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“😀 😃 😄 😁 😆 😅 😂 🤣 🥲 ☺️ 😊 😇 🙂 🙃 😉 😌 😍 🥰 😘 😗 😙 😚 😋 😛 😝 😜 🤪 🤨 🧐 🤓 😎 🥸 🤩 🥳 😏 😒 😞 😔 😟 😕 🙁 ☹️ 😣 😖 😫 😩 🥺 😢 😭 😤 😠 😡 🤬 🤯 😳 🥵 🥶 😱 😨 😰 😥 😓 🤗 🤔 🤭 🤫 🤥 😶 😐 😑 😬 🙄 😯 😦 😧 😮 😲 🥱 😴 🤤 😪 😵 🤐 🥴 🤢 🤮 🤧 😷 🤒 🤕 🤑 🤠 😈 👿 👹 👺 🤡 💩 👻 💀 ☠️ 👽 👾 🤖 🎃 😺 😸 😹 😻 😼 😽 🙀 😿 😾 ,” Viktor said.
Lucario Poké Plush - 47 ¼ In, as Viktor had called it, continued to stare blankly at you, its dead eyes covered by hastily-worn lab goggles. Of course, like the fucking stuffed animal it was, it failed to obey Viktor’s command.
“Eh,” Viktor began, because that is how he tended to open his dialogue, “I guess I have to do everything myself nowadays.” He rose from his seat, retrieving his crutch and fitting it underneath his right arm because what’s consistency lol. “Y/n, was it? How do you feel about some hands-on experience?”
The mention of anything being hands-on awakened something in you; it was almost like your personality was meant to be as flat as cardboard and as horny as a shrimp out of water. Your (your chosen eye color based on attraction level) spheres ran over his bony frame, mentally eating his ass once he hobbled over to your side without collapsing.
This man was your everything, your heart, your soul. Your (your chosen level of organ functionality) heart skipped seven beats every time you looked at him and his delightfully-curved spine.
“What did you need my help with, my darling love sweetheart?” you asked, batting your carefully-applied Revlon false eyelashes at him in an effort to woo him. Viktor loved a good set of eyes, you were pretty certain.
He waved a hand at you dismissively, swatting you away like some kind of fly. Some kind of sexy, sexy fly who buzzed with longing for every ounce of Viktor’s crippled body.
“Not you,” he said, his accent heavy with Russian. “I need Lucario Plush 47 ¼ in.”
You deflated like a ball sack after one too many rides on the infamous Six Flags Green Lantern First Flight (aka the nutshot) Rollercoaster. “Oh.”
The five stages of grief (Kübler-Ross, 1969) swam through you like a fish unknown. He… must still be on the verge of consciousness. Once he finally woke up, he would acknowledge you and stop believing in… this stuffed animal being his lab assistant. Or that fucking hammer bitch Jared or whatever and their Burger King date like a lovestruck whore.
Viktor trotted over, his crutch tapping against the floor with each hobbled step. He stopped beside you, appraising you with those cool, calculating, meticulous, scrutinous, skrunkly eyes of his, causing a chill to run down your spine.
“(Your favorite plant’s primary leaf color),” Viktor stated succinctly, his eyebrows raised slightly. He pursed his lips together in thought, gears turning in his head like in an animated series not exclusive to Netflix. “That is what your vibes remind me of. What is your horoscope?”
You blinked, running your answers over before you spoke. “(Your horoscope (including Four Directional Points, Hemispheres and Quadrants, Northern and Southern, Eastern and Western, Horizon and Median, Four Quadrants, Below/Above Horizon, and East/West Hemispheres)).” You glanced back at the stuffed animal before returning your gaze to Viktor. “What does this have to do with anything, babe?”
“I simply had to make sure you weren’t a filthy scorpio,” Viktor replied, his upper lip trembling with rage.
Too many scorpios must have wronged him, you thought. But then you heard him mutter ‘disgusting Vriska apologists’ under his breath.
You shook it off. You could handle if your darling love had such a glaring character flaw as liking Homestuck, so long as he liked you more. He turned to you again, and you felt your heart do a triple axel loop in a parody of your typical Tuesday mid-afternoon cardiac arrest episodes.
“Well, since your astrology clearly changes based on who is reading this, my test has proven a failure,” he said with a huff. “Instead, we shall decide things in a more final way. Lucario Plush 47 ¼ in, get my other assistant!”
