#and viktor and mel's stories? a mirror!

[allegorism]

arcane is a show about complex dynamics, how nothing is just black or white, and how fucked up some relationships come to be even when both parts have the intention to remain together, and yet everyone decided that mel was "just manipulating jayce" and "didn't actually love him", because she was "in the way of jayvik" when the dynamic between the three of them represents one of the core themes of arcane...

[hivemuthur]

To Be Known - Ch.4.

viktorxfemale!reader explicit! (and I can't stress this enough, kids shoo!) Modern AU, set in London, current era but not very specific. It's just a love story.

<- previous chapter MASTERLIST next chapter ->

word count: 6,8K

warnings, or rather this chapter contains: mentions of injections (!) but nothing scary (just routine stuff), domspace, slight subspace, awkward sex talk, throat fucking, masturbation, some d/s etiquette (stoplight system), slight dacryphilia

author’s note: playlist here, @rennethen my beta, massive thank you and artist is @petitesieste ♡ + translations from Czech at the bottom!

Cross-posted on AO3

—

As the door shuts behind you, Viktor both regrets that the kiss wasn’t heated at all and is relieved that you are now gone, leaving him with no need to pretend his leg isn’t suffering the repercussions of last night.

He tightens the brace and retreats to the bedroom to swap the cane for a crutch—it’s going to be one of those days. It’s also going to be a day in which he cannot drive, so soon, he will follow your lead and get himself a cab to carry him from Islington to King’s Cross.

In the mirror, he can see his lips, kissed pinker than usual, his eyes still heavy with sleep, his neck marked in one spot that he hopes will be snugly obscured by his collar. Sharp angles are softened by bliss and warm slumber, subtle, barely noticeable. He can feel his dick faintly sore, his hip aching more than he expected, and he knows instantly—he is elbow-deep in something that will be incredibly hard to keep casual.

Because, impediments aside, his chest is pleasantly swollen with joy—purer than its source would suggest. Recharged, happy even, he does little to obscure the souvenirs of last night. A part of him wants Jayce to ask questions. And even though he won’t be able to tell the truth, he will be able to smile about it.

Someone aware and vacant but not yet shaped appearing at his feet, folded neatly, clean and crisp—that does not happen. Before, it was fleeting. Singulars or doubles with the better specimens, all of them inevitably saying, My ex used to. Interwoven between the plain and the regular when there was nothing else. Never had it left him so full, so calm. Never had it left him simultaneously restless, waiting for the next time. Never in such utter denial that this could be both the first time and the last. Never so hopeful for the endless next times.

Viktor changes into something warmer—August is already autumn here, rain on and off, the air thick with dampness. He wears a coat and scarf, an umbrella hooked over his bag, and the damn crutch keeps him upright as he waits for the cab.

Uncharacteristically for London, he arrives within a blink. Francis Crick greets him with its warehouse-like vastness, people bumping his shoulder and apologising as they move past. Jayce is already inside when Viktor steps into the lab, making coffee, his own neck carrying the marks of last night spent with Mel. Just like Viktor, he has done nothing to hide them.

“Got home safe?” Jayce asks, though the proof is right in front of him—breathing and walking wonkily.

“I was attacked multiple times on the short distance between the driveway and my building,” Viktor replies flatly, swapping his coat for a lab rendition of one. “But I managed to fight them all off.” He gestures toward Jayce’s neck with a smirk. “I see you fought someone too, hmm?”

“Oh.” Jayce’s hand snaps to his throat. “Yeah. Mel, she… she got really drunk,” he admits with a sheepish smile. “But I think she had fun.”

“I bet she had,” Viktor remarks dryly, rolling his eyes as he reaches for a mug, coffee waiting for him.

Jayce groans. “Alright, get off my back. What about you?”

Viktor glances at him, feigning innocence. “What about me?”

Jayce smirks, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. “Did you have fun?”

“Absolutely,” Viktor replies smoothly, taking another sip.

“I bet you did.”

“Meaning?” Viktor raises a brow, though he already knows where this is going.

Jayce gestures vaguely at Viktor’s collar. “You call me out all you want, but I have eyes too, you know. Just… please don’t tell me it was with—”

“I got it before yesterday,” Viktor lies smoothly, cutting him off before he can finish that sentence.

Jayce squints at him, suspicion creeping into his expression. “I can’t remember you coming in with a hickey yesterday, Viktor.”

Viktor shrugs, nonchalant. “It’s not my fault your perception was stunted by nerves, Jayce,” he replies, tone clipped. Then, with a smirk, he adds, “Should I keep you informed at all times when I get laid?”

Jayce grins. “I wouldn’t mind.” Then, after a beat, he studies Viktor more carefully. “Something, uh… serious?”

“Ah, no, not at all,” Viktor lies again, answer coming too quickly. Jayce’s frown deepens, knowing. Before he can press further, Viktor nudges the conversation elsewhere, chin gesturing toward the stack of papers before them. “What are we dealing with today?”

Jayce sighs, rubbing his forehead. “Uh, you’re not gonna like it, man,” he warns, flipping through a few pages. “They keep pushing to change the direction.”

Viktor exhales sharply. “Any new ones, or are we still on turning people back to teenagers?”

“I’m afraid we’re still on that.” Jayce grimaces, tapping the folder.

“Ah, I see it’s imperative that the rich stay perpetually young instead of the sick getting aid,” Viktor mutters, voice laced with dry disdain. “Why am I not surprised.”

Jayce leans against the table, arms crossed. “Look, if we do something fast and present results that prove it impossible, maybe they will give it a rest.”

“Jayce, it’s such a waste of time.” Viktor shakes his head, adjusting his stance against the workbench. “Cancer won’t halt to wait for us finding a cure for old age.” He gestures sharply. “But we can find the cure for it. What’s more important?”

“Well, obviously cancer treatment,” Jayce concedes, pushing a hand through his hair. “But we will do nothing without funds.”

Viktor’s gaze sharpens. “Did Mel threaten that she will retreat if we don’t do this?”

Jayce shakes his head. “No, of course not,” he says quickly—then hesitates. “Her mother did, though.”

“Zatraceně,” Viktor mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose. Usually, the exchange would go on until it breaks into a bickering fight that dies off because Jayce just can’t stand conflicts. Today though, Viktor manages to play it all out it his head before it happens and settles for a solution that they would arrive at anyway, just after a week. With a sigh, he says, “Fine. What’s your angle?”

Jayce blinks. “Just like that?”

“Just like that.” Viktor shrugs. “If we can’t convince them, it’s more time wasted.”

Jayce exhales and gathers the documents, flipping to a few key pages. “Okay, uh… I collected everything we did in the past that failed. And here is what we’ve been doing since the beginning of the year,” he explains, dragging a finger down a chart. “So I say… a month? Maybe two, two months of tests on mice, and we can probably call it a fail for, let’s say, another year.”

Viktor frowns, considering. “Any way of just… putting it down. For good?”

Jayce scoffs, shaking his head. “Finding a different investor,” he says, defeated.

“Why don’t we?” Viktor asks, tilting his head. Truly, why don’t they? Ockham’s razor, if the method doesn’t work change the method, all those wisdoms suddenly clear as day and instead of getting angry Viktor is as calm as stagnant water.

Jayce huffs a laugh. “Ah… wait. Are you serious?”

“Deadly.”

“Viktor, but Mel—”

“What? Will break up with you?” Viktor cuts in smoothly.

Jayce frowns. “No. At least I hope not.”

“So?” Viktor challenges, raising a brow.

Jayce exhales, reluctant. “It will take time.”

“So will this,” Viktor counters easily. “If we both look in our free time, maybe we will find someone.”

“We don’t have free time, Viktor,” Jayce groans.

“Eh, don’t be so dramatic, Jayce,” Viktor smirks, leaning on his crutch. “I’m sure someone would be thrilled to have a cancer cure on their hands.”

Jayce considers, rubbing his jaw. “I mean… it’s possible. I guess I can ask Mel if she knows anyone.”

“There you go.” Viktor nods, satisfied.

Jayce narrows his eyes. “What the hell is with you today?”

“In what sense?” Viktor mutters in mock oblivion, his head dips between his shoulders as he is sipping his coffee.

“Why are you so fucking happy?”

Viktor smirks behind the rim of his mug. “I told you. I had fun last night,” he says, and it’s the truth this time.

Jayce rolls his eyes. “Aha, alright then. I will know, sooner or later.” He eyes Viktor’s stance. “How’s your leg?”

Viktor shrugs. “Been better. Nothing too bad, though.” He pick up the folder and turns on his chair. “Alright, I’ll go through it, you prep the lab?” Jayce only nods, still eyeing the crutch.

By lunchtime, Viktor has compiled about a thousand reasons why reversing aging is not only unethical but also impossible.

The telomere theory had long been paraded as the key to immortality—until it wasn’t. Scientists once believed that aging resulted primarily from the shortening of telomeres, the protective caps at the ends of chromosomes. Each time a cell divides, these caps erode, until eventually, the cell can no longer replicate properly. If telomere degradation could be stopped—or reversed—then so, theoretically, could aging itself.

But the reality is far more complex.

Extending telomeres doesn’t simply restore youth; it encourages uncontrolled cell growth—cancer. The body has natural safeguards for a reason, and bypassing them has proven disastrous. Tumours thrive on unchecked replication, turning what is meant to be a fountain of youth into a biological death sentence.

Which is why Viktor and Jayce are attempting to achieve the exact opposite. He taps his pen against the desk, scanning the reports before him. Even if the theory had held more promise, it was still a question of priority. But they have survived and braced through so much bullshit in the past that Viktor manages to settle into something resembling certainty—that whatever this outdated spurt is attempting, it will pass. And with its passage will come the freedom to pursue a goal far more important than a face free of wrinkles.

The rest of his day rolls between countless coffees, snacks that Jayce insists on bringing and, of course, work. By the time the sun sets his thoughts have drifted to you only three times, and only because he’s caught the glimpse of your lips imprinted on his neck each time he goes to the bathroom.

Until Jayce leaves and, inevitably, Viktor is left alone with his thoughts. And with his hands, which suddenly have nothing better to do than reach for his phone. He finds your number there, hastily exchanged right before you left for work. So he sends the text.

Normally, Viktor would put his phone away and check it again when the occasion arises, but now he gapes at it stupidly, waiting. Expecting.

Ignition is instant as three dots begin to jump by your initials, and Viktor hunches over as if that would make you type faster.

I have a thing in the evening, but I should be free at 10, if that’s not too late for you :)

Perfect, he replies—too fast to be dignified, but he cares not.

By the time 10 p.m. Saturday arrives, he is fucking giddy and nearly slaps himself when the buzzer goes off. When he waits for you at the door, crutch already exchanged, cane hanging on the coat rack, he smirks at the sight of you rolling out of the elevator in flat shoes, high heels dangling from your hand.

"Did you walk here?" he asks instead of hello, leaning against the doorframe.

You parrot him, pulling a face that attempts to distort his expression, mocking his tone. "No, genius," you say as you step through the door, tossing your shoes to the floor. "They won’t fit in my bag."

One brat point, Viktor thinks.

The second pair—the ones you’re wearing—you kick off, and as you do, Viktor asks, "How was your thing?"

"Do you really want to know?" you reply, turning—only to be met with him, lurking very, very close.

He smells good. Cheeks red. Shaking his head as he moves toward you, hands slipping under your skirt, sliding past your underwear as promised. Gliding over the round of your ass, lower, between your legs. Viktor can’t decide if this would be more fun with thighs or just as it is.

Your back meets the wall, your mouth meets his, your pussy meets his fingers in a small gathering of breaths and gasps. “Did you miss me?” you tease through exhales he allows, feeling the grin blooming against your lips.

“Are you going to be insufferable?” he hums. There is no answer to this—only a startled moan as two fingers plunge inside you. Viktor purrs, so, so pleased. “Oh, but you’ve missed me too, didn’t you?”

For you are dripping, the needy thing between your hips such a traitor.

You nod, defeated, twisting your fingers into his hair, nipping at his lip, kissing him deeply—tongue out, breathing him in as if you had been gone for a month. He tastes better when you’re sober. He tastes so much better. Feels so much better. His chest flush against yours, one hand on your neck, his forearm squeezed between your buttocks as he fingers you lazily. Your ass sticks out to meet his palm, to take more, to take him deeper.

“Greedy,” Viktor smirks as he pulls his mouth away from yours, a string of wet connecting your lips. You follow the trail, but he retreats further, shaking his head.

“We need to talk first,” he says, still playing inside you as if it’s nothing.

“You said too,” you breathe, ignoring him, pressing yourself into his neck, licking where the ghost of your mark still lingers. “So you have missed me.”

“Brat,” Viktor chuckles, but truth be told, he is utterly smitten. Defeated, too—right there with you, where your entire body begs for him. And you have no idea you’re already on three brat points, nor that he cannot fucking wait to cash them in.

But just to give you something, anything, he plucks your hand off his shoulder and places it on his crotch, whispering, “I have.”

You smile at him so sweetly Viktor would drop to his knees and eat you out if his hip weren’t still slightly busted. So, reluctantly, he pulls his fingers out of you, licks them clean in front of your very eyes—obscenely slow—then kisses you for good measure. Already wanton, you mess the shirt out of his trousers, fingers tugging impatiently, and he tsks, reprimanding,

“I meant it when I said I want to talk.”

“Fine,” you pout, fixing your skirt back in place with an air of put-upon suffering.

“Brat,” Viktor says again, but there’s a smile in it. Then, he reaches behind you, grabs his cane from the coat rack, and walks past you unceremoniously. He stops in the middle of the hallway, glancing over his shoulder with a raised brow.

“Well? Are you coming?”

“I could answer that in so many ways, you know,” you reply, exasperated, but you still drag your bare feet across the floor, slinging your bag back over your shoulder.

Viktor’s smile lingers as he sees it. The sight makes him feel oddly warm—because you’ve brought clothes to change into this time.

And he is so unhurried, it drives you insane. Maddening, the way he just makes tea, pours milk into yours without asking, and then sits across from you at the kitchen table as you resume your negotiations. He leans back in his chair, fingers curled loosely around his cup, staring at you as if weighing how to begin.

The silence is unbearable. “Are you always so responsible?” you blurt, unable to sit still, let alone wait patiently. You crack your toes against the floor, pressing them down in a distorted caricature of pointe.

“I like to know where I’m at,” Viktor says, stern but measured, blinking slowly. Then, without preamble, “So. From the start. Protection?”

You blink. “Oh. Straight in?”

A beat, and when Viktor does absolutely nothing to ease your discomfort, you release a breathy chuckle. “Okay, um… I have a patch anyway, and—” You hesitate, shifting in your chair. “Please don’t think I’m a freak, but…” You reach into your bag and pull out your phone. Tugging a strand of hair behind your ear, you fiddle on the screen before placing it in front of him. “I donated blood last month at a charity event, and these are my results.”

His brow quirks.

“So, you can lose the rubber,” you mutter, swallowing. “If you want.”

Viktor says nothing at first, just studies you with that unreadable expression of his. Then, with the same ease as before, he reaches into his pocket, pulls out his phone, and places it in front of you. The screen is already unlocked, a document open.

“What do you want?” he asks, voice low. “I test regularly. Everything’s negative.”

That catches you by surprise, though you school your face quickly, forcing yourself not to dwell too much on whatever embers of unjustified jealousy try to crack open beneath your feet. Lip caught between your teeth, you glance down—not to check if he’s telling the truth, but to give yourself an extra second to think.

Then, quietly, heat creeping up your ears, you murmur, “No condom then.”

