kr-v

[kr-v]

SILCO X ENFORCER MALE READER

I’m not even gonna lie…this is straight angst💔. This is my first time writing for arcane so let me know what you guys think about it.

⚠️Warnings!- forbidden love, angest, sex mentioned, love reciprocated to late, reader dies, fatal gunshot, doomed mlm.⚠️

Fallen Flame

The undercity of Zaun had a pulse all its own. The flickering lights, the low hum of machinery, the scent of oil and metal. It was a world that lived and breathed in chaos. Among its many streets and alleys, two men stood on opposite sides—one an enforcer, the other a master of control and manipulation. But fate, cruel as it was, had a way of binding their lives together in ways neither could foresee.

You were an enforcer—a soldier in the fight for Piltover's clean streets. The job was simple in theory: uphold order, ensure the laws were followed, and stop people like Silco. It had become your mission to rid the undercity of his influence, to shut down his criminal empire once and for all. But somewhere along the way, things had begun to blur.

Months of chasing shadows had brought you here—into his web. You’d grown obsessed with taking him down, the infamous leader of Zaun's underworld. He was dangerous, manipulative, and infuriatingly elusive. But behind the venomous words and cruel exterior, there was something that drew you in—a deep fire of conviction, one you couldn't help but admire despite yourself.

And you hated him for it.

But then... you’d hated him for so many things.

It started with stolen glances during interrogations. Heated arguments in dimly lit alleys. A desperate, feral kiss exchanged one fateful night when hatred boiled over into something raw and unspeakable. You hated how your body betrayed you. Hated how he kissed you back, biting and brutal, until you couldn’t breathe.

For months, your meetings had been like this—barbs traded like weapons, insults masking the fragile truth neither of you dared to say aloud. You hated him for what he stood for. He hated you for everything you represented. And yet, the tension between you wasn’t just hatred. It was something more dangerous. More intoxicating. It was why you kept coming back, why he kept letting you.

Yet the clandestine meetings continued, each one a powder keg of tension and desire. Every argument left scars—both physical and emotional. And every time you found yourself in his arms, it became harder to pretend this was anything but an addiction. But neither of you admitted the truth. That would’ve been weakness, and neither of you could afford that.

He hated it too, but no matter how hard he tried your touch was engraved into his skin. The sound of your voice was better than any song he heard. Your scent was better than any candle or flower. The way you kissed and made love with him, it was different. You were different…

The night it all ended was suffocatingly humid, the undercity choking on the fumes of industry. You’d received intel of a weapons shipment in the docks, one you knew would solidify Silco’s stranglehold on Zaun.

You weren’t going to let that happen.

The ambush was chaotic. Gunfire erupted, smoke filling the air. Your squad was outnumbered, overwhelmed. But you fought through the chaos, determined to find him. And you did. Silco stood at the edge of the pier, his silhouette illuminated by flickering flames. His men lay scattered, defeated, and his sharp gaze met yours as you leveled your gun at him.

“Don’t move.”

He tilted his head, a faint smirk playing on his lips despite the blood on his temple. “You won’t shoot me.”

Your hands trembled. You wanted to prove him wrong. You wanted to hate him enough to pull the trigger. But you couldn’t. "Why?" The word tore from your throat, a desperate plea. "Why does it have to be this way?"

Silco stepped closer, his voice calm, almost tender. "Because the system you serve will never let us be free. And you... you were never meant to understand that." His hand moved to his coat, and instinct took over. You fired.

The sound was deafening.

But when the smoke cleared, it wasn’t Silco who fell.

Pain exploded in your chest. You looked down, stunned to see the crimson stain blooming across your uniform. One of his men, barely conscious, had fired the shot.

Silco’s face twisted in something unreadable as you dropped to your knees.

The world blurred as he knelt beside you, his hands pressing against the wound.

"You idiot," he snarled, but his voice cracked. "Why didn’t you walk away? You could’ve left this behind." You tried to speak, but the words came out as a cough, blood staining your lips.

"Don’t... don’t act like you care now," you rasped.

His grip tightened, desperation flickering in his eyes. "I don’t."

"Liar."

Silco’s jaw clenched. For once, he didn’t have a sharp retort.

The pain was fading now, replaced by a strange, numbing warmth. Your vision dimmed, but you forced yourself to meet his gaze one last time.

“I—” you started, but the words caught in your throat.

He leaned closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “Don’t. Don’t say it.”

But it was too late. “I loved you,” you murmured, the truth spilling out with your final breath.

Silco froze, his hand still pressed against your chest as your body went limp. The weight of your words hung heavy in the air, shattering whatever armor he had left. For a moment, he stayed there, staring at your lifeless form. Then, slowly, he stood, his face a mask of cold fury and unbearable loss.

The enforcer who had dared to challenge him, who had been both his greatest rival and his deepest regret, was gone. And for the first time in years, Silco felt truly alone.

In the weeks that followed, whispers spread through Zaun. The enforcer who had dared to defy Silco was dead. But what they didn’t know—what Silco would never admit—was that he’d lost far more than just an enemy that night. He’d lost the only person who had ever truly saw him.

THE END

[kr-v]

Serdtse

pre/early s1 Viktor

male reader

Ch.1

Synopsis: You're a metalworker who has finally been given the opportunity to meet a long-time friend's assistant. And you're not sure what you expected, but this wasn't it.

Word count: 6k

Note: happy new year:) hope it is not too out of character

You typically meet what feels like copies of the same person in your field of work. The same industrial plants looking for parts, the same labour companies looking for tools, the same orders coming from the same people.

Sometimes, you do get the outlier—maybe an older woman cradling precious jewelry in her frail hands with the request that you resize it, telling tales of when she was young and beautiful and her rings still fit. You do your best to break your silence and humour her, telling her that her beauty has not faded one bit before offering a lower price, heart feeling a little heavier as you watch her head back down into the dark recesses of the Undercity, clean and adjusted jewelry hidden in her pockets.

