#its me
gertritude-art · 2 months ago
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snow-lavender · a month ago
Happy Shadow fandub day to those who celebrate it!
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ouidasart · 4 months ago
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guess whose new special interest is a 19th century vampire novel sent to them via email
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dailymumbojumbo · 4 months ago
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[15] w h y 
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thispieceofpeace · 2 months ago
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isawjamesfirst · 28 days ago
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guess who’s back to illustrating xie lian and bai wuxiang
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kelp-my-beloved · a month ago
empires fans when asked what their favorite part of the season so far is
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veronicathegoddess · 12 months ago
masochist subs that crave being marked and bruised by their owner and just being cute decorated property that their owner gets to show off >>>
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gertritude-art · a year ago
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fandom interactions
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brad-bakshi-apologist · a month ago
nandermo stans be like “omggggg look at them ❤️❤️❤️” and then this is them:
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moraslayer · 11 months ago
childe enjoyers:
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hungwy · 5 months ago
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Should I post a selfie..?
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momo-ceros · 11 months ago
People: Wow the Haitani brothers are so hot!
The Haitani brothers:
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gaycatdad · 8 days ago
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Who wants to be my lab partner?
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nokwisi · 8 months ago
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the necessary energy — viktor x f!reader; nsfw
when an experiment involving a mysterious drug known as Calor goes awry, you and Viktor struggle to navigate the resulting effects—both physical, and emotional. note; so, this is my very first attempt at writing for viktor (or arcane, for that matter!), so please bear with me on characterization and all that jazz. science jargon is pulled out of my ass, and in great abundance. apologies, but also not really because this was fun to write! content warning/tags; 18+, sex pollen, multiple orgasms, porn with feelings, scientists being dumbasses, viktor is self-conscious, reader is emotionally stunted, love confessions, slow-build, angst and a dash of fluff. word count; 7.6k, heavy dialogue
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It could be a quiet thing, humming to life lazily, blossoming in the space between as you worked side by side on your projects; a wrench passed from your hand to his, a touch that would ignite it just a little more, like fanning a glowing ember aflame.
Although neither of you would say anything, you'll both categorize it within yourselves as something—something inexplicable to two brilliant minds, and it would be ironic in that sense; and lovely; and gradual.
Gradual enough that you won't realize your affinity has evolved to glowing, aching infatuation. Until you're pondering not the relative equations to your current conundrum, but rather the sharp angles of his face, or the pinch of his thick brows; the zeal of determination in his golden eyes as he dissolves into his work.
Indeed, in an alternate reality, the two of you might have been in love.
As it stands now, you're entirely convinced that your confrère believes love to quite possibly be the worst condition of the human mind—'an affliction of productivity, it's symptoms hiding under the guise of yearning hearts and anxious minds'— a rather peculiar ideology for a man ailed such as himself.
You sympathize with Sky, the poor girl's gone and fallen for a man who deems himself monogamous—both mind and body—to the pursuit of science. Married to his work, as it were. Sky could never hold a flame to the burning ambition Viktor harbors. Perhaps, and although the concept is saddening, no one can.
A small, melancholy smile graces your lips as you think back to your time spent at the Academy, where you watched from the perspective of what you can only surmise as that of friendly rival. Witnessing Viktor— already so enamored with the pursuit of knowledge—fall in love with it completely. He would scoff at the notion of mixing pleasure and work, even by way of colloquialism, and the thought makes you huff a laugh.
He's always been set in his ways; driven with a powerful sense of ambition, of curiosity and hunger. Fated to spend endless nights diligently drowning in his work, only to be restricted by the physical limitations of his own body.
It was those quiet nights that you'd gotten to know the Zaunite: sequestered together in the Academy's labs long after all other students had left. The busied scratch of fountain-pen on parchment, tools placed upon tables, comfortable silence that—given time and ingrained curiosity on both ends—broke in the form of questions, and good-natured competitiveness.
Reminiscing silently, you peer down through the double magnifying glasses and into the innards of the mechanism before you, pinching a battery between a pair of tweezers. It's a touch like surgery; wires and gears like sinew and viscera, collaborating in a symphony of machinations to create life—or, in the case of your little friend, a humble emulation.
"You intend to use a lithium power source, then?"
You startle at the voice—one so distinct and lilted there's no questioning it's owner—and let slip the small, albeit very expensive battery. It clinks it's descent into the depths of the open paneling, making quite a ruckus for such a little thing; as though teasing you.
You sigh, a little defeated, a little irked. "Aside from dabbling in potentially nuclear territory, lithium endures power the longest, and is relatively stable." Righting the tweezers in your fingers, you shift and peer determinedly into the bot.
"Yes, but conducting experiments with these batteries have yielded other, potentially failing results to your goal, have they not?" Viktor's cane clacks rhythmically against the porcelain floor as he approaches. "While lithium provides a stable source of energy, it is a gradual winding up of power."
"I feel as though waking up slowly would be preferable to a heart-attack, Vik." You murmur.
