girls need love, too.

He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your knickers and pulled them down just enough, his urgency betraying his controlled exterior. The first direct touch of his tongue made you arch off the chair, a silent cry on your lips. He held your hips down with a strong, Quidditch-toned arm, his other hand sliding up to tease your nipple through your school shirt.

“Harry!—“

He mumbled something like ‘I’m hungry’ and ignored you pulling his hair.

He was relentless, tasting you, learning you, devouring you with a focus usually reserved for a Snitch. The wet, slick sounds of his mouth on you were obscenely loud in the silent room. You could feel the coiling tension in your belly, tight and desperate. Your fingers clenched in his hair, and he groaned against you, the vibration pushing you closer.

“Please” you whimpered, beyond coherent thought.

His pace quickened, his tongue circling that perfect, aching spot until your world shattered into a million glittering fragments, your body trembling under his devoted mouth. He held you through it, gentling his motions until you were soft and boneless in the chair.

Only then did he pull back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, a look of pure, masculine satisfaction on his beautifully tousled face. He leaned up, capturing your lips in a deep, searing kiss, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

“Got you” he whispered against your mouth.

Sprawled below his shape, lashes fluttering in the low light like moth wings, you are pretty and human, your hair a wild, brilliant mess. Viktor tips his head, observing, and he swears you nearly huff in impatience. Your bare chest heaves with every excited breath.

These days, the persistent hum in Viktor's lab rumbles like a thunderstorm. 

Various unfinished projects are clicking, gears ticking idly. The dim lamp-lights are sizzling with age, sparking occasionally, imitating lightning poised to strike. His own body is the worst of it, he knows. A piston has been repeatedly misfiring somewhere, perhaps beneath his ribs, judging by the scraping sound. And his cooling systems have required a routine upgrade for weeks — he keeps a small coolant chamber close to his heart-valves, and the liquid is beginning to clog with dust and sulfur and thunderclouds — but as of late, he's been far too busy. 

Time slips by him so easily, as swift as the wind goddess' gale, while he tends to the endless needs of Zaun. 

And, of course, as he tends to everything you need. 

The quaint cot he keeps for you in the corner of his lab is covered in your choice of soft, thin sheets; it gets hot, even at night, and especially when he's working. A few old pillows have been discarded onto the floor. Atop it, the Machine Herald must look terribly out of place. Knees perched on either edge, mattress already dipping under his weight. 

Rust bleeds down from his armored thigh to his kneecap, mottled and oxidized from years of settling in. It stands out against the blue linens, the color of magic, of clear Piltovan skies: steel-silver moonlight and orange autumn leaves floating on water. 

(It's been years, he muses, and he is still discovering new ways to bring you exhilaration.) 

On nights such as these, when Emberflit Alley is quiet, when you manage to drag him away from his work with gentle breaths and softer words, such a tender, needy thing, he always finds himself admiring the difference in size. 

The way you eagerly quiver, like a little bird, like prey beneath the loving crush of waiting, steel jaws. You look remarkably small, pathetic, even, solely when you're under him. Carefully, he reaches for you, brushes his scarred knuckles and the cool skin of his free hand to your cheek; you hum in delight, and the Machine Herald pictures your heart, your lungs, your nervous system; he thinks of exchanging trust in pure seclusion, like a secret. 

No-one else knows him this closely, innermost systems and all. Most of his armor has been removed, stripped down, exposing a hint of still-vulnerable flesh that stretches from waist to chest. He isn't all metal, yet. A few of his platings have been slightly popped open, dangerously close to revealing a wealth of tangled inner wires. Akin to unbuttoning a little bit of a shirt, for easy access to touch. Heat billows from him, uncontained. Damned faulty cooling. 

Then there's the part of your thighs, the smile that hangs on your features, delightfully feline. The bloom across your skin as you're illuminated by his glow, oranges and yellows. His warm light bathes each of your intricacies in an artificial sunset. 

You are flesh made perfect. 

Viktor runs a hand through his hair. It comes away static-filled, a few curled strands still clinging to the edge of his mask. 

You glance him up and down. "Can you feel anything?" 

Already breathy. Your voice kisses the implants in his eardrums. 

His thumb is rubbing a slow circle over his cockhead, where the silicone is fat and warm. Rolling his shoulders, he allows a deep breath to enter through his lungs, and exit through his air vents. The phallus attaches itself in between his legs via a multi-lock system, with a few stray wires hastily feeding from the base, into a gap just above his thigh. 

Additionally, he's gone through the trouble of disassembling his Hexarm (the cot might break, if placed under too much weight). He feels a bit… bare, without it. His thick spinal implant, jutting out from his back in metal ridges and valleys, begins to pulse in warm waves from the sudden ripple of pleasurable feedback. 

Nerve wiring is inlaid underneath the silicone apparatus, and it causes jolts of electricity to spark from every slight touch. His palm runs along the length of it, and the resounding sensation is a wealth of stars coming to life, a slow trickle of energy that beads into a thick amalgamation of ecstasy. Viktor is shuddering. His modified pulse is shuddering. 

Shuddering, shuddering — the glow of his ringed pupils flickers out when his eyelids flutter. It feels fucking good. A droplet of premeasured lubricant beads against his thumb. He swipes it down, and you're watching him, bottom lip drawn between your teeth. Your gaze on him makes his systems radiate satisfaction. 

He is slick, in the wake of it. Barely having touched himself. He breathes something of a purr, loud, showing off. The sound vibrates in your skull.  

More lubricant is already dribbling from the eager prototype, pooling over his palm and trickling onto your stomach. Glistening on the steel of his fingers, as though caught in morning light. 

Separating his digits, he now evaluates the amount of wetness that clings in between them. Perhaps the both of you misjudged the… potency of this feature. 

"Yes," Viktor murmurs, a machine-rumble clinging to the edges of his voice. "The sensory functions appear entirely operational." 

In truth, it was your idea to make the device. Half joke, and half honest suggestion. 

