Chapter Text
It goes like this:
The first time Jayce sees Viktor naked is in a chemical shower.
Ironically—and unfortunately, he will rue later—at the time, Viktor's nakedness is not the feature of the moment. Jayce would consider that honor split between the smoldering pile of clothes next to Viktor's narrow ankles and the shattered vial of compressed battery acid in hissing pieces on the floor nearby. In fact, he doesn't even get to watch him undress; his task in this disaster to lunge for the acid neutralizer and summon clouds of smoke and foam to prevent it from eating down through the solid steel floor to the next floor of the Academy.
The only reason Jayce doesn't run straight to his partner is because he can see him moving and hear him cursing, shucking his clothes and abandoning his crutch, the vacant hiss of the chemical shower raining down on Viktor the same thing Jayce is now spraying onto his clothes. His clothes, Jayce notes in relief, which do not feature large splotches of eroded fabric where the acid would have immediately made it to skin. Jayce had been worried about that. A gentle misting would cause small burns. Any large splash could eat through bone.
Nonetheless, he finds himself grateful that he has long since learned to school his ongoing, near-perpetual concern for Viktor into an exclusively internal dialogue. Viktor would certainly not appreciate the paper and butterfly-wing analogies spinning around in Jayce's mind now as he thinks of Viktor's skin, pale and thin, eaten through with sickly green acid. Jayce have never thought of Viktor as weak, but it would be a lie to insinuate he never considered him fragile.
Of course, Viktor had long berated that out of him. Or, rather, into him, where it rears its head in tandem with his—at least he thinks—other, more relevant concerns for his partner.
The smoke is dissipating. Other than the lingering stench of burnt fiber and the fumes of the neutralizer, the air seems to be clearing. Jayce drop the canister and turns to Viktor, words already spilling from his mouth.
"Viktor, what in the name of—"
The words die on his lips.
Framed by steam in a way that feels alarmingly reminiscent of murals Jayce has seen in bathhouses, Viktor is standing under the water, wafts of brown hair wet and sticking to his neck, his ears, his forehead. The slick angled jut of his high shoulder gleams under the spray.
Jayce can't help but take him in. Just for injuries, he thinks. To be fair, the image of fair skin eaten away to velvet deep muscle and ivory bone hasn't quite left his mind, cloying behind his relief. He forces his eyes down from the curve of Viktor's jaw to the plane of his chest, pain swelling below his breastbone as he traces the burgeoning, puffy redness of a dripping chemical burn from his collarbone, down further to his belly, and—Well.
Jayce stops short at the same time Viktor says his name. His mouth has gone dry and he still can't quite hear right, the pitched hissing of the neutralizer lingering as a muted ringing somewhere up and to the right. Or maybe the ringing is new, or maybe Jayce hit his head, or maybe he's died, because between Viktor's freckled thighs, hidden under a trimmed thatch of dark hair, is a cunt.
A few things happen at once. Jayce's spine stiffens and he immediately whirls in an about-face, already feeling a humiliating burn racing up from his jawline to his hairline, carving scorching paths through his skin. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck! He never—never—expected this situation, this—visual, ever in his life. Not of Viktor, who had always seemed—normal, he catches himself thinking. Sour distaste with his own worded impulse turns his tongue. Jayce has known Viktor for years: he has never approached normal. It's the golden thread through everything Jayce loves about him. Viktor transcends normalcy.
And, yet: even as a voice threads through the ringing, even as the room finally begins to clear completely, it's the only thing Jayce can think of. The sloping of his hipbones, the faint swell of his—
"-ayce. Jayce." and of course Viktor sounds annoyed. His back is still to him. Jayce clears his throat and smiles, shrugs, tries and imbue some sense-ness into his physicality, bouncing on the balls of his feet and answering with a pitched, thready "hmmmm?"
"A towel. Please."
Of course. He's dripping wet and Jayce is as-yet bone dry with a full range of motion and access to the attached bathroom. He reactivates his limbs and stomps towards the cupboard, roughly collecting a navy bundle to carry back to his partner. Viktor takes the towel from him and wraps it around his waist, pulling the fabric tight against narrow hims. Jayce mournfully begins to chirp something about his upper half still being soaked, but shame weighs in his limbs as soon as he realizes Viktor's done it for modesty. Despite his initial shock, Jayce realizes his reaction likely did not make Viktor feel particularly comfortable.
"Sorry," he says immediately, compulsively. "Viktor. I'm sorry. I didn't mean---"
"It's alright," Viktor replies, a false levity in his voice. He sounds pained, actually; not uncommon for him, but it does relight the part of Jayce's brain that had been thinking of his burns. "You didn't do anything wrong. An accident."
As difficult as Jayce finds it to believe, the simple act of Viktor speaking soothing words to him is enough to ease some of the tightness in his chest. He bends to pick up Viktor's crutch, tacitly keeping his eyes on the floor.
"Here. Can you walk?" Jayce asks hoarsely. Viktor studies his face, eyes unreadable, and nods. Jayce mirrors, and Viktor limps out of his sightline.
Viktor lands on a lab stool as soon as Jayce finally locates the first aid kit, rushing back over to his partner as he takes a deep, gulping breath of air away from the stink of chemicals. The burn cream is in a small, utilitarian pot, and Jayce gets all the way though unscrewing it, scooping up a healthy glob of the paste, and reaching for Viktor before he freezes.
Touching Viktor has never felt like a thing that required any sort of permission before. The contour of his body in the shower flashes in Jayce's mind.
"Can I, uh." he swallows. "Touch you? Viktor?"
Viktor sighs. Sometimes his exhales just sound like sighs, heaved breaths shuddering through his beleaguered body, but Jayce can always tell when they're intentional. When he puts, though he would never admit it, the faintest hint of the theatrical behind them.
"Yes." he groans, voice still tight with pain. Jayce needs no further recourse, and the full-body shudder that runs through Viktor's limbs when he first touches the cream to his burns is enough of an encouragement for him to keep going.
At first, as Jayce works, the only sound he seems capable of producing are hisses, winces, groans through his teeth. Jayce has been burned plenty, probably more than Viktor with his time in the Forge. He knows how the pain persists, individual cells marking the end of their microscopic lives in a seemingly endless waterfall of sensory feedback. He hates that he can't take it from Viktor.
Nonetheless, the burn cream is undoubtedly top of the line. By the time he's made it past Viktor's diaphragm, the furthest reaching splashes on his collarbones are paler, soothed. The rise and fall of his chest has evened out. Jayce dumps endless blessings on modern medicine with every half-second added between his breaths.
Jayce reaches the bulk of the splash on Viktor's belly and freezes.
The image of his body, momentarily dismissed by virtues of action and anxiety, is helpfully immediately plastered on every television in the hapless sports bar of his mind.
Mournfully, he notes that the draping of the towel around Viktor's groin does nothing but confirm his initial sight. No cock to speak of to bulge the fabric, just a navy blue cascade over and down his inner thighs. Jayce suspected Viktor saw from the beginning, but this time, Jayce feels himself get caught. His face goes red again.
"I--" Jayce starts, with absolutely no idea how one would continue, or Gods forbid, end that sentence. Viktor sighs, and again Jayce immediately identifies it to be true.
"I imagine that came as quite a shock for you." Viktor says. Jayce feels masses of tension begin to bleed from his body, his jaw loosening in preparation for pouring out explanations, apologies, pleas. "I am sorry."
Jayce blinks. What?
"No, Viktor, don't—don't apologize." Jayce replies, bewildered. "I'm sorry. I looked when I shouldn't have. I violated your privacy."
