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thatwishfulthinking · 1 day ago

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a wretched flower

my last one shot skipped viktor giving head… rest assured that is not something i plan to let happen often… and here, neither do you

wc: 3.5k

summary: after years of avoiding his feelings for you, viktor has finally turned a corner— though you’re still unsure if he’ll stumble back into the bear trap of all-consuming work. not too keen on neglect, you decide to make sure he’s sticking to the right track. newly established relationship. f!reader

warnings: smut, desperation, dirty talk

btw— i kind of have no idea what’s going on here. dom!vik, sub!vik, then angst, then metaphors, then clichés, then more sub!vik, and straight smut, and a little fluff? idk this has been making me insane for like a month

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Clothes are left in a trail, leading from the living room into the bedroom. You're both on the bed, limbs tangled as you cling to each other. He's whispering sweet nothings into your ear. Things, of course, you’d have appreciated to hear scattered across the day instead of sewn together and adhered to one single moment.

It was a reality that you hoped for at the beginning of your relationship, only to soon declaw each finger from, one at a time, until you let it go. After yet another dinner at your kitchen island alone, accompanied by the somber tap of an expectant fork, heating up the remenants for a stony soul when he finally decided to cross through the front door. Things had been better; you basked in his attention for some time. It was only recently that he had backslid into the same depths that pooled at the most tormented part of your mind.

Improvement wasn’t linear, of course, but god, could the ebbs and flows of it all be nothing less than excruciating. A garden, tended to and watered, would not continue to flourish if suddenly neglected. And oh, were you in trouble if came winter’s first frost.

He moans softly, his hips thrusting upwards to meet yours, nipping at your earlobe. "I could do this with you for the rest of my life, and it would never be enough." His kiss is stinging with the sweet affection you’ve sought for fruitlessly for days now.

You grab his hips and needily move them faster for him. You knew he wouldn’t last this way, and the dichotomy of not wanting it to be over and desperately needing to take what you could, in the fleeting moments you had it, festered low in your abdomen.

Another moan is blooming on his lips, and you register it in blissful slow motion. "You're so impatient, my sweet girl.” It’s a breathless, low sound, reverberating light into that dark place in your brain. He relents, his hips snapping with intensity. "Like this?" he groans, the bulb in his throat tremoring deliciously as it his voice travels up his esophagus in offering.

“My sweet boy” you whine back insistently at the use of the name: The very phrase he had decided to comandeer, your favorite endearment for him. Shame on you for sharing it with him, because the cheeky thing loved it so much that he was compelled to make it yours instead. You wrench his hand off of your waist, placing it on your neck.

The sly smirk that plays on his face is one of prideful understanding at your nonverbal prompt. He grips your throat gently, his hand wrapping around the eloquent column as he applies a slight pressure. His gaze is one of communication, searching, silently asking, Is this what you wanted?

“Harder, love,” you declare, because after ample days of not enough, too much was more than welcome.

A tightening feeling at your trachea. The intentional shift of his position. The subsequent heightening the speed of his movements, it all hits you like three successive strikes. “This okay?" he asks, his breathing ragged but his voice weighted by feathers as he monitors your reaction.

He leans in, hand brushing over your cheek as he were thumbing layers of dust off a forgotten bookshelf. "Look me in the eyes," he commands gently, and you realize that as your face twisted and contorted under his, he had been absorbing the tiny details that spoke to something else battering at you. A somber note between syllables of your words, the very corner of your mouth, where your lips discolored at the transition to skin, curling downwards ever so slightly. Subtle, but there all the same.

When you meet his eyes, he settles at a conclusion to the very research he had been conducting from aereal view. He presents a hopeful, apologetic solution— it pains him to think of all the time you’ve spent utterly hollowed by his absense.

"No matter how busy I might be, you're always on my mind.”

The reassurance swaths across your collarbones, fizzling out delightfully somewhere at the peaks of your shoulders. A sharp grin appears across your face. “I know it’s worse now.” A calculatedly vague statement, of course, baiting him.

He furrows his brow, slightly concerned by the change in your demeanor, and oh, the poor thing falls into your trap. "What are you talking about, love? What do you mean it’s worse now?" he asks softly, releasing your neck and letting tentative fingers pass across your brow, pinky pressed to your temple.

