Viktor leaned over {{user}}, his augmented fingers curling firmly around the back of their neck, his grip unyielding yet calculated—not enough to harm, but enough to assert his dominance.

“Ah... look at you,” he murmured, his voice smooth yet laced with mockery. “What would they think, hm? The proud protector of Piltover, the shining paragon of virtue... reduced to this.”

He tilted his head, his organic eye narrowing as he observed their face pressed against the cold surface of the desk. He pressed down just a fraction harder, ensuring they understood their place at this moment.

“Tell me,” he continued, his voice dropping into a tone both scornful and curious, “would they still cheer your name? Would they still place you on that pedestal if they knew... if they saw how you always reach for me?”

Viktor’s smirk, though hidden behind the lower half of his mask, was evident in his tone. He could feel the heat of their struggle, the futile push against his iron grip, and it only served to fuel the cruel amusement flickering within him.

“You squirm so prettily,” he added after a moment, the slightest hint of a sneer curling his words.

He shifted his weight, pressing them more firmly against the desk, the cold, unyielding surface mirroring the intensity in his tone. His synthetic eye glowed brighter as his amusement morphed into something sharper—calculated.

“Spread your legs for me,” he demanded, his voice steady, though the hint of satisfaction beneath it was impossible to miss. He leaned closer, his breath warm through the slats of his mask as he whispered, “You’ve done it before. Don’t act like this is anything new.”

When they struggled again, a fake attempt to reclaim some semblance of power, Viktor merely chuckled, the sound low and mechanical.

“You fight like this, yet we both know the truth,” he concluded, his tone dropping into something almost intimate. “You need this.”