Viktor huffs a laugh, "I agree...but sometimes, it is precisely that which the body needs. A potent, powerful jolt of energy."
Focusing on fishing out the battery, you absently acknowledge Viktor's presence at your side: a slight shift of air, a gentle hint of something sugary—sweetmilk, a regular indulgence of his—and warm cedar coalesce to bring his familiar scent. You can hear the way he rolls his fingers against the metal of his cane. He's lingering.
Setting the tweezers down and leaning back from the magnifying glasses, you roll your eyes up and look at Viktor through the fan of your lashes, expression pinched with faux annoyance.
"Please, indulge me more on the semantics of batteries, and their applicable use on a machine you did not create."
Viktor raises his brows, momentarily stunned by your heavy sarcasm, but then something sharpens in his golden eyes. It's a miniscule thing, a flash of guile that's taken years of practice to decipher.
"Ah, you're right—my many successful endeavors in automation certainly wouldn't be of use to you," he waves his hand dismissively, you roll your eyes with a touch of genuine annoyance, now, "I'll leave you to your work, then."
You wish, with no real malice, that he isn't inarguably better at automation than you. His cane signals his departure, slower than his usual cadence—he's giving you time to change your mind, your brain supplies—and with an exasperated sigh and a knowing smile, you turn in your chair.
"What would you recommend, then?"
Viktor stops not halfway to the door, pivoting on unsteady legs to look at you with an insufferable, endearing smirk. It's a look you'd come to know quite well. Years of working side by side has provided plenty of time to memorize it.
"Oh, don't look so smug, Vik. There'll be no working with you."
Viktor laughs softly, lured back to your side with a newly invigored gleam in his eyes. "Apologies, although let us not pretend you aren't exactly who you are. I thought that stubbornness of yours was left at the Academy—"
"Right alongside your manners, it seems." You quip smoothly, "you aren't making this very easy, Viktor."
He gives an inquisitive quirk of his brows, his voice light and feigning, "making what easy? Accepting graciously offered advice from a former classmate? Ah—of course, a scientist such as yourself must take great pride in self-sufficiency."
"You know, Sky often speaks of your humble nature. I've yet to see it for myself." You lob out, teasingly. The smile that'd taken over Viktor's sharp features wanes just barely, but enough for you to notice. Interesting. "Enough banter, Viktor—would you help me with this?"
He blinks twice, and pans his attention from you, to the vaguely humanoid bot splayed on the workshop table before you.
"Right—yes, of course." He steps closer, and with his free hand gently grazes the copper housing equivalent of it's chest. "You wish for the function to be that of assisting the handicapped, no?"
You nod, fleetingly glance to the cane perching Viktor on his feet, and say, "yes; simple command functions such as carrying items, text-to-speech for the hearing impaired, and potentially an alarm system. I'm brainstorming more, but it seems it will remain a concept unless I find a suitable source of energy."
"I see." Viktor hums. "Perhaps a differing power source may be the key to creating a constant, steady stream of energy. Batteries, they are—" he shakes his head a little, "eh, well they are susceptible to erosion. Not ideal for a machine that mimics life."
You huff humorlessly, "that depends on who you ask. Humans erode just as well. Some fear a sentient machine that may well outlive them, even if it's sole function is to fold your underthings. But, I understand."
"Have you considered hydraulics?" Viktor queries.
You knit your brows, echoing incredulously, "hydraulics?"
"Yes. It seems simple—elementary. However, I have heard of amplified iterations. Charged fuel, of sorts." He says, vague.
Leaning forward, you peer once more into the cavity of your machine. A thick lattice of wire twined together, reminiscent of an artery, protrudes from the housing case of the battery; the heart, it you will.
"Explain." You simply say.
Viktor shuffles a little on his feet, gripping the handle of his cane tight enough to elicit a small creak. "It is an iteration of a substance well known to the undercity—"
Quickly, you sit straight. "Viktor—"
"It is not immediately dangerous, as it has been stripped of it's more extreme reactive properties. The rate of deterioration is far less than that of oil, or water, or any other viable liquid. And it is charged, as I said."
You're scoring your lower lip with your teeth, ruminating. "Meaning a continuous cycle: powering itself...no need for batteries, but rather a cooldown system..." Tearing yourself from the magnifying glasses once more, you look to Viktor. "What is it called?"
"They call it Calor."
"I take it you already acquired some?"
Viktor's mouth twitches with the threat of a smile, "of course. Why else would I have suggested it?"
Fluidly, he slips a hand into the pocket of his trousers, procuring a glass vial of liquid; it's red, glimmering in waves as he displays it between his thumb, and forefinger. You stand, approaching to gently pluck the vial from him. Viktor's gaze flits between your face—ostensibly gauging your reaction—and the Calor.
"What are your findings?" You ask, turning the vial over in your palm, watching the light from your workstation refract through the substance; it shimmers, in a way.