He looks up at Viktor. His mouth is set in a grim line, arms crossed over the soothed burns, and Jayce notes with surprise that Viktor's fingers are tapping against his own bicep in a rapidly descending order. It's one of his most famous nervous habits. Spider hands, Jayce had called it, before he realized Viktor only permitted the moniker—not enjoyed it. Why would he be nervous? Jayce has performed all of the transgressions of this situation with an efficacy that could almost be commended. Even now, he's kneeled between Viktor's legs. He awkwardly shuffles backwards.
"What, were you supposed to avert your eyes while I sprayed acid all over our lab?" Viktor says bitterly. "I made a mistake. Look; there's no way the actuator survived that spill." Jayce accommodates him with a glance over his shoulder. A lump of cooling metal is enough to tell him that this particular project likely won't make the quarterly review.
Jayce doesn't care. He turns back to Viktor.
"It's okay," He tries to soothe, but his platitudes merely serve to deepen Viktor's frown. "It's just a project. We have all our schematics, all the resources. It'll take less than a day to rebuild."
"Twelve hours, if we don't have to force any of the joints again." Gods, Jayce hates when Viktor sounds like this. It's like every word is directed to ricochet back into his own face. "God damn it."
Despite himself, Jayce's hand comes to rest on his good knee. Viktor jumps. Jayce jerks it back like he's been burned—stupid, to think he could be allowed to offer Viktor any sort of physical comfort in this situation. He barely tolerates Jayce touching him when he hasn't just seen him nude. He curses himself silently. "Viktor, it's not your fault. We'll get past it." he offers. Viktor's face is still pinched, but at least he turns to look at him instead of staring down the burnt actuator. Jayce vacantly realizes he never finished with his burns. "Can I?" Jayce asks, holding up the pot. Weary, Viktor nods.
Jayce begins to paint the cream down the rest of the burn, noting with satisfaction that the tapping of Viktor's fingers begins to slow. The silence of the lab feels massive, stretching the distance between the two of them to fathoms. Not that Jayce has ever had cause to drag his fingers down Viktor's torso, but under any circumstance this close to Viktor he usually can't shut his mouth. He loves to talk to Viktor.
But, in the silence, Jayce can't stop thinking about his cunt.
"Jayce, I should not have to say it, but…" he starts, trailing off as their eyes meet again. Jayce nods before he finishes. Viktor does anyway. "No one can know about this. Please."
"Of course not." Jayce isn't stupid enough to think he's talking about the acid spillage. They'll likely need minor structural repairwork on the floor anyways, no way to hide that. "Viktor, I would never. I mean that."
Viktor levels his eyes—golden, so, golden—with Jayce's. He can't help but sink.
"Thank you, Jayce."
Jayce swallows, and nods. "It'll stay between us."
Jayce can't stop thinking about it.
Whatever he could first chalk up to shock or shame has long since dissipated. It's been weeks and Jayce cannot stop thinking about Viktor's cunt.
He dreams about him. He always has, and he isn't even new to it in this particular capacity. However, where Jayce's previous had been speculative, hazy; filled with approximations and assumptions, they have sharpened into despairing clarity. He wakes up with dried flakes of precome in the hair on his lower belly. He wakes up so hard that the tendons of his inner thighs are already sore from strain. He comes in his sleep pants from a dream where Viktor, eyes shining, just opens his legs for him.
It's bad. It's so fucking bad. He's keeping shoddy hours at the lab, coming in late and leaving early. It's showing in the work, the parts of the projects where Jayce's aptitudes and expertise take over from Viktor's falling woefully behind. Parts lay unassembled on his workbench. In meetings, he zones out and provides clearly unsatisfactory answers. Despite the frowns, the disgruntled and concerned looks from the lab techs, the only thing Jayce can think about is him.
It's an uncomfortable and rather virginal feeling, to be just so into something so grossly unexplored in his own sexual exploits. Jayce has always liked women; always favored men. He has expressed his favor with gusto. He has never, in all of his expressions, seen anything like Viktor.
Jayce had long recognized his attraction to his partner, from the very early days, even. He had been gorgeous, slender, dark and pale, something foreign and alluring. However, it had been his mind that had transformed Jayce's attraction into something more lasting. Viktor had dragged him into a world he never could have imagined, just on the basis of his intellect. He had taken his stolen toys, his broken spirit, and given him enough of a kick in the ass to actually make something of himself.
Viktor saved his life, is the truth of it. Jayce could never have expected it, but he loved him for it. His more base instincts truly, madly deeply wanted to fuck him for it.
Those instincts have been alarmingly close to the surface as of late.
Jayce plays the game for as long as he can. At first he tries to keep the opposite of Viktor's hours: The logic is sound enough—equal work, just offered at different times. However, he quickly discovers that Viktor's hours are both so numerous and so varied that there really isn't a true 'opposite' that isn't just staying home. Admittedly, Jayce was being a bit of an optimist with this particular tactic—he'd spent multiple continuous days in the lab with Viktor before, missed scores of sunsets and seen twice as many sunrises. The work could consume them both. It was one of the most potent parts of their relationship, one of the things that drew Jayce so close he could feel Viktor's heart beating in time with his.
So anyway. No dice.
The next effort is a bit more orchestrated: Jayce makes sure he's never alone with him. It requires keeping scrapingly corporate time, considering they don't pay or allow techs to stay outside of the building's public hours, but the wonderful thing about techs is that they are many, and they are eager. There's always some intern with big dreams and a recent thesis that wants to jabber his ear off about their research; always some managing tech that has woes with the I's and II's that they want him to fix. They're perhaps a little bewildered at his sudden willingness to be perpetually disturbed, but hell, he's Jayce Talis. They're going to take the opportunity. It even tunes him in on some of the lab gossip, which is as asinine as ever, but truthfully luxuriously distracting from his own preoccupations.
Of course, this solution leaves Jayce unprotected from actually seeing him.
Their projects can get pretty big. The lab is functionally one open space, with only rooms that are small out of necessity—hermeneutics, x-ray, zero-g—relegated to doorways along the walls. He's in and out of those more than Jayce is, but for large parts of the day, they're both functionally in one large room together. It's fucking torture: Jayce immediately looks away as soon as Viktor turns to face him. Jayce stops talking when Viktor walks past him. Sometimes he'll have to physically re-orient himself at his workspace when Viktor sits in his line of sight. Jayce is well aware that, if he were to be judged by actions alone, he is being kind of a douchebag.
Still, it's better than the alternative. The dreams haven't stopped, have only deepened, become more detailed. Even if the original image didn't cut across Jayce's mind every time he saw Viktor, harboring his mind's own blisteringly horny fabrications would be enough to avert his eyes. Waking up from a dream of being nose deep in his cunt just to stroll in to see him bent over a diagram is only made barely tolerable by a combination of constant distraction and tacit ignoring. Jayce is being such an asshole.
And he notices. Of course he does, Jayce knew he would. Viktor's just too smart for him; always has been. As early as a few days in do his glances turn cautious, worried, confused. He tries to get Jayce's attention and he pretends not to hear him, changes the topic, makes up an excuse to walk away. Viktor starts normal, necessary, project-oriented conversations and Jayce shuts him out. Every time. The thought of Viktor on his knees is pervasive enough to make even the most utilitarian exchanges impossible.
This, of course, makes Viktor angry. Jayce honestly prefers it to the worry, because really, Viktor should be angry with him. The worry was agony, watching him wonder if he had done something wrong, if there was some unseen transgression Jayce was holding against him. At least once Viktor is angry at him there's no question about culpability. It gives him a nice little boost in his own perpetual self-flagellation, too. Jayce always feels small and stupid when Viktor's mad at him. It does a lot of the heavy lifting.
In the end, Jayce holds out for just shy of a month. Longer than he expected.
