang off the stairwell railing like a monkey—unbecoming as a senior and part of the student council but you’re feeling some kind of way, your twin tails dragging on the ground.

“He’s sweet, I promise! He’s my brother’s best friend.”

Your friend pulls up her loose socks—she’s a walking dress code citation, with her loose socks and false lashes and heavy tan and makeup, snapping her gum. You and her could not be more opposite.

“Yua, why do you do these things to me?” You right yourself and adjust the collar on your sailor blouse.

She blows you a kiss. “Because I love you.”

“Sounds more like hate to me,” you grumble.

“Oh, stop being such a sourpuss.” She bumps her hip against yours. “You’ll like him, I promise. And I’ll be on the other side of the cafe the entire time, making sure nothing goes wrong.”

“Spying, more like.”

“Spying, looking out for you, same diff!” Yua takes your hand to pull you along. “Now come on, Miss Sourpuss! Let me at least do your makeup before we head out, kay?”

Your stomach churns with nerves, as though you’re heading to an execution. You might as well be, as far as you’re concerned. “Aren’t we gonna get in trouble for ditching our last study period?”

Yua shrugs her shoulders as she pushes open the restroom door, the small space occupied by fellow delinquents in a cloud of cheap perfume and illicit cigarettes. “Hasn’t stopped us before. Besides, we gotta get you looking cu-yute for this date!”

You manage to convince Yua to go easy on the makeup. While her gyaru style is perfect for her, with her brash personality, that confidence and self assured attitude that certainly seemed to be a hallmark of the Tallis family, it feels foreign to you.

You’re the quiet, unassuming type. Still, she manages to coax you into some pink lip gloss, and you brush out your hair, retying your signature twin tails and bangs.

“Don’t you want to do something different?” Yua asks, pulling an energy drink out of her backpack to sip on.

You shake your head. “If he doesn’t like me as is, then what’s the point? I’m not going to pretend to be someone I’m not. Who is this guy, anyway?”

“He’s in my brother’s class, 77-B.” Yua’s twin brother, Jayce, always ended up in the opposite class as her, an effort by teachers to keep the two apart.

It rarely worked, but it was still a tactic that was attempted year after year.

“And?” You pull out the clothing Yua had requested you bring today. You had wondered why she had asked this of you at the time—now you knew.

“His name is Viktor. Quiet. Keeps to himself mostly, except for Jayce and another girl in the class, Powder.”

You feel something stir in your chest at the mention of another girl and you try to shake it off; you can’t be feeling jealousy over a girl you don’t know, about a date you never met, a date you are reluctant to go on. You were being ridiculous and all the cigarette smoke must be going to your head.

You slip your dress over your head, balling up your school uniform to put in your knapsack. Normally you would fold your uniform neatly, but you’re feeling agitated. Your dress is a dusty rose, with black bows, the epitome of the jirai fashion you wear whenever you’re off school grounds.

Stupidly, you find yourself wondering if Viktor will like it.

You fiddle with your hair in the mirror, butterflies forming in the pit of your stomach. “What made you think we would be a match, then, hmm?”

Yua shrugs her shoulders. “You both got that sensitive melancholy loner thing goin’ on. And Vik doesn’t waste his time with idiotic people.”

You frown at your mirror self. “Well, thanks for not thinking I’m an idiot, I guess.”

Yua snaps her gum. “I only speak the truth, sweetness. Now let’s go get you laid.”

“Ew. Don’t say anything like that again.”

—-

The ten minute walk to the cafe that Yua chose for this little tete a tete seems to take forever, at least to you. Your heart is hammering wildly in your chest, and you wipe your sweaty hands on your skirt for what feels like a hundred times.

This shouldn’t be as intense as it is but only Yua knows the truth: you haven’t been on a date at all. Ever. Eighteen years old, a senior at the Academy, and you kept your nose solidly to the grindstone, focused on academics and extracurriculars like Student Council.

You told yourself you didn’t have time for dating. Plenty to keep you busy, lots to concentrate on without the distraction of pesky feelings getting in the way. However, you could barely admit to yourself that you froze up when it came to asking anyone out: how could your classmates do this with such confidence and ease?

Keeping Yua around was more than a breath of fresh air; her wild and bright attitude forced you to step out of your comfort zone sometimes. Like right now.

She took a seat at the back of the brightly themed cafe, a popular hangout for Academy students, winking at you over her fashion magazine. Not long after her twin joined her, and you rolled your eyes. Great, Jayce was here to witness your humiliation as well.

You debate pulling out your phone for something to do to pass the time, but decide against it. That would look rude, wouldn’t it? Instead you settle for staring down at the scratched wooden table, years of wear and tear in small notches. Fascinating.

The sound of clicking against the tiled floor catches your attention and you briefly look up. The stranger is tall, impossibly so, lanky and leaning on a crutch. Sharp cheekbones that could cut glass, thick, untamed coffee-colored hair that you want to sink your hands into. And oh gods his eyes: the most delicious shade of warm honey, framed by thick, dark brows, a small beauty mark under one. Despite his pensive gaze, there’s a kindness lurking beneath that has you melting. Between that and the second beauty mark above his lip, you’re a goner, those butterflies multiplying, warmth pooling at the pit of your stomach, an insistent throb of arousal between your legs.

You’ve never been hit by your hormones this badly this quickly and it’s enough to make you want to run and hide. Instead, you find yourself frozen to your spot, mouth slightly agape until you remember how your jaw works to close it.

This cannot be Jayce’s friend.

And yet, he looks at you with some kind of expectation, finally speaking in a soft accent that has you falling even deeper under this enchanted dream-spell.

“Sasha? You are Jayce’s sister’s friend?” Apologies if I am mistaken. I was told to look for someone with your description.”

You nod, and try desperately to recover your voice. “Y-yes.”

Well, it’s a start.

“May I sit?” He asks.

“O-of course.” You wish you could stop stammering. He’s just so beautiful you find the words dying on your tongue. Mouth dry, you lick your lips and try to force the words anyway. “You’re Viktor, I assume?”

“Yes,” he replies. He puts his school bag on the ground, and rests his crutch against the back of the chair.

You take a deep breath, exhale slowly. “It’s nice to meet you. Even if this whole blind date thing got sprung on me all of sudden.”

As soon as the words leave your lips you regret them. Way to let him know you didn’t want to date him! He probably gets that all the time with his disability, and you feel like the scum of the Earth. His leg, in a metal brace, doesn’t bother you in the slightest, and you hate yourself for seemingly implying otherwise. Spots of color appear on your cheeks, not out of flustered blushing, but embarrassment and frustration at yourself for once again putting your foot in your mouth.

Much to your surprise, Viktor gives you a shy smile. “You aren’t alone in that experience. The Talis clan can certainly be…persistent.”

You roll your eyes. “That’s a word for it.”

Viktor chuckles and the sound is music to you, sending a swooping sensation down through your body, your entire world off-kilter.

Get it together, Sasha. You’re being ridiculous.

You’re desperate to have something to focus on other than how badly your body craves him.

“Do you, um, want to order?” This cafe had one of those tablets mounted to the side of the table, where you can place your order and pay with ease.

Viktor nods, and you both lean in to look at the screen, succeeding only in colliding your head with his.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” You rub the sore spot on the side of your head and look at him from under your dark bangs.

“It’s quite all right,” he says with a wince.

“I’m a mess.” You don’t know why you’ve said that, but it’s honest and you’ve already made several mistakes so you figure there’s no way this date is going to be a success.

“If that’s what you consider a mess, I would say you’re actually doing quite well,” Viktor replies wryly.

This time the flush on your cheeks is absolutely because his words have you flustered, and it takes you a few seconds to recover.

“I can order you whatever you want,” you offer. “So I can stop causing you bodily damage.”

That earns you another chuckle, and he asks, “do they have sweet milk?”

“I think so.” You punch in a few things on the touch screen, and sure enough, sweet milk. You wouldn’t have pegged Viktor as the sweet tooth type but it’s endearing. “I guess that’s something we have in common.”

You order a parfait, one of those with lots of whipped cream and fruit, a cute marshmallow animal on top. You know that girls are supposed to be self conscious about eating on a date, but you don’t care. You’re hungry.

As you both wait for your orders, the conversation picks up to your studies and you find that this is where you and Viktor truly connect; his face lighting up as he describes his senior project.

You haven’t found anyone else with the same love of knowledge as you, even if it’s in different subjects: Viktor is science and mechanical focused, whereas you excel in the study of the mind itself.

“I'm curious as to what makes people respond the way they do,” you say, talking with your hands, as you often do when you’re excited. “Especially in cases of extreme behavior.”

“Extreme behavior?” Viktor takes a sip of his sweet milk.

You point your spoon at him. “You know. Things such as lust killers, that sort of thing. What drives someone to that point.” You lick some whipped cream off of the spoon and noticed Viktor’s eyes on you as you do.

Quickly, his gaze flits away and there’s an awkward pause. You swallow your treat.

“So, what are you excited about?” You ask, warmth creeping up your neck and into your face as you notice Viktor gazing at your lips again. You hope you don’t have whipped cream stuck in the corner of your mouth again.

“Uh. Yes.” Viktor launches into an explanation of something he was working on with Jayce, and you listen, chin in your hands, spoon placed back in the parfait dish.

You don’t understand the math or the arcane Viktor is describing but you could listen to him talk all day; you realized with a thump in your chest that you could easily become addicted to spending time with him.

Damn Yua for being right; she would never shut up about this.

And watching Viktor speak in and of itself was distracting, with the way his amber eyes lit up with a spark of passion, the beauty mark near his top lip even more prominent as you focus on his lips. You find yourself wondering what it would be like to kiss him, and blush, wishing you could crawl under the table and hide forever. Gods, this is hopeless.

“Sasha?”

“Hm?” Your name sounds so good in Viktor’s accent, like a warm hug.

“Is it all right?”

“Huh?” You blink, uncomprehending, and Viktor flushes.

“I was, um, wondering if I could try a little of what you ordered. I really enjoy sweets.” He says this last part with a small part of what sounds of shame, and that won’t stand. There’s not much left in the dish anyhow, and you push it in his direction.

“Please, go ahead!”

He takes a small amount on the spoon and slips it into his mouth and dear gods you didn’t know someone licking a spoon could get your mind going in a completely different direction until now. He closes his eyes while doing so, as if he’s savoring the sweetness, and you find this so impossibly cute that your heartbeat picks up.

He smiles when he finishes, and puts the spoon in the empty dish. “Thank you.”

“No problem.”

Viktor glances over towards the back of the restaurant, and you follow his gaze. Jayce and his twin sister are sitting at their table, trying not to be obvious but clearly are. Viktor sighs.

“Um, Sasha….you are free to say no of course…but would you like me to walk you home? Maybe get some….distance?”

You nod eagerly and reach for your soft jacket that’s draped over the back of the chair, the black one with the hood that had the bunny ears and ribbon edging.

Viktor stands, makes a small wince as he stretches his leg with the brace, which he quickly covers with a neutral expression. You step back, intending for him to walk first, but he makes that gesture with his hand indicating he wants you to walk ahead, so you do.

As you do so, you can’t help but notice how elegant his long, slender fingers are.

The near-winter air is crisp and you shiver a little as you both begin to walk down the street.

“Are you cold?” Viktor asks, and you shrug.

“It’s not a big deal. I’m only a few blocks away from my building.”

Viktor gives you an incredulous look. “Are you certain?”

You look up at him, your heart racing. He’s leaning on his crutch with one hand, looking so impossibly handsome in his school uniform that it hurts and you’re afraid if he touches you, you might implode. Behind him, the maple trees flash a brilliant red, like fire.

You stick your hands in the pockets of your bunny jacket. “Uh-huh. Yup.”

Viktor seems almost….disappointed? At your response, and continues the walk down the street. You have to race a little to catch up with those long legs of his.

“I like this time of year best,” you offer as a concession.

“That does not surprise me,” comes Viktor’s clipped response.

Nothing else for three blocks and you’re sweating bullets. Oh god, oh fuck, you’ve really screwed this one up. In your nervousness you’ve probably got him thinking you don’t like him. And now there’s no time to correct this misconception as you’re in front of your apartment building.

“Viktor—“

Viktor won’t look you in the eye. “It was nice to meet you.” Cold. Distant. You can’t stand this. He’s holding his hand out to shake, and you’re trembling as you take it, every nerve in your body screaming at you to stop. And yet your tongue is stuck to the roof of your mouth and you feel stupid and stuck, your platform Mary Janes plastered to the sidewalk as he turns away.

No, no, no.

“Viktor!” You somehow stumble around your thick tongue. “Wait!”

A pause. He doesn’t turn around, but he stops walking, and you’ll take it. You move with every ounce of strength, a courage you don’t have, skidding in front of him. Even in your platforms, you still aren’t quite tall enough and you have to stand on the tips of your toes, grabbing onto his waistcoat to pull him towards you.

“Sasha?” Those honey-whiskey eyes widened.

“For someone so smart you don’t get it, do you?” You whisper.

Who is this Sasha, bold, drunk on wanting? You don’t know and don’t care as you plant a hard one on him. For a brief moment, Viktor stiffens up in shock, but he quickly relaxes into it, wrapping his arms around you as he kisses you back, lips soft against your own.

When you part for air you’re both giddy and dizzy.

“They’re never going to let us live this one down, are they?” You ask.

Viktor’s hands are on the small of your back. “Not in the slightest.”

[a-gal-with-taste]

Distraction (Kinktober Day 4)

It's clear Viktor enjoys the odd-distraction... for similar reasons, you enjoy them too.

