𝐿𝑜𝓋𝑒, 𝒟𝒶𝓃𝓃𝒾𝑒💌

Prone, ankles knocking together like loose latches, shoulders boxed in by your thighs, Viktor wears his jaw out to a dull ache. Through a hard-working tongue, he soaks up impressions—salt and copper, a pulse so bright he swears he could see it if he opened his eyes. But he keeps them closed, so the rest sharpens: the wet give under his mouth, the shudder of your thigh rippling through his shoulder blades.

Nose buried, half-starved for air, choosing scent above oxygen, he breathes shallowly. He lets the ache in his lungs ride the ache in his groin until they blur into one long need. Each time his jaw flexes, the tendon fires along the hinge—clean pain, welcome pain, reminding him he’s alive and exactly where he’s meant to be.

It’s unbecoming—blood drains south so quickly—but the siren ballad of the safety of your womb is nearly too alluring. Sound rattles out of him—short, choked hums that vibrate before they register as noise. One hand welds itself to the underside of your thigh, thumb carving a small, possessive circle; the other fists linen, needing an anchor when the rest of him is already ash. A bead of sweat slips from his brow, lands where his tongue melts—salt meeting salt—and he licks it away instinctively, as though your body has started seasoning itself for him.

Below the waist he’s hopeless: hips grinding slowly into the mattress, damp fabric—proof of everything he’s not getting yet. Each rut lines up with a fresh drag of tongue—cause, effect, loop—until the rhythm’s a single animal pulse and you can’t tell who’s steering.

When you break open, he can only slow down, never stop entirely. Now it’s kiss upon kiss upon kiss upon kiss, each one a spark of electric current on tender skin. He gentles but doesn’t relent; gives you a pleading look from under long lashes, as if the very idea of stopping wounds him. You haggle with a whimper—it sounds like you’re begging, but that’s another kind of food. It shouldn’t excite him, yet a groan leaves his throat unguarded. Then, a short-lived mercy: lips travel, slick-glossed and warm, to the hinge of your thigh where he breathes in skin and sweat and kisses it better with his mouth hanging open.

It’s always a a plea for just a taste, never a full feed. He’s never fed entirely anyway. He eats until you hollow out, until keeping him hurts you as much as pushing him away. He forsakes breath and dignity to wear the perfume of you smeared across his chin. Because Viktor’s want owns a bottomless stomach, where hunger has learned to breathe on its own.

—

So, since in Arcane we see Viktor in around his 30s mostly and he is said to have an eastern-European accent (specifically Czech per Harry), first and foremost I HC him as a Czech millennial. And those facts matter to me in terms of his character building, because here the generations of millennials and gen-X overlap due to the existence of Soviet Block. What it means culturally: most of the western trends and technology were introduced to Eastern Europe throughout the 90s and 00s. The way his situation is presented in Arcane makes me believe that a character such as him wouldn't be coming from an imperial country. If we put him in his 30s now, he also wouldn't remember communism, but would be the last generation affected by it through his elders and the slow shift in the general system.

It's perfectly valid that he would still be disabled. As I favour femoral rotation for his disability, it's very likely that when he was born it wasn't spotted and treated properly, leading to him using a mobility aid throughout his life. I do believe that with medicine advancement in 00s, it would be possible for him to avoid wearing the back brace OR fully reverse the need for it due to the last few years rise in awareness about physiotherapy. When it comes to his lung disease: it wasn't very common in Europe to have areas so heavily polluted for him to have definitely developed it, but! If I were to give him one, it would be squamous cell lung cancer, which can affect anyone with proper genetic predisposal or weak immunity only after a short exposure to for example asbestos. I admit, I tend not to, because I really don't want him to die :c So, for me, he grew up in some small city in Czechia :x

As for what he is like: definitely a nerd. I can see him finishing biochem or maths/physics profile in highschool and then following it through to university (unis here are state, so education is free, you just have to pass the exams). Throughout school I can imagine him attending after-hours extracurriculars such as chemistry classes or programming classes where kids could play computer games on ZX-Spectrum in the last 30 minutes (and given how long those games would load it's not a lot of game time okay). I can see him programming his own games and being able to make an early radio receiver using a crystal detector. He would construct toys too. And maybe break toys to make new ones.

