Viktor X Reader Smut - Blog Posts

AHHHHH I LOVE GOOD WRITING YOU GUYS

dialogue is 10/10🤧

trans!vik getting all annoyed bc (reader) yapped and mocked how a strap can’t even please someone because it’s just plastic… so he’s gonna prove them wrong… pretty please

ARE YOU SURE ABOUT THAT? - VIKTOR X READER

synopsis: you've been told ever since you were young, that one day your big mouth is going to get you in trouble. After another failed date, your roommate offers to have a few drinks; and for you to bitch to him about these horrid dates. You say one thing that makes him want to prove you wrong, and prove you wrong he does.

warnings: trans!viktor (post-op for his chest), gender-neutral terms for R until smut scene where R is described as AFAB, oral sex (f receiving), fingering, vaginal sex, teasing, dirty talk, degradation/praise, hand/finger kink, voice kink, Grammarly as my beta

genre: m/f or m/m (if you're good with AFAB smut scene)

p.s. Unless asked, I typically assume smut will be AFAB. I can write m/m smut (ie. Steddie on my ao3 account) but I've only had one person specifically ask for a male!reader getting his freak nasty on. So I hope y'all are ok with that

You’re gonna swear off men, honestly! They're useless! The dates are subpar, their manners are atrocious, and the sex is awful!

You say harder, they go faster. You say faster, they go harder. You tell them don't stop, they change the whole momentum. You have to constantly shove their hand back to your clit, but they love rubbing your left lip raw.

The door slams shut as you enter the apartment, you're huffing and stomping the whole way to your room. Until a lovely accented voice stops you in your tracks, “Bad date?”

“The worst!” you explode, damn near ripping your hair out, “I’m swearing off men, I'm done!”

Viktor’s lips thin as he holds in his laugh, “That bad? Wanna bitch to me as we have a few shots?”

You look at him, your eyes wide in admiration, “Please? I love you, oh my god!”

“Go get comfortable, feel like we're going to be talking for a while.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You've changed into your pajamas, an oversized shirt and pj shorts. You see Viktor already sitting on the couch with a bottle of sourpuss blue liquor. You giggle at his choice, it's one of your favourites. It tastes like blue raspberry jolly ranchers and it's like 15% alcohol. Strong enough to get you buzzed and not wake up with a hangover.

You bound over to the couch and hop into your spot, a shot is already poured for you and you take it gratefully and shoot it back.

"Men are awful. They don't listen to instructions, don't know what foreplay is, and completely focus on themselves. I should just stick with my vibrator."

Viktor chokes as he laughs, "It's sad that you're right." Viktor takes his shot, "You deserve better."

You smile at the handsome man. God, why can't you build up the guts to flirt with him? He's so beautiful, both inside and out. You've had a crush on him ever since you met him but he became such a good friend; you didn't want to ruin it.

"Thanks Viktor."

He pours two more shots, he shoots his back and he hands you yours. You stare at him, his long neck, his pretty side profile. God, he's ruining you and he's not even doing anything to you.

"Why don't you hook up with a woman? Or a trans man? They'll know what they're doing."

"Uh..." You stutter out, you take your shot, "Real dick doesn't feel that good, I can't imagine a plastic one feeling any good. Also, I want my partner to feel pleasure too!"

Viktor's golden eyes narrow at you, and you feel small under his stare, "We do."

"Do what?"

The pretty mans demeanor freezes, his eyes dart across your face as his lips purse, "You don't know?"

"Know what?"

"I'm trans."

You lick your lips and hum in consideration, "I would've never assumed. I always thought you were just a very handsome man."

Viktor deeply inhales as he looks at you, his eyes darken, "Handsome?"

You bite your lip and Viktor's eyes immediately zero in on it, "Mhmm."

"So..." Viktor starts as he casually leans back, his arm draped across the back of the couch, his fingers playing with your hair, "Shall I show you how good plastic can feel?"

There's only one thing you can say to that.

"Yes please."

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Viktor ushers you to his room, it's nice and tidy with a cluttered desk, there's some posters and pictures on his walls, you don't get a clear look because before you know it; Viktor is kissing you.

His lips are soft and you quietly moan at the feeling. God this is already feeling better than all the hookups you've had to endure.

You gasp in shock as Viktor pushes you onto his bed. He get's on top of you, straddling your waist and kisses you again. He pulls away and you feel like you can't breath, he's so hot you feel like your brain is malfunctioning.

He fiddles with the hem of your top and looks imploringly at you, you nod quickly and then you're half naked in front of your best friend. You're tempted to cover your chest but you don't when you catch the look on Viktor's face. It's hungry, he licks his lips as he observes every inch of exposed skin. He brings his hands up to your chest and fondles it, pinching your nipples, he drags his hands down so his nails scrap your sides, he rubs your hips.

You're getting kissed again, then he moves to your check, down your neck to your chest, down your abdomen; leaving a trail of hickeys his way. His fingers hook into the top of your shorts and he tilts his head to the side, "May I?" his voice is rich, deep, and rumbly.

