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stevetonyweekly · 8 months

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SteveTony Weekly - September 17th

Happy Sunday, friends! Here’s today’s list--it’s gonna be kinda light over the next week or two, because work is kicking my ass. Enjoy though! And be sure to leave a comment/kudos for the fic you enjoy!

~*~

Transistor-Powered Teammate by veryvincible

“You know, I always thought Tony Stark would be the one to master time travel. When I first got here, I half thought he must have a time machine laying around somewhere.”

Heart’s desire. by captainstars

Neither Steve nor Tony could have reacted in time to the purple blast that exploded out from the stone, bathing both of them in the warmth of its eerie light.

“You will realize it.” The man professed, his gaze startlingly clear for someone who had been rambling until then.

“You will realize your heart’s desire.”

The fuck buddies + ABO AU.

make me yours by complicationstoo

Steve sighs, “With the way the serum made me look and the strength it gave me, I know you were expecting me to be, I don’t know, more dominant in bed, I guess. And I know it’s a fair assumption, I’m not saying it isn’t, but it’s not really true.”

Tony is grateful that Steve can’t see his face right now, because he can’t mask the utter surprise on it when it finally clicks.

“Oh,” Tony says. “Oh, that’s - oh.”

tomorrow by complicationstoo

“She’s just a friend, you know,” Natasha says, and Steve nods. He does know, because Tony told him himself a few days ago, then again tonight when he introduced her to everyone. But his hand was on her lower back, and hers was on his arm, and they were both smiling and so clearly familiar with each other that it didn’t matter that they’ve known each other since they were kids. All Steve could see was that someone else was Tony’s date for a gala he didn’t even want to come to in the first place, making the whole night that much more miserable for it.

Foot, meet mouth by itsallAvengers

Peter finds a ring in Steve's jacket pocket.

Peter confronts Steve.

Peter discovers it is, in fact, not actually Steve's jacket.

Peter contemplates how long his dad is going to ground him when he finds out what he's just done.

Put Me Back Together by AvengersNewB

Steve holds it together to see through what needs to be done, with Tony missing in space and half of the universe snapped out of existence.

Only until Tony comes back to earth.

---

Infinity War fix-it.

A Bit Of Sweet Sugar (For The Veins) by dingadur

Steve finds a flogger in Tony's underwear drawer and promptly freaks the fuck out.

They figure it out, though.

fun & games by welcoming_disaster

In which Steve Rogers keeps making bets he's going to lose.

Captain Planet by tsukinofaerii

After the Red Skull incident, Steve needs to get away from things for a while. Tony, being the caring and considerate person he is, makes arrangements. But the Steve that comes back might be a little more than the world can handle.

buy the brooklyn bridge by plingo_kat

It’s a whole new world, and Steve finds himself fitting in pretty well. Especially with Tony Stark as a guide.

My Heart Would Benefit From a Little Tenderness From Time to Time by SuperstringSymphony

“Come with me.” Tony licks his lips, blue eyes lifting to meet Steve's. “We've both had a long week, I thought you might like to relax.” Tony's gaze darts from side to side. Steve has noticed since they started this that Tony only ever truly looks nervous when he's talking to him. “The car is around the front, what do you say, weekend getaway?” Tony smiles, stroking a hand down his back with a featherlight touch. Steve just barely represses a shiver, eyeing Tony for a moment. With other people he's always a little shuttered. Here though, with Steve, his expression is unguarded, eyes bright with hope. He looks a little strained though, as if the week has taken its toll on him as well.

When I think about you by sirona

Five times someone saw Steve sass the hell out of Tony and one time Tony finally bought a clue. Also known as the story of Captain Sasspants more than handling his own with Tony Stark at his most devious.

Two Out of Three (Ain't Bad) by plingo_kat

It blindsides him one morning in the middle of his customary third cup of coffee; Steve walks through the door in loose cotton pants, shirt pulled up to wipe the sweat off his face from his usual morning workout, and Tony thinks: adorable.

Not a Breakup by Annie D (scaramouche)

Tony knew it was a bad idea to start sleeping with Steve. It could mess up team dynamics, make things even more awkward between them in the future, or just plain get in the way of their trying to save the world. Tony foresaw all of the above but not the advent of feelings, and at the most inopportune moment.