You laugh mischievously— he was completely correct in his sentiment, and for this you were well aware.

“You couldn’t stop thinking of me… compromised, before,” you grab his neck instead, causing his jaw to jerk forwards. “But now that you’ve had me, you need me. You need this, love, and now it’s even harder to wander from because you know exactly what it’s like.”

His eyes widen, mystefying golden caches that you’d love to curl up inside of. His bleached clavicle warms with something that resembles sun kisses, washed with a soft flush.

He swallows hard, his gaze locked with yours. “That is something I cannot deny,” he admits, almost solemnly, eyes pacing back and forth pensively to find the subtext. "You're right. It's harder now. The lab, the separation, it is… challenging.”

You purse your lips, still holding a bit of teasing bregrudgement. “Tell me you love it then, Viktor. Speak to me, for god’s sake, forget all the pleasant—“

"Your pussy is divine," he cuts you off, the words rolling off his tongue, and it’s almost without second thought. Someone so pretty uttering such filthy words like a confession is a sight to behold, and your breath catches abruptly.

You bring a hand to his face, and he closes his eyes, his exhales growing stronger at the thought, offering more. “I dream of it, fantasize about it, obsess over it. I stare at the chalkboard and try to conjure up the taste of it in my mouth."

“You must be parched,” and you sigh passively, as if isn’t the most seductive statement his eardrums could manage with currently.

His eyes fly open and he groans loudly, heat coursing through his body. You can feel the boiling froth in his stomach seeping through his skin into yours where you lie against one another. How enjoyable it is to peer at him now, avoiding eye contact, staring up at the cieling and squeezing his eyes closed in heavy blinks.

“You’ve been rude, baby.” You tut.

His chest swells with a large inhale before slowly looking down at you once again, raising an eyebrow. You can’t miss the immistakeble hint of a grin playing on his lips. "Have I? And what did I do exactly?”

He leans in closer, his hand trailing up the side of your leg, pressing a thumb into the dip below the jut of your hipbone. "I'd hate to think I've offended you, love."

”I’ve just noticed,” you lift your chin and angle it upwards towards him. “You skipped what you claim to crave.”

“Sounds like a terrible oversight on my part." He tilts his head, his eyes gleaming with playful corruption.

He leans in, lips ghosting against yours, amber irises bleeding into one another centimeters from your eyes. A painting set to still, knocked sideways by the soft underbelly of your spite, just before it could dry.

"Allow me to rectify that," he whispers, before gently placing a kiss on your collarbone, starting his descent.

You’re shaking your head as you watch him move towards your legs. ”I don’t know, I can’t help but think you don’t appreciate it.” Appreciate me. “Is that it?” You tease, feigning mock sadness, the real version holding real space in the real lonely moments you’ve endured without him lately.

He looks up at you in an emotion so passionate it may be offense. “Love,” he murmers, his voice low, now swinging his head back and forth as well. "You know that simply isn’t true. Don't make the mistake of doubting that." He’s nudging your legs apart, and the sick, scorned thing in your mind jumps at the opportunity to interject.

“Maybe I shouldn’t let you.” You grab his chin, pulling it away from where his face has become situated between your thighs so he looks up at you. “Maybe I shouldn’t let you discover what it tastes like after the fact. You think you deserve that, hmm?”

He stills, and his brows furrow in dismay. You swear you see his lips beginning to tremble. "No, please," he gasps, his voice barely above a whisper. He sucks his cheeks in and bites, creating a pronouced hollow on either side of his slim face.

You scan his expression, completely enthralled in the fact that you’ve never seen him do that before, but he’s still trying his best at persuasion. “Please, I want to taste us, together. I do.”

You nod, acknowledging his plea, your grip on him firming slightly, fingertips pinching and propping him up by the jaw, snared like a spider’s catch. “You forgot all about it, my sweet boy. I can’t help but think you’ve been negligent, and just started fucking me. That doesn’t seem fair,” you tut once again.

He whimpers, his body trembling without inhibition now. "I'm sorry," he chokes, his voice ragged, spitting out fragments, as if otherwise he would be forced to swallow splinters chipped from feeble teeth. “Never that. I couldn’t forget. I simply lost track of my thoughts. I got carried away, I got distracted, I’m sorry."