Jayce was in later than he meant to be. Sleeping in to prolong a dream about fucking Viktor's mouth with a major deadline approaching means that, no matter how many techs start to pack up and go home, no matter how many stayed a little late just to chat it up with the Man of Progress, he's eventually left alone in the lab. It's harrowing for a few minutes, before he begins to believe that Viktor may actually have gone home in time. It's rare, but he's done it before. Jayce is actually a little excited for some alone time in the lab. It's been weeks since he had any time to really melt into the work, to let it carry him away, to follow the currents, the contours, until—
"What the fuck is going on with you."
Click. Lock. Griiiind.
Jayce's heart sinks into his fucking stomach. Between the emotion in Viktor's voice and the unmistakable sound of the two-way lock grinding into place, he's already thinking about bending Viktor over the workbench and making him cry. After all his efforts, he's locked alone in his lab in the middle of the night with Viktor. It almost makes him want to cry. After all his hard work, he's going to tell Viktor everything and he's never going to speak to Jayce again.
"Jayce, it is one thing to have a personal issue with me, but it is impacting the work." His voice is tight with fury. Jayce lets him have it. "Weeks of this! I-I mean, avoiding me, that is one thing, but bringing hordes of techs into the lab to—to shield yourself from me? It has been impossible to think over the noise!"
Jayce's heart drops even lower. To his toes, maybe. He hadn't even considered that. God, the noise level in the lab must be twice as high as normal. There's a tech that laughs compulsively, loudly, who is very much in the "seeking investors" phase of his career. Viktor has always impressed to Jayce how valuable silence is in his process. Forget his troubles; Viktor hasn’t been able to think in a month.
He drags a hand down his face. He is suuuuch an asshole.
"Viktor, I'm sorry," Jayce starts, but he isn't done.
"I traced it back, you know." He's so mad his shoulders are heaving with the effort. He grits his teeth and continues, right as Jayce realizes exactly what he traced "it" back to.
"Jayce, I thought I didn't have to ask for your confidence, but I never believed I would have to ask you for your understanding."
Oh. Nausea actually swells in his throat at that. Of all of the considerations Jayce imagined Viktor had made as to the reason for his disposition, this one had never occurred to him. He's still talking. Jayce considers just how hard he would have to hit his head on the edge of the table to knock himself out.
"I thought there was more here. Clearly I am wrong." The anger has drained from his voice. Jayce hates hearing him tired more than anything. "That such a thing would matter to you at all."
Jayce's tongue has swollen to fill his entire mouth. There are so many words that there are none, his heart and his mind racing as his body sits frozen. Viktor looks exhausted, but god, he's as magnetic as the day Jayce met him. As badly as he wants to spill his guts to him, tell him everything, he's paralyzed. He's beautiful. Jayce loves him. He's half hard.
Viktor sighs, silence taking over the lab for an agonizing second.
"There's no way you ever believed I wouldn't notice." Viktor says. His voice is quiet, sad, resigned. "So I thought, what could he be doing but prolonging it. Just to make me suffer."
Jayce's head hangs low, a dead weight at the end of his neck. The pain in his chest from offering Viktor no protest is only surmounted by the bowling ball of shame in his stomach. He realizes, with startling clarity, that he has never struggled with telling Viktor the truth before.
Jayce also hasn't answered him. Viktor is standing, arms crossed, at the far end of the lab, and Jayce knows from that expression that he isn't getting out of this with his mouth shut.
"Well." Viktor says, tight. "Explain yourself."
Jayce sighs, pinches his temples, and begins to speak.
"You're right." He tells him. Jayce watches Viktor begin to process it, a whopping amount of grief the first thing he sees in his eyes, but Jayce barrels forward. "It did start with the acid. It was about you." Viktor scoffs. The next words come fast.
"I haven't been able to get you out of my head," Jayce blurts, one hand to his temple. "It's alI dream about. Fuck, I'm so sorry. I couldn't just—carry on, see you so often. And alone? Fuck, Viktor, you have no idea. All I can think about is your cunt."
The words ring out. Jayce hazards a glance at Viktor.
"Uh—Can I call it that?" he backpedals. Viktor nods nearly imperceptibly.
His eyes are wide, burnished gold, framed in thick lashes and dark smudged bruises. He's still in his work clothes, possibly from the day before—they're certainly wrinkled enough. His crutch gleams by his side. He's stock still. Jayce doesn't think he's ever seen him more in shock.
"God, I've never been this bad about anyone before, I promise," Jayce stresses, splaying his hands out in the air in front of him. Even with how plainly inexcusable his actions clearly are, he at lleast doesn't want Viktor to think he's some lifelong pervert. "I promise I'm not a creep. I don't know why. It's just you."
He closes his eyes, imagining the response Viktor must be weaving as the threads of a noose tightening around his neck. Jayce don't have a clue what his career, hell, his life will even look like without Viktor. It feels impossibly bleak.
"I don't understand." Jayce takes the words like a champ. Viktor could say whatever he wanted to him now and he'd take it, just grateful for any last words he'd get to hear in his voice. "You did all this because you are… attracted to me?"
Face burning, Jayce nods miserably. "I'm sorry. I know you're not an object, Gods, Viktor, you know I love you, that I respect you, but I—I just can't get your body out of my head. I'm having dreams, Viktor, I- I can't get them to stop. It won't stop." He notes with surprise that his own voice is trembling. In retrospect, this has really fucking sucked. He's been very, very lonely without Viktor.
There's another pause, but a shorter one.
"Let me get this straight." Jayce nods again, straightening, a willing subject. Viktor has not yet begun to be as cruel as Jayce anticipated he would, so he takes the chance to savor as much of his attention as he can before it sours. "You put our lab six weeks behind schedule because you are overwhelmingly attracted to—" he glances down, deadpan, and Jayce's dick twitches—"—My vagina."
Viktor has always managed to make the big picture seem rather simple. Jayce is absolutely certain he is bright red. "Um. Well—"
"And you were afraid of what?" He asks, in that softly bewildered tone he reserves only for Jayce, borne of his impossibly fathomless faith that any conflict between the two of them is only a matter of misunderstanding. Jayce can't believe he's hearing it now. "That I would feel objectified?"
He nods. And, just for good measure: "I'm so sorry."
Viktor hums. Jayce's heart aches when he looks at him. The dream he had last night of fucking his own cum back inside of Viktor's cunt flashes unbidden across his mind.
"I have to admit, this is not the… condition I expected." he says. Jayce swallows.
"I'll, uh. God, I wouldn't know how to split the lab. I'll talk to the academy about finding me a new space." Jayce is at least a little proud of the resolve in his voice. "You can have everything here. I'll, uh, get one of the techs to collect my notes."
He blinks. Gods, Jayce has never stopped loving his eyes. "What are you talking about?"
Jayce blinks right back. "Uh, I'm leaving. I can't imagine you still want me around your lab, knowing that I. Uh. This."
Viktor looks unbelievably confused. "Jayce, I don't want you to leave the lab."
That brings him up short. After everything—Viktor's muted reaction, his grace—Jayce still didn't expect this degree of amnesty. "You'll—you're letting me stay?"
"Letting you stay?" If Jayce weren't in such shock, he would almost detect a tinge of good humor to his voice. "Jayce, it's your lab. It's our lab. I would never take that away from you over something like this."
"Something like this?!" Jayce rears his head, practically. "Viktor, this is inexcusable. The things I've thought, the things I-I've—"
"You seem to be making much of this." Viktor interrupts him, tone light. "Jayce, please listen to me."
Jayce forces himself to shut his mouth. Always, for what he has to say.
"I am not angry with you. I will admit I am bewildered by the way you have gone about telling me, but I believe the foundation of this problem is that you are attracted to me and have struggled with processing that."
He almosts want to cry, again. Viktor in his endlessly forgiving nature, is still trying to make hom feel better.