For a Certain Definition of Happiness by Neverever

Steve Rogers should be happy - he has a job leading the new team of Avengers, friends, and a steady girlfriend. He works well with Tony Stark, who has retired as Iron Man and provides financial backing and technical support for the team. Steve's life becomes complicated when the Avengers encounter a mysterious supervillain crimewave, Helmut Zemo wants to legislate the Avengers out of existence, and his relationship with Sharon begins to fall apart. Then, after the death of a close friend, Steve begins to question if he is truly happy.

And, worse, why can't he get Tony off his mind?

Ares & Vulcan by Captain_Panda

"I am the god of war. And I’m here to fight the mad Titan Thanos."

Tony Stark dies. Steve Rogers endeavors to fix that. In the process, he transcends.

An Endgame Greek god fusion. Because time travel.

#stevetony weekly #steve rogers #tony stark #stevetony #stony #iron man #captain america #stevetony fic #stony fic #fic rec

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astudyincontrasts · 2 years

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The Inventor and the Archivist

Viktor x Fem!Reader (only slightly NSFW)

Synopsis: Lore faithful, reader insert as an OC university archivist Viktor becomes close with. Set in a time frame between before he meets Jayce and hopefully wrapping up somewhere just before he starts experimenting with shimmer. Sexy times ahead in later chapters.

Warnings: fluff, flirting, longing, you are a sasspants, Viktor is a precious angel among men, brief blowjob, bad language, what do you mean libraries aren’t sexy af, occasional Czech swearing

*edit* Swapping Russian to Czech in the story, both because it makes tons more sense and because of recent world events.

Author’s Note: This fic fully inspired by @gaybybirth and all her glorious fics in the Arcane fandom. Go treat yourself and read her luscious work. Ugh I’m so painfully obsessed with Viktor. sEND HELP. Posting two chapters today - if there is interest I will write more - a lot more. If not, welp I sure have a filthy Silco fic up my sleeve.

Ch 1. My Church Offers No Absolution

You would think for such a revered institution of higher learning like the University of Piltover that the Library would be considered sacrosanct, like unto a chapel at the heart of that glittering establishment to "The Nobel Pursuit of Progress." Certainly it had that same holy hush to it, especially this late at night. And much like a church its doors never closed, always open to welcome those pilgrims of progress and penitents to the fickle gods of knowledge.

But no. It was not sacred to all. To you, yes. But to others....

You sighed and it practically came out a growl between clenched teeth, more frustration than resignation. They were at it again. You could hear the rustling and the soft, wet sounds, the hushed, strangled moans. Hell, at this time of night almost anyone could hear those, echoing softly off the high polish of the white marble floors as they did. Why in all the living hells students chose to come here for trysts was beyond you. They had dorms! Perfectly comfortable, plush dorms - and the really privileged ones had fancy little penthouses with all the luxuries anyone could long for. No, they came HERE, to your precious stacks to have a clumsy fumble among books more beloved by you than their sex-drenched, spoilt little minds could comprehend. It didn't seem to bother the librarians and assistants nearly as much as it irritated you, a fact which they all were always so quick to point out anytime you tried to complain about the matter at staff meetings or even just in the offices one on one.

"Why do you care? They are kids, so what? Look its embarrassing, but its hardly hurting anything. Just ignore them, find a different stack to organize until they are gone. What's the matter, you jealous?" Oooh that last one burned, you swore you could feel the fire lick behind your glare, the residual heat that reddened your cheeks was surely from righteous anger, not because the librarian in question had possibly been anywhere close to correct. You would NEVER. And you had resolved to never say more than two words to that particular librarian after that, as well.

Drawing a breath, you summoned all that righteous rage now and rounded the stacks. This was a popular area, a dead end near some rarely used carrels along a stretch of tall windows that looked out over the glittering city below. It offered privacy from the rest of the enormously open room while those towering windows tantalized with the illusion of exhibitionism; left one feeling on display to the wide sky. A sky now dark and spattered with stars between thin fingers of clouds that raked the full moon, its silver light a brilliant wash much brighter than any of the warm, golden, dim lights that illuminated impossibly high shelves.