It’s Viktor’s turn to swallow something down. His gaze darkens, as images of what he can do with this newest ruling flash through his mind. His fingers tap once against the side of his cup before he hums, satisfied. “Good.”

His voice is so casual, so certain, it’s infuriating.

“Next… safe word?” Viktor asks. You cringe, a small, involuntary wince that does not go unnoticed. He tilts his head, expression softening, and before you can even muster the courage to tell him you haven’t got the faintest idea, he steps in. “Okay,” he says, tone even, patient. “Are you familiar with the stoplight system?”

“Yes,” you say, relieved at the reprieve.

“Is that better?”

“Yes, I can do that,” you nod, fingers curling into your lap.

“Alright.” Voice still matter-of-fact, eyes stay on you, gauging, reading. “And if you can’t speak, it’s two taps for slow down, and three for stop. Is that okay?”

“Yes.” You barely recognise your own voice. It’s breathless, eager, and a little too quick to comply.

Because God, this is so hot.

Dark blood stumbles slowly through your veins, brain slipping into focus, breaths deepen and all you can hear is his voice. All you can see is his sunken-cheeked face—a map of spectacular junctions you linger on—pools of his eyes, yes, dark, yes, wanting, but above all—kind. Above all, awakened and eager when he reads the answers before you even open your mouth.

Then, his nose, again, the hill of it, the way it slithers into his cheeks. Lower, the crown of his lip, a bud made to be sucked on. It moves when he says, “Brilliant.” The word rolls out, thick and heavy, makes the muscles of his jaw flex underneath the skin and to save yourself from second degree burn on your face, you retreat to the trick of nose staring. Nearly fails you again, when he scratches it and instead of it your mind drifts to where those fingers have been just moments ago.

He leans forward, hand crawling toward you, and you place your palms flat on the table. Not yet touching, but the promise is there.

“Anything you won’t do? Hard limits?” he asks evenly, arrogant smirk impossible to hide. “It can be all sorts of things, even the basics. Like cocksucking.”

At this point it’s inching toward cruel, a praying mantis foreplay, but you suspect you are the one about to end up a meal on his plate. With a deep breath, you manage, “I’m not opposed to it,” your voice steadier than you feel.

Viktor exhales through his nose, something caught between a hum and a chuckle. “That makes me very happy.”

“I bet it does,” you mumble before you can stop yourself, pulse thundering everywhere—in your chest, wrists, pounding between your ears and legs.

The smug smile he gives you in return is positively wicked. Four points.

“So… anything?” He watches you carefully, head tilting. Then, as if making a decision, he leans back in his chair, stretching his legs out beneath the table, his feet touch yours. “I’ll tell you what,” he continues. “If anything comes up, tell me. Even if randomly. Can you do that?”

“Yes.” A beat. “And you?” you ask, voice quieter.

A complete change. Viktor feels his chest flooding with warmth, eyes widen when he reaches out for your palms and cradles them in his. “Yes. I will make sure to tell you.” His gaze holds yours, unwavering.

It’s merely a glimpse of something. Then, his expression falls back into the sardonic kind, and after a pause, he asks, “How uncomfortable does this make you feel?”

You shift in your seat, squeezing his palms. “Very.”

His lips curl. “Good.” He tilts his chin, eyes lazily dropping down your frame. “Are you wet?” he asks, so casually it stirs the bottom of your stomach into a tight cramp and your thighs clench.

“Show me,” Viktor says, and you are already standing up, already moving without thought, drawn in by the quiet command.

By the time you reach the other side of the table, his hands are already on you—steady and sure. Your fingers press into his shoulders as his palm sneaks between your legs, testing, feeling, confirming.

“Very good,” he purrs, voice drenched in satisfaction. His teasing fingers stroke over the fabric. Then, with a small tug, arms pull you forward.

“Now, come here,” he murmurs, his grip firm but careful. “One last thing.”

He guides you to straddle his lap, and you settle against him easily, warmth pooling where your bodies meet. The shift makes your skirt roll up, your underwear now completely visible, but Viktor’s eyes don’t drop—they linger on your face, on something softer.

His fingers reach for the high, snug collar of your turtleneck. He peels it back, unrolling the fabric slowly, like unwrapping a gift. Then, as soon as he sees the marks blooming along your throat, his breath catches.

“Oh my,” he muses, and his voice is velvet—rich, low, utterly charmed. His fingers brush over the bruises, ghosting along the evidence of his own mouthwork. “I got you good, haven’t I?”

Your lips twitch, suppressing a smirk. “I suppose you have.”

Viktor hums, tracing absentminded circles against your spine. His other hand rests on the curve of your bum. “Did it get you in trouble?”

“Not yet,” you admit, craning your neck, as he presses a kiss to the unmarked side. His lips are warm, his breath even warmer as he nuzzles into the skin, rubbing his nose over it before pressing another—softer, gentler—kiss.

“And you know… it’s going to be winter soon,” you murmur, fingers playing at the loose strands of his hair. “We can regroup in spring.”

Viktor huffs a quiet laugh, but his arms tighten around you. “No,” he decides. “I’ll be more careful.”

Your hands slide down to cup his jaw, your thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. “Please don’t stop, though.”

He looks at you then, properly, and behind his eyes is fondness, undeniable, as his pupils search your face, hands reassure, his lap warms you up.

“I won’t.” His voice is a promise, lips brushing the words against your skin. Then, with a knowing smirk, he whispers, “Besides, there are other places.”

And you have neither the will nor the energy to gather more brat points this evening. So instead of snapping back with something clever, you nuzzle into his neck, pressing your nose against his skin and inhaling deeply—his stupid man-soap, his stupid plain washing powder, his stupid freckled skin.

Mouth open, you drag it up the slope of his throat, unhurried, skin pulling with the friction. He exhales, head tilting back, offering himself to you eagerly. His hips slide down the chair, and you have to hold onto his shoulders when he speaks to the ceiling, “Get on your knees for me.”

He smiles when he sees how snugly you fit there and asks, “Not opposed, hm?” Your palms rest on his thighs, fingers marching toward his belt as you shake your head, a timid smile stretching your lips. Before you can undo it for him, Viktor unbuckles himself. Metal clinks on the floor as he grasps your hands and presses them to his cock, leaning in to whisper, “Not good enough. I want you to love it.”

Your hands turn shaky all of a sudden, hesitating as you unbutton him. He looms over you, already cradling your nape, foreshadowing the moment the spaces between his fingers will be full of your hair. No drunken haze, no fucked-out brain—finally, you get a proper look. And Viktor is pretty, head to toe, you realise. His cock is half-hard, framed by dark hair that meets in a tempting line on his lower belly, rising and falling with each deep breath—just as the crown of his upper lip, it is made to be sucked on.

By the time your mouth reaches him, he’s so deeply blissed out he staggers. Because it’s not just your mouth—it’s your entire face that hugs him, repeating the gesture from the first night, when you simply rested your cheek on his length and breathed him in. His stupid man-smell. Sweet and salty with sweat, and you want to be closer, so you yank his pants down to his ankles. Viktor says nothing about the fact that you’ve done so without permission.

Because you move in, arms wrapping around his waist, your entire face pressed into his groin, mouth agape as you breathe deeply. Tranquillity, absolute and endless, floods you when, instead of yanking your head, he strokes it and sighs, long and heavy.

And then, you kiss him as if his cock were his lips—open-mouthed and with tongue—gliding over every inch in a loving rhythm, from the base to the tip and back down. Pressing him into his own stomach, hands tightening around his hips, you hum into his skin and Viktor shudders. Overwhelmed, he holds your jaw and urges you to stick your tongue out, mimicking the gesture himself. And that’s when you notice—his tongue is pretty too.

Cock lands in your mouth, its flushed head drags across the wet surface, teasing, the heat of your breath enveloping him. He pulls back, letting the tip slip free, and then smears the slickness of your spit along your cheek. The gesture so full of intent, his thumb following to spread it further, tracing the damp streak before he taps your cheek with his cock once—twice—three times, and smiles, grins with teeth and all. You’ve thought it impossible, but he just managed to get prettier even.

Your fingers curl into the fabric of his pants, gripping tight. Your eyes flutter shut, waiting.

“Ready?” he murmurs, voice thick.

You nod, anticipation rolling through you, but Viktor is nothing if not careful. His warm palm finds your cheek again, thumb pressing gently at the hinge of your jaw. “Remember about taps,” he reminds you, free hand cradling the back of your head. Then, finally, he pushes forward, slow but insistent, the head of his cock breaching your lips.

“That’s it,” he sighs, his grip tightening as he sinks deeper. “Good girl… You feel so—” He exhales sharply, rocking his hips shallowly. “That’s right. God, you feel good.”

His pace builds, measured at first, the tight ring of your mouth around him making his breath grow heavier. His fingers twitch against your scalp as he mutters, “So fucking pretty like this.”

Each word of praise spurs you on. You moan around his cock, and Viktor grunts with effort, his breath shuddering, brows knitting. He brushes your hair off your face, gathering it carefully in his hand, mindful not to pull. Tears begin to sting the corners of your eyes, but you do not falter. You clutch his legs for support as Viktor shifts to the edge of the chair, caging you between his thighs.

Sweat begins to pearl on his forehead, fingers pressing deeper into muscle. His voice thickens, English fracturing as pleasure takes over.

“Děláš mi to tak dobře,” he groans, voice rough with need. His hips push forward with a little more force, testing. “Podívej se na tebe… tak nádherná s pusou plnou.”

Less air, more heat pooling low in your belly. Drool pooling in your mouth. A tear breaks free, rolling down your cheek, and something shifts in Viktor’s expression—fascinated. Your lashes flutter, eyes hazy as he holds you there, thighs clenching.

He pulls back, letting you gasp, spit clinging between your lips and his skin before he presses in again, deeper this time. His grip tightens at your nape, holding you steady.

“Můj chytrý, drzý, krásný děvče,” he pants, voice hoarse, words spilling from him like a prayer. “Vezmi si mě celého.”

You roll your tongue out and angle your head for him to enter easier. He’s back instantly, you catch only a glimpse of his cock glistening in your drool, and it excites you, boiling over. He slides in, slowly, watches himself disappear between your lips with wide eyes, half of him, and then, oh, all of him, as your throat straightens and becomes full. All falls quiet around you, and you close your eyes, holding him in for four long seconds, before patting his thigh twice.

Viktor retreats immediately, cradles your face and asks, “Colour?” before you are done gulping on air.

“Green,” you rasp, reaching back for his cock, a string of drool hanging from your lip, low, nearly staining your chest.

You flatten your tongue, tilt your head, open up. He’s there in an instant, the blunt, slick head pressing against your lips. A brief glance down—his cock shining, thick with spit, dark hair curling damp at the base. A sharp pulse flares in your loins at the sight, and then he’s sliding back in, slow, watching himself vanish between your lips. Halfway. Then deeper. Your throat takes him, stretches, the press of him filling your mouth, your ribs tightening with the effort of stillness.

Everything stills, quiet in your ears. His hand heavy at the back of your skull, his breath gone shallow. Your lashes flutter, eyes shut. Four long seconds, your lungs burning, and then—two quick taps to his thigh.

He pulls back instantly, his hands gentle when they frame your face. “Colour?” His voice frays at the edges, all rasp and need.

“Green.” Your voice is wrecked, breathless. You reach back for him, spit trailing from your lip, stringing low, silver in the dim light. “Please, again.”

His thumbs stroke across your cheeks, slow, tracing heat beneath the skin. “What have I done to deserve you?” His voice, a rasp of breath and want. He presses a dry kiss to your forehead, something reverent in it, then tilts your face up. “Does it feel good, when you can’t breathe?”

Your breath stutters. “Yes,” barely more than air, forehead pressing to his chin, hands clenching around his wrists. “God, yes.” The words slip free like a confession.

He lets you hold on, lets you bear down as he presses in again. The tension of muscle, the slow give of your throat around him. He watches, eyes dark, intent—reads the flicker of your lashes, the shudder in your ribs, the shine of spit where it slicks him. He sees the way your body makes space for him, the way your throat clenches, the way tears bead and slip from the corners of your eyes.

A long, shuddering breath. He pushes deeper. Watches himself disappear, faster this time. Pulling your hand with him, his fingers skate down, brush the column of your throat, mapping the way it stretches, the pulse leaping beneath his touch. He watches, always watching, eyes heavy-lidded, half-wild, but still careful. His palm flattens, thumb stroking over your skin as he rocks forward, measuring each inch that slides in, each tiny shift of muscle.

“Good,” he murmurs, voice fragmented. “Touch yourself.”

Hand leaves his wrist and finds its place between your legs when you part your thighs and dip into your underwear. It sticks to your skin, drenched, when you part yourself and try to not lose focus. You picture it’s him, somehow, touching you.

His hips roll, slow at first, feeding you the length of him, watching how your lips part wider, how your jaw strains to take him deeper. He feels your fingers flex around his wrist, grip tightening before easing, giving way. The first wet sound pulls a groan from him, rough yet quiet.

“There you go,” he says, as if coaxing something delicate to open. His thumb lingers at your throat, pressing just enough to feel himself inside. His grip at your nape steadies you as he moves again, guiding you, his restraint threadbare.

The wet pull of your mouth drags another guttural sound from his chest, and it sounds so fucking lovely you moan around his cock. His words break into rough blabber, heat-struck and low. “Tak nádherná... tak dokonalá…”

A stutter of hips, breath cuts when he swallows hard and fingers tease at your throat. “Breathe,” he reminds, voice fraying, rasping. “Tap if—” His voice cuts off as you swallow around him, as your tongue presses firm.

His jaw clenches, body tight, but his hand never leaves your throat, never stops searching for your breath, for the shift of muscle as he works himself deeper.

Your eyes flicker up, wet and wide. The sight of you like this undoes him.

His breath stutters out, a ragged curse, his head tipping back. Fingers tightening as heat coils, as his restraint snaps, and with a final shuddering groan, he spills into your mouth. The taste of him, heavy salt, the sight of his stomach hollowing out under the muscle cramp, tips you over and you suck him out, milk him, grunting around his sensitive skin, cunt clenching around nothing as you come.

You swallow around him until there is a vacuum, and Viktor hisses, his grip on your head tightening. He exhales heavily, unsteady, then pulls out with a wet sigh and beckons you up by the neck, guiding you back until your thighs bracket his.

Up there, in his lap, he kisses you—deep, grateful—licking himself from your mouth. A low hum rumbles in his chest as he wraps his arms around you.

“Not opposed, huh?” he teases.

You chuckle, warmth curling at the edges of your voice. “I suppose you can call me a fan,” you admit, sheepish, fingers idly tracing the back of his neck.

Viktor is already elsewhere, mind moving faster than breath, reading you even now. “How are you feeling?”

You exhale, pressing your forehead to his shoulder. “So fucking tired. But good. Now good.”

He hums, then urges you to stand. His own movements are slow, careful—he rises with difficulty, a quiet wince caught in his throat. He stretches, rolling his shoulders, then glances at you. “How early do you have to wake up tomorrow?”

You shift on your feet, rubbing your arms. “I don’t… I have to do some things in the evening, but I have Sunday morning free.”

And Viktor tries not to come off as anything, face fully naked when he says, “I implore you to stay, then.”

Spacing out just a bit, not as strongly as the last time, you nod, sling the bag back over your shoulder and let yourself be walked to his bedroom. There, wordlessly, Viktor undresses down to his underwear. You catch the glimpse of a fresh bruise on his stomach, previously hidden beneath his shirt. He sits on the bed, stretching his leg out with a sigh, then looks up at you, still standing awkwardly in the middle of the room.