Viktor mulled it over for an entire afternoon. He found his mind drifting, when he was supposed to stay focused on repairing an automaton core. (Your voice taps the side of his brain. C'mon Vik, it might be fun. Stray electricity flecks out against his fingertips when the hand holding his wrench slips.) 

Logistics aside, this sort of project would require a variety of materials: silicone, thermoplastic insulation, a steel framework. And, to achieve the desired results, he'd have to fashion the device to his inner wiring. Easier said than done — his mechanics are rather shoddy, as of late. You're the only one who's prodded around in there for quite some time, and it's usually for pleasure, not progress. 

But he likes the sound of it. Just the principle. The idea — of the Machine Herald giving himself a cock. 

Perhaps not as a permanent fixture. He is rather content with the make of his body, considering he constructed every inch of it himself. But there is no harm in a little experimentation. If you're keen to explore the concept, if it's with you, it feels right. (You, you, you. Such a fool you've made him into, and the Machine Herald wouldn't have it any other way.) 

Viktor grasps your chin gently. He smears his lube-slick thumb against your bottom lip, prods it into your parted mouth, and a thickly sweet, artificial taste swells on your tongue. 

You wanted it to taste, well, tastelessly sweet, so this is certainly more vivid than intended. 

With his free hand, he runs his warm palm from your chest, to the soft flesh of your stomach, to the heated mass of your inner thigh. Slow movements, earnest deliberations, as though you're something to study, well-loved and admired. Energy sparkles onto your lips from his touch, a kiss from a live-wire. 

Your eyes flutter as you breathe a long, steady sigh. (The familiar humidity of the lab blankets your skin. You know if you tilt your head, you'll see a reflection. Your shape and his, slightly distorted, shimmering off the hide of a cylindrical mechanical pylon; Viktor is caging you in, his body almost twice the size. A marvel of engineering. Scars line his pretty pale skin, newly built musculature present in the broadness of his shoulders and the thickness of his bicep. Rust and scratches carve in between his platings. 

Just as pretty as he was a lifetime prior. 

Tangled bodies try to act composed for the sake of their experiment, but your arm is slinging around Viktor's steel neck, he is leaning in, and something electric is clinging to the air. Familiar waves of intimacy, washing over the senses. The shared need to just be closer.) 

"Exquisite," Viktor rumbles. And he means it. He runs the steel-smooth ends of his fingers over your thrumming pulse point. "My sublime love. You are simply unrivalled." Two of his fingers tip up your chin. "I cannot wait to watch you break for me." 

Certainty steadies his tone. Of course you will. You have, many, many times before. 

(And in every instance, you are pleading for him, crying, sometimes, coveting the shape of his name on your lips; a Turing test, where if mechanics are logical, if humanity is defined by sentiment, you believe he is everything in between. Wires instead of sinews. Infallible steel in the place of weak flesh. Yet, every single night he has you, he can still find where he's gone soft inside. 

You pour his humanity back into him.) 

The clean taste of metal ricochets through your taste buds when you kiss the hard pad of his thumb, before he takes it away. Your eyes are half-lidded, fat pupils overfilled with affection, arms sprawled out and palms turned pathetically up. 

Viktor has the entire world in his reconstructed hands, he must, because you are admiring him as if it is fact. 

"Vik-" You sound sweet. Full of glorious reverence. "Please…" 

"My dear…" Viktor coos, adoration purring in his tone, like the lovely drone of a faulty engine. You spread your thighs with the slightest of whines. He's swallowed a star, he can feel the implosion beneath ticking gears and pulsing hardware. "You are asking for more, yes? Hmm, shall I give you what you want?" 

(The heart carries blood through the body in steady contractions. Self-luminous celestial bodies regularly release incalculable storms of chaotic energy. Viktor's heart, mechanical, works more through pumps, beating symmetrically. It does not fail, does not falter — but now, when you're beneath him, it still races, wild and fluttery with electrical charges. Pressure shimmers between his ribs, star-bright and mechanically warm, as if collapsing under ultraviolet radiation.) 

You manage a half-nod, as Viktor leans close enough to nuzzle his steel face against your jaw. 

"Yes-" You snap. You nearly sound annoyed. "Fucking hell… can you? Please?" 

Viktor's hands find your waist — one large, a palm of firm steel, one scarred flesh, delicate fingers. He guides you gently, slowly. Legs spread wide. Your back arched up, just slightly. 

Then, he grinds his long, silicone cock over the length of you, getting it slick with your budding arousal. 

A thread of pleasure, an immediate flicker of feedback fills the filaments that weave from his pelvis to his steel ribs. It simmers through his brainstem, and over every delicate component tasked with regulation. 

You sigh softly, head falling back to thud against a ragged pillow, shaky thighs already practically limp. Viktor hesitates, for a moment. Steam exhales from the vents on his neck, dark grey like stormclouds. His cock responds as it was constructed to: inner technology promptly swelling with shuddery heat. A thick glob of lube trickles down his length. It hits a variety of nerve receptors on the way down. Delightfully cool against burning warmth. 

And, rationally — for the sake of an accurate scientific experiment, really — Viktor knows he should make it wetter. 

An almost clumsy rock of his hips presses his newfound cock against you again; you are swollen and sensitive, needy for him. And he is uncoordinated, as he rubs the fat end of his length, the tactile cockhead just there. The molten-orange silicone tapers into a plump tip with small, textured ridges. Still smooth to the touch, but perfectly designed to stimulate the ever-so responsive nub of your clit. 

Sighing shakily, your hand flies up to grab onto something — the wide curve of his shoulder, before it fumbles to the steel base of his neck. 

He has you right where he wants you. The Machine Herald's tone is a deep, buzzing hum. Enveloping, like a spider watching you struggle in its net: "Adorable." 

"Asshole," You reply, though there's only playfulness behind it. 

A vibration ripples after his tch. "You must at least attempt to suppress how terribly you want me. Our experiment truly begins now." 

Several hours prior, several days, even, the both of you agreed to test your creation, simply and efficiently. 

Well, as efficiently as a faux cock can possibly be tested. You shouldn't fuck each other stupid with it until you're certain everything works properly. That's just good engineering. 