541 WC - Viktor X F!Reader

Spanking, established relationship, teasing, dirty-talk, minor fingering

Some distractions from his research, his lab tests and forever-going work as a man of science, are often unappreciated. 

They cause far more harm than good, in a way of diverting his attention, forcing thoughts and breaking concentration to focus on less-important events in his life.

Viktor, however, welcomes the odd-distraction. At least, a distraction such as this.

How could he not? When sweet sounds trickle out, in time with slick fluids between your thighs, something he gathers at the pads of his fingertips with an hum that is ever-curious, a low rumble that causes another tiny groan to slip between your teeth.

It’s enough to make him almost forget what he was working on previously.

Almost. 

“You do realize, that such interruptions are unappreciated in the wake of progress and change?”

“I… I-it wasn’t…!”

Juices smear, and a high-pitched sound, just as sweet yet twice as all-consuming on his senses, bursts out from your bitten-lips with the sharp strike, this one landing closer to the back of your thigh than your already-reddened backside.

“It was,” Viktor says, patient ,and a bit smug as your cry breaks-down into whimpers, soothed into silent humming as he kneads at the tender-flesh. “I appreciate the reminder to take a break, believe me. But the timing was much-less warranted, I’ll have you know.”

Haggard, your attempt at sarcasm was brief, “Well, s-sorry, maybe n-next time i’ll leave you t-to starve-”

The next round of blows are sharper, more digits than palm, the force of which leaves your voice to echo around the lab-walls, Viktor’s desk to gain new nail-marks at its surface, and for the man himself to be forced to find stability by leaning over you, chest to back, exertion from both parties filling the slim-air between with pants.

One broken with a whimper, the other with a breathless chuckle.

“You wear me out.”

“You're going to wear me out.”

“Hopefully,” Another, softer slap against your ass cuts off your breath in a gasp, then a whisper as you press your face onto the surface beneath you. “Hopefully this wears you down. Hopefully, this leaves some marks. Hopefully, this serves as a reminder to you, to not interrupt my work…”

Trailing off, eyes the color of melted-gold become hooded, and in a rare show, unfocused as you turn your cheek, showing off a heated-face with gathered wetness beneath your eyes. A bit on your bottom lip too, from where you drooled over a dry-lip that you now lick from, before you attempt a tease once more.

“Like y-you don’t love the distraction, Viktor…”

A pause, as your breath catches, and you both just gaze at one another. Fondness and desire, love and lust, pleasure and pain intermingling as one…

Until the latter of all-three aspects of this relationship becomes more prevalent, as Viktor lands another blow to your ass, one that stings even as he reaches to sooth away your cries into a moan, with his fingers once more reaching further down between your legs.

“You’re correct, I appreciate the odd distraction. But I enjoy this far more.”

And, based on how your shrieks mix so sweetly with your moans, it’s clear you enjoy it too.

Maybe that’s why you distract him so much.

[beesincognito]

Perfect Strangers- part nine: The Reunion

Viktor x Fem!reader (SFW)

part eight part ten   (start here!)

Takes place before Arcane and works its way there, did my best to combine the different versions of lore. (nsfw in parts)

(you and Viktor meet on your first day at the academy and bond over being habitual, awkward loners. The story revolves around class issues and a sense of belonging mixed with lore and Arcane plot.)

*no warnings for this part*

Word count: 2,571

******

Caston watched you leave, maintaining stoic eye contact through the open window as you waved at each other with sullen faces. Bowing his head once the train began to pull out of the station. Prodding from his mother for him to compose himself made him turn and leave. With your head hanging out of the window you kept watching him walk away from his family until the station was completely out of sight. 

     Your bag was heavy in your hand, dragging your shoulder down into a slouch when you still waited to sit in your private room. It was weighed down with books that Caston sent you home with from the Galgaridon library, insisting that you kept them as a gift. Eventually you were going to be able to open your own library with the monstrous number of books you were accumulating. 

     It dropped onto your small bed, sturdy and unmoving despite the rattle of the cart once you crossed an older set of tracks.

     Between the pages of the history book were pressed flowers from the garden where your last private moments with Caston were spent. Something about their subtle stain on the pages would always bring you back to that peace you felt once you had the closure you never knew you so desperately needed. Managing to forgive him would have felt like an inescapable nightmare years prior to seeing him again, you would never forget the torment, but the trip was enough for you.

     It would be days before you were home in Piltover, so you got to reading, pouring your eyes over the history of Noxus, learning their mythos and tales from the books. A few science books were included, from growing plants in desolate lands to biological experimentation. 

     Knowing Viktor would find a lot of them interesting, you wondered how many of them you would lug back to the joint dorm waiting for you.

******

Noxus gradually disappeared behind you in a blur of industrial jungles and distant noxtoraas marking claimed Noxian territory. 

     Eventually the first farms passed you by, letting you know you were entering Valoran. Practically pressed up against the double paned window you stretched with a squeak and the cracking of your back. 

     When you greeted your parents in the dining cart after freshening up for the day, you sat with them for breakfast, listening to them talk excitedly about the new business venture with the Galgaridons.

     “So, y/n,” your mother gave you a knowing look, “you said you were once seeing the young master Caston. What happened?”

     Nearly choking on your bite, coughing and clearing your throat before coming up with a reasonable answer. “We… um, just stopped wanting the same things.” 

     “Like what?” she wanted the full story which you promised you wouldn’t spread further. 

     “You saw,” you waved your hand in the air, “he wanted to serve his country.” Since you never pressed charges you doubted your parents would ever find out about the real story if they didn’t dig. Knowing your parents as well as you did, the questioning would stop at the table as long as you played out the conversation as calmly as possible.

     “It’s a shame, he would have been a brilliant scientist,” she admitted after remembering what you filled her in on, concerning his work at the academy during his time there. “But I suppose he feels fulfilled serving,” she added before taking a long sip of her coffee.

     Agreeing with her, you finished your meal quickly and returned to your room to read. 

******

The whistle of the train announced your arrival at the station where you took your time exiting the train with your parents. The space was bustling with people. You could barely hear yourself think, much less walk faster than a snail's pace until your family made it out. The carriage was waiting, already running once the driver spotted you through the crowd. 

     It was late fall in Piltover. After being in Noxus, where it was colder being closer to the Freljord, you were ill dressed and felt like you were suffocating in your wool sweater despite the obvious chill. Even your parents were fanning themselves in their coats before you pushed the windows down to let in some air.

     The estate was immaculate. Everything was manicured while your family was away at the request of your father. 

     After unpacking your bags and refilling the smaller ones with lighter clothes, you made yourself ready to return to the academy with no time to waste. 

     Much to the chagrin of your parents, you refused to take more things and wanted to pack light for everything except the books which took up their own heavy travel bag. The accumulation of reading material was essential and you wanted to share some of your favorite reads with Viktor.

     They let you leave, hugging you goodbye with a promise from your mother that she would visit soon and watching you leave in the carriage with your bags. 

******

At the student services office you picked up your new room key and number, as if you didn’t know how to get there already. Salt crunched under your feet as the city was already prepping for snow. Practically bouncing on your heals despite the weight of your book laden bag, you unlocked your door quietly. Sneaking into your room unnoticed was far from a challenge when the hall was noisy with foot traffic and loud students catching up after the vacation. You hurriedly put your bags down and moved to the door that connected your room and Viktor’s with a kitchen. 

     When you peaked through, seeing that the door on his side was open, you excitedly made your way through. The clicking of your hard soles gave you away in the end, but you didn’t care. 

     You saw him reading from a notebook on the edge of his bed which he quickly dropped when he saw you, rising to his feet to meet you and catching you in his arms. The smell of his clothes pressed against your nose felt like home and the feeling of his embrace was heaven. 

     “I was worried,” he held you tighter. 

     When you eventually let each other go, you expressed how much you missed being at the academy. You detailed the remainder of your time in Noxus, trying your best to recant the development between you and Caston and how you felt better than ever. Seeing the newfound ease on your face and the way you carried yourself was enough for Viktor to know the trip was good for you after all despite his concerns. 

     “So you’re an assistant now,” you leaned in, wiggling your eyebrows at him when he blushed, “to Heimerdinger.”

     “I- yes,” he reached for your hand in your lap once you were seated together on his bed, “it’s a lot of pressure.”

     “But you can do it.”

     “I know,” he nodded his head to the side, “I’m just going to be a little busier than usual.”

     You thought about what that meant since his usual business meant going days without seeing him before the split dorm if your class schedules didn’t line up. It wasn’t a bother to either of you since work had always been prioritized during your undergraduate days. Now with a small kitchen connecting the two of you, you figured it would be easier to see Viktor despite how busy he would get. Assuming most of his work would take him away from the dorms and regular downtime, you mentally prepared for long stretches of not seeing him relax.

     “Please take care of yourself in the meantime,” you rose from your spot on his bed, letting go of his hand and stretching. “I have to unpack and check in with the resident advisor.”

     Carelessly unpacking your few bags into drawers and the closet was short lived. Once you got to your books you slowed down and took your time organizing them on the shelves above your desk, hearing the tap of Viktor’s cane as he made his way into your side of the dorm with a couple of vintage books in his hand. They were art history books which you adored, adding them to the shelf. You chatted about the absurd amount of reading material you brought when he asked if they were all from home. 

     His hand reached past your head while you worked, removing the large tome of Noxian history and examining the text on the cover. Resting his cane against the desk and flipping through the first few pages. Flowers were delicately pressed and he made sure to not disturb them, reading around the stems and petals. 

     The Galgaridon family crest was stamped on the inside of the front cover in red ink.

     When he asked you about it he listened to you explain that Caston gave you a lot of books from his family’s library. You apologized if it made him uncomfortable which he assured you there was nothing to worry about. 

     “I brought books I thought you would be interested in as well,” you commented, pointing out books here and there and giving a brief explanation about their contents when Viktor carefully returned the history book to its place on the shelf. 

     Lost in your rambling over a specific botany book in your hands, your voice cut off at his touch. Hands cupped your head delicately and your lips were met with his for the first time. It was deep and still, unsure of how long it would last, but you remained rigid.

     Friends don’t kiss like this. 

     You felt light headed when he pulled away, still holding your head. Your eyes met, wide and in shock. After a moment of silence between you, Viktor was broken from his trance when loud chatter erupted from outside of your door and he released you. 

     “I’m sorry… um, I’m glad you’re back,” he cleared his throat and grabbed his cane, “I need to get to work, I’ll see you soon.” 

     With your head in the clouds you watched him calmly turn the handle to your door and step out into the hallway. Leaving you alone with your thoughts which were calmer than you expected in that kind of situation. 

     The imaginary railing was gone and you felt the cool wash from the plunge of diving into something new with Viktor. 

******

With classes in session and the campus life in full swing, you were relieved to know Viktor wasn’t completely lost to his work. Even if he was missing from his dorm some evenings, you always saw him in the morning when you made tea in the kitchen. Most mornings he was up before you and you could hear him moving about his room through the closed door. At least on the weekends you still had time to go to the inner city, browsing shops or grabbing lunch. Though the frightfully cold weather often kept you on campus on the busy days where Viktor would watch you mold tiny snowmen on your walks. Snow never lasted long in Piltover, so yo outlook advantage of the sun as much as possible. It snowed more on the outskirts of the city where you grew up.

     It had been a couple of weeks since the kiss and neither of you ever brought it up. There was no air of awkwardness or discomfort, simply a lack of need to dissect everything that happened between you anymore. 

     “You’re back already?” you leaned in your chair at the kitchen table and felt your aching back crack. “I thought Heimerdinger needed you until ten today.”

     “We finished early,” he explained. Sighing when he sank into the seat across the table from you.

     “No work for classes?” you eyed him, knowing full well he usually got right to assignments when he got home.

     His eyes darted to the side when you asked, “I wanted to see you. You’re usually asleep when I get back,” his ears were red.

     The idea of him thinking of you throughout the day, and his honesty about it, made you blush. You asked him about his day, listening intently to all of the work he did for Heimerdinger, his office hours meeting other students, along with his masters program workload. At least he still had plenty of free time regardless of his schedule. 

     It all sounded exhausting compared to your own work which you opted for a lighter load after getting your degree. Being in your mid twenties was already a challenge enough with the stressors of getting life sorted out when your original plan was effectively derailed by staying in school. 

     “Are you going to be alright?” you asked when Viktor’s sentence ended in a mumble and his eyes looked glazed over. “I can make you something.”

     He shook his head, feeling the need to pass out immediately. Politely declining your offer to cook him a meal and pushing the seat back. He left you in the kitchen, but you followed after him closely and saw him sit at his desk instead of going to bed.

     “I’m alright,” he insisted when he noticed your face painted with worry. 

     “Please go to sleep at least,” you begged him while closing the already opened notebook in his hands. Wrapping your arms around his shoulders which made him drop his head against your arm in a sigh.

     “In an hour, I promise.” 

     His response made you a little upset inside. Instead of reacting with anger, you left to fix him a cup of tea and brought it to him before turning in for the night yourself. 

     The lack of concern for his own health was getting worse as the years crawled by and you felt like there was nothing you could do to mitigate the damage.

******

You were in the library fixing notes for your thesis in a disgruntled stupor. Words blurred together on the page and you had to read the same lines maybe a dozen times before they finally registered. Scratching away at the paper of your notebook seemed to reverb in your isolated nook when other students were scarce at that time in the evening. 

