author's note: happy halloween! see, i keep my promises (sometimes), so here you guys go—one kinktober piece at your service. so what if it's the 31st already—shhh, don't say anything, consider this a spooky season present.
warnings: masturbation, dirty talk, perverted pining, viktor has a soft spot for stockings, cunnilingus, slapping (consensual), protected sex, premature ejaculation, submissive viktor. this is a very viktor-centric piece in general. fem!reader is, yet again, a femme fatale (when have i ever written anything else, eh?). reader’s appearance is unspecified, safe for clothing, accessories and vices (cigs, my beloved). come slap me if i forgot something—you know, the usual.
wc: 6,9k. yeah. sorry for that, but then again—i've been missing for 2 months so i hope you guys can forgive me this time. enjoy!
—
Nylon. Spandex. Elastane. Lycra.
Four elastic cavaliers of hosiery. First invented with the sheer purpose of concealing indecent ankles, they were quickly promoted to yet another fetish attribute.
Now, the craft alone is erotic. Molten stuff is extruded from the spinneret to be stretched over rollers and wound onto spools, then cinched together under the deft clickety-clack of a sewing machine.
Stretch. Wind. Cinch. Extrude. The sadistic vocabulary of wefting a kink. It rolls off the tongue just so. Stifles cocks inside tight crotches at the sweet thought of welts squeezing around a thigh.
Viktor remembers the exact pressure of his first nylon-induced erection. He straightens at the memory and hears his repressed sexuality go down like the end of the world—not with a bang, but a whimper.
To him, masturbation has always been purely clinical: prostate cancer aversion at worst, occasional entertainment at best—always a half-assed tryst. There was little reverence in the way he undid the zipper, even less in the awkward schlick of his palm or the lube slumping inside the slit coldly. That night, it would be different. His pipeline from a hollow boy to a hollow man would begin in the porn-mag aisle—feckless, laughable, and at least a decade too late.
And yet, he cherishes it. Chases the shock of his very first unbridled weep into the pillow. Clenches his toes and bites, gnaws, tears at his fist as though trying to regain the hum of that very first installment, the seizure-like itch of bones under his sticky muscles—all for the nyloned legs on some raunchy Skin Two cover.
From then on, he develops fussy tastes. His stance on ‘Playboy’ hasn’t changed: he still thinks it a disgrace, a shiny travesty much too smutty for his liking. No, Viktor prefers a tease. Tawny corsets the size of a wasp’s waist. Stilettos. Thick garters pulling at the welt so it rises in a smooth slope right in the middle of a thigh. A pronounced back seam splitting the calf. He imagines licking along it, thinks of the prickly fabric scraping his tongue dry.
Every last Friday of the month, he buys an addition to his raunchy collection. Skin Two—a personal favorite—for when he needs a sweet fix. Marquis, for when he momentarily slips towards latex—because Germans do it best and he’ll marvel at anything tight enough to compress a woman’s thigh. He likes the photography, the ritualistic fastening of the garters, the way the legs are captured mid-step, the pointed toes, and the painted toenails seen through the sheer stocking.
Videotapes, he discards the exact way his precious nylon is discarded in them—cruel, unfazed, and invariably within the first two minutes. He’d rather watch the whole rite: the upward glide of the stocking until it’s pinched by a clip, the dull click of a bra being clasped. Idle fingers spread over sheer underwear to form something damp and heart-shaped.
He hunts the erotic. Stacks it in his bedroom—the most pretentious of softcore collections—and brings himself to those bone-itching orgasms at the sight of yet another vintage-resembling spread. The daily desecration of his dorm-room is a bold Miller entry—cum-stained trousers and hoarse moans tearing his throat like sandpaper. Though for an engineering student, his perversions remain within decency.
The scales of room distribution kept tipping in his favor, so the tip of his cock could keep swelling sore. His last restraint had moved out long before Viktor came back for his third year: a timid girl who randomly decided to take a gap year midway through her master’s. With no next-door neighbor to be wary of, he could ease into the habit just so—and ease he did, clammily—alongside his lube and his pointy wrists and his carpal tunnel syndrome swiftly creeping in from being a little bit too besotted with hosiery.
Thrice a day, he sees to the compulsion. Draws out sweet, viscous instances like the slick mess drying in his belly button—just bliss, and blisters, and hand cream shortage, and his innocent deviations in this stifling room.
It lasts forever (thirty-three sweaty days), and Viktor hopes to secure an entire year of unstifled orgasms. But on October 3rd, when he crawls into his room after a daunting lab class—bones aching, tie wimpled, belt clanking to the floor—everything hitches. He squeezes himself at the base. Wrangles it like a snap of a neck.
Footsteps next door. It takes him long enough to register what they are—his blood is still sticky with agitation, there’s still sweat in the dip of his lower back—heady evidence of his postprandial horny. A vacant taste of grease and soup on his tongue as he tucks himself back into his pants.
He hears heels and wonders what kind they are. Stillettos? Cones? Ankle-straps? Peep-toes? He hears the sharp snap, the reverberation of old furniture when the click lands into a parquet dent, each one coming down with a shake. But that’s just the price of winning a scholarship somewhere moldy and European: sixty-centimeter walls and windows so back-to-back they’d bump glass panes if opened outwards. He smiles—bitter, morose. There goes his agape-mouthed splendor. There goes his end of the world.
As the clicks relocate somewhere numb and distant, he has no trouble pinning the direction. More so when the hinge screeches hoarse and slow, and he rushes to grip his cane in his sweaty palm, belt hanging so low it’s as good as lost—and yet a dumb excitement in his lurch to the window, a slippery, shapeless thing like the one he commits over his pile of pornos.
Right away, October scratches at his every membrane, heady with festering earth, wet soles, and a secret third thing—a steady aim for his nose, reeking not just yet discernible. Viktor cranes his neck to the right and finds it—all of it. The smell, the heels, the culprit—a handbook of safety hazards. Legs carelessly dangling from the sill. A scraped knee framed by a hole in the stocking. Mildly sallow teeth in a wide, lipsticked mouth and full-on sallow fingers stuffing it with a Lucky Strike.
“Hi,” you say, and he notices the dab of lipstick on your front tooth, one that makes him swipe his tongue over the gap in his own—perhaps to draw blood so he can match you.
“Cigarette?” You offer him a less gory way of being on a par—a passing of a pack akin to those fine artsy parodies of The Creation of Adam where God’s nails are painted black and he’s squeezing a joint.
“I’m fairly certain smoking is strictly forbidden in the dorms,” he tells you, and imagines you prying the window open, the sheer, black length of your legs climbing up the sill.
In your mouth, the cigarette smolders, prickly sparks eating at the end when you inhale. You wince and swat some mascara out of the corner of your eye, then rub it into your fingers until it’s a grey smudge. Leaning back, a flash of a garter, and Viktor’s blood flow halts to regroup his every cell into that one muscle. When your left shoe (a mere oxford, by the way) slips just enough to dangle off the toes, he thanks evolution for not letting aneurysms form inside cocks.
And it’s easy enough to put off his pervy confession. To remember that you’re not one of his porn-mag girls—because they don’t giggle with a squawk this canine and don’t pick at the scabs in their sliced knees. And, most importantly, he doesn’t owe them a mental apology for leering at their thighs.
So Viktor feels his shame wrap around his neck, a fuzzy feeling like choking on a cherry pit—a dark, panicked yawn, a gulp of cyanide. He clutches the offered pack before the thought becomes as concrete as his hard-on.
A plume of blue smoke in your hair, and he marvels at the privilege of his lungs expanding unitedly with the girl’s in a ripped stocking.
“What are you?” he asks, and the shame prevails, plants in him a hope that you’ll reach out and slap him. He fills his mouth with bitter spit and waits for the blow, takes a drag so long it soaks the filter.
When you introduce yourself, he laughs a lumpy cackle of relief.
“No, er… Your major?” He clarifies.
“Oh.” You flick the ashes with a broken nail. A gust of wind spits it out onto Viktor’s sweater. “English.”
“English?” His voice rounds up, and you note the slight lisp to his sibilants—stunned and lovely. “How come you were given a room in this building?”
“Gap year. There were no rooms left in mine.”
“Oh?”
“Writer’s block. Didn’t want to half-ass my paper.”
He nods at you with a giddy smile of somebody who’s just been trusted with a secret. “Aren’t you interested in what I am?”
“An engineer, of course.”
“Well, yes, but—“
“Mechanical?”
“How did you guess?”
“God, you—“ You laugh, and point to the cuffs of his shirt peeking from under the woolly sleeves of his sweater, “your folk has a look about you.”
He swallows and reaches to pull at his sleeve. Beckons a curious magpie by crumbling ashes all over the concrete. Tentative, it tries at them with its beak, then looks up to blink with beady-eyed accusation. You chuckle—deep and crispy, voice cracking, a click of phlegm peeling at the back of your throat.
The magpie screeches and takes off. Viktor nurses the filter with a drawn-out suck before mumbling, “A look about me. What’s that supposed to mean?”
“The haircut,” you explain. “Or, rather, the lack thereof. And this poor-blood-circulation-sedentary-lifestyle way of dressing—”
There is a sudden commotion in his chest, and his heartbeats become longer, itchier. He ditches his furtive smile, and you put it on as if it’s a relay—only you’re wearing it febrile, churlish. And by that smile alone, he knows exactly who you think you are, can just picture the kind of titles you keep on your bookshelf.
“What have I ever done to you?” He manages.
You shake your head, plucking hair out of your eyes, nails and lipstick matching. “Oh, I’m not insulting you. You’re a lovely specimen. Your lot arrives here, gifted and clueless, with your technical mindsets and clinical bashfulness. Hell, it’s written all over you as we speak. And you always,” You stress, blowing out pretty, sinewy fog, “always graduate with honors and a two-digit body count.”
Viktor’s cock throbs. Sends through him a nagging tow like the pinch of a nerve—one he knows intimately and by rote. “You seem suspiciously cultivated about men in my department,” he says when it’s over, gripping the windowsill for fear of all the nicotine catching up to him. “Am I to assume you’re speaking from experience?”
And the throb prevails, for you choose to cross your legs and grin at him again, showing teeth. “Go figure.”
“I’m afraid I… wouldn’t know,” he confesses. “I rarely partake in sleeping with fellow engineers.”
“Who do you sleep with, then?”
With girls that look ike you, in the private ambiance of my imagination, he thinks, shrugging his shoulders.
That calls for a nod—the closest to awkwardness he’s ever seen you. “Well,” you say, tongue-in-cheek, orotund, “that must mean you don’t have people over often. You’ll have no problems keeping it quiet for me, then.”
Upon finishing a smoke, he brings you the slapstick ashtray from his desk. It’s a cut-off bottom of a tin cup, precisely the type people dunk their stubs into in his home country, and you whistle at the invention, asking if one’d need a tetanus shot if poked with that thing. He shrugs before answering, “Probably. How quiet do you want me to be, exactly?”
Swift, you throw the chewed-on filter into the ashtray, a lipstick smudge where you mouthed at it with chic violence. It bumps against his with a hiss, a sizzling sound of an indirect kiss.
“Well, obviously, I don’t expect you to walk around on your tiptoes all the time,” you tell him, throwing one leg inside the room.
“Good. Not that a request of that kind would be attainable—” A beat, to make the punchline land smoother. “My cane isn’t soundproof, you see.” It lands. You stop mid-turn and laugh, the depth of your throat the color of rotten plum—the kind he’d like to push his fingers into if you let him.
“What was your name again?” You ask, staring him down one last time.
“Viktor.”
“Right. Well, Viktor—just try to keep quiet late into the night. That’s when I usually write. No orgies,” you warn him, slipping away; and he blinks, twice and feverish—so contrived that his eyelids make an oily, tired click— en route to snap a mental shot of your wound in its nylon vignette, the exact shade of black on the clasp of your garter, and the shape of your nose when you scrunched it, wiping smoke out of your lashes.
Later that night, he cracks open a fresh edition of Skin Two and flips through it until he finds a model smoking a cigarette. And when he cums to the sight of her spread legs, he obeys your order and muffles his moans with a pillow.
—
October 5th. Midday. Minutes before thunder, the sky is eerie and methylene blue. When he was eight, Viktor tells you, a bottle of it exploded in his hands, and his fingers stayed this exact color for two weeks.
“What’s methylene?” You ask him, yawning into your collar, and Viktor wonders what he’d like to be more: the boy with a missing tooth and shaky limbs stained blue, or the man who’s going to slip those very limbs under your faux fur. He settles on the boy. The man is still under construction, too cowardly to reach across windowsills and ask to be let inside.
He does lean forward, however. Feels the synthetic cheetah pelt and circles a cigarette burn at the fluffy seam—tries a hand at inducting audacity. Which you don’t reward—not verbally, not just yet. Instead, a scoot closer and a glossy wink. Torture hand-outs, he calls them. He tries to swallow his pulse away, thinks that if only he gulps fast enough, you won’t notice the bobs below his jaw.
You notice.
He stares at the black lumps gathering at the corners of your eyes—salt, sweat, and shimmer staining the crease with a greasy line and mascara flakes so big it looks as though your pupils bled them. Mean wives wear their makeup like that, Viktor thinks. Uppity, they squint their smoky eyes and reply I know to I love you. He finds he doesn’t mind—not in the slightest. Matter of fact, he strongly prefers it: the cold slap of acknowledgment when you angle his head back and ask him to open up—just so, just with the tips of your freshly-painted-Revlon-Streetwear nails.
He chokes on the drag you make him suck on and tastes turf; October incarnate spilling over his taste buds like moldy cheese or giving head to a stranger: two preposterous things he’d only tried once and has been sporadically itching for ever since.
You perch for him, almost falling over. It’s a tad too early to come into his room or let him inside yours—you want to keep it within a window's reach, to draw out the next-door fantasy and the abstinence that comes with it. All for constructing the tease of being separated by this paper-thin wall, which he picks up on and teases you back—as best he can, with his contorted mouth blowing smoke into your face so you can retreat into it while his eyes are watering.
He keeps the cigarette, and you light a new one, silent during your exchange of what Viktor hopes are mutually awkward coughs.
“So,” you prompt. “Methylene. What on earth is that?”
“It’s an antiseptic. An ultramarine sort of thing. Almost like, er…” He points to your hand, smiles a charming, asinine thing that makes you roll your eyes, “your nails. Yes, I suppose your nails are methylene blue today.”