“You can change in the bathroom, you know?” he says, amusement curling at the edges of his lips.

“I know, I just—” you hesitate. “It’s just very domestic,” you say, cringing at your own immaturity.

Viktor exhales a laugh through his nose. “Only because we are at my home.” His gaze lingers, curious. “Does that bother you?”

“No,” you say and the fact that it truly doesn’t—that’s what bothers you. Viktor shifts from acting like he cares beyond measure to as if he would go wherever the wind blows. From being utterly excited about your discontentment to completely unbothered about anything you decide. He sits on the bed in just his boxers, giving you a lopsided smile. “Go change.”

As soon as you do, he falls onto his back and presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. “Fuck,” he mutters quietly to himself. After a long breath, he rolls onto his belly, reaching into the bedside stand. He pulls out a syringe, rolls back, sits up, and gathers a small pinch of skin on his stomach. On the opposite side of the fresh bruise, the needle goes in smoothly, but Viktor hisses at the sensation of fluid expanding the tissues. He massages it out and drops the syringe into the trash bin beside the bed.

By the time you come out of the bathroom, he’s already in bed. His arm is flung over his face, his body slack, only the subtle rise and fall of his chest betraying that he’s still awake. You settle into the farthest edge of the bed—just like last time.

Viktor chuckles when you slide under the covers and yawn. Shifting closer, he reaches for you, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you against his chest. His breath is warm against your temple.

“Why are you all the way over there again?” he murmurs, voice tired.

“I don’t know,” you mumble, arms trapped, fingers tapping his sternum. “I don’t want to invade your space.”

Viktor hums, his lips ghosting over your hair. “You are in my bed,” he points out, his tone dry but fond.

You hesitate, then offer, “I can go if you want me to.”

“Hush now,” he chides softly, arms tightening. A pause, then, quieter, “Do you mind this?”

Your breathe out a quiet groan. Then, “N-no,” you stammer. “But I’m fine today, I don’t need—”

“I do,” he interrupts, his voice lower, steady. His fingers splay against your back, pressing you close. “I need this.” A beat of silence, then, gentler, “Is that okay?”

And even if you were able to say no before, now it’s impossible. Because Viktor sinks, his face brushing against yours in something almost absentmindedly affectionate, his breath warming up your cheek. Being needed overrides the unease of non-sexual closeness.

“It’s okay,” you mutter finally. Then, “Viktor?”

“Hm?” he hums, the sound lazy, content.

“Why a skirt?”

“Ah,” A chuckle. “No reason really, other than that I like your legs. Also, easier access, if you please,” he says, squeezing your butt. “I might have gotten a better use of it, wasn’t my leg not up to it today.” That’s a quiet admission he hasn’t meant to share yet, but it just happens. And it lands softly in your clever brain that connects the dots quickly.

“Is that why your stomach is bruised?”

“Oh.” He shifts slightly, reaching back toward the nightstand. “Partly. It’s the brace,” he explains, retrieving a small syringe and holding it up for you to see. “These prevent blood clotting under the trapped tissue.”

You frown. “It looks painful.” Another piece of Viktor for your collection.

“It doesn’t hurt,” he assures you, setting the syringe aside. His mouth quirks slightly. “But I’m aware it’s not the most aesthetically pleasing sight.”

You scoff. “Your stomach is one of the most aesthetically pleasing sights I’ve had the opportunity to ogle.” You hesitate, then add, softer, “I’m just checking. Just curious.”

Viktor exhales a quiet chuckle. “I like your stomach too.”

You snort. “Are you always such a sap after sex?”

“Do you want me to be mean?” he counters, brow quirking.

“No,” you say quickly. “No, please be a sap.”

He hums again, his grip on you tightening briefly. “You are a very strange creature,” he says at last, affection dripping from his tongue, though it seems he hadn’t intended it to. Mercifully, you don’t comment on it. You just nose into his neck, breathing in deeply—the stupid smell of him. —

Translations: Děláš mi to tak dobře – You make me feel so good Podívej se na tebe… tak nádherná s pusou plnou – Look at you… so beautiful with your mouth full Můj chytrý, drzý, krásný děvče – My smart, sassy, beautiful girl Vezmi si mě celého – Take all of me Tak nádherná... tak dokonalá… – So beautiful… so perfect…

[vampyrevolution]

Saying Mel falls into the "Disposable Black Girlfriend trope" just because of jayvik completely disregards the writing of her character and how her relationship with Jayce is an echo of her problems with her mother and city.

Now I'm not saying the dbg trope is not a GENUINE problem in media, because it is, but usually this trope consists of a black woman with lousy writing who's tossed away for two (usually white and gay but that is a totally different long story that deals with a long history of racism and erasure of black women in queer spaces for the sake of gay men) characters who get with each other.

This is not that and I need to explain why. Jayce and Mel UNDOUBTEDLY loved each other at SOME point, but their relationship did not have solid ground hence them breaking up. Mel wanted to be with Jayce because it symbolized rebellion, a unique way of looking at life and helping people. It symbolized something she was willing to risk everything for to see it prosper because this was the city she was building for her family in Noxus, to show her family she WAS the wolf and could handle be a leader, and a peaceful one at that. But to Jayce, she symbolized high society, a seat at the very table that tried to get rid of him, a part of the power he thought he deserved and a place where he knew he could MAKE A DIFFERENCE FOR THE PEOPLE.

The two of them loved the idea of one another, but never independently, the other. To say Mel is the disposable black girlfriend is to also ignore everything she went through in the season finale and everything that she's becoming, especially with the information that Noxus (where Mel is and will most likely be a lead character again) will be another series location. Mel is a complex lead whose story revolves around her at home life and familial relationship. Yes she's used as a mirror to parallel Viktor but that literally doesn't mean she's disposable, breaking up just means two characters were not meant to be and they recognized that.

Also in what world would Jayce be able to consciously even want to get back with Mel knowing she had magic and he was on a mini solo-war against the arcane? Where he thinks she's been able to control her magic this whole time and would constantly wonder why she didn't save Viktor because if she had, none of this would be happening?

That man does not wanna be with her 😭 he has literally always thought about Viktor.

And Mel has always thought about her family

They've both always seen each other as a way out their problems and a gateway/mirror to the ones they love. You could even say they're two sides of the same coin.

Also, Mel, Ekko and JayVik literally saved everyone in the end so idk how you could think this when Mel literally helped save the whole world as an imperative character to the plot.

[jaijeijayjei]

Mel/Jayce/Viktor in the Tinkerbell universe

As others have said, Mel is basically Queen Clarion, or at least one of the Ambassadors. She has governing talent (which I think would be symbolized by a scroll?)

If she did have an elemental talent I think it would be light, for obvious reasons. (I’m pretty sure her abilities in league are listed as light magic…?) Plus gold and sun imagery suits her design so well.

Jayce shares a lot of similarities with Zarnia, so I hc him as a dust keeper fairy obsessed with dustology. They both experiment with an ultra powerful shiny blue magic thing against their mentor's advice, slack on their responsibilities because they're busy doing research, want to revolutionize their society with magic, gets in trouble for accidentally causing a disaster, is/almost is banished.

Or, he would be fire talent and he uses it in blacksmithing (very resistant to heat so he can mold it by hand, using controlled jets of fire to make more elaborate designs, etc.)

Viktor would be a tinker fairy! He's inventive and wants to improve lives with technology. Also, the classism against tinker fairies in the original movie as inferior to the other talents mirrors the challenges he faces as a Zaunite. (I also get strong Viktor vibes from Bobble)

If he had a nature talent it would be caring for animals because of how much he cared about Rio. Also, if his wings are too weak to fly for long periods, having a bird companion that helps him get around would be cool (like Lord Milori)

Is it too much to ask for a universe out there where they’re all happy, healthy, and fairies!??

Possible relationships:

Mel/Viktor- Light Fairy!Mel and Animal Fairy!Viktor go on a mission to the mainland to save animals from being hurt by light pollution in cities. OR Queen!Mel supports Tinker!Viktor’s efforts to make Pixie hollow more accessible to disabled fairies.

Jayce/Viktor - Dust Keeper!Jayce and Tinker!Viktor work together on creating Pixie dust alchemy, combining Jayce’s knowledge of magic and Viktor’s talent for inventing scientific equipment. Cue misadventures with two highly intelligent individuals who also have zero common sense

Mel/Jayce - Light Fairy!Mel and Fire Fairy!Jayce work together in maintaining forests, with Jayce doing controlled burns to clear space for new growth and Mel ensuring the newly plants have enough light through the thick foliage. (When they kiss little sparkles fly around them- ew who said that)

For MelJayVik, just mash any of those story lines together lol.

[melmedardasworld]

Honestly, Mel is NOT a mirror to Viktor. The fact that ppl (shippers) take that line talking about HER powers and story arc and in a literal sense apply it to Jayvik is insane. I've just seen so many dishonest discussions about Mel's storyline being more than being tied to a man (absolutely true), but then turning around to validate HER peculiar story and character development for a ship. If you really valued her and cared for her, you wouldn't say this, and it's lowkey gross. It gives the same vibe as those animators saying Jayce had to sleep with Mel to know it was Viktor all along. People can say don't use their words as truth, but a LOT of people are using that as a gotcha for shipping war bs. I see the viral posts and overarching well the writers/animators, etc. said it was, so my ship is canon, and yours isn't (just delusional all around).

Gone are the times wheter canon didn't dictate people in getting so heated and nasty and just want to be right.

I'd say Mel and Viktor are foils, and if the writers took the time to actually have Mel and Viktor interact past putting Jayce as an in-between (often only squished as the prize) character, we could get decent analyses and discussions.

Currently, the majority of their dynamic by fandom is literally based on people's saying that she looks down on Viktor cause she ignored/looked at him a certain way in one scene and micro analysed her expression or that she's a manipulative (groomer) seductress that used Jayce for her own gains when honestly everyone used each other (Jayce 'used' Mel, Mel 'used' Jayce, Viktor 'used' the both of them directly and indirectly etc.) Is that manipulation? No. I'd call it being mature enough to understand that certain ventures and goals involve give and take. I think MelJayVik understood that when it came to Hextech and that in itself cause more complex issues and implications once the whole Zaun vs. Piltover storyline erupted.

We could've actually had intellectual scenes between where we touch uppn the fact that Mel is part of an oppressive system as a Councillor (and that whole system that was set in place waaaay before she came to Piltover as an exile and ended up where she is) and that her ideas for Piltover, didn't include Zaun, where Viktor is from and on the opposite end had to work his way up and only ended up as an assistant until he and Jayce became lab partners.

Instead, we get dumbed down discussions and views that have shipping at its basis and fandom, concluding that their interpretation is canon when it's quite not. It doesn't help when the writers have fallen into that same cycle in S2. Now they come out in interviews to put their perspective out when I'm like, why didn't you put it in the show then if that was your intention or how it should've been interpreted?

It's bad writing and storytelling.

It really makes me wonder if the writers cut that happened between S1 and S2 was really the reason behind the ish we got in the final Arcs.

[starlight-tav]

I'm going fucking insane over Jayce & Viktor so I offer you an unhinged ramble about the butterfly and the narrative structure of their relationship. I apologize in advanced for being batshit.

So Viktor and Jayce's relationship is a chiastic structure. A chiasm is where the beginning and end of a story point to the middle of it, creating an X or ∞ (a chiasma is also a structure in genetics, if you've seen the word in science classes before.)

This means that the rise and fall of the narrative mirror each other (parallelism). There are many parallels in Jayce and Viktor's relationship, with one of the most overt being "Am I interrupting?" and one of the more covert examples being Viktor's belief in Jayce's dream to use science to bring access to the Arcane ("Our hextech dream") and Jayce's belief in Viktor leading them to shattering access to the Arcane web ("We finish this together.")

At the center of this narrative is death and resurrection (metamorphosis). The first season ends with Viktor's death, and the second begins with his resurrection, the literal center of the story.

Now, Arcane is about love in its entirety. All-encompassing, earth-shattering, life-giving, life-taking love. Love, which inspires our greatest evil and our greatest good, is something that changes us. Love which can lead to grief, can make us into our worst selves (consider the warmongering), but it can also make us into our kindest selves (consider Isha.)

Jayce's love for Viktor saves him but it also changes him. Twice. When Viktor dies, Jayce is unwilling to let him go and uses the hexcore to resurrect him. This transforms Viktor into the Herald.

When Jayce is forced into the alternate reality where he experiences the decline of his body and the struggle to climb from the depths to the surface (a narrative representation of empathy), he finally understands Viktor. This transformative understanding primes him to fulfill his promises to Viktor, past and future - to destroy the hexcore and stop the Arcane from bleeding out all over reality; to save Viktor.

The butterfly is a well-know symbol of transformation, so it's no accident that it follows Viktor and Jayce from the very beginning to the very end. But it isn't just a visual representation of love and its power, but a reminder of the very structure of their narrative.

Because Arcane is also about perspective - narratives. Silco and Vander show us how our shared experiences can yield different motivations, as do Jinx and Vi, and Ambessa and Mel too. Every single one of these characters is motivated by love, but their methods are opposing forces.

We see, time and time again, that those with the most power are those who control the narrative (power in Zaun creating a righteous rebellion vs power in Piltover creating a narrative of dangerous insurrection), and that power lacking empathy is corruptive (Cait and Ambessa forsaking empathy in favor of violently seizing control vs. Vi and Mel embodying empathy to save that which they love.)

At the center of all of this conflict is partnership. Failed partnerships, like Vander & Silco and redeeming partnerships, like Ekko & Jinx. Viktor and Jayce share a dream, and that dreams bleeds the Arcane, corrupting reality. But when they forsake their partnership (Jayce joining the council and Viktor leaving the lab), it nearly destroys everything.

When they lean into their affection, when they utilize empathy, when they let their love be transformative, they heal the Arcane and reality. In their final moments, they mirror each other, and as they're scattered into all timelines and all possibilities by the explosion they are transformed into something cosmic together. Their story ends as it began.

We know from the lifecycle of the butterfly, by the structure of the narrative, that beginnings and endings are not so finite. Love is both a constant ("in all timelines, in all possibilities") and an anomaly ("That which inspires us to our greatest good, is also the cause of our greatest evil".) It is the infinite, and the infinite is not a line with a beginning and an end, but a tangle of time and potential.

The chiastic structure of Jayce and Viktor's relationship is one that shows that love itself is the most powerful and transformative force in nature. It demonstrates that love doesn't just have the potential create or destroy but to do both at the same time; that reality isn't binary, but it is symmetrical. A butterfly was always a caterpillar and a caterpillar was always a butterfly; it experiences both, not one or the other (there's even a moment where it's neither and both all at once!)

Love is imperfect. People are imperfect. When Jayce is transformed in the depths of Zaun, he finally understands this. He carries this revelation to the height of Piltover where he finds Viktor waiting for him.

"There is no prize to perfection, only an end to pursuit."

If love were perfect it would stagnate, dreamless. Recognizing its power is seeing it for all its good and evil, and choosing it all the same.

"You were never broken, Viktor. There's beauty in imperfections. They made you who you are. An inseparable piece of everything I admired about you."

Viktor's transformation isn't from a broken man into the Herald, it's from a man believing himself unworthy of love to one knowing he is loved unconditionally. If love were perfect it would require perfection of us. But it isn't and it doesn't. Only Jayce can show Viktor this, because Jayce loves Viktor and Viktor loves Jayce.

"I thought I wanted to give magic to the world, but all I want is my partner back."

Think about Singed telling Viktor that "Love and legacy are the sacrifices we make for progress."

And Viktor responding, "Jayce will understand."