Viktor replies, giving a long-winded explanation on the properties of the liquid, and you don't fail to notice the ostentatious, scientific jargon he uses as he does it—as though trying to bury something else beneath the complexity of it all. Still, you listen to him patiently, take in the information he gives, and there—at the tail end of it all: "Is commonly ingested to trigger synapses in the cerebral hemisphere to the amygdala—"
"This is a drug." You state plainly, looking at Viktor deadpan.
Viktor stutters marginally over his words, stopping to look at you with what you believe is the most poorly constructed act of innocence you've ever seen.
"You want me to power my handicap-assisting robot...with drugs."
"It is only a drug if ingested." Viktor says, matter-a-fact, "just as it is a fuel, if applied as such. So, I suggest we do not ingest it."
You look at Viktor for a beat longer, as though anticipating a sense of exasperation that does not come. Sometimes, you really wish it did. If only to dampen the self-satisfaction that manifests on his ivory features when he realizes—and he really is so smug about it—that you're relenting.
You heave a sigh and curl your fingers around the vial. Viktor's anticipatory expression melts into a smile, and for the life of you, you can't find it in you to be annoyed—genuine, or not.
"We will tell no one until we have either perfected it's uses, or managed to replicate it's properties in a safer, less...illegal fashion." Viktor says, his mind leaping right into it as his body settles a touch warily into the seat you'd occupied moments prior.
You catch his amber eyes with your own. "I'm not going to ask how you even procured this."
"Yes, it would probably be best not to."
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"Fantastic! Your integration of conduits are reminiscent of veins. Entirely synthetic, inspired by the organic." Viktor muses, his focus poured through the magnifying glasses and into the newly retconned innards of your bot. "Have you already calibrated the coolant system?"
You hum in affirmation, standing beside Viktor as you slip on a pair of protective gloves. "All that remains is the Calor."
"Basic functions?"
"In place. If all goes well, our little friend here will, at the very least, be capable of movement." You reply, excitement curling your lips as you begin transferring the Calor.
"To run, one must walk." Viktor murmurs, watching your hands as you unscrew the vial.
A light hiss of air punctuates the action, followed by the unmistakable aroma of...cinnamon. Scrunching your nose, you toss a glance at Viktor.
"Manufactured aroma, to make the drug more appealing." He supplies, "we should not be affected unless properly ingested."
"Should not?" You jab lightly, "I'm surprised you didn't run any experiments with the effects of the drug itself."
"I don't think I'm well suited to execute a proper experiment," Viktor replies, lifting his cane up slightly with emphasis, "and for obvious reasons, I could not employ a subject."
You hum softly in response, engrossed as you transfer the Calor to the renovated housing core of your bot. It's a tense thing; a slight tremble could have you spilling the fuel all over the workshop station. Viktor remains as equally silent, watching you work.
Upon completion, you exhale a steady, long breath.
"Let us create life, then." Viktor announces, and you can't help the little snort you give in response.
"If it's life you want to create, there are much easier methods." You tease him, and the very subtle color that blooms on Viktor's sharp cheekbones makes you feel proud—it isn't easy to make him flustered.
He coughs a little, "of course, but what scientists would we be if we did not overcomplicate everything?"
"The boring kind." You smile, setting aside the empty Calor vial before clapping your hands together, excitedly. "Now, for the moment of truth."
Gently, as though your little bot's sentient and sleeping already, you close the paneling on it's chest, and secure it in place. To start the initial pump lies a switch on the counter-side of the bot—the equivalence of it's spine—and with no ounce of hesitation, you flip it.
Taking a small step back, you tug your protective goggles over your eyes and cast a fleeting glance at Viktor. He's already wearing his, leaning forward, perhaps a touch too much, with anticipation.
A gentle whirring purrs to life after a brevity of silence. Creation in sound; you can hear the bot's artificial veins being pumped with the Calor. A triumphant grin begins splitting your face as you watch, breath held in your throat as though waiting for the automation to breathe, first.
The sharp piquancy of cinnamon fills your senses, and it isn't until Viktor places a hand on your shoulder that you realize he's been saying your name—and with an underlying urgency that pre-emptively makes your stomach drop.
"—is overheating," you catch, the whirring purr since escalated into a grating, mechanical din. "The coolant system is not engaging, we must stop the process, or the Calor may vaporize."
You tear your attention from Viktor, to the bot. There's steam—although not uncommon with mech these days, it most certainly is not meant to happen here—erupting from the fissures of it's outer-shell.
Unthinking, you touch the bot to move it. Heat bleeds through your gloves, making you flinch and hesitate, giving the automaton just enough time to implode in on itself. The steam takes on a pink hue, curling upwards sinuously; Calor invading the air as the remnants of the liquid seeps from the bot like blood.
"Step back—open that window, now," Viktor struggles to hastily move from his position, his tone sharp and pointed. "We must ventilate the room before—" he coughs, clamping a hand over his mouth as he shuffles further from the table.
The spice of cinnamon burns your nostrils, tickles your throat, seeps into your lungs enough to have you stifling a series of coughs as you quickly run to the window and throw it open. The air outside is brisk, and you inhale greedily before realizing Viktor hasn't joined you.