And, despite these brief, unique-seeming instances, you still find yourself trudging through haze and sinking into a repetitive cycle.

Into the furnace, out of the fire, onto the anvil, into the water.

Forming. Cutting. Joining.

Again and again and again and again.

What once excited you has begun to dull, boring you in the process. You don't doubt the worsening conditions with shimmer in Zaun attribute to this sudden tilt towards a downward spiral. But you still hold a passion for your craft, so you stick with it, despite the itch for something, someone, to come and knock the piling monotony over. 

-

Speak of the devil and he shall appear. 

You're in the midst of completing yet another commission of metal panels, something you must admit you no longer find much joy making, let alone care for whatever their purpose will be. Not when you had made a near-painful amount of them for another client the prior week.

You aren't what would be considered talkative typically, but you would have appreciated something more than silence and an anxious glance in response when you had asked where they would be installed. The unease in the atmosphere gets to those from the other side of the bridge too, you suppose.

(What's life without mild irritation? You find yourself repeating the phrase often in your mind.)

You barely hear the ringing of the bell installed over the door as you hammer the hot metal, flattening it out. Looking up, you catch the eyes of a young man standing near the door. He's no devil—incredibly far from it, actually, and you swear you can feel your pulse quicken when you make eye contact—but he doesn't look like someone that would typically find himself in your type of shop. Especially not as you register he's wearing a Piltover Academy uniform. 

Too refined to be surrounded by burning metal and gear grease.

"I'll be with you in a minute. Sorry for the wait." 

His shoulders very slightly jump into a shrug when he assures you. "It's no problem at all."

And you go back to your task. You can feel his eyes on you, but you chalk it up to curiosity, which you can already tell he's full of. Something that feels rare in the misery that surrounds.

The final panel does not take long for you to finish and you pull your glove off and slip it halfway into the pocket of your apron where the other one is tucked in as you approach the front of your shop. The man is still there, very slightly leaning on his cane, and you're not entirely sure why you're pleasantly surprised he hasn't left.

But the answer to that comes quick when you move closer.

His deep brown hair is styled so that it doesn't hide his face, allowing you to get a better look at him. There are little moles dotted onto his face, with hollowed cheeks under sharp cheekbones that lead to his unexpectedly piercing eyes. You might have described as pools of molten gold had you been referring to a piece of art and not a real person standing in front of you.

His features are sculptural—sharp edges with an undeniable softness hard to identify. In another life, where you had chosen a more artistic passion, you'd have loved him as a muse. 

"It really was a minute." His strong brows are raised and the tone you can hear in his voice is unexpectedly teasing as he pulls you out of the nearly-endless abyss of your thoughts, as if he knows what you're thinking. 

You exhale a laugh through your nose after a second of reeling your mind back into the present moment and away from his appearance. It's probably the first amused noise you've made in weeks. "Thanks for waiting." Your gaze lingers on the mole above his lip for the briefest moment. "What can I help you with?"

"I presume you are (Y/N), yes?"

"I am." "Perfect." He takes a step closer, as if this confirmation was what he needed to properly allow himself into the space. "Professor Heimerdinger sent me here, something about a talented metalsmith whose help he needed." He scans your shop with his pretty eyes as he speaks and there's a pause his explanation before he looks at you once again. "I'm Viktor, his assistant." He moves his right hand outwards, as if to shake yours, before his eyebrow twitches and he seems to remember the dark blue folder occupying his hold. "Oh, eh.. Here." His lip quirks into a small smile and he holds the folder out for you to take. 

There's a little spark of recognition that passes through you as you realize who exactly is standing in front of you.

In truth, Heimerdinger had described Viktor to you in prideful detail, like a father boasting about his golden son. You can feel the bit of excitement bubbling in your chest as you realize this is your opportunity to finally see the man behind Heimerdinger's carefully crafted, but ultimately foggy image. He'd never been one to discuss physical appearances and you never expected.. this.

You take the folder gently in one hand and properly introduce yourself, holding out your other, thankfully clean, hand for a proper handshake now that Viktor's is free.

His hand is a little cold and you feel it jolt against yours from the shock of the temperature change—your skin is still warm, bordering on hot, from your physical work and the glove you only just pulled off. 

You do your best to steer your mind away from the skin-to-skin contact as you pry the folder open.

"..I've heard of you before." A glance is thrown his way to see his reaction.

The surprise in his face is evident. His thick eyebrows are raised again and there's this glimmer in his eyes. "You have?"

"From Heimerdinger. He seems very proud to have you as an assistant."

You flip through the papers after finding you need to tear your eyes away from his bright face. "And 'talented'? The professor is ever the flatterer, did he tell you to say that?"

"Maybe."

The papers inside display sketches of gears, all labelled and neatly detailed with dimensions and materials. Yet, they're oddly uncomplicated. "Why send you all the way here? I'm sure someone at the academy can make these. They're quite simple." 

At that, Viktor cocks his head, eyebrows quirking, as if to say he understands your thought process. "To be entirely honest, Heimerdinger also said something about wishing you'd visit again. I suppose this is his indirect way of inviting you." His nose scrunches for a second as he winces and his teeth show for a quick moment. It's charming. "...I also suppose I spoiled his plan."

Not entirely. You're not quite sure if he realizes the other half—the professor did let it slip that he believed you and Viktor would get along quite well, and this is the perfect opportunity. Face-to-face, standing on equal ground, and without the distractions that come with being inside the Piltover Academy.

But you don't mention this.

"Maybe."