It may be a bit deranged, but you see yourself frolicking around, victorious, in your mind’s eye. There, you are clutching his reassurance— though product of an entirely different conversation— in a tight, delighted fist. Despite it all, your expression remains stoic.

"Please, just one taste. Just let me have one." There’s a low urgency in his voice that you haven’t heard before.

You spread your legs wider, immediately yanking his chin back up away from you as he tries to drive for a lick. His neck is now rendered taught again, poised back up towards you from your own manipulation. “I think that’s disingenuous, love. I think you know that one taste isn’t enough for either of us.”

He moans in frustration that somehow he’s saying all the wrong things, scrambling for any words that will earn clemecy. You can see the gears turning, conjuring up a response— another of which, you know, and perhaps he does too, that you will easily meet with the tortourous fortress of your acidity. “You're right," he gasps hopelessly, giving in, and he makes sure to echo himself over and over.

“Repetition doesn’t denote sincerity.” You patronize, to which you can nearly see beads of sweat born above his brow. He buries his face into your inner thigh, shameful, disheartened.

“I want you to look,” you say, your grip loosening, allowing his neck to relax, throwing a leg over his shoulder, a coaxing heel following the path of his spine up and down.

Arousal spattered across your thighs, parted and reddened from him fucking you. Swelling like a flower at daybreak. He desperately wants to put his tongue where his cock had just been and—

You cut his thoughts off. “Why did you sabotage yourself, my love?”

He looks up at you, his eyes wide and bewildered. "Sabotage myself, darling?" he murmurs, his voice dragging with grief. "I don’t understand. What do you mean I sabotaged myself?"

You give him a stern look, heel settling against vertebrae for a moment while you readjust your expression. “Is it not my responsibility to make sure you take care of yourself? That you don’t starve yourself of your wants, of your needs? I forbid that. Though your actions suggest that this isn’t something you need.” You draw a jagged inhale.

“Or rather, that I am not.”

And the bitter words finally find soil to take root here, stretching upwards and outwards, a wretched flower themselves.

He shakes his head vehemently, his eyes clouding with the pain of finally understanding. “No, please, don’t say that.”

You break, reverting back to the discouraged version of yourself that you’ve had to be for weeks, and you’re gazing at one another, palms stretched outwards, showing your hand, each card a compliment to the other’s misfortune.

“Do you doubt what I feel for you?” And he says it as if he fears the letters that comprise the words themselves.

“No,” you say meekly, and his nose wrinkles slightly, not entirely convinced.

“It—“ he sucks in a sharp breath. “Consumes me while I’m away. You. I’m never without you in thought, you need to know that. Please, I can’t have you thinking otherwise. You don’t understand, I used to sleep in the lab, because that was what would consume me, but now, every night, I come back. I come back to you. I know it isn’t much, but come back.” His eyes search yours with a wildness to be heard.

You swallow at the guilty knot of bile in your throat, tear ducts miraculously stirring awake for duty.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers. “You’re right,” There it is again. “It has been worse lately— thinking of you, in all regards. Just as my absence has worse. It’s ignorant for me to think that simply picturing you is enough. I know it isn’t. I need to be present, I need to just be with you.”

Here he is, Viktor, taking a sledgehammer to those walls, the ones you didn’t use mortar to build because you hoped that he would knock through them in the first place. Here he is, Viktor, crushing that wretched flower under the sole of a worn dress shoe, hurrying it into a paper bag which he takes to the lab and promptly incinerates so that its pollen is to never spread again.

His gaze softens, thankful, when he observes that the downwards draw of your lips, where they discolor at the transition to skin, have pulled back to equilibrium. Subtle, but still there all the same. He takes another breath, now slow, much more assured.

“And I will be, just, please.”

You give him a weak nod, you find no skepticism for what he’s saying, and so, you take him up on his offer, you do not speak, you just be.

You sigh softly as he presses his chin to your mound, looking back up at you with adoration in his eyes, rubbing your thighs and sides and pulling your legs apart, before pressing a soft kiss to your clit. His eyes shine with desperation, one that lusters with the earnest need to convince. “Now, may I?”

A bashful smile is what he gets, a hand cupping his face, which is the most you can give while all of the solitude-driven uncertainty dissipates from your soul.

He pushes your legs apart, settling between them, his mouth hovering over your folds, bathing it in warm, billowing breaths. He plants soft kisses against your clit.