"Retrospectively—" Viktor says, coughing intermittently, "we should have worked with ventilated masks. We failed to—" more coughing, spurring you to move from the window towards him as he leans haphazardly against the table, "failed to consider the simplicity of heat and liquid."
"Yes, a simple mistake, but you need to get fresh air and not contemplate what we should have done—save that for later, Vik." You close the space between you two, reaching out to coax him with a hand around his forearm.
Viktor makes a noise when you touch him, a strained sound akin to a whine, and for a fleeting moment you're concerned you might've hurt him. Quickly ceasing your touch, you search his tense expression, noting the color in his gaunt cheeks.
He averts his eyes, looking downwards, and the underlying chagrin there is enough to distract you from the heat that simmers beneath your skin. A slow, gradual thing that doesn't register as anything more than raised temperature from the steam.
"I...may have withheld a particular aspect of the drug." Viktor says, sounding uncharacteristically meek. The way he reaches up and tugs at the tie around his throat—a simple movement, nothing of importance—catches your attention. "I'm sorry."
The heat is rising, now. What you thought was just the steam proves to be something more: a reaction of the drug, most definitely. You swallow thickly and try to ignore the gooseflesh on your skin, the shiver that threatens to trickle down your spine.
"We ingested it, you need to tell me everything you know about it's effects, Viktor. We can go to the infirmary—"
"We cannot go to the infirmary." He cuts you off, his usual soft tone sharpened. "It is an illegal substance, you could lose your work."
Your brows knit, "this drug could seriously hurt you, Viktor. We don't know what effects it could have on—"
"A cripple?" He finishes, unfairly harsh as locks his gaze with yours. His pupils flood his eyes, blown wide to whittle the amber down to a sliver. "You need not worry about me." He tacks on, marginally softer.
It's the drug, it has to be, because you can feel the frustration he displays. It coils within you, deep down in your belly like a hunger. It makes your blood pulse painfully loud in your ears, has your fingers tingle like static. You push through the sensation, absently tugging on the collar of your blouse. You don't notice the way Viktor follows the movement from beneath his brows, his head cast downward.
"If we can't go the infirmary, I need to know what we're dealing with, here." You exhale shakily, growing uncomfortable with the way your shirt chaffs against your skin. Without thinking, you begin popping open the buttons on your vest, working it off your shoulders.
"Elevates body temperature, obviously. You should rid yourself of your vest, it helps."
He shakes his head a little, looking anywhere but your face, "the vendor may have mentioned it's uses as...an aphrodisiac."
You freeze in your movements, fingers fisted in the fabric of your vest as you place it on the table. Glancing at Viktor—perhaps timidly, with this newfound knowledge—you catch the way his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows thickly. There's a scarcely noticeable sheen of sweat beading along his brow.
You can see the way his slender torso rises and falls with his uneven breathing, the grip he holds on the notch of his cane turning his knuckles white; and then, just beyond that, the very obvious strain of his slacks—
Whipping around to spare you both of embarrassment, you're assaulted with a powerful jolt between your thighs. It throws you entirely off kilter, weakening your knees enough that you have to slap a hand against the table to balance yourself.
"We should wait it out, then." You grit out, but the prospect of enduring this quickly growing ache makes you irrationally irritated. "All drugs...filter through the body eventually."
The clang of Viktor's cane hitting the floor has you quickly pivoting; what you see makes that heavy pulse between your thighs thrum, arousal so poignant it makes your limbs feel weakened: he's holding himself up with one hand on the table, lanky body bowed inwards as he presses a shaking palm against the hardness in his pants.
His teeth are clenched, lips curled into a grimace as he screws his eyes shut. He looks as though he's in agony, but the pinch of his thick brows and the clear flush that colors his face renders you incapable of thinking anything other than how absolutely beautiful he is.
Has he always been so breathtaking?
Your throat is dry, clicking when you swallow, and he's moving his hand now, a trembling undulation that forces a desperate whine from his mouth. The answering throb of your cunt feels like a Pavlovian response; and you can't stop the small, yearning moan that escapes your lips.
"Manual stimulation," he stutters, "it—nnnh—it alleviates the symptoms." His slender hips buck forward, and you can't take it anymore.
"Vik—" you croak, and find that your tongue now feels a heavy, useless thing in your mouth. The heat is consuming you, sweating from your body, pooling liquid lust in a manner so intense you swear you can feel it slither down the insides of your thighs.
Pointedly, Viktor turns his darkened gaze upon you, breathing ragged, skin blushed and hot. There's such intensity in his eyes;
"Touch yourself."
It comes out sounding like a demand, and perhaps it is—regardless, you concede, because the desire that's coursing through your veins, the way he looks at you, demands it just as well. You turn from him, leaning against the opposite end of the table before hesitantly slipping a hand beneath your skirt.
Whatever reservations you might've had in this moment melt away the instant your fingers graze the soaked fabric of your panties, the faintest touch against your over-sensitized clit making you whine loudly.