You eyed the plush again. It hadn’t moved. It never moves. But when you looked back at Viktor, he was affixing a third arm onto his shoulder and you had no idea where it came from. It hadn’t been in arm’s reach, and he certainly couldn’t hobble his adorably crippled self across the room nearly that fast. You eyed the plush warily again, but Viktor was speaking, so all other thoughts fell out of your head and rolled uselessly across the floor like marbles coated in motor grease.
“This is my other assistant. Say hello.”
You stared at the metal hand silently, waiting for it to say hello.
Viktor slapped you in the face, leaving a red mark on your (your chosen skin hue) skin. “Why are you staring?! Say hello! It can’t bite you, it’s a hand!”
You were taken aback, seeing as his real hand did just bite you. Metaphorically of course. It hadn’t suddenly grown teeth. You don’t think. Still, you weren’t going to deny Viktor, and you were being an awful stupid moron just standing there staring at his third arm.
“Hello,” you sobbed flirtily, deciding maybe this was your chance to get at least one part of Viktor on board with bending you over the desk. You batted your Revlon eyelashes at it and gave your best sexy smile.
Viktor looked up at the hand resting on his shoulder, then back to you. “It hates you. You have disgraced my lab.”
You scoffed, squinting at Viktor like he was a scrimblio skaboinky scrunkly skhelp. Lucario Poké Plush - 83 ¾ In or whatever the hell it was stood slightly behind Viktor, its fuzzy paw nearly touching his collarbone. Maybe if you were still the vengeful reader insert of the last fic, you would have been offended. But you were reincarnated again between the wait of this fic because that’s what’s popular in the industry nowadays.
“Maybe,” you began with spite sexily dripping from your teeth, placing your own hand on Viktor’s other shoulder. You dug your fingernails into his dumbass fucking pinstripes, unable to feel his skin beneath like it was a bulletproof shirt and not the kind of button-up Professor Stanwick Pididly (circa 978 AN) would wear while being retconnned from being a plagiarist to being a pretty okay dude encased in gold forever. “But maybe I don’t care anymore. Maybe I just wanted you for your win rate. Like, have you seen those stats?”
You pulled out your phone, showing the screen to Viktor.
“So, like, I actually don’t really care anymore. If you wanna be with your blue anubis man, I won't stop you. Like, I actually won’t stop you. I won’t. I get it. I understand what it’s like to love someone who doesn’t love you back. I know what it’s like to put your ass — all, I mean all — into something. To have all your efforts crumble around you. To have your hunk of a man drop you off a balcony because he saw the real love of his life across the room.” You paused, allowing the author to ponder more satirical prose. “Sometimes I think no one loves me at all. All these stories, all these different lovers… and I realize — no one really loves me at all. I’m just there for someone in another universe to live vicariously through. No one knows me or m/n or anything about me. I’m a blank slate, and I’m sure I’ll forget this moment of existentialism in my next line of dialogue. Because I am simply a vessel to be spoken through; a mouthpiece of the sentient gods above that decreed before the first sun rose or before the stars were strewn in the sky that I would be stuck in a medium such as Arcane: League of Legends, living out different realities until the author finally saw fit to end me. It doesn’t matter if it’s Jared or Vincent or Sander or Vans or even Bimbo — I only exist when you look at me, and you couldn’t care less about my existence besides then, if you do at all.”
You threw your phone in his face, taking a small sense of catharsis when the glass shattered against his gaunt cheekbones. The device fell, plummeting and hitting his foot with the brace, snapping in half with a loud crack. “So go have sex with your doll or whatever. It’s not like I liked you anyway. You’re ugly. You stink. Go take a bath or something. Hoe.”
You turned and marched away, not giving him a chance to respond. You tripped over the Lucario 47 ¼ — no. You wouldn’t even dignify it with its full name. You tripped over the stupid dog, smacking against the tile floor with some sense of triumph as all the bones crunch like a sack of pebbles in your sorry excuse for a meat sack of a body.
You pushed yourself to your feet, ignoring the pain as you stumbled around the plush, away from Viktor, away from the life the gods of this world forced you into. You knocked open the doors and stumbled out of the scene, into the infinite void beyond the realms of fanfic, out of bounds of this or any other world. You took a deep breath, free of your eternal horny prison. It was your life now, and you were damn sure of one thing.
You would always fucking hate Viktor (League of Legends).