"Viktor, I don't need to process that. Your body is yours, and it requires no explanation. I have been attracted to you for a very long time—years. Before I knew, ever." That seems to hit him harder, a flush coloring his cheeks. Jayce belatedly realizes he's revealed something rather larger, but what the hell. He never wants Viktor to think he's ashamed of exactly how he feels about him. "I've wanted you from the moment I laid eyes on you. I just—I'm sorry. There's no way to explain it."
"So it really is my cunt." Viktor muses. "But it also isn't. Interesting."
And, Viktor starts walking over to him. It's beyond the pale. Jayce's hands start to shake. The dry metallic scrape and thunk of his crutch is a sound so deeply loved in his memory that his heart hurts.
"Jayce, you are a curious man," he sighs, and Jayce sits up straighter, if only to greaten the space between their bodies. "You are so careful with me. So anxious for me to feel your respect."
"Of course." He breathes. "I love you. I think you're a genius. You have to know that."
Viktor nods. "I do. And I love you. And you know that."
Some weeks-old knot in Jayce's chest loosens entirely. He hadn’t realized just how heavy the weight of losing him so completely had weighed on his shoulders. An exhale like a sob of relief shudders out of his chest.
"Yeah." Jayce breathes.
"I think it is now too late for us to discuss much further."
He nods, relieved, infinitely relieved at both the idea of talking to Viktor again and some sleep. "But Jayce, I want you to know. This changes nothing. We will be okay. We are okay."
He nods, small.
Viktor presses his hand to the wall. Jayce hears the clickclickGriiiind of the lock. The door swings open behind him, and he begins to walk towards it. Jayce watches the light slide down the heels of his shoes.
"For the record, Jayce," he says, standing just at the rim of warmth from the lamp at Jayce's elbow. "I am flattered. And it is nice to know that my own rather… long-standing attractions are reciprocated."
Jayce blinks. Oh, Gods. He feels a spiritual lock unclick around the sheer possibility.
"Perhaps we can explore those sometime," Viktor says, and suddenly all Jayce wants is to be at home, asleep, rutting into his sheets over slick, plush, visceral dreams. More than that, though, he wants the real thing. Knowing he can have it is an exhilaratingly new kind of drug.
"Yeah." He croaks. "Please. Viktor, I—"
"Goodnight, Jayce," Viktor hums. "Sleep well."
The door is barely shut behind him before Jayce is reaching into his pants and palming his cock in a desperate attempt to relieve some of the unrelenting pressure that had been building since Viktor's speech. He doesn't move a muscle to go home until he's come into his fist, panting, phantasmagoric images of Viktor dancing in the black spots in his vision. It's good Viktor has the head start— Jayce may very well have taken him in the hallway if he had kept his company much longer.
Perhaps we can explore them sometime.
Jayce's dreams of sometime are deliriously good.
There's a party. There are usually parties. Piltover is flush with them; Pilties love a bash. A bazaar, a gala, whatever, always someone's birthday, an anniversary, a city holiday, a wedding. Celebration is common and generous. In the social circles that Hextech catapulted the two of them into, they are nearly continuous. Jayce had peers in his Academy days who made it clear early on that they were never going to pursue a career like him, that they would never have to. That the Academy was just another phase in their lives in which they went to a different set of parties, to break the monotony of the parties they were going to before and would be going to after. Jayce never really bonded with those people, and he doesn't have many that he would still consider friends, but his blisteringly fast post-expellation climb to becoming the Golden Boy of Piltover renewed their interest in him. There's a pile of just invitations to just Piltie parties whenever the mail is brought up, and it's almost always the biggest, most gilded one.
Sometimes Jayce is tempted to close his eyes and grab a random one and go, just get stupidly drunk at some acquaintance's mansion or penthouse, make a fool and a mess of himself and leave. It's an impulse neatly quelled by the fact that he would then have to talk to said acquaintance, and clean up his own mess later.
Fortunately, one of the letters this week is Mel's. Her family's Name Day. The wonderful thing about her being the head of her own household is that her parties are infinitely less stuffy than, say, the Kirammen. No generational preferences to war; no music chosen by anyone's parents. They feel fresher than other Council parties. It's part of the reason why Jayce deigns to ask Viktor to join him.
Things have been better. Jayce's dreams have far from ceased, but they are nearing what he would hazard to call manageable. He still wakes up hard more days than not, but that's actually not that new. Jayce is a young man, after all. A younger man. He has been woefully stunted in his ability to ah, pick up, as of late, considering there are now tapestries of his face stories tall across the city, making his right hand the lion's share of his company. It hasn't helped that each open faced, parted-lipped devotee of Progress in every bar Jayce ends up in seems to be more interested in fucking his tapestries than a real person. Jayce doesn't find explaining to some merchant's daughter his proclivities particularly appealing anyway. He needs to preserve some semblance of machismo for these people to like him.
Anyway. Mel's party. Inviting Viktor.
Things with him have been better, too. They're both playing catch-up in the lab to pay for Jayce's little demonstration, but t they're playing it together, which is making the process both infinitely quicker and much more pleasant. Viktor talks to him like nothing's changed, but there's a deliberateness to it that makes Jayce well aware that he's trying to show him that things are okay, to clear out any cobwebs or dark corners of doubt that he still harbors in his mind. It's one of the greatest gestures Viktor offers him, time and again: thorough clarity. Complete understanding. It's something that has been so deeply, agonizingly important to both of them for so long that Jayce knows he's doing it on purpose. He tries to reciprocate and finds that his unbidden dreams, waking and otherwise, recede with his efforts. It makes Jayce feel a little stupid for ever thinking he could, or should want to, solve anything without Viktor. They're partners. Brothers. He's the other half of Jayce's working consciousness. It was infinitely, deliriously, endlessly stupid to think that he could ever solve anything without him.
Unfortunately, the thing being solved is Jayce's inability to control his attraction to Viktor. His attraction to Viktor has gone nowhere. Jayce wants to fuck him so badly that it makes him feel like he's vibrating with it, shaking with just how badly he needs to make him come. Jayce can look him in the eyes, now, laugh, talk seriously, but his cock still reacts to his body: he has to adjust himself in his slacks at least once a day. Viktor catches him, usually with no further acknowledgement than a fond sigh, and Jayce just blushes and turns away.
Viktor also catches Jayce staring nearly every time. Part of their reciprocal clarity is that Jayce tries not to look away immediately, tries to give something like a bashful smile or a small shrug so he knows that Jayce knows he's caught. Viktor smiles back, most of the time, offers Jayce a fond snort or a sigh. Clearly demonstrating that Viktor is both completely fine with the attention and also has no interest in Jayce acting on it in that moment. He lets his mouth flood with spit when Viktor rolls his head on his shoulders. He lets himself stare at the curve of Viktor's hip away from his crutch. He gives Jayce a knowing smirk every time.
Jayce keeps thinking about sometime. The cue is entirely Viktor's to give. Jayce doesn't know if it means that one late-night glance at his waist will lead to Viktor pulling him in, opening his plush mouth and letting Jayce take what he wants so badly over the carved stone of their workspace. Jayce doesn't know if he should be waiting for a clearly innuendo-ridden invitation to Viktor's apartment, or even some form of irony-laden invite in the mail. He has no idea at all. He keeps an eye on the mailbox anyway. Most of the time he finds himself wishing that Viktor would just kiss him and lead them to the couch in the side room, so Jayce wouldn't have to deal with the agonizing uncertainty. In the interim, his dreams take further shape.