He did understand eventually, only he sacrifices progress and legacy for love and transformation. Love is not the opposite of progress, perfection is the opposite of progress. In a perfect world, there is no need to dream together. Jayce understands this. He shows Viktor this. And together they change.

I've always been bad at concluding paragraphs, but I hope my rambling has made sense up to the point. TLDR; the butterfly is a visual representation of Jayce and Viktor's narrative as one of love and transformation.

[jhyoos]

Dreams Come True

Chapter 3 : I Still Love You

summary : (y/n) goes partying with jinx and the friend group.

warning: LOTS OF ANGST, jealousy, sevika with a eyebrow piercing 😫

Chapters: one, two, christmas special, three, four , five

The moonlight streamed through the large windows of Mel’s apartment as you stood in front of a full-length mirror, arms crossed, staring down at yet another outfit. Piles of dresses, skirts, and tops were strewn across the bed and floor, each rejected with a shake of your head. Jinx was sitting cross-legged on the bed, tossing discarded clothes to the side with little care, while Mel stood beside you, her sharp eyes appraising the options with a discerning gaze.

“Come on, Tinker, this is the third dress I’ve tried on. None of these are it,” you groaned, tugging at the hem of the bodycon dress you currently wore.

Jinx, twirling a lollipop between her fingers, raised a brow. “First of all, don’t call me that while I’m working my magic. Second, you’re being too picky! Just wear the red one.”

You turned to glare at her. “I am not being picky. I just... don’t feel like myself in any of these.”

Mel placed a hand on your shoulder, her polished nails glinting in the sunlight. “That’s the problem. Tonight’s about stepping out of your comfort zone. You’ve been working yourself to death, and you deserve a break. Trust me, darling, once we find the right dress, you’ll feel unstoppable.”

Jinx rolled her eyes, hopping off the bed. “She’s right, you know. Besides, we didn’t drag you out for nothing. You’re going, no matter what.” She rummaged through a bag of dresses she brought, muttering to herself before pulling out something sheer and black.

“Here we go,” she said triumphantly, holding up the dress with a dramatic flourish. It was a sheer, black mesh dress adorned with velvet floral patterns, delicate yet daring. The intricate designs wove across the fabric like vines, and the ruffled hem added a touch of flirtiness.

Your eyes widened. “That’s... bold.”

“Exactly,” Jinx said with a mischievous grin, holding the dress up to you. “You’ll look hot, confident, and like you’re ready to own the night.”

Mel stepped forward, smoothing the fabric with her fingers. “It’s perfect. Feminine but edgy, and the black will make your features pop under the club lights. Try it on.”

With a reluctant sigh, you took the dress and stepped into the bathroom to change. The moment you stepped back out, silence fell. Jinx’s lollipop nearly fell out of her mouth, and Mel’s lips curved into a satisfied smile.

“Holy crap,” Jinx said, standing up and circling you. “You’re gonna turn every head in that place.”

You glanced in the mirror, smoothing down the delicate fabric. The way it hugged your figure and the subtle hints of skin peeking through the floral patterns made you feel more confident than you had in months.

“I don’t know...” you started, but Jinx cut you off, placing her hands on your shoulders.

“Nope. None of that. You look amazing, and you’re going. End of story.”

Mel handed you a pair of black heels and a delicate necklace. “She’s right. Now, finish getting ready. The night won’t wait for you.”

You hesitated for a moment, but Jinx gave you her best puppy-dog eyes. “Come on, you owe me for being the world’s best hype woman.”

Finally, you laughed, throwing your hands up. “Fine. I’ll go. But if this night ends in disaster, it’s on both of you.”

Jinx clapped her hands in victory, already grabbing her phone to blast the news to everyone. “You won’t regret this, Tinker guarantees it!”

-

The club was alive, a pulsating maze of neon lights and pounding bass that thrummed through your body. You arrived with Jinx, Ekko, Jayce, and Viktor, all of whom were already buzzing with excitement. Vi was there too, along with two of her hockey teammates, Ellie and Abby. The sight of her made your chest tighten. She looked effortlessly cool in a leather jacket, her confident smirk drawing attention from nearly everyone in the room.

Jinx grabbed your hand, pulling you toward the bar. “Drinks first, dancing later,” she declared, ordering for both of you.

You couldn’t help but glance at Vi as she leaned against the counter a few feet away, laughing at something Ellie said. Fans recognized her almost immediately, a small group approaching to take pictures and ask for autographs. You watched as she charmed them effortlessly, even flirting with a few, her grin sharp and full of mischief.

Your stomach twisted. It wasn’t jealousy—not entirely. It was the sharp reminder of the space between you now, the way she had moved on while you were still trying to piece yourself back together.

“Don’t even look at her,” Jinx whispered in your ear, nudging your drink toward you. “This is your night, Superstar. Not hers.”

You smiled weakly and raised your glass. “To surviving your plans,” you teased, and she laughed, clinking her glass against yours.

Vi stayed on the sidelines for most of it, sipping her drink and talking with Ellie and Abby. But every so often, you felt her eyes on you, a magnetic pull that you tried to ignore.

As the night went on, every so often, you caught sight of her leaning close to one of them, that damn smirk of hers lighting up her face as they giggled at whatever she said.

“Tinker, get me another drink please,” you called out to Jinx, needing something to numb the ache clawing at your chest.

“Sure thing, Superstar!” she replied, darting off with her usual energy.

As you stood there, sipping your drink and trying to shake off the bitterness creeping in, a deep voice broke through your thoughts.

“Not having fun, doll?”

You turn to see a beautiful woman her tall, muscular frame contrasts with the softness of the dim, colorful lights. A silver eyebrow piercing glints when she raises a drink to her lips, the small detail adding to her rugged, almost dangerous charm. She extended a hand toward you. “My name is Sevika. Dance with me. You look like you need it.”

For a moment, you hesitated, glancing toward Vi out of the corner of your eye. She was still at the bar, laughing with her fans, entirely unaware of you.

Screw it, you thought.

You took Sevika’s hand, letting her lead you onto the dance floor. Her grip was steady, her movements confident as she spun you around. The two of you fell into a rhythm, her low chuckle meeting your laughter as she teased you for stumbling over your own feet.

But the moment didn’t last.

Out of nowhere, a blur of motion interrupted your dance. Vi’s voice cut through the music, sharp and furious.

“Back off, Sevika!”

You turned just in time to see Vi shove Sevika, her eyes blazing with a mix of anger and jealousy.

Sevika raised an eyebrow, smirking. “What’s your problem, cupcake? She’s the one who said yes.”

Before you could intervene, Vi swung at her, landing a solid punch to Sevika’s jaw. The crowd around you gasped, forming a loose circle as the two of them grappled.

“Vi, stop!” you shouted, trying to push your way toward them. But Jinx was faster, grabbing your arm and pulling you back.

“Let them work it out,” she said with a grin that suggested she was more amused than concerned.

“Are you kidding me?!” you snapped, trying to break free. But Jinx held on tight.

The fight escalated, with Sevika throwing a punch of her own and Vi retaliating without hesitation. The bouncers were already moving in, and you knew it was only a matter of seconds before they were thrown out.

-

You couldn’t watch anymore. Frustrated and embarrassed, you tore yourself away from Jinx and stormed out of the club. The cold night air hit you like a slap, cooling your flushed skin and giving you the space to breathe.

You leaned against the wall, staring up at the stars as you tried to steady your racing heart.

“(Y/N).”

Her voice was soft, hesitant. You didn’t turn around.

“What the hell was that, Vi?” you asked, your voice trembling with anger. “You couldn’t just let me have this one night?”

She stepped closer, but you still didn’t face her. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice raw. “I couldn’t stand seeing you with her.”

You laughed bitterly, finally turning to look at her. “Oh, you couldn’t stand it? That’s rich coming from you. Do you have any idea how it feels to watch you flirt with everyone in sight? You act like I don’t even exist.”

Her expression crumpled, guilt flashing across her face. “It’s not like that,” she said, her voice breaking. “I wasn’t—I didn’t mean—”

“Shut up,” you interrupted, your voice rising. “Just shut up, Vi. You don’t get to be jealous. You don’t get to act like this when you’re the one who left me!”

Her hands clenched into fists at her sides. “I know I messed up, okay? I know I hurt you. But I still—”

“Don’t you dare,” you cut in, your voice trembling. “Don’t you dare say you still love me. You don’t get to say that after everything you put me through.”

Tears welled in your eyes as you continued. “Do you even know what it was like for me? After you left, I barely ate. I barely slept. I was falling apart, and you—” Your voice broke, and you took a shaky breath. “You were out there, living your life like I didn’t matter.”

“I never stopped caring about you,” Vi said, her own tears spilling over. “I tried to move on, but I couldn’t. No one else compares to you, (Y/N).”

You shook your head, the anger and hurt bubbling over. “That’s not enough, Vi. Love isn’t enough if you’re just going to leave the second things get hard.”

“I was scared,” she admitted, her voice cracking. “I was scared that I wasn’t enough for you. That I’d hold you back.”

“That wasn’t your choice to make!” you shouted, the tears streaming freely down your face now.

She stepped closer, her voice desperate. “I know I can’t undo the past, but I need you to know that I’m sorry. And that I still love you. I never stopped.”

You closed your eyes, the weight of her words crashing over you. “I don’t know if I can forgive you,” you whispered.

She reached out, pulling you into a hug before you could push her away again. You froze, the warmth of her arms both comforting and painful.

“Please,” she murmured, her voice breaking. “Let me make it up to you.”

For a moment, you let yourself lean into her, the familiar scent of her bringing back memories you had tried so hard to forget. But then the reality of it all hit you, and you pulled away, shaking your head.

“I can’t do this, Vi,” you said, your voice trembling. “Not again.”

Vi’s hand shot out, grabbing (Y/N) by the wrist before she could pull away again. This time, it wasn’t a comforting hug she pulled her into, but something different. The force of it made (Y/N)’s heart race, and before she could fully process, Vi’s lips were crashing into hers.

The kiss was messy—drunk and desperate—but there was a passion in it neither could deny. (Y/N) hesitated for a moment, caught off guard, but the heat of the moment, the softness of Vi’s lips, and the way she felt so close made (Y/N) give in, kissing her back with equal intensity.

When they finally pulled away, both panting and slightly dizzy, Vi looked at her, her voice low and serious despite the alcohol. “Come back home with me.”

(Y/N) nodded, not trusting herself to speak, but the promise in her gaze said everything.

mini tag-list 🎀: @snowbunnyboo @taurtel @justsomegaygirlig

[ughigottaheadache]

Some prefaces if I ever do post anything about the zombie apocalypse meljayvik au-

There is no magic, no hextech.

As this is a modern au, through child welfare channels, Viktor was able to get earlier treatment for his disease and eventually physical therapy which he was doing regularly until the world went to shit.

So just as a launching point, this Viktor is already a lot more healthy and medically cared for than canon!Viktor.

Just to avoid any confusion when I write this and Viktor is capable of doing more things than he could in canon.

Next up, it wouldn’t be a one character point of view, Mel, Jayce and Vik would each have their own unique character and plot driven arcs. I might toss some POV’s around to fill out space and keep readers engaged, but this story IS about Mel, Jayce and Viktor.

Also, this is still very much a drafting stage, I need point A to B before I can fill in the gaps. Some of the story beats will mirror the events of Arcane, some will be skipped over completely, and there will be new story elements completely original to my fic.

[mochimochimona]

Why Jayce and Viktor are romantically in love but only at the end (sadly) and their relationship is the ultimate form of unconditionally love there is.

I finished Arcane and was really interested in the debate wether Jayce and Viktor are romantically in love or not, platonic relationship this and that and I will spit my thoughts into the void of tumblr, because I had to get that out. It's long, not gonna lie.

I think Arcane is ultimately about the human evolution on an emotionally level, to break the circle of hate, war and vengeance with sacrifice and forgiveness and a love born out of friendship and kinship.

That's why they took Jayce and Viktors relationship as one of the main storylines and what had driven the story forward most at the end - because their relationship was the one with the most destructive energy.

I think Jayce was only friends with Viktor at first. Viktor loved him on a deeper level earlier on, as implied through the dialogue with Siege. "Love and legacy" -"Jayce will understand". For him, Jayce is both. Their legacy of Hextech but also his love for him. You can argue that siege didn't imply romantic love but I don't think he was talking about that kind of love.

Arcane is about love and hate, as Viktor states when he gets killed first, that's the human notion and why he wants to get rid of his humanity, because he wasn't loved for a long time, he was weak, frowned upon and an outcast. I guess that's why he helped Jayce with the Hextech in the first place, a small parallel between them. And of course he is a big nerd lol but he saw that Jayce had a vision, wanted to make the world a better place (as Viktor) and help Pilotover and Zaun.

Jayce realization he was taking the wrong priorities after he found out Viktor will die. You can see the change happening in Jayce, but its really slow, with everything going on. When Viktor was dying because of Jinx's attack, he panicked, rushed and ignored the promise he made Viktor and used the hex core.

And here is the thing: his relationship with Mel changes, too. It's subtle because it's never made topic or center, but I think they were never really in love love (I get to that later). Mel was using Jayce at first but I do think she started to care about Jayce and it is argued that she may have been the mirror of Viktor. But even that aside, she tried to help Jayce and felt guilty, for using him and Viktor. But she never put him first as a person, but his ideas and usefulness and I think their relationship is not a healthy one. I think Jayce craved assurance, someone steadying him, loving him in some way. He would have had that in Viktor, but that would have crossed a line in their friendship, wouldn't it. I think the animators chose to show us Viktor falling apart while Jayce had sexy time with Mel on purpose. It's as tragic as it gets. And no, I don't hate Mel, she is Queen.

And I do think at that time, what Jayce felt for Viktor was a deep friendship. I won't call it bromance or brotherly love. Bromance for me is a made up word to avoid giving in to the possibility that two men can grow to love each other over a friendship, so to not be gay because that's disgusting, people rather call it bromance. And a brotherly love, is for me, just between real brothers. As in a family context. Adoptive or blood related, but there has to be that context. Because I think, again, that is just said to one: diminish a deep and routed friendship between man (which can't be, how could "strangers be vulnerable with each other") and b) to avoid the possibility, because to love a brother any other way as brotherly, would be incest so we will avoid that route in calling them brothers. It's a nice trope to use, really (that was sarcasm) and I am tired of it. We never, EVER said Vi had sisterly feelings for Caitlyn (even before they flirted really), or that Sevika had sisterly feelings for Jinx, because they were friends and comrades at the end, not sisters. We don't call female friendship sismance, if there is romance between two women we call it that: romance. We only have this weird wording when it comes to men's relationships and I think this homophobic notion runs deep and we don't do that to female romance because it's fetishized :D. I do think that's why people who are generally more open don't bat an eye about that. Because they are not afraid of their feelings and don't need to put the possibility aside they could be attracted to their same gender. Anyway.

Note that there can be romance without having sex, lovers as well and friendships with sex involved. I think we should get out of this thinking you need sex to prove you love someone, which is why I think Jayce and Viktor had the most perfect romance, romance arc and development. Because they didn't need to have kisses and sex to get that point across.

I think the usage of a butterfly is for evolution but on an emotional level and of course the famous butterfly effect. They found each other in every timeline, they literally can't live without each other and they always could have chosen not to chase after another. If Viktor had let Jayce die at the beginning, nothing would have happened. If Jayce had kept his promise and let Viktor die, nothing would have happened. He made the herald because he wasn't there for Viktor and made Viktor find love and acceptance with his followers. As partners. He realized that way too late and when Viktor told him, only Jayce could have shown him that, I think Jayce started to get it. When he saw Mel again, he knew now that she used him first (as her reaction of hurt indicating, she did like him though) and he was protective of himself AND Viktor. He was fighting Viktor and realizing that Viktor had died and that it was his fault. He was in mourning. He wanted to stop the Viktor he had created. Also he had promised.