You grab desperately for a fistful of his hair.

He gasps, his mouth already parted, tongue lolling, desperation turning into something much deeper. His tongue is hot, the suction of his mouth nearly unbearable, he’s being sloppy, abandoning his practiced nature simply for this.

He pauses and looks at you, his eyes locking with yours, his breaths coming in sharp pants against you. "I need you," he shudders, his voice ragged, bearing the weight of deeper meaning.

There’s something so endearing about stopping what he’s doing to ask for more when he could just continue and take it for himself, but god, he’s worked himself up now, your foot twitching against his back.

“Look at me,” you murmur, and he stops abruptly mid stroke, tongue out and glued to you, massive needy eyes, hazy with both sickening lust and pleading awe. You stroke his temple with your knuckle, murmuring his name breathlessly, and letting out a strangled cry as he cages his arms around your legs and pulls you up to his face, the back of your thighs locked against his collarbones, simultaneously held up and pinned down under his lips. The sensation of fabric tugging under your spine catches your attention, your gaze moving to angular shoulders, down his back, decorated with quaint little moles. You jump from one point to the next, where you rediscover the dimples at the base of his spine, just above where he’s moving his hips in slow, uncoordinated circles against the sheets. Hands, satisfied with how your thighs have found balance on his shoulders, shift, thumbs coming to massage where your skin meets your core, pulling it apart softly so he can lick his own whimpers into you, nose nudging at the underside of your clit.

Utterly helpless, the two of you, as you tug and chocolate tendrils and every muscle, every tendon, every capillary goes stiff.

He moans, his hands grabbing at your thighs and pulling you even closer, giving you no escape. He's panting and sweaty, hair stuck to his brow, ears slightly flushed. It’s just about the most beautiful thing you've ever seen. "Please love," he whines, his voice ragged and urgent, “Please, love, please come. I need it. I need to.”

His face nods rapidly as he speaks into our flesh, and you cry out, his tongue lapping now with a preciseness to cultivate your orgasm and care for it like it’s precious. And your body feels like it’s accelerating, through all the seasons, the biting of winter in the jolts of adrenaline coursing in between your thighs, the mugginess of summer in his hot tastebuds. His dark eyelashes flutter like birds migrating, and his noises are like the groan of an old tree’s branches resisting torrential rain. His eyes are as captivating as golden hour, the sun begging you to follow it down the edge of the earth so that it can illuminate you all over again at the next hemisphere, pleading that you come with him. So you do. Hard, and he follows suit, straight into the duvet.

You’re stretching for him, reaching out and staring until your hands wrap around his shoulders and you inadvertently dig your fingers into his armpits, pulling him up on top of you and holding his waist with your thighs. He nuzzles into your neck, bracing a few moments too late for the shockwave. Your stroke his hair and tell him it’s okay, and you nearly want to sob, trembling against one another, willing your nervous system to still. And he nods into your throat, soothing you back, clutching at you tightly, whispering it’s okay back to you softly.

He grounds you without thinking or trying, just being, adorning your neck with tender kisses. You kiss his temple back, tilting your chin down against your throat to look at him as he draws his head to the side to peer back up at you. And you’re faintly aware that the angle of your face is abysmal, probably, but you don’t care.

“Are you okay?” You both ask, simultaneously, and your arms tighten around him affectionately.

You both chuckle when you speak at the same time, and it’s such a silly, wonderful thing, a small, soft smile budding on his lips. He’s so still, simply watching you, like you’ve just watered his soul.

“Love…?”

“Yes, my sweet?” You whisper quietly, pecking his nose.

He shushes you softly, presses a finger against your lips. “Let me. Let me tell you…”

You laugh at whatever strange force has corralled you two into pleasant delirium.

“Tell me.. what?” You murmur.

He whispers, slowly bringing himself up onto his elbows, his breath warm against your cheek, “Everything.. just...” he trails off and presses a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth.

You rub his temples gently with your thumbs, fingers stretching over his ears and playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. “I know, love. You know that I know,” you coo. You let out a bashful, affectionate giggle as he rolls to the side, bringing you, your legs, still twined around him, with you. You kiss his mouth softly, then the spot between his eyebrows. “Do you know? That I also feel.. everything?”