In the one he has more than any others, they're in the lab. He imagines Viktor would make endless fun of him if he knew that Jayce's favorite wet dream was set there, but it's the setting of most of his waking hours these days anyway, so he resolves to not feel too embarrassed about it. Viktor is always half-dressed, pants down around his ankles, and Jayce is eating him out like it's the end of the fucking world. His imagination has gleefully surmised that Viktor is loud in bed, and Jayce's name groaned low in Viktor's voice echoes into his waking hours. In the dream, Jayce buries his face between Viktor's legs, spreads him open with his thumbs just enough to see the slick, pulsing wetness of his core, and sucks his cock like he's starving.
It's his favorite. He comes from it almost every night.
Jayce asks him about the party anticipating he will say no. He usually does; Viktor is not from this world. He learned when they were still in school that Viktor does not enjoy celebration made so pedestrian, so constant. He will celebrate a project milestone with the gusto of an Academy freshman, but he usually feels the city's constant merriment to be a particularly obnoxious output of bourgeois excess. But, he likes Mel, and it's been a while, so Jayce squares his shoulders and he tries.
Viktor stares at him. There's something inscrutable in his eyes, and for a moment Jayce imagines he's about to be grabbed by the back of the neck and dragged to the back room, that Viktor going to put him between his knees for good this time.
Instead, Viktor just nods.
"Ah, what the hell."
Jayce blinks. "Wait—really?"
Viktor shrugs and stands from the project he was working on, crossing the room to grab another set of miniscule hex keys from storage. "Yes, really. I like Councilor Medarda, and I haven't been to a Name Day party in years. They were never common in Piltover, but they're fewer now."
Jayce knew this. It's why he thought it might work. He just can't seem to believe that it actually did. "I know."
Viktor smiles at him, and Gods, Jayce is still so helpless. No one could ever expect him to be anything but hopelessly in love with Viktor.
"Thank you for inviting me, Jayce. I will see you tonight."
He swallows. "Actually, I was hoping I could pick you up. Eight?"
Viktor's smile turns vulpine, ever so slightly, and all of a sudden Jayce feels staggeringly warm and crushingly eager. Jayce wants him so badly. He needs him to know that Jayce can fuck him right.
"Eight it is."
Jayce's erection doesn't flag completely for the rest of the day.
Viktor's in black and gold when he slots into the opposite side of Jayce's driver's backseat. All he can think about for the entire ride to the chateau is how badly he wants to ruin Viktor's perfect hair.
The party is held in an atrium sort of building, high on a hill above the city. Guests chatter between ornately sculpted hedges and floral arrangements, backdropped by a massive sculptural fountain in the middle of the room. Mel is resplendent when they greet her, and she turns to Viktor as soon as she finishes with Jayce. It's one of the many things he appreciates about her: where some of the city has been slow to describe Viktor as his partner, she was there from the beginning. She had watched him complete the circuit. Her appreciation for him shines in her eyes as they embrace.
"С именинами, Councilor," he says to her. "It is so nice to see some traditions carried forward."
She smiles at him, radiant. "Of course, Viktor. Thank you for coming."
After that, Jayce is more or less thrown to the wolves. Everyone wants to talk to him in places like this, and where it was once a point of pride, a chance to get drunk on attention and public interest, it's now something more of a… dance. A quiet sidestepping, a few rounds on the floor, a simple pas de deux of a hello and a goodbye. Jayce has sacrificed his eagerness, but now he has grace. It streamlines the process of getting to the point where he can get drunk with his friends.
He makes it out of this one in record time, less than twenty minutes, he thinks. The people here are a bit younger, and the occasion has made them more interested in enjoying themselves than making deals. Another thing Jayce loves about a Mel Medarda Rager. He shakes his last hand and extracts himself from the throng, immediately zeroing in on a dark form leaned against the wall by the bar. Jayce can never miss him.
"Sorry, sorry, I just had to—" he starts as he approaches, the usual song and dance where he apologizes for inevitably leaving Viktor alone at these parties. Long ago Viktor had patiently explained that no, he doesn't want to be included, and no, he doesn't mind waiting for Jayce to finish playing politics. Jayce still apologizes, every time, if only to emphasize how much he prefers Viktor's company to stuffed suits. Jayce is pretty sure Viktor knows by now, but he's not going to stop doing it.
"It's alright," Viktor sighs, a warm smile dipping only to accommodate the rim of his cut crystal glass. "The bartender knows how to make fissure cocktails."
Jayce snorts. Of course, Viktor's gone off and assessed the drinking situation. His little partner. "So I should order what?"
"Just ask for an undercity sour. Two."
Jayce nods, heads off, and returns to him. His life is a magnetic loop of coming back to Viktor. He really, really likes it that way.
They drink. They talk. They laugh. Friends and associates rotate through, but Jayce's attention is always on Viktor. On the inch of flesh between his jaw and his collar, on his throat when he swallows. He looks gorgeous under the light of warm, soft-glowing floating orbs. Jayce had a particularly intoxicating dream about putting Viktor's ankles by his ears this morning, and he finds himself unashamedly imagining recreating it for everyone here to see. To demonstrate to the world the sheer devotion Jayce's body carries to his.
He doesn’t get the chance, but the night bleeds on.
Before they know it, the two of them are traipsing down the stairs of the chateau, Viktor's arm slung around Jayce's shoulder and Jayce's around his. They giggle and snort their way back to Jayce's carriage, and the way Viktor's voice bubbles out of him to vibrate so close to Jayce's chest makes him feel a singing sort of potential in his muscles. Gods, he wants to take him apart. Jayce wants to make him see stars. He wants to look into his eyes as he makes Viktor feel things he's never felt before.
Instead, Jayce slurs to his driver to take Viktor home. As they pull away from the glass dome, a turn slides his body into Jayce's. Viktor doesn't move, and he doesn't either, feeling Viktor's body unspooling against him. He's warm. Jayce is sure he feels warmer to him.
Viktor looks up at him as they glide through the streets of Piltover, streetlights flashing golden intervals across his face. Jayce looks back down.
"I love you," he says.
It feels different this time, somehow, but Jayce echoes him anyway. Jayce doesn't think there's any way to love a person that would feel out of place in his feelings for Viktor.
-
The carriage pulls to a stop outside of a tall green building. Jayce has been in Viktor's apartment before, in all of its deep reds and gem tones, but now he's mostly thinking about his own bed, of what dreams his mind has concocted out of the sensory input of the evening. His entire side where Viktor touched him still feels warmer than the rest of his body. Viktor straightens, wraps a hand around his crutch, pushes open the far door and gets out. The cool night air feels good on Jayce's face, and he swears there's a trace of Viktor's cologne blowing in behind him. The door shuts, and Jayce closes his eyes, tempted by the dreams he's practically already having.
Then, there's a quiet knock on his window. Jayce opens them.
Viktor is standing there, hand on his hip, that same warm smile curving his lips. Jayce opens the window.
"Well, are you coming?" he asks, and Jayce's mouth floods with spit. It's the kind of thing he's been dreaming of. He can't believe he's really hearing it.
"Yeah! Um. Yes." Jayce splutters, and he's out of the cab before he really knows what's happening. His driver leans out of the window, clearly wanting direction, and Jayce turns back to Viktor for an answer. He always does. Viktor nods imperceptibly.
"Go home," Jayce tells his driver, as the words sing through his blood, heating him up, plumping his cock. "Thank you. Good night, Theirry."
They're inside of the building before the carriage is out of sight.
It's not the immediate crush of bodies that part of Jayce was hoping for, but he does relax a little when Viktor doesn't so much as glance at him before calling the elevator and stepping inside. Clearly he's not interested in anything public, which, regrettably, is rather wise. Even if there wasn't enough of a scandal in the two of them drunkenly fucking in a lobby, Viktor had made it clear that he was uninterested in anyone knowing the specifics of his anatomy. Jayce could understand that. Pilties.