You hum, spreading your fingers over your knee, and Viktor notices the tiny wound again, feels the prickly nylon rub it raw. “I might have some. In my room,” he mumbles before his throat goes parched. “For your injury, if you’d like some—”
“Please,” you cut him off, voice cracking, which only catches up to him mid-reach for his cane.
Fumbling inside his medicine cabinet, the time drags on shapeless and cruel, vials and thermometers clattering while he digs for the infamous blue bottle with the white cap. “Found it,” he announces after his groping proves accurate.
When he comes back, you’re halfway ready to be patched up—one garter clasp undone (the thick, vintage kind he adores). He pushes his tongue into his cheek and finds the deep molar cut; marks the flavor of his regret coin-like. How could he have missed it? How come he wasn’t there to see the belt lose tautness and dangle free?
But the consolation comes shortly—a deterrent never to berate himself again. Despite the shaky fingers and the friable ash, you hook your thumbs into the band and peel it off your thigh. Only then does Viktor notice what your nails were supposed to match today—and the answer is not methylene blue, nor the lovely pre-thunder sky.
He finds the shade match between your legs. A sliver of blue lace peeping out for a quick flash of what, incontestably, is the gusset. He squishes the cotton swabs he brought you and hears their plastic bases crack. And you detect him detecting the bait, aiming for a timorous, phony leer. Spreading your legs just a touch wider—with precise show-girl fashion, a mechanical sort of arch.
When you roll the stocking down, Viktor’s brain resorts to sibilant reprehensions: sex, salivation, slick, and random salacious pictures—a whole lot of S that he’d like to be allowed to do to you. It hits him then, whiplash-force, those very itches you are scratching for him—the dampness of mold and the brusque exchanges before one of the parties gets undressed. The soft, and the trashy, and dreamy, rigorous trysts.
He holds onto the thought when you stretch your leg out, grazing his sleeve with your shoe.
“Careful,” he whispers, and instantly regrets the artifice, “wouldn’t want you to fall over, now, would we?”
You laugh at him again—that canine, aggravating sound. But the pliancy is refreshing—a case of carrot and sticks, mockery and indulgence. “This building is really quite bizarre,” you say, pointing your toes to back up the observation. “I could really just climb into your room if I wanted to.”
“Or—“ He opens the blue bottle and dabs the cotton swab around the rim. “You could simply knock at my door and ask to be invited in like a normal person.”
“I don’t think normal is what you prefer, Viktor.”
“Neither do you, it seems.”
“Mmm,” you answer, an interplay of a hum and a hiss. He starts working around the scab, tries not to dribble sweat from his forehead onto your skin. He makes sure to get the raw, pink parts, hunching above you like a squinting jeweler—stunted, endearing. Indeed, this building is quite strange. The walls have ears here—an eavesdropper's wettest dream, yet there’s always an obtuse delight in him at the possibility of you stretching your leg over his windowsill.
For that, he boldens. Lets his cotton strokes gain a shape—a dumbed-down, stock standard one of the organ thrashing inside his ribs at the thought of you ever overhearing his lube-covered endeavors. When he’s finished, you bend your leg to observe his work, and the fear of overstepping turns up—has him looking up at you with wintry, bulging eyes.
But you smile, all gums and teeth. “Look at that. It’s like a heart-shaped bruise.”
Viktor finds he agrees, steering his thumb through your skin until it presses into the dent of your kneecap. For a beat, the air becomes spiky, and the sound of him choking on it whistles above your wound. If it weren’t so unhygienic, he would kiss it better. If he weren’t such a cum-stained loser, he would already have ended up with his tongue wetly asking for mercy against your shoulder.
Words don’t come out of him until he rinses them with saliva, the rush of unctuous froth coating his throat as he stifles a coughing fit. Maybe that’s what having rabies feels like: fevered and gooey, with his knuckles pale from pawing at a girl’s calf.
“A bruise. Is that a bad thing?” The wet pop of syllables makes him as gauche as when he undoes his pants to the sound of your keyboard typing away next door.
“No.” You catch your coat mid-roll off your shoulder. The slope of your breasts squishing together cognate with what he imagines upon hearing about Madonna-whore complex. “I like bruises.”
—
October 7th. The night is starless, with a skyline shaped like a cavity. You’re climbing inside Viktor’s room while he’s crooking two fingers into your garter belt, thinking of the intervals between your dates corresponding with his choice of equipment, the inevitability of the third encounter leading down south. Duos, trinities, and a single seven all aligning so he could get lucky —but he doesn’t redeem it, chooses to teeter at the edge of combusting into his pajama pants as you throw your leg around his waist and guide his palm under your cheetah-print coat. Laughing, when he finds his methylene blue heart still perfectly unsmudged under your stocking.
Between your shoulder blades, sweat is drying a milk crust bead, and Viktor wants to claim a lick; swipes his thumb there twice like a slither of a tongue. Inside his head, a Portishead song is stuck on loop from when he listened to you play it thirty times back-to-back—must’ve been a glorious crisis, or the very sultry act he indulges in behind that thin wall. He hopes for the latter, holding you tighter while you step inside. The slap of your laughter under his jaw, spit drizzling everywhere. On your breath—chalk and coriander. On his—that same rabid salivation.
He finds he’s leading you by the hand, the whole outline of you a big, imbiding blemish with glowing eyes. “Insane,” he mumbles through a swallow. “You are utterly insane.”
You seem to mark that an endearment, pinching his palm with your nails so hard he can’t help but imagine them slicing his shoulders. Groping for the lamp, his room grows disemboweled of every corner—there’s only you, claiming his sheets with your legs crossed tight and bitchy, shedding off your coat extra slow so he can’t make out what’s under it before the light bulb flickers.
When it does, the shapes and colors don’t come back. All is corpulent heaps and eye floaters—all but you and the dress you’re wearing as you smile at him with your lipstick smeared over your chin.
He feels gluttonous at the sight—craves to sink his teeth into that sweet spot where the stocking ceases the thigh; to marvel at the blue mark he’d left on your knee, that perfect little bruise. Instead, he starts blabbering. “You are simply…” He searches for the most English-major word within his range, then chuckles as the option emerges. “Farcical.”
You twitch your head towards him, unimpressed. “Farcical?”
“Yes! What is wrong with you? Why don’t you use the door?”
“I prefer the window.”
“And I prefer you with your limbs intact.”
“Oh. Not a huge ‘Crash’ fan, then?”
“Enough!” He runs out of breath, recalling your shoeless leap, your knocking on the glass so sudden and so macabre. He closes his eyes and sees you slipping on his beloved nylon, a dozen gruesome what-ifs settling in with a hypothetical shrill. The entirety of you finally within the walls he commits his crimes of passion in, and yet he’s mortified at the thought of your spine jutting out of that little dress, of those thin nylons ripping if you were to fracture the very legs he’s trying not to ogle.
It rewards him with the crushing weight of being the bigger person, lifts the heaviness off his boner to migrate into gawky shoulders. Only he can’t tell what it reeks of: nobility or hopeless celibacy.
“Don’t do that again.” Viktor sighs, leaning his cane against the bed frame and sitting down next to you; your hands instantly in his hair, inspecting their newfound entitlements. “Please,” he whispers, “just come over whenever you like. We both know the hall advisors don’t care about—”
“Fornication?” You are chuckling in his ear, and he finds himself sentenced to the noose of your arms—a willing participant, eager for the strangling.
His throat contracts against your shoulder, a spoon-worth gulp of phlegm when he mumbles, “Yes, er. Fornication. No use risking a broken neck for it. Nobody cares.”
And you smile again, reaching under the waistband of his pajamas. Whimpering, when the pang of your glass-cold fingers gets to him. Through him and around the base.
“I know they don’t care. But it’s so much fun to pretend they do.”
When you bend down to kiss him, he clenches his teeth and keeps his lips shut: not to resist you, but to stop his drool from seeping into your mouth, which he already knows is going to feel silly in hindsight. He feels your fingers claw into his face, a press on his mandible like the berating of a dog that’d just snatched something off the dirty floor. Wide-eyed, he lets you hold his mouth open, hears a slurp before he gets to consider blushing. Your tongue goes at it—all of it—the wet, the foamy, the toothy. For a second, he even thinks you’re about to add bloody to that convergence, with your grip on his lip all needles, all sampling copper.
You grin: shiny gums and pink saliva bubbling in the tooth gap. That’s when Viktor reaches for his lip and realises the bloody is already there—a dab of torn tissue that has his balls griping a little tighter every time he probs the wound with his tongue. Yet his hands are shaking—a funny impulse to pin you down and stick his teeth into your clavicles. To have the girl with a kiss like every transition metal, with a spine like a scythe blade—a perforated, downward curve. “So voracious,” you call him, and he moans at it, moans and sucks in a charged, spitslick breath, craning his neck so your laughter can uncoil straight into his cochlea—deafening, sultry. Ticklish.
“Can I?” He asks, unsure what for. There’s still a belief in him that all fucking, however blithe, must mean something—anything at all—irrespective of the bodily fluids involved. Since you chose blood, he expects a kind of meaty love, fitting his fingers into the gaps of your ribs. Leaning backward, the garter belt pulls taut, a dress-proved-nightgown riding up where thighs could kill if clenched in a headlock.
It comes to him, then—an almost-punch to the crotch.
“Can I go down on you?” Viktor blurts out—no, spews, really—driving his nails over your skin until you squeal and pull away. It startles him, shakes him out of his cunt-drunk stare, and he rushes to kiss you—a redemptive, soft-mouthed thing. Lazy tongue.
“Maybe,” you sneer, but it’s a toothless snipe, one that gets lost in his hair when you take a whiff of it. “If you promise not to bite it off, hm?”
“I can’t promise you that. I really can’t.” Viktor laughs, yet means it—pivots his knee in between your legs and jerks at the sound of flannel scuffing against the nylon like an unzipped fly. Foreshadowing, he hopes, and knows that you’re hoping for it too, guzzling into his neck as if trying to dig his vocal cords out.
Peeling off your dress, your skin gains a warmer edge, and when he licks it—navel to underneath your bra—his first porn-mag aisle beckons him again, offers him fishbone legs in black tights and flipping through Tropic of Cancer in a banned literature class—a confluence of your-his world where cum and sweat and being obnoxious are the common denominators.
He watches you writhe and lets his hand writhe with you: over your chest, inside the hook of your bra, tugging but not opening, then dabbling into contours under your tendons—neck, clavicle, ribs. But what he’s really after are ankles—the passage to finding out whether your toenails are painted. Shapes, shades, shadows—so many things to discover, and so he grabs you—thigh, ass, doubling up on thigh again, unsure of what to look for first, what to put his tongue on before sticking it up your cunt.
The filthy S comes back to him with all its dirty alliteration—sex, salivation, slick, and something else salacious he can’t recall the substance of. Trying to unclasp your bra, his anxiety bubbles over, covers you with a slobbery, scared kiss as he whispers, “No, no, no, don’t.” Instead, he tugs it aside and shoves his thumb into the aureole, itchy lace getting caught in the nipple, prompting a moan, then a slutty chuckle. Dark, hardening flesh, in his pants and inside your underwear: nagging, blood, angry—a profanity-filled slam poem. On top of you, his hands are losing strength, itching to be twisted behind his back, brusquely pushed into orifices, ridden, slapped, broken—perhaps concurrently. He yanks you upright and makes you lick his fingers: a dry swallow to the base until you’re leaving a red smudge of lipstick around it and letting him tickle your throat—the first step to finding out what the inside of you feels like.
Shielding your eyes from the lamp, splitting fingers for a drowsy peek from beneath fluttering lashes—still sweat, still shimmer, still sticky mascara smears. He hauls his shirt over his head and treats you to the slopes of his neck hollowing before a gulp. Has you smiling like people do through a drunken rendition of a well-known song, bending your knee and accepting a kiss where he’d just painted it blue the other day—lips on nylon, his breath on your wound and straight into bloodstream.
“My—” He trails off. Ventures into kissing your knee again just to buy himself time to pick a sexy endearment. Girl gets discarded—too frivolous, too precociously possessive. He thinks again, awkwardly shaking his head while scraping slut, whore, and their accomplices—too close of a verge on disrespect, too bold of an assumption. And he’d rather you call him that anyway.
“Your?” you prompt. Fingers inside the garter belt, and right into a smooth, knowing tease—pulling it just low enough to show off the swell of your stomach and the small trail of pubic hair if he cares to squint. Which he cares, of course—if only to twirl his thumb into it. If only to imagine his fresh, hot cum soaking those thigh-smothering stockings.
His balls start to hurt again, yet this time it’s far from that dull ache—this one’s more like testicular torsion or getting stepped on. Viktor remembers touching himself to the latter and feels the ache worsen exponentially, his embarrassment showing up in a damp stain on his thin pajama pants.
Way down, where ankle bones become palpable, he noses their swells while stretching against the sheets, cock down. Painted toenails almost in his face when you squeeze your legs together to make room for him.
He snatches your feet before you get to push them apart again. Sucks out what appears to be a sample vial load from his tender cheek. Another kiss to the ankle before he lets you throw your thighs on his shoulders; the weight of them slushy, flouting death to block his airways.
Cognisant, your eyes find him, and his bed becomes a pitfall. He has never been a bellicose boy—has never felt blood gushing out of a broken cartilage; but as he takes a whiff of your underwear, he thinks he knows how being punch-drunk feels. He longs for his capillaries to burst over the garter, grinds his tongue against the gusset before pushing it to the side and aiming for a lick so deep the tip of his nose ends up damp, too.
In his mouth—just you and shuffled dirty talk, and he glues it together, sucking, and groaning, and pushing back, and offering his hair for the yanking.
“My,” he calls you, stares daggers from beneath the curls on your pubes, “my favorite worst nightmare.”
My personal porn-mag girl.
When he eats you out, it’s a sloppy endeavour gone rigid and his chin hurts from just how acidic you turn out to be—singy enough to bleach whatever facial hair his razor might’ve left behind. It’s imperfect: a pressure-less swirl, raw tongue missing your clit in a way that snitches on his being out of practice. Yet he likes the scolding you subject him to, smirks and wonders if fucking up on purpose will receive him another nape-yank.
It does.
“Stop that,” you warn. He pushes hair out of his eyes and finds you knitting your brows at him: bleary-eyed, furious—a proverbial ante-slap. For a never-bellicose boy, he has surely been drooling at the prospect of getting punched a bit too densely in a span of ten minutes (just where does the time go when you’re trying to make a girl cum?)