Before that he had go through falling down and hurting his leg to climb upto the tower in the future and re-live what it was like for Viktor to grow up handicapped. To fight to get above. To get to be loved and to be seen. Jayce did know it wasn't easy I don't think he was a rich kid, just middle class, that's why they connected first, I guess. Two brilliant people held back because they aren't rich and from a "good background" as those on top. Not loved enough by the people around you. And the love of jayces mother was not enough!

What I found interesting was the fact that he saw Mel first and Viktor last. You know, if you deeply love someone in a romantic way, you always think about that person. You want to get to them as soon as possible, knowing to be away from them hurts. You want to spend time with them and go above and beyond to make them happy, see you and acknowledge you. Jayce saw Mel first, because he thought it was her, but it ultimately changes to Viktor because he is the one who motivates Jayce. Who keeps him going, who he wants to impress and show that their dream can become reality.

I think at that point it was for me that I was: okay that's not friendship anymore. That's romantic love. If you ever had a really best friend, a bff who you spend a lot of time with. You feel friendship and in that relationship the love of friends. But than you find that person who blows you away, who is everything to you, you might spend more time with them. How frustrated are we as friends to be not able to spend our time as we used to be. That's what Viktor felt but also jealousy, because he could never compete with Mel. He knew he had no chance because he thought Jayce loved her. And as a good friend, he didn't argue, because again that would destroy their friendship. Which is important. And I do think no one will put their friendship above romantic love. If they are really in love because they know their friends will understand. That's why I think it was so important of jayce to get that realization he made a mistake and should have been at Viktors side and that's why he thought, when ekko and Heimerdinger sneaked into the lab it was Viktor.

And if he realized than that he loved Viktor, he would have gone after him and proved viktor wrong and would have been able to stop this pursuit of Viktor to get rid of his human emotion/humanity.

But after Jayces climb to the top, speaking with Viktor, he finally realized that he was the only one to stop Viktor, to get it through. He was his friend, but he also loved him.

That's why he reacted that way to Mel, with no love left for her. That's why he knew when Viktor died and was resurrected by the Hextech he should have been at Viktors side, it dawned on him. If he truly loved Mel, he wouldn't have said it that way honestly. The same goes for his speech when he was with Viktor at the end, that Viktor wasnt weak. He knew Viktors whole motivation for removing everything was because he thought was weak and no one loved him for that.

And honestly, I only think that Jayce realized he felt more as friendship, really realized what it was when Viktor looked up to him and he saw in Viktors eyes that his Viktor was back. And when they used the rune he clenched his teeth because he was afraid. Afraid about what will happen next, afraid of dying but I guess afraid of losing Viktor all over again, clasping at the nape of his neck. And not be able to say what he felt. I don't think they felt each other's feelings that much, because ultimately what Viktor did was killing everyone's feelings in acending them.

And why do I think you can't compare, for example, aragorns friendship and love with Jayce. Aragorn loves all of his friends and is gentle with them, when boromir dies for example, but also with Frodo and Legolas or Gandalf. He shows affection in that way to a lot of people.

Jayce only really shows that to Viktor, always Viktor. And I think they did that on purpose. If they wanted to let it be just friends (I don't use platonic either as I think you diminish the love of friends with using platonic), they would have made Jayce care more about the others. He could have argued with Jayce about saving the others and so on, but he always wanted to save Viktor the most. And he is not the hero/king type like aragorn, I know.

But the motivation for Jayce and for viktor, was always each other and that's why I think they are, ultimately, romantically in love with each other, just realizing it way too late and that is the evolution, the perfect one. Loving each other with flaws, forgiving each other for what they have done and sacrificing themselfs to save each other and to save, at the end, the world. It's selfish. But it shows that love can travel time and space, if we would just stop hating and avanging each other. It would make the suffering of the world end and that would be the ultimate form of human evolution. Being easily able to forgive, sacrifice and love without hate. With accepting each other the was they are.

You may argue that you can do that as friends too but again, I think the people behind would have written it differently. I always think that before an action, there is a thought about it, how and why you are doing something the way you do and the fact that they chose to do it that way is an indicator for me, that they wanted them to be canon and in love. At the end. Not in between, that would have probably stopped everything from the start. Imagine, you can tell a friend you want to stay by his side, always, but I do think you would rather and mostly do it for the one you TRULY LOVE.

So in my mind, Jayce and Viktors development and love for each other at the end is the ultimate form of love and so romantic, it physically hurt.

[kaoskuantico]

In case someone hasn’t seen Act III yet, ARCANE ACT III SPOILERS

Mirroring my previous post about things I hated about Season 2 (click), here's another list with the things I LIKED

The art, animation, soundtrack...I think we can all agree Arcane created a before and after in the Animation industry and artists all over the world (although I only liked Ashes and Blood, Isha's song and Remember Me. The rest are a bit meh for me)

Jinx realizing she can be a good person when she met Isha. And she almost realized she doesn't have to choose between Powder and Jinx personas, she's both.

Sevika bonding with Jinx, both of them mourning Silco and getting to work together. Jinx making a whole new arm for her, basically.

Vi realizing Jinx has good in her when she saw how Jinx treated Isha.

Ekko stopping Jinx from killing herself five times and being patient with her.

I don't like Timebomb, but the dance scene being at 4 fps representing Ekko's ability to rewind time 4 seconds was on top.

Ekko not even hesitating to find the way back home, choosing to leave this perfect life and timeline behind.

The pianist who went to the war. He wasn't made for this, but he chose to be there.

Loris leaving Vi when she pushed him away. Loris tried to help her, but she refused it, so he had to leave for his own good.

That Jinx's follower who first touched her shoulder in prison, dying just like that during the attack. I liked how they showed people were dying without it being spectacular, they're just gone.

Vi trusting in Jinx when Vander/Warwick found them in the mines and was berserk. Vi chose to hug him instead of fighting, as she has always done with every conflict.

Jinx's first action when she found out Vander is alive being to look for her sister and find him together, not wanting to commit the same mistake.

Jinx being unable to shoot Vi when she had the opportunity to do so, in Act I.

Sevika ignoring the original plan and protecting both Jinx and Isha.

The Jinx vs Vi fight from Act I, they weren't trying, at least not as hard as Sevika and Cait. Vi had Jinx at her mercy a few times but didn't kill her, and in the second half of the fight, Jinx basically only slaps her face.

Jinx and Vi's interaction in Act II. It felt refreshing, seeing them 'fight' in a much lighter tone.

Jayce telling Viktor there's beauty in imperfections, that he admired him. It contrasts with Viktor's desire to make everything perfect (but including Viktor's terminal disease was weird).

Viktor and Jayce meeting in every timeline, Jayce being Viktor's salvation.

Viktor saying that trying to heal Warwick was a risk worth taking.

Isha seeing Jinx beyond the Powder/Jinx dichotomy and being the one to bring that happy nature from her (I loved Jinx acting as commentator just to make it fun for Isha).

Jinx being OFFENDED because an enforcer insulted her pants.

Jinx using her new mechanical finger (with a face painted on it) to give the middle finger to the enforcer who hit on her.

Sevika knowing how much Isha meant for Jinx, and Sevika not making fun of her when Jinx had another hallucination (after months of not having them). Sevika looked concerned.

Jinx protecting Caitlyn in Act II (although Cait never did something similar for her).

Mel's story centered on her family and not any romance.

Jinx's skills with her gun and her enhanced abilities thanks to the shimmer. She's so cool with her gun and managed to stay on her feet against Warwick at the beginning.

Jinx writing her name on her cheek just like Vi did (and it's funnier because Jinx did it by following the image in the mirror).

The voice acting. Especially Ella Purnell (Jinx's voice actress). They're all perfect for the roles, and Ella's raspy voice is the cherry on top.

Powder in the other timeline still having the hallucinations but showing she became Jinx because of her environment. She's much healthier and se's a genius in both timelines, it's her environment which decides if she'll use it to create weapons or to have a fun science competition.

In Act II, when Jinx and Sevika go to save Isha and the others, when the Enforcer they want to use to get arrested and taken to Stillwater: I liked how she relaxed once she saw Jinx, not firing at her immediately and even...Having a normal conversation with her

The designs. They made Vi SO MUCH BETTER. And I absolutely love Jinx's design as well, they're so perfect

When they were fighting in the mines and Jinx slaps Vi's cheek, the cave glows. And then they start fighting pathetically on the floor like actual sisters and the cave glows at the rhythm of their hits xd

I'll keep updating the list for a few days.

[gachagon]

The fandom rarely ever talks about Mel and her relationship with her mother and her family history and her actual story that the show literally tells us, because they're too busy trying to find a man to ship her with. I've found that there's this new phenomenon that happens in fandom with female characters that ARE written well in the piece of media they come from, where instead of focusing on her story, the fandom wants to include her in all of the shipping and romance side even if she might not be entirely involved with all of that.

So, they completely strip her of any backstory and just shoehorn her into whatever relationship they can think of, all the while telling anyone who DOESN'T ship her with someone that they're the REAL misogynists because they're not including her in any of the "real" discussions happening in the fanbase.

This thought has always bothered me since Arcane ended and people went from shipping Mel and Jayce, to shipping Jayce and Viktor, to shipping all three of them together because fighting over the ships was silly (it was) but leaving out the idea that maybe Mel's story was never about romance to begin with and the idea that she's single at the end isn't a tragedy because her being tied to a man is not a "happy ending". There's this overall pervasive idea that because a character doesn't have a romantic partner in the end, that they are alone and that the ending for them sucked.

I have never thought that Mel's ending was bad, and I was baffled by people who kept saying this, only to learn they were only saying this while posting screenshots of all the "couples" that got together in the end. Romance is not the end all be all of a characters story, and often times people forget that and completely disregard anything that happens to that character prior to any romantic tension they have with another, in favor of focusing solely on the "what-ifs" of a relationship between those two.

Mel's story is a beautiful one about learning to accept yourself in a harsh environment, growing into a person your parent can acknowledge and be proud of, the tragedy of not being able to show your parent that you were strong enough to take the mantle from her before it was too late and she died, the bitter acceptance that this was the only way she'd have ever accepted you in the first place and so many other deep familial themes of mothers and daughters.

Yet does ANYONE talk about that? No, all anyone talks about when they bring up Mel is something about how she was "manipulating Jayce the whole time' or how she was a "Mirror for Jayce to realize his feelings for Viktor" or how "She was rude to Viktor in season 1 and kind of dismissive of Zaun as a whole" it all just wraps back around to what Jayce and Viktor were doing and not her actual story.

Hell, it took me weeks to even find one edit on tiktok of her actual story arc, with her discovering her powers and fighting her own mom, and when there ARE edits of her? They are again just more ship edits of her with some man.

And look, none of this would bother me if the people who really liked those ships didn't act like shipping MelJayVik was some revolutionary idea, and that THIS is how you can finally include a woman in a story! Finally, now instead of her character revolving around 1 man we have managed to revolve it around 2 at the same time! Marvelous! I just hate that one of the best written female characters of our time is getting relegated to not just ONE mans "emotionally stable and hot girlfriend" but TWO (and she didn't even talk to him all that much!!!)

[lullabyes22-blog]

First of all, I just wanted to say how much I love your Arcane fics. I’ve been following FnF since I stumbled across it at 10 chapters long, and it’s been a wild ride since! Like a lot of people I’ve been all over the place with my feelings regarding season 2, but as far as I’m concerned FnF is my season 2 (and 3, 4, etc.) lol. You’re a gift to this fandom. Thank you for sharing your brilliant mind and imagination with us readers ❤️

You’ve answered some what-if asks and shared other Arcane thoughts on this blog before, so I have two questions for your consideration, but no pressure to answer either of them!

1. As a fellow writer, I’m in awe of the scale of FnF and the amount of planning/outlining that must be involved—HOLY SHIT! Are there any elements of s2 that have inspired you as you continue to write FnF? Have you considered adapting any s2 elements into later chapters (beyond what you’ve already predicted), or have you held fast to a specific Vision throughout the duration of this writing project?

2. Not sure if you’ve been asked this in the past, but what the hell would a living Silco’s reaction be to Vander’s hellish resuscitation as Warwick, assuming he isn’t immediately mauled in a confrontation?? Is Singed (assuming he’s the culprit) definitely fired??? This feels like such a MESSY terrible horrible no-good very bad situation for everyone involved lmao, and I would love to know your thoughts.

Aaaaah thank you so much! I'm super happy you're enjoying the story! I've been having a lot of fun with it, and I'm glad so many other folks are having fun with it as well <333

Also deeply honored you'd consider FnF in any way adjacent to canon material; that means so much T_T Especially since my own feelings on s2 are pretty mixed, and I'm not really sure what I would even do with those ideas, except maybe throw them out as a one-shot sometime down the road.

1. In terms of the s2 inspiration, I will say I was not the biggest fan of the plot's coherence/cohesion as a whole (too much stuff going on in too little time, too many threads left dangling etc). However, I was very gratified by the thematic journeys of the characters in S2, as in FnF they're actually following a similar trajectory (except for Silco who is, well, dead), and a lot of the same conflicts and themes are coming up. There was a happy sense of vindication that came from that, like, "Oh, so this was actually important, and not just me making a fanficcy mountain out of a molehill."

I will say though, that FnF has its own pretty airtight-ish plot, with many aspects already sketched out in advance, so I'm not going to go re-plotting things to match s2's direction unless and until it becomes necessary. In some ways, tbh, there's a sense of gleeful overlap, as a lot of the plot beats do mirror one another. (The Black Rose make an appearance by Act VII, there's a greater emphasis on magic and high fantasy going forward, Jinx is in the grip of an identity/existential crisis and Vi is stuck at a crossroads, Jayce has become disillusioned and split with Mel, Viktor has retreated underground and will be withdrawing deeper into his work, Ekko will be the one to snap Jinx out of a critical juncture and save Zaun in the long term, Sevika will take a greater leadership role etc...) All of the parallels if not the outright similarities were pretty satisfying.

As for how that's manifesting, a lot of the major developments and character arcs going forward are largely set in stone, but I do have a few key S2 events/details I've been mulling over in the background that I can see myself weaving into the plot at some point. But the rest is probably best kept as a surprise :>

2. As for the hellish resuscitation, well, I'd be lying if I said I haven't been thinking about that one a lot hehehe...

But long story short:

Singed is 100% fired because there is NO WAY Silco would sanction such a thing - and if it occured in the FnF universe, then Singed was absolutely doing it behind Silco's back and will now face the full consequences.

 As for Warwick himself - he'd 100% retreat to Silco and Vander's little Brokeback bunk in the mines. And Silco would 100% don his old mining duds and dustry greatcoat and go looking for him, because he needs to be SURE it's not just a rumor, and also because he does, subconsciously, desperately want it to be his Vander. And Vander, who has a good measure of the old Vander's memories, and is 100% aware it's not a rumor, because hello: deranged wolfman, will 100% run towards Silco with every intention of tearing him to pieces.

And that is where the similarities end.

Because Vander is too deeply trapped within Warwick's killer shell, and is therefore incapable of having an emotional reunion with anyone, and because Silco is not an idiot and would never go into a skirmish without a loaded gun and an escape route, the end result would be bloody, messy and tragic.