     The near silence was broken by the squeaky familiar voice of Heimerdinger chatting away about organizing his lab for a new round of experiments. It made you raise your head, catching a glimpse of Viktor between shelves of books behind Heimerdinger. 

     They were making their way towards your nook which led to another wing of the building past where you were working. In the low desk light you wondered if Viktor had noticed you until an exclamation from Heimerdinger answered your passing question.

     “Burning the midnight oil I see?” he quipped at you from where you sat.

     “Indeed, professor,” you smiled down at him, “hi, Viktor,” you added when his eyes softened from seeing you. 

     “Keep up the good work, my dear!” he exclaimed and waved Viktor on.

     “See you at home,” Viktor whispered as he passed by, gentle fingers trailing over your shoulder, and you only smiled down at your notes.

     Hours later that night you slept in his bed, bundled together in his blankets and buzzing with the excitement of just getting to hold each other. He kissed your neck, humming against your skin, trailing his hand across your thigh and squeezing you. Instead of going further, you both fell asleep after the daze from kissing, feeling completely at peace.

[cyantomatos]

Wheel of Writing - Day 28

Pairing: Viktor x f!reader Prompt: At your friend’s urging, you begrudgingly attend a Valentine’s Day speed dating event. Notes: So fun fact, this is the first time Viktor is appearing on my blog, but this is not the first thing I wrote for him. There’s a sex pollen fic for him on my AO3 from a few months ago that never got posted here.

This was a bad idea.

No, scratch that, this was a horrible idea. And it wasn’t even yours.

The only thing you could think of as the man across the table droned on about his extensive properties was how exactly you were going to kill your friend when you saw them next. Didn’t you read something one time about the perfect murder? Something about using ice as a weapon because it melts. 

Although if this guy didn’t shut up soon, you were going to test your methods on him.

You let out an audible sigh of relief when you heard the bell ring, signaling it was time for a switch. As your last ‘date’ stood you dropped your head into your hands, trying desperately to find the tiniest scrap of a will to live. 

“You look like your evening is going about as well as mine.” There’s a wryly amused tone to the voice across from you, but the accent is what gets you to look up.

Your next date is carefully lowering himself into the seat across from you, leaning a cane against the table. He looks up once he’s seated, and for the first time tonight you find yourself actually wanting to talk to one of your romantic prospects.

In the next second his words catch up with you, and you let out a short laugh. “Depends, are you also debating how best to murder your best friend for talking you into this?” “Getting there, actually. And I wasn’t talked into it, I lost a bet.” You’re already halfway to completing his sentence mentally with ‘but it allowed me to meet you’ before you realize he didn’t take the obvious pick-up line set-up.

You sit up straight, glancing down at the paper in front of you. It lists the names and ages off all the men you were supposed to meet tonight, and you scan down until you find his. “Well, Viktor, I guess we are in about the same boat then. Out of curiosity, what bet did you lose?”

He grimaces, letting out a sigh. “My partner and I, Jayce, we work on something called HexTech. I bet I would be the first to figure out how to harness it for a new medical device we’re working on. As you can probably gather, I was wrong. I was very close, but wrong.” Viktor shrugs. “Jayce seems to think I spend too much time in the lab and not enough out ‘meeting new friends’,” He makes air quotes, and you find yourself grinning, “So this was what he made me do.”

“Well, I’m sorry for how your night has gone so far. That sounds like a truly humiliating punishment.” You can’t keep the grin off your face, and something warm curls up in your chest at the answering grin from Viktor as he shrugs.

“Eh, it truly has not been that bad. I just never really know what to do in social situations, especially situations like this.” He sounds almost disdainful, and you glance at the clock on the far wall that keeps track of the time until the end of the round and find it getting startlingly close to zero.

You look back at Viktor. “Well, avoiding the cheesy ‘I’d go through it again to meet you’ line, I’m not too upset with the whole night now that I’ve met you. You’re actually interesting to talk to.”

He blushes. He actually blushes, and damn you if it doesn’t look perfect on him.

Viktor coughs slightly, glancing down and smiling slightly. “I think I would agree with that sentiment.”

You glance back at the clock and stifle a groan, knowing you still have several rotations after this round. Looking down you tear a corner off your paper, leaning down to dig a pen out of your purse. “Listen, feel free to tell me I’m being presumptuous, but-” You finally snag a pen, hastily scrawling out your name and number on the scrap of paper before holding it out to him, trying not to look too hopeful. 

He looks surprised, and for a second your heart drops at the idea of him refusing. A heartbeat later he reaches out, fingers barely brushing yours just as the bell sounds again. He looks up, eyes locking on yours, and grins.

“Not a total waste of a night, then.”

[campbellschunkybear]

Vampire!Reader/self who was transformed years and years ago and only recently gotten over the grief for their normal life, meeting Viktor, a human, who is fascinating and intelligent and sharp-tongued. Viktor who isn't wary of them, doesn't question their refusal to go outside during the day, who takes the same evening courses between TA work that they take bc its easier to take classes at night. Viktor who is so so clever, dropping his realization that the reader/self is a vampire in casual conversation (but when they are alone, not in public, because he'd never put them in that position). He has so many questions, fascinated by their condition, how long they've lived, the means they go to feed. They never felt comfortable letting anyone know about their condition, but Viktor is so earnest in his desire to learn, not pushing when things ache.

Viktor, his own illness taken on fast, impossibly so, and who shares that he doesn't want to die. It's something you've spoken about before, Viktor's frustration with his body, but your own fear of yourself, of the regret, of everything you might be stealing from him if you turn him. His illness changes that. Thinking about him being Gone, just when you got him, hurts somehow worse than your own life being lost. You talk about it. Your fears and his, you want to make SURE he knows exactly what it would mean before he decides. He's certain. He wants you to turn him.

You make the day it happens a good one. Trying to ignore the strange somberness that permeates everything, you treat him to whatever he wants; fancy meals and drinks if that's it, a day out, visiting friends, anything. And when night falls, he's laid out in bed, a few towels down Just In Case, undressed and trembling but so sure, determination in those pretty gold eyes. The light is low, all curtains but the one facing the moon drawn, illuminating him in moonglow and city light. You ask him once more- you know his answer, and it hasn't changed. But it's one last out. He doesn't take it. So your descend on him, holding and kissing him, letting his tense body relax, soaking him in love and oxytocin, before finding his pulse and sinking your fangs into his neck.

Later, floating in the night air, you hold him as he learns to use his own powers, giggling at the way his new fangs affect his accent before he learns how to retract them. Vampirism doesn't take all his pains away, even floating weightlessly his bad leg doesn't move much, tense, and he'll still need his brace and cane. But he's here, with you, cool in your arms and positively glowing with new life.

[allclonesneedkisses]

Summary: Your bad day takes a turn for the better when you wander into the Arcane Public Library.

Pairing: Viktor x f!Reader

Word Count: 642 Rating: PG, (this is like a teaser for the stories to come)

Tags: fluff, slice of life, library au, summer library vibes, language

Masterlist

“Of fucking course this happens today.”

You stood with your hands on your hips glaring at the completely empty parking spot. To an outsider you probably just looked like an angry woman waiting for a ride but that would be incorrect. You weren’t waiting for a ride, you were looking at where your ride should be. Specifically your car. Specifically your car that had obviously been stolen.

It was mid July and the sun was scorching your exposed skin as you continued to glare. The sound of a distant fire engine blaring seemed to rouse you from your anger and you slumped.

Of all the rotten things to happen today this was the worst. It wasn’t like it had started any better when you’d toppled out of bed. Then there was the garbage disposal issue, tripping over the construction debris in your apartment, oh and the shitty date you’d just escaped from. 

You readjusted your purse, the strap of which was starting to stick to your sweaty shoulder. You glanced back towards the little coffee shop you’d just stepped out of and grimaced. You were certain your date was still in there and you really didn’t want it to seem like you were slinking back to him. There were a couple of chain stores nearby but none of them were open on a Sunday. Your eyes fell on the library and you made up your mind.

Your first breath of air conditioning felt like it revived you and you sighed, feeling your sweat cool on your skin. The building was obviously new, its architecture much more modern especially on the inside but it still smelled like books. Wonderful glorious books that you hadn’t gotten the chance to peruse yet.

Speaking of, you might as well get a library card while you’re here. You glanced around taking in the local artist wall and small sculptures that took up a generous portion in front of what looked like a help desk. There were a couple of people waiting there so you took your time glancing at the surprisingly good art pieces on display.

Eventually you were the only one left in front of the desk and you stepped forwards, a polite smile on your face until you saw who was standing behind the desk.

The man was pale, his face lean but soft in a way you couldn’t quite put your finger on. His brown hair was slightly disheveled as if he had a habit of running his fingers through it. His brown eyes were warm as they met yours and you felt your polite smile become genuine. He was wearing a white long sleeved button up shirt and a dark blue vest that had to be hot even in the well air conditioned building.

When one of his dark brows raised you realized he’d asked you something.

“I’m sorry what?”

“How can I help you today?” He repeated, his smile turning just the slightest bit rueful. As if his appearance alone wasn't making you flustered his accent did things to you.

“Sorry yes, uh I’d like to get a library card.” The process was simple enough. Answering general questions that he typed into the computer as you watched his face with interest. Once everything was done he held out a new blue and white library card to you, which you took accidentally grazing his fingertips with yours. Luckily you hid the tiny thrill that ran through you and you finally looked away from him to rummage in your purse for your wallet.

“Is there anything else I can help you with today?” You tried not to think about how sexy his accent was as you looked up and your eyes landed on a flier pinned to the corkboard behind him and you made a snap decision.

“Yes. I’m interested in the volunteer position.”

[thehistoriangirl]

The Tides Have Veiled [Ten]

Oh boy we're so backkkkkkkk

Hopefully I'll post next part soon enough >:3 to make up for the weekly October updates

Viktor x Fem!Reader---Gothic AU: Spooky Sea---3.3K--SFW*

> MASTERLIST <- Previous // Next ->

Synopsis:  Piltover the Old has an old lighthouse that looms over an abandoned port. From the house in the wailing cliff’s edge, the lighthouse owner watches that the beacon is being lighten up each time darkness arrives, so that monsters wouldn't dare to crawl inland, or so legends say. Both buildings are haunted, maybe even the man himself, by both past and present ghosts. Surprisingly, the keeper’s work is beyond turning on the beacon every night— but the rest is on you to discover.

Chapter Summary: When a storm strikes the town at night, you discover what happens when the beacon is turned off...

Tags: Strangers to Lovers | Ghosts | Mermaids/Sirens | Slow Burn | Bonding Time | Forced Proximity | Mystery |There Was Only One Bed | Marriage of Convenience/Fake Marriage | Mentions of Self-Harm (throwing off a cliff)* | This chapter returns to a think mentioned in chapter 3 if u wanna check it out :D

Taglist: @lunar-monster @bittercyder @local-mr-frog

Ten: Twisted Legends, Tragic Stories

The ocean wasn’t pleased with the memories it devoured.

October arrived, and with it the relentless rain carrying a razor-cutting wind that tried to pull you down as your wobbly steps climbed toward the lighthouse, hands numb and pale from dipping them in the freezing tidepools in search of bloated fishes to add to Viktor’s collection.

He had taught you how to classify them, suspended in a void formed of aldehyde to preserve them in all their monstrous, amorph glory. In each glass, there is a scribbled note with their long scientific names, stacked alphabetically inside Viktor’s underground studio.

All of it under his appreciative, almost proud gaze, as you move your hands around, taking in the sight of your focused frown. A pat on the shoulder as you search for the name of a certain slippery specimen, fingers brushing along the encyclopedia's pages.

The nights were splatters of rain over the misty window, the lighthouse illuminating the ghostly beach below where the apparition of the drowned woman appeared closer every time, her hand still waving, her blue lips still curved in a sardonic smile.

Today, however, as you approached the entrance of the tower, you saw Viktor already waiting for you outside, even though he had a key. His long coat hugged his lithe frame, the ends flapping against the cold air flowing through the cliff.

“Please be sure to secure your windows before dusk,” he said, his hands resting over his cane. You had no idea to know how long he had been waiting out here. “Tonight we’ll be hit by a storm.”

He had left in a hurry because he had things to pack for his upcoming trip to the city—one you didn't wish to think too much about, reminiscent of what occurred in the last. It being fantasy or reality, you didn’t wish to know.

Just another storm, just like every night, you thought, the gate creaking as you opened it, the rusty bucket pressing against your thigh with each step you took.

Of course, the ocean loved to differ.

Ever since after lunch, the blue sky tinted inky black, sunset swallowed by a formation of grey clouds; the air still and charged, ready to pounce. And it did, with the piercing flash of a lightning bolt striking through the sky, white and silver, the tail coming down to the sea.

The wind howled like a group of beasts, like the souls of all drowning men returning at the ocean’s surface to wail for their loss.

Running up the familiar stairs, you secured the ajar window with a rope you found tucked inside one of the lockers. The old ledger fell in the moment you tried to pull the rope out.

The lodger opened in the same entry as the last time you checked, still blurred, still written in a hurry, the crusty surface of the page as if someone had been crying over it.

She came in with the storm, leaving no rock unturned, no place to hide, all while looking for him.

I prayed she could find him, so she could never return. What a fool I was—it would’ve been better to know nothing, as fear has ripped out the logical part of my head, leaving behind cloudy judgments and dreary illusions that siege the tower.

Alas; my pleas were in vain, for now, I hear her banging on the entrance door, her shrieks shattering the windows. With the power gone, she’s everywhere.