His apartment is as cluttered and warm as ever, deep colors and rich fabrics. It had been a slow tapestry to build, auctions and street finds and gifts slowly piling in to make for a veritable den. It's never really done, but Jayce feels a completeness as he stands in the living room, hands awkwardly in his pockets. His mouth is bone dry, tongue sticking to the roof. Jayce realizes, in a detached hilarity, that he's nervous. It's rather virginal.
Viktor, to his merit, appears only mildly amused. He turns on a few lamps as he meanders throughout the room, slowly imbuing it with the warmth Jayce knows he loves.
"You know, Jayce, I've had a very interesting few weeks," he intones, and he realizes immediately that he's been caught. Viktor wasn't just turning on lamps—he's circling Jayce, now, a slow walk with a choice few pieces of furniture between the two of them. Jayce's dick twitches. "My own partner, openly lusting after me in my own lab."
Jayce's face burns hot. He swallows. "I know."
Viktor stops to look at him, framed in between a couch and an armchair. "I can feel when you look at me, Jayce. Like a physical touch."
Jayce levels his eyes on him at that. He catches the shudder that runs down Viktor's spine. "Can you now?" Jayce counters, deliriously overjoyed that he can now say things to him.
"Like a brand," Viktor murmurs, and Jayce's feet begin to move him towards Viktor without any input from him. Viktor holds up a hand and tsks. Jayce stops dead in his tracks. "Not yet."
Jayce swallows, and nods, and does as he's told. Viktor resumes walking.
"To think, that my partner, after all these years, suddenly couldn't contain himself because he caught a seconds-long glance at my cunt."
Jayce flushes. Well, it's true.
He huffs, trying to play it off. "I've been learning a lot about myself recently."
Viktor smiles, and stops walking, again. This time, he's between Jayce and his bedroom door. Jayce feels the gravity tug at his core again.
"Come here." Viktor says, and he's inches away from him in seconds. Jayce waits there, breath comically baited, an endless ball of potential energy. He feels like Viktor has got a leash on him, something as small and innocuous as a string tied around his finger that can yank Jayce's whole body forward with as much of a twitch. He's thinking about the chemical shower. How Viktor's thighs, dotted and flecked with brown moles, had glistened under the water. How his hair had been trimmed.
"Get on your knees." Viktor has no time for Jayce's daydreams.
No matter—it's the most glorious thing Jayce ever heard. He falls to his knees unabashedly, his whole weight impacting the thick carpet. Jayce is eye level with his crotch, now, and he groans before he can stop himself. Just being this close to him, knowing what's behind a few thin layers of fabric, is enough for Jayce's cock to be straining his slacks. Viktor smiles down at him, and with one hand, slowly starts undoing his belt.
Jayce can't help it. He presses the heel of his palm to his stiff cock, hissing a breath out between his teeth. It's too much, too real, so much better and closer and hotter than anything he's ever dreamed. Watching Viktor slowly shuck a well-fitting pair of dress pants with one hand feels like the most important thing he has ever seen. His mouth is full of spit, and he only swallows once he catches himself about to start drooling.
"Pull them down," Viktor intones. Jayce obeys, and then Viktor is standing in front of him in just a pair of plain black boxers, and Jayce just can't take it anymore.
He lunges forward. Viktor makes a noise of surprise but doesn't stop him, doesn't back up an inch as Jayce buries his face in between his thighs. His tongue presses up against Viktor's cock through the thin layer and Jayce hears Viktor moan for the first time, a high pitched sound of surprise that flattens into something richer, more satisfied. Jayce groans in kind and presses in further, breathing in the smell of him, feeling a faint dampness press against his lips. Fuck, Viktor's already wet. The knowledge that this demonstration turned him on as much as Jayce makes him press harder against Viktor's cock, shove his face in closer to his core. He laves his tongue flat against what he can reach of Viktor's slit and he groans like he's been punched, a thin-fingered hand tangling in Jayce's short hair. Viktor pulls him in closer and Jayce obeys, sucking and kissing and licking his cunt through his boxers like a true fiend. If it were ever possible for Jayce to get hooked on something before ever having it, he'd call this an addiction. He suspects that, if he were ever allowed a repeat performance, the word will be only too apt.
Viktor lets Jayce make love to his underwear for longer than he would prefer, but hell, they both know it's Viktor's show, and Jayce is truly just happy to be here. He can taste, smell him ever so faintly, and he can feel the contours of Viktor's clit and hole through the thin fabric, feel the swell of his pelvis and the ridges of his lips. Jayce wouldn't call it enough, because no amount of Viktor ever is, but if he sent him home after this Jayce would still be thankful. He's halfway through something like a prayer when Viktor pulls him backwards and Jayce follows, easy as ever, happiest exactly where Viktor wants him. Jayce is so hard that the plane of muscle in his lower belly is beginning to ache.
Viktor studies him, messing his hair up just the faintest bit more, and Jayce can't help but smile up at him. He's so fucking grateful. He needs Viktor to know that. Viktor's lips purse as he looks down at Jayce, the hand in his hair coming down to cradle his Adam's apple. He swallows so Viktor can feel it. Viktor's eyes crinkle.
"Gods, Jayce, do you know what you look like?" He says, in a sort of reverent whisper. Jayce colors. He imagines it's a messy picture; spit dribbling down the column of his throat, hair wild, lips parted, palm over his groin. He shivesr at the idea of Viktor thinking he looks pathetic.
"My golden boy. So eager to please. So eager to eat my cunt."
Jayce can't help it. He moans, a rumbling sound that he's sure Viktor can feel in the vibrations of his hand on his throat. Jayce's eyelids flutter, the heady idea of eating it for real nearly a physical sensation on its own. He rocks further forward and Viktor hums, an almost-condescending sound that only makes Jayce list further towards him. He has Jayce so good. It's impossible to escape his orbit.
"Stand up, love." Viktor tells him. It takes Jayce a moment to follow accordingly, but he's eventually standing, blinking black spots from his vision, adjusting himself so that his balls aren't riding awkwardly in the front of his boxers. Viktor looks up at him, and it's immediately apparent that their height difference hasn't done a lick of damage to the cool control in Viktor's face. Jayce wants to fuck him so hard that the mere idea of control is miles away from his mind.
"Please tell me we're going to your bedroom." Jayce's voice is hoarse. Viktor smiles up at him.
"Well, yes, Jayce, unless you want to fuck me in the kitchen."
Jayce saves that thought for later and kisses him. Somewhere in his sardonic response Jayce had realized they haven't kissed yet, ever, not even once. It's a damn shame it's taken them this long—It's the most perfect anything has ever been on their first try, and probably bumps their 3% success rate up a few decimals. Viktor breathes a little gasp when Jayce first grabs him, but he melts right in after, plush mouth opening for him, and Jayce is just gone in it, the feeling of Viktor's soft tongue brushing his, the contour of his body against Jayce's front, the feeling of his arm settling around Jayce's neck. He could die here. Gods, Jayce loves him.
Viktor bites at his bottom lip and Jayce kisses him harder, forcing his tongue into his mouth, holding his jaw like he belongs to him. It's an intoxicating feeling, and the way he shivers when Jayce thumbs at the corner of his mouth makes him groan. Jayce shoves his thigh up between his legs at the same time that Viktor's hand tightens on the back of his neck and they both moan into the kiss, spit slick lips desperately chasing each other. Viktor is pressed to Jayce in every possible way and he never wants it to end.