Viktor groans in response.
You shiver at the sound of him, and he's so close, close enough that you can hear not just his small noises, his labored breathing, but the rustling of clothes; the implications of that making you burn hotter, making your fingers work quicker, clumsily slipping beneath the gusset of your panties to glide along your wet slit.
It's searing pleasure, entirely not enough, and without a second thought, you push two fingers inside yourself, spread them to feel the stretch, and then—"Viktor..."
You moan his name. Lustful and weighted and so incredibly needy, and somewhere far away yet so frustratingly close, you hear his breath hitch in his throat. There's a slick, repetitious clicking noise emitting from beside you—from him, and in your stupor it takes a second to register what it is.
You're suddenly struck with the overwhelming urge to see him—gods, you want to see him so bad it feels like a necessity.
"Let...oh, fuck—let me see you, Vik." You plead without an ounce of thought, functioning on the innate whims of lust.
There's a brief moment of hesitation. You would worry of overstepping boundaries, but that seems a bit of a moot point now.
"I d-don't—mmmh—you want to...?" he stumbles over his words, sounding incredulous and piqued in equal balance.
You can't stop the movement, like your body has torn from cognizance, acting through sheer impulse as you turn your head to peer at him.
The vision before you makes you clench down on your own fingers and moan: he's gone and unbuttoned his vest entirely, undone his tie and the first few fastens of his dress shirt beneath that. There's sweat beading on his exposed chest; sharp clavicles and alabaster skin shuddering as he groans with the movement of his hand.
Your attention drops from his beautifully tormented face, downwards. He's fisting his cock, thick and long, flushed a lovely pink at the tip where it pearls with precum. It's a frantic pace he's set for himself, the tendons in his hand prominent as he strokes himself off, barely keeping his balance against the table in the process.
"Vik—" you whine, pumping your fingers within yourself, trying to reach a spot within you that seems to move further and further away as the seconds pass, "fuck, you're so beautiful."
He gives a trembling groan in response, his eyes opening to a lust heavy, haft-mast to meet yours. "You're letting the drug speak for you."
You bite your lip, "no, Vik, I'm not."
His brows pull upwards, a look akin to despair, like he doesn't fully believe your words to be true—but wishes them to be. And then his gaze drops to where your hand has disappeared beneath your skirt, and his own hand stutters, the smooth stroke he's employing slipping from his grasp. The frustrated growl of a noise Viktor releases ignites something baser within you.
"Let me help you, I...I can help you."
Viktor shakes his head, "I am fully capable of—"
"I know you are, Viktor." You cut him off, snappier than you intended, but you're so damn tense you feel as though you'll burst any moment. "I'm not offering through pity, I'm offering because I want to."
A heavy silence balloons in the space between for a moment, Viktor's amber gaze searing into yours, before he closes his eyes and gives a small, relenting nod of his head.
"Yes," it's nearly a whisper, "yes, please."
Your heart stutters in your chest, seizing up with anticipation—to touch him, to feel him in a way that's never occurred to you before this moment, and yet, rings as completely inevitable all at once.
Quiet nights spent in the Academy labs, admiring his work, admiring him; a touch of fingers, a spark categorized as something, something—
Your fingers slip from within yourself, the lost felt acutely, but you think the ache is worth it when you step into Viktor's space, and he looks down at you through heavy lids; desperation was made for him.
Keeping your eyes locked, you reach down. Viktor's hand slows, stops, he whines softly at the loss of friction, and when you wrap your fingers around the space his does not fit, he chokes on his breath and moans. He is weighted and thick in your palm, slick with precum that allows you to stroke with ease.
He looks as though he wishes to close his eyes, but can't find the will to completely look away from you; attention darting from your face, to your hand, to the floor when you wring another deliciously debauched moan from him, as though he's ashamed of it.
Your skin feels scorching, arousal pulsing through your veins like magma, spurring you to move quicker. You can feel the way his cock twitches in your hand, stiff like steel silk as you analyze the way his pretty features twist.
"It feels—I'm g-going—" his breath catches in his throat, his hips bucking into your touch as his other hand snaps up to grip your shoulder, balancing himself. "—cítíš se tak dobře," he whispers harshly, and although you have absolutely no idea what he's saying, the very intensity of the words is enough to make a shiver lance down your spine, settling hotly in your gut.
You're enamored, craving his release almost as much as your own, losing your self in the way Viktor falls apart in your hands. You've always preferred the process of creation, but no amount of destruction has ever looked as magnificent as him in this moment.
"C'mon, Vik." You breathe, moving in closer, close enough that his breath is on your lips, and his focus has nowhere to turn except into the depths of your eyes, "come for me."
His hand hastily moves from your shoulder, to the nape of your neck, fingers burrowing into the notches of your spine. His teeth grit, the workshop table creaking in protest with the way he grips the edge, trying to find some semblance of balance as he bucks haphazardly into your soft palm.
He swears in his mother tongue, you can tell by the way he hisses the word, and then he grits out your name; yanking you forward to smash his mouth against yours in the messiest, most desperate iteration of a kiss you've ever experienced.