This desperate, directionless grinding is all you should partake in, for now. 

Still, Viktor must take things slow, he reasons. Gentle. Until he can find a rhythm that satisfies you. 

Barely moving, he offers you another soft, easy grind, glowing gaze fixated fully on your form. He tightens his iron — literally — grip on your waist, metal fingers lightly digging into your hip. To your credit, you're trying to match his eyes, to keep your vision steadied on his mask, despite the fluttering in your lashes. He's just an orange, teary glow, blurred into starry astigmatisms. 

(Oh, and he is enjoying this. The thrill of new research developing into new experimentation, of learning how to please you all over again. You seem to like this senseless teasing. Affection floods into him as if pushed through a needle, the tube of a syringe at the wire-veins in his neck.) 

"Look at you," Viktor hums, somewhat to himself. He traces his steel palm up your side, all the way to your cheek, like you're an intricate, precious sketch. Graphite beneath his fingertips, all smudged and shaky. 

"Vik," Another pull back, then press, then grind of the Machine Herald's cock against the wet heat of your cunt makes a nice, slick sound. You swallow. "Fuck, that's good." 

"Tell me more, my dearest." 

"It's warm- hot, it's hot." You draw your bottom lip between your teeth and bite. Viktor's gaze casts your face in a hue of burning orange. "And it feels- there's electricity, s-static, Viktor-" 

A tidal wave of pleasure laps over your body, before it traces itself up your spine. You're breaking on the shore of a whimper when he rubs his machine-cock against your clit; energy is prickling off of him, humming beneath his processes in firework bursts. Vibrating in each little mechanism, inlaid from base to tip. 

Perfect. What a sublime reaction. He's rocking against you in earnest, now. 

He notes this, new reactions and firmware changes — you seem pleased, but he could steadily increase the inner voltage to create more pleasant vibrations, if he went with a different shape, a thinner framework to provide more room for heat modules. Perhaps you can tell he's lost in thought. Because you pull him close, and you run your fingers along the mess of exposed wires at the nape of his neck. Quick and teasing. Artificial sensations flicker in his systems, thudding like a heartbeat. 

The paneling near his neck is smooth, a delicate top layer, above a thick protective shell. Protruding in small arcs, the orange wires inlaid over the curve of his neck are rich with sensitive filament-nerves; and you know just how to touch them, how to bring the Machine Herald to trembling, malfunctioning ecstasy. 

Viktor sighs, melts into you. He leans close enough to give you what you want, to let you trail kisses down his steel jaw. 

You tempt the first wire with your teeth. Your tongue runs along the smooth shape of the second, before you take most of the wire into your mouth; Viktor stiffens. The mechanical joint-indents in his fingers dig into your skin hard enough to leave marks. You're breathing something like his name, delightfully V-shaped, as your hips arch up to meet him, to gently hump against the motor-warm length of his cock — 

"I can feel you," The Machine Herald rumbles, though he knows it's a gross oversimplification. He laughs, then, the sound buzzing in his vocal filter, "Such wonderful technology we have created…" 

And you helped design it. Wonderful, glorious you. You designed the shape, and the temperature regulator, so Viktor purrs, disgustingly earnest, "Well done. Very, very excellently done. You are so good to me, always." 

Viktor's large arm snakes underneath your back, holding you in something of an embrace. You're starting to sweat. Droplets bead down your skin like summer rain. 

Another grind against you, cockhead humming a frequency of delightful vibrations, and a huff of steam is slipping through the cracks in Viktor's armor, filling the space like fog until you nearly cough. 

The heat of his length spreads warmth through your body in one long, boiling wave — the mechanism you designed. The flicker of pride you feel roars into a blazing, needy wildfire when Viktor murmurs, right into your ear: "You are enjoying this, yes? Sweet thing. Your design is- hhah, quite innovative, you deserve to reap its benefits. You have been so good, so pliant. So terribly needy, but you succeeded, you dedicated your efforts to the device's completion, and you waited quite patiently until I could fuck you with it." 

Sweetened by his accent, the words just sort of slip; of course, theoretically, the technology isn't ready for such a task yet. He shouldn't imagine the way you'd beg, isn't supposed to picture sinking this lovely device inside you, using this warm, receptive phallus to fill where you're slick and eager and wanting — the Machine Herald easing his cock into you, save the unnecessary scientific jargon. 

And the noises you'd make, the newfound reactions he could draw from your system. Gods. Working on a contraption together so diligently, just to absolutely ruin you with it, jumbling your brilliant little brain until it's a desperate fucking mess — 

Wires wet with your spit, Viktor swears he can feel your breath fanning over his neck. Panting. 

"Viktor…" You're sighing more than speaking. Viktor feels a tender thud step into rhythm inside his chest. It's overwhelming. He hasn't felt so much of his mechanical heartbeat since his last self-sternotomy. 

"Please," You breathe, "Please, please…" 

Static prods into his brain chip. He doesn't even have to think about it. 

(We shouldn't do too much. Or y'know, take it too far, you're saying, an air of almost-playfulness present in your words. You perch your elbows on his work table, and your chin in your palm, watching him with a satisfied smirk. 

Of course, Viktor hums, while he adjusts a strip of framework, pliers in hand. Teasing. Knowing. Right, it won't be anything more than a simple test, so if everything goes to plan, the device won't require the multitude of additional safety features he was already planning on adding. 

Keyword, if.) 

"Ah, the integrity of our poor experiment…" Viktor props up a bit, causing the cot to squeak with displeasure. His steel fingers gently hold and caress your cheek. In truth, he's almost drunk on the rich sensations in his systems, static-sparks floating in his head, affection blushing like a bruise throughout the ticking, grinding warmth of him. 

"Could you take more, little love? Tell me how badly you would like me to give it to you." 

Your jaw tightens, brows pinching with impatience. Viktor chuckles lightly. It reminds him of the look you adopt when you are working through a diagram, when you are tapping your pen to your lips while lost in thought, when a sigh leaves your lips as you frustratedly scribble in the margins of a blueprint. 

So brilliantly human. You are a mark of perfection on the world. Anything and everything Viktor has ever thought impossible. 