He can’t name what he’s running on when he props himself on his elbows to present a cheek. All that matters is that he wants it, almost intrinsically, with every feature of his calling for a spanking: those droopy eyes, this slick, swollen mouth. This pathetic infatuation with hosiery. The deep pain slicing his cock when he stalls two-fingers deep inside you and listens to the soft pluck of you being stretched.
“Slap me—“ he begs, “please,” and the mental pitfall swallows him the second you comply.
What a glorious slap it proves: how precise, how cinematic. It blurs Viktor’s vision into water color swirls and sieges oh so freakishly in turn with his stomach acid.
“Thank you,” he says, jaw clicking, lungs threatening to leak out of ribs. Above him, you are smiling with every tooth unexpurgated, hair a yellow gloriole at the edges when you throw it back, blocking the lamp. Chest heaving, nipples out and dark. It doubles the slap’s recoil and punches the sublime in him instead of out.
And he discovers he likes it, pushing his mouth back against you. A lesson learned—defter, more refined, sweatier. Trying a new pattern, one that goes up, around and straight in, curling in a suck while he smears you all over his face—so sultry, so swollen, so slippery bordering on the very vampirism he’d promised he’d omit.
He licks a spasm out of you and feels his mouth expand with everything he derails: cigarette-strained vocal cords, a half-swallowed moan, more pH than he’d ever tasted in a girl before, crooked fingers, calf cramps, fancy adjectives like crepuscular, seditious, and (his favorite) arduous. That just about convinces him the devil herself climbed into his bed to finally satiate him—sexually, semantically and whatever else he comes up with. Viktor’s only regret is that handprints don’t leave welts: he’d love to stare at the aftermath in the mirror after you leave.
“Right there,” you wheeze, a burst at the seams. Right there, which is a pulp-like spot exactly at the entrance—softer than the rest of you, a hot, almost fluffy thing. With his tongue within it, he reckons he’s messing with your nerves and pretends you’re leaking not slick but cytoplasm.
“Right here?” Tongue out and showing off the burn of you through his taste buds, yet his fingers stay, voluntarily wound tight, spreading, curling, pulling among other suggestive participles. Stockings in his face again: shiny, new and possibly just purchased, for when he nuzzles your thigh it smells like fresh Spandex.
You press your foot into his shoulder and shove him away, asking for a breather. He uses those boneless seconds to sit up straight and shyly cover his cock with his hand—a gesture utterly ridiculous given he’d just engaged in something far, far filthier than mere nudity. Climbing on top of him, your mouth creases into its umpteenth laugh, and Viktor is convinced that soon enough he’ll be able to discern the frequency of you laughing at him from with him.
“Don’t hide from me now,” you whisper, kissing sweat off his brow. “What a strange boy you are. Are you always this capricious? A tease, then a virgin?”
He’s not sure how to answer that. In truth, he’s none and both of these interchangeably, but his tongue feels too heavy to mince that into a clever response. “I suppose,” he simply says, kissing you back—never too tired for kissing, even if it’s just a lazy smack under the earlobe (which tastes like copper because of course he forgot you’ve got earrings on).
Peeling his palm off his cock and placing it on your hip instead, you both bump foreheads and watch his tip peek out of the waistband—a sort of fleshpot pink that looks like it’ll feel good pressing into you. When you take him out of his pants, he groans, slack-jawed and a little dizzy. He stares at your hand around him with blown-out, first-year-meets-his-first-weed pupils, and thinks that sex has never been more terrifying. But he knows he’s going to manage—has always been an avid horror fan after all—and, judging by your bruising tendencies, you might just dig terrifying, too.
Part of the reason Viktor indulges in touching himself so much is aesthetics. His cock is a lovely, thick one that looks nice with a fist wrapped around it—possibly his most (and only) narcissistic put in one sentence. “What a pretty thing. No wonder you jerk off every day,” you joke, thumb swiping over the slit.
Shame glues his pants to his buttocks so airtight that he stops feeling the beads of sweat individually. All is wet like landing in a puddle after a swing to the solar plexus, but he finds it in him to look you in the wild eye and bite back a betrayed, “How did you—?”
“You aren’t exactly subtle, you know.” A kiss to the mole under his eyes. Prickly lashes getting caught in the tenderness. “So loud. So whiny. Didn’t I specifically ask you to cancel your orgies?”
“It seems to me like you’re just indignant because you weren’t invited.”
“There you go again. So rude—” Biting his lip for god-knows-which-time, drawing blood and chuckling as he groans. “Whatever do I shut that mouth with?”
The answer comes down with one garter clasp clicking undone.
Viktor watches you tangle your leg out of the stocking, and it suddenly registers that he’s never seen one being taken off not in the pretext of glossy pages. Or maybe he has, just before the obsession hit, so the memory was rendered inconsequential and got lost in his prefrontal cortex. One thing he knows for sure: he’s going to remember this forever. The reveal of the exact shade of your toenails (vampy-plum), the sultry crack of your voice when you tell him to open up.
Nylon scrapes his mouth as you swab it nice and tight.
After that, an inevitably awkward search for a condom and an even worse coil of limbs gone gangly in a trice: your bent knees, his taut thighs, stockpiling, detangling, then shifting to be thrown over each other again. It has Viktor drooling through the texture of his makeshift gag; his full veins suddenly flaccid and hollow. You have to stroke him hefty again—torturous pace, steady fist, a bite to his shoulder just to remind who he’s dealing with.
Inside you, heat is narrow and liquid-flat. He bottoms out and hums gratefully for the stocking in his mouth, knowing that otherwise he’d be all up in your ear, thanking deities he doesn’t believe in for those millions of years of evolution aligning so that he got to fuck you tonight.
Nails, everywhere. In his scalp, in your buttocks, stretching, and slipping, and stretching again, now slower. When you moan—tight-lipped, a jolt before a convulsion—he knows to try and make up for the earlier tease, spreads you with two fingers for better friction and tries to angle the heel of his palm in a way that would make you hit it. All is wet again. His hands, the back of his neck, your pubes rubbing against his. No orgies, he thinks, and the irony of it grabs him by the balls and makes holding on for you even harder than it already is. No orgies is his last coherent thought before he cums so torturously balmy it feels like his nerves are on fire, and he can no longer tell if it’s drool or froth seeping through the nylon.
You, your sweat, your garters are all he prays to before the duration of his performance sinks in, swelling like the full condom inside you.
“I am so sorry. It’s just that you felt so good… So warm—” But you don’t want to hear it, grinning ear to ear and shushing him with the stocking again—the damp, glassy-eyed relief of promising filthy strives.
He does manage to apologize, however. Not verbally, of course, but rather by bending you over and ditching the ruined underwear at last. Spreading you anew and getting to work—no teasing. Only devouring. Only devotion. Only earnest determination to get a noise complaint.
(And, sure enough, one arrives first thing in the morning).
you've never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth but this is getting ridiculous.
you've been waking up with a strange soreness to your hips and feeling more satisfied and rested than usual, considering you only get a meagre five hours of sleep each night.
once or twice could be brushed off as a coincidence but this is the fifth time this month that you've woken up to this sensation.
the strangest part is that you're nearing the end of your cycle which meant that you'd usually be pent up by now and spending more time with your vibe.
but you haven't had the urge. it's not to say that your libido was low, you were hooking up with someone right before this whole thing.
well... "hooking up" was putting it generously.
the man you had met at the bar was fit and easy on the eyes. he'd promised sweet nothings to you the entire walk back to your place but when he finally had you naked in bed, it was clear he had never pleasured his partners to completion.
you kicked him out after an hour of nothing. honestly, how hard was it to stick to a rhythm? you'd gotten yourself off more times in twenty minutes in the time it took for him to get you to feel something.
you couldn't even be bothered to get yourself off after that, the disappointment of a night wasted weighing into you.
fully expecting to wake up feeling pent up and grouchy, you fall into a deep slumber.
only to wake up the next day feeling satiated and floaty, the way you would after a night of being fucked silly.
memories of a shadowy figure pounding you into the mattress float in your head.
bits and pieces of the mystery man hover in your subconscious. how his hands dwarfed yours, large enough that they easily wrapped around your waist. you've never been that much smaller than you partners so being manhandled like that scratches and itch in your size kink.
the memory of how he stretched you so deliciously and worshiped your body sends a rush of heat straight into your core.
you brush it off as a fluke, the dream already slipping from your mind.
༘⋆♡ Arcane characters reacting to having you be a vs bombshell model
featuring: vi, sevika, mel, cait, ekko, viktor and ambessa
warnings: kissing, heavy touching, implied nsfw themes
inspired by my fic XOXO w/ jinx (which is why she isn’t included)
a/n: might of went overboard with some (let me know if there any mistakes)
Sevika
Sevika leaned against the wall, her eyes sweeping over you as you entered the room, the curves of your body accentuated by the form-fitting outfit you were wearing. She didn't say anything at first, her gaze intense as if she were appraising you, testing you. "You look good," she finally said, her voice husky. "But l've got a better idea.
Want to show me just how good?" She stepped closer, her hand grazing the side of your cheek as her fingers gently trailed down your neck. "I want to see you in that lingerie of yours-the one you always wear when you want to really make an impression. The one that drives me wild," she added, her lips curling into a half-smile.
You swallowed, feeling the heat rise between you both. She didn't need to say it twice. The way her eyes burned into you told you everything.
As you slipped out of your clothes and into the requested set, she took a slow, appreciative breath. "Damn... Now that's what I'm talking about." The hunger in her eyes was unmistakable, and you could tell she was ready to claim this moment as hers.
Sevika leaned back in her chair, the low light of her quarters casting sharp shadows across her face as her piercing gaze locked onto you. Her usually composed demeanor faltered slightly as you stepped closer, the lingerie she had insisted on seeing clinging to your figure in all the right ways. She let out a low hum of approval, her scarred lip quirking into a smirk as she rested her elbow on the armrest, her metal fingers tapping rhythmically against her knuckles.
“You’re gonna kill me one of these days, y’know that?” she drawled, her voice husky as her eyes roamed over you, lingering on every detail of the delicate lace and silk.
“You said you wanted to see it,” you teased, stepping between her legs, your confidence wavering slightly under her intense scrutiny.
Sevika’s smirk widened as she reached out, her human hand brushing over your hip while the cool metal of her prosthetic traced your thigh, sending shivers down your spine. “Didn’t think you’d actually listen,” she admitted, her tone rough but tinged with amusement. “But damn, you wear it better than I imagined.”
Her grip tightened, and in one swift motion, she pulled you onto her lap, her lips crashing against yours in a kiss that was all heat and hunger. Her hands roamed boldly, one sliding to your waist to pull you closer while the other cupped the back of your neck, anchoring you to her.
“You’re mine tonight,” she growled against your lips, her voice low and possessive. “Every damn inch of you.”
The tension in the air was electric, her touch igniting a fire under your skin as she kissed down your neck, her sharp teeth grazing your skin playfully. You could feel her smirk against your collarbone as her hands continued their exploration, leaving no part of you untouched.
“Sevika,” you gasped, your voice trembling as her lips and and hands sent your senses into overdrive.
She chuckled, the sound rumbling through her chest as she leaned back slightly to admire the effect she had on you. "Relax," she murmured, her thumb brushing over your cheek as her eyes softened ever so slightly. "We've got all night." And knowing who sevika is with you, you knew that she was telling the truth. It was going to be a rough night.
Vi
Vi was already leaning against the wall when you stepped off the stage, her arms crossed and a cocky grin plastered across her face. The moment she saw you in your intricate wings and delicate lingerie, she couldn't hide her pride-or the heat in her gaze.
"Damn," she drawled as you approached, her eyes shamelessly raking over you. "How am I supposed to share you with the whole world when you look like that?" Your cheeks warmed as you stepped closer, unable to keep the smile off your face. "You like it?" you teased, spinning slowly to give her the full view.
"Like it?" she repeated, pushing off the wall and closing the distance between you. Her hands found your waist, pulling you flush against her. "Babe, I love it. But now I can't stop thinking about getting you out of it." She whispered, her breath warm against your ear, the promise of more heat to come in her voice.
Before you could answer, she reached out, pulling you toward her with a strength that made your heart skip a beat. Her lips found yours, firm and passionate, a kiss that left no room for hesitation. Her hands slipped down your back, pressing you flush against her, grinding your hips together for just a moment, enough to send a thrill through both of you. Hands roaming from the soft silk of your waist to the small of your back, where she hooked her fingers over the straps of the wings.
"You're incredible up there," she murmured against your lips, her voice husky. "But I think I prefer this view with just you and me."
You laughed softly, your hands sliding up her chest and locking behind her neck. "So, no complaints about my job, then?"
She smirked, leaning down to nip at your jawline. "None. As long as I'm the only one who gets the private shows."
"Jealous much?" Her grip tightened slightly on your hips as she kissed a trail down your neck.
"Nah," she murmured, her lips brushing against your skin. "Just possessive." Your breath hitched as her hands dipped lower, her voice dropping to a whisper. "What do you say we head home? I wanna see you take this off."
Mel Merdarda
The evening air was heavy with the scent of candles and sweet perfume as you stepped into Mel Medarda’s private quarters. Her golden eyes lifted from the glass of wine in her hand, and the moment they landed on you, the room seemed to still. She was lounging on a chaise, her regal posture radiating authority, but the flicker of surprise and desire in her gaze softened her otherwise impenetrable demeanor.
“You’ve outdone yourself tonight,” she murmured, her voice like velvet, her lips curving into a knowing smile. She set her glass down and stood, her silk gown cascading around her as she crossed the room with an elegance only she could command.
Her hands reached out, brushing against the edges of your robe. Slowly, she pulled it aside to reveal the intricate lingerie beneath. The golden embroidery glimmered in the candlelight, hugging your figure perfectly. Mel’s fingers grazed your bare shoulder, her touch light but electrifying.
“You’re a vision,” she whispered, her voice dropping an octave as her lips found yours in a kiss that was both reverent and insistent. Her hands traced your waist, pulling you closer as her warmth enveloped you.
Breaking the kiss, she looked into your eyes, her smile soft yet mischievous. “Tonight, you’re not just mine to admire,” she said, her voice sultry as she led you toward the chaise. “You’re mine to worship.” And worship you, she did, with all the precision and devotion you’d come to expect from her.
Caitlyn Kiramman
Caitlyn had always been composed, but the moment you entered her bedroom, the shift in her demeanor was undeniable. She stood by the bed, her eyes never leaving you as she slowly approached.