You rounded the end of the shelf and stood glaring at the couple in flagrante delicto at the dead end, looking no doubt like a bull about to charge, fists clenched at your sides, feet shoulder width apart. You frankly wouldn't have been shocked if steam huffed from your nostrils. One of the boys was on his knees before the other, who was languidly stretched out on his feet with his back against the bookshelf, hands gripping a shelf well above his head, arms spread wide, his head back as he failed at stifling another throaty groan. The one on his knees was bobbing his head in what looked very much like frantic, unpracticed gestures, and the anger burning in your belly clenched at the quiet gagging sound he made. The one enjoying his artless, novice blow job slanted his eyes open and then jerked as they flew wide, your enraged silhouette at the end of the stacks coming into focus for him.

"What the f - " He pushed his friend's head back and desperately fumbled to get his dick back in his pants. Your gritted-teeth scowl turned into an almost cruel, lopsided smirk. Good to see one of the spoilt rich boys squirm, lovely to see hot-cheeked panic where usually only cool distain made its home.

"Get. Out." You were quiet. Imperious.

The one on his knees scrambled to his feet as his glance whipped over his shoulder in your direction. You watched him wipe uselessly at his drool soaked chin with the back of his hand, glaring at you hatefully with his swollen lips still hanging open. Half in shock no doubt, and half because you largely suspected the lock jaw he was experiencing was very, very real. Dick back behind hastily done up flies the boy already on his feet was rapidly recovering from the shock of the interruption and seemed to be just as rapidly building in indignation and anger to outpace your own, handsome features darkening like a storm cloud.

"Fucking stupid bitch, what the fuck?" Yeah that was the vocabulary mommy and daddy were paying so dearly for their precious son to acquire here at the highest institution of learning money could buy your way into. You thought very sincerely about tossing that quip out loud but as he pushed past his friend who was struggling to gain his feet from knees no doubt aching from cold, hard marble, nearly toppling the other boy as he came toward you, it seemed that discretion would serve you better than wit. It was rapidly becoming apparent, with each of the boy's livid, clipped steps toward you, that you had vastly overestimated your ability to control this situation. Usually they just ran, mortified. Not this one. Shit. You could feel your feet disobey a direct order and begin to back up, hesitantly at first and then in four rapid steps, back around the stack from whence you had come as he bore down on you, his friend a few stumbling paces behind. You were suddenly keenly aware of how much taller they both were than you, how well fed and strong looking, if pampered. And exceedingly aware of the fact that you were nearly very much alone in the vastness of the library, one of only two or three on the graveyard shift.

Oh but you were stubborn. Famously so. And there was no way in seven hells you were going to let this murderously angry little shit get the best of you. So back around the corner but no further, and he came flying around the corner to draw up, nose to nose with you, seething. You glared coldly up at him, chin lifting like a dare. Watcha gonna do? "Get. Out." You willed steel into your voice, cold fire.

"C'mon Viren." The second boy had caught up and grabbed hold of his friend's elbow, using his own momentum to try to tug him along. He either had better sense than his lover or else was more easily embarrassed because he couldn't even bring himself to meet your gaze, and was in the kind of terrible hurry to leave that usually met your interruption of a tryst. Not so with Viren. He jerked his arm from the other boy's grasp sharply and kept encroaching on your space, hot breath an unpleasant rush over the bridge of your nose. But his gaze flicked toward his rapidly retreating friend and you could see the tug of war that played out behind his nastily handsome face. More blow job.... or beat the tar out of a university employee.... more blow job.... or possible expulsion. You really wished the see-saw of his decision making process were less blatantly obvious.

Your poker face was flawless. And his eyes kept straying toward his companion. He gave up the fight with a sharp curse under his breath and reached out his hand nearest the bookshelf, a wicked grin blooming across his face as he backed up... and you watched in horror as he slid his hand into the end of the bookshelf and with one sharp arcing motion swept every book in that row off the shelf. Your arms came up to deflect the ones that came flying at you and you watched in dismay as he ran directly over a few that fell in his path, leaving a dark boot print on an open page of one and fully tearing another half out of his spine. You were practically shaking with rage as his mirthless laughter drifted back toward you and his fleeing footsteps faded.