Worst case scenario: both men would kill each other, and in their final death throes, find boyhood memories resurfacing. They'd die in tears, messily and bloodily entwined, but finally at peace with their own demons - which is how Jinx and Vi, teaming up similar to S2, would find them.

Best case scenario: Silco would find Warwick and be forced to try and capture and contain him. He'd enlist Sevika's help and succeed, but when Jinx finds out, she'd be appalled and retraumatized, and convinced Silco is trying to erase her dead dad and supplant him in every sense. She'd go off the rails and have a complete breakdown, and Vi would be the one she'd run to, because Vi is the only person who understands and cares. The sisters would end up teaming against Silco to try and bust WarVander out, and this would cause an irreparable rift between Silco and Jinx.

Cue mass destruction and an epic family feud.

Sevika, who'd be the only person left in Silco's circle of trust, would have to make the call to have Warwick quietly killed in order to save the city from a war, and then lie to Silco, telling him Vander succumbed to his own madness and perished. This would cause Silco's mental state to completely disintegrate. He'd lose what little sanity he had left, and would descend into a pit of guilt and grief.

 Either way, it's a pretty awful tragedy on both sides, and it would take the entire remaining plot of FnF to resolve the fallout, and for Jinx and Vi to find any kind of peace.

So you can see why I've been mulling a lot, but also left it alone haha.

But who knows?

Maybe the story will change my mind, or I'll be struck by some miraculous idea and figure a way out, though I'm doubtful.

Thanks again for the lovely words and thoughtful questions! They really mean a lot <3

[hivemuthur]

To Be Known - Ch.12.

viktorxfemale!reader very explicit as usual, Modern AU, set in London, current era but not very specific. It's just a love story.

<- previous chapter MASTERLIST next chapter ->

word count: 7,1K

warnings, or rather this chapter contains: a small rewind to Viktor's POV, angst (obviously), (bitter) masturbation, thoughts of vengeance, mentions of bullying, criticism of class structure, more thoughts of vengeance (but the second time properly aimed), sub!Viktor, subspace (Viktor), domspace (Reader), and a SURPRISE.

author’s note: As usual, playlist here and artist is @petitesieste ♡ it might end up with 16 chapters, we will see.

Cross-posted on AO3

—

It’s been five days. And not due to insecurity, pain, or even your reluctance—just plain, straight-up five days of nothing, of quick texts and no phone calls where both of you are swarmed with work and where, if one of you cuts the texting, it means they passed out with phone in hand. Viktor is alright with that, he thinks.

Until your voice echoes through the lab and there are two throbs in his body—one, obvious, between his legs, low in his belly, warmth pooling where his blood crashes down like a shameful Pavlovian response. The other, unexpected, unwelcome, spreading from his seized throat to the chest—a pang of something, jealousy maybe, or disappointment, since Jayce is still your first choice in the face of a crisis.

But when a window cracks open—not even ajar, barely wide enough for a finger—he jumps in. "I could... drive you?" he shouts through the lab, craning his face as if you could see him. Retreats from that immediately and then laughs at your red-cheeked admission. Not at you, just with relief, because it’s really fucking lucky that you can’t drive.

Jayce has enough sense to say nothing besides, “Well, bye then,” a kind smile on his face. So Viktor goes—nearly trips over himself while putting on his coat, smoothing his hair with one hand. Then, by the car, he checks his teeth in the side mirror and tries out three poses for greeting you. Sees you with the corner of his eye. Your shoes ridiculously light for the weather, thighs brushing beneath your skirt and—of course—an eyelet taunting his gaze upward, from your ankle where it starts, through your calf, your knee, and higher.

He means to be good. Civilised. But none of that is possible. Before mouth, there should be a hello, but that’s not possible either. He gets busy as soon as you step into the radius of arm’s reach—kisses you like five days was five years. His hands go to your waist first, then skim down, then up again, greedy for shape, for certainty. The first press of your mouth against his is a relief so sharp it nearly folds him in half.

But then he remembers that Jayce knows. And he of course suspects that Mel knows too, which only gets confirmed by the pinch in your brow and the way you crawl back out from the pit of his arms—back to skittish, back to overthinking. How many times Viktor will have to be undoing it, he doesn’t know. But he braces for it. Drives you around London in stiffening silence. Carries your shoes for you. Says nothing when Charlie sends you home—even then, he asks for nothing.

It’s just the thing in his chest that keeps asking and rattling when he pulls over by your house. It animates his little finger to trace along your thigh—it's all he can afford right now. What he wants to say is not even born yet.

Can I come in? Can I see where you sleep? Can I sleep with you? Can I come in?

Enthralled by your weight on his lap, he doesn’t stop you from pulling at the stitches of what hasn’t scarred properly yet. There is little to no fight in him.

Once, he means to tell you to stop—to tell you it’s ridiculous to fuck in his father’s car when the bed is a few steps away—but doesn’t.

Instead, he fucks you in his father’s car. Or rather, lets you fuck him in his father’s car. And begins to regret it somewhere mid-way through, when you become absent and selfish, and he wonders how an act of unprompted chivalry, or friendship, has chased his girl away.

He gives you nothing beyond what’s needed, convinced that if he were to ask, rejection would follow. An excuse of work, of fatigue, of mess, of anything that would prevent him stepping through the threshold of your private space—the border crossing between the country of casual and the country of commitment.

By the end he gets angry, and even though good girl tickles his tongue, he holds it in. Angry with himself, not with you—for being an utter coward.

As soon as the door clicks shut, Viktor exhales a shuddering sigh. Wipes his forehead with the back of his wrist, then his cock with a packet of tissues crumpled in the glovebox. Zips himself up. “Sakra,” he mutters, soft and ragged.

The car reeks of sweat and sex and worse—longing left too long in the sun. He doesn’t move until the fog clears from the windows and the world outside returns to shape. Streetlights. Pavement. The indifferent flicker of a crossing signal.

He drives home in silence, headlights catching in puddles, tires humming soft and steady like breath on a ventilator.

Shoes off. Shower on. He rubs his skin until it flushes, as if he can fix this by friction. When he reaches for the shampoo, he pauses. His jumper—your smell still clinging to the collar—hangs over the chair in the corner. He leaves it unwashed.

Injection. Brush teeth. Fold towel. Lie down.

And then: nothing. No music, no reading, no distractions. Just ceiling. He stares until the grain of the plaster turns to waves, and thinks—what went wrong this time? Was it the offer to help? The silence? The car? Was it me?

His fingers touch his mouth, still swollen. He goes over it again and again. The kissing, the fucking, the breath you stole when you climbed on him like he was an escape hatch, not a man.

But then before that—

Beforemouth. Before the crime of kindness. Before you flinched from being seen.

He remembers the last time you came to him willingly. When you’d forsaken breath just to keep him close. To keep him for long. When you’d cradled him like something worth keeping.

And somehow, seeing you today has done the opposite. He misses you more. He misses the version of you that treated him like her private redemption—not this stranger who approaches him like a perilous inconvenience.

He tries not to. But his body keeps asking where you are. Keeps insisting there must be more. Some remnant. Some evidence. Something left behind.

He’s hard—he realises with  horror, as if it’s not his own cock between his legs, but something foreign and starving. The bed is cold around him and the room is too quiet and he’s too alive. Jumper in the corner smells like you so strongly he can feel it in his nostrils. That car still smells like sex. That silence between you lingers, bitter on his tongue.

He sighs. Rubs a palm over his eyes. Tries not to think—but there you are again, hovering above him, the crown of your womb just out of reach, thighs tense with indecision. Not unwilling, just new to this particular kind of surrender.

The echo of your panic rattles in him. And still, you came to him. Not with confidence, but with choice. Your cunt, warm and glistening, an offering made without ceremony, and him—mouth already open, grateful, greedy, devout. You smothered him so sweetly. Pressed down with caution, then trust, then need. And now—he wishes he’d stayed there. Wishes he’d drowned.

The first touch is more apology than pleasure—soft, weary, resentful. He spits in his palm, just once, and wraps his fingers around himself like he’s done since he was a teenager: furtive, unspectacular, necessary.

But then—your voice, curled soft around a plea. Not tonight’s version. Not the strained half-chatter you used to fill the drive. No, the one from last week, low and syrup-thick. When you’d called him by his name, and it meant the world. When your mouth had opened just for him and you’d taken him in slow, like breath, like acceptance.

He thumbs the slit—just barely—and his hips lift without asking. His mind does the rest:

It’s your tongue now, flat and wide, cradling his base. Your nose sliding along the underside as you breathe him in and then your lips, wet, pulled over your teeth to not hurt his tender flesh. So good, his girl. Then cheeky, when you ask if he’s begging. He’s begging now. Without sound, without shape. Every nerve shouting your name into the meat of his chest.

His hand moves like he’s not sure what he wants—slow at first, just pressure and heat, then faster when the image of your spit-glossed mouth won’t leave him. He strokes himself like it’s you doing it, your hand flicking with quiet cruelty, your gaze pinned to his face while you work him apart with focus and intent. Not even speaking, just watching.

The disgusting sound of his own palm gets louder, and he hates it, but doesn’t stop. The lube—his own spit—is tacky, almost dry. He grips harder, hips rising in short jerks that have nothing to do with rhythm and everything to do with memory.

You, on your knees. You, under him. You, laughing into his neck after you came, soft and dazed and claimed.

He bites his lip and twists his wrist just right—just there—and sees your face, the way it looked the first time you took him all the way down. That startled flush in your cheeks, pupils blown. You’d gagged a little, then moaned like you liked it. Like you’d do it again.

He grunts, soft and low and desperate, like it’s all unbidden. He’s close now, cock heavy and flushed in his hand, balls tight. He wants to hold off, wants to stretch it, to earn it—but his body is no longer listening.

Everything coils at once—the muscles in his gut pull taut, the world narrows to breath and zeal and you. He comes with a jolt, shuddering, a hot spill across his stomach. It ropes up over his hand, clings to the hair below his navel, slick and stupid and human. No satisfaction in it, no victory, just you—still missing.

His chest rises and falls. The ceiling waits, white and useless. His hand slips free and falls to the side. The wet cools on his skin. He falls asleep like that, dirty.

When he wakes, he’s bereft. Cum has crusted like egg yolk over the fuzz on his belly, and his boxers are stiff with it. He groans loudly, then pushes his face into the pillow and lets out a muffled, “Fuck.”

Everything’s a fight—getting dressed, eating, swallowing. For the briefest moment, he’s worried he might be actually depressed before scolding himself for being dramatic. He goes to work instead, to face the final presentation before he and Jayce are free to keep saving the world.

The Institute is so stuffed with people his forehead gets clammy five minutes in, and he has to loosen the scarf. Jayce is not in yet, so Viktor hunches over the notes with yesterday’s stale coffee and revises the pitch they shouldn’t have to be giving in the first place.

He feels like he’s floating next to his body, trying to grasp his own shoulders and sink back into himself, but the movement is slow, underwater. Everything but exuberant, he drags his feet across the tiled floor, attempting to invent a smile for himself that wouldn’t look like someone pinched his skin with a clothes peg on the back of his neck.

Jayce comes in, sees this atrocity of acting, and stifles a laugh. “Are you practicing faces?”

“I, eh—” Viktor stills, but the remark, whatever it was, dies in his throat. He deflates. “I’m trying to find a face that won’t cut our chances short.”

“Easy, V. It’s homestretch,” Jayce says, walking up closer and resting a heavy hand on Viktor’s shoulder. “What’s going on?”

For a minute there, Viktor wonders about pouring his heart out to Jayce. About telling him how he feels used and tossed and small, and how all those feelings alloyed render him close to disappearing. He settles on quiet suffering instead, when he finds his new smile. “It’s nothing,” he says, mouth quirking forcefully. “I’m just nervous.”

It goes surprisingly well, and Viktor ends up hating himself for it. Because he’s just a pebble in the stream of Jayce’s charisma. It’s Jayce’s stability and enthusiasm that keeps the room warm. The one that has his eyes not rolling with exasperation but sparkling—inviting, ready for anyone who asks a dumb question. For Jayce, no question is dumb. He takes them all as an opportunity to bring someone closer. To bring them into his world.

Viktor has always admired that in Jayce, still does. Not so much the phenomena itself—Viktor is also very capable of it, when given an eager set of ears. But the ease of it, how natural it is. Even now, watching Jayce move through the crowd like a current pulling people in. They gravitate to him—students, colleagues, strangers with soft hands and sharp questions.

Today, Viktor hangs at the edge of it. Smiling when spoken to. Nodding at the right times. But everything feels a step out of sync.

He’s used to some of that—has worn misalignment like a second spine most of his life—but today it stings. Today it feels less like oddity and more like being locked out. Of what, exactly, he can’t name. Something warm, maybe. Something shared.

By the time they wrap up, his legs ache from standing. His throat’s dry. His jaw hurts from holding it just right so it doesn’t look like he’s clenching. Jayce claps him on the back with the kind of praise that usually fills him with a low glow, but today it hits flat. He thanks him. Nods. Smiles.

Then disappears. Back to the flat.

He eats tepid leftovers straight from the pan and leaves the fork in the sink. He doesn’t shower. Stands by the window instead with a glass of water, half-drunk and already warm.

By morning, the weight in his chest has calcified into something meaner.

This was supposed to be his. The work. The space where he could think with his hands. The only part of his life untouched by shame of want or guilt. The part that stayed clear even when his mind didn’t. The space in which his desires could spark an intellectual thought instead of being a taboo.

Now he can’t reach for an idea without tripping over your name. Can’t check an email without picturing your mouth. Can’t hold a damn pen without remembering how your hands held his throat, soft and certain. The rage surprises him with how clean it feels.

Not directed at you—never quite you. But at the leak in the hull, at the fault line. At himself, mostly, for letting it get this far without naming it. He wants to blame you, of course, but he knows better. Knows it was him who let affection creep in through the gaps of want. Him who mistook currency for kindness.

As if summoned, your pseudonym appears on his phone screen—Y.V.: Hi. Can I see you tonight?

And there, Viktor knows he should be a better man. But another window cracks open. One that will let him through to an alleviation of all this suffering.

Yes, come at 8, he replies.

And it’s not that he wants to say no and chooses yes instead. It’s the intention behind the yes. A quiet, cancerous impulse—to make things even. To throw all of this back at you—what it’s like to feel replaceable. Insignificant, unworthy of his space. Used and tossed.

For the rest of the day he veers between desire and judgement. Does work on autopilot. Thoughts are elsewhere—you in the car, mostly. Alien to him, a stranger. And the why, why, why clatters around his brain like a metal ball. No answer comes. It wears him out beyond anything physical. He rubs his eyes and yawns.

If that’s what you want—he can try. He can be weight and warmth and friction. He can give you the touch, nothing else. Let you use him until you come and leave. He will try and see if he can take your body without asking for your heart.

Until—

Until the elevator dings and you drag yourself out of it. Face sad, though you try to sport it into neutral. And, on the spot, he wants to gather you and hold you, but he waits, counting your steps.

You walk past him in the door, but eyes on him at all times. No words, yet you speak with your hands—they come cold, reaching, one for his cheek, the other for his nape.

And then your mouth comes, and it’s as if there is nothing before the mouth. Soft, tender. Oh—longing. You’ve missed him, he can tell. Your tongue feels delicate between his lips, shy. You lick into him with quiet smacks of skin on skin until there is more.

A sudden, all-encompassing amnesia rolls through his body like a massive eraser, getting rid of his resolutions. Ice thaws in his chest, where your fingers slot between his ribs, pulling him closer.

He forgets, in an instant, the person you were in the car. It’s you again. The lovely, wonderful, needy version of you that seeks solace in his arms, that will let him break you and mend you.