"You're looking stunning, as always," she said softly, but there was something more to her words— something loaded with desire.
Before you could respond, she moved quickly, her hand finding the back of your neck, pulling you into a passionate kiss. Her lips were gentle at first, almost hesitant, but that hesitation faded quickly as she pinned you to the bed, her body pressing you down.
Her hands roamed, tracing the curve of your body as her lips trailed down your jaw, your neck, each kiss leaving you breathless. "You're mine now," Caitlyn murmured, her voice filled with possessiveness and longing, as she kissed you with renewed fervor.
Caitlyn's weight pressed you gently into the soft mattress as her lips moved hungrily against yours, her usually refined and composed demeanor unraveling in the privacy of her dimly lit bedroom. The moonlight filtered through the curtains, casting a silver glow over her tousled hair and sharp features as she kissed you with an intensity that sent heat rushing through your veins.
Her hands roamed your sides, her touch firm but reverent, like she was mapping every inch of your body for the first time. As her lips left yours, you barely had a moment to catch your breath before they found their way to your jaw, then lower, to the delicate skin of your neck.
"You're incredible," Caitlyn murmured against your skin, her voice husky and filled with awe. Her hands slid under the hem of your shirt, her fingers grazing your bare skin as she drew closer, her hips flush against yours. "How did I get so lucky?"
Your breath hitched as she grabbed your wrists harder above your head with one hand. She tilted her head up, her sapphire eyes locking onto yours, a mischievous smirk tugging at her lips. "Do you want me to continue?" she asked, her tone soft but teasing as her free hand traced lazy patterns down your torso.
You nodded, unable to form words under the weight of her gaze, and she leaned down, her lips brushing the shell of your ear. "Good," she whispered before trailing kisses down your neck, her hand releasing your wrists to cup your cheek.
Her kisses became slower, more deliberate as she moved lower, her touch grounding and unhurried, savoring every reaction she pulled from you. You arched into her, your fingers tangling in her hair as she found the sensitive spot just below your collarbone.
"You're breathtaking," Caitlyn said softly, her voice raw with emotion as she pulled back for a moment to admire you. She leaned in again, her lips brushing against yours in a tender kiss before she smiled, her thumb stroking your cheek. "And you're mine."
It wasn't just the passion in her touches or the hunger in her kisses that left you breathless, it was the way Caitlyn held you as if you were the most precious thing in the world. The quiet devotion in her every move.
Ekko
Ekko was nervously tapping his fingers against his leg as he watched you enter, his eyes wide. He'd always admired you from afar, but seeing you now in that revealing outfit-it was too much for him to handle.
"U-uh... can we... can we do a private show? Just for me?" he stammered, his cheeks flushed. His fingers fidgeted as he tried to gather the courage to ask, his voice full of a mix of excitement and nerves. You could tell he was flustered, and a smile crept onto your face. You approached him slowly, giving him a teasing wink.
"Of course," you said softly. "Just for you, Ekko." His eyes lit up, and the look of wonder on his face made your heart flutter. You moved into the center of the room, giving him a slow, sensual dance, letting the rhythm flow through you.
Every movement you made seemed to take his breath away, and when you finished, he was speechless, his eyes wide and full of admiration. "That... was amazing," he whispered. "I-I can't believe you did that for me."
Ekko leaned against the wall of the hideout, his face still flushed from your impromptu “fashion show.” His wide eyes darted between you and the floor, his words stumbling over themselves.
“I-I didn’t think you’d actually—”
“You asked for a private fashion show,” you teased, stepping closer, the soft fabric of your robe brushing against your legs. “I just delivered.”
Ekko swallowed hard, his hand nervously rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, but I didn’t think you’d actually…” His voice trailed off as he gestured vaguely toward you, his fingers twitching.
“You didn’t think I’d wear something like this for you?” You tilted your head, a playful smirk tugging at your lips. “You really underestimate me, Ekko.”
His gaze flickered to yours, the usual sharp confidence in his eyes softened by his clear awe. “No, it’s not that,” he muttered, his voice dropping. “I just didn’t think I deserved to see you like this.”
That caught you off guard. You stepped closer, reaching out to cup his cheek, your thumb brushing against his warm skin. “Ekko,” you said softly, “you’ve done so much for me. For everyone here. You deserve a lot more than just this.”
His hand came up to cover yours, his touch steady despite his flustered demeanor. “You don’t have to do anything special for me, you know?” he murmured, his eyes searching yours. “Just… you being you is enough.”
You smiled, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his lips. His breath hitched, but he quickly melted into the kiss, his hands hesitantly finding your waist. The tension in the air shifted, the nervous energy giving way to something warmer, more intimate.
As your fingers threaded through his hair, Ekko pulled you closer, his grip firm but gentle. The kiss deepened, and you felt his heart pounding against yours, fast and steady like the rhythm of a drum.
When you finally pulled back, his cheeks were flushed, and his lips were slightly swollen. “You’re really trying to kill me here,” he joked breathlessly, his hands still resting on your waist.
“Not at all,” you teased, trailing a finger along his jawline. “But I do like seeing you flustered. It’s cute.”
He groaned, burying his face in your shoulder to hide his embarrassment. “You’re such a tease.”
“And you love it,” you quipped, wrapping your arms around his neck. Ekko chuckled, the sound muffled against your skin. “Yeah,” he admitted softly, his arms tightening around you. “I really do.”
The moment lingered, the hum of the hideout fading into the background as the two of you held each other. For all the chaos and danger in your lives, this was a rare moment of peace. And neither of you wanted to let it go.
Viktor
Viktor's lab was cluttered with papers and equipment, but as soon as you stepped in, the clutter seemed to disappear. All he could focus on was you. You stood before him, your usual elegance replaced by an undeniable confidence, as you slowly peeled back the layers of your clothing. Viktor's breath caught in his throat as you revealed what lay beneath. The way your eyes met his, made his pulse race.
You leaned casually against the counter, but the smirk playing on your lips betrayed how much you enjoyed his reaction.
"Well?" you teased, your voice soft yet challenging. "Are you just going to stand there, or are you going to say something?"
Viktor blinked, his lips parting as if to form words, but they didn't come. His gaze flickered downward to the lingerie you wore, all delicate lace and sheer fabric, a stark contrast to the sterile and utilitarian environment of his workspace. "You're... truly something," he finally managed, his accent curling around the words.
You tilted your head playfully. “Something good, I hope?"
He took a cautious step closer, his cane clicking softly against the floor. "You know exactly what I mean," he murmured, his voice lower now, tinged with awe. His hand reached out, hesitating for just a moment before his fingers brushed the fabric at your hips. "You've outdone yourself."
Your heart skipped at the reverence in his tone. "I thought l'd surprise you," you said softly, leaning into his touch.
"You've done more than surprise me," Viktor admitted, his golden-brown eyes locking onto yours. "You've... completely distracted me."
You chuckled, looping your arms around his neck to pull him closer. "Is that such a bad thing?"
Before he could answer, you leaned in and pressed your lips to his. Viktor stiffened at first, clearly caught off guard, but then his hands found their way to your hips, hesitant yet firm. He kissed you back, slow and deliberate, as though trying to savor every moment. When you deepened the kiss, sliding your fingers into his hair, Viktor groaned softly against your lips. His grip tightened, his fingers brushing against the bare skin beneath the lace. The cool touch of his metal prosthetic sent a shiver down your spine, and he immediately stilled. "Did I hurt you?" he asked quickly, his brows furrowing in concern.
You shook your head, smiling up at him. “No. You could never hurt me."
Relief washed over his face, and his grip on you grew more confident. He leaned in again, this time guiding you backward until the edge of the counter pressed into your lower back. The hard surface contrasted sharply with the warmth of his body as he kissed you again, more fervently now.
His hand roamed upward, tracing the delicate straps on your shoulder before cupping your jaw, tilting your face so he could explore the curve of your neck.
You gasped as his lips found the sensitive spot just below your ear, his breath hot against your skin.
"Do you have any idea what you're doing to me?" he murmured, his voice rough with emotion.
"I have a pretty good idea," you teased, your hands slipping under his shirt to trace the lines of his torso.
He groaned again, his lips finding yours once more. The lab faded away, the hum of the equipment replaced by the sound of your shared breaths and the soft clink of his cane as he shifted to pull you impossibly closer.
For once, Viktor allowed himself to forget his work, his experiments, and the ever-looming weight of his ambition. In this moment, all that mattered was you-and the way you made him feel alive.
Ambessa Merdarda
Ambessa reclined back in her chair, her gaze heavy and consuming as you finished your slow, deliberate movements across the room. The rich velvet curtains framing her private quarters swayed slightly with the night's breeze, though the air felt anything but cold under her watchful eyes. You stood before her in the intricate lingerie she had requested, the delicate pink fabric accentuating every curve of your body in the flickering firelight.
Her lips parted slightly, and for a moment, the powerful general seemed at a loss for words, a rare vulnerability slipping through her commanding exterior. At nearly twice your height and with shoulders that could carry entire armies, Ambessa always made you feel small in the best way. A stark contrast that clearly did something to her now as her gaze grew darker.
"You've outdone yourself," she finally said, her voice a low rumble that sent a shiver down your spine. "I knew you'd be breathtaking, but this..." Her words trailed off as her golden eyes roamed over you. Feeling emboldened, you tilted your head with a playful smile. "Is it everything you imagined, General?" you teased, your voice soft yet sultry.
Ambessa smirked, the slight twitch of her lips only emphasizing her predatory demeanor. "More," she admitted, rising from her chair with a deliberate slowness that made her seem even larger. She approached with the precision of a lion stalking prey, her heavy boots clicking against the polished wood floor. When she stood before you, the top of your head barely reached her chest.
Her broad shoulders eclipsed the firelight behind her, casting you in her shadow as she placed her massive hands on your hips. She pulled you forward effortlessly, as if you weighed nothing to her, the size of her hands spanning nearly your entire waist.
"You've got my attention," she murmured, her voice rumbling against your smaller frame as her fingers traced the delicate diamond straps of your lingerie. Looping it around her fingers, letting it fall off your shoulder.
"Now, what will you do with it?" Your breath hitched as her lips brushed the shell of your ear, her warm breath fanning your skin and sending a shiver down your spine. Her hands roamed your body, the stark contrast of her rough, calloused touch against the soft silk of your lingerie making you tremble.
"Ambessa," you whispered, your voice trembling as her kisses moved lower, trailing along your neck and collarbone with an intensity that left you breathless.
She chuckled softly, her hands tightening their grip on your waist, her fingers brushing against your lower back as she pulled you impossibly closer. The difference in your size only seemed to spur her on, her gaze filled with an almost possessive hunger as she loomed over you. "Careful," she teased, her tone a mix of amusement and warning. "I might start thinking you enjoy being at my mercy."
Then ambessa made her way back to her chair, sitting down while manspreading, with her arms laying of the arm rest. Looking at you with a feverish expression. "Come here," she commanded softly, her voice velvet. "Since you're looking even more irresistible than usual."
You hesitated for just a moment, the air thick with unspoken desires, before walking towards her.
"Dance for me, darling," Ambessa purred, eyes darkened with intent. "Let me see you move."
With a small smirk, you began to dance, slow and seductive, your body swaying to an invisible rhythm. Her gaze followed every movement, and you could feel her heat from across the room.
As you moved closer to her, her hands caught your waist, pulling you in for a slow, deliberate kiss. "You going to kill me with the way you move," she murmured against your lips, and you couldn't help but smile at her words, feeling the tension between you both become even more palpable. “How about you use those skills for a different purpose.”