Instead, you echo his words and tilt your own head to the side. "I guess I can do this, then." You gesture with the folder. "And drop the finished gears off myself. To, er, indirectly accept his invitation." 

Seeing Viktor's amusement painted on his face with another smile feels like a small victory. A victory you're not sure you should be internally celebrating. But the smile really does fit his features nicely.

"That works." There's another pause. His eyes quickly fleet over your body. You're sure he's now realizing just how messy you look, covered in soot and grease. Maybe he's judging your work clothing, too. You can't exactly vouch for the safety of relying on an apron and a, maybe slightly too tight, dirty old shirt for upper body protection.

In contrast, Viktor's well dressed. He's in a maroon button-up, with layered vests, a cravat, and ironed dress pants. He looks nice. And you do your best to ignore the fact that you feel like a grimy fool standing in front of him. You hope that, at the very least, he doesn't think you dress like this outside of your job.

"Quite impressive." Your brows pinch.

"Your work is very versatile." He clarifies.

Oh.

You're internally chagrined for a moment before logic kicks in. 

Sure, Viktor's attractive. You can admit that to yourself—and you already have a million times over in your racing mind. But this is humiliating. You've only just formally met.

"Ah.. yes, I do a bit of everything." Praise from anyone as bright as he must be would get your heart jumping, you justify, no matter who it is. "Thank you."

He moves closer to one of the many tables in your space, one that's littered with all sorts of tools, papers, and things you've crafted. Some yet to be picked up by clients, some with no final destination or use—often made during odd hours, when sleep felt like it was out of your grasp and your mind still buzzed.

"May I touch?" 

You swallow.

"Go ahead."

Your fingers drum against the folder for a few seconds before you make your way around Viktor and place the paper down onto your much neater desk.

Viktor leans his cane against the cluttered table and picks up a small, overcomplicated mechanical propeller. It's not your typical smithing work that people look for—a mechanism rather than a tool or weapon—and it's been lying around for so long, you only vaguely remember its intended use. "I believe that was ordered by a father. ...Something about his kid's toy."

"Why do you still have it?"

"He gathered enough money to move, or something like that. No need for toy planes at that point. I have not received any orders for.. mechanical things since then, unfortunately." The fact that a piece of a child's toy is one of the best things you have to show for your engineering prowess makes you frown.

Viktor makes a little sympathetic hum in the back of his throat and pushes one of the blades with his pointer finger. "I understand." It's quiet but you can tell he's genuine.

He watches as it spins, holding it close to his face and analyzing it like it's some impressive, overly detailed mechanism.

"Quite intricate.." He seems to be talking to himself, but he lifts his head to look at you and continues, before you have the chance to argue that it's nothing spectacular. "And you also made those?" Using the hand that holds the propeller, he gestures to the far corner of the main room, where steel breastplates are propped up against the wall.

You lean against the edge of your desk, arms crossed over your chest, where a little flame of pride begins to burn. And maybe a little bit of something else you don't want to entertain the thought of. Something you probably should not entertain the thought of, especially not so soon. "Everything in here is my own." The sentence comes out colder than you wanted as a result and you hope the smile you give afterwards helps soften it. 

It seems to work, or maybe Viktor doesn't mind your tone, either way. "Very interesting." He places the propeller back onto the table, between a jar of thick nails and some rusted cinch clamps. "Jack of all trades and master of them all, it seems. Flipping the saying on its head, so to speak." He sounds and looks genuinely impressed and it fans the the fire in your chest. It may be because this is the first time the man has stepped foot into your workplace and he's already flattering you nearly to a fault. And because genuine compliments seem so rare now.

Or it may be because of who's giving them out. 

You choose not to dwell on the thought longer than need be. 

"You're too kind." Is what you manage to say. A bit quieter, softer, than intended. "I'm no master, but thank you, Viktor." 

"From what I've already seen, you are." His shoulders jump up into a slight shrug as he replies.

The light tone of his response paired with a facial expression you can't quite make out makes it feel like something you'd hear from someone you've known for far longer, someone you hold much closer, and not from Heimerdinger's assistant whom you first saw in person only 20 minutes ago. His eyes crinkle at the corners as he looks away. 

Viktor's gaze is back on the table. You know from Heimerdinger that he has more of an interest in the mechanical, engineering side of things. That claim is backed up as you watch him zero in on one of the blueprints partially hidden under an array of tools. His palm is flat on the tabletop and his fingers twitch, like he's holding back from pulling the pages out from under the mess to get a better look at the lines sketched into the blue paper.

Part of you really does not want to say your next words.

"Shouldn't you be heading back to the academy now?" Viktor's eyes are on you again. This time, he blinks, looking puzzled and maybe even a little... deflated. His hands drop to his sides as he stands up straight. "I'm sure you're needed there, and I don't want to take up too much of your time."

"The professor gave me plenty of time—the whole day, actually—and you're not forcing me to stay." You can't argue with that. Especially as you feel your own relief seeping into your bones.

I hoped you'd say something like that. That is left unsaid.

"Plus.." There's a pause, a split second too long. His eyes seem to search for something unseen in his mind. "I do find your work interesting."

You uncross your arms and your fingers drum against the edge of the desk this time. "Do you usually hand out compliments like this?"

"Sometimes." It's all Viktor says, and he pairs it with a glance you can't decipher. 

"Well, uh... I unfortunately have to go out and pick up some materials today...." There's a pause. Viktor's eyebrows furrow and there's a little frown, maybe even a hint of a pout, tugging at his lips and you want to punch yourself for paying so much attention to them. "But, maybe you can find some time to stop by another day? If you don't mind for me to work on the gears you were sent here for during your visit.."