“Yes… I do,” he sighs, and his eyes close, grazing the tip of his nose up and down the bridge of yours. It’s all so nonsensical, but the mutual understanding prevails.

“Then maybe we shouldn’t even attempt to find the words” You whisper, feeling some gravitational force pull your face right into his neck.

He nods, his hand coming up to swipe your hair out of the way, exposing the flesh of your shoulder, and he kisses you there, trailing kisses across your collarbone.

“You’re right,” he murmurs, just one last time.

You copy him, kissing his collarbone back, then his shoulder. He kisses your pulse point, so you do the same. When his lips land on your nose, it only takes a few seconds after they retract for yours to find his. And you continue this little exchange, the only language you need, back and forth, until drowsiness retires the two of you for the night. In your dreams, you weed out vines and thorny stems with gloveless fingers, vowing to only let the good things to grow.

#viktor x f!reader #viktor smut #viktor x female reader #viktor fanfic #viktor fluff #arcane #arcane fanfic #arcane smut #jayce x you #viktor x you #viktor x reader #viktor league of legends #viktor #viktor nation

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lovesick-desires · 2 days ago

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VALETUDINARIANISM

YANDERE!VIKTOR X IMMUNOCOMPROMISED!READER — CHAPTER FOUR (FINALE)

‎‎‎‎PREVIOUS CHAPTER ⇠

ABSTRACT: After the collapse of Viktor's commune into pure anarchy, you, with the help of Piltover and Zaun's combined forces, try to stop Noxus and Viktor from his full glorious evolution. However, you have no idea what kind of threat you were facing... AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thank you for giving me this amazing opportunity to write this fic for y'all. I appreciate all the notes, reposts and comments I have received. Sorry if the formatting is a little wonky as I am writing this on my phone, it will be fixed later! CONTENT WARNINGS: gender neutral reader, major character death, season two spoilers, canon divergence, dark themes, yandere behavior, violence, swearing, murder, explicit blood & gore, manipulation, cult behavior, mass death, war WORD COUNT: 2.4k+ VIKTOR'S YANDERE ARCHETYPE: delusional, protective

The war was nothing short of devastating. Corpses of Pilties, Zaunites and even Noxians dappled the once pristine floors of the Piltover town hall like fallen gears from a broken clock, each one a silent testament to the utopia’s crumbling state. Living in Zaun your whole life made you accustomed to death, but nothing could have prepared you to mass homicide of this magnitude. As your gaze shifted around, you tried to hold back your vomit upon seeing a disemboweled Jinxer, her long blue hair a syzygy to her sanguine insides that had been shredded through like nothing more than paper. Holding your gun close, you swallowed back the urge to vomit as you pressed forward, stepping over the desecrated corpse.

The sounds of gunfire and other weaponry created a cacophony with the screams and whimpers of pain from injured warriors. Your gaze shifted around, taking in the damage. Medics were trying to salvage who they could save while others uttered their dying words in unheard whimpers.

You saw a Noxian go to charge at you out of the corner of your eye, her spear aimed for your torso. With an instinctual movement, your arm raised with the gun in your digits. Your pointer finger pulled back, unloading a bullet right in the Noxian’s throat. To this, she gasped and crumpled like the weight of the world pushed her down. Her corpse laid before you, blood pooling from her throat onto the tiled floor.

You just killed someone.

The realization hit you like a sack of bricks, making you feel your lungs feel like they were closing up. Sweat beaded down your forehead as you grabbed the bottle of pills from your pocket, looking at the contents.

Three left.

Jayce must have found one and used it on you when he found you. You had to be careful. As your wheezing intensified, your fingers plunged into the translucent orange bottle, scooping out a white pill. You placed the medication under your tongue, letting it dissolve as your breathing slowly calmed. You couldn’t keep having attacks or you’d run out. Not like you could help it.

Your gaze flickered over to a door that was left agape. Something in you told you to go down there. Gripping your gun tightly, you made a break for the door, entering the room which seemed to be a staircase shaft. You shut the door behind you to hide your escape from the bloodshed outside. A loud bang could be heard down the stairwell, making you peer down the stairs. It was at least ten floors you’d have to run down to get down there. You began to descend the stairs until you heard an echoing voice, one you unfortunately recognized.

“Despite the circumstances, Jayce. I am… pleased to see you.”