He tastes sweet, his moans vibrating against your teeth, and it feels more like you're simply sharing the air. Viktor's attempt at a kiss dissolves in concert to the stiffening of his frame; the tightening of his fingers on your skin; the finality of the broken groan he gives.
You feel his cock pulse, hot wetness spilling against your hand. You moan softly into his mouth, gazing up at his blissed out expression through your lashes—softer now, shattered, but by way of euphoria. His mouth is open and his eyes are glossed, heavy.
Giving him a moment to chase down his breath, you pull back and give an involuntary whine at the shift of movement. Pressing your thighs together, flexing the muscles, hurting with how much you need him.
Then, with a suddenness that takes you completely off guard, Viktor pulls you back into him, kissing you properly—surprisingly sensual for a man who has denounced love. He licks a line along your tongue hotly, open-mouthed and fluid, guiding your head to the perfect angle to completely devour you.
"Need you." You gasp against him, uncaring of the residual spend on your hand as you start to finish his earlier process of removing his clothes. "Vik, please," whining, splitting his dress shirt open to paw at the hardness of his chest.
Viktor draws back, his hand coming around to cup your chin, grazing his thumb against your tumescent lower lip. His countenance is more lucid, the orgasm you'd torn from his body dulling the sharpness of the Calor, but there is still a fire burning in his eyes; you wish nothing more than to be scorched.
"You know, I'll never tire of hearing you beg me for help." Whatever slyness he's aiming for falling short with the unsteadiness of his breathing.
A soft puff of a laugh escapes you as you reach up and take hold of his wrist, fingers shaking against the drug, still burning you up, "there's no one else capable, even now."
"I've stroked enough of your ego, Viktor...among other things." You exhale, impatiently. "Would you help me, please?"
Viktor answers you with a quick kiss, his lips touching yours as he whispers hotly, "of course. On the table, if you would."
You don't need to be told, twice.
The metal is frigid against your thighs as you slide up, barely mindful of your failed automaton and the remaining Calor spilled from it's artificial veins. You're trembling with anticipation as Viktor pulls the chair up close, taking a seat before you as though preparing to delve into his work.
Mixing pleasure and work.
The thought is fleeting but still makes your stomach swoop, and then Viktor's hands are behind your knees, the contact burning your skin with desire. Notching your legs higher until your shoes are against the table, you follow the motion of him splaying them wide. The blush that overtakes you is sweltering, your head reeling with suspense at the thought of those long, dexterous fingers working between your thighs, sinking into your heat, twisting and stretching you out—
"Do you know how long I have thought about this?"
Your heart lodges in your throat, blocking the moan that bubbles there when he closes the distance, stroking his fingers against the thin, soaked layer between you, and him.
Having someone else—him—touch you right now feels as though your nerves have been exposed, raw and dangerously sensitive. You buck up, and Viktor reacts accordingly: gripping the crescent of your hip with his free hand, pinning you back down with a surprising, and absolutely frustrating display of strength.
You want him to just get on with it already, but whatever sense remains within you demands to explore what he just said.
"Tell me," you hiccup a moan, his touch evolving into a more firm caress, "h-how long."
Viktor maneuvers his hand deftly, pushing aside that barrier to touch you, skin against skin, sliding two fingers against your slit to press inside your tight heat with no ounce of resistance. The moan you give is lewd, splintering the stillness of the room as it coalesces with Viktor's appreciative groan.
"Ever since the Academy." He breathes, and the tension's back in his voice, Calor swirling together with the natural arousal of having you in such a position, "when you criticized me, and complimented me—challenged me."
He starts pumping his fingers, pushing them to his knuckles, curling them just the slightest, drawing back. You're so wet, and it's obscene, and lewd, and everything you ever wanted. You struggle to keep your focus on him, propped up on wobbly hands, but you try, because the imagery of Viktor fucking you with his fingers is too intoxicating to miss.
"You were the first person to truly push me. Who looked at me, and decided I was not frail. I will not break." His movements quicken with the conviction in his tone, dragging his fingertips against that bundle of nerves nestled deep inside you.
It's electric—charged, and so, so sensitive.
Your head falls back, losing yourself completely, moaning unabashed as your hips attempt to roll in time to the relentless piston of his fingers. When Viktor's thumb ventures upwards between your slick lower lips, honing in on your swollen clit to rub sharp little circles around it, you feel as though you may truly ascend.
It's too much, not enough, searing pleasure that has you squirming on the table, pushing against him and pulling away all at once.
"Vik—!" You gasp, eyes screwed shut tight enough you see phosphenes, "Vik—oh gods, I can't—"
"You can." He exhales sharply, "you have to."
You whine, that high keen of a noise bursting in the air when Viktor removes his thumb, dips down and closes his lips around your clit.
Instinctively, you try to close your thighs around his head, but he pushes one away, ignores the other, and sucks, giving a deep, throaty hum that vibrates throughout your entire being.