arcane characters as sugar mommies/daddies ˚₊‧꒰ა $ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
been thinking about mel as a sugar mommy and decided to spread the joy to other characters >:)
haven’t proofread but i was obsessed with the idea and needed to get my thoughts out, hope you enjoy ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡
part 2.5
cw: don’t think gender is specified but i had a fem reader in mind so that might show, smut, degrading language used in a consensual manner, minors dni, 18+ only
Vi
the alluring one
you’re trying to buy a round of drinks when your card declines and just as you’re about to die from embarrassment, her warm hand settles on your shoulder as her scarred lip smirks down at you
she pays for multiple rounds of drinks and before you know it, you’re making out in the alleyway
the rest is history
you never thought you’d be in an arrangement like this but she had her ways of convincing you otherwise
has a bunch of different girls on her roster that she maybeeee doesn’t tell you about
don’t worry, you’re the only sugar baby she pays this much for
when you find out you can’t even be that mad about it - she’s so hot you’d let her get away with anything
you’re smart enough to be pouty around her and take advantage of the situation - get ready for the greatest apology of your life
she invites you to her place just for you to find thousands of roses in the foyer and a gift box with your name on the table
she has you follow a trail of clues until you end up in her bedroom, still juggling an armful of gifts, where vi is waiting for you with a hopeful look
she rushes over to take the boxes from you and smothers your face in feather light kisses before apologising for making you feel shitty
her apology doesn’t stop there though and carries on well into the night
you complain about your bus being late? she’s already sent an uber black to your location
you don’t know which gaming console you want? she’s got it covered - multiple packages with every console you mentioned are arriving by the next day
you’re at a party but you’re feeling needy? she’s already dragging you to a storage cupboard, crowd be damned, and eating you out with such fervour you think you might see heaven
pays for your gym membership at a place like equinox and makes sure you two take full advantage of the sauna - it might be warm in there, but you come out sweaty for a whole other reason
has a garage full of vintage motorbikes that cost a fortune and only she can touch
pays you your days salary (and then some) so you can take time off work just so you can visit her at her home gym
she uses you to show off her impressive strength by lifting you as if you weigh nothing in her arms
getting used as her personal gym equipment is a major turn on
lives to impress you with her physique, she gets so pleased with herself when she notices your eyes darken as they wander over her toned body
she definitely has mirror ceilings and she definitely makes you stare at yourself as she fucks you stupid underneath them
Jinx
the mischevious one
she’s the rich artsy kind and you’re her muse
this means she needs you around 24/7 in case creativity strikes her - naturally, this leads to her paying for your company
has you come over to the studio all the time
one time, she set down a canvas on the floor, told you to strip, covered you two in paint and fucked you right there and then
the rolling around, teeth bared, guttural moan, primal kind of fucking; she relished in the bruises that bloomed on your neck and chest as she sucked on your most sensitive spots
the resulting painting was quite impressive to look at, even if thinking about its creation made you more flustered than you’ve ever been
her hands aren’t only good for creating art pieces it seems
she’s one of the sugar mommy’s that pays you the most since she views your company as priceless when it comes to her work
you get anything you ask for, seriously
you’re decked head to toe and all of it is something jinx either gifted you or gave you the money to buy
if it’s something not available to buy, she buys luxurious materials that cost more than your salary just to craft it for you
takes you to the kind of stiff, fancy places she hates just to have you wear vibrating underwear which she has the controls for
sometimes it’s even the opening night of her art gallery
she makes it a challenge: how long can you go without drawing attention to yourself due to your moans - the longer, the more money you get
it’s downright obscene, the way she knowingly glances at you with subdued glee , your slight whimpers echoing as you try your best to muffle the sounds, tears welling up in your eyes
she goes back to chatting up art collectors and investors as she secretly turns up the power of the vibrations hitting you right to the core
she calls you her “sweet thing” when you get back to her penthouse and she makes it up to you by giving you her bank card
she likes to make you laugh during sex too, she doesn’t like if you try to make it too “dour”
Caitlyn
the inexperienced one
cait’s been single for a while and it’s obvious it’s taking its toll
her friends encourage her to go out and meet someone new but she’s too focused on work to waste time on someone she probably won’t like
one day she stumbles upon a sugar baby site and says fuck it
the first date is pretty awkward but after a couple drinks, you manage to loosen her up so she’s more free with you
she has no clue what her role in this kind of arrangement is so she goes all out from the get-go; she loves spending money on you to the point it’s a bit insane even if she tells you not to worry
has to ask her friends for advice on the group chat constantly (she has a history of fumbling attractive people and she’s not letting it happen again)
adds you to her country club membership so you two can play tennis on the weekends
this place is fancyyyyyy but she makes sure you feel comfortable
gets you a instructor if you don’t know how to play
this obviously means she buys you about ten different outfits with tennis bracelets to match each
buys you a penthouse in the best part of town, close to where she lives of course so she has easy access to you
you two christen every single room in your new place, no stone left unturned
scissoring in the large bedroom, head on the lavish kitchen countertops, taking turns fucking with the strap on the balcony with a breathtaking view, fingering in the living room - everything and anything you can think of
her job isn’t done until the two of you are exhausted and wailing loud enough that the neighbours 20 floors down are complaining
she is insatiable when it comes to you, it’s like you lit a fire within her that she can’t put out no matter how hard she tries
completely adores how cute you act when you try to deny her pricey gifts
even more so when she gifts you a first edition book and your demeanour turns more panicked by the second
really though, she’s freaking out more than you are although she doesn’t show it often
her biggest fear is gifting you something you hate which leads to you ending everything
you’ve never had a sugar mommy treat you like this
she gives her assistant special instructions to let you into her office at any time, a privilege only you’re blessed with
you manage to distract her and before she knows it, she’s forced to make herself look presentable in only five minutes despite having a smudge-proof lipstick mark on her cheek she can’t get off for the life of her
doesn’t want to admit that she wants more than a purely transactional relationship with you
Silco
the generous one
gives you an exorbitant amount of money every time you see him
like, a CRAZY amount
it barely registers for him though, he has more money than should be possible
he goes as far as to give you his black card even if you didn’t ask for it
goads you to max it out and somehow, despite spending so much, you’ve barely dented the thing which makes him laugh
he expects you to spend most of the money he gives you on luxuries you wouldn’t normal buy and asks you to do a haul and model it all for him in his office
behind the scenes, he’s busy paying off your any debts you might have, setting up a trust fund for you, looking for houses you would like
wants you to be set up for life
showers you in decadent lingerie that fits you perfectly from boutiques like la perla, agent provocateur and honey birdette - only the best for his girl
has to replace your lingerie quite often though, he goes feral when he sees you all dolled up just for him
even more so if you were good and listened to his demands, buying the exact lingerie he wanted to see you in
has you sign a detailed contract before the arrangement begins since he wants to make sure you’re comfortable with everything
also wants to make sure you follow his rules
wants you to only refer to him using “sir” when it’s just the two of you
i see him as the kind of sugar daddy that does expect some sugar in return
he’s very abrasive in bed, and calls you all types of degrading names which only serves to turn you both on further
has some…curious interests that he pays you more for indulging in - he is a gentleman after all
“my money hungry slut” and “little whore” are his favourites
takes you on shopping sprees for aftercare (and maybe he does cuddle too but you can’t let anyone else know that) - he doesn’t want you to think he views you a less than just because of the life path you’ve chosen
his idea of pillow talk is giving you tips on the stock market and trading
Sevika
the brusque one
she has commitment issues, is afraid of vulnerability and has a high sex drive
this has led her romantic relationships to fail in one way or another, which is where you come in
she sees it as a simple business transaction - nothing more, nothing less
she likes having you around but don’t get confused: she doesn’t want a real relationship with you
doesn’t sugar coat her words around you and while it might make anyone else run for the hills, you appreciate her honesty
having someone as gorgeous as you coo and hang onto her every word does inflate her ego
everyone wants you, eyes appraising you up and down, but they can’t have you - only she can
so punctual with her payments that it genuinely feels like any other regular job
she looks down on those so called sugar mommies that skimp out of paying a fair rate - you don’t need to worry with her, you’ll be getting more than you ever really needed
despite presenting a stoic image, she can’t help but give in to your every whim
all you have to do is glance at a display window with even a hint of longing and she’s immediately rolling her eyes, dragging you into the shop to buy it for you
if you get tired walking around and ask her to carry you she will huff and puff but that doesn’t stop her from scooping you up anyway
she has a strap on AND it’s the kind that ejaculates too
you two go to luxury toy makers and get straps custom made to tailor to both of your wants and desires
she perhaps gets attachments for her mechanical arm too…
she doesn’t skimp out on the good stuff when it comes to you
her hot grunts ring in your ears as she grinds into you, her body seemingly encompassing your entire body and mind
creampies you every time and fucks the cum back inside of your dripping hole just to watch it leak back out and repeat the cycle again until you’re begging out for her
you’re in a daze for a good ten minutes after and she can’t help but snort at the faces you make
maybe this isn’t just a simple transaction to her
Vander
the hesitant one
vander feels icky about the relationship he has with you at the start
he’s much older than you and you’re still in university, it makes him feel like such a bad person who’s preying on your vulnerability
you make sure to always remind him that he’s single-handedly paying for your tuition
you love what he does for you!
once he gets past that hurdle though, god have mercy on your soul, you will be ruined for other people
he basically acts as your mentor just with some extra benefits on the side
loves to hear you yap about any projects you’re working on and does his best to help with any issues at university
he’s the type to text you good morning and good night every single day without fail
even gives you a bigger allowance if you wake up early and reply to his good morning texts quickly
what? it’s an incentive to get you to attend your lectures
likes to be called daddy even if it does make him blush intensely
he gets off on the idea of being your protector and the only one to provide for you
cockwarms you when you’re working on assignments and it turns your brain to mush every time
spanks you when you stop paying attention
honestly it feels like he’s working against you whenever he does this
also gets jealous when you talk about dates you had with other people
he never made the relationship an official one, but that doesn’t stop him from fucking you hard, his hand prints left on your hips to mark his territory
definitely can’t walk the next day and he’s so smug
down BAD
Ambessa
the teasing one
ambessa has play things in every city; you name a place, odds are she’s got a hook up there
you’re no exception of course
in fact, you’re her favourite out of them all
whenever ambessa calls, you run to be at her service
L O A D E D
exposes you to experiences you never even knew existed, i’m talking about things only the upper 1% can do
she’s the kind of sugar mommy that likes to hear about your day over a glass of wine
the mundanity helps her calm down from her hectic life
she will hold the things she does for you over your head
it’s mean but she views it as her right considering all the luxuries she gives you access to
jokes she’s going to go to a perfumer and get the scent of your sex turned into a perfume
when you accept a surprise gift from her, it turns out it was not a joke - you should’ve known something was up the second her wicked smile made an appearance
actually doesn’t smell too bad
has you use it every single time you’re around her and only then
she’s a FREAK what can i say
whisks you off to couple spa days; you both deserve a little rest and relaxation every now and then
speaking of spa days, she often asks you to massage her which usually ends with your large hands pawing all over your body
she likes receiving more than giving but she still prioritises giving you plenty of orgasms through the night
what kind of sugar mommy would she be without ensuring you’re also satisfied with your arrangement?
you’re worn out from what she considers foreplay
still, you need to make sure you’re being as thoughtful as she is otherwise you’re getting kicked down the rungs of her sugar baby ladder
Mel
the cunning one
mel is the best sugar mommy around i know it
doesn’t do it often - she tries to limit herself to one sugar baby every once in a while
she sees them as worthwhile investments
if you want to be her sugar baby, you need to bring something useful to the table
she meets you at a science exhibition and is thoroughly impressed with your work
you need funding to complete your research and she needs relief from her stressful life as a counsellor
a win-win situation if you ask her
you don’t see her often, she’s too busy solving problems with the council, but when you do, she makes sure it’s worth your time
expensive dinner dates, surprise weekend get-aways, opera concerts - anything you ask for, it’s yours
not only is she funding all of your research, she takes you to galas where you can mingle with the elites you need to win over to achieve more exposure for your research
she usually sends boxes full of clothes and shoes to your house for you to wear to these outings, and picks you up fancy black car with a chauffeur and bottles of wine in coolers
she has her hand on your leg the entire journey there, a faint smirk on her lips when she notices how hot and bothered you are
in a relationship like this, she likes to be the dominant one in bed
she doesn’t expect anything sexual in return but if you’re willing she’s more than happy to fulfill those needs too
leans towards being sensual and romantic but that doesn’t mean she won’t make sure to fuck you thoroughly
heavy on foreplay to the point you think you’re going to pass out from the pent up energy in you
has lots of toys she likes to use on you, she’s very experimental and wants to test which one you respond to the most
also likes you to use the toys on her too and when she sees you suck her wetness off the toy you just used on her, she melts into a puddle
yeah, you’re getting an instant increase on your allowance and you’re getting a new custom wardrobe
Jayce
the proud one
jayce comes from a relatively well-off family, but his inventions launched him into stardom and left him with more money than he knew what to do with
he decides the best thing he can do is spread the love
he finds you on a site for this kind of stuff, something he would rather die than admit, and knew he had to get you on a date with him
makes you custom jewellery set with the most unique stones you’ve ever seen and loves when you wear them out on dates with him
you probably have the entire gdp of a small country just on your wrist alone
wants a play-by-play of all the things you bought that week, he’s lowkey into hearing how much of his money you spent on treating yourself
he wants you to buy even more things with his money than you already do which flusters you but you give in every time
he’s another one that wants a fashion show where you try on everything you bought
he just likes to sit and clap with a smile as you twirl for him
loves to show you off at all the balls and galas he’s invited to
takes you on late night drives in his alpine a110 r-turini and he always has one arm, big with straining muscles, around your headrest which never fails to make your heart flutter
oh i can see him being into role play
maybe he’s your boss and you’re the maid he just caught stealing from him lmao
he loves to get sloppy head from you and offers you all sorts of gifts in return
talking, or helplessly groaning in this situation, about all the ways you can drain his money is his form of dirty talk, “yeah, just like that babe. you want me to buy that new phone don’t you? well, take me like the good girl i know you are and work for it.”
he’s so whipped for you it borders on quite cute imo
Viktor
the cocky one
viktor came into new money after selling the patent for one of his inventions
he is well aware that he’s an attractive guy and could have pretty much anyone he wants, but his long work hours aren’t conducive to healthy relationships
so he takes it upon himself to get a sugar baby, no strings attached
has you stay with him in his lab to keep him company - he loves listening to your idle chatter about things he has no interest in
but when it’s you talking about them he’s captivated by every word
likes to call you his “cute lab assistant” and tries to hide how much he likes it when you call him your “handsome scientist”
he fails obviously
he explains extremely complicated topics in a very contrived way, even when he knows he can simplify it for the average person, because seeing the dumbfounded look on your face gets him going
closes down a whole shopping mall just so you can frolic about and shop to your hearts content; oh, don’t worry about all those bags, he has a guy to carry them all so you two can focus on having a nice date ^^
gonna be real, he’s the kind of guy to fuck you against the wall of the changing room, not caring that the bashful shop assistants can hear every single clap of skin slapping against each other and the strangled moans you both let out
buys all the clothes you tried on, you’re too fucked out to notice the looks you get from the workers, and the fact that the clothes might be a bit…dirty 😭
at least he tips them enough to make up for it
sprays his designer cologne on your gifts so you remember who you belong to
playfully suggests you give him a lap dance so he gets his money worth but you both know it was anything but a joke
good thing you love putting on a show for him!
this guy is such a troll, he literally throws money on you and slips bills in between the straps of your underwear as you sensually dance for him in the lingerie he paid for
has to control himself from pouncing on you then and there
he really enjoys the way you can both tease each other and not take things too seriously
giving a sleepy, overworked viktor head late in the lab..? and because hes so tired he's just dumb and needy....???? (ig somno if you squint)
18+ ᴍᴅɴɪ
“what do i have to do to pull you away from that?” you sighed, practically hanging off the back of your lover’s chair. you took a quick glance at the clock in the corner of the room, soon to approach midnight. viktor answered you with a simple, deflective hum and you rolled your eyes. if he didn’t complain about the exhaustion making his chronic pain flare up, you would have pulled him away from that desk with your bare hands and throw him on the nearest plush surface. you sighed again, a little louder this time, a little pointed.
“am i boring you, love?” he rasped, exhaustion heavily coating his voice and thickening his accent.
“you really can’t take your eyes off that thing for just a second?” you leant down over his shoulder, exasperatedly nodding toward his project. “not. one. second.” he answered, not even raising his eyes to meet yours, focused entirely on scribbling down what looked to be an equation.
oh. you took that as a challenge.
wordlessly, you gently nudged the wheels of his chair away from its place flush against his desk. he barely noticed, only giving you a slight furrow of his thick brows. you rounded the chair in front of him and slowly sank to your knees. “not one second?” you tilted your head coquettishly. at your words, he allowed himself to spare a glance at you, kneeling before him, under his desk. his breath hitched in his throat, trapping his response in his chest. a glance was all he could afford if he wanted to focus. even in the dim lamplight, you could see the faintest brush of pink across his cheeks. smirking triumphantly, you carefully reach up for the zipper of his pants. he loudly clears his throat when he feels your fingers so close.
“darling.” he called as a warning, stopping short in his work but still refusing to tear his eyes off of it.