He looks relieved at your words. The crease between his eyebrows smooths out and his mouth relaxes into a little smile that thins out his lips. Your brain is still stuck on the briefest image of the pink of his bottom lip jutting out in disappointment and you nearly forget to listen to his answer, having to forcibly haul your attention back to the present. "I wouldn't mind that at all." He seems to mentally run through his schedule and he holds his chin between his pointer finger and thumb. "Would Thursday two weeks from now work?" In the quickest instant, you picture your hand replacing his, and his facial expression morphing into a softer one as you lean in, his hands on your waist—god.

"That works perfectly."

Any plans you had for that day be damned.

You're sure Viktor is happy to have more time to quench his inquiries and you're more than happy to provide some mental nourishment, though you do wish that interest would pivot away from your work and focus on you. 

You bid him goodbye, with a request to inform Heimerdinger you will visit when the gears are complete, and watch him leave, not getting back to your tasks until he's entirely out of view.

-

It's Monday afternoon the next week and you're surprised to find a paper unceremoniously slid under the door to your workshop. It's a crisp white envelope with the Piltover Academy symbol stamped into the wax seal that you do your best to preserve as you pry the flap open and pull out the page stored inside. Probably a letter from Heimerdinger, with an expression of excitement for your meeting.

Upon unfolding it, you find your theory disproven quickly. 

Dear (Y/N),

It was a pleasure meeting you last week, and I must admit I am glad Professor Heimerdinger's patience with you had run out enough to send me your way. Now, thinking about it, I can see that our meeting must have been part of his secret plan, as well. Smart man.

I am sending this letter as to inform you that the professor is greatly looking forward to your visit, which I'm sure you know. Whether or not you have finished making the gears by then seems to be the last of his concern. He has already begun creating a buzz around the academy regarding the visit of a mysterious, metalworking genius sometime in the following weeks. So, please be aware that there may be some extra pairs of eyes on you and many questions from curious students when you arrive. I hope this does not cause you to have second thoughts, though I doubt it will. 

I am looking forward to seeing you again next week and witnessing your creation process in person.

Kind regards,

Viktor

You stare at the paper in some confusion. Viktor sent you a letter. You're not sure why. The meeting between the two of you was brief, without anything particularly impressive to show on your part, and you still feel like you may have made a fool of yourself in some way.

And, either way, there was no need for Viktor to have gone out of his way to write all of this and send it. He could have told you everything in person next week. 

But you can't deny the little spark of 'what if?' that flashes through you, especially with his little humorous quips strewn throughout the lines. 

And he's looking forward to seeing you again? You're reading too much into it, but you really do internally wish this goes beyond simple work relations, and maybe Viktor wouldn't be against stepping into a genuine friendship. And possibly, though definitely out of reach, something closer.

Still, even if he doesn't share the dream, you skim over the sentence a few more times, until you read it with his voice in your mind and maybe a little gentler of a tone than necessary. 

You waste no time in finding a clean sheet of paper and a fountain pen. Doing your best not to overthink your words, you write a response.

Dear Viktor,

Thank you greatly for taking the time to handwrite a letter to me. I had not expected it, but I really do appreciate it, and I hope my thankfulness translates through my writing. 

(My apologies if this letter is too brief. Writing them is not my strong suit, I must admit.)

I am glad to hear that Heimerdinger doesn't seem to hold any animosity regarding my delay and I will do my best not to disappoint anyone curious when I arrive. But I make no promises. 

And I, too, am very glad to have met you last week. I anticipate with excitement to learn more about you during our next get together. I can already tell you have a bright mind and I am curious to hear about your studies. I can't be the only one discussing my specialty, after all. 

Thank you again for your kindness.

Regards,

(Y/N)

-

True to his word, Viktor shows up two weeks later on Thursday. 

He's holding a brown paper bag you assume contains his lunch and smiling when you immediately drop what you're doing to greet him. 

"I hope I'm not interrupting your work." There's that soft, teasing edge to his words again. 

"Not at all. I wasn't really working, anyway." It's the truth. You'd resorted to fidgeting around in your workspace in attempt to pass the time and ease your impatience as you waited for Viktor. Nerves had spiked in your insides as you considered the possibility that maybe he forgot, or changed his mind.

The fact the idea of Viktor having second thoughts had hurt embarrasses you.

Viktor had been stuck in your very brain tissue since you'd met last week. Partially convincing yourself it was a dream, you almost felt the need to pinch yourself when he came into your shop again, even though you had exchanged those few letters in the meantime and you were sure he was a man of his word. 

"Well, then..." You speak again, before your silence becomes odd and another source of overthinking. "Should we get started?"

- 

Viktor occupies a chair you've pulled out for him at your desk as you clear a space and set everything up.

He pauses his in-depth, intensely passionate run-down of his latest scientific theories—and his desires to achieve more—that give you a glimpse into the intricacies of his mind in order to offer his help. The offer sounds more like a request soaked with curiosity and you're unable bring yourself to decline, so you ask him to pull out three moulds for the gears from the shelf next to your workbench.

Leaning his cane against the edge, Viktor pulls the moulds off of the shelf and shifts them into one arm. 

One by one he carries the moulds out, holding them close to his chest with his right arm as not to drop them, cane in his left hand. He's as gentle with his movements as he can be with the heavy things when he places them onto the thick metal surface. 

"These are your work, too?" Viktor traces the strong edges of one of the forms with a dexterous finger, like he's analyzing every atom that makes up the metal block with his fingertip. With shameful haste, you concentrate on the incredibly simple task of picking out bits of scrap metal and dropping them into the melting pot. 

"Yes, they were made from their own moulds." You pull your gloves on once there's enough metal for three gears. "...A mould cast within a mould." It's a mere, under-the-breath mutter as you slowly pick the pot up by the handle with a steady hand, but you can hear a little amused exhale of laughter from Viktor.

You can't help but to glance up at the sound, at Viktor, and find him already looking at you.