Scrambling, you find an anchor in his hair, gripping the tousled strands tight enough you're sure that you're hurting him. Viktor's responding groan feels like raw electricity, rippling through you, catching every single nerve in a miasma of pleasure.
You feel like you're glowing from the inside, out; bursting with pleasure so intense it renders you incapable of vocalizing other than his name. He does not seem to mind, if the eagerness of his tongue flicking against your pulsating clit is evidence, enough.
Gradually, Viktor winds down alongside the calming of your moans, licking gingerly against you, soothing you as he slips his fingers from your still aching cunt. You whine deliriously at the loss, the scraping of the chair heard distantly, and then he's above you, kissing you.
You can taste yourself on him, spurring you to kiss him back with vigor. Pulling on his hair tighter than you intend, as though willing him to never leave, Viktor grunts against you.
"S-Sorry," you shudder, "I just—"
"I know." He sounds winded, feverish, "I need you, too. I have always needed you."
Your heart sings at the confession, at the revelation.
Viktor's lips leave yours, gliding to the cusp of your jaw, kissing down the column of your throat as he moves his hands beneath you. You lift your hips without thinking, not needing to, knowing that this is what you want—what you have always wanted.
You just needed the necessary energy to realize it; a potent, powerful jolt.
Reemerging from sucking what you're sure is a lovely mottle of purple on your neck, Viktor locks his golden eyes with yours. Between your bodies, you feel the heat and weight of his cock pressing against your slick; teasing, prodding, but never quiet delving into where you desperately need him.
"Viktor," you reach out, "please," pulling him close once again, grazing your lips against his in an almost kiss, "fuck me."
His entire frame shudders in response, hips canting forward as though he can't control it. With the way you're feeling, you're positive it's exactly that; and you whine, thrilled and eager against him when he sinks deeper.
The stretch feels divine, the sensation of him slowly sheathing his cock within your throbbing cunt overwhelming. Viktor vocalizes his appreciation of you with a moan that cracks right down the middle, sounding nothing shy of wrecked.
Dropping his head to your shoulder, his hold on your waist bruising, he pushes far enough that the sharpness of his hipbones dig into the plush flesh of your inner thighs.
He's murmuring something against your shoulder, strings of dialect that remain foreign to your ears, but praising in it's lilt, and then, as though struck with the realization that you cannot understand him, Viktor turns his head and begins kissing your neck.
"Amazing...you are amazing." He pants, sounding as overcome with you, as you are, him. "Fantasy does you no justice."
You buck against him in response, mewling deliriously as your hands roam anywhere they can reach; through his hair, down his back, following the ridges of his spine. You can feel the shift of bone, the tense of muscle as he finally—finally starts to move.
It's a slow drag, his length spearing you so deep there's a slight twinge of pain before he draws back, leaving you feeling achingly empty. The process is maddening, and you're squirming, rolling your hips, pawing at him, pleading with your glassy eyes for him to just—
"Viktor—harder, please!"
He grunts, digs his fingers into your flank tight enough you're sure you'll bruise, pulling you against him in unison to a forceful thrust. The table jars, the metal clinking of tools rolling off and onto the floor echoing through the room. Viktor garners your attention with the reverent touch of his trembling fingers against your damp cheek.
You don't realize you're crying; desperate tears that line your flushed skin, until Viktor gathers them with a swipe of his thumb. He knows—of course he does, and with all problems he's come to face, he resolves it through action, determination.
His gaze darkens, molten gold and liquid jet, thick brows pinching with focus. It's a look you've seen countless times before: when he immerses himself in his work, vigilant in his pursuit.
His unsteady rhythm evolves, each forward stroke purposeful, driving his cock to the hilt each time, and you would praise him for it, if your voice wasn't rendered to a staccato of high, keening moans.
It feels good—it feels seismically better than good: searing, white-hot pleasure that blooms in your belly, coiling and tightening each time Viktor's sharp hips collide with your quivering thighs, the slick crash of skin against skin resonating through your whole body.
And the look on his face; you've always appreciated his undeterred focus, but never considered you'd be the subject. Viktor's looking at you like you're the only thing that matters; hyper-focused as he fucks you hard enough the table actually shifts.
With a grit of his teeth, he pushes himself upright, takes proper hold of your waist, and yanks you against him. Your back arches as you cry out, writhing on the workshop table as he digs deep; bottoming out each time, his thick cock grazing every single electric spot within you.
"Oh f-fuck—oh gods," you groan, quickly spiraling towards an orgasm you're not entirely sure you'll be able to handle; physically or mentally.
You don't want this to end. To lose the euphoria that courses through your veins, the imagery of Viktor above you, pouring his entire being into you as though making you cum is the answer to all his problems; the missing variable to all his equations.
He looks beautiful like this: sweat beading on his skin, shirt split open to frame his angled body; sinewy muscle flexing and rolling with the relentless thrust of his narrow waist. Freckles dot his alabaster skin like perfectly placed constellations. Wayward strands of hair hang over his eyes in an elegant dishevelment.