"Bedroom." Viktor suddenly gasps, and Jayce springs into frantic motion. Viktor has never much enjoyed people moving him around, but right now Jayce doesn't care, scooping him up and carrying him through his own doorway like a new bride. His bed is the same as always, a dark void of messy sheets, and Jayce lays him out on it like he's always, always dreamed. Viktor lets him arrange his limbs, straighten his hips, untie his shoes. He watches Jayce in mild amusement as he goes about taking care of him, something Jayce is so familiar with and so grateful for that his bones ache. Jayce shimmies Viktor's pants down his legs, and after he gives Jayce one more of his minute little nods, Jayce pulls his boxers down with them.
And then he's bare.
Just for him.
And sure enough, Viktor's pussy is laid out for Jayce, a wet pink notch at the juncture of his thighs, his cock poking out from between his lips, pink and swollen. His hair is just as dark and just as trimmed. The same cluster of moles on his left thigh is still there. Jayce feels a dribble of precome absorb into his briefs.
"Well?" Viktor says, and Jayce notes with surprise that there is some worry in his voice. His knees have even drawn in towards his torso a bit, protecting his core like he's afraid Jayce might—what, not like it? He's not having that. Jayce takes Viktor's legs by the knees and gently parts them, careful with his weaker, and bends to seal his mouth perfectly into place over Viktor's pert cock.
Viktor shrieks. Jayce barely holds back a smirk, instead doubling down, sucking him further in between his lips, laving his tongue along the underside. It's a bit bigger than the clits he's seen in the past, and god, it makes his cock throb, knowing that this has been at the juncture of Viktor's legs for his entire life, that as long as Jayce has known him he's had this pretty perfect cunt sitting here just waiting for him. It makes Jayce feel crazy possessive and kind of perverted, imagining how much quicker he would have acted on his attraction to Viktor if he had known. Gods, he would have fucked him before graduation. Jayce would have fucked Viktor before he opened his mouth.
"Jayce, please," Viktor whines, and Jayce pops off his little cock, panting. Viktor's propped up against a dark mass of soft pillows, looking down at him, eyes glazed, chest heaving. Good, that's what Jayce wanted. For his composed, neatly condescending calm to dissolve. To take him apart, to show him just how good Jayce can make him feel. He's rutting his dick down into the mattress over it. Jayce needs to be inside him with a fury that could fire up a Hexgate.
"Sorry," Jayce whispesrs, his voice only further shredded. "I got carried away. It's just—"
"You really love pussy, hm?" Viktor teases. Jayce snorts.
"Not to be too sentimental, Viktor, but it's just your pussy. It's—you have a pussy. You have to understand."
Viktor snorts right back. "Seems like I don't need to understand. You doing alright down there?"
Jayce glances down, even though he can't see anything past the point where his chest joins the comforter. He can feel his dick aching, though, pumping pre into his underwear at a frankly petulant pace. He rocks into the comforter in response, looking up at Viktor with an expression that is hopefully just desperate enough for him to understand that Jayce really can't take it that much longer. He's vaguely concerned that he might nut as soon as his head touches Viktor's lips, and Jayce can't have that.
"Viktor." He intones. "Please. Please let me fuck you."
Viktor hums. From his place above Jayce, posed so elegantly in recline, he looks sort of royal. Jayce has never been more of a supplicant.
"I don't know, I like hearing how badly you want it," he sighs, his voice musical, toying. "Ask nicely."
Jayce moans as his hips grind forward, unbidden. "Viktor, Viktor, Viktor," he chants, breathless, needy. "Fuck, Viktor, please let me put my cock inside you, it's all I can think about, Viktor, fuck, your cunt, I need to be inside you. I need to fuck you til you bleed." Every word of it is gospel. Jayce watches his face flush and then drain of color at the end of his little tirade, chapped lips parted, chest heaving. Jayce watches a little dribble of slick pulse out of Viktor's hole. His dick throbs in kind.
"Please." he breathes. The room is completely silent.
After a moment that feels like it stretches into infinity, Viktor, who looks just as caught as Jayce imagined he did in the living room, gives him one of his tiny little nods. It's the best gift Viktor's ever given him.
"Yes, yeah, okay," he breathes, but Jayce is already moving, shucking his clothes in record time, bullying himself up between Viktor's legs. His bare cock lands against the facet of Viktor's cunt for the first time and they both groan, visceral, the animal of their bodies feeling something entirely right for the very first time. Jayce can't hold himself back from experimentally rutting against his cunt once, twice, just feeling the sticky sweet drag of him against the underside of his cock. It's electrifying, a powered but incomplete circuit, an endless potential with a clear single motion to finish it. Jayce needs to slam home against Viktor's cervix like it'll save him. He needs it so badly that he isn't actually sure he would survive if Viktor denied him now.
Jayce looks down at him, for any sign, any signal that Viktor doesn't want this. At the slightest hint Jayce would climb right back off of him, bury his face back between Viktor's thighs, kiss him until the sun comes up, anything. Anything he wants, forever. It's what Jayce has lived for since he met him.
Instead, Viktor smiles, all teeth, all fox. "Are you going to fuck my cunt or not, Talis?" he taunts, and fuck it, he's the one who opened the floodgates. He asked for it. Jayce is going to take what he wants.
He pulls back the barest inch to notch against Viktor's hole and feed the head in, watching Viktor tense, anticipating it. Good. He should be fucking bracing.
Jayce slams his cock inside him with the force of weeks of desperate pining, backed by years on years of thrumming lust. Viktor's mouth falls open and his eyes go sightless, his shoulders rigid in the pillows, his cunt fluttering around the intrusion. Jayce has to stop and grit his teeth to stop from coming right there, shooting a fat load into Viktor at just the wrong time. He needs to take Viktor apart before he can take his own pleasure. After a few breaths through his teeth to compose himself, Jayce rocks up into him experimentally. That gets him: Viktor moans, low and drawn out, and one of his hands comes up to clutch at the fabric by his ear. His grip tightens as Jayce pulls out and pushes back in, ever so slow. Viktor is tighter and hotter and slicker than his imagination could have ever conjured. His cunt clings and drags against Jayce, an endless wet grind that's so dirty he can barely take it.
"Fuck," Viktor breathes. Jayce snaps to attention.
"How does it feel?" He asks, before he can stop himself. At least Jayce didn't ask him if he was okay; that would have been a real faux pas. Instead, Viktor's eyes flutter shut as a faint furrow between his brow forms. He pulses around Jayce's cock. He's checking, Jayce realizes. Fondness and arousal curl tight in his chest. Gods, he loves this little freak.
"Full," Viktor mumbles after a moment, opening his glossy, honey-golden eyes to look at him. "Mm, stretched. An inexorable presence."
Jayce snorts, even as his cock twitches inside of Viktor. As silly as academic language should be in the bedroom, he likes Viktor's wording. Inexorable. He cants his hips forward just to emphasize his newfound inexorability. Viktor grunts.
"You feel so tight around me," Jayce tells him, because fair's fair. Viktor exhales a quiet moan, a slender hand reaching down to brush over his clit. "So hot. So slick, baby, fucking perfect for me." Viktor whines, and Jayce fucks up into him hard, just to see.
Viktor takes it fucking beautifully, the prettiest thing Jayce has ever seen writhing as his cock thuds against the very deepest part of him. He does it again, and again, until he's setting a punishing rhythm, slamming the head of his cock into the back of Viktor's cunt. He squeals as Jayce sets pace, holding his legs apart with both of his hands. Jayce catches Viktor looking at them and follow his gaze. He's right: Jayce's big, tan hand wrapped around the milky sensitive flesh of his inner thigh is a sight to behold. Jayce grips Viktor a little tighter and both of them make a sound at the sight of his fingers pressing indents into Viktor's flesh. Viktor whines louder and tilts his head back, and he image of his neck covered in Jayce's bites and bruises flashes so bright in his mind that he practically lunges forward, abandoning Viktor's legs to brace himself over his chest, fucking up into Viktor so deep his balls slap on his ass at the same time Jayce sinks his teeth into his neck.
