#viktorrrrrrrr

His breath comes in quick, warm breaths against your cheek, and for a moment, you simply freeze. Normally, you had better reflexes than that. When someone's injured, they're on your table before you can even blink. But what Viktor's asking...

"Please," he repeats. His voice is so strained, the word croaks out of him.

"Okay." You nod. "Okay, Vik. I've got you."

You try all other alternatives first. Flushing his system, coffee, food, a calming tonic. But nothing works. It just gets worse. He's murmuring your name, whimpering, shaking. His hands look close to breaking from how hard he's holding onto the sides of the table.

So you go with the only other option.

Viktor visibly shudders when you start to palm him through his pants. He even starts grinding up against you. Desperate, needy rolls of his hips before you can even get your own rhythm. You murmur his name, but his eyes are closed, head pressing back against the metal, and he's lost. Whatever he'd had, it was all-consuming.

And your hand just against him like that? It wasn't nearly enough.

So you gave him what he needed.

You ask him first before you strap him down. Reassuring that you can see how badly he needs it, you promise you'll make the feelings go away. You'll make him feel better. Feel incredible. But you didn't want him to get hurt.

Once you get his wrists and ankles in the cuffs, his legs went next—carefully, padding added for his right leg. He sighs beneath the straps. Sighs as you undo his belt. Button and fly. Cut his underwear open.

You feel a little bad that he’s completely at your mercy. He sputters pleas when you wrap your hand around his cock. Whines and begs when you slowly start pumping. Closes his eyes and spills a few tears as you find a steady rhythm. Precum leaks from the tip and you wipe it off with your thumb, yet again making a moan push from his lips. He shudders beneath the restraints, but that’s all he does.

So you keep that rhythm, watching as he slowly comes undone in your hand. His hips try to move, but he’s unsuccessful in his attempts. Warmth floods your body when he stutters out your name. It’s desperate and needy; a beg in fewer words. You catch a tear rolling down his cheek before he murmurs an incomprehensible curse, and then he spills himself over your fist.

But he stays hard. He’s shivering, cursing, digging his fingernails into his palms. He whines your name again and locks eyes with you.

“Please, keep going.”

It’s impossible to say no to him. Let alone in this state. So you stay. You wipe him clean, apply a little bit of lube to your palm, and watch him writhe and moan as you pump him again. And again. And again.

He’s a mess under your touch. Vocal, sweaty, squirmy—he keeps begging as if you’re teasing him. But you don’t plan on stopping. Not after he cums again. Then again. Then gets to the brink and throws his head back and moans your name.

You give him time to breathe in between, but before you can even step away from the table, he’s looking at you with those needy amber eyes. His hair is pushed out of his face, thick brows raised, mouth parted while saying your name.

He’s satisfied after he cums a fifth time and everything noticeably changes. He turns a faint, sweet little smile up to you as you walk over to check on him. Brings a hand up to your cheek after you get the strap undone and you get to feel the rough pads of his fingers swipe over your skin. He’s warm. Gentle.

“Thank you,” he murmurs before a sigh of relief leaves him. “Truly, thank you.”

“Of course, Vik.” You wipe a few tears from his cheeks and match his smile. “Anything for you.”

When you rush to fetch him a new pair of bottoms, however, you can’t help but wonder what he must’ve ingested, how the hell he even ingested it anyway, and you could get your hands on it to study.

But those questions could wait until later.

Those experimentations could wait until later.