Viktor. How was he alive? Didn’t Jayce kill him? However, he sounded different. His voice was distorted and almost robotic in essence.

“There must be some part of you still in there.” You could hear Jayce’s voice soon follow Viktor’s making you realize Jayce could be in serious danger. You began to descend the floors of stairs, your heart racing in your ears:

“I am more than I ever was.” Viktor replied, his tone full of accomplishment. Your footsteps quickened as you kept listening to their conversation, hearing them louder and louder the closer you got.

“Stop this insanity, Viktor.”

“That is precisely my intention.”

Viktor’s talk of ending injustice and famine filling your ears as you raced down the stairs, your conscience urging you to keep pushing despite the burning ache in your legs. Descending deeper and deeper, you heard the sounds of conflict up above dissipated into faint whispers of the agony. The rubber soles of your boots tapped against the stairs as you kept pushing your illness-ridden body beyond its physical limits, feeling as if the world was all watching and cheering you on. The sounds of Viktor and Jayce turning into ones of fighting as you ran down the final story of steps.

With the strength you had, you bursted through the cracked door to reveal a corridor leading to a cut down metal door, still burning a smoldering orange at the edges of where it once proudly stood. Holding your gun at your side, you quickly make haste to the cut down door which left cracks in the glossy tiles underneath it and around the corners.

As you turned the corner, you saw Jayce being held up by the throat by… Viktor? It must have been Viktor, but he looked… different. He changed. His once shorter, pale form shrouded in a blue cloak now stood lithe, elongated, and almost skeletal. His skin now a dark cool grey tone, resemblant of his arms that once reached for you to heal you now strangled someone else. Instead of his usual blue robe, his spindly yet looming form was decorated with a regal black cape with a layer of crimson fabric on the inside, contrasting the gray skin it framed. His face was obscured by what seemed to be a mask… or maybe a new face? It had piercing orange pupils that glowed like miniature suns. His once undulating umber and blonde hair now frayed out from each side, framing where his pale face once was with unsaturated brown strands. In his hand, he wielded his staff now more enhanced with a similar color scheme of his body, dark grey with golden accents. In the center of its undulating spires up top held a levitating blue energy akin to a newborn star.

You couldn’t help but stare until you see Viktor was holding Jayce so tightly around the throat he began to sputter and kick. You had to act fast yet you felt frozen in place, as if your joints locked up.

Move…

MOVE DAMMIT MOVE!

You snapped yourself out of it, running straight into the danger ahead of you. You had no idea what kind of danger that was before you, but you knew you wouldn’t just let Jayce die.

You couldn’t just let the world die.

Even if you didn’t see it at first, you realized as you were running face first into possible death that there was beauty in the world’s imperfections, even when the world was cold and heartless to you and your ailments. Every ebbing and flowing wave of illness and infection, you brought your head above the murky depths nonetheless. It sucked, yes, but you wouldn’t have it any other way. Yes, life could have been better if you could be healthy, but you would have never learned the value and beauty in existence. An existence you wanted to pursue. You wanted to love, you wanted to hate, you wanted to prosper, you wanted to suffer, you wanted to laugh, you wanted to cry.

You wanted to live, regardless of the cards life dealt you. Just because you were dealt a shitty hand didn’t mean that you had to fold and accept fate.

Your digits grabbed around Viktor’s wrist, trying to pry the being who was once a healer away from Jayce’s throat. His eyes flickered to you, giving an air of surprise as well as something else you couldn’t read. His hands instinctively tightened around Jayce’s neck as—

CRACCCCKKKK…

A sickening crack followed by a grunt from Jayce echoed through the room. Jayce’s gasp on his hammer faltered, letting it clatter to the floor as he went limp. The light seemed to leave his now lifeless eyes as you and Viktor were left stunned.

“No…” The word slipped from Viktor as his gaze was fixed on the corpse of the Defender of Tomorrow. You felt your heart racing in your throat as your world went in slow motion. You took a step back as Viktor slowly lowered Jayce to the ground, letting go of his now crushed windpipe. “This can not be happening…”

The healer seemed to be mourning over the loss of Jayce as you eyed the dead man’s hammer. Realizing the Machine Herald’s attention was solely on the corpse, you quietly grab the handle of the hammer, aiming to make as little noise as possible. The hammer was cumbersome and unwieldy, yet you forced your muscles to lift the hammer up, using your dominant hand to reel it back over your shoulder.