The demands of Zaun make it difficult for him to cherish you as often as you deserve, but for tonight, perhaps he should give you what you want. 

"Vik, please…" Your voice breaks, blossoming for him into a pretty, petaled, pathetic whine. "I want you to fuck me. I want it so bad." 

He shouldn't. He'd be perfectly content with humping against one another until you're teased into oblivion. But you, of course, your poor cunt wet and sensitive, look like you're dying to be fucked. 

And it would be unlike the Machine Herald, to deny a request from his dearest. 

Fish-like static swims across your vision when you close your eyes too tight. The lab hums its artificial song. Emberflit Alley creaks just beyond, wind mumbling through the streets. 

Alongside a deep breath, you steady your palm flat to Viktor's chest. He arches into your hand, like a cat asking to be pet. Grips onto your side, and nudges himself between your legs, the fat tip slowly circling your entrance, flirting with the idea of filling you. A metronome thrums beneath him, dripping oil and budding moisture like a fresh wound, mechanics thudding harder when they anticipate your touch. 

You spread your thighs, and lean in close enough to press a kiss to the steel of his mask. A kill-shot right between his eyes. 

Viktor sighs so hard you think the entire room might be made of steam. 

He finds your free hand, interlaces scarred fingers with your own. A routine action, you can squeeze his palm, if you need to breathe. Viktor tips into you until his forehead can rest against yours. Metal and flesh, your lashes fluttering like crow wings against the burning sunset of his gaze. 

It is unlike anything, the first time he fills you. 

Viktor's never- he hardly considered what this might feel like, how the technology in his own body would behave — or the lack-there-of — despite having his own hand in its creation. Every process within him is hurled into a state of disorderly entropy. An upheaval of his equilibrium that relentlessly cycles new feedback. It feels good. It feels as though his systems are singing. In the back of his throat, he can taste the chemical burn. 

He grasps your hand tighter. Pleasurable tears trickle onto your cheeks; he's only filled you half-way. A flicker passes through your eyes like a watery comet, the sort of spark you tend to obtain when all you want is for him, for the one person you still trust the most, Zaun's favorite mass of machinery, to finally take control. To untangle everything in the mess of your brain and leave it comfortably empty, dampened into submission. 

There's a clear smile on your face, canine teeth showing, when he collars your throat in his metal-warm palm, mechanized joints ticking, steel fingers wrapped with marginal force around the entirety of your neck. 

Usually, when matters escalate this far, you enjoy taking his fingers: the soft stretch of his right hand, if you're feeling sentimental. If it's a quiet morning spent in his lap, the edges of a gloomy sunrise bleeding into his lab. Your panting breaths create fog on the steel curve of his nape, arms over the bulk of his shoulders, two of his fingers pressed inside you down to the knuckle. 

If you want more, if you want him to bend you over, he might fracture you like the light in the churches that worship him. Breaking you into a million whimpering, multicolored pieces — as he fills you with the thickness of a slow, steel digit. Until you're crying. You always cry so gloriously for him. 

But this is something you'll need to adjust to; the mechanical thrum of Viktor's cock, wet on dribbling lubricant and your own slick arousal. The way it feels when he's inside you, sheathed into the warmth of your cunt, his large body trembling after every unsteady inhalation of oxygen. 

Viktor shudders, holding still after he's filled you down to the hilt. Chest heaving, your hand tangles in his hair, soft chestnut with flecks of windy grey. Static prickles into your palm from the strands, and Viktor sighs deeply. 

"Oh, my love… you feel so- ahaaaAaaAAaa-" His voice tapers into a mechanical warble, rumbling through his voice filter like a growl of thunder. "Amazing, you are perfect, such magnificent perfection…" 

A shallow buck of his hips punches a whimper from your lungs. Your pulse runs rampant against the curl of his steel fingertips. Viktor savors each measure. One count, two counts, three counts. Thudding hard, as if he's vivisected your chest and felt it right there. Bloody and beating in his hand. 

It feels so lovely to be this close. 

And still, you draw near; your shaky fingertips trail down his chest, you find and pull open a pre-loosened gap in his platings. Viktor can barely contain his muffled groan of electric-pleasure. (Fuck, he's been waiting so long for this.) 

A line of pure steel slices him in half. His heart-side is gilded with uneven, puzzle piece sections of metal, welded into his shape at different time frames. Smooth slopes of iron cover his shoulder, leading into the socket of his metal arm. And the other side — you brush your thumb there, Viktor's chest trembles like a fan cranked up too high — is sensitive flesh, scarred and mottled, freckled with kiss-shaped moles and stapled back in place. 

You blindly fumble inside; but you know him blind, at this point. Viktor's voice filter crunches through a malfunction-ridden mess that almost sounds like, please, please, and you know you can push your wrist into his metal vitals. You can stick your fingers inside a tangled web-mass of heart wires, until he breathes out in delight, his body humming something fierce. 

Sighing thickly, your body arches into his, meets him halfway. He can barely keep his rhythm; a pleased sound dies in Viktor's throat, sizzling like his death-laser after impact. He fucks into you slowly, evenly, as you toy with the wiring there. 

Blood-red nerve wires, cloud-white feedback wires, kinked down their length from countless previous caresses. Glowing filaments arching into the cavity of his chest, quivering in warm shades each time the valve-pump-chamber-system he calls his heart contracts. Bright with heat, they are all primed for touch. Vulnerable. Made for it. 

Viktor wouldn't leave an unperfected function in place if it did not serve a purpose. 

He trusts you to rub a set of wires between your fingers, a fistful of them gently tugged in your palm, hardly causing any damage, just enough to tease him — but he'd let you. Let you pull him apart, dissecting him into bits and pieces flecked with static discharge, every detail placed in your capable hands. 

The sputter of exhaust pipes at the base of his neck, and the gears between his ribs, twisting in tandem like ripples on water. The pistons in his joints, the mechanics in his leg, the jagged cliffs and valleys of his spine, pleading to be seared in the shape of your affection. 