“you want me to stop?” you asked earnestly, though you were sure you already knew the answer. he fixed you with a look. a permissive look, but a firm look, like an ‘i can’t resist this but i also won’t endorse it’ kind of look. you bit down on your grinning lip and pulled his pants down entirely. you could feel him tensing his muscles under your hands, willing himself to keep his focus on his work. you slowly pulled his cock from his constraints, giving it a single kiss on the head.
a soft groan rumbled in his throat, one hand dropping his pen and moving to cover his mouth. he could not look at you. he could not look at you. if he looked at you, he’d be done for the night, his brain would be absolutely fried and, oh, goddammit. your cheeks are hollowed, pretty plump lips wrapped around him, mischievous eyes glinting up at him. “fuck.” he groans again, closing his eyes and letting them open in your direction, finally. you braced your hands on his thighs, making sure to dig your nails into the pillowy flesh of his good leg. you finally got those pretty whines to come out. “evil…” his chest rises and falls heavily with each labored breath, becoming more and more ragged the more you fill your mouth with him. “evil woman.”
you giggle as much as you can with him on your tongue and it vibrates oh so good around him, causing him to toss his head back and whimper, “please…” one hand blindly reaches for your hair, gently tangling his long fingers in your locks, guiding you. oh, you’ve got him now. “oh, god, please don’t stop…” you will yourself to take him as deep as you can, and he hisses as he feels his cock hit the back of your throat. he opens his eyes to check on you, pulling you off for a moment. he takes the brief respite to tilt your chin up and give you a few quick kisses, babbling things like sweet girl and i love you so much and i’m sorry for neglecting my poor little darling and i could never say no to that pretty face in between. you can’t help but giggle at his sleepy verbage, more mushy than usual.
“that’s cute.” you take his hand off your chin, threading your own fingers through his. looking at his achingly hard cock. “i wasn’t done, though.”
he gives you one of his cocky, lopsided smiles and pats his lap. “no, no you weren’t.”
viktor taking lab assistant!reader as his plus one to a fancy academy gathering so he can have some comfort and solace amidst the clinking glasses and overlapping conversations. his face immediately flushes when you meet him there, wearing your nicest dress and hair done up in a way he wasn’t sure was possible. you aren’t faring so well either, with the top two buttons of his white shirt open, leaving a taunting glimpse of his collarbone (another place one of his moles reside, you learn.) just the picture of him, leisurely leaning on his cane with one hand adorned with a silver ring in the shape of a gear, a wine glass in the other. amber eyes catch yours in the act. fuck, you’re staring. with your cheeks flushed, you quickly look away as the orchestra reaches the climax of the song. between the volume, the wine, and the tension between you, your head is starting to hurt. you turn away from him and rub your temple with one hand, the other blindly reaching behind for your pins. “let me.” you hear his honey-coated accent above the music and god, you want to melt in it. his skilled hands try to make quick work of undoing your hair in the dim lighting of the corner of the room but to no avail. “come with me.” he holds his hand out, leading you to a more crowded part of the room, but one where the chandelier reaches the glint in his eye. “and sit.” he all but commands as he moves behind you again, gently taking the intricate braids and patterns out of your hair, and all you can think of is his fingers tangled in it. if you had this room to yourself, would he use it as leverage to lift your lips to his? your breath hitches very obviously in your throat, and you cover it with a cough. would he grip it greedily to touch and take as much of you as he can? you squirmed in your seat, readjusting your position. or would he tsk and tug on it gently, and tell you how bad of a girl you are for even thinking about this in front of him, in public, no less? you inhale shakily, fidgeting with your hands. he finishes his work, eyeing your flushed face and heaving chest. and then the bastard chuckles. “what?” you bite out of pent-up frustration. he shakes his head with an easy smile. “nothing. you are just adorable when you are trying to restrain yourself.”
academic rivals request! viktor x fem!reader, nsfw
request: @4-leafed pls... if u have time pls write a viktor x reader that r both geniuses at the academy but very much toe the line of rivalry and sexual tension...i love competitive smart people that fall in love when the rivalry becomes respect ... and they FREAK IT!!! possibly in a lab ! up to you : 3c
i liked this request so much that i ended up writing a decent-ish one-shot….
update: i wrote a part 2 because it was highly requested! you can read it here :)
rating: explicit
word count: 3,5k
warnings: academic rivals. LOTS of dialogue and bickering. dubious science because i skipped it in school, had to do some basic chemistry revision to write this pornographic catastrophe, so please pat me on the back. rough sex? rough… foreplay, that’s for sure. dirty talk, if you can call bickering that. penetration. reader tries to slap viktor, spits in his mouth and he cums in his pants. normally, i only write vanilla stuff, so i have no idea how it turned out THIS kinky (at least for me okay). not proofread (yet). nsfw under the cut:
—
“How do you take your coffee?”
His voice betrays the feeble intention of civility, fusing that polite inquiry into a hiss—a phonetic torture you didn’t even know could occur before. So much for killing you with kindness. Outstaging quips by desecrating courtesies.
“I don’t care,” you mutter on autopilot. Can’t let him in on any personal preferences, no matter how insignificant. “Just don’t put arsenic in it.”
Viktor scoffs. Puts the kettle away and peers at you over his shoulder, all wretchedly complacent.
“So the rest of the periodic table is welcome, I presume?”
Viktor. The local Nikola Tesla knock-off. Never a moment of peace with him; and the fierce taste of competition grows coppery in your mouth whenever he’s in your sight—the most handsome trigger of your cheek-biting reflex.
His name is an insult on your lips and you want to taste it. Chew it, crush it with your teeth and spit right out, preferably aiming for those poignant eyes seeking you in every classroom—so eager to light up with objection the second your opinion differs from his.
Always the first prick to disparage your input. A never-resting generator of all the meticulous ways to denounce your projects.
“If I may.”
Sickeningly polite, too. With that lithe finger pointing in the air— so irritatingly comical. He may not, but there isn’t a chance he’ll shut up, now, is there?
And so he’d clear his throat, straightening his tie in that ridiculously solemn fashion. As if stepping on a pedestal to deliver a life-changing speech—not some shallow nitpicking regarding your circuit breakers. All eyes on him while his kept staring only into your soul. Special treatment, if you will.
You will not.
“Using magnetic frames is careless,” he’d state. With his hand imposingly pointing to the blueprint on your slide. “Copper coils may oxidize. Not to mention the overheating. I would use thermoplastics. They’re significantly more efficient. And heat-resistant.”
Oh please. Like someone here gives a shit about what you’d use.
But you can’t say that. Not in a room full of professors. And, judging from the countless nods of approval, the shits were, in fact, being given.
“Too risky,” you oppose. “Thermoplastics often degrade at high temperatures. Electric insulation is not worth the damage of releasing hydrocarbons. I assumed that you’d be aware of that, Viktor. But I suppose that was an omission on my part.”
More nods of approval, now in your favour. Here it goes again—the ever-lasting spectacle of hatred. Elegant, when entertaining the audience. Anything but discreet, in private. A perpetually drawn game of chess. By repetition, not agreement. Both of you refuse to retreat until checkmate.
Oh yes, the sentiment was mutual. You and Viktor were notorious for tearing at each other's throats. The things you’d sacrifice to make that more than a mere metaphor, though. To pull him by that neat tie to sweet asphyxiation and hear him rasp for mercy with eyes full of pathetic condemnation. And he dreamed of that, too. His cane was itching to give you a smack—to paint your behind a plum so deep you’ll have troubles sitting without wincing. When it came to making metaphors literal, he’d pick being the pain in your ass.
However, your mentors couldn’t care less about the rivalry. The Collegiate Inventors Competition was coming up. And who could possibly make better candidates than two greatest minds of the engineering department, with academic excellence so accurately neck and neck that both of your names now occupy the honorary first place in every ranking table?
That’s how you ended up with your sentence—three weeks of after-hours cooperation in the lab with the incorrigible bastard himself, a quarter of which you’ve already wasted on pointless bickering. Well, not without achieving some common grounds. The choice of prototype landed on one of your personal ambitions—a wearable exoskeleton for post-surgery rehabilitation, with plenty of robotics involved. Endorsed by Viktor, for once. The greater good must have swallowed even his dispute. Off to a nice start, if someone were to ask you.
However, the first issues struck early: on the very stage of development. Viktor volunteered for modelling: meaning, the framework would be custom, to accommodate his spine specifically. An object lesson for everyone involved, it would seem—but only in an ideal world. Which, considering what you had at hand (acrimony, bitterness, an entire picky bit of gall), was filtered out by default.
Now, five gruesome days and who’s-even-counting-anymore restarts later, you’re nowhere near close to at least a draft, yet borderline keen on murdering each other. And you’re certain the latter is approaching. He did just contemplate putting arsenic in your cup, after all.
Viktor stirs the coffee. Watches his reflection smudge in the dark, whirly water, shooting you an askance glance from beneath thick brows when you start stirring yours—the spoon clanking a tad too loud, as if you were doing it on purpose. Which, you undoubtedly were.
“Stop that,” he groans, almost leaping out of his chair. His heavy, disturbed gaze meets your cheeky simper. “You don’t have to stir it so thoroughly. It’s not like you take it with sugar anyway.”
“Of course.” You shrug. “I don’t drink slop.”
“Oh, I figured. There’s nothing sweet about you, so why would your coffee be any different?”
“There’s plenty of sweetness about me. I simply don’t squander it on entitled pricks.”
That finally grounds him. And you’re giddy for the way his sturdy hand grips the cup so hard that it almost shatters into his palm, knuckles growing pale enough to match the porcelain. More so when you take a loud, languid sip, feigning innocence. Fully wallowing in his darling, defeated speechlessness.
“Excuse you,” he mutters. “Entitled?!”
“So you agree with the ‘prick’ part?”
“Yes, and I take great pride in it. You may mark me flustered.”
“Don’t forget to bust in your pants.”
Viktor sneers: chapped lip twitching, scowl growing defensive. Lanky legs untangle as he rises to his feet, towering above you in an angry lean on his cane—long frame transforming into your personal, scrawny menace, pissed exhale sharp and nasal above your head. And you admit to looking small beneath him—all hunched shoulders, weak smile finally tumbling lopsided.
“Don’t you dare call me entitled,” he demands—and means it. It’s palpable in the way he twists the handle of his cane, the squeaky sound violently scratching your brain. “I sweated blood to achieve my privileges in this establishment.”
You huff, rolling your eyes. “So did I, and yet you keep ordering me around as if I’m some braindead apprentice. We’re counterparts, Viktor. You’re supposed to be mindful of my perspective.”
“I never see you being mindful of mine,” he counters.
And, well. You can’t argue with that.
Your coffee break continued in avoidant silence, but the ambience simply reeked of hostility—stifling enough to make you leave the lab feet first. The deadline’s chokehold besieging your neck wasn’t of any help, either—you had to submit the draft for approval by Sunday. And, so far, you haven’t even agreed on the design plan.
You shoot Viktor a reluctant glance. Pensive, he sat slouched over his parchment, emitting pure peril. Like his shoulder blades might stab you if you attempt a single tap, belligerently peeking through the thin shirt. You tucked your lip under your teeth, chewing hard, tongue running over every small, neurotic wound inside your mouth. Fruitless negotiations held a special spot amongst your least favourite endeavours, but this conundrum called for a desperate measure.
“Viktor.” You winced at how chocked up it came out. He noticed that, too—because of course he did—turning in his chair to nod at you, ever so shit-eatingly. Lancing eyes scrutinised their way up to your face. What an affront.
“Yes?” Always chiding in that condescending tone of his. Hissy ‘s’ echoed in the lab, gnawing at your nerves.
“We have to submit something by the end of this week. Let’s at least decide on the blueprint.”
“Fine.” He shrugged, returning to his sketch. “We’re going with mine.”
“No!” You snapped. “We’re coming up with a new one. Together.”
Viktor hummed in mock consideration. The strand of hair he’s been twirling unraveled, claiming more attention than you deemed him worthy of. Sighing, he lazily reached for your graph, frowning as his eyes started skimming over the scribbles. You made your way to the desk, claiming a spot behind his shoulder. That required a tacit truce.
“You really want to wield… hydraulic actuators?” He winced, looking up at you. Had your breath hitching at that respectful attempt, the effort prominent in the very way he uttered those words—as if struggling to filter out swear ones.
“Yes,” you mustered. “For high power.”
“But they’re so heavy.”
“Well, what would you use?”
He chuckled—rich and malicious. Flipped the page and finally averted those curious eyes, arching a bushy brow.
“I thought no one gave a… crap about what I’d use.”
Oh, well. It felt nice while it lasted.
“How did you even—“
“You ought to be more discreet with your vitriol,” he retorted. “I’ll let you know that I’m a decent lip-reader.”
“Then don’t stare at my mouth next time. What would you use, Viktor?”
Now that left you both startled. His fingers stilled above the diagram, flexing in disbelief, hollow cheeks hued a puzzled rouge as you almost chomped your tongue off, showing an embarrassed curse back into the depth of your throat.
“Ahem. Electric motors,” he chanted, pretending to overlook the slip-up. And for once, you were grateful for his tact.
“I see. Well, er… put that down, please.”
He instantly complied, fetching a pen. Left you to reflect on your misery to the rhythmic sound of his scrawling, pressing a sweaty palm to his forehead.
“Right.” He sighed. “What about the power supply?”
“Rechargeable batteries?” You suggested weakly. “Lithium-ion.”
“Very well. Frame?”
“Something durable. Titanium?”
“Absolutely not,” he scoffed, pushing the notes away. “Why must you always insist on using the heaviest equipment?”
“I don’t know, corrosion resistance?” You muttered back, hovering over him. “Biocompatibility?”
“That’s perfectly manageable with carbon fiber!”
“So it shatters after the tiniest bump? Bravo, Viktor, how ingenious.”
He lurches forward—rigid breath quivering over yours. Close enough to crush that thick skull with your forehead—if only you ventured, that is. But, alas, you’re not as brave just yet. Some brief eye-stabbing is about all you’re good for.
“Fine,” he agrees, pulling away. “We’ll use aluminium alloys. Corrosion resistant and easy to machine. No one wins. Does that suffice?”
“Yes. Now will you finally let me take your measurements for the sketch?”