You, rather than the hypnotizing flames of the hearth or the pot of steadily melting metal. Or the hundreds of other things around the shop that slot into the little jar of metalworking intrigue far better than you do. 

He diverts his gaze fast, like he was caught red-handed and trying to act normal about it. There's just a hint of his eyes widening and lips pursing as he lifts a fist to his mouth and clears his throat. 

The wishful implication that it was something more than simple knowledge-hungry interest is a thought quickly shoved away, under the carpet and into the desperate corners of your mind.

The sudden crackle of charcoal reminds you that you're still standing in front of the forge and definitely not paying as much attention to the dangerous pot of hot, near-liquid metal as you should be. There's a sudden urge to drag a hand over your face and sigh as you peel your focus away from Viktor and direct it back to your job. 

It's silent for a few beats until Viktor speaks again. His voice is calm. steady, unaffected. Confident once more. "How do you know Heimerdinger? He hadn't mentioned it to me."

You know you're a fool for wishing he could've sounded as flustered as you feel.

"Ah, I guess I hadn't mentioned that, either.." You keep your eyes on the melting metal. "We met when I was still an apprentice in the Undercity. He needed some parts for a machine he was working on and I took up the job, as my mentor was busy." Before Viktor asks why look for someone in the Undercity? like anyone would, you continue. "My mentor had a good reputation. One that carried over across the bridge. Heimerdinger has been keeping up with me and offering support, ever since." Part of you is upset with yourself that you hadn't visited the professor in a long enough time that he decided a commission would be the only way to get you back in the academy. "I really should have visited sooner."

Viktor hums. It's a low, rumbling sound that seems to come straight from his chest and it snakes up your spine in the form of goosebumps. "Why not stay in Piltover? You have a very good connection there."

"Can't say I have a particularly.. good or logical reason." Carefully, the pot is carried over to workbench, where the moulds are held in place by thick iron clamps. "I just don't really want to, I suppose."

The blocks are positioned in a row and you slowly pour the molten metal into the hole atop each one, doing your best to ignore Viktor's watchful gaze that tracks each of your movements over and over. You don't doubt he's mentally jotting down the motion of your every muscle and each maneuver you make under the How to Cast Gears tab in his mind. You briefly wallow in the self-indulgent hope that there's a little topic marker dedicated solely to you, too. 

"That's a good a reason as any." Viktor replies. And his voice is suddenly right there as he leans in to get a closer look at the process. "Feelings are important, too. Not every decision needs to have a definite, analytical cause that you can pin point behind it."

You keep your head forward.

When the metal seeps into the depths of each mould and leaves some extra space, you follow through with another round of pouring, until each form is full and metal threatens to pool over and out of the spouts. "That's true." 

There's a moment silence as you hang the pot on a thick metal hook by the loop on the handle and turn to Viktor, "Now we wait. Shouldn't take too long. I can make some tea in the meantime. I have black and green tea. ...Or coffee?" 

"Black tea would be nice, thank you." 

At the confirmation, you walk over to the small faux-kitchen in the corner near your desk and pull out a steel kettle.

Viktor looks over the setting metal before he suddenly stands up straight.

He goes back to your desk, where the brown paper bag he brought sits. He leans his cane against the back of his chair and straightens the folded top of the bag, pulling it open and reaching in. Two small cardboard food boxes are pulled out, held in his pale hands, and placed on the tabletop. "Eh... I hope you have a bit of a sweet tooth.."

Wait.

He pulls the lid of one of the little boxes off, revealing a delicious-looking slice of Napoleon cake, and looks back to you. One of the corners of his lips raises just a bit higher and suddenly he's smirking and raising a brow in invitation.

You can't help but pluck his expression out of context, and place it into a more intimate, gentle situation. One where you move closer, close enough for Viktor to place his palm on the back of your head and sigh against your lips as you lean in....

Realizing you've been silent for a beat too long, you do your best to sound normal as you clear your throat.

"You didn't need to— Thank you, but really.." You feel like you're blubbering for words like a fish out of water and you hope that it's just in your imagination. 

"I wanted to." Viktor says this with such ease and maybe a bit too gentle of a tone that it sends little spikes of warmth rushing through your muscle fibres. Again, he's back in that soft setting in your mind, as you stand at the sink and fill the kettle with water. "It's only fair—you're letting me intrude on your work like this." 

"You're not intruding—" There's a pointed look directed your way. "—okay. Thank you. Again." He can have this win.

He waves you off, but there's a little quirk to his lip that evens his smirk out into a satisfied smile, like he's proud he has triumphed a debate with a topic more serious than dessert, and, once more, your eyes immediately flicker towards the movement.

You place two thick ceramic mugs onto your desk and drop a bag of black tea into each one once the kettle is on the fire. Viktor watches as you bring a second heavy chair over with one arm, your hand hooked through the opening in the back, and place it at the short end of the table. The balancing act of two small plates and forks in your other hand ends when you put them on the table, as well.

Viktor's right leg crosses over his left and he leans back, with his elbows on the arm rests and hands resting atop each other in his lap. He seems comfortable and you can't shake the fact that his posture really does make it look like he owns the space, possibly more than you do. And when you're beckoned back to the fire by the kettle's whistle, you reassure him that you don't need his assistance. He's the guest here.

Just sit still and look pretty. You don't say that—but you do think it. 

It's far too bold and far too early, and maybe a bit too simple of a phrase for a bright man like Viktor. You'd do anything in your power to avoid implying the false idea that you're dumbing him down to his outermost layer, his physical appearance. And you keep telling yourself that, that it's too fast, even when he looks at you from under the shadows of his brow bone and eyelashes with a little bit of something in his eyes as you lean in just a bit closer over his shoulder to pour hot water into his cup. You feel a bit like you're putting on a show for him—one he observes with some unidentifiable interest before quickly diverting his gaze to the steeping tea. He plays with his fingers for a few seconds, catching his left middle finger between his right pointer and thumb. He seems almost.... awkward. Nervous. You pray it's because of you and not the logical explanation of it simply being an odd moment between two friends. 