It’s Viktor who deepens. Towering over you as you make yourself smaller, craning your head to swallow his tongue. His hands slide up your spine, then down again—slow, earnest. He presses his hips to yours, not to rut, but to remind you he’s here. All of him. That you’re welcome. Thus, he reminds himself too.

Your mouth opens wider under his, breath warm, tasting of coffee and stubborn silence. He kisses you like he’s been uncorked—starved for you, for closeness, for sense. Tongue curling against yours, lips parting wider with each drag, every wet give of mouth against mouth spelling out hello and I missed you and I forgive you.

When he nips your lower lip, it’s not for dominance but devotion. He sucks it into his mouth, hums like he could live off your taste. One hand cradles the back of your head. The other—sneaks beneath your jumper, flats over your waist, thumb stroking slow circles into your skin like a reminder: you’re here now, stay.

The ache begins to dull. With this dulling, his body catches up with the fatigue—muscles relax, lungs expand, and Viktor can’t help it when he yawns straight into your mouth.

“Oh, you’re so tired,” you say with a half-smile, brushing hair off his forehead, fingers light and affectionate.

“Yes,” Viktor chuckles, hiding his face in the crook of your shoulder. “I’m sorry, it’s been a long week,” he murmurs, voice muffled by fabric, hands resting at the small of your back underneath clothes, fingertips entwined. “I’m alright though, I can—”

“No, I—” you interrupt, head falling against his, ear to ear. “I’m shattered.” You pull back just enough to look at him. “Do you want to—"

“Hang out?” he offers, hopeful. You sigh and nod, making him smile. “I would love to,” he says, already unshouldering your bag. “Are you hungry?”

“God, yes. I’d kill for a curry.”

“You shall get one,” Viktor says, pressing his lips to your forehead. “Go to the bedroom, I’ll order the food,”

“Thank you,” you exhale into his neck. “Thank you.” A kiss—long, tender peck on his tendon, before you kick your shoes off and trail down the corridor.

He makes the call, then goes to the kitchen to make tea. Waits for a kettle to boil with head in his hands, both ashamed and relieved. It was a momentary flop, he tells himself. He had one, now you’ve had one, it’s all evened out.

When the tea is ready, he takes a slow walk toward the bedroom, cane dangling loosely from his forearm. You're lying on the bed, still dressed, legs apart, toes pointed outward. He sets the cups on the bedside table and settles between your ankles. One of your feet lands in the cradle of his palm—thumb pressing into the sole before it rests on his lap. Your toes are cold too. He finds himself wondering absently if it's tights or stockings beneath your trousers.

“Now we wait,” he says, rubbing out the tension. “How have you been?”

“I—” First you hiss at his thumb digging into your arch, then relax. “Awful,” you admit. “It’s been an awful week and I’ve been awful the last time I saw you,” you say breathlessly, looking at his hands. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Viktor stills his movements, save for fingers caressing your toes through nylon. He’s entirely unsure how to talk to you about Wednesday, since all the anger he’s felt evaporated the minute you’ve put your lips on him. Only fear remains. “Who do I have to smack?” he asks instead.

Your face twists when he resumes, and you exhale a gasp through open mouth. Hot. “Uh, British education system? I really don’t know,” you chuckle, rising onto your elbows.

Viktor hums, takes a deep breath. “Hmm, I will get to work tomorrow,” he says, covering the row of your joints with his palm and twisting gently, until they pop one by one.

“Ah—” you yelp. “Where did you learn how to do this?”

“Eh, I didn’t. I’m treading blindly here,” he shrugs, abashed. I just want to touch you, that’s it.

You eye him for a moment. Then: “How… are you?”

“Very tired,” he admits. “But—it seems that we’ve secured the cancer treatment research, for good. Or rather, for now. The pitch on Thursday went well, so we are moving to in vitro testing.”

You retreat your foot to come closer, and sit on your heels. “Viktor, that’s huge,” you say, resting your hand on his cheek. “Well done.” Your eyes sparkle, honest, truly amazed.

Viktor smiles. Well done. Suddenly his pliancy feels justified. The choice to not confront the pain becomes a right one, because your presence softens it just enough. Him, starved for comfort, lapping the first offered crumb is not a cure, he knows, but it lets him breathe a little better. Even if it’s just survival behaviour, not healing.

Trapped in the space between intimacy and uncertainty, where unspoken affection masquerades as safety, you both float. Acting like you’re close, but never confirming it. And he’s well aware that it’s a suppression in favour of connection. A delayed reckoning. He’s only worried that this tenderness he has for you is not just passive, but it might be also tragic.

A sharp sound of the buzzer jolts you both right up. Viktor rises, and you follow him wordlessly to wait with him by the door. He plays with your fingers.

“Your hands are so cold today,” he murmurs, frowning slightly as he brushes his thumb over your knuckles. Not a complaint—an observation, touched with worry.

“Yes, I think I’m just mildly exsanguinated. I bled my energy out for some posh cunt.” You roll your eyes, trying for lightness, but there’s a tremble under it that makes him study you harder.

He says nothing, just guides your palms underneath his sweater and traps them in warmth with his armpits. Flinches a bit at the glacial sting on the sensitive skin, but endures it, for you.

You do the food drop-off together and then walk clumsily back to the bedroom. Viktor settles against the headboard with his legs spread in front of him, you sit at the foot of the bed, facing him. At first, you eat in silence. He watches you—who is clearly uncomfortable about this. A very blatant scene—two people spending Friday evening eating takeout Indian food.

“Someone from my past reemerged,” you say suddenly. Before Viktor’s eyebrows can climb any higher, you add, “Not an ex—my classmate. She’s an actress now, or she’s trying to be. She didn’t get the role and threw a fit. First tried to bribe me, then maim me, and I—” You shake your head, fiddling with a piece of naan. “I handled it well. I think. But it just… burned me right out,” you admit, your voice dropping into a hush.

This—this is a complete terra incognita for Viktor. He had you talking about your work, yes. Discussing topics with him, even. Asking questions about him. But this? Just a free-willed confession? Never. He shouldn’t be smiling.

He clears his throat, and asks, “What happened at your school?”

“Oh, I—” you start, faltering for a beat. “Well, I survived it.” You look up briefly, then away. “But you have to understand, for someone like me it’s a polygon. I’m almost at the very bottom of the food chain—plain name, no rich parents, common accent. Common person. Just… talented, I suppose. Threatening. A stranger.” You say it with a small, bitter smile, but don’t dress it up further. It lands just as it is—fact.

Before asking, Viktor adds the detail to his internal ledger—another sharp entry in the growing archive of things that have shaped you. It fills him with heat. Livid, yes, at the world that made you shrink your victories before they ever had a chance to shine. He pushes the anger aside, not out of dismissal, but discipline. He’s not here to rage anymore—he’s here to listen.

“Why does that matter?” he asks after a beat.

“I have no idea, but it’s been like this since the dawn of time. When I got the scholarship the first emotion I felt was fear, not joy. And I wasn’t wrong really, I had horrible things done to me. Which is why I will never allow nepotism in my theatre,” you say, your voice gaining force before dipping again. “So I had to… just accept that I’m close to nothing. You know, a dirty beggar in a world where everyone had a nanny and never lifted a finger to do physical chores.” Your tone is matter-of-fact, as if repeating something that was once shouted at you until it solidified into truth.

“I… I really wanted this. Really, so badly. And I know… it’s just school and I’m different now, but meeting someone from then and having them act identical, it… it makes me feel identical as then. I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.” You hunch forward, staring into your food like it might hide your embarrassment. One shoulder shrugs, small and defensive. Your voice cracks once before you steady it again.

Viktor fights the urge to leave abruptly and seek out the person who did this to you, rip the head off neck, and spit inside. He blinks twice, then speaks your name mid-swallow. “I will listen to everything you want to tell me,” he says, reaching out for your palm, still cold.

You look at him, eyes wide and searching, as if you are weighing something in your head. Then you squeeze his hand back and look away as you speak, ashamed, and it twists Viktor’s guts.

“Once, she stepped on my toes. Literally, with force. Two of them got broken and I had to give up the part in a play. I can’t wear heels for too long because of that. She got the role, of course. I… I lost it. The role, and just… it.” You let out a bitter laugh, then swallow it down. “We um… got into a fight, a physical one, ended up at the principal’s office. I almost got expelled, but there was one teacher… who thought I have potential and he… oh, God, it was awful, I haven’t thought about it in years, but now—” Your words hitch. You choke mid-sentence, breath catching in your throat like gravel. Your eyes glisten and fill faster than you can wipe them. “Sorry—sorry—” you say, voice high and helpless now, and it’s clear you can’t hold the tears back anymore.

“Come here,” he says, setting your food aside. “Come here, darling.” He pulls you into himself and you come, no fight there, fold into him. Your arms wrap around his waist, head rests on his chest and it’s such a sweet weight Viktor sighs. “Tell me her address, I will send her an anthrax letter,” he mutters, stroking your hair.

“Oh, Viktor,” you chuckle weakly. “You’re a star,” you exhale into him, and finally there is some mirth in your voice. Your laugh is shaky but real, muffled by his jumper. “Don’t tempt me though.” You shift closer, fingers curling into the hem of his shirt underneath.

“I would do it for you,” Viktor says with a small smile, innocent. I would do anything for you.  “Nobody gets to hurt you.”

His voice doesn’t rise—it’s the steadiness that makes it land. He says it like a principle, like gravity, as if it’s simply the way the world should work. As if loving you means making it true. He’s absolutely certain he loves you.

“You can tell me things like this, you know that, yes?” He tilts his head to press his lips against your crown, voice low and sure, trying to make you believe it—desperate for you to believe it.

“Well, clearly no, since you are ready to cause an epidemic on my behalf,” you mutter, and all that Viktor can think is: I would. “It’s not that I don’t want to,” you add, voice softening again. “But I don’t tell this to anyone. Mel knows vaguely, nobody else.”

Then: “I… I don’t want to be seen as weak.” You say it into the fabric of his jumper, barely audible, like it costs you something to even admit it.

For a moment Viktor wonders if throwing your wisdom back at you would have an effect. “You are not weak,” he says instead. He tilts your chin to make you meet his gaze, looks you square in the eye, all serious, until the damnedest smirk pulls the corners of his mouth to the sides and up. “You are very good.”

Laughter bubbles out from between your lips, a wonderful sound to him. “You are never letting that one go, are you?”

“No, it’s the best compliment I ever got,” Viktor hums, sliding down the headboard until you are both splayed flat on the bed. He plucks your palm off his chest and holds it to his mouth. “Your hands are still cold,” he says, then blows a gush of warm air onto it, like one would fog glass. There—you both stay. For five breaths. For ten. For fifteen.

Then, an idea—born from desire, yet not one to claim you, but one to vest some power back into you—comes. He rolls you over so that now it’s him nuzzled into the well of your neck, and takes your hand to trap it between his legs.

“You can do whatever you want with me,” he sighs against your skin, rubbing his thighs together.

Your mouth parts in quiet surprise, eyes skating over his face, cautious. “Are you sure?”

Viktor nods, the certainty settling over him slow, thick with longing. “Yes. I want this. I want you.”

A hitch in your throat, the softest exhale; your arm wraps around him, palm skimming the back of his neck, fingers threading tenderly into his hair. You pull him closer until your mouth grazes his cheek. “Thank you,” you murmur, breath hot on his skin, lips feather-light. Devoted, Viktor thinks, and feels heat pool low in his belly.

Then your hand settles on him, pressing steadily through his trousers, and Viktor's mouth opens, a quiet groan slipping free, pure relief. This—this—is what he’s ached for, not the frantic, bitter scrabble of your touch in the car, nor the humiliating friction of his own rough palm, desperate and insufficient. No, this softness, this tenderness—patient, measured, full of care. You, taking your time, cradling the weight and shape of him, drawing out every sigh, every twitch of his hips.

Your palm cups him, fond, tracing the ridge of him as he thickens, fabric suddenly abrasive and too rough, intensifying every sweep of your thumb and subtle tightening of your fingers. Viktor's breath rattles out, damp and ragged; he arches into your touch, hips hitching forward in surrender, nerves sparking white-hot under the pressure of your hand. This is the comfort he's craved, your slow claiming, as certain as sunlight cresting the horizon.

“Yes,” he rasps, barely audible, urgent but sweet. “Please.”

You tighten your grip, just slightly, enough to push him further. His head lolls against your shoulder, lips parted as he breathes you in, every nerve in him open, yearning. Your movements—slow, commanding—break down his edges piece by piece, stroke by stroke. It’s soft agony, the best kind, the kind Viktor wants to prolong as much as he wants it to end, and he clutches your wrist, pressing your hand firmer against him, the only anchor left.

He’s yours now, willingly drowning beneath your fingertips, safe in the hollow of your palm. And he hopes—absurdly, foolishly—that you will never let him surface.

Steadily, you work open the button of his trousers. His breath stops halfway down his throat, lungs flattened by the enormity of this miniature intimacy. Then the zip—small hardware surrendering one tooth at a time, and when your palm finds him, Viktor shudders from root to crown.

Air hits his skin first; then your touch, cool at first, but warming fast. His eyes fall closed. It’s soft, tips just brushing the length, tracing veins beneath delicate tissue. It’s enough—already—to coax out the first slick bead of precum, pearled at the tip and quickly smeared by your thumb, slow, languid circles around the crown. Viktor's jaw slackens, neck arches baring throat, pulse hammering under flimsy layer of skin.

He cracks his eyes open, just enough to watch—the slack in your shoulders disappears; what remains is intent—ownership that straightens your spine. Viktor melts into it, relief unfurling in his gut, hot and urgent.

“You’re so good for me.” The words run down his back like a thumb tracing bone.  Your palm slides lower, then back up, slicking in the tears he weeps, wrist twisting at the head. Viktor groans, hips meeting your grip. Your voice carries deep, coaxing him further open. “You always know what I need.”

The words feel more intimate than your hand on him—each sentence shaping him into someone he longs to be, someone worth this devotion. Viktor aches beneath your praise. Gone is the hollow, exchanged for something deeper, richer. His skin feels too tight, his heart too large, his ribs insufficient to contain the flood of sensation and thirst pouring through him.

You work faster, lust sparking as he trembles beneath you, pelvis rolling helplessly, breath thickened to molasses. You speak again, lips pressed to his temple, whispering your redemption into the curls at his hairline. “You’re so beautiful like this.”

And Viktor, unable to resist you, submits fully—sinks deeper into the mattress, into your touch, into this breaking-open that leaves him entirely bare. Need ratchets inside him—hot, bright—until his thighs start to shake.

Caged between the options of ending and going further he tries to remain still under you, as your fist slides in maddening rhythm, so fucking steady it makes his heart beat out of sync. His legs go tense, and hips lift without reason now, just impulse. Just need.

“Would you like to come?” you ask, voice even as a metronome.

He nods fast, frantic, his breath catching. “Please,” he gasps. “Please—please—” the word trips over itself, loses shape, collapses into a string of syllables as he inches toward the edge.

You breathe out hard through your nose, and then shove another instrument of torture down his underwear. A hand wraps around his balls, already warm. The shock of it jolts a raw moan out of him; his palms fly to his eyes, blotting the room to black.

“Fuck, yes,” he hisses, and then he’s fumbling, clawing at his own shirt, pulling it up in a half-fold across his chest just in time to watch—eyes wide and wet—as he spills over his belly. Thick pulses striping his stomach, each contraction dragged out by the sure pump of your fist.