Your hands picked up the ledger, tucking it at the bottom of the locker, your steps quick to wrap an old cloth you used to mop the floor in between the window’s opening to stop the rain from coming in.

While you were peering out the window, the landscape outside looked like a melting world, dripping painting in melancholic blues, black, and grey.

You turned on the light, the beacon making the trails of rain shine like amber against the windows as it rotated toward the beach. Your hands flipped over the lodge, securing that there was enough firewood for the burning hearth and enough oil for your lamp. The control room was operating as normal, machines purring happily.

Amidst the cacophony of the rain, you heard a further boom sound reverberating around the tower as if it were a lightning strike, and perhaps it was because then everything got swallowed in darkness.

The purring of the generator was replaced by your pounding heart, by the screams of the cliff that seemed to be getting closer with each panting breath you took; shadows enveloping your being when the lightning flashes disappeared after a mere blink.

Scrambling against the furniture in the dark, you pulled the lever up and down, and up again, yet to no avail. The beacon remained dead.

She came in with the storm, leaving no rock unturned, no place to hide, all while looking for him.

The words hit you like a cold-blooded knife in the chest, making your heartbeat flatten before picking up again.

You didn’t know what to do. The lighthouse supposedly had an emergency generator tied to the line of the power supply, but then why the beacon wasn’t working?

She came in with the storm, leaving no rock unturned, no place to hide, all while looking for him.

The thought of having to check the wires of the lighthouse's electricity made you shiver. The little room was not only down the stairs but also down the lighthouse itself, in the upper room of a submerged cave created at the foot of the cliffside. The room had been sealed properly from the cave system many times ago, but still, the thought of venturing inside the earth with only a dim oil lamp made your stomach churn.

She came in with the storm, leaving no rock unturned, no place to hide, all while looking for him.

I hear her banging on the entrance door, her shrieks shattering the windows. With the power gone, she’s everywhere.

You walked toward the windows of the beacon room, leaving the useless control panel behind as you tried to chase the fleeting flashes of lightning to move around.

Thud! Thud! Thudthudthud!

You froze, thinking the sound had come fabricated from your brain. But it repeated in a vulgar, unusual rhythm, new every time.

Thudthud! Thud! Thudthud!

THUD! THUD!

I hear her banging on the entrance door, her shrieks shattering the windows. With the power gone, she’s everywhere.

But that didn’t sound like a door, it sounded…

Your gaze returned to the glass, thinking that the rain had changed into hail.

Instead, you saw the pale, drowned woman standing on the little balcony outside the beacon room, body bloated and grey, fingers broken in an incorrect direction as she kept her palm up.

From her presence on the beach, you couldn't see it well, but now, you saw her other hand tucked behind her back, the rags of her dress covered in algae, moss, and even some barnacles growing on her exposed bones, there where her neck snapped to the side.

She came in with the storm, leaving no rock unturned, no place to hide, all while looking for me. Me, me, me.

And the black, hazy eyes of the woman pierced your soul, yellow teeth bared in a grin.

I came for you, you, you.

You screamed, all the air stolen from your lungs as the woman revealed a rusty knife in her grasp, lounging at the window. Her smile black and wide like a mocking grin.

“Miss!”

You scrambled against something, falling onto the wooden floor in an amorph mass of limbs as you tried to scratch your wait out the trap.

“Miss it’s me! Calm down!” Viktor called out your name, taking you by the shoulders as you lay atop him. “It’s me! Shhh, shhh, everything is alright,” he cooed, looking at your face frozen in horror, your body shivering like a leaf as his hands ran up and down your arms, trying to warm you up. “I’m here. Everything is alright.”

“V-Vik…Viktor,” you said, glued against him until the fear had run out of your veins. You pointed toward the window, not daring to look back at it again.

“Come on,” he said, taking your hands as he slowly got you down his body. “Let’s go to the hearth.”

"When… when did you arrive?" you muttered, glad that Viktor had carried an oil lamp with him as he climbed the stairs. You wanted to leave that room as fast as you could, and his presence was your call.

“Around fifteen minutes ago. Ah… I suppose you didn’t hear me knocking?” Viktor smiled, trying to reassure you.

You shook your head, leading the way through the staircase as you synchronized your steps with his.

“Why did you come?”

The answer took a long time to come out, and as you looked at him, the flicking light of the lamp made his face with a pink blush.

“I didn’t know I wasn’t welcomed,” he teased. “I… eh, I wanted to make you company. I know that here the storms feel stronger than back in the village."

There existed the possibility of him being slightly scared, too, but his answer had your stomach covered in fluttering sensations. Does he care for me?

“Um… thank you. Thanks a lot, Viktor,” you said, taking his hand to help him off the staircase.

You walked toward the table at the front of the hearth, putting the oil lamp there to proceed to light on the fire with a match and a piece of old newspaper.

"I thought the lighthouse had an emergency generator," you said, though it mattered very little, as you doubted there were any fishing boats daring to navigate through such a storm.

“It does, but I think the cave underneath us may be flooded.” Seeing your eyes wide open in horror, he patted your shoulder. “Not completely, I mean. Just enough for the cables to get wet. Eh—it was lucky that we didn’t have a short-circuit.”

You tried to smile at him, showing the best you could that you appreciated him to be there with you; though if he was trying to calm you down, his words didn’t have that much of an effect.

“Have you had dinner yet?” You said, looking at the plate of roasted fish covered with tomatoes and lettuce.

Viktor looked at the fish and frowned. “Have you?”

You turned your back on him, though your nervous giggle still reverberating on the ground floor, almost drowning the cacophony of the outside world. “Well, I’ve been busy preparing for the storm.”

Viktor hummed, his steps approaching behind you to take a pair of glasses over the hearth’s shelf. He smelled like rain, and you could see chestnut locks shining, slightly wet from the rain that slipped into his raincoat.

“That’s not good, Miss,” he muttered, brushing your cheek with the sleeve of his shirt when he pulled away. “Let’s have dinner together, hmm?”

You couldn’t stop the smile from curving your lips, even if you felt childish. “And why you haven’t had dinner yet?”

His cheeks flushed red. “Eh—duty calls.”

“See?” you teased, the mismatched porcelain clinking as you put a roasted fish in front of Viktor. “Did you have a safe travel down here? I’m… glad that you’re here with me.”

Viktor chuckled, nodding his head, taking a bite of the meat with a piece of lettuce. "You cook well." Then, when you settled in front of him, he added: “Are you alright? You seem pale.”

Your eyes drifted over the fire, mind pondering about telling him, and risking it for him to view you as insane, or not, and keep a straight face hoping he wouldn’t catch you lying. But what if he did? Which outcome will be the worst?

"Why… why does the town say that your house is haunted?" you asked back instead, pushing around the pieces of fish around the plate.

The fork fell from Viktor’s grasp, golden eyes seemingly shocked as he bore them at you. Of course, he was about to laugh at you and brush it off before you had a chance to tell him about the muddy footprints.

“There was a devastating storm hitting this town a couple of centuries ago,” Viktor explained, and suddenly the food didn’t look as appetizing anymore. “The waves were so big they swept the house down. Legend says that it was a mermaid seeking revenge the one who conjured the storm.”

Your frown deepened. “But… this town loved mermaids. They built a museum of them, even.” You gestured away, the images of at least a dozen offerings being swept by the sea. "And the offerings. Why venerate something that hurt you so much?"

Viktor’s eyes shone molten gold against the dancing fireplace. “For fear, of course.” He reclined on his seat, the wood creaking echoing in that eerily calm bubble that had enveloped you both. “Fishermen had killed so many mermaids over the centuries, that they’re in their right to be scared. To try and appease them with their memories.”

“Does it… work?”

A lightning bolt tore the sky, making the room bright white. When you blinked again, the light was gone, only red shadows left behind.

"Not anymore," Viktor muttered, looking out the window. Your intense gaze made him clear his throat. "I mean, judging it by tonight's storm."

“But what does it have to do with the house?” You asked, hoping he wasn’t telling you the town’s legends only to make you forget about it.

“Ah—yes. Well, the owner of the house, Einar Stell, was famous for selling mermaids to museums and circuses. Of course, the mermaid of the story rightfully sought revenge against his doings, pursuing him with the storm in his own house, and finding him hiding in the basement, where the rain makes him drown in a pit of water and mud.” Viktor shrugged, taking a sip of his beverage. “People think his spirit still wanders in the house.”

In a pit of rain and mud… you felt the little hairs on the back of your neck rising.

“And this mermaid…” you heard yourself saying, hoping this next story could bring you a distraction. "Is the woman crying on the cliff?"

Viktor smiled. “No. Mermaids don’t have souls, as they live a very long life. So they can’t become ghosts. The townsfolk say that the cries are of Mr. Stell’s daughter, who was lured by a mermaid to throw herself off the cliff.”

The same she does with everyone passing by it now. You thought, remembering the cold, salty air pinching your cheeks and the frozen tears as you stood with one foot over the abyss. You were about to fall for her trap, too.

You swallowed. “Do you believe in said stories?”

Viktor shrugged. “I’ve studied mythology and folklore for a while,” he said. “Many marine monsters aren’t real, but…” he stopped, the silence broken by a wail that sounded much closer to the entrance. “It would be very egotistical of me to say that everything can be explained by it.”

I saw a woman at the window, you wanted to tell him, let the knot spill out your throat. She was drowned and dead, and she was looking for me.

But why would she be looking for you? You were just a lighthouse keeper—the lighthouse keeper of a haunted beacon, in a haunted town, working by the owner of a cursed house.

You didn't say anything, sipping on your tea despite it having grown cold long ago.

Not even the constant tapping of the rain against the crystals could lull you to sleep, not with the cold seeping inside the lighthouse despite the hearth burning furiously, and you could almost picture the struggle between the flames and the winds trying to crack open the mossy exterior walls, with the rock reminiscing of all the other torturous nights like this one.

In the end, of course, the fire was extinguished with the sizzling noise of the last logs wet with the bowl of water Viktor had thrown into it.

“We should get some sleep,” he had said. “And let the fire can be dangerous.”

After the apparition clinging outside the window, you didn't dare to climb back those stairs and sleep on the couch. Not now that the beacon room had been devoured by darkness, with the flickering oil lamp guiding your way downstairs.

You remained in your chair, the pair of thin blankets thrown into the cot showing the wrinkles of your usage from this morning. You knew that with the growing cold of the unrelenting storm outside, those wouldn’t be enough to keep any of you warm enough.

Yet, the thought of climbing the stairs to fetch the ones over the couch made your stomach fall.

A golden gaze pierced through the darkness, focused on you; its twinkling reflected by the candle on the table.

“I believe we both fit in it,” he commented, awkwardly gesturing toward the cot. “Ladies first. I mean, if you, eh, if you like to sleep next to the wall. I can do it if you don’t like it.”

You were about to turn him down—that you were used to staying up all night, that he should take the bed, especially since tomorrow he would have to travel to the city to take in the exam of his successful postulation at the Academy.

But staying in the same room with him while he slept wouldn’t soothe him, either. Knowing that you would be awake while he remained asleep, as you remained alone, in a way.

You didn’t want that, either.

Besides, you were adults. People do this all the time, your brain tries to trick you in a futile attempt to push you into remaining calm. The afterthought of you’re married, anyway, didn’t help.

 To your surprise, you nodded, crawling into the cot, the surface warm from Viktor’s body as he had moved from the stiff chair into the cot to ease his muscles. The mattress dipped under your weight, some springs creaking at the movement. It was at the same time familiar, with all the naps you took during the day, but his presence made it all new again.

You lay next to the wall, the cold surprising you as you scooped closer to the middle.

Then, he slipped inside, slow and graceful like a cat, his body rolled next to yours, lithe fingers accommodating the blankets atop your arms so you wouldn’t be cold, even if so meant to scoop closer so both your bodies could be covered.

“Alright,” Viktor muttered, his gaze looked at the ceiling. “Are you comfortable?”

You nodded, noticing that you were giving him your back. “Y-yes, I am,” you said, trying to hide your face beneath the blankets, only to realize that you could smell Viktor’s shampoo from up close, like orange and sandal. “Thank you.”

You forced your eyes to shut close, to your breathing to even—maybe that way, the faking would become truth.

The wind howled outside, and soon enough you could hear Viktor’s soft snores covering the screams of the cliff, his hand slowly cupping your waist as he rolled to his side to hug you.

For a moment, you froze, thinking that maybe not breathing could be the right decision.

Don’t be silly.

… It feels… nice. In here the woman can’t find me, you thought, eyes scanning the outline of the furniture and the stairs, barely visible against the darkness of the night. They would protect you from the ghost. Viktor would protect you, too. You knew it.

You nuzzled into the pillow he had given you, letting the rain hitting the window to lull you into the dreamlands.

[ihopeinevergetsoberr]

the counterpart

• chapter 1 — a welcome threatening stir

rating: explicit. please don’t skip straight to the (future) smut parts though, i’m currently teaching myself how to play chess just for this fic /hj

word count: 4,5k

pairing: viktor x fem!reader (no use of ‘y/n’)

cw: alcohol, occasional cussing, reader is a smoker (she plays chess and lives in the 90s, how do you expect her to have healthy lungs in these conditions?). a LOT of tension, viktor is a certified brat tamer. i think that’s it — please come yell at me if i missed anything. basically just a silly little chess rivals (sort of) au.

i am finally writing this multichapter and i hope it will be a fun read for you and an excellent torture for me. i have a vision but i don’t know how to make shit perfectly executed. we’ll see how this goes. an ao3 link will be added later. any feedback is highly appreciated.

part 2

⸻

You weren’t obsessed with him. 