He doesn’t answer—at least not verbally. Merely stands up and nods to the measuring tape, face still heavily contorted with displeasure. But you don’t oblige just yet. How can you, when Viktor’s fingers suddenly reach for his collar, fumbling with the button? And—oh no—now they’re sliding lower, reiterating once, twice, thrice, until his chest (flushed, but that might just be wishful thinking) is fully peeking out, teasing the smooth scrap of ivory skin.
“What… are you doing?” You mumble, utterly startled.
“…Undressing?” He says matter-of-factly, looking up at you so askance as if you’d just asked him if the sky is blue. One more ministration and the shirt is neatly folded next to the parchment—waiting for you to be through with the measurements to be slid back on his bony shoulders.
“That, I can tell,” you mumble. “Why did you undress?”
Viktor’s gaze daggers into you again. “Don’t tell me you were actually intending to measure me clothed? Can you not comprehend precision?”
“Precision?”
“The prototype is expected to cling to me. I don’t see how that’s achievable with my shirt on— I assumed that was rather obvious.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
“Ah, sweet civility. I even started worrying that other entitled pricks must’ve depleted your decorum, but it seems like you saved some up for me after all. I’m flattered, really—“
You don’t even register when it happens.
Next thing you see is Viktor seizing your wrist—sternly yanking your slap off his face before it gets the chance to land there in a flared handprint. Nothing but pure rage and prickliness—right where his short nails are lancing your skin, engraving an ugly bracelet you’ll wear for hours.
Well, maybe there is something else. Something inexplicable, and tremendous—deep in the way your eyes keep drifting south—where his pants sling low on defined hips, and the pretty trail of dark hair runs from navel to waistband—no doubt circling exactly what you manage to make out in the convex slope of his crotch. And you want to slap him for that, too—sonorous, and frenetic. Going in again with full force, but his force always turns out to be fuller—and in an instance he firmly twists your arm, pinning it behind your back—pale face barely five inches away from your flushed one.
What happens next is beyond any explanations. Later, he’ll blame it on inertia—that stupid urge to maintain the speed, to stay in motion with your messy antics until some external force stops him—a simple need to claim you before the inevitable collision.
But there’s no inertia in escalation. In the way his free hand grabs you by the nape and clashes agape mouths together, teeth bumping hard enough to make you consider booking a dentist appointment later. Not a sign of inertia when you grab him, either—a little clumsy through the sharp pain in your twisted arm—bold fingers raking his scalp in a vengeful tug on his hair.
And it’s more than a kiss. If anything, it looks like you’re trying to eat him—tongue out and thrusting into his throat so fiercely that he gags on it, almost tearing up. Now you know what sheer desperation sounds like, and it’s grunting against your mouth, suddenly pitching to a pathetic moan when you grab a handful of chestnut hair and pull so hard that his eyes roll back, lean frame shaking under your violent approach. You use that startled momentum to try and pry your arm free, but he still keeps it in place.
“You’re hurting me!” You hiss, attacking his neck—the very one you always shamefully admitted to finding the sexiest any man can possess, and your teeth roughly pinch at his voice box, coaxing another whine.
“Good.” He groans with spite. “I hope I am.”
And yet, he releases your aching arm, trading it for a calculated squeeze of your waist. But the audacity overshadows his little mercy. You instantly use the unrestrained privileges to force a finger into his mouth—astounded at the way he instantly opens up, almost mockingly pliant. More so when you spit on his tongue, sparing no shame—as if trying to rile him up beyond recognition. Grinning, when your saliva dribbles down his chin.
“Ah.” He huffs, instantly licking up the remnants. “Thank you. Ever so disrespectful.”
“You haven’t earned my respect,” you lie, nudging him towards the chair. Not even bothering to wait until he lands, impatient hands already messing with his belt—so treacherously earnest as you shake, unfastening the buckle, and the bastard chuckles at that, looking down at your eager work.
“That’s a new low, then,” murmurs coyly, helping you into his lap, heavy head leisurely thrown back. “Sleeping with someone you don’t respect.”
“Fuck you.”
“Oh yes. You’re about to.”
You glare at him from under heavy lids, but the anger refuses to linger—not when he stares back full of indignant awe, so clearly basking in your attention. With his cock half-springing out of undone pants, shamelessly twitching against your palm. And not a single breath was hitched to conceal his excitement.
“Must you always be so insufferable?” You reproach, pushing his hair back—too domestic for your own liking, and yet it doesn’t feel unfitting. Especially when he leans into your hand, welcoming your touch on his sweaty forehead—like he wanted you to feel it fever up with want.
“No.” He shakes his head. “But if it can grant me this, I’ll triple the effort.”
“What happened to new lows? You don’t have a fraction of respect for me, either.”
“You’re right.” He shrugs. “Fractions could never encapsulate my tribute to you.”
And his hand slipped under your skirt, shakily crawling home—precisely where you’d never confess to needing him a mere minute ago. But the sentiment did a decent job at diluting your rancour. There came no protest when he introduced two long fingers into your underwear, openly gasping at the evident dampness. And you allowed him that with no regrets. Moreover, you helpfully sank yourself knuckle deep, wincing at the brief burn, arms wrapping around his neck as he sweetly looked up, seeking your permission. Which was instantly found in the pretty moan you spilled into his mouth, slick tongues back at their futile attempts to strangle each other.
However, your patience was running thin. As much as you wanted to indulge in proper foreplay, whatever masochistic dance he exposed you to had you in agony ever since it started—and it was getting unbearable to ignore the ache, no matter how bad Viktor craved to postpone the main course.
Your thighs clenched hard as you crouched above him, fingers wrapping around the hilt to awkwardly line the tip up with your cunt—the slick sound of it slowly sliding down suddenly igniting some tender bashfulness. Like you didn’t just spit in his mouth with a vile smirk. Like he never had to confine you from slapping him in the face.
That stretch felt different from the one after his fingers. Significantly richer, it made you whine—a pitiful sound reverberating against his skin as you held on tighter and allowed him to bottom out, savouring every little crevice inside you. Raw, yet neither of you seemed to care—that concern was pushed alongside your underwear, then forgotten altogether when your walls clenched him, offering tight bliss.
“Move,” you demanded, grabbing him by the chin. Viktor rasped something back, but you didn’t catch it—already too busy tongue-fucking his pretty neck, turning your teeth into sharp tools ready to stain it mauve with bites.
And he complied again. One hand trembled on your hip while the other crawled between your legs—first missing your clit in the chaotic pace of thrusts, then finding it again as it grazed his fingertips. So cheeky when he dared to pinch it, avenging every pull on his hair. Though, he couldn’t gloat in your wince. Not when it clearly was one of the pleasured kind.
But you didn’t feel like letting him regain composure. You already missed his husky groans—ached to test what else fucking you could make him mutter. Fogy gaze found his face again, softening at the sight—all wet forehead full of concentrated creases and thin lips bitten to bloodless paleness.
You took over. Let him lean back and rest as you roughly rode him into the chair—and for that he gave you a grateful moan, the insistent thumb toying with your clit never stopping even for an instant. Good with his hands, and he knew it—proudly grinned when you struggled to keep going, taut legs treacherously giving up astride him.
That didn’t please you in the slightest. You wanted him to be close, too: slid a hand up his chest and angrily tugged at one nipple—chortling when his mouth dropped in a stunned gasp. Bewildered, but he didn’t mind it—amber eyes squeezed shut when his head lolled, and you finally got his lovely moans back—raspier than before, ravenous enough to make your head spin.
You could already feel it, pulsing somewhere deep within. Blurry vision couldn’t make him out anymore, the lab smudging into a mess of weird shapes—you were about to cum, hard, and Viktor threatened to follow suit any second—his thumb failing to hold steady, and yet the pressure was still there, courtlesly helping you chase that sweet relief. Such a gentleman.
“Close,” you chanted. “So, so close.”
“I know,” he answered, choking on a groan. “Me too.”
And you melted, almost crushing him with your weight. Quivering in a spasm so intense that it had him struggling to keep moving, and yet he was mindful of the risk—used the last fractions of his brain capacity to gently nudge you off his cock and pump it fast and hectic. Cumming in one endlessly thick rope, with a moan so vocal that it reached you even through the layers of foggy, ear-buzzing aftermath. Had you shuddering when you clung off his shoulder, glassy eyes wide with trembling astonishment. You stared at him through the approaching wave of disbelief.
No signs of regret so far, or maybe it was simply still forming—for now, you silently admired not a snarky bastard, but a pretty, fucked out boy beneath you.
“Oh, would you look at that.” Viktor chuckled, sheepishly looking down. “I didn’t forget.”
“What?” You mumbled in confusion, following his gaze.
And when it finally caught your attention—sticky and relentlessly staining his pants—you slammed a hand over your mouth, muffling the hysterical laughter.
“And here I thought I finally fucked your remarkable memory out.”
“Oh, by no means. As, eh… intense as that was, that misery of mine is not going anywhere. However,” he trailed off, his hand skittishly moving towards yours, “sex clearly proved beneficial for our… dynamic.”
You smile, sliding your palm into his warm grasp.
“Can it ensure us enough civility to win the competition?”
INCLUDES— fingering, clit play, cunnilingus, making out, groping, blowjob/throat fucking (?), hand job, body worship, grinding, breast/nipple play.
WARNINGS— 21 links, all of these videos are for afab readers/viewers, don't like don't read/watch, make sure to be logged into twt/x beforehand, if some of the links stop working please lmk !
when making out and groping turns into fingering with viktor
riding viktor after he gets home from the lab
he loves being able to suck on your boobies
you asked him to be a little bit rougher with you
he said he was tired so you did the work for him
sub!vik has never had such a foul mouth before
squirming on his fingers
viktor loves your lips wrapped around his cock
he can't leave his pretty girl unsatisfied
asking for his cum inside of you
feeling each others arousal
vik likes to spend a good amount of time on foreplay
rutting against his face like this
more of him loving your tits
keeping warm together
he knows if he takes his head out of the pillow he'll be a moaning mess
eating you out is always one of his favourite past times
he's embarrassed to show his red face
you're always so sexy whenever you get a new set
he knows it's a little pathetic jerking his cock while you grind against his fingers
Anon asked: bully!samu twisted hurt/comfort,,, where other guys on campus see y/n as easy pickings and try to bully her n somehow the bullying is worse w these strangers ;-(( bc y/n has gotten used to osamu actually
samu doesn't find out until after a while (maybe bc he doesn't ask what's goin on in y/n's life much or she kept it from him) n he's just like 😡😡😡 y/n is MY bully target!!!
you can read all about bully!osamu here if you want context on his relationship with the reader!
this was long-overdue 🥺 i'm finally back in nyc and i'm hoping to update more!!! 🖤
words: 3.3k
cw: fem!reader, bullying, name-calling, physical violence, college au, hair pulling, jealously, possessiveness, toxic relationship, slight dacryphilia, unprotected sex, minors dni
Osamu was getting annoyed.
Noticing that you had been stressed out lately, Osamu decided he’d be nice for once in his life and treat his little cry baby to a night out after class. He waited outside the room for you to come out but you never did. One by one, all your classmates left, and eventually so did your professor. Already growing frustrated, Osamu was about to barge into the room when he heard your voice.
“I told you no, Daishou,” you mumbled softly, grabbing your books. The boy Osamu doesn’t recognize stops you, grip strong on your wrist and that’s when he slams the door open, startling both of you. “Samu—”
Osamu pulls you to his side, barely giving the other boy any attention before getting you out of the room. He doesn’t say a word as he drags you down the hall to his car. Osamu when he’s red in the face and screaming at you was easy to deal with but when he's quiet like this, you’re a bit more worried. “Samu, I told him no—” Osamu turns the car on, interrupting whatever excuse you had ready on the tip of your tongue.
He’s not an idiot, he knows you were trying to push this Daishou kid away. But you were either too nice or too stupid to get the job done. “Who was that?” he asks. Part of him wants to take you back to his place and pound you into the mattress but he figures that could wait, choosing to take you out like he originally planned.
“He’s just some guy in my class,” you explain, twiddling your thumbs, too nervous to look over at him. “I think he wants to go out or something, but I keep telling him I’m not interested.” This gets his attention. Osamu never labeled himself as your boyfriend—you two definitely weren’t dating—but he always felt entitled to you, so hearing that some punk kid trying to come on to you pissed him off.
“Is that all?” Osamu figures you’re hiding something from the way you won’t meet his eyes. Usually, Osamu can’t get you to stop talking about something but you’re keeping your answers short with him today. You let out a small “mmhm…” and Osamu knows there’s more but he decides not to press you.
By the time you two got back to his place later that day, you were exhausted. You were shocked that Osamu bothered to take you out tonight, it’s very rare that he’s so nice —at least, in his way. You could handle the teasing comments made at your expense, it wasn’t anything you weren’t used to. He even seemed to be softer than normal.
The front door slams behind you and strong arms circle your waist. “Samu…” you whine, feeling his along your jawline, thick fingers slipping past your jeans. This also wasn’t a surprise, you were wondering when he was gonna get his hands on you. Osamu had a habit of getting jealous anytime someone else got in your personal space. It wasn’t going to take him long to stake his “claim” on you.
“Been wantin’ to do this all day,” he says against your skin, sighing when he feels the slick folds of your cunt against his fingers. “Keep actin’ like a dumb little girl and someone might steal ya away from me.” You can feel his hardening cock pressed against your ass, timidly palming him from behind which forces a growl from his chest.
You two don’t make it to the bed, Osamu bends you over the kitchen counter and tugs your bottoms off. His lips don’t leave your neck, sucking deep purple bruises into the skin and, knowing him, he won’t let you cover them up tomorrow. His thick cock stretches your pretty cunt, ramming into you over and over. You can’t help the tears that fall from your eyes, running down your cheeks. It brings a sick smile to Osamu’s face.
“There’s my fuckin’ cry baby,” he croons condescendingly, pulling your bra down to get at your breasts. The way you sob as he pulls on your nipples will never fail to get him hard. He could tell you like it too with how your cunt choked his cock whenever he manhandled you. “Dirty bitch, bet you’d let anyone use you, hm?”
You’re gripping the counter, trying not to fall over with how harshly Osamu’s movements are. “Just you,” you keen, pain turning into pleasure just like it always does.
Oh? You’re not always receptive like this, giving into Osamu’s possessive nature. Honestly, he wished you’d fight him more often but Osamu can’t ignore the rush of pleasure coursing through his body upon hearing those words come from your lips. “What was that, stupid? Can’t hear ya when yer fuckin’ mumbling like that.”