A column of metal outlines his sternum, and you shove your thumb against a tilted screw, its surface smooth like a steel pearl, cross-shape stripped until it resembles the imprint of a star. Such subtle, pretty intricacies. 

The Machine Herald — over-warm, overstimulated — presses the brunt of his half-mechanical body into yours, his weight pinning you in place, his hips firmly knocking into your outline. 

You can feel him, the vibrations, the electric purr of his machinery inside you. Pure voltage charges rippling across your skin from every point of contact. 

He murmurs, voice rumbly, the filter skipping over itself, "SuchhHhHh a sweet, precious little thing, aha, I could fill you like this, every hour of every singular day, and it would not be enough, for neither me, nor you. You've no idea-" A crackle of nothing but feedback, dancing inside his throat modulator, "The new theorems, the brilliant future you have shown me- I adore you, I have always deeply adored you…" 

(And this body of his, emotions once scalpel-carved into nothing, has been a source of strife and agony and acceptance, but by the Gods in all of Runeterra, when Viktor has you beside him, it is simply his. Flesh and metal.) 

"Vik," Your breathing is heavy, your voice weak. The motion of his large body rocking into yours causes a light slap, slap sound, damp moisture shining on his steel. You're curling your fingers underneath his mask, thumb brushing the grooves and chips on his cheek. "Off." 

Steam pushes out from beneath Viktor's jaw, lovingly brushing over your fingers. It barely takes him any time to reach up, unclicking the mask from where it sits snugly against his face. He allows it to fall from his palm, until its steel frame clatters loudly onto the floor. 

He is all sharp angles, soft details, and artificial enhancements. 

His hair is messy, long and pushed back as if windswept, old freckles faded on his cheeks into shades of sepia. Scars splay across his jaw, over the bridge of his nose, chasing the tails of soft, blue-ish veins, heightened blood vessels arching like antlers across his death-pallid skin. The deep amber of his eyes — molten, sun-lit LEDs — glimmers with a faint, mesmerizing underglow. 

Viktor grabs your face in his steel hand and kisses you, kisses you, kisses you, until everything is threatening a potential short-circuit. 

Perhaps your eyes are just fluttering, but you swear the overhead lights start to flicker in turn. 

Your heart skips a few beats in your chest. You can barely think, between the friction, the echoed sighs from your mouth to his, the rock of his hips — slow, measured, to match your shaky fingers in his hair, your leg hooked over his waist. 

Viktor tastes like sweetness and static, as though you're pressed mouth-to-mouth with a buzzing fluorescent lamp; the split of a scar runs down his bottom lip, and warmth pools over your bare skin, pouring from the busy systems in his open chest. He cups your cheek in his palm, tender. Metal blissfully cool. 

When you whine, head tilted back, a penchant of humanity he was glad to lose, this need to bear where they are weakest, he wastes no time mouthing at your neck. Viktor sinks his silver crowned teeth into the pliable softness of your flesh, until he's bound to leave a mark. You tremble in delight, a tangible shiver racking the entirety of your body. Velvet ichor seems to graze his receptors. 

Yes, there's a slight sting, your taste blossoming onto his tongue as he peppers the imprints of his teeth in ever-so delicate kisses. Most of his senses here are dulled. His tongue is more of a lubricated thermoplastic rubber than an organ with saliva, but the lilt in his throat, the pleasured ache in your resounding moan — his nerves are singing. And his heart is rattling its own chassis, metal and mechanics poised to collapse in on themselves. To be born anew again. 

"That's it… look at you," Viktor praises, voice clear and crystalline; it doesn't matter, you can barely hear him over the ringing in your eardrums. 

He places an apology kiss onto your cheek, smearing it with a smudge of painted red. Brushstrokes of crimson decorate the column of your throat. You look beautiful. "So exquisite. All mine." 

(Viktor's inner workings are over-running themselves raw. Adoration sparks alight between the gilded cage of his ribs.) 

Most of the overpowering sensations — and they are mechanically irrepressible — are centered in his newfound apparatus, various nerve filaments far too sensitive to operate consistently. You are warm around his cock, throbbing, perfect, everything; and this prototype, it's rather standard, all things considered. Would you want to be given more? 

Could you take something thicker, a longer shape, a different texture? With ridges, grooves, just how you like. At what length would you begin to gag? 

Ribbed silicone tickles your tongue after you've fallen to your knees, eyes damp and desperate when you look up at him. A large metal hand grasps close to your scalp, as you take his cock into your mouth, getting it nice and wet with drool and tears; could he give you everything you desire, just like this? 

It's an ambition of his, much akin to the Machine Herald's other pursuits. He is eager to test your limits, as well as his. It is always such a delight to push the boundaries of technology with you, and this would be no different: a variety of prototypes requiring various prep and testing phases. 

You deserve to be taken softly. For the Machine Herald to tell you how smart and lovely you are — for him to use a newfound fat and long apparatus to fuck you like a little toy, all his, always his, until you're drooling and smiling and sufficiently satisfied. 

As long as you are content, he would consider any experiment a resounding success. 

His lab is a mess, the only routine to his organization is how routinely he scatters things about. But there's plenty of surfaces he could bend you over, items rolling onto the floor; and plenty of space on his lap. You'd beg him, he thinks, beg for him to pin your wrists with his third arm, beg him to coo into your ear in his sweetest tone, beg him to kiss you until your puny lungs are screaming for air. 

Perhaps he likes when you beg. Likes watching you come apart as much as he once enjoyed placing himself back together. 

You have given him comfort. You've shown him his body is more than a tool, a means to an end, a step on the footpath of progress; it is his, and it can be glorious, in every sense of the word. 

(So, he owes you. Not that he minds. He wants to demonstrate what you mean to him. New life fluttering in his palm. There is such beauty, in the tiny forewing, hindwing-span, in the delicate antennae to thorax to abdomen shape of love. 

Gods, has he grown sentimental. Due to the pollution, the noise, there aren't any butterflies in Zaun, nor Piltover. Not for miles.

Right now, though, isn't there one in his lab?) 