With the way his tongue would click against his teeth so astutely irritating — a gesture you grew to define as some brief foreplay before said appendage touched his palate precisely one tortuous time, whispering a victorious ‘check’. With a crease dissecting his forehead — a rare occasion you managed to grasp only twice: the first time being your failed attempt to capture his queen, and the second — a recent one, at that — being a foolish way you’ve lost a freshly converted into a rook pawn: concurrently the most humiliating way to jeopardize an intellectual sparring. 

You weren’t obsessed with his bizarre contemplative humming, nor with his Czech last name — needless to mention the disheveled mayhem of dark hair: Viktor was just a mere enigma you fancied to occasionally demerge — sneakily, patiently, with a positive passion to it. Habitually in a private ambiance of either his or your dorm room, though actually more commonly his — something about it simply screamed peace, as contradictory as that sounds. Sweetly quiet, relatively neat, with a never properly made bed being the only truly concerning mess in it.

That apartment was the embodiment of a grandmaster’s mind, and it certainly had all the chances of belonging to one at some point: if only he kept up with the meticulous tactics you were (secretly) so jealous about. 

“Envy is a waste of time,” he unkindly reminded you one particularly languid evening, “you should pursue ways to expand your knowledge — not to contract them with such trivialities.” 

That reproach got into your ambitious head. Call it a reality check or a simple first impression — since that encounter was also the first one you two had ever shared.

Though could someone really blame you? You didn’t need humbling. Well, not any more of that crude one, at the very least — a local college chess club had more than enough of it to offer. You could consume their disdain for weeks and it still wouldn’t make them run out of it — they had plenty in stock specifically for women. That much was obvious the second you appeared before those arrogant, prejudiced fools. You stepped in there innocently hoping to enroll, but stormed off with a genuine intention to commit homicide — a manslaughter, to be precise, and god weren’t you going to be merciful. 

‘You can’t enroll without a rating,’ hissed that bespectacled, caricaturely tall boy — all heavily starched collar, stupid chequered tie and a handful of dirty blonde hair plastered across his forehead. 

Bullshit, you thought, gathering every last ounce of your forced politeness, who needs a rating to enroll into a college fucking chess club? 

‘We don’t accept amateurs,’ assented his not any less grimy interlocutor, his expression a tad bit more bearable. ‘Please, leave,’ he demanded, lancing your face with his hostile eyes. 

Well, it’s a good thing you accept ill-mannered bastards, you almost muttered, fists clenching hard into a white-knuckled disaster. 

And perhaps you were even willing to negotiate, to have their best players all lined up in front of you — each waiting for a turn to be relentlessly put in his place by you; and you would certainly show them — quick, efficient and contemplative. You would force them into submission — professionally so, in a way that would make them all wonder whether the next Judit Poglar herself has decided to bless them with her presence. 

Because, sure; you were certainly many things — an excellent mind, a trickster, a fanatic, but that list never included an amateur. The mere fact someone even dared to insult you in such a way — and without even sparing you one game of chess — was, frankly, deeply humiliating. 

So you decided to let your pride win. Walked out of that damned club with an ostentatious huff, heels clacking loud enough to muffle their demeaningly misogynistic brouhaha — a tacit protest, an addendum to your passive-aggressive ‘good luck, gentlemen’. 

They didn’t want you — fine, whatever, you didn’t want them either. You’ll find yourself a counterpart soon — not any less intelligent, and, most importantly, a respectful one. They’ll come crawling back to you once you gain a rating, mourning their loss and pathetically begging for sweet mercy. You could already imagine the holes rubbed through the nice fabric of their dress pants from all the kneeling you’ll make them do. 

Besides, Jayce had already promised to introduce you to someone decent. ‘He’s sweet,’ he assured you, a friendly arm wrapped around your tense shoulder. ‘Incredibly smart,’ he proceeded with his wholehearted praise, proud grin so wide the corners of his mouth were definitely hurting. ‘Somewhat awkward,’ he mused, raising one eyebrow in consideration, ‘though I’m not entirely sure it’s awkwardness, per se, Viktor is simply… pensive.’

Viktor. Your eyes squeezed shut, offering the restless imagination a brief opportunity to brainstorm. A competent, pensive and sweet chess lover: what would his temper turn out to be like? Does he have a rating yet? What if he’s already playing professionally? Perhaps he even has a title? 

Jayce’s next comment didn’t offer you much help though. 

‘He’s handsome too,’ he whispered, a shit-eating smirk wiped instantly off his pleased physiognomy. Elbows become offensive weapons between the ribs of unfortunate matchmakers, you see. 

Either way: the deal was sealed. You were going to meet Viktor the next chance you get, and Jayce’s upcoming birthday has provided you with precisely that convenience. 

It still happened rather spontaneously — you can’t mentally prepare yourself for an encounter you don’t quite know what to expect of. Sure, Jayce’s complaisant flattery was still at your service — a source not exactly reliable, yet somewhat welcomed nonetheless: though only because you lacked any other information about this Viktor persona.

But you decided not to upset a dear friend on his birthday. Acting like Jayce was bearable to be around was a part of your gift, after all. 

Unfortunately, the fact he was born on an awfully steamy July day wasn’t helping you accomplish that; you squinted, drowning a glass of that disgustingly warm bourbon, a couple of melted ice cubes in it slightly diluting the once-rich taste of liquor. The man of the hour had quickly dissolved into a mess of infuriatingly noisy people after only reserving you a quick hello, shiny eyes already evidently tipsy — either from all the attention or the contentious quality of the booze this bar had to offer. 

You didn’t dare to complain. The tab was on a birthday boy, and you knew better than to look a gift horse in the mouth. Knew better, yet still stared right at Jayce’s laughing physiognomy, grin so blindingly toothy it had you regretting ever sojourning this feast of life. Not that you had anything against attending birthday celebrations; but a cramped bar, a cheap drink and not a single minute spent with a man you came here for weren’t exactly your ideal perception of said… festivity. Not to mention that Viktor was terribly late — though your darling mutual acquaintance was in no state to properly introduce you to him anyway. You slipped out of your bar stool, rubbing an erratic little pattern into the weary skin of each heavy eyelid — but the sleepiness didn’t magically dissolve under the persistent pressure of your fingers. If there existed a thing you hated more than cocky men and bad booze — then it certainly had to be feeling hot, and this awful place has kindly reminded you of precisely that long forgotten loathing; air so sticky it was melting your brain into a tired, dysfunctional mush. 

Somehow you managed to find an exit before the headache became borderline unbearable, letting the evening greet you with a chilly slap on precisely that slick place where a damp blouse kept clinging onto your sweaty back. Summer sure was relentless this year — the outdoors didn’t offer you much of that crispy gentle breeze, but it was still not nearly as suffocatingly hot as inside that grimy shelter for drunks. 

Shaky hands slid inside the pocket of your pants, fumbling frantically with the contents of it: glistening candy wrappers, ringing keys and a handful of coins. Took you long enough to finally feel the shape of an old lighter, the spark wheel of it so terribly rusty the callus on your thumb started stinging as soon as you laid it on that rough little bump. 

With a sigh, you fetched a folded pack of Camel out of the same stuffed sack, the state of said poor thing utterly matching its owner’s — all ruffled, messy, with the bottom of it barely still intact. Well, fine, perhaps that last trait was not precisely pertinent to you, but your rear was hurting quite palpably after an hour spent sitting on that awfully uncomfortable stool — which meant that relating to your poor box of cancer sticks was inevitable. 

The spark wheel gave in after a few insistent pushes, and within seconds you were taking your first greedy drag, back pressed tightly against the cool wall; providing you a much needed support for taming a headache with a smoke break that would undoubtedly cause a new one in an instant. The filth filled your lungs with sweet relief, and you let the sedation run slowly through your veins, squeezing the filter in an affectionate little embrace of trembling index and middle fingers. 

And then your private moment was ruined. But not abruptly in the slightest, with just one simple call of your name – the most careful of all interventions, surprisingly quizzical and polite, heavily accented at the edge of the very last syllable. Still had you choking ungracefully on your tiny nicotine snack, filling the silence with awfully inelegant coughing. 

“Apologies, I didn’t mean to startle you,” spoke your pensive intruder, causing you to sharply turn around, back clinging off the wall in one unsubtle movement. 

That’s how all meaningful formal meetings happen. Unfailingly when you least expect them, or, even worse — when you stop expecting them at all, with every thought banished from your utterly relaxed mind. They sneak up on you under shitty bars, giving you a slight vertigo and then offering a polite smile to make amends, gripping the handles of their canes with pent up awkwardness. And god were they peculiar intrusions — matching your silly, much too improper manner to wear corporate clothes for a night out, with just a few buttons of their tight vest undone; limbs lanky, but not inept, eyes brimming with pretty copper right onto your astonished frame. Made you randomly embarrassed about your chipped nail polish and messy hair with just a mere presence of their flawlessness: you knew you were facing a tease before you even managed to acknowledge his appearance, brow raising curiously in a cautious attempt of a greeting.

“Well, you did startle me,” was the first thing to leave your mouth after the coughing assault had ended, lips stretching lazily into an involuntary grin. “How do you know my name?” 

His eyes — oh those big shiny tormentors — widened in surprise, and one sinewy hand crawled somewhat haphazardly up his chest, fingers catching the knot of a red tie to pull on it firmly. To either adjust it or to make the clearing of a tender throat easier — you couldn’t quite place it, yet still watched him in silent astonishment, tasting the bitterish taste of tobacco on the tip of your tongue. 

“Well,” he parroted your tone with sharp accuracy and proceeded with distinguished sass, “I believe a certain someone has introduced us to each other… in absentia, so to speak.” 

Oh. So that was your new charming counterpart? Bravo, Jayce — there was actually something truthful about your flattering for the first time. 

“For I am Viktor, in case you’re still confused,” he obligingly reminded, abandoning the brief fidgeting with his tie to offer you a handshake.  

You gulped, almost extending a dominant arm to accept it, but some weird foreboding had once convinced you that to twine your still smelling of cigarettes fingers with a stranger would be somehow perceived as crude — and so you clumsily caught his palm with your other, less nimble limb. Let the heat of his touch engrave into your hand, eyes swirling the tiny mole above that defined cupid’s bow, making you feel stupid for stealing that innocent of a peek. Had you forgetting about the still stuffed into your mouth cigarette as it fell open in oblivious awe, almost dropping a decent bridge of ashes onto his pretty shoes.

Regaining the lost composure, you managed to introduce yourself in a manner similar to his — not that it was necessary since he seemed to remember what to call you exactly, but the gesture still felt right — you’d vowed to treat people with politeness and liked to think that it was going quite well for you. 

“So,” he uttered somewhat approbatory, withdrawing his hand from your tender clasp, “normally I don’t… tutor. But Jayce was rather insistent I try — and he’d also assured me that you’re quite passionate about the subject.” 

You huffed, letting out an undefinable sound of confusion. Not without a mixture of evident irritation to it, if you were to be frank — but that was entirely justified. A tutor? Is that how Jayce really took it? 

“I’m not looking for a tutor,” you sassed matter-of-factly, angrily inhaling from your cigarette. “I’m looking for a counterpart. What makes you think that you’re competent enough to teach me anything at all?” you inquired with candid hostility, watching him go limp in silent panic. 

You’d vowed to treat people with politeness and didn’t care if it wasn’t going well for you anymore. Quite a drastic change of plans, to be frank.

“Oh, I am not claiming that,” Viktor rushed to object, and the way a few strands of hair started shaking treacherously as he wagged his head had almost caused you to crack a pretentious smirk. But he quickly soothed the unkempt curl and proceeded with his explanation, “I was simply told you might need some help. Why the unnecessary attitude?” 

“Because you were told wrong,” you practically spat the smoke into his face, lips smacking together with an audible pop. It made his textured nose wrinkle with a fed up sigh, entertaining you with an ungainly attempt of waving that livid cloud away. 

“And that’s my fault… how, exactly?” he mumbled with an utterly puzzled glare, and you scoffed in silent rejoicement, leaning slightly closer to divert yourself with more of his emotiveness. 

“You should have paid more attention to what Jayce told you,” you jumped over his rhetorical question paying it no mind whatsoever. Though, as you were reminiscing on the events of this exact conversation — your own audacity made you wonder how Viktor managed to refrain from slapping you across the face that very instant. The shitty booze must have turned out not so shitty after all — it sure gave you the nerve, and you were holding onto it a tad bit too tightly. 

But your new companion didn’t take that well. His thick eyebrow protruded into a furious arc, lids twitching slightly at the outburst you were so pathetically proud about. Both hands returned to the handle of his cane, as if getting ready to transform it into a weapon — and he leaned his whole body weight on it with a displeased gasp, accented voice obtaining a lower, more threatening edge to it. 

He’s sweet, you scoffed, ready to press your forehead against his like an uncivilized animal. It’s not like you were acting much better than that anyway. 

Well, at least Jayce didn’t lie about the handsome part. 

“I’ll have you know that I was, indeed, paying attention,” he hissed through gritted teeth, “and if you wish to quibble over the words that do not even belong to me — then fine: be my absolute guest, but do not except me to align with your enthusiasm and partake in useless insults.” 

He cleared his throat again, evidently reluctant to indulge in whatever spectacle you were so clearly asking for. That man didn’t deserve your resentment, but now you certainly deserved his, and so you backed off, fingers twitching haphazardly as they curdled around your cigarette for one last awkward drag, lashes fluttering with palpable nervousness. 