"Jdi do prdele! Ty jseš zmrd." You muttered hotly under your breath in your grandparents' native tongue, kneeling to collect the fallen. Your traitorous knees, long since gone to water and barely holding you up were grateful for the collapse. You almost went fully over, however, at the soft sound of a throat clearing that gave you the start of your life. Peering around in the gloom your wide eyes quickly focused on a mess of dark hair that appeared over the top of one of the carrel walls, followed by thick, dark brows and amused golden eyes. How in the world hadn't you noticed there was someone occupying the carrel at the end of the stack? Well... you had been rather single minded in your pursuit of the lovers sullying your beloved library.

"Don't let them catch you using that language around here." Said the owner of those unnervingly brilliant eyes, voice soft and clipped with a very familiar accent. An accent your own family had forbade you from acquiring in your youth, had trained out of you 'for the sake of progress' as they put it. An accent that made it clear he'd understood completely the ugly insult you'd just muttered.

Your shock was longing to sink into the safe mire of blustery irritation when the man in the carrel pushed back his chair and leaned down to collect those books that had landed nearest him, elegantly long fingers careful. He tsk'd softly as he lifted the book that had been torn half from its binding and his obvious care of an item you found most precious threw your usual default cold demeanor for a loop.

You reached absently for the one with a boot print on it as the man rose (and rose and rose and rose and oh god was he tall). Tall and spindly like no one had ever made him stop for a hot meal his entire life; long limbed and all sharp angles. You were staring. He pulled his cane from where it had rested against the far side of the desk in the carrel and leaned heavily upon it as he stepped forward, some of your books tucked between his ribs and his elbow, the forlorn broken one in hand.

"It'll do you no favors to remind them where you come from." He continued with his unsolicited advice, and gentle though it was it caused a heat to creep up your cheeks. He gestured with his chin in the direction of the boys who had fled. "And while I am grateful to you for your interruption, I do not think they will need any additional reasons to dislike you."

There was something so calm and self-assured about his voice. Perhaps it was just the familiarity of the accent you enjoyed, or maybe it was the bemused smile tugging at one corner of his mouth, but where normally you would have simply gathered your fallen soldiers in stony silence and marched off, instead you felt bound to the spot, mesmerized. It took a few hard blinks to get the gears turning in your brain once more, to stop staring. You dropped your gaze instead to the book open in your lap with the boot print smudged across it and tried absently stroking it away with the flat of your palm.

Why on earth was your heart throbbing in your throat? Shock, that's all, yes. He'd surprised you, and right after that near death experience with the students. He was a student too, if his manner of dress was any indication - and the white tie at his lean throat showed he hadn't yet made his full marks on the university. It was nice how the snowy color of it offset the dark shirt he wore, matched his slightly crumpled and lived in looking vest, nice how the tri-knot of it laid under the rise of his adam's apple as it moved with the lean tendons of his throat as he spoke. Wait. He was speaking and you'd just missed it.

"S-sorry?" You squeaked out. Ugh, you squeaked! You had to get a hold of yourself. You gathered the last of the fallen books hastily and rose to your feet once more, turning to set the undamaged ones back on their shelf. "I said, I'm Viktor." He repeated, a touch of dry amusement lingering in his tone. Being laughed at was one of your prime pet peeves and you rounded on him, more sharply than was necessary. But you just couldn't seem to make your usual sang-froid bravado work. Your defense mechanism was broken and you needed to abandon ship. The corner of his mouth tugged back again in that brief touch of a smile. He had a freckle right above it. And one below one of those honey colored eyes. His head canted in question, "And you are?"

"I." You exhaled, dropping your shoulders square and lifting your chin much more haughtily than you felt, "I am the Archivist."

Both his heavy, dark brows lifted and his expression opened with them to a degree that made your stupid knees do that internal wobble once more. How dare he.