I think he would follow through with STEM/engineering but with an idealistic purpose. Oddly, I don't think he would become a physician (I'm a med person, so I'm allowed to say this) - I believe a lot of physicians are ego-driven (this is not necessarily a bad thing). There is no ego in anything Viktor is doing throughout the show: he doesn't attempt to steal Jayce's research, he wants to see it through, because it could change the world for the better. So he doesn't let Jayce drown. He's not interested in being the face of it. The ambition lies within the goal, not within the recognition.

Moreover, I think he would act from within deep philosophical understanding of life, which would lead to him reading a lot of books on different subjects. I can see him reading fantasy, sci-fi as well as people like Deleuze and Jorge Luis Borges and connecting all those dots. When it comes to relationships, I think he would be more open to those in modern era, especially when we erase the seizing fear of death coming from his health deteriorating. Still, hard to get through to or to be found by his person, but entirely more possible than in Arcane universe.

From smaller things, I think he would still be a workaholic. I think he would love animals, because it's impossible for someone so kind to not love them. I think he would feel alienated by the world and have difficulty taking pleasure from spending time with large groups of people simply because of his intelligence and the ability to think systemically. Which is why once someone who he gets on with appears, he would keep this person very close, no matter if it's friendship or romantic relationship.

In general, I think Viktor would grow up to be a very well-read, intelligent, kind and ambitious man that would struggle against the system his whole life. I think he feels a lot and deeply but doesn't show it so often, it would be visible in his work.

Perhaps when the object of your curiosity becomes something you can't stop thinking about, even when you should be focused on something else.

His handwriting is almost too precise for the nature of the exchange, a stark contrast to the wobbly letters on the parchment. He folds it neatly in half, redoing the uneven crease, and places it back in its spot.

And then, Viktor thinks nothing of it.

For an entire week, the memory lingers at the back of his mind, barely a passing thought—until his feet carry him to the academy library once more. He beelines toward the mechanical engineering section, eyes scanning the spines until he spots it: the same textbook as before, wedged tightly between others, sticking out by an inch, as if put back in a hurry.

Excitement shakes his hand as he reaches for it and takes it to a secluded corner obscured by bookshelves. He flips through the pages in one sweep, his heart skipping—only to deflate when he realises it’s just a dog-ear. And of all pages, it’s on one of the most unremarkable.

He sighs, leaning back on his chair when he sees it—the tiniest triangle of white peeking from under the cover. He opens the book’s end and there it is, another note. Fresh paper, though folded roughly, like the last one. Writing less surgeon-like too.

What if the object of my curiosity is also the one I should be focusing on? What then?

Viktor smiles under his nose, breath light, forming into a chuckle as he conjures an answer. He wishes his tone—teasing and gentle—could be poured into paper and hopes you will read his good intentions from it.

Then you must ask yourself—are you studying it, or surrendering to it?

He stares at it a little while longer, finally deciding no touch-ups are needed. Like last time, he puts corner to corner, edge to edge, as his neat fold overrides yours—uncaring and hasty. He places it at the book’s end and wedges it back onto the shelf.

Next, only three days go by before Viktor finds himself lurking in the library again. He doesn’t even pretend it’s for any reason other than a quick trip to his now-favourite section.

When he opens the book and sees the same piece of paper insistently folded at an angle, he can’t help but think this is you making some point. And then he knows—that intended tone of his was, indeed, not read as he wished for.

I am not surrendering to anything. IT consumes me—do not presume this is a consensual capitulation!

Oh. Something sinks in him. Quickly, as if scribbling would fix it in an instant, he bleeds his apology in ink, letters less neat than usual.

Forgive me, I did not mean to intrude like this. I hoped you’d read my tone as light, but jest doesn’t transfer to paper, it would seem. You can speak freely, I promise I won’t judge.

To reinforce his pliancy, this time Viktor doesn’t iron the page out with his palm. This time, he folds it just as it was—crooked—as if telling you he’s on your side.

What his heart does when the next little letter he finds is folded neatly is indescribable.

No harm done, forgive my short temper. And thank you, truly. I’m just afraid I’m going mad, my secret confidant.

Viktor sighs. A breath leaves him, leaving a smile behind—and a blush. Secret confidant is such an intimate title; his heart flutters again, and he writes down a question before his brain manages to deem it too eager.