His fingers tangle in your hair, pulling your head up. “Just you, Samu!” you cry, tears properly flooding from your eyes now. Your gasps of pain contradict the way you’re clamping down on him with your walls. He groans in your ear, hips moving faster as his cock kisses your cervix. Osamu never warns you when about to cum, not when you make that dumb little look of shock every time he does it. But you always have a tell, your thighs start to shake and you grip the nearest surface for purchase.
Fucked ya dumb already? He thinks as he brings his free hand down to fondle your clit. Osamu’s name falls from your mouth over and over while you cream around his cock, almost falling over yourself if it weren’t for his grip on your hair.
Osamu cums inside you, filling you deep with his thick seed. You let out a whine of discomfort, but Osamu slaps your thigh to get you to shut up. He pulls out, leaving you a trembling, pathetic little thing clinging to the countertop as he watches his cum run down your leg. Just to be mean, he collects some of his spunk on his fingers and fucks it back into your cunt, laughing when you cry from sensitivity.
He helps you off the counter before leading you into the bathroom. He starts a bath for you, grumbling the entire time that you were too dumb to do it yourself. But he’s so gentle helping you into the tub, undressing and settling in behind you. “Kiss me?” you ask quietly. Osamu rolls his eyes, grabbing your face and pressing soft kisses against your lips.
You wish Osamu didn’t make you tag along to these things. It wasn’t that you didn’t like his friends, Kita and Aran were sweet and Suna always had a funny meme on his phone to share, but you’d much rather be at home, trying to convince Osamu to cuddle with you on the couch.
But Osamu didn’t ask you to do things. “Can’t you just go without me?” you had complained, not really wanting to put in the effort of changing out of your sweats.
“The boys want to see ya and last time they bitched the entire time when ya stayed home,” Osamu explained, steam still coming off of him from the shower he just took after getting home from the gym. Osamu wasn’t a huge fan of parties either but his friends invited him out and they wouldn’t leave him alone until he promised to bring you.
You were still whining about not wanting to go when Osamu had grabbed you, pressing you close to his still-naked body. “Don’t get all bitchy with me tonight,” he growled in your ear, rubbing his cock against you. "Be a good little dummy and you’ll get this fat cock.” He humps against your ass, forcing a sigh of pleasure from your lips before he releases you, laughing at how easy it was to rile you up.
Which is how you ended up in some rando’s house, sitting on Osamu’s lap while Suna showed you his favorite TikToks. His old teammates seemed to be the only boys Osamu didn’t mind you getting chummy with. Maybe because they’ve known you two (and his brother) for so many years. They were aware how weirdly possessive Osamu got when you were out of his sight for too long—they had seen it firsthand with how he acted when you were with Atsumu. They knew not to pry about the relationship you two had. Maybe they just knew not to poke a sleeping bear.
The party wasn’t too bad. You chatted up some of your classmates and Osamu even loosened up for once, laughing with his buddies and taking a few shots every once in a while. When Osamu had a bit of alcohol in his system, he was sweeter than usual. He pressed a few kisses to the side of your head, whispering how good you looked in your dress. Suna teased you for blushing and you elbowed him, mumbling “it’s not like that”
“Who’re you trying to convince?” Suna said back, you opened your mouth to tease him when you heard someone calling your name.
“Is that my favorite classmate?” you grimaced once you recognized him, sleazy green eyes meeting yours. Daishou slithered his way from the other side of the room, standing in front of where you were sitting with the boys. “Didn’t think I’d find you here.”
Osamu must have felt your body tense because his arms tightened around your waist, steel eyes glaring at Daishou. “Don’t push yer fuckin’ luck, kid,” he says, alcohol heavy on his breath. Daishou falters for a second but his sniveling smirk is back on his face almost immediately, taking a step as if he’s about to reach for you but Osamu is quick to stop him. “Walk away from her now. I won’t be askin’ again.”
You could tell Daishou wasn’t ready to give up just yet, but his chances against Osamu and three of his teammates weren’t looking great. He gave you a quick wink before heading back into the crowd of faceless people. Osamu was still stewing, grip on you never wavering. Kita and Aran initiate conversation while Suna grabs him another drink. But it’s your hand on top of his that calms him down.
After a while, things are back to normal. You take a few glances at the other party go-oers and can’t find Daishou anymore. For once, you feel relieved and even a bit adventurous. You grab Osamu’s hand, getting his attention. “Dance with me,” His eyebrow quirks.
“That desperate to get me close to ya, dummy?” he slurs, eyes growing heavy. His words hold no venom, it’s second nature at this point to call you that. Osamu doesn’t put up much of a fight when you pull him to the center of the room, holding him close as you sway to the music blaring from the speakers. You’re bound to get an earful tomorrow when he sobers up. He’ll probably take you from behind, taunting you for acting like such a “needy whore” tonight. The thought sends surges of pleasure through your body.
Osamu grinds into you chuckling deeply in your ear while you wrap your arms around his neck. Most people are probably confused when they see you two—Osamu’s mocking you one minute and kissing you the next. The whole time you’re in his shadow, never too far away. You figured out a long time ago that it’s really nobody’s business what you two do at this point, somehow it’s managed to work all these years.
You two danced for a bit more before you pulled away from his side and, almost immediately, his arms reached out for you, a stern look on his face. “I just need to pee,” you tell him and he, reluctantly, lets go of you. He grumbles something about not making him wait before you walk away.
The bathroom downstairs was occupied so you headed upstairs and, thankfully, it was empty. You washed your hands when you were done, thinking about stopping to get another drink in the kitchen before going back to Osamu. You probably shouldn’t make him wait too long but he’s having a good time tonight, so he might just go a bit easy on you today.
You step out of the bathroom, ready to head back downstairs when you feel someone snatch your wrist. For a second, you assume it’s Osamu but the body you’re pulled into feels unfamiliar. You feel your skin crawl when someone whispers into your ear.
“Finally got you separated from your little bodyguard,” Daishou says, crowding your personal space until he has you backed into a wall. You’re quick to open your mouth, ready to tell him that you’re not interested in anything he wants. But Daishou leans in close as if he’s about to kiss you. “Don’t get a fucking bratty with me, I just want to talk.” You want to push him away but you’re frozen, unsure of what to do. Osamu will come to look for you if he notices you’ve been gone too long, right? But he’s been drinking so much tonight, you’re not sure if it slipped his mind.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” you say, hand on his chest to try to place some distance between you, but Daishou grabs it, nails digging into your skin.
“Why? Your fucking boyfriend gonna get mad or something?” the way he says the word makes you cringe, which he notices right away. “Not your boyfriend? Then why were you dancing with him like a slut out there?” You pluck enough courage to shove him away, trying to race down the stairs back to your friends when you feel Daishou’s fingers in your hair, tugging you back to him. “Stop being such a fucking bit—”
It happens pretty quickly after that. One second you’re in near tears as Daishou’s pulling your hair at the root, the next Daishou’s on the floor holding his jaw. You look up and Osamu has you in his arms, eyes practically bulging out of his head in anger. He doesn’t say a word while he snatches your hand, forcing you down the stairs and past his teammates who’re dumbstruck. Too drunk to drive, Osamu decides to walk the couple of blocks to his house, dragging you along with him.
“You’re hurting—” but Osamu keeps yanking your arm anyway, not letting you stray too far away. It’s hard to keep up with his pace, every so often you’ll end up nearly tripping on yourself.
“He’s done that before, hasn’t he?” Osamu asks, reaching for his keys with his free hand as you two near the house.
“Never that rough,” you admit, shrugging your shoulders. “Usually he’ll just say mean things to me, never shoves me around like that.” Osamu opens the front door, gestures you inside first before locking it behind him. He’s pissed, angry in a way you’ve never seen him.
He reaches over and grabs you by the jaw. “Why the fuck did ya not tell me?”
It’s hard to look him in the eye but Osamu tightens his grip, forcing you to meet his gaze. “I didn’t think it was a big deal. I mean... you do the same thing.” His hold suddenly loosens, eyes boring into your soul as his brain registers what you told him. “You do the same thing” Now Osamu’s wondering if Daishou’s the only one who’s treated you like this when he’s not around. He wonders how much you’re not telling him.
“Excuse me?”
You furrow your brows at him as if he asked a stupid question. “Oh, come on, Samu. Like you never pulled my hair before? Or spilled beer all over me at a party?” you cross your arms. “Or flipped my skirt up to look underneath?” You must not notice the way Osamu tenses up. Was someone else touching you like he did?
“Who else?” he takes a step close to you, eyes widening as all the thoughts start playing in his head. Has someone else been picking on you? Fucking you? Dumb little y/n that’s always been his to torment? “It’s not just Daishou, who else has it been?”
You wonder what has Osamu so upset but you tell him anyway. You tell him that Daishou’s the only one who’s gone as far as putting his hands on you but that doesn’t stop other people from teasing you. There’s Matsukawa in your chem class who slaps books out of your hands every other day. Konoha who forces you to let him cheat off your exams in calculus. Futakuchi who makes comments about your ass on days you wear a skirt. “They see how we are and they think I’m easy pickings…” You can’t believe Osamu’s never noticed—maybe it’s because people only dare to do it when he’s not around.
Osamu says nothing the whole way back to his house, doesn’t even bother slamming you against the wall and having his way with you like he normally would when he’s pissed off. Little do you know, Osamu is stewing. Your words keep replaying in his mind along with the names of everyone you mentioned.
He’s got some work to do.
The next few days are... weird to say the least. Daishou turns up to class with a busted lip and actively avoids you. No more comments under his breath or trying to grab at you when the professor isn’t looking. You weren’t surprised by that with the way Osamu leveled him to the ground. Daishou definitely isn’t looking for a rematch and you would be lying if you said you weren’t enjoying how he cowered every time he walked past you.
You gripped your books before heading to chem a few days later, knowing Matsukawa would snatch them out of your hands once he got the chance. But as you round the corner, you notice that one of his hands is wrapped up with tape as if he sprained it or something. Instead of tripping you or slapping your books away, Matsukawa pulls your chair out for you and says he’ll carry your books to your next class. Still, you don’t think much of it.
It starts getting really weird when Konoha is offering to do your homework for you. Apologizing for all those times he’s cheated off of you, even asking if he could study with you sometime before taking back his invitation, eyes looking everywhere but at you. But it’s when Futakuchi Kenji walks into class that you’re truly puzzled.
It was a hot day and you groaned when you remembered you had class with Futakuchi today. Whenever you wore a skirt or a pair of shorts to alleviate the heat, you could feel his eyes leering at you. He’d sit next to you and lightly brush the material against his skin. Mumbling an “oops” under his breath he’d grab at your thighs, raking his fingers down them.
But today Futakuchi shows up with a black eye and keeps his hands to himself, not even sparing you one single glance. When you call him out on it, he doesn’t say anything—just looks down at his hand like he’s scared. The few times you two end up brushing against each other, he’s quick to apologize and scoot as far away from you as possible. When class ends, you try to make conversation—to try to understand what’s his damage. But Futakuchi books it once the professor dismisses you all.
Strange.
Little did you know, Osamu’s been keeping himself busy. Tracking down all those boys who think they can lay a claim on you—who thought you would be their little punching bag. Those fucking losers didn’t know who they were messing with. Osamu’s had you in his clutches since the playground. Of course, they didn’t listen at first when Osamu told them to stay the fuck away, but he’s always been good at persuasion.
And now that he has you laid out on his bed babbling about how “fucking good” his cock feels, Osamu can rest easy knowing that nobody will try to mess with you anymore.
Can you do consensual non-con with Matsukawa please 🥺 ty!!
i hope this is good 🥺🥺🥺 i’ve never written for mattsun before but i wanna get better (i’m also admittingly not the best at consensual noncon but i’m also trying!)
words: 245
cw: fem!reader: consensual noncon, size kink, crying, "cunny", brief mention of pregnancy, minors dni
it’s so rare that matsukawa has you spread out underneath him, you’re usually on top because it’s still hard for you to take all of him. he’s always been patient with you, it’s not your fault that his massive cock can’t fit in your tiny cunny.
“you’ll tire yourself out if you keep fighting me, babe,” he tuts, mocking your small hands slapping at his chest. because of the size difference mattsun always treated you like glass, afraid that he would break you. but the other day, you mentioned how you wanted him to be rough with you, to split you open with his thick length.
“s’ too much!” you cried, trying your best to pitifully push your boyfriend away. he’s only halfway in and it already hurts so much. “issei, i can’t, ah! stop please!”
but instead, you feel mattsun sink deeper inside you, the tip of his cock kissing your cervix. “if i remember correctly, you wanted this,” he takes a few moments for you to adjust before pushing in a little more. he places a large hand over the bulge in your tummy, it’s almost as if you were pregnant. someday. “stop whining, you can take it.”
mattsun finally bottoms out, groaning at how your pretty pussy clamps around him. staring up at your wrecked face, your lips babbling “no more, no more,”
“no more?” he asks, grabbing your face so you’re forced to look at him. “we’re only getting started, baby.”
he must've died and went to heaven with the way you're riding him right now. you look like an absolute angel on top of him—head thrown back in bliss, nails digging into his shoulders while you let his hands roam all over your body, let his mouth kiss every inch of bare skin he can reach.
sakusa knows you're about to cum with the way you're moaning his name with words he can't even make out because you're just too far gone. he wants to see you unravel on his cock, he really does—but there's something he needs to do first.
"hold on, sweetheart," he grips your hips to slow you down, "gonna make you feel real good, okay? just need to you to do a lil something for me."
"yes, omi?" you breathe out, nearly a whisper.
sakusa could cum right there with the way you look at him, cheeks flushed and eyes blown wide with pleasure, but he controls himself. he reaches over to his hat on the night stand and places it on your head.
Gaza is bleeding… and my family is struggling to survive.
We’ve lost our home, our safety, and the basic things we once took for granted.
Now, even finding flour, clean water, or painkillers feels impossible.
Everything is either gone or priced beyond our reach.
Children sleep hungry. The sick suffer without medicine. The markets are nearly empty — and what's left costs more than we can afford.
In these times, we need your help more than ever.
Your donation — even a few dollars — can mean everything.
It could be a loaf of bread, a bottle of water, a warm meal, or life-saving medicine for someone I love.
Please, if you can, donate.
And if you can’t, write a comment and reblog this post. That small act might reach someone who can make a difference.
We’re still here. We’re still holding on. We just need your help.
Dear Esteemed Donors,
My name is Ahmad , and I am a 14-year-old resident of Khan Yo… Ahmad W needs your support for Help Gaza Families Secu
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