“I was told you needed a tutor — and I sincerely apologize if your request was miscomprehended,” Viktor sighed, and you blinked at him in baffled reverence. Wishing oh so desperately to burn your  always looking for trouble tongue with that still somewhat smoldering tobacco stick. 

“No, I…” you gasped in response, but Viktor held a soothing hand up, stopping you from puking out more of that guilty incoherent nonsense. 

“Please, allow me to finish,” he demanded, and you obeyed — a mere culpable inch away from accidentally swallowing the filter still filling your mouth with a sharp savour of smoke. 

And your submission was appreciated right away. 

“So, as I was saying,” Viktor returned to his lecture with a distinguished cough, “I’m sorry if your request was miscomprehended. But it certainly wasn’t miscomprehended by me, which makes your reaction somewhat… unfair, don’t you think?” 

“Yes,” you yielded, nodding in weak agreement. “Yes, totally unfair.” 

“To say the least,” he was quick to add, emphasizing the last word especially heavy.  

“To say the least,” you parroted in response — just like a tamed misbehaving brat. And that’s precisely what you were — humbled, put in your place and sorry. You were sorry, and it made you quiver as you timidly chewed on the inside of an already half-eaten cheek, frantically counting the numerous scratches on your shoes. Doing anything to escape the gentle orbs undressing you off your very flesh in an attempt to find something even you doubted was still there: some prudence. 

“So, with that being said,” Viktor summarized, and you heard a resonant click of his cane against the concrete, “I suggest you take out your anger on someone who’s responsible for the incorrect wording.” 

You dared to abandon your defeated position, head tilting slightly upwards to witness his departure — just as languid as this completely disastrous evening; no offense to Jayce and his special day, of course. 

“Now if you’ll excuse me,” he smiled, politely nodding at the establishment before you two, “I still ought to wish that someone a happy birthday.” 

So that’s how you lose both a battle and a war. He’d just taught you a valuable lesson — and here you were, so appalled to the idea of being tutored. Oh how the tables have turned. 

You reached out a hand for him, preliminarily putting out that damned cigarette to the sole of your messy shoe in a chaotic rush. Grazed his shoulder with a fleeting touch — so cowardly unsure if you were even allowed to pamper such luxury in these conditions. But he showed you some mercy — allowed it to linger there, slightly dipped into the curvature of his clavicle, awaiting your next move with a didactic frown. 

A look of a man who’d put you in a checkmate before even pulling out a chess board. 

“Viktor, I’m sorry,” you muttered with the most sincere remorseful look your face could even master, “I’m terribly sorry, actually. I shouldn’t have—“ but he interrupted you, eyes drifting playfully to the hand still invading his precious privacy. 

“Oh, shit,” you cussed under your breath, hastily pulling it back as if it was leprotic, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—“

“Please, continue,” he insisted softly. Gave you a few seconds to finish crumbling into stupid tipsy pieces and stepped back, all of his attention centered precisely on your earnest apology. 

Oh, nevermind, someone please scratch the ‘showed you some mercy’ part.  

“I was rude,” you confessed (as if it wasn’t obvious enough already). “Unacceptably so. I’m not exactly… good with social cues — but it’s no excuse, I should never have said that. Especially within the first five minutes of meeting you,” the words were flowing out of your mouth so naturally — surprisingly smooth for someone who’d normally take three to five business days to come up with a proper atonement (or even consider the necessity of one whatsoever). 

“Do you think I could somehow… make it up to you?” you hit him with your most pitiable arrow, the one you were saving up for special occasions when you really did mean to somehow atone for all the damage, eyes two pretty things seeking his forgiveness with a sporadic, perplexed blink. But they saw none — he’d frowned, hummed in consideration, and then tormented you with silence for just a few more everlasting seconds, making you sink your lips softly into the edge of your nail and scrape some polish off of it. Squinting instantly at the awful, chemical taste — and Viktor finally gave up. 

You’d realized it was your first time hearing him laugh much later. It was, indeed, a thing to remember — all raspy, strangely domestic, not malicious or willing to destroy you any further. And yes — technically, he was laughing at you, but if that’s what you’d get every time this man filled the air with that soft laughter — then you may as well become a circus employee just to figure out how to make him emit more of it.

“All is forgiven,” he assured you, shaking his head, “the second you made that face, actually. But no more of that, please. If that’s how you plead — then I’m afraid I might someday forgive you something utterly unacceptable.” 

He’s sweet, you sighed, an unsure smile returning plastered across your face once again. 

Perhaps you should start listening to Jayce more often. 

“But back to your request,” Viktor was quick not to let you turn into a puddle on that still scorched by the sun ground, “a counterpart — is that what you need? Why not join a chess club, then?” 

His question didn’t mean any harm, and he obviously just asked it out of sheer curiosity — yet it still made you feel a tad bit demeaned. Not by him, of course, just by the fact those arrogant fucks still dared to coexist without you. 

Perhaps they would be willing to reconsider if they saw your behavior tonight? 

You sighed, shrugging off his query. “I tried to. They didn’t let me because I don’t have a rating.”

“Really? Well that’s just strange — since when does one need a rating for it?” his confusion was genuine, eyes widened drastically as if he’d just heard the biggest absurdity of his entire life. 

“That’s what I said,” you whined in a tone of a natural gossip-girl, almost ready to chain-smoke the entire rest of your pack now that you were reminded of your misery. 

“I see,” Viktor hummed, stroking a thumb over the line of his sharp chin in deep scrutiny, “hm, I’m certain I’ve never heard them demand a rating for enrollment before. A club is not a tournament, after all.” 

“Wait, are you a member of our chess club?” the realization quickly absorbed you, but Viktor didn’t quite catch on to your astonishment. 

“Yes,” he dryly confirmed, “yes, I am. Not that I spend much time there though — those gentlemen are simply… how do I put it politely? Mediocre. Incompetent. I don’t like careless opponents — what’s the point in playing them if you can picture how exactly you can win within seconds?” 

Within seconds. You froze in apparent disbelief, trying to figure out whether he’s bluffing or actually being serious, awaiting tensely on something — anything —  that might indicate a joke. But not a single muscle on his pale face twitched into a smile — he’d responded with a look as awfully inquisitive as yours, unsure of what exactly you expect him to do. 

So he does mean it. In that case, he’s either very full of himself — or these boys are, in fact, that hopeless in chess. And something kept telling you that it most likely was the ladder.

“I’m jealous then, I suppose,” you offered him a safe answer, toying thoughtlessly with your poor, rusty lighter. 

“Please don’t be,” he protested with a careful plea. “Envy is a waste of time. You should pursue ways to expand your knowledge — not to contract them with such trivialities.” 

Bold of him to assume you might envy his skills. Well, yes — you were definitely beaming with envy, but he didn’t need to know that just yet. 

You snorted, almost letting that toxic conceit take over whatever pieces of common sense Viktor had just punched back into you — and his words dwelled, slinking through your skull, filling you not with thirst for vengeance, but with inspiration. It gave you some time to form a decent comeback, so you used it wisely: by delivering precisely that kind of answer, eyes rolling playfully at his discreet lecture. 

“I don’t envy your tactics,” you informed him, gracefully holding your head up, “I envy the fact you have someone to show them to.” 

And that boy smiled again, forcing your light vertigo to return — but not out of tipsiness or so-called ‘arrogance poisoning’. 

“So do you,” he whispered, and watched you derail with the most victorious countenance known to a man. Reminding you nonchalantly that he doesn’t need a single chess piece to have you in a stalemate. 

That muggy bar might’ve offered you an experience of being trapped in a figurative, impossibly narrow coffin, but Viktor’s presence was the thing that truly made you feel like an actual cadaver — all empty thoughts, and stiffness, and skipped heartbeats. 

But Jayce forgot to mention that your new competitor was also deeply laconic. 

“Meet me in the library next… Friday, if you’re available?” he wasn’t generous enough to award you with any more seconds to recover from this exchange, impatiently expecting a confirmation. You could only manage a non-verbal one, nodding weakly at his offer. 

“Say… somewhere around noon?” he mused, and you instantly nodded again, waiting obligingly for his next suggestion. What a pleasure it is to do business with you! 

“Perfect,” he snatched the words out of your mouth, already half-turned to the bar entrance, “please bring a board, and I shall bring the clocks… Yes, the library should suffice — it’s not like a game of chess requires much conversation either way. Now, please do excuse me — I really need to steal Jayce away for a minute.” 

You watched him vanish into that devilish, so utterly unfitting for a man of his kind place; eyes nailed into his back as the crowd of feasting people swallowed your new interlocutor. Letting an excited little breath slip past your open mouth, escorting him with an uncoordinated wave of a shaky hand — a rather silly, excessive gesture since he wasn’t able to see it, and yet it still felt right — like a perfect little farewell to strengthen this newfound friendship with. 

That’s how you met your counterpart — or, perhaps, that’s what you used to see in him once. 

What you were still oblivious about — is that this man will conquer you in much more capacities than just the game that brought you two together.

⸻

tags (please let me know if you’d like to be added to them) : @zaunitearchives @blissfulip

[autumnalmoons]

Your late-night company (nsfw, mdni, +18 only)

It's smut bc I'm a horny bitch (lovingly), and because I want him to split me in half--I know he can, like c'mon

Viktor x fem!Reader | 2.1K

Notes: PWP, Established relationship, set kinda between act 1 and act 2, Vaginal Fingering, Innapropiate use of Viktor's cane (sorryyyy), Dom!Viktor if you squint, Cockwarming, Nipple play, English isn't my native language so lemme know if i messed up somewhere :)

Ever since he could hear the echo of your heels reverberate around the lab like a second heartbeat, Viktor knew you were onto something—and such rhythm makes his heart pick up speed too, though Viktor’s faster than each one of your carefree strides against the dark marble floor.

You go, smooching his cheek and surely leaving a pink mark on your lipstick. Not that he minds, of course, he's used to leaving his loving marks on you, too, and even now, he can see the now purplish hickey down your collarbone that you’ve been trying to veil with a silk scarf.

“What brings you here, my darling?” Viktor hums, unconsciously seeking your lips. Is that pink lipstick the one that tastes like cherry? He’s a man of science, he’s ought to investigate.

“Nothing much. I came to bring you home,” you say, hugging his slender frame from behind, your chin hooked in the crook of his shoulder, just over his back brace. “I miss my Vitya so, so much…”

Viktor shivers, trying to ground himself in the domestic, seemingly innocent gesture of a kiss over your temple. "I miss you, too, my jewel. Alas, Progress Day is in a couple of weeks, and we need to have everything ready in case a mishap happens.” He sighs, thick brows furrowing in focus. “As usually does.”

You nod. Of course, you understand that his work is a priority, but you also have a good memory; of those two past days when you went to sleep alone. There are those familiar purple bags under his eyes, only darker.

“Hmm, alright,” you say, massaging his scalp for a bit before wandering around the lab. “Then allow me to make you company. This place is filthy, handsome.”

“Chaos potentiates creativity.”

Your chuckle reverberates around the lab, which causes Viktor to lift his chin a little higher, how easily he can make you happy.

He turns back toward his desk, hearing you going toward the closet supply to get a feathery duster, mumbling a song under your breath as you hop around cleaning surfaces and wiping down machinery with a piece of cloth.

It's only a matter of time before your plan starts, and you have calculated it just as perfectly as Viktor's equations; using your knowledge of the man next to you, his existence is the most amazing creation you've seen—much to Viktor's attempts to surpass it with his machines.

You dust off the drawer next to his desk, ‘accidentally’ knocking off one of the pens tossed over the wooden surface, further down against the wall. "Oops!" you say in your best role of an actress, which isn't that good, only for him to look your way.

The floor is cold as you brush it with your fingers, a fine layer of dust and carbon covering it. One of the windows must be open because you can feel the cold autumn wind brushing under your mischievously short skirt, one of Viktor's favorites, right against your already wet folds that the underwear you chose today isn't meant to cover.

You want him to see. Swaying your hips playfully the moment you feel his gaze burn your back.

Over the purring of the machines, you hear his air leave in a sharp inhale.

Between not wearing panties at all, you choose ones made of black lace and cute, little black ribbons decorating the most… enticing areas. The cloth down your pussy was too small, and you had to choose or covering your clit, or covering your core—which of course, you choose the eager bundle of nerves, so Viktor could see you all wet and glistening for him.

Smiling, you push the pen further down his desk, a soft—very inappropriate—groan escaping your lips, copying my memory of one of the sounds you made every time his cock presses that special spot inside of you.

“I liked that pen a lot,” Viktor mutters, though you can hear the smirk in his voice.

By now, you have no idea where that damned pen had gone. “I’m sure I can make it up for you about that,” you say, knees bending slightly, so your pussy can open a little. Only if he ever tries to play the oblivious.

A chair squeaked, and it’s impossible not to start imagining Viktor’s lithe fingers caressing the curve of your ass. Instead, you got the cold metal of his cane’s handle.

“Ah!” He chuckled at hearing your surprised gasp.

“Is that disappointment I hear, my jewel? Or just cold?” He hums, dragging the handle along the folds of your pussy until it brushes your entrance, only the tip. “You’re all dressed up for me. And I wonder… why is that, hmm?” he says, the tip of the cane playing between your folds. “Is it because you’d like to ‘keep me company’?”

“I never told you how I planned to accompany you," You mutter, feeling your legs starting to shake as the cold metal meets your boiling core, thinking that you were about to melt.

