Viktor X Reader Arcane - Blog Posts

Could we get a Viktor drabble where he’s doing that thing teenagers do when they written their name and your name in their journal to see how they sound with your last name?

And getting caught 👀

As you wish, anon. And if Viktor getting caught writing things about reader is your jam, might I suggest A Theory by @gaybybirth which is the fic that dragged me kicking and screaming back into writing on tumblr.

Round and around and around that long finger. How he could twirl chestnut strands so much and not have given himself a permanent little curl or even a tiny bald spot behind his ear was beyond you. As it was he had cowlick after wispy soft cowlick curling errantly in the mess of his hair. It was irritatingly endearing, terribly distracting. Had your own fingers itching every time he started up that bad habit to slap his hand gently aside and and rake your own fingers back down his scalp. Difficult not to think what it would feel like, the silk mess of that hair carded between fingers. To watch him tilt is head back, close those tired amber eyes slowly. Thick lashes dark against pale cheekbones. Let you kiss bruised, tired eyelids softly...

No.

No, thoughts ran away with you far too easily. Not even thoughts - silly fantasies. He was terribly busy, terribly important. Him and Mr. Talis. Busy building the future of Piltover and leashing the power of those terrifyingly unstable hex crystals to allow teleportation across continents, across worlds. And all you could think of was touching that babyfine soft hair that formed a v at the nape of his neck. About the way his voice was always so softly quiet, terribly gentle.

He'd let you hold one, once. A hex crystal. Dropped it into your palm and smiled at how you'd sucked breath in hard and fast as you cradled it like a live bomb. Closed your cupping palms around it with his own.

"Can you feel it?" He asked.

All you could do to swallow, throat sandpaper grit and eyes round saucers. You could feel his fingertips against the outside of your wrists, feel the brush of his thumbs against your own and the warm of his palms to your knuckles. And yes... the shallow pulsing electric vibration of the deadly dangerous crystal you held. Like licking a battery without the copper taste, and with the warning crackle through the whole of your forearms straight to spine.

Lightening in a stone, if not a bottle.

Blue luminescence reflected in gold eyes as he pulled the careful cup of your hands apart and took the stone back. Eyes only for one thing and it surely wasn't for the tech assistant in faded grey and tatty coveralls, constantly smeared in gear grease and always in the background; fixing all the little minor issues the new golden boys of Piltover managed to create with their unlimited intellect and vastly overestimated mechanical expertise.

Sure, they could both design the future, write complex mathematic and arcane problems as foreign to you as Noxian calculus... but ask either to find the actual source of a lack of power in a time train gear network they had designed? Forest for the trees, you supposed. It was fine, you were good with details, with the trees, if this metaphor held.

Details like that hair twirling. Like his shy smile. Like how you'd be under and deep in the guts of a piece of mech and fumbling blindly for a tool only to have him press it into your searching fingers. Never could figure out how he always knew exactly what you were looking for without even having been asked. Nine eighths spanner? In your fingers. Ten quarter allen wrench? Done. The finest pair of needle nose pliers? His fingertips soft against your grease stained palm as he pushed it there in silent passing. Reading your mind.

If only you could read his.

So nice then, that one night, when you’d dragged yourself out from under the guts of their latest prototype, to find him sat there alone, the only other living soul in the lab and shaking an empty pen between twirling the silk licks of his hair.

You rolled tired shoulders and unzipped coveralls to tie the arms round your waist over your sweated tank top.  Wandered over to pull the pen from his fingers and put a fresh one in hand.  So lost in thought he failed to notice.  Went right back to scribbling.  Curiosity had you glance over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of whatever incomprehensibly complex mathematics he was entrapped in.

And instead stared down at two open pages scrawled with your name.  And his.  And little rough sketches and doodles that had a heat rising under your skin with the searing intensity of a late summer sunburn.  Under your lean over his shoulder Viktor had swam to the surface, fresh pen stilling its most recent scrawl of your name before it dropped and he scooped one elegant hand under the jacket of his notebook to slam it shut and spin on you.  Luminous golden eyes wide.

Before you could stop yourself you’d reached past him fast as a striking snake and grabbed up the notebook.  Back pedaled a few steps as you flipped through it.  Your name, his name, doodles and drawings and.... oh.  You turned that page sideways and squinted.  OH.  

“Wait.  Please...”  His voice was broken, begging.  Mortified.  

“Viktor.  Do you...”  You were going to tease him, grinning, delighted.  Until you looked up and saw him wilt, the fine splay of one hand hiding half his face as he slumped back onto his lab stool.  Oh no. 

Still, you weren’t giving that book back.  Yet.  Tucked it behind the small of your back in the waistband of coveralls and closed in on him.  Very much emboldened by all the scribbles on those pages, lovely spidery litany of your name over and over again intertwined with his.  Had you slot yourself between the long spread of his lean thighs.  Permanently stained and calloused hand tugging away the one that hid his face by the wrist.  

He resisted, and for a strained second you felt sure he was going to rise, spindle legs carrying him backward off the stool and out of the lab.  But instead he gave, and let his hand drop, heat burning fever under pale skin beneath.  Hot as steam burnt steel under your fingers as you caught up the fine angles of his face.  Glad he didn’t seem to mind the scent of gear grease and petrol on your skin.  Or how rough your thumb was as you slid it over the little freckle under his eye. 

“Have you settled on one?”  You couldn’t help your teasing nature, had to ask.  So pleased he would be so obsessed as to fill pages with your names together.

“Please.”  Still pained, he tried to pull his face from the frame of your hands, tried to reach round you to grab the book back.  Instead you caught his arm behind you and pressed it higher as you leaned in.

Took a chance and pushed your forehead to his temple.  Watched him exhale a shiver and turn amber eyes up toward yours.  So close you could see the flecks of brown and green imbedded in the gold depths.  Unable to help yourself, you pressed him.

“What else have you written about us?”