"Oh. Madam Archivist." He made a slight bow, very slight, cockeyed grin absolutely shit-eating as he rolled his eyes a touch. "I had no idea. Please, forgive me my ignorance."

His teasing did it, finally broke you out of your awkward vacillation toward the icy façade you'd developed as camouflage among all the privileged, snooty students and faculty you were surrounded by. You caught yourself matching his grin, albeit wryly, and moved to take the books he'd tucked under his arm. He obligingly released them to you.

"Miss." You corrected him, after all, you were probably about the same age to be honest, "And its (y/n)."

"How nice to be properly introduced, (y/n)." He remarked, watching you return the books in loving order to their home. "And correct me if I'm wrong, but aren't you terribly young to be the Archivist of the University's main library?"

One look at his earnest expression, one thick dark brow lifted in query was enough to to dispel any notion he was being unkind in his surmise. What hung unsaid was: young and an undercity creature. Like me. You lifted and dropped a shoulder, the very picture of nonchalance as your hands smoothed spines and ensured all was in order before gathering the damaged book you'd picked up. He still hadn't given up the damaged one he held and you were in no real rush to wrest it from those long fingered hands.

"We're all driven, here." You justified, voice slow but firm, choosing your words carefully, "It is what I love. This is what I love."

You glanced meaningfully around the vast vaulted-ceilinged space of the library, Viktor's gaze following your own before coming back to rest upon your face. He held an unnerving amount of guileless eye contact, but you soldiered on.

"My family sacrificed much that I might have my position. And I did what I had to to earn it as well." You stepped forward, reaching for the book he held, closing your fingers around its edge. He did not release it. You could feel one corner of your mouth tug up and glanced up at him from under your slightly knit brows, almost bashful, "That... and the professor who held the post had a massive stroke three months back and has been bed ridden since."

You held the position, even if the University's nepotistic board hadn't yet seen their way toward granting some lowly young woman the title outright. You drew a breath and lifted your chin again. Be proud, včelička , your grandmother used to say, placing her gnarled forefinger under your chin and pushing it upward when you slumped. Be proud and no one can hurt you.

Viktor nodded, slowly.

"Not your life's ambition to be an assistant." He summarized neatly, in a tone that clearly understood, looking down into your face with an introspective gaze that felt somehow more piercing than his gently humorous ones. It was unnerving, to feel like a specimen pinned to a board under the sharp scalpel of such an unusually gentle scientist. You offered up an affirmative, dark smile. If he found ambition unattractive you couldn't read it there on the expression that played across high cheek-boned features. Not that it mattered. Did it? You swallowed and tried again to pull the book from his hand. Again, no luck.

"Well Miss Archivist. You -and the lovers you chased off- have ruined my train of thought for the evening. Any hope I had of touching genius tonight is gone." The velvet edge of self deprecating sarcasm in his own voice was charming all on its own. Infuriatingly so. "Do you intend to mend these books tonight?"

"Of course." You replied, schooling yourself to keep what had become a habitual tone of annoyance out of your voice. This place had made you so hard, had honed all your edges to sharp glass. Viktor had done nothing to deserve the prickliness that had become your second nature and you felt somehow determined not to inflict it upon him. It was... difficult. Felt uncomfortably vulnerable. But it wasn't, you kept telling yourself. It was just common human decency. The type not to be found in the halls of this vaunted house of learning. Or at least not regularly.

"May I help then?"

Your eyebrows must have shot for your hairline and he smiled shyly at your surprise, shrugging the one shoulder not already hitched high by his lean upon his cane.

"I have the notion that being in the good graces of the Archivist could only come as a benefit to a techmaturgist."

You laughed softly at that. Someone currying your favor? What a novelty. And how flattering. Your heart took a moment to let you know it had not yet decided to come down out from where it had lodged itself in your throat. His fingers disengaged your grip upon the book he held, gently, and he hobbled back over to the carrel to collect his things, slinging them in a messenger bag across his chest. You flexed your fingers against the utterly unfamiliar tender pickling sensation he'd left on your skin. His back to you, you could unabashedly take in the length of him again. Shoulders broad if habitually uneven, hips taut and narrow, movements almost graceful when not impeded by his cane, or perhaps even in spite of it. He turned around on one heel and lifted both heavy brows in a silent 'shall we?'