“Use your words, darling. If you’re so eager.”

There is a certain edge to his words, the hoarse tone around his R replacing the usual soft tone he uses to whisper to you when you two aren’t in the privacy of your bedroom.

“I… I thought you may need… um…” you say, voice lost with each playful movement of his cane in and out your entrance; barely some inches in, but moving it just right thanks to the exhaustive research Viktor had conducted ever since he caught you with that vibrator. Little by little, your arousal warms the metal, and you wonder if Viktor can feel it, too. “Relaxing.”

“Relaxing? My, I’d say this is rather… distracting,” he chuckles, the wheels of his stool coming closer as you hold your hands against your burning thighs. “A pleasant one, of course, but still a distraction.”

“Oh? Then do I deserve a punishment?” You try your best to quip, though your voice quivers mid-sentence.

There’s barely a heartbeat of silence, and then:

“Bend over the desk,” he says, voice stern. You could almost picture him in one of the Academy’s auditoriums giving a lecture in that tone, absolute, bossy. He knows it, of course. He knows you, after all, just like any of inventions, he had spent several hours studying you. Loving you.

Your walls squeeze nothing at the words, but the light from the descending dusk is enough for him to see it.

“Hmm,” Viktor says. “I wonder how you’ve been pleasing yourself these days that I haven’t returned home, my jewel.”

You attempt to roll over—you want to see him, because he looked just so unfairly stunning with his brown hair stuck to his temples, beads of sweat running down his chest as he bit his lip as seeing you just so shamelessly needy for him, trying to contain himself just a little longer...

He pushes your back down the desk, pinching your butt once he catches you trying to turn your head to see him.

“Oh, no, no, my love. If you are going to distract me, then you must accept the consequences.” He bends down, biting your earlobe before nuzzling his nose down your neck, taking in the sweet essence of your clothes, of your hair, the same one he could always smell on his pillow. The mix of his shampoo makes his grasp on your hips tighten.

You whine, pouted lips parting in a breathless moan when he introduces the handler of his cane inside of you, his thumb lazily rubbing circles on your clit, first clockwise, and then in the contrary direction once he feels your walls starting to contract, ushering your orgasm away.

The wet sounds of the handle coming in and out your soaked cunt fills the lab, Viktor’s stool creaking as he re-position. From the sound of his pants unbuckling, you think you know what he’s doing that needed such a good grip on his seat.

“I wonder if you’d take me as well,” he mumbles, your wet sounds mixed with a new one that could only be Viktor starting to jack off from the view of you. "All those toys and they can't replace me.” He uses his left knee to part your legs even wider, his free hand making a wrinkled mess of your skirt, just above your hips.

You huff, fingers white from grabbing the edge of the desk. “As if I’ve ever disappointed you.”

Viktor chuckles, pinching your clit slightly before letting go. The emptiness fills you when he withdraws his cane, though the narrow length is soon replaced by the thick head of his cock rubbing against your entrance.

“Mmmm,” you hum, satisfied. Your hips buckle against him, trying to take him inside of you in one thrust.  Sadly, Viktor’s punishment for keeping him away from his duties was never.-ending teasing.

Viktor caresses the curve of your ass, his hands going to brush the outline of your hips and waist until his chest is against your back once again, his big length teasing through your folds without actually giving you what you want—and yet, you know you could finish off with only this. Would he be so cruel, though?

“Come here,” he mutters against your ear, sliding a hand around your waist, and pushing you down the seat with him.

You hiss, feeling the quick buckle of his hips as his cock burrows deep inside of you, twitching at the welcoming, wet warmth of your walls. His hands take you by the hips to stop you from starting to ride him.

“Shhh, shhh. Patience, my love,” Viktor coos, nuzzling his face in the side of your neck as he bites a trail of kisses toward your shoulder, fingers gently pulling down one end of the scarf, brushing slowly down your shoulders to reveal the quite generous cut in your neckline.

Humming, approbatory, Viktor returns to his desk, with a firm grip around your waist to keep you still.

He kisses your cheek, putting his cane against the wall. The metal glistens, soaked with your juices against the reddish hue of the dying sunlight.

His right hand pushes your legs open, tangling your legs against the desk to keep them open when his fingers slide down your stomach, fingers lazily rubbing your clit.

Closing your eyes, your head lolls against his shoulder, letting him take your lips in a kiss that lets you taste the bitterness of the coffee he has just drank to keep himself awake during the night.

His tongue passes along your bottom lip, and it’s indeed that cherry-flavored lipstick, teeth grazing the sensitive skin as the hand grabbing your hip raises to grab your breasts when he grows needy, too.

“Vitya…” you moan, voice muffled as he kisses you again.

“My favorite blouse,” Viktor says, tugging down the smock of the front so he could see your lacy black bra. “So easy to access.”

You smile, hips gently swaying side to side against his lap each time he strokes your clit.

Viktor’s fingers work masterfully inside your bra, rubbing your nipple as your hands frantically undo the clip of your top so he can push the bra away.

It’s too much. Between his playful nibbles down your neck, the slow circles drawn on your clit, his fingers pinching your nipples and rubbing them to make the little peaks soft again even his cock filling you, although still, is enough to push you through the edge of pleasure. Legs shiver as your mouth stutters a moan, letting out a cry that Viktor drowned with his mouth.

“We can’t let the guards know what we’re doing, don’t you think, my jewel?”

“Why… why not?” you pant, kissing the mole peeking above his shirt’s collar. “My boyfriend fucks me so good,” you giggle.

Viktor smiled, his cock twitching at your lewd words. Your walls keep squeezing him, greedily wanting to be soaked with his cum.

"I haven't yet today," Viktor hums, deep in thought, kissing your sweaty brow. “Let me finish revising this blueprint, and we’ll go home.”

You pout, but only another heated kiss is necessary to make you respond:

“Okay,” you say, all doe-eyed now that you’re satisfied. Momentarily, of course. And that you had convinced him to go home. “But only this one blueprint. Or I’ll bite you.” You try to stand up, Viktor’s hand yanking you back between his legs before his cock could sleep out from your pussy.

“I never said you could move, my love,” Viktor says, squeezing your hips playfully. “I’d take you can be a good girl while I finish my work?”

You shake your head. “No.”

Viktor chuckles, his free hand starts to rub your overstimulated clit once again. His other hand quickly drops his pen to reach the bottom drawer of his desk, where you can see the outline of the vibrator Viktor keeps there ‘just in case’. “I suppose I just have to tire you up, then.”

[ursawastricked]

Y’all got me tee-heein

Anyways here’s something silly

“Would you still love me if I was a worm?”

“What?” You ask, looking up from your book at a very frazzled looking Viktor..he is standing at the edge of the couch, gripping it for support as he looks off at you a bit too panicked for you to take seriously given the context.

“..well?” He asks, gesturing with his hand to push you to answer with haste

“Viktor..what is this question-“

“If it’s no just say it-“

“It’s not-“ you give a deep sigh, closing your book and making eye contact with him directly. “Yes. I would still love you..”

He stood silently,

You roll your eyes, “..even as a worm” you finish.

He lets out a loud sigh of relief, making his way to sit beside you on the couch and melting completely into your lap once he has laid down.

You look down at him, taking a deep breath, and rubbing his head as you start the search for your now lost page in your book

[valaruakars]

Good Intent

Viktor/F!Reader || 4k ||  NSFW

After a particularly shit day of losing your job and ugly crying about it, Viktor cares only to help you feel better. Your idea of a distraction from your problems is unconventional and quite unexpected, but, well, he’s happy to oblige. 

Warnings: Hurt/(spicy)comfort, she/her pronouns used, fluff, established relationship, Tender Czech™, hair pulling, teasing, grinding, more unsafe PIV (my speciality, thanks), and what could possibly? be interpreted as breeding kink at the end

A/N: Hi hello this was a very specific gift/request for someone special and I was happy with how it turned out, so I’m releasing it into the wild :) 

At this hour, he expects to find you at home.

And you must be, with your shoes kicked off by the door and your keys thrown on the kitchen counter. You are usually so quick to greet him, even if it’s just a smile and a quiet hello as you glance up from whatever work you’ve taken home. But it’s quiet, save for the ambient hum of the building, and growing darker with all the lights left off.

He treads toward the bedroom, as lightly as he’s able, but the crutch beneath his arm hits harder against the wood floor than he’d like. He hopes it won’t wake you. You must be asleep. The thought is soft as your skin, twice as inviting, and tempts him to forget about dinner, forget about what work he’s taken home. He would rather curl up beside you, if you’ve left room enough for two.

With the last light of day bleeding orange through the windows, he comes to the threshold to see that you are not, in fact, miming a starfish in your sleep or sprawled at a diagonal across the entire bed. Instead, you have formed a small lump beneath the blankets, curled in on yourself. Something about it is inherently sad, and a little out of character.

He calls your name gently, just above a whisper when he notices the halo of crumpled tissues scattered around your bundled body. Curious, since you seemed fine this morning, but if you are sick, he’d rather not disturb you. And, truthfully, he’d rather not catch what you have either.

But you’re awake, it seems, by the rustling and sniveling and great, shuddering sigh that comes from beneath the blankets.

“Miláček…” he coaxes, wading hesitantly closer, “What plague have you brought home, hm?”

“Don’t worry,” you assure him, though your rasping voice is dry and humorless, “Unemployment isn’t contagious.” And with that you emerge, sitting up amongst a small avalanche of tissues and blankets, wearing his biggest sweater.

Usually he feels a boyish, flattered warmth to see you wear his clothes, but not this time. Not when you are such a miserable thing, with tear-streaked cheeks and puffy eyes, ringed in red. The swelling is fresh, and no amount of wiping at your eyes with your sleeves will force it down or hide it from sight.

Maybe it’s the level of scrutiny he’s looking at you with—accidentally, of course!—trying to puzzle out your current state, or the way he’s too blunt in asking, “What happened?” 

Your lower lip wobbles and your face is quick to collapse into grief again, your shoulders shaking with the force of trying to hush your sobs behind your hand. You’re a mess, but it doesn’t matter to him. It only matters why and therefore how he can make it better, because it rends his heart, to see yours so broken.

He hastens to sit at the edge of the bed, leaning his crutch and taking your free hand into both of his. It’s encouraging, that you scoot closer and lean your forehead into his shoulder, even if you don’t stop crying. That’s fine. You could blow your nose into his shirt for all he cares. Whatever you need. You’ll stop when you’re ready.

“You don’t have to tell me about it now,” he says to the crown of your head, wisps of your hair unsettled by his breath. He smoothes them down gently, leaving a hand to cradle the back of your neck, that vulnerable part of you, like it might protect you from further harm. “Only when you’re ready, and I will listen.”

He feels your weak nod against his shoulder, the way you squeeze his hand a little tighter. Of course he’s curious to know the details of your heartbreak, what pieces he can mend, but he knows it’s better to be patient. You are so rarely this fragile, and each time he worries that he might mishandle you—damage you or your relationship irredeemably. He often feels it’s a stroke of luck rather than a stroke of genius when he finds the right thing to say. It’s more natural to know the right thing to do. It’s very hard to fuck up a hug or a helpful offer.

When your sniffling begins to quiet, the sleeve of his shirt thoroughly wet, he draws in a long, decisive breath and asks: “Would you like water? Or coffee? There might be leftovers too, if you’re hungry…?”

Something in your body pops, joints stiff, as you sit up and pointedly look anywhere but at his face. His thumb brushes over your knuckles; a prompt, a grounding gesture. “…Coffee,” you finally grate out, swiping at your runny nose, “Please.”

“Of course,” he says obligingly, giving your hand a final squeeze before he stands and does your bidding in a hurry.

As he returns, cup in hand sloshing a bit dangerously, he can’t help a thin smile. You’ve been considerate enough to dump all your tissues in a pile on the nightstand, and kind enough to yourself to run a brush through the mats in your hair. You’ve even turned on the lamp, so there will be no more crying in the dark. An improvement, to be sure, though he can see now that your eyes will likely be puffy into tomorrow from the extent of your devastation. You must’ve been crying for a long time, and for that he feels the stinging wash of guilt knowing that most of it was spent alone.

“For you,” he offers, a gentle reminder to be careful as you take it and he sinks down astride the bed. Begins the ritual shedding of the layers he wears, heavy fabric and heavier metal, while you take scalding sips and pretend they don’t burn your tongue. The way you squint gives it away, but apparently you are determined. Just as he’s determined to wait in comfortable silence, perfectly occupied with undressing, until you’re ready to talk. Because you will. You always do, eventually.

However long that takes is fine. Time is terribly unimportant right now; rechecking the calculations he brought home is entirely off the table. Right now, his only job is to be good to you, and he badly wants to do it right.

It’s not until he’s down two leg braces, a pair of pants and has just finished unbuttoning his too-large dress shirt that your hand finds his arm and tugs, beseechingly. You don’t meet his eyes when he looks at you questioningly; they are blearily fixed on your cross-legged lap. It’s for the better—you don’t see the flush he can feel warm on his face.

Is it not odd, inappropriate even, to sit near naked with your partner while she verges on tears? While she navigates such a catastrophe, when she had such love for her work? Evidently, you don’t think so, the way you demand such intimacy. And perhaps there is something to be said for the comfort of skin to skin contact, even if it’s just the way his leg frames your bare thigh as he shuffles to hold you.

He takes the cup from your hands, with his long reach setting it aside, before he decides that the right place for his hands is wrapped snugly around your waist. It feels right, like this, the way you lean your weight onto his chest like it won’t crack beneath you. Like he won’t break.