White skin painted whiter, Viktor blinks between breaths and tries to regain control of his lungs. Nothing foreshadows it—not the hand briefly tightening around him, nor the crack of your knuckles. It shies out small from your mouth, quiet but echoing like a church bell, and suddenly, he’s as pale as the artwork on his abdomen.

“I love you,” you say, as the room distorts around him.

And when his gaze finds you, he wonders briefly if he looks as shocked as you do. Eyes wide, unblinking, lips parted by tremor. Then, you finally breathe out, and oh God, you look like you are going to mumble I’m sorry—a blade, no dull edge—so cum or no cum on his stomach, Viktor moves.

He grips your neck and waist with whatever strength you’ve left his limbs, glues himself to you, wet spreading to your clothes—but he doesn’t care. His tongue could find yours in the dark, in the void, anywhere life takes him. Groaning and breathing you in through mouth and nose, Viktor kisses you as if it’s the first time. He opens his mouth wide and rolls onto you, trapping your confession inside until you forget the cancelling thing that was to follow.

“I love you,” he says between kisses, frantic, lips wet against yours. “I love you so fucking much,” another press of mouth to cheek, to jaw, to lips again. “I adore you,” he mutters into the corner of your mouth, his voice already hoarse, already breaking. “I fucking adore you.”

“Shit,” you say, startled—half-laugh, half-gasp, as if it snuck out of you.

He pulls back just far enough to look at you properly, searching your face. Pupils huge. You blink once, hard, like trying to centre yourself—and something in you settles.

“Okay, yes. I fucking love you.” Your voice shakes on the first word, steadies on the last. “I love you, Viktor.” All-warmed hands come to cup his cheeks, thumbs rubbing it in.

He laughs then. Sound uncertain, breath caught between sob and joy, and if he keeps going, Viktor is sure he will cry with this relief—so he kisses you instead. Mouth torn, palms trembling, a full-body gratitude.

“You wicked thing,” he says finally, slumping onto you, and it sounds like the wretched I love you all over again, scraped raw from his chest. “Weeks, no—months of this, I thought I’m losing my mind.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you ask, face to face, his weight draped over you like a coat still warm from the body. Your brows knit, incredulous, lips parted in a stunned half-smile people wear when they’re trying not to cry.

Viktor’s forehead winkles. He mutters your name like it’s the ultimate answer. “You frighten me—you look like I’m holding you at gun point every time there is even a suggestion. Besides,” he says, eyes dropping to your lips. “How could I tell you when you fucked me in the car like I’m nothing?” You flinch, pull back, mouth already parting to apologise—but he’s faster. “And,” he breathes, cupping your jaw so you can’t look away. “I have already told you.”

“What? When?”

“Mám tě ráda,” he says, all serious smile. His voice is hoarse, lowering into a hum. “It means I love you. Like I love someone who I carry in heart at all times.” He rubs his face on yours, nose to cheek, lips brushing skin as he speaks the next bit straight into your mouth.

“But now I can tell you,” he murmurs, like a secret finally safe to speak. “Miluji tě.” I love you. “Moc tě miluji.” I love you so much. “Moje láska,” he whispers, kissing you between the words, “my love.”

“Like I love you and I am in love with you. Mad about you, for that matter,” he adds, dry-mouthed and half-laughing now, as if even he can’t believe how many times he’s said it and how good it feels to finally get this ballast off his chest.

Your cheeks are burning. You stare up at him, blinking slow, lips parting shyly before the words tumble out. “I think this is more I love yous than I’ve heard in a lifetime.” Your voice shakes as you say it, breath trapped behind teeth—your body speaking louder than mouth.

“That’s a crime,” Viktor mutters, shaking his head. “I will keep telling you until you believe me.”

“I believe you,” you say, lifting your hand to his face. Your palm fits along his jaw, thumb tracing the edge of his cheekbone. “I know. You, I know.”

He sighs at that—long, loud, grateful—and nuzzles into your touch like he can breathe easier from it. “Now, can we,” he starts, tone growing torrid, mouth drifting lower to the hinge of your jaw. To ease that drought, he adds tongue and drags it along your throat.

“Stop having non-committal sex in a safe and friendly atmosphere,” he says, teeth out to join this kiss meant to last in colour—his first legal love-bite. “And move to having fully committed sex, so I can officially tell every person we meet in a fucking restaurant that you are mine?”

“Yes,” you breathe, then laugh, overwhelmed. “God, yes. I have no idea what I’m doing, but yes.” The fear hasn’t vanished, he knows, but he holds it at bay with hands on your hips. You grip him back just as firmly, intention purer than absence of skill.

“You are doing great,” Viktor says, mouth to neck. A smile—insistent—burns a moon-shaped brand on skin. For once, it’s more than enough. Nearly too much. He lets it flatten him anyway, and he breathes through it, deeply, gratefully. It settles into a dignified rest until Viktor’s thoughts drift, and he snorts into the pool of your clavicle.

You pull away. “What?” He sighs, bracing for you to swat him or groan or call him something loving like twat or prick and then with adoration painted on his face, he says, “I can’t believe you don’t know how to drive.”

[arcane-ish]

Rambling thoughts on Cait's storyline

I thought about doing like an exhaustive analysis of Cait's story in s2Act1 with like pictures and stuff as example. But then I got lazy. I will try to focus on some short notes.

1.) I don't get the vibe that Cait is being manipulative when she pulls away from Vi's touch. I think she's genuinely torn. I can't quite decide whether she's fighting her rising anti-Zaunite rage or on some level realizes what a mess she is and that going for it with Vi right now would be a bad idea. But I don't think she is angling for anything like that, imo she's just struggling with her own emotions. Sidenote: I think it's worth nothing how it mirrors the face touching that Jayce does to Mel.

2.) However, I totally get manipulative vibes from the whole "Cait sang Vi's praises to the enforcers and then her future team member just shows up at Vi's to tell her this". Like either Cait was setting up Vi to join the force (by giving a speech to the enforcers and threatening them with withdrawing funding) without actually asking Vi and/or she sent the enforcer girl to find Vi and tell her that. I dunno, there's just something odd about Caitlyn's multi-cultural task force just coming together like that.

3.) I complained in regards to Jayce's storyline that he is in multiple storylines that don't feel quite connected. And how he moves from one story to the next makes it seem like he doesn't actually care all that much. If I think about it, Caitlyn and Vi are strictly speaking in multiple stories as well (ie apprehending Jinx, Hextech, Ambessa's schemes). But they are getting the royal treatment. It doesn't feel like they are in distinct storythreads because the show connects them. These stories when they are in them still feel like they are fundamentally about Vi and Cait. Because of that it doesn't feel like they are in multiple stories, it's one big ball of story mud of Caitlyn and Vi. Jinx comments on Vi being sweet on Caitlyn. Mel tells Jayce to check on Caitlyn which gives her a chance to talk about Vi, Ambessa's schemes in regards to Caitlyn are meaningful also in part because they might affect how Vi feels about Cait and how likely they are to reunite.

Notice how when Heimer introduces Ekko and Jayce to each other, he doesn't ask what happened to Viktor? Even though that would make sense for his character and would give Jayce a way to voice his theory on why Viktor left and where he is now?

But it never comes up. Because Jayce, Viktor etc are firmly a B story and a result their fates and feelings don't matter to the other characters as much (and in turn means that the characters themselves feel like they don't care as much, while you can't get very far without having it pointed out to you that Vi matters to Cait and vice versa).

4.) I think the scene between Cait and Vi at the pond is intensely interesting. Because Cait says there's three faces she keeps seeing. her mom, Jinx and Vi. Her mom and Jinx are illustrated with a visual, but Vi isn't.

We don't get shown what Vi looks like in Cait's mind. Maybe we can infer that it's like in the beginning, where her world is in black and white and only Vi is in color.

But why not show us? In her visions of her, is Vi smiling? Being a steady rock? Looking at her with concern?

When she talks about her visions of Cassandra and Jinx, she speaks in detail how those make her feel. But with Vi she doesn't. We just have the tone of her voice to infer, but she does not say.

5.) I think it's very telling why Cait wants Vi to come along. Like there are clear tactical advantages to having a Zaunite guide while fighting in Zaun. Vi points this out and as Sevika points out when talking to the barons. But imo Cait asks Vi to come because she feels herself slipping.

She wants Vi to hold her back. Which from a relationship point of view, is kind of shitty, to pick somebody else and try to make them responsible for you not going evil.

(an interesting wrinkle is that when Caitlyn asks why she is indicating that she is scared if she goes after Jinx "one of them will end up in a box", indicating she doesn't want to kill Jinx, but Vi comes to quickly assure Caitlyn that she would be okay with Cait taking the shot on Jinx)

6.) Imo it's interesting that before they kiss Vi essentially tells Cait that she feels like she has nobody left.

And in the beginning it's like Cait also feels like Vi is the only thing that she has left, the only thing that is real.

When even her father is grey and doesn't feel real to her. Except it's not true. Even if Vi is important to her, Caitlyn has people. She has like three different people other than Vi try to reach out and give her comfort.

And that is on top of just via her position in society she has this whole apparatus behind and under her, the enforcers, the council. While Vi has dead siblings, dead parents, dead foster father (to her knowledge), no status within Zaun's society/nobody who cares what decisions she will make, a sister she considers dead and had a falling out with, no friends it seems left back in Zaun (either she never had any of her absence was too long) and for whatever reason she doesn't consider Ekko to be meaningful (maybe their relationship was just to casual, maybe she thinks he will judge her for working with the enforcers, maybe she is too self-hate-y to think she belongs there).

[tourmelion]

Ayo

Did anyone else.. not like the ending

Like, it felt hollow, and kinda shit

It felt like fortiche's vision was blurred and they didn't know what to do with the constrictions of it having to since up to LOL, it was just, kinda shit

There were good moments but Mel's magic was really hollow and her exasperated cry whenever she uses it is unearned unweightful power that she acts like is something empowering, and that is the case literally, but there's nothing behind it.

The whole war, felt hollow, no longer about 2 cities and struggle and more about fighting the aliens or whatever

A lot of power structures just get tossed away narratively speaking, in joining the fight for "freedom" a lot of the nuances shown get lost in favour of a shallower story

Also, they try and make Viktor sound smart and philosophical, and it feels like they took the hippie vibes and didn't try to understand when people try and solve their internal problems and understand the world around them. Viktor is not even a little profound, he's just got his head stuck up his ass from getting an arcane power up, he's a mirror of cait or jayce, given mind boggling power or ability but no idea how to handle it with responsibility

Maximum fumbling occurred with Viktor with all his philosophical points, Viktor is not good at understanding the mind, he claims to have more knowledge that he does cause he is blinded by his overwhelmedness from the arcane, he claims emotions are bad but he can't see it's cause of his emotional response, because he lost his awareness he justified all his actions with his hurt feelings. If he's truly evolved to his finest level why does he hold no common sense, why does he attach to Jayce specifically, if he's truly evolved surely he'd just be able to crank it on his cognitive abilities and figure out his idea was stupid and hollow, he's just being like Jayce accept more reckless, but it doesn't feel like they frame it as that, and well, the ending felt unsatisfying, unwholesome in it's composition, lots of empty pieces not in a 'find out more next series' way and more of a 'that's it? Seriously' way

So yeah, that's my 2 cents

Also, wars, realistic wars are steeped in politics, properly steeped, the ending bit just felt like it divorced from all that to be a reskin of an alien movie

[soaking-wet-cat-punk]

ARCANE CHARACTERS AS BASTILLE: WILD WORLD SONGS

arcane spoilers below

part two:

1. Good Grief

absolutely Jinx and Isha. are you kidding. it’s isha’s carefree tune and jinx’s grief. there’s a little glitching in there. there’s some echoes and strange voices. it’s because they ran together painting the town. because jinx found powder in isha and vi in herself. because isha smiled when she pulled the trigger. and sevika can be there if you squint

2. The Currents

GAHHHHHH THIS ONE IS AMBESSA *shakes you aggressively* GUHHH even though she’s more represented by fire. this song is about her taking control to protect what is Hers, even if she strays away from herself in the progress. i would pay someone to make an edit of Mel and ambessa to this song but I will probably do it myself so make ur offer fast. could also be Caitlyn and Maddie in the bridge, if you think about it. and i do think. all the time constantly i am not normal about this album.

3. An Act of Kindness

Hrngh………… jinx and silco………. the way his outstretched hand shaped her life…. how he was the only one there for her…… AND NOW IT FOLLOWS ME EVERY DAY?!?!!?! ugh this HITS DIFFERENT.

option 2, for the time bomb enjoyers. this could be ekko and jinx or ekko and powder, depending on what universe. because in the end he forgave her and came back for her. because in the end she forgave him and continued on with her life. And now it follows them, every day.

4. Warmth

MEL MERDARDA RHE QUEEN THAT YOU ARE!!!!!! and Jayce 🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥 but i see this as Mel slowly realizing she is falling for him, through the layers of possibilities and the layers of planning and high society manipulation, even that she is doing herself. and Jayce leaning on her because she Understands, she Knows.

he’ll come back to us.

5. Glory

the other side of the polycule JAYCA AND VICTOR HRGGHHHH DO I EVEN NEED TO EXPLAIN IF U JUST LISTEN ONCE YOU WILL GET IT I SWEAR ughhhhhhhhhhh im going to kill someone…… stories told to me, and stories told to you… but did you ever feel like they were ringing true??

because they searched for heaven together, then realized that there was no greater heaven than being with their Partner, the one they love, who their story can’t exist without.

6. Power

this one was hard to assign because i have Opinions Thoughts and Feelings about it in real life, but im going to give this one to Vi and Jinx both, but both about the ghost of each other that’s been hanging over their heads for years. jinx has the ghost of vi who betrayed her, who left her, and vi has the ghost of powder, who she can’t believe is gone. it’s a different tone than the song has for me in real life, which is fun!! love to see it!!!!!!!!!!!!!! anyway in the end of the show obviously they let go of old ghosts, so there’s that. there’s still hope.

7. Two Evils

this one hit me like a truck full of lead because I’m writing all of these live as i listen to the songs on a train. this is CAITLYN. this is Lady Macbeth herself. fighting corruption that bubbles up from her own throat, clawing at the crown that cuts her head, staring her mother down in the mirror. hunting the Zaunites like animals, losing herself and finding herself in the pieces below. “it pays to be the nice guy sometimes” it sure does cait GAHHHHHHGH i need everyone to listen to this album Now.

8. Send Them Off!

JAYVIK IS BACK BABY and they brought religious symbolism :D yayyyyy!!!!!!! in which viktor is the sin and the liberator, and Jayce is the sinner and the pledge. “be the power to compel me, hold me closer than anyone before, set me free” are you serious. are you for real right now. i will kill someone (affectionate)

ft. sky, during the bridge

9. Lethargy

CLOSE ENOUGH WELCOME BACK JINX AND VI! they can take turns paralleling this song. they deserve it. the helpless hope of family truly is something special. wowee im so glad british alt-rock band Bastille knows about the arcane sisters :) (this came out in 2014) anyway idk about you but i can see their journeys changing and intertwining in this song. and if you don’t see that then you are wrong. sorry.

10. Four Walls (the Ballad of Perry Smith)

jaycepilled jaycepilled Jayce when he went to superhell. Jayce when he fell to the bottom of zaun and had to pull himself up with his bare hands like viktor, Jayce when he finally understood viktor’s journey, Jayce when he saw the fate of his world that he made years ago. and of course that’s viktor speaking at the end. Just pretend his accent is there ok I don’t care that’s him. leave me alone I’m normal about this album.

My phone is running out of battery and I have hit the audio limit for this post so part two will happen later tonight or tomorrow morning I promise !!!!!!!!!