"Alright then." The words felt unintendedly begrudging in your mouth, though your tone as it hit your ears was slightly hitched, like your voice couldn't quite make it out of your throat past where your heart had so stubbornly taken up residence. Why was every part of you so determined to undermine your usually steady control tonight?

You led him down the long bank of windows and out into the open air of the library's court where the lower shelves, catalogue and periodicals were located, past the large, glistening main desk where its exhausted and bored late night librarian sat, bleary eyed reading some trashy novel, steadfastly ignoring the piles upon piles of books she ought to be checking back in and organizing on carts to be re-shelved. You cast an absolutely withering glance in her direction and cleared your throat pointedly. She stiffened in surprised before relaxing and barely hiding her distain as she set her book down and got back to work. You swore you caught the huffed breath of a laugh from Viktor at your side, and couldn't work up the gall to glance over and see if it was genuine amusement at the weight you so imperiously pulled or just a 'pfft' at your antics. You settled for deciding that either way the ability to make him laugh felt much better than being a bossy bully did, and allowed for a small pang of regret that you felt the need to act like such a goddamned tough had become second nature. Something to work on.

Past the desk and toward the flight of stairs that lead down to your lair, the archives. Where the rare books were kept, and the uncatalogued items; the new bits, the ancient bits, the pieces of literary treasure that were not bound books. And your offices, your lab, so to speak, where you could restore, research, codify and organize and preserve and perfect. Down here you could breathe, you could relax, and even with Viktor trailing along behind you you could feel the tension in your shoulders give. Your desks - plural - were a riot of organized chaos. The prize jewel, the rare books collection, lay contained in the very center of the room; two long, long shelves inside an intricate and beautiful walk in wire cage, like a beautiful gilded prison for all that glorious, precious knowledge it contained. Too damned important to just be let loose in the world. Books within had delicate chains affixed to their spines. Beloved captives. You wore the keys on a fine chain of your own across your waistcoat, like gentlemen wore a pocketwatch, the soft jingle of them an accompaniment to you every move. Quiet music that sang of your position. Not unlike the way Viktor's soft tapping cane did for him, you'd noticed. You cast a glance at it and then up, only to find he'd caught you looking. You flustered a touch.

"How long have you been - "

"Always." He cut you off in that clipped accent.

It was curt, final. Not a topic for discussion, not who he was, and not one for misplaced pity or sympathy. You'd have felt a rush of embarrassment for even broaching the topic had his attention not already moved on, water under the bridge. He was drinking in your archives, approval writ clean on those lovely angular features, something like pride fluttered wings in the hole your heart had left vacant in your chest. This was ridiculous, he was practically a stranger, how on earth could his enjoyment of your lair feel so damn good?

You made your way to the repairs desk and nearly sank into the chair before remembering yourself, jumping up and grabbing a chair for him, dragging it over and making space at the long, workshop-like desk for him beside you. He stood a while longer, still looking around, and unslung his bag, setting it on the chair instead of himself. You followed his attention around the room before clearing your throat again, this time much less harshly than you had done to the poor librarian upstairs.

"You can explore, if you like, but please keep your hands to yourself. For now." You had no idea what for the love of Zaun possessed you to tack that 'for now' on, but you instantly regretted it when Viktor shot you a fleeting, amused glance. You could feel your jaw ache with how it clenched, but he was already off, softly clicking away to poke around. You settled to the task of the boot print smudged page in front of you. This would be simple enough, if you were gentle. You could lose yourself in it. This was not a rare manuscript or ancient vellum ready to disintegrate under hand, but that didn't mean you showed it any less love. You were so engaged in the task ten minutes later that you didn't realize Viktor had returned until you felt the weight of his hand leaning on the back of your chair and the undeniable electricity of another human body invading your space as he leaned over your shoulder to examine your work. If you could hear the way your breath hitched in that moment, you were certain he could. Still, he did nothing but hum approvingly.