He suspects that this is easier, when you don’t have to meet his eyes, though they don’t look upon you with judgment. Never that. Over your shoulder, he can see the anxious way you play with your fingers, and for it, you receive the faintest squeeze. Only meant to reassure, of course.

But it forces up a long, defeated sigh. That watery note is gone from your voice; it’s dried up, leaving something coarse and bitter behind. “I got fired, Viktor, what more is there to say?”

“Why might be a good place to start,” he suggests.

Which you don’t take well. You scoff, defensively, but you sound so small. “What, you think it’s my fault?”

“Is it?”

“No,” you blurt, flinging your hands in frustration, “No, I—My project got canceled and they just… just let me go instead of giving me another one.” Beneath his hands, against his body, he can feel the way tension builds in yours and then releases, all at once. Recognizing the injustice, then feeling the defeat. He’s not quick enough to answer; it gives you time to think, and worse still, to say: “Fine, maybe it is my fault, right? For not being good enough to keep. I could have been better.”

“That is not true— I know you to be immensely talented and technically skilled. I would not believe for a second that you are at fault.”

“Well, since you’re such a man of science, you should see that the evidence suggests otherwise. If I had such irreplaceable talent, then I’d still have a job right now. They would have kept me despite… well…”

It’s a familiar sting; he can guess. “It came down to money, I assume,” he says, nuzzling into your hair sympathetically. He’s been there, at those awful fundraisers with Jayce, begging for scraps of funding. Just business, they would say, but it was hard not to take it personally. To have talent and innovation and genius overlooked because it doesn’t come cheap enough. You have struggled too, he knows, to show people the worth of your most beautiful creations.

You snort, however indelicately, “Of course it did.” It’s even harder to hear what he himself used to think, time and time again at his lowest, now coming out of your mouth when you whisper: “I’m never going to be good enough for these people, am I?”

And it breaks his heart anew.

“You’re enough for me, miláček, does that count for anything?” he murmurs fiercely, holding you that much tighter; the two of you, holding fast together against anything. Looking for anything to reassure you, to make you stop thinking such awful things of yourself, he leaves an innocent kiss at the juncture of your neck and shoulder.

At least, it is supposed to be innocent.

You don’t take it that way. Oh gods. You do not take it that way at all.

Your pretty head cants to the side, exposing that lean stretch of tendon in your neck. Your back arches, ever slightly, angling your hips suggestively. “It counts,” you sigh, and it sounds different this time. Wistful and breathy. “I just… don’t want to think about this anymore, y’know?”

Does he know? Does he really?

The last thing he wants is to come across as a desperate, depraved creep when maybe you’d rather have him talk about something else instead. About his day, his experiments, his progress on the Hexgate, perhaps? You’ve been so miserable, and he’d never wish to take advantage of you in such a vulnerable state. Tempting as you so often are.

He’s beginning to sweat against the warm press of your body through that sweater, and you? You’re definitely pushing your ass up against him now. He can feel it, the way the muscles in your abdomen shift and work that mischievously slow squirm.

“You would like… a distraction?” He curses the hesitant waver in his voice. But, experimentally, he finds the edge of your sweater and lets his fingers slip beneath it, skimming featherlight touches up your flank. Higher. Higher still until he feels the lowest notches of your ribs.

“Mmhm,” you hum, a coy sound, lifting your arms subtly, invitingly as his hand advances steadily. It brushes the incomparably soft swell of your breast, just the underside, and—oh yes—he’s starting to feel much, much better about the situation. Stiffer too, and not from the way he’s sitting. As long he hasn’t caused your anguish, he’ll do whatever you want. Whatever you need. Whatever it takes, to make you happy again.

“And this,” he asks, a little beside himself; curious and teasing and absolutely flushed as he takes a handful of you. “Does this help?”

“A little bit…”

You force him to be greedy. To add his other hand up your sweater, kneading each breast with tender restraint. It feels vulgar and divine to have you practically in his lap like this, his hands free to roam beneath your clothing. That you’ve been sitting here in only your panties has become very convenient. The thought has him fully hard against you, and his hand chasing the impulse to reach between your widening legs.

“Only a little?” he asks again, this time in low, dulcet tones of sincerity, lips grazing your neck. He won’t tease you anymore—it’s not what you need nor deserve.

One last time, he exercises caution in touching you, making sure that you’re comfortable with where this is going. Viktor asks, too, “And if I do this…?” as he feels between your thighs over the cottony barrier of your panties, his hand sliding along the warm seam of you. Up and down in gentle strokes, until he finds that sweet little nub and presses, just so; rolls his wrist in broad, circular motions that your hips respond to readily.

You whine and nod, “Much better,” offered the friction you’ve been lacking. Your nails rake up his thigh, catching on the divots the brace left in his skin, but there’s nothing to grab for purchase.

Until you reach up.

Until your hand tangles into his hair and pulls a shameless, unchecked groan out of him, straight into the shell of your ear. It sounds every bit as desperate and debauched as he knows himself to be, deep down.

He’s horribly embarrassed of himself, especially since you break free of his grip and turn on him abruptly. Your face is still ruddy, flushed, but he can’t tell from what anymore. “I’m sorry—that was—”

“—So hot,” you breathe, and the distraction is clearly working. You’re finally smiling, feral as it is, while you reassure him. Not just with your praise, kneeling between his legs; you tug that sweater over your head and reward his good work with the masterpiece of your near naked body.

But he can’t look for long, the way you’re crawling into his lap, pressing your skin flush in every delicious way. The delicate swell of your breasts, nipples brought to hard little points, rubbing up against his bare skin has his cock twitching. With the firm press of your hips against his own, you can definitely feel it. Your hands wind into his hair again, both of them for double the menace. “Do it again,” you demand, and if that’s what you want… well.

As if he could resist.

You pull at the roots behind his ear, at his nape, and it’s both hard and tender in the most sweetly conflicting sense. His neck falls back as he keens for you, loose, loud and vulgar. Hopes that it satisfies you, because it is not a performance but a genuine unshackling of his restraint. He’s holding nothing back.

Your lips are on his open mouth in an instant, sloppy as you swallow down those involuntary sounds he makes until you are his echo. You kiss him like you’re drunk on his affections, and Viktor doesn’t mind in the slightest. He encourages it, even. He is first to slip his tongue into your mouth, a slick, wet slide, bold like the taste of coffee still on yours. Deepens it, twining his arms around you; one hand to stroke your spine near the nape of your neck, one to grab you by the plush of your waist, dragging you down firmly against his pelvis.

You roll your hips incessantly against the hard line of his cock, clawing desperately as if you could push any closer to him and meld into one. You could, in a sense, if you both weren’t constrained behind such needless undergarments. Ones that are growing slick now that you’ve transferred a wet patch right at the tip of his cock, and it’s made the friction maddening. Call him touch starved, pathetic, whatever—but there is a very real chance that if you don’t stop, he’ll cum before you can lay hands on him properly.

And by the pitch of your whines, muffled against his tongue, you’re approaching the very same cusp.

His hands slide to the curve of your ass, kneading that heavy muscle reverently until he remembers himself, and prompts you to still.

“You, ah, have me closer than I would like to admit.”

“And yet…” you simper, letting your hands drop to his shoulders. Slipping them beneath his open shirt and rubbing at the tension there, until it falls down his wiry arms and he looks properly ravaged beneath you.

“And yet,” he echos, “I want you to know what you do to me.” Your impish little hands dip lower, brushing down his chest, over his nipples, with deliberate slowness. He shudders, visibly, and you glow brighter with lewd pride for it. “Tease me all you like—whatever you want tonight, my love.”

Your fingers pry at the waistband of his boxers, still teasing, and his own fingers itch to rip them off.

“There’s nothing you want?”

“Only you.” Two sweet, soft fingertips brush the naked head of his cock accidentally, and he sighs: “Only to make you happy.”

“But you’d just so happen to like it, if I rode you until you begged me to stop, right?”

“Very much.”

You kiss him then, long and languid, until you’re pulling away just enough to swipe a considering thumb across his lower lip. He knows what you’re thinking. He’s not afraid to say it.

“…Unless you would want to ride my mouth first? I would, eh, incidentally like that too, you know.”

“Tempting,” you hum, shifting your hips in a manner both thoughtful and devilish, “But I think I’ll save that offer for later, if I can.”

“Fortunately it does not expire. Redeemable whenever I have a few minutes to spare.”

“A few minutes?”

“What,” he snorts, “The last time I tried to take my time with you, you begged me to—”

“—Take your pants off.”

“Well, it wasn’t that, but as you wish.”

Compared to you, the way you sit back and shimmy them down your legs, giving him the barest glance of the slick glisten between your thighs, he feels clumsy the way his cock springs out with a fleshy smack and he struggles to shove them off his lanky legs. Perhaps comeuppance, for being a smart-ass.

But you are kind to help him the rest of the way, discarding them to the floor. Kinder still, insanely so, when you bow to kiss the head of his cock. Even if it’s teasing, the attention has him flush-faced and reeling.

When you kiss his lips next, yours are faintly salty. Your tongue in his mouth still tastes of coffee; your cunt on his lap is wetter and hotter now that it is bare against him. Your hands still claw at whatever they can get—hair, shoulders, skin—as he reaches down to position himself at your entrance, so that you might sink down at your own pace.

That pace is quick and devouring, the way your body draws him in. You might be sore later, but it was all your own doing. He’ll still feel bad, but right now he feels very, very good.

Hilted, Viktor groans and grits his teeth against the skin of your collarbone. He’d like to last, if only for you, but you are wickedly tight and the drag of your skin is divinely inspired.

You stop and stroke his hair sweetly, worried when you ask: “Do you…um, need to lay down?”

“This is comfortable,” he whispers, grateful for your consideration, into the crook of your neck. “But you feel so good—too good. I would not like to disappoint you.”

“You won’t,” you tell him firmly, rocking against his pelvis in a way that has you sighing from the friction on your clit, “You really won’t.”

His mouth travels downward, trailing open-mouthed kisses until he reaches the bud of your nipple and pulls it into his mouth. It’s not the easiest angle for his neck, but it’s rewarding the way your head sways back and you whine, sweet and clear for him. The way your thighs work to reward him, in turn, lifting and dropping you down his shaft. It’s hard to keep your breast to his lips as you bounce and it bounces with you, and your unsteady rhythm doesn’t help. Like you can’t decide whether to chase your own pleasure, grinding against his hips, or ensure his own, rising and falling in time with the breathy pants he can’t contain.

Viktor chooses for you.

And it’s an easy choice, because he knows that once the scales tip in your favor and you start writhing and spasming and—if he’s lucky—whimpering for him not to stop, it’ll be over for him too. It’s like that, when you love someone; their pleasure is always your undoing.

So he winds his long arms around your waist, a tight embrace that forces you down on his cock with a surprised, stuttering gasp. “Like that, yes,” he coaxes, and you can do nothing but rut yourself against him, embracing him in kind with your arms thrown over his shoulders; one hand clawing at the notches of his spine, the other a lovely contrast, twined in his hair to cradle his head. When you pull, weakly like you’re beginning to forget yourself, it is so welcome because he is too.

His mouth falls prey to slurring encouragements to you, nonsense to your ears. Your hand in his hair tightens sharply, snapping his head back so that he is forced to look at you from beneath heavily hooded eyes, down his nose. And he sees you, lips parted, eyes hazy, nodding feverishly in time with the sway of your body. Everything about you, flushed and lovely.

Lovelier, when you cum. Your voice broken and pitchy and very, very loud until you stifle it against his lips, holding his shoulder for leverage. The ceaseless, slick grind of your cunt, constricting around him with little mercy, has him mindlessly groaning into your mouth, “Nepřestávej, prosím,” as if you understand what that means.

You do, to a point, because you don’t stop. You ride him hard and ruthlessly, in pursuit of the full breadth of your pleasure, until it lances him through the core too. And true to your word, you keep going. Lavishing languid strokes to his hair, pressing your lips to his temple, nuzzling sweetly against his head as you wring his release dry into the cloying clutch of your body.

Until his whole body quakes, the overstimulation taking hold, and he gives you the last thing you want. His voice, his words, imploring into the humid crook of your neck: “It’s—it’s too much, please, ah—!” You wiggle you hips quite fiendishly, one last time. Pleased with yourself, evidently, by your charmingly sinister laugh; a sound he’s heartened to hear.  

“Enough, miláček. You want to kill me, is that it?”

“You’ll live,” you shrug, sliding backwards off him with a lewd, slick sound. Your legs, still thrown open over his thighs, grant him full, unabashed view of that pearly white drip that slides out of you and onto the sheets. You track his wide eyes down, and while you could just as easily call him gross or tease him for being so brazenly into it, you simply apologize for the mess and offer to change the sheets. You’re much more yourself now, he’s almost sure.

But it’s not until you’re in the bathroom cleaning up, sitting in the bottom of the shower together, that he finally asks: “Do you feel better, truly?” 

“Better than an hour ago, definitely. I’m trying to come around to the idea that I can find something better, but it’s still fresh. I need some time.” At least you’re honest, but he hopes that at the very least you won’t lose sleep or shed another tear over it. Your fingers tangle together loosely; your voice drops a suggestive octave. “Maybe more distractions.”

He laughs then, a resonant sound off the tiles. There will come time for more serious conversations; you’ll move through the loss at your own pace and grapple with the process of finding something new. He’ll be there for all of it, when you’re ready. But for now…

“Anything, for you.”