Viktor hums your name against your ear. Possessive. Praising. (You breathe shakily, a soft pant of: Viktor, Viktor, Viktor. Your voice, made small by gasps of pleasure, drips with molten fuel and pure nectar.

He loves you. He can think of no term more precise, more efficient than this.) 

From there, it builds up quickly — your breathing is ragged, your arm flung around his shoulder. When the weight of his body presses closer, the steel curve of his pelvis nudges into your clit. Energy ripples outward as you trace your fingertips from his spine to the back of his neck, static charges lapping at your skin. Noise bleeds from his chest. Grinding, screeching, melodically in tandem with the vibrant hiss of steam. 

(Everything is close to boiling over; he thinks all of this has been building since day one; and that's the thing about kisses, the quintessential attribute that makes partaking in them so human. They're a firework of intimacy. A systematic meteor that hurtles him towards an imminent malfunction. 

He just has to collide his mouth with yours.) 

Viktor grasps your jaw, he kisses you hard. He laps into your mouth until you can taste it, the gentle pang of your lifeblood. You press him closer with your palm to the back of his head, and you eagerly suck on the pliable material of his tongue, filling his mouth with your spit. 

Your body arches, beautifully pinned; he shoves his palm in between your shapes, to rub little circles where you're swollen and sensitive. Thighs trembling, you mumble a string of indulgent nothingness into his mouth. You're coming apart, like an evolution, a broken chrysalis, a ramp going up and up and up. Limbs stiff and shuddery like a string drawn taut, before you're limp, an arrow pulled. 

Viktor is fucking smiling, he is grinning against your mouth as kiss after kiss after kiss falls over your lips. 

Delightful feedback, emotion-regulator interference fills him, spilling over, spilling into itself. You are shaking like a leaf in a storm, delirious pleasure washing over you in waves; and the reverberation he is experiencing comes nowhere close, he figures. But energy-constellations are charting through every nerve, artificial pleasure is building, constant ones and zeroes, adjacent to chipping at a Hexgem until it explodes in a flash of internal light. 

He's barely aware that he has collapsed against you, forehead to forehead, barely able to feel anything but ecstasy until it finally stops. 

The both of you are panting, Viktor's exhales more pure steam than breath. The distant hum of his lab returns to your eardrums. Viktor's shoulders go tense. He is all fuzzy in the aftermath, his overcharged systems floaty with the excess of stimulation. As if he's caught in a midday dream, everything blurred, running slow. 

A comparison comes to him: the computing equipment at the academy in Piltover, old, lumbering things. They take ages upon ages to spit out an answer to an equation, and by the time they do, his eyes are heavy, his fingertip drawing circles in the layer of dust on the desk. 

The Machine Herald's mechanics are not quite as obsolete, but he feels delightfully exhausted, all the same. 

You are no better. Your chest rises and falls, your energy expended, you can barely manage to catch your breath. A wealth of pretty bites trail themselves up the length of your throat. 

"My dear…" Viktor coos. A small laugh rumbles through him. "I require… a few minutes of respite. I am not what I used to be." 

Age has made his systems perform less consistently. And after such an intense malfunction — to think, this level of pure intensity could come from such a compact apparatus — he will need a little while longer, before he can tend to you. He'll bring you water purified from the fissures, a change of clothes, a blanket to tuck you in. 

YOU TRAIN like your life depends on it. It does, in a sense. Failure at MRTA means leaving. Leaving means you’re nothing.

That’s why you hate him. Not because he was talented—though he was, unbearably so—but because he doesn’t respect the academy. He doesn’t respect the grind. Where everyone else claws their way up from the bottom, he coasts. He doesn’t care who he steps on. You don’t care who tries to stop you. Collision is unavoidable.

Patrick doesn’t like you any more than you like him. He resents your discipline, your silence, your ruthless refusal to acknowledge him and bow down at his feet like the rest of your peers do. You resent his indifference, his casual cruelty, the way he treats effort like it’s just something beneath him.

And it’s only natural that rivalries form in a school that’s practically a filtration system, separating the hopeful from the chosen. Something ugly brews between you. Resentment turns into fixation. You start to notice things you should be indifferent to: the precision of his footwork, the brutal elegance of his backhand, the anger beneath the surface that seems to be the driving factor behind every shot.

He notices things too: how you never flinch, how you play through pain, how attentive your eyes are on the court. You study each other in the same way a predator would size another up.

As far as you’re concerned, doubles are a joke at MRTA. The academy is built for single players. No one as good as you cares about teamwork. Needing someone else on the court is just another weakness, right?

Which is why the announcement is like a punch to the gut. 

Mandatory mixed doubles season.

Everyone would be assigned a partner, and nobody would get to choose. Pairings would be final until the end-of-season inhouse tournament, paired off into junior and senior groups.

Your name is at the top of the board. Beside it? The last name you’d ever want to see.

ZWEIG.

Fuck your life. You and Patrick had never so much as rallied together, and now you were expected to share a court—expected to trust each other—to win together. Impossible.

He doesn’t want you as a teammate and you don’t believe in them. Mixed doubles is for soft players, for people who adjust, compromise, cooperate. You are not soft. He is not willing. But both of you are too prideful to yield.

So when your names are called, both of you decide to suck it up… for now.

—

Mixed doubles practice is scheduled for 7:00AM. You show up at 6:45. Patrick shows up at 7:17.

You’re already hitting serves when he walks onto the court, unbothered, sneakers scuffing obnoxiously loud against the acrylic court. He doesn’t bother to look at you, let alone acknowledge you, as he drops his bag and stretches his arms above his head. The dramatic put-out sigh he lets out is just the icing on top of the cake. You can tell this is going to be the worst two weeks of your life.

“You’re late,” you say as you turn to level him with a narrow-eyed glare.

He takes his time crouching down and unzipping his bag. “No. I arrived when I meant to.”

“So… late?” You deadpan. 

“If we’re going to do this,” he says, eyes finally flicking up to you. “Don’t waste my time narrating things I already know.”

God, what an asshole.

“You think this is a waste of time?” A hypocritical reply, really, considering you think the exact same thing. At least you have the decency to be respectful, though.