Am I a secret of yours?

Scratch that. Again, scratch. Scratch, until it is obscured enough, Viktor thinks. Instead, he writes:

What are the symptoms of your madness? And the object of the curiosity? Or, should I say, obsession?

As a sign of good will, he folds unevenly.

It’s day by day now. Sometimes twice, as he swings by the library in the evening, just to check. One evening, it proves worthwhile, as you’ve replied sometime in the afternoon.

I keep things close to my heart a secret, so nobody takes them from me.

Scratched—yet not enough to obscure the text. His heart swoons at the thought of how carefully you must have traced each letter, deciphering his attempt at confining the reckless scribble. Further on, you say:

Patterns. I see them everywhere I go; they haunt me day and night. My friend is sick of me, says not everything has a meaning. What do you think?

For a minute, Viktor closes his eyes. Uncanny, how the universe has thrown him someone equally tormented—and by the same hand, too. He rubs his thumb over the paper, caressing it, as if you could somehow feel the comfort meant to be given through the gesture. Then, with a soft smile, he writes:

I’m afraid I might be the worst thing that has happened to you, as I wholeheartedly agree—there is a pattern in everything. But therefore, I don’t think it is obsession, but loneliness you are experiencing.

He presses it to his chest before folding it. Then, he adds:

You are my secret, too.

Bravely, he scratches it out with one neat line only. And it requires a heart emboldened with courage because Viktor feels as if he’s just exposed himself in a way he never has before. When your next message arrives, he’s relieved that the effort proved worthy.

If you are the worst, why do I feel less lonely?

It’s a rhetorical question, which I believe you know, but also, given the history of our past conversations, I wouldn’t be surprised if you answered it in some elaborate way. I will be blunt then: thank you for making me feel less lonely.

Can you tell me what’s the most recent pattern you’ve noticed? I observed that Professor Heimerdinger’s poro acts uneasy when one of my classmates, who is particularly fond of unsolicited petting, sits at the front bench during lab class. As soon as the poro gets disturbed, the professor’s attention splits, and his test questions are hasty. I tend not to do well without a properly structured quiz, so as soon as I see his grabby hands—no, as soon as I see him sit his ass in that front chair—I know my quiz score will be lower than usual.

So many words from you make Viktor feel blessed. He reads them over and over again, and three things strike him. One—you’ve said he makes you feel less lonely. Two—you take class with Heimerdinger, so as the professor’s assistant, he’s most likely already seen you. And three—you keep these conversations with you. That’s why it’s a new piece of paper each time.

That is both a fascinating and highly practical observation. It seems you have developed a contingency plan for academic sabotage, courtesy of a poro and an inconsiderate classmate. I admire the ingenuity—though I must ask, have you considered distracting the poro yourself?

I, too, have been noticing patterns lately. One in particular stands out: my favourite book in this library always seems to shift slightly out of place before I get to it, as if someone has touched it before me. I wonder, do you think this is a coincidence?

I’m glad you feel less lonely. I do too.

From this, it just flows. Stories, jokes, gossip (apparently Heimerdinger has a lady friend that Viktor had no idea about?), heartfelt confessions sometimes—you even left him some doodles. Attached to the main paper with a paperclip, you wrote a short note: This one is for you. Heimerdinger’s poro asleep under a desk, a sweet way to say thank you for his idea of diversion against that one student’s grabby hands.

And Viktor feels ridiculous, blushing to himself as he writes longer and longer messages, almost letters at this point. He scans the classroom when he pops in to pick up Heimerdinger’s notes, wondering which face belongs to you, visiting the library three times a day, poking at the already worn-out tome, until—one day, it’s gone.

Borrowed.

A gaping hole in your communication method that neither of you had even considered. He rushes to the reception desk to check who took the book, but the grumpy librarian refuses to provide such information.

Days pass without a message from you, and with the book still gone, Viktor finds himself at his wit’s end. Shoulders hulking sullenly, brows furrowed, and mouth lopsided, he steps into the dusty rooms on any given occasion, until the sodden thought runs through him—he misses you.

Instead of leaving such a great revelation to something as gambable as fate, he decides to go to the source. He takes his usual seat in the secluded corner, scribbles down a few words on a note, and waits. He half-stands each time when someone enters the dim corridor made of books, only to retreat, deeming it the wrong section.