Once you place the kettle onto a cork board, you take a seat like the moment never happened and watch Viktor regain his momentarily lost composure with haste. His hands relax and start to take the small dessert boxes apart, gentle but with enough force to pull the tabs open and lay them flat with his fingers. He moves the slices of cake to the plates with ease this way, after sliding the prongs of his fork under each piece. 

"Here—your slice." Viktor pushes one of the small plates in your direction, and you reach over to pick up the flattened boxes and drop them into the hinged trash can under the desk. 

Picking up your fork, you take a moment to examine the slice of cake in front of you. It looks almost unnaturally appetizing, with its many flakey layers sandwiched between sweet cream and the mixed berries decorating the top. You almost don't want to eat it, since that comes with the pain of ruining the perfect dessert. "Thank you. It looks delicious." 

You wonder if Viktor has a serious sweet tooth. Maybe you should be the one treating him.

-

When you take the moulds apart and pull the gears out, Viktor watches intently. He stands closer, seemingly have gained some more confidence and comfort within your presence. 

"The next step is shaving them down and shaping them into the ideal form." The rasps are held in the top drawer under the workbench, and you pull out a few different sizes and grits. They're placed on the table while you vertically clamp a gear and bring the chairs from your desk over to the bench.

Viktor sits next to you as you pick up one of the bigger rasps and begin filing down the edges of the gear. You do your best to ignore the closeness. 

"Eh.. Would you like to try?" You catch his eye. 

"May I?" This seems so easy to pluck out of context. Again.

"Of course." You stand up, pushing the chair back, and walk around it, gesturing for Viktor to take your spot. He sits, gently taking the rasp from your outstretched hand. His movements are a little unsure as he presses his pointer finger against the flat top and pushes forward, angling his hand upward. "Ah..." For a second, you reach ahead, from your standing position behind Viktor, before you realize that this probably isn't a good idea. "..You need to angle your hand slightly downward. It will make the rasping a bit easier." Thankfully, he doesn't seem to notice your little slip-up and short internal dilemma.

But then he glances over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow. "You can touch me. I don't mind." His facial expression reads as inviting of all things and it almost feels like an intentional taunt. A tease. Like you've cracked a bit at the seams and he's gathering the spill with his fingers instead of ignoring it like he should, all while giving you this small, innocent smile. "I think I'll understand better that way, since I have no experience with this."

Finding your mouth suddenly unbearably dry, you pause and release a silent breath. Viktor has to know how this sounds.

"Okay." It's all you say before you're leaning over his shoulder again. This time, your hand overlaps his and you hold the tool with him, doing your damn best to focus on helping and not Viktor's sharp little inhale that you can hear clearly with how close you are. You angle your hand and it forces his to do the same, and you push. The rasp files down the excess metal with much less resistance. You pull back before the touch becomes awkward. More awkward than it already feels. 

Viktor is still and silent and he's not looking at you anymore. His grip on the rasp is tight and white-knuckled and his head is facing straight forward. Your gut sinks as you realize you definitely messed up. Fuck. You feel awful.

Before you get a chance to apologize, Viktor leans his head against the knuckles of his free hand and clears his throat. "..Thank you." He lifts his head against and loosens the painful-looking hold he has on the tool. When he begins to rasp again, he finally glances at you again and you nearly loudly release an exhale of relief. There are no harsh lines of malice or disgust in his face. Instead, there's a little smile. "Er, is this correct?"

"Yes. That's perfect." 

You're not sure if it's a good idea to hope the brief bashful-seeming look on his face before he turns his head again isn't only part of your imagination. But you do. More than you should.

[kr-v]

thank you - hope to get the first chapter out relatively soon then)

I have been working on a Viktor (Arcane) x male reader story on and off for a bit now (slowly but surely). wondering if a miniseries (~3 chapters) or one-shot would be the better fitting/preferred format.

not sure who will see this, but if you do & are interested, please vote - all feedback is appreciated. spasibo

[kr-v]

I have been working on a Viktor (Arcane) x male reader story on and off for a bit now (slowly but surely). wondering if a miniseries (~3 chapters) or one-shot would be the better fitting/preferred format.

not sure who will see this, but if you do & are interested, please vote - all feedback is appreciated. spasibo

[kr-v]

rules | write list

will write:

Red Dead Redemption 2

Arthur Morgan : John Marston : Javier Escuella : Mary-Beth Gaskill : Kieran Duffy : Abigail Roberts : Charles Smith

Resident Evil [re2r, re4, re4r, re7, re8]

Leon S. Kennedy : Claire Redfield : Ada Wong : Ethan Winters : Ashley Graham

The Last of Us [Game]

Joel Miller - Tommy Miller

X-Men & X-Men Adjacent

James Logan Howlett : Scott Summers : Ororo Munroe : Jean Grey : Wade Wilson (Origins included)

Arcane

Viktor : Jayce Talis : Ambessa Medarda : Mel Medarda : Vander : Ekko : Jinx : Silco

The Walking Dead

Daryl Dixon : Rick Grimes : Carol Peletier

will write ftm reader and trans characters

will only write top reader for smut

won't write:

female reader, bottom reader, pedophilia, r@pe, etc.

[kr-v]

Solid Snake — METAL GEAR SOLID Δ SNAKE EATER (2025)

[kr-v]

01. Doggone Cowboy

Not Dead Yet

Would it be possible for a man's eyes to melt in their sockets and leak past his closed eyelids? You didn't know, but it sure felt like it, and pressing your palms into your eyes made no difference. You were back in the woods. But these were the wrong woods. These were not the ones you made your first snow angel in. That familiar place was far away and snow no longer felt the same.