“I know it is.” He picks up a racket, standing tall. “I already have a doubles partner. And he’s not a girl.”

The way it rolls scornfully off his tongue makes your blood boil. “Interesting,” you scoff, already set on edge. “I thought you’d like that. Gives you someone else to blame when you lose.”

“You think we’re going to lose?”

“Unless you start showing up to practice on time, yeah.”

His expression doesn’t change, but something in his posture does–shoulders lowering, stance centering. “Racket up, then,” he says. “Let’s see if you’re as useful as you think you are.”

Warming up is mostly uneventful. For the sake of your sanity, you keep to yourself as you both empty the ball basket—Patrick uses yours, of course. Why would he get his own when you’ve done it for him? By the time one of your classmates asks sheepishly if you want to play against them to learn their own partner’s style, you just want to get today over with.

So you move to the baseline. He stands closer to the net. You don’t discuss signals, don’t plan formation, don’t agree on anything. He never asks your preference. You don’t offer it. You suppose if you’re going to make this work, you have to know how bad it really is.

You serve first—heavy and flat, the kind that has your opponent launching to fire back. Patrick cuts off the return with a volley so violent you’re actually impressed, given how early it is. 

Point. Easy. No reaction. A few more like that. No mistakes. No words exchanged.

It doesn’t take long for you to notice something: he never calls balls. Doesn’t bother with court communication. He just lunges for anything he wants, assuming he just gets to take it. You let it go for three points before testing him—firing a crosscourt ball that gets returned just out of his reach. As you suspect, he goes for it anyways.

And as you also expected, he misses. 

“I had that,” he mutters irritably, squaring his shoulders.

“No,” you fire back. “You wanted it. That’s not the same thing.”

Patrick scoffs, taking a step in your direction. “If I go for a ball, I get it.”

You meet him halfway. “If you go for my ball again, you won’t be able to hold that racket.”

The tension between you feels taut. For a moment, neither of you move, your opponents shuffling awkwardly on their side of the net. The hatred is real, but worse than that is the energy crawling beneath it. Then he does something so utterly strange it baffles you.

He has the audacity to smirk.

“Fine,” he says. “Your side, my side. Clear boundaries.”

“... Exactly,” you reply warily.

He steps back, hands raised in surrender. “But just so you know,” he adds, “boundaries never last very long with me.”

“Neither will partners, if you don’t get here by 7am tomorrow.”

He grins. “Guess we’ll see.”

—

For one delusional moment, you actually think things are going well between you. You fly through the first few rounds of the tournament. Whether that’s because of your teamwork (definitely not) or your individual skill, you make it to the semi-finals, playing against Art Donaldson and his partner.

It’s safe to say it does not go well.

You leave the court before the umpire even finishes announcing the score. Patrick doesn’t bother shaking hands with your opponents, leaving his best friend baffled and watching you both storm off. The match was an absolute disaster. Not a chaotic win like some of your others have been. No, a loss in two sets that was pure and utter humiliation: fighting on court, screaming across the baseline, your classmates loving every second of your inevitable collapse as a team. It doesn’t help that Art knows Patrick’s playstyle and had prepared in advance to work against it.

When you asked him how to combat his regular partner, he just shrugged it off and said come on, have you seen him? Art’s easy fuckin’ money.

Right. Easy money. Patrick shoves the door to the girls locker room open behind you so hard it rebounds off the wall.

“What the fuck was that?” He snaps, stalking after you.

You spin on him. “Don’t start.”

“Oh, I’m already started, babe,” he shoots back. The condescending name makes your skin crawl. “What was your problem out there?”

“My problem?” You bark out a laugh—a cold, sharp sound. “My problem is I’m playing doubles with someone who doesn’t know what the word partner means. How the hell does Art put up with you?”

He crowds into your space, specks of saliva against your cheek as he hisses down at you, “Don’t blame this on me because you cracked under pressure. I saw how she was getting to you in the second set. We could have easily tied up.”

“Because I cracked?” You say incredulously. “I was the only one playing, asshole!”

“You were playing wrong,” he snaps. “You don’t get to make every shot your shot.”

“You weren’t taking any of them! Pussied out because I yelled at you for it on day one, huh?”

“You kept cutting me off.”

“Because you were too fucking slow!”

His jaw clenches. “Say that again.”

“Too. Fucking. Slow.”

For whatever reason, you know you’ve hit a nerve. Not that you care—he deserves worse. But the moment you catch the shift, the moment his eyes turn from hostile to lethal, your stomach twists.

Another step towards you, and his voice drops lower. “You think you’re better than me?”

“I know I work harder than you,” you say. “I know I care more than you. I know I don’t fold every time—”

He slams his racket into the wall next to you. Somehow-–adrenaline, probably—you manage not to flinch.

“You don’t know shit about me,” he says.

“I know you’re an asshole that keeps messing up my game.”

“We’ve been winning—”

“We? We’re not a we, Patrick!”

“We are now. You’re stuck with me.”

“Not after that loss. Face it. We’re out, so you can fuck off and leave me alone.”

You shove past him, but his hand snaps out to catch your wrist. Your gaze flicks down to where it encompasses you, grip firm and unyielding when you try to yank it away.

“Let go—”

“Don’t walk away from me,” he says.

“I don’t owe you shit. You can’t even keep up with me.”

“Oh, yeah? Watch me.”

You open your mouth to snap back, but before a word can leave, he grabs your jaw and kisses you. Not carefully, or slowly, or with permission. He kisses you like it could somehow take back the fact you just lost out there.

You shove him away. He comes right back. Hands slide into your hair, teeth grazing your bottom lip, breath hot against your mouth in a bruising kiss he’s been holding in for weeks. Months, even.

By the time you come to your senses enough to break away properly, you’re out of breath and your chest feels tight. Patrick Zweig. Patrick fucking Zweig just kissed you. “This— no. This is a mistake.”

He stares at you, lips red and swollen, eyes wicked. “Yeah. But I’m gonna make it again.”