Until someone’s shuffling feet walk timidly between the bookshelves. Lips sucked between teeth, hand tracing the spines, and, finally, a disappointed sigh.

And he can’t help himself when he asks, “Is something the matter?”

“Oh,” you startle, glancing toward him. You instinctively step back, your gaze briefly dropping before meeting his. "Viktor, I did not see you there," you say, a nervous smile tugging at the corners of your lips, as if you've been caught in the act. “Uh, have you by any chance seen that one old textbook on mechanical theory?”

That’s it, Viktor thinks. He almost says too much, because oh, your voice is sweet and you... you are so heart-wrenchingly pretty, he has no idea what he’s done to deserve such kind fate. But he wouldn’t be himself if he didn’t test the theory first.

“Sadly, no.” Viktor puts on a schooled pout, shaking his head and taking a step toward you. “I have been hoping to find it too, but it has been rented out some time ago.”

“Oh—” you say, your brow furrowing slightly. Trying not to give away that you’ve already picked up whatever Viktor has put down and are currently playing with it in your hands, you ask innocently, “What’s… what’s your interest in it?”

Another step. "Other than me being an engineer myself?" Viktor’s lips twitch slightly, a trace of a smile. "I have a..." he says, slowly extending his hand toward yours, fingers brushing as he slips you a tiny piece of paper, "personal relationship with it, in a manner of speaking."

You stare at him for a long moment before unwrapping the paper tube.

I missed our talks. V.

“It’s you,” you whisper into the note. “Oh, I was hoping it would be you,” you whisper again, louder and breathy, clutching the sheet to your chest. When his brows furrow in question, you explain, “Your handwriting—it’s very neat. I’ve seen it once or twice and, uh… it got my attention.”

He smiles, and there is a ghost of blush dusting his cheeks. “Would you… be willing to participate in some verbal conversation from now on then?” Viktor asks, leaning into your ear. It’s a library, after all.

You breathe a soft, airy yes, and your lips brush against his cheek, the touch lingering there, leaving warmth behind. He pulls back slowly, breath held up. He licks his lips, eyes scanning your face, seeking. He’s been so far all this time, now closer than ever, and the space between you, even though small, is charged, taut like a bowstring.

Your hands meet, and his fingers weave through yours, long enough to reach your wrist. He hooks his cane onto a nearby shelf, its gentle clang against the wood unnoticed by either of you, and presses his forehead to yours, his warmth seeping into you.

"I missed you too," you murmur, the words clinging to the air between you. Your lips brush against his, just the lightest touch—an accident, or perhaps not. But Viktor’s lips press back with a soft, almost apologetic insistence, as though he’d waited for you far too long.

His mouth moves against yours with purpose, slow at first but hungry, needy. His breath quickens, deepens in tandem with yours. He steps closer, crowding you against the bookshelf, the hard wood pressing into your back as he leans into you. You arch into him, your fingers tightening around his hand, pulling him closer. His body is warm against yours, and the kiss deepens—faster, more urgent, the world around you fading to nothing.

And oh, just as your conversations on paper, the conversation between your tongues is seamless. They smooth over each other, pushing in when the other retreats and retreating when the other demands access.

Viktor’s hand moves to your waist, firm, gentle, and before you can think of resisting, he’s pressing you harder into the bookends. The coolness of the wood bites into your back, but it’s quickly forgotten as his body crowds you, a wall of heat and taut sinew and bone.

Mouth on mouth, insistent, with his teeth gently scraping over your lower lip, Viktor drowns in the sounds you make, guides your hands into his hair, and groans when you pull at his nape. You can feel the weight of him, the hard edge of his cane still wedged against the shelf beside you, but it matters not, as truly, neither of you is lonely anymore.

His lips break from yours as he presses his forehead to yours, both of you gasping for breath.

“That’s not a verbal conversation,” Viktor murmurs, his voice hoarse, as if the words themselves are a struggle. There’s a trace of a smile in his tone, but it’s swallowed quickly as you crane your neck to steal another kiss. Between smacks and bites, he mutters again, “You sure are very brilliant at pattern recognition.”

“Thank you, I have been obsessing over it for quite some time,” you mumble back, fisting his shirt. “I just didn’t expect the answer, of all places, to be at the end of a mechanical engineering textbook.”