The sky was darker than you had expected, and you would have marveled at it like a child once again had you had a grasp on your mind. Everything looked the same no matter which direction you looked and the lack of people would be the same no matter which way you chose.

The nights were cold. Though having nowhere to return to had softened the cold, rather than amplified it. As you curled in on yourself and pressed your back against the dirty walls of shallow caves, you felt like an animal. You figured that's all you were now. An animal with dirt stuck under your fingernails and an empty stomach.

Your grandfather would have been ashamed. Or maybe he'd be proud. You weren't sure anymore. Weren't sure it mattered, anyway. You were out, out for real and on your own terms, without somebody watching over and prodding at you. Without somebody coming in and rounding you up like livestock.

You'd never once looked back. Never faced in the direction of the charred black you had turned your back to some time ago. The darkness you saw as you faced the entrance of the cave had a softer embrace. And suddenly, from this darkness, a man came with a gun pointed straight at your skull. The irony of the hunting rifle was not lost on you. A few threats met with silence caused him to lower the weapon as a woman stuck her head over his shoulder and spoke into his ear, hushed.

The man had taken in your sorry appearance and shone his lantern over your form. His southern accent was slathered thickly over every baffled word he spoke, unusual for this part of the country. The thought of them likely coming from the states crossed your mind before it flipped back to more important matters, like the one that involved you sitting almost nude in front of his poor wife, blemishes all on display for her eyes to see.

Unexpectedly, an offer was made once a long period of silence in the darkness had passed. The couple's son's old room in exchange for your efforts, new title of farmhand and cowboy, and taming of the new horse they didn't have the strength to handle—strength they were sure you had plenty of. The type of strength difficult to ignore as you slowly rose to a stand in front of them. The offer, even if made out of pity, was too generous for someone like you. Some dirtied young man they had just met, hunched over himself in a cave like some wounded brute.

You had learned their names were Hank and Suzanne. They had labelled you an odd feller, and you had decided even that was far too generous of a title.

It was the next day, after they had brought you back to their property, that you had celebrated the accomplishment of taking your first proper bath in a foolish amount of years and realized your ability to feel embarrassment had not yet been beaten out of you. The speed at which the water rapidly began to shift into a colour that was the direct opposite of cleanliness was something you watched with a small twinge of shame in your gut and decided to take to the grave. Before then, you had been given shears that you knew were really meant for sheep to get rid of the matting mess that clung to your upper back. It was choppy and definitely not charming—fit you well—but relief had washed over, and how you looked had stopped mattering long before you did.

-

You quickly realized that liking Suzanne and Hank was not hard. They were kind, the both of them. They let you be without drowning you in questions and gave you shelter and food as long as you pulled your weight and tamed that godforsaken horse, a beautiful Friesian with a near-black, dark brown dapple coat. He had put up a fight as soon as you'd first approached him with a saddle and the intention to place it on his back. Nearly threw you off when you hopped onto him, but, thankfully, his panic knew an end and he had quickly let himself warm up to you.

You'd been given the right to name him, and, after thumbing through some old books you'd found lying around on the shelves of the room you'd been lent, Alfie was the name you chose. Had something to do with "Alfred," but you hadn't bothered to read any further once the name had been found, though you'd been grateful the ability still stuck with you, even at a rudimentary level, as you shut the book with a sigh. 

Farm work had welcomed itself back into your skillset like it never left. The lasso you now kept hanging from your belt had begun to feel comfortable in your grip and the saddle brought back faint memories of lighter saddles and caramel coats.

One particularly fine morning, Hank had called you over as soon as you'd stepped out of your room. He had poured fresh coffee into three mugs and patted your back with a strong hand once you'd sat down. Suzanne had placed down three little plates with a slice of fresh apple pie on each and you watched her spoon a generous glob of thick whipped cream onto each piece. You had sat there, awkward, and fidgeted with the loose threads in your work pants for a few moments as everything was set into place and the couple took their seats around the round wooden table. You'd done your best to adjust to your new and unusual living but, as grateful as you were, a 180 like this still hadn't come easy, even with the amount of time you'd been at the farm.

After some insisting from Suzanne that the pie was simply a kind gesture, you picked up the fork laid out next to your plate by its thick handle and pushed the prongs into your piece. The criss-cross crust had softened under the melting cream and the overflowing yellow apple bits speckled with cinnamon toppled over and out the sides of the slice. You'd been quiet, gently savouring the dessert, though you were sure your enjoyment was somehow shown on your face as the older couple glanced at each other over their newspapers and you saw Suzanne's eyes crinkle.

Halfway through your slice, Hank had paused in his daily routine of reading the newspaper and quietly informed you that a few men interested in something related to the farm would stop by later that day, and that you'd be needed to provide some muscle. Vague, but you weren't in the position to ask questions or make demands. You'd follow through with anything if it meant you'd have a roof over your head and clothing on your back.

You'd gone about your day as you had for the past couple months. You tended to the cattle, pushed away the blatant reminder of the role reversal as you rounded up any that had cut off from the rest of the herd, fed the animals, sat on your ass in exhaustion once given the chance, cleaned the stalls, and worked with the horse you'd been assigned. Your pattern had been interrupted by a small group of men approaching you as you began to lead Alfie back into the barn by the reins.

Hank had been first in line, followed by three men. His expression was grim and the light of the sun only deepened the shadows in his face. The crease between his eyebrows was harsh as the men had stepped out from behind him. One, who you could only assume to be the leader, moved closer to you, his voice stern as he spoke.