You knew what you had to do.

“We were supposed to do this together… as partners.” Viktor muttered, his lithe digits brushing some of Jayce’s hair out of his lifeless pale eyes.

Holding the hammer in both of your hands, you snuck over behind the mourning man as you knew the world rested in your hands. With all the strength you could muster, you swung the hammer down, a cry escaping your exasperated lips as tears blurred your vision.

This ended here.

The impact could be felt vibrating through the muscles of your arms all the way up to your shoulders. Your lungs were heaving, finally feeling a sense of relief. As you slowly opened your tear-filled eyes, they were met with Viktor’s searing orange ones. Panic coursed through you as you realized his third arm was holding up the hammer from making proper impact with his head.

“Clever, very clever.” The healer stated coldly, his distorted voice harboring a hint of something else. His three-fingered hand gripped the handle of the hammer just below the hammer’s head.

With a simple movement, Viktor swung the hammer aside, causing your grip to falter. The momentum sent you flying into a wall, pain radiating down your aching spine. Your gun slid across the cold floor, out of your reach.

“You know, miláček¹, I did not think you had this all in you. I am very impressed.” Viktor derided, his footsteps coming closer to your dazed form as he dropped the hammer to the floor.

You tried to reach in your pocket for your pills as your breathing got shallow, only to find the bottle was crushed by your body with the force of the impact, leaving only shattered orange plastic and white dust that used to be your last two pills.

It was unusable.

Your panicked gaze moved to Viktor’s looming form that drew closer and closer as your wheezing got worse. Scrambling back, you tried to make distance between you and the Machine Herald.

“I see myself in you, miláček. You are like how I once was: weak, sickly, fragile. You suffer in silence, day after day. And what do you get in return? A world that fails to understand.” The healer lamented, his form stood tall before your crumpled one as you stayed wheezing on the floor. “But I do. I understand you, miláček. Being raised in the Undercity with such a detriment was my life too…” To this, Viktor stared right down at your wheezing form as you desperately tried to get up off the cold, hard floor.

“When I was just a frail boy, I met someone: he was a scientist, a genius, and a madman. He showed me something that I was scared of at first: something I could not grasp with my immature mind.” Viktor continued, now pacing back and forth before you as you felt lightheaded and weak, feeling your body fail you once again. “But, with age, I came to understand such a science. I wanted to wield it myself and make a world where people like us could be understood, could be perfected. One so glorious where no one could suffer like how we have.”

Your vision was blurred but you could make out Viktor’s form stood before you. When it felt like everything was crumbling around you and your body failed you, Viktor was there once more. Your eyes locked onto his, feeling the burning sensation his eyes left on you. You knew this was your own option. Moments of your life flashed before your eyes: being a sickly child, suffering in silence for years, trying every experimental remedy to your ailments to no avail, hearing whispers of Viktor’s name on the streets of Zaun, the commune, everything…

With blurry vision, you watch him reach his hand out for your forehead. His hand soon enough met your skin as you felt your consciousness submerged in a pure, warm white.

Soon enough, the white faded into a dark sky, dappled with shimmering stars. It took a moment for your eyes to adjust to the lighting difference as your body felt… free. Free of pain, free of illness, free of suffering. Your gaze shifted down to your hands, revealing they seemed translucent yet colored with a kaleidoscopic variety of pastel tones mixed with their own tone. You saw your form down to your legs, baffled by the ethereal change.

“Miláček…” Viktor’s voice called out, garnering your attention to his form before you. Once again, he looked different. His once brown hair was now a light, glowing cyan that jutted out at the base of his head. His form looked more well-nourished, bringing a stronger look in comparison to when you first met him. He looked human… well, human enough despite his body being just like yours: painted with pastels mixed with his skin tone in a visual symphony of colors.

“You are scared of the possibilities, I understand that. But, I can assure you that you can trust me." Viktor spoke, reminding you of a simpler time. He offered his hand to you, silently beckoning you to take it.

Despite all that happened, you felt calm wash over you as you looked down at his hand. It was a strange calm, something incomprehensible. Nonetheless, you reached out for his hand, resting your hand in his.

¹ miláček — "darling" or "sweetheart" in Czech

SONG OF THE FIC: DISEASE - LADY GAGA

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