You whine out a yes as you nod. Then you're fully naked in front of Viktor as he's still fully clothed in his own t-shirt and lounge pants.

A broken moan escapes your lips as he kisses and nips your thighs, sucking your clit into his mouth. Fuck fuck fuck. He's amazing. You squeal when he adds a finger into your entrance. His long, nimble finger searching until you cry out. He found your g-spot.

He adds another finger and abuses your pussy and he sucks harshly on your clit. God, you could've had this this entire time if you had the guts to flirt with Viktor. Maybe even just asking him would work.

That's how he got you here in the first place.

You cum with a shout and grip his hair tightly. He doesn't let up, doesn't change anything about his pace or strength. He only stops when you pitifully whine and push his head away.

He does as he's told, his face is red, his lips are shiny, and he climbs up and kisses you. You can taste yourself on his lips, it's kind of a turn on.

Viktor gets up and strips himself of his shirt and pants, now he's completely nude. He's lean, lithe, but still has a small bit of muscle on him. You have to squint to see his scars on his chest, they're small and incredibly well healed.

Your eyes trail down and you see a happy trail. Then there's a small bush of auburn curls surrounding his dick. His lips are flushed and puffy. You can see a shimmer of arousal.

A chuckle is heard, "Take a picture, it'll last longer."

He walks to his nightstand and pulls out a strap, a nice sized cock, and a bottle of lube. He harnesses himself, inserts the cock, and get's back into bed with you, "You ready?"

"Please, I need it." You whine out as you open your legs farther. Viktor growls and opens the lube, coating his cock and your entrance, you gasp at the cold feeling.

He positions himself and slowly pushes in. His phenomenal head game and the lube has made the slide incredibly easy. You hear a slight squish and you feel like dying.

Viktor stills for a moment, "You okay? Can I continue?"

You just nod and grasp at his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin. He slowly but surely starts to pound into you, and you're a moaning mess.

He chuckles, "Plastic doesn't feel good, huh? Look at you, you're taking it like a needy slut. You're so good for me. So pretty. I've wanted to do this for months."

"Fuck, Viktor. Please keep talking! You sound so good."

"Yeah? You like my voice? You're not very subtle. I see how you shift in your seat as I talk to you, when I yell. You bite your lip and flutter your eyes like a common whore. Don't get me started on how you look at me when I work with my hands."

You whine in embarrassment, your pussy clenching as more arousal leaves you, "You can't blame me! You're so nonchalantly hot it's frustrating! I've wanted you for so long, with my stupid embarrassing crush on you. But I didn't want to ruin anything." You state in between moans.

Viktor halts for a second before truly pounding you into the bed, "Fuck! We could've been doing this all this time but you had to go out and fuck other people. You need to make it up to me."

"I will, I promise! Fuck you're gonna make me cum."

All you can do is squeal as a massive orgasm takes over you, Viktor thrusts a few more times before he stops, a shiver wracking his body as he groans.

He slowly pulls out of you, unhooks his strap, and plops onto his back next to you, "Did you cum?" You breathily ask. Viktor laughs at that, "You sound like all those guys you complained about." "Shut up. Did you, it looked like you did but I couldn't feel it."

"I did. My harness has a vibrator option so I get to feel good too."

"Oh," You sigh, trying to catch your breath, "if you didn't cum I was going to tell you to sit on my face."

"I lied, I didn't cum."

You laugh and smack him in the arm, he laughs with you and cuddle up.

"Next time." He says contently as he wraps his arms around you, putting his chin on top of your head. You smile at that, "Next time."

A small silence is shared before you break it, "We're dating now, right?" Viktor snorts at your question, "I thought we we're on the same page, guess not. Yes darling, we're dating now."

"Good." You state as you kiss his collar bone, the two of you shimmy under the duvet and pass out. The thin white sheet perfect for keeping you comfortable.

You can't wait for next time.

BRO WHEN I FIRST WROTE THIS MY APP GLITCHED AND ALL THE WRITING I DID AFTER THE READ MORE SPLIT WAS DELETED!!! I SWITCHED TO MY LAPTOP AFTER THAT

I was so mad I was calm, I re-wrote everything so I hope y'all like it! ❤️

academic rivals request! viktor x fem!reader, nsfw

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

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

rating: explicit

word count: 3,5k

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

—

“How do you take your coffee?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“If I may.” 

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

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

You will not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t forget to bust in your pants.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But they’re so heavy.”  

“Well, what would you use?” 

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

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

Oh, well. It felt nice while it lasted. 

“How did you even—“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Very well. Frame?”

“Something durable. Titanium?” 

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

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

“That’s perfectly manageable with carbon fiber!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Precision?”

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

“Shut the fuck up.” 

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

You don’t even register when it happens.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck you.” 

“Oh yes. You’re about to.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smile, sliding your palm into his warm grasp. 

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

And Viktor scoffs, coyly looking you in the eye. 

“Why should we limit it to just that?”