You had been spotted walking away from a crime scene, he told you. A murderer is what you were, and he said it so surely.

But he was lying. You didn't do anything wrong, and you told him so. You did what you had to, why were they so adamant on protecting him? Were you not the one who fell victim to man's cruelty? Sick churned in your stomach and you felt the strain in your brow when the man carried on with disgusted insistence. It wasn't clear if he really believed what he was saying or if he had another goal in mind. Not sure if that mattered when the result would be all the same for you.

Action came before thought when a hand lowered to a belt. Alfie had sped off as soon as the first shot rang out and you were in the saddle. The bounty poster fell to the ground and its yellow paper eagerly soaked up mud.

[kr-v]

Quiet

s4 Daryl

male reader

It's late into the night and early into the morning. You don't have a way to easily tell the exact time anymore, but Beth's sleeping well next to where you sit with your back against a tree. Least you hope she's sleeping well. Hard to with the stress the three of you have been under, separated from the rest of the group.

Leaves crunch as Daryl slowly makes his return to the little camp. You can tell he's doing his best to be quiet as he eyes Beth. Setting your rifle to the side, you shift your body and look at him with a nod of invitation without expectation. Daryl spares the sleeping girl another glance before he approaches you. He pulls his crossbow up off of his back and over his head and props it up beside you, against the same large tree. His knees rustle the leaves gently as he kneels between your straightened legs. His hands hover over your thighs hesitantly before he gives in and makes contact.

Holding his cheek in your palm and running your thumb over the lines under his eye is a soft gesture. Letting him lean forward and bump his head against your own cheek. He holds onto your strong shoulders with a tight grip that loosens as he lets his hands fall to your chest. His hair gets caught on the scruff on your jaw and you cup your hand around the back of his head, pulling him even closer and tilting your chin lower to press your lips against the crown of his head as he leans down against your chest. Your heart beats into his ear.

Allowing the pressure to ease out of his body and his eyes to fall shut suddenly doesn't seem so scary in your lap, with your fingers gently scratching at his scalp. And he surrenders as warmth buzzes in his chest.

[kr-v]

master list

Red Dead Redemption 2

Not Dead Yet : ongoing

The Walking Dead

Quiet : Daryl drabble

Arcane

Serdtse : Viktor miniseries - ongoing

[kr-v]

while working on Not Dead Yet, I feel I should clarify I do take requests/thirsts for one-shots n stuff

write list & rules are linked in my pinned post

[kr-v]

00. I Should Have Been Home

Not Dead Yet

Frost pricked at you with an unforgiving sting wherever your skin had brushed against pale pine. Your feet were numb. Cold air burrowed into open sores. The fear of seeing red kept you from looking down. You didn't have much further to go. Just a bit more. This looped in your mind and the confident steps behind you had added a tempo to your internal chant.

The wood that constructed the prairie schooner wasn't spared from the freezing air, either. Your hands left prints in the frost as you pulled yourself up over the edge and crawled further in, toward the clump of dark blue fabric up near the front, behind several small wooden crates. The uneven boards dug into your palms and knees and the jagged splintered bits clung onto the cloth of your pants as you moved. You held the worn blanket in a shameful shaky grip and pulled it up over your freezing feet and bent legs.

The tailgate was lifted up and the locks clicked into place. Then the bunched up sheet was dropped down over the canvas to cover the back opening. The bright white of the sky disappeared, though enough of its light gently permeated through the cloth for you to watch your breath fog out in the chilly air.

Wood shifted with a soft creak as the seat right beyond the same beige cloth that covered the entire vehicle was occupied. The man cleared his throat and undoubtedly smiled to himself like a man who had just struck gold as he gripped the reins. The butt of his shotgun bumped against the wooden seat. You knew he wore the same dark brown leather gloves that protected his hands from the biting cold as he had for the past few days, while you were blessed with nothing but impending frostbite. The wagon slowly lurched forward. Wetted knees bumped against the corners of the crates. Ache nestled in your spine and flared out into your shoulder blades as you curled in on yourself.

Pitiful is what you were. 

Once the road had levelled out and the schooner moved smoother, the man had begun humming. You did your best to drown his voice out in your thoughts. The horse pulling the wagon must have been a spotty grey, if your memory served you correctly. It had a calm temperament and walked with rhythm as its head swayed gently, back and forth, side to side. You calmed as you listed characteristics in your mind. Grey coat, green eyes, short darker mane, longer tail, dark brown leather bridle, matching reins, light brown saddle. Your right arm wrapped around your leg and you tipped your head forward until you could press your forehead against your knee. The horse was indifferent to who commanded it. Whose orders it followed wasn't its fault. It just did what it was taught and it was neither wrong nor right for it. You let out a breath and found relief in the sight of it. It still came out warm despite the chill in your chest implying otherwise. 

-

The tune must've been Simple Gifts. You'd gathered so after a few moments of jaded, shut-eyed recollection once the humming had quieted. You had briefly wondered if the man who sat just beyond the crates and cloth felt the irony in the freedom-focused lyrics and chose not to say them aloud, though you had previously and quickly come to terms with the fact that he did not care. The little hope made no difference and you were still anything but free.

The sound of the tailgate and cloth being pulled back and a brisk call in your direction caused your eyes to open again. You had crawled out and the cold shotgun muzzle pressed against the sensitive flesh between your shoulder blades as soon as your feet touched the dirt. No time given to be grateful for the lack of snow you had once loved. 

[kr-v]

Not Dead Yet

I suffered it not long ; and yet so long. (The Divine Comedy)

(RDR2 / male reader insert)

prologue

01

[kr-v]

slavic guy | 19

not very active

not very sure of what I'm doing

do not take requests but I do accept ideas

ao3: kr_v quotev: kkrovv

write rules

master list

Not Dead Yet