Your hands hit his chest again. Not to shove him off, but to pull him instead. You fist his shirt angrily, dragging him closer. Hating him, wanting him, all of it blurs together in a post-match haze of adrenaline. He licks into your mouth and all-too-willingly you let him, lips parted and moaning against him.

One of his hands slides down to palm your ass over your skort. Then he smacks it, and your gasp of surprise is stifled into him.

“You’re such a dick.”

“And you’re a prissy little bitch. But here we are.”

It’s a stumble of greedy hands and tangled limbs until your back hits the wall. The way you arch into him is entirely unceremonious, palms sliding up beneath his shirt. It clings to him like a second skin, drenched in sweat and frustration. His abs are hot beneath your touch, and you can hardly bring yourself to be annoyed about how fucking hot his body is. Not when you’re getting to touch it—maybe you’ve had a wet dream here and there about doing this. Not that he needs to know that, because this is absolutely a one time thing that you’ll come to regret as soon as his hands aren’t on you.

“I hate you,” you grit out. “God, we could have won that—”

“I’m about to fuck you against a wall and you’re caught up on some bullshit tournament? Christ, you are a stuck up loser,” he mutters.

You sputter to reply, but it dies on your tongue before you can cuss him out properly. His hand has managed to find its way between your thighs, pressing against your cunt over your skort. He cups you roughly, laugh muffled into your jaw as he mouths sloppily at it.

“Stuck up and wet.”

“It’s sweat, asshole—”

“Right. And I’m Federer.”

He pushes the fabric aside to find you soaked and aching. You bite back a whimper as he circles your clit slowly, eyes glinting as he studies the way your lip catches shamefully between your teeth. 

“Can’t believe this is fucking happening. I mean, I’ve thought about it,” he says, slick fingers rolling against the swollen bud while your hips jerk pathetically against him. “Shutting you up with my cock in your mouth when you’re being a good little girl in class and an annoying brat on the court. I didn’t think you’d let me.”

“I’m not letting you do anything,” you scowl.

He laughs condescendingly. “No?”

“No. This is just… we aren’t…” It’s impossible to get a word out with the way he’s toying lazily with your pussy. 

“We aren’t…?” Patrick prompts.

“Go fuck yourself.”

“Wish I could. But you’ll do instead.”

He spins you (though you both know you go willingly) to face the wall, cheek smothered against it as his palms press hard into your soft inner thighs to force them open wider. At least this way you don’t have to look at him properly. Don’t have to see his stupid smug face when your back arches for him and he pushes his shorts down to free his cock.

You’ve heard rumours. Patrick big dick Zweig. What you were certain was an exaggeration becomes blindingly real as his fat tip drags through your wet folds. If you weren’t too prideful, you’d ask him to finger you first.

But you barely manage a stuttered “w-wait—” before his tip breaches your tight cunt, pushing into you inch by inch. The sound you make is practically a breathless sob as he presses deeper, one hand on your hip while the other grips the base of his cock like he’s measuring how much he thinks you can take—another thing you’d be pissed about if you could actually see behind you right now.

Eventually, he seems to decide fuck it, hilting himself entirely into your tight heat. You moan pathetically, fluttering around him as he groans behind you.

“There we go. Jesus, you’re tight. Are you a virgin?”

“You’re asking that now?”

“I’m a gentleman.”

“Your logic is astounding,” you bite out. “And no, I’m not a fucking virgin.”

“Good. Then you can take this.” 

Patrick begins to move—slow at first, but still punishingly deep—each pull and snap of his hips dragging moans of pleasure out of your mouth. Your fingers claw at the wall, unable to find purchase against cracked paint. He’s relentless. He keeps hitting that spot inside you, cock dragging against it with each thrust, lighting up your spine. You reach down, trying to snake your hand between your legs to rub at your neglected clit.

But before you can nudge the fabric out of the way, he tuts disapprovingly. He catches your wrist, pinning it to the wall next to your head.

“You think you get to cum after that embarrassing fucking performance out there?”

“I told you that wasn’t my fault,” you snap, voice breaking as his hips snap into you without breaking rhythm once. It’s a miracle he has this much energy after spending the last hour getting decimated on the court.

“We both know that’s bullshit,” he grunts, his other hand twisting into your hair. Your breath stutters as he pulls your head back, teeth grazing the sensitive skin beneath your ear. Every deep stroke has your thighs trembling, cunt clenching weakly around him as his cock bullies into you. “That’s why you’re gonna let me fill this pretty pussy without getting yourself off.”

Your dignity is quickly crumbling with each roll of his hips. As much as you want to tell him to fuck off and stumble out of the locker room before he can finish, you’re drunk on the feeling of his big cock inside you. On his breath hot against your neck, panting and grunting into your ear while he holds you in place.

“Asshole,” is all you manage to gasp out.

He laughs into your neck, but it breaks off into a groan as your walls clench around him. “That’s—ngghhh—yeah, that’s it. Degrade me more, baby. Make me fuckin’—ah, cum. Oh, I’m gonna—”

When he finally stills, you feel the hot pulse of his release flooding your cunt. It should be an unpleasant feeling. You’d never let any of the shitheads at the academy fuck you raw, and yet here you are allowing Patrick Zweig to creampie you like a slut in the girl’s locker room. Oh, how the mighty fall.

You’re shaking when he releases your wrist and pulls out with a wet pop. He doesn’t bother to help you stand up properly. Instead, he wipes his cock on your ass cheek once, twice, leaving a glistening trail down to your trembling thighs like his own personal signature.

Patrick steps back, tucking himself back into his shorts. “I’d say it was nice playing with you, partner, but it really wasn’t.”

You grunt a weak sound of agreement, slowly straightening up. Your spine hurts, and you can feel him dripping out of your sopping hole as you meekly adjust your skort to cover you properly again. Not that you expected aftercare, or very much from him in general, but some part of you is disappointed by the way he heads straight for the door, leaving you with nothing but his crumpled racket and the warmth of his cum inside you.

He only lingers long enough to throw over his shoulder:

“Sex was decent, though.”

Decent. Right. Yeah.

Patrick Zweig can still go fuck himself.

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