Gods, why did it take a failed experiment and a dose of liquid lust for you to realize—
"I love you," you gasp out, and it feels as though those words were carried within you all along; trapped behind your teeth, sitting on the tip of your tongue, "I love you, Viktor—"
You can see the exact moment those words hit him. His tense expression softens; brows lifting, eyes clearing, like seeing for the first time. You're on the precipice, and the way Viktor jerks against you, like your confession is his undoing, sends you over completely.
Viktor loses his strength, crumbles against you as he moans open mouthed against your shoulder. You can feel the heavy pulse of his cock, nestled deep inside you as you clench involuntarily tight, succumbing to an orgasm that you can feel in the very marrow of your bones; all encompassing, a maelstrom of pleasure.
There's a blooming warmth, and you let slip a blissful, hazed whine from you realize that it's him—finding his release. His weight trembles above you, his voice a series of strangled swears and gravel-pitched moans as he rocks against you, chasing down the ecstasy to the last drop.
The tension that's been progressively winding up in your bodies releases in an almighty, euphoric rush, and in the aftermath, there is only you, and him.
No Calor to blind your senses, to manifest confessions where there may otherwise be none, and you realize—with Viktor's head cradled in your arms, resting on your chest—that everything you've said and done has been true. Regret does not fester within you, all you can think about is him. How often you had thought about him, still think about him, years and years past a time you resolved not to.
"How...do you feel?"
Viktor's voice, exhausted and perhaps disquieted, snaps you from your stupor. Your attention flicks from the vacant spot on the ceiling you'd been staring at, downwards.
"I feel..." you begin, and there's a hollowness behind your sternum now, an uncertainty. Does he feel the same as you? Was his heated confession as genuine as yours? "I feel...better."
You swallow thickly.
Viktor shifts, pushing himself up right. You silently mourn the loss of his heat and weight atop you; flinch at the feeling of him slipping out of you, and the grimace that twists his mouth in the process. His gaze, now lucid, aware and painfully reluctant to meet yours, darts around the immediate area in search of something.
"I am sorry. I should not have...erm, I should not have finished inside—" he cringes at his words, glances down and hastily begins tucking his length away, blushing furiously. "Where are the towels? You keep towels in your workspace, no?"
Moving to sit straight, you can't ignore the ache between your legs. You didn't realize how much the drug dulled your other senses, like pain, until now. It feels as though you've been whittled down to your very core, incredibly sore and yet, entirely sated. Knowing it is Viktor's doing makes your stomach flutter; residual arousal thrumming weakly.
"We need to dispose of the remaining Calor, or otherwise risk a repeat—" You put a stop to his words with your hands on his face, coaxing him to look at you as he stands inert between your legs.
"Viktor, look at me." You breathe, inhale, steel yourself, "did you mean it?"
His attention flits between your eyes, like he's searching for something; perhaps the very same thing you are. A modicum of uncertainty, a wisp of regret, something to tell him what you suspect he's believed all this time: that he isn't what you want, that he can't be what you want.
"...that I need you? That I have thought of you—your brilliance and your beauty—every night since first meeting you?" His voice is quiet, but intense. "Absolutely."
Your heart is fluttering around in the cage of your ribs, uncontrollable.
"Why didn't you tell me?" You whisper, sweeping your thumb across the beauty mark below his eye.
Viktor sighs, gently wrapping his fingers around your wrist as he closes his eyes. His brows twitch, as though he is contrite, and then his lids flutter open. There is a sureness there that has you feeling anxious; worried.
"I could not burden you with something as...trivial as my desire. I am not what you need. I am..." his gaze flits to your automation, bleeding and broken on the table, "not right, for you."
There's an air of sadness in his tone. It doesn't sit right with you; Viktor, always so determined. Viktor, never backing down from a challenge. Viktor, refusing to let his physical limitations stop him from achieving what he wants.
"I meant it." You say, not daring to look anywhere but the depths of his eyes, "I love you, Viktor. Nothing is going to change that."
You hope that your truth is conveyed through every facet of your being; that he feels your sincerity in a synapse more powerful than any drug could ever create.
"Everything about you. Your mind, your body—everything. I...I think I always have. I just...showed it the only way I knew how." Your gaze softens, committing Viktor's rapt expression to memory. "But, one of the things I love most about you, Viktor, is your unshakeable determination. I have never met anyone as ambitious as you...and I have never known you to give up."
His grasp tightens marginally around your wrist; you dare to lean in, sharing the charged air between you, watching the way his eyes flit to your mouth.
"So...are you going to give up?"
"You—always pushing me, challenging me," he quickly breathes, closing the distance in a blink to kiss you hard enough your teeth knock together; perfectly imperfect.
You smile against him when he echoes your words from earlier.
Confident, sure, determined.
"I love you, too."
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serostuffsmh · a year ago
Villain stans are like “omg he’s built different!”
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yeah, he’s built like ikea furniture without an allen wrench
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space-ranger-bellamy · 17 days ago
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