"A neat job." He congratulated you - as if this kind of thing weren't absolute child's play in your field. You pummeled the urge to say something snide or sarcastic into submission and instead offered a wordless dip of your head in thanks. If he had any idea how you felt the urge to turn yourself inside out for his praise you might well go throw yourself off a bridge. What was wrong with you tonight?

Suddenly the closeness of him was gone, along with the weight on the back of your chair, then he was there beside you, pulling up the chair you'd offered earlier and tossing himself into it. Long, long legs sprawled under the desk, a knee brushing your own and then not moving. You swallowed against the hammering in your throat and held perfectly still. He'd move soon. He didn't. Or rather, he did but it didn't help. He leaned over the desk, the arch of his spine like a happy cat asking to be stroked as he hunched, elbows on the desk, damaged book before him. It made that knee rub against your own and one of his gangling sharp elbows bump your side when he took it off the desk. He couldn't have seemed to notice less.

It took you a full minute to realize he was rolling up his sleeves and getting to work on the poor mangled book he'd brought down with him from upstairs. You stiffened, sucking a breath to tell him to stop, don't, let you do it. Fingers itched to snatch the book out from under his hands but you couldn't move. He spread the poor thing out, long fingers delicately smoothing pages, realigning things, taking stock of how extensive the damage had been, then his attention snapped up to the desk before him, littered with tools, boxes of cleaners, solvents, neatly chaotic in all the needs a bookbinder could long for. His hand reached out and those fingers moved slow, hovering over the tools until he snapped one up decisively. The perfect pick, as if he knew what he was doing. You could only watch in strangled silence as he went to work, the tip of his tongue poking out from one side of his expressive mouth, dark brows drawing together tight every so often, only to release in satisfaction as he made the binding do as he pleased. It was mesmerizing, really, to watch him work. You could have watched hours of this, but he was done in less than twenty minutes.

Setting tools back almost exactly where he found them he spread his hands, open palms up, and startled you with the return of those amber eyes to your line of sight. So earnest. Some kind of quiet pain swimming in the back of them that you hadn't noticed before. It lurked back there in spite of the tenuous smile that touched his lips.

"Well? Is it to your satisfaction?" He asked when you were too slow to catch on. You started and forced your attention from his face (and that damn knee) to the book.

"Its-" You began but then stopped, reached over his arm to flip the book open, then to pick it up, fan its pages, flex its spine.

"Its perfect." You breathed, surprise opening your expression unabashedly. His face, unfocused in the background of your utter concentration as you examined his work, lit up faintly, like praise was a novelty to him as well, and he might have been as afraid as you to accept it at face value.

"How?" You demanded, lowering the book to your lap and twisting to fully face him. It only caused the sprawl of his leg to brush across both of your knees now.

"How is it perfect? You've done this before?"

"No, never." He replied mildly, "But a book? It is not so difficult a thing. Not so many moving parts. Aaaaand maybe I've bound my own journals now and then when new ones were in short supply." He added, sheepishly, which drew a small smile out of you in spite of yourself. He took the book back from you, turned it over and over in his hands, brushed imagined dust from it, considered it for a thoughtful moment, then gave its cover a kiss, like a parent would kiss a boo-boo better, and honey eyes flicked up to meet yours for the tease of a fleeting second before he relinquished the book back into your hands once more. Hands you hoped he couldn't see tremble ever so slightly.

He rose, taking his cane in hand and searched out the bag he'd tossed on the floor.

"There, well, all better." He said, as if he'd put you back together instead of the book. He slung the bag back over himself and without much of any additional hesitation began to see himself out.

"Good night, Miss Archivist," he murmured at the foot of the stairs, offering you a final cant of his head, both hands momentarily clasped over his cane before himself. And then he was gone, the soft click that accompanied his movement fading almost instantly.

You had no idea how long you sat there in perfect stillness staring after his departure as if there was a spell you'd break if you moved more than drawing a breath or dragging your thumb over the place he'd kissed the book's leather binding. The grey of dawn had begun to creep through the enormous windows of the library by the time you'd made your way upstairs again.

Chapter 2

#viktor #viktor x reader arcane #arcane #viktor arcane #viktor arcane x reader #arcane viktor x reader #arcane fic #viktor fic

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