Viktor comes, screaming, on his cock. Jayce feels it more than sees it, face buried in the joint of Viktor's neck, but the rhythmic seizing of the muscles in his pussy and the filthy, bitten-off noises he's making are enough to clue him in. Jayce fucks him through it, tight and hot and hard, and it's only when Viktor starts pawing at his shoulders does he slow down even a little.
"Jayce," Viktor whines, and Jayce is on him again, kissing all over his face and neck like he's a holy statue. His hips stutter forward as they kiss. "Fuck, Viktor," he groans, feeling one of Viktor's hands come up to cup his jaw. "So fucking perfect for me. Just like that, love." Jayce smooths Viktor's hair away from his forehead as he feels his breathing start to even. "Was that good?" he asks, unable to stop himself, breaking character just to make sure Viktor's not, like, mad at him. The last thing he wants is to make Viktor feel bad.
Instead, Viktor uses the hand on Jayce's cheek to direct their gazes to level. His eyes are glazed over, pink lips still parted. He looks well fucked. Jayce feels quite proud of himself.
"Yes," Viktor breathes, and Jayce feels his cunt weakly clench down around him. A blurt of slick dribbles out of him and onto his balls. He needs to pump a fucking load into this man. "Yes, Jayce, Gods, I can't—" Viktor starts, but—
"Please," Jayce grits, because hey, he doesn't know if Viktor has any interest in being fucked after coming. He wishes he could tack something on to signal any kind of nonchalance, hey, no pressure, or something, but fuck it, he needs to come in him. Jayce has no interest in being casual. "Viktor, please, I need to come, please let me keep fucking you. Please."
Jayce keeps looking Viktor in the eyes. Persuasion, or something. Viktor lets out a little noise and Jayce is suddenly overcome with the feeling that this is what all his years of work have been for, bar Hextech, bar anything. This is his prize. This is complete understanding.
"Take what you need, Jayce," Viktor murmurs, and Jayce is pulling out and slamming back into him with a sound so guttural it's almost nonhuman. Viktor keens, but Jayce is chasing his own white rabbit now, and he doesn't stop for a second, fucking into Viktor with every ounce of strength in his admittedly formidable body. He looks down at the point where the two of them are joined, his cock inside Viktor's cunt, Viktor's come oozing out around him. Jayce ruts his hips up into him once, twice, three times, and comes, finally, his cock pulsing thick ropes of hot cum into Viktor's tight pussy. It feels like Jayce's body is falling out of itself, expanding endlessly into the glittering expanse of the night sky, fireworks are exploding behind his eyes. It's a big fucking load, his dick still spitting out spend by the time he starts to get his brain back inside his skull. Jayce's hips shudder to a stop with the last few spurts. Viktor is a whimpering, panting mess below him, slender hands gripping Jayce's biceps, and Jayce has never loved more, felt more, wanted more for another living being in his life. Viktor is going to be everything for him forever. There's no way around it. This is his life's work.
Jayce doesn't want to pull out, but he can't rest his weight on Viktor and they're both starting to get a bit tacky around the edges, so he carefully extracts his cock from Viktor one last time. A dribble of white follows him, then a bit more, and then, Gods, he's watching his own load drip out of his partner's cunt. Viktor must be able to feel it too, because he groans, reaches down and spreads himself, teasing a finger through the mess. Trancelike, Jayce lifts his own hand and uses two fingers to gently prod the mixture back inside of him. Jayce's dick seems interested in enacting his oft-revisited dream of fucking it back in deeper, but one glance at the clock and Viktor's drooping eyelids puts a pin in those plans. Later. Jayce has time, luxurious, endless, perfect time. All for him.
He crawls up beside him and gathers him in his arms, spooning Viktor from behind like Jayce always imagined they'd fit together best. His ass wiggles in against Jayce's dick and he drapes his hand over his skinny hip to still him. Viktor huffs, but he doesn't move again, and he lets Jayce arrange him exactly as he likes, one arm just under the crook of his neck and the other draped over his narrow waist. Their legs tangle as Jayce pulls a heavy, dark blanket over the two of them, the warmth of Viktor's body and the dull thrum in his abs pulling him closer to him, deeper into sleep.
Jayce tightens his arm around Viktor's waist. "I loved that," he slurs, lips pressed to the fine hair at the base of Viktor's neck. Almost on instinct, the hand dangling over his belly slides down to cup over his mound. It's a perfectly chaste hold, but Jayce feels the heat of him behind his fingers anyway. He shudders. Jayce smiles to himself. "I love your cunt."
Viktor laughs, a sleepy, tinkling sound. "I loved it too, Jayce," he sighs, settling deeper and, Jayce is almost certain, pressing his pussy the slightest bit harder against his palm. "And I think you are very special about that other thing."
"That other thing?" Jayce laughs, but they’re both so damn tired. Viktor shrugs in his hold.
"I love you, too," Jayce mumbles as his eyelids finally become too determined to close. "More n' all the other stuff."
He stays awake just long enough to hear Viktor's response.
"I love you too, Jayce."
Jayce falls asleep with his hand cupped over Viktor, and when he wakes up, Viktor is already grinding against it, moaning his name in a pitch too heady for Jayce to do anything but move.
Notes:
С именинами is the Russian way to say Happy Name Day. I thought it would be nice for Viktor and Mel to have some cultural crossover.
Thank you for reading. Please do leave a comment if you enjoyed, or if you found a spelling error. Or both.
I would love to spend more of my life talking about this ship. Feel free to link me discord servers or drop socials. <3 thanks
Chapter Text
The first time you see him naked is in a chemical shower.
Ironically—and unfortunately, you rue later—at the time, his nakedness is not the feature of the moment. You would consider that honor split between the smoldering pile of clothes next to his narrow ankles and the shattered vial of compressed battery acid in hissing pieces on the floor nearby. In fact, you don't even get to watch him undress, your task in this disaster to lunge for the base neutralizer and summon clouds of smoke and foam to prevent the acid from eating down through the solid steel floor to the next floor of the Academy.
The only reason you don't run straight to him is because you can see him moving and hear him cursing, shucking his clothes and abandoning his crutch, the vacant hiss of atomized carbon raining down on him the same thing you're now spraying onto his clothes. His clothes, you note in relief, which do not feature much eroded fabric or any large splotches that would have immediately made it to skin. You were worried about that. A gentle misting would cause small burns. Any large splash could eat through bone.
Nonetheless, you find yourself grateful that you have long since learned to school your ongoing, near-perpetual concern for Viktor into an exclusively internal dialogue. He would not appreciate the paper and butterfly-wing analogy spinning around in your mind now as you think of his skin, pale and thin, eaten through with sickly green acid. You have never thought of him as weak, but it would be a lie to insinuate you never considered him fragile.
Of course, he has berated that out of you. Or, rather, into you, where it rears its head in tandem with your—at least you think—other, more relevant concerns for him.
The smoke is dissipating. Other than the lingering stench of burnt fiber and the fumes of the neutralizer, the air seems to be clearing. You drop the canister and turn to him, words already spilling from your mouth.
"Viktor, what in the name of—"
The words die on your lips.
Framed by steam in a way that feels alarmingly reminiscent of murals you've seen in bathhouses, Viktor is standing under the water, wafts of brown hair wet and sticking to his neck, his ears, his forehead. The slick angled jut of his high shoulder gleams under the spray.
You can't help but take him in. Just for injuries, you think. To be fair, the image of fair skin eaten away to velvet deep muscle and ivory bone hasn't quite left your mind. You force your eyes down from the curve of his jaw to the plane of his chest, pain swelling below your breastbone as you trace the burgeoning, puffy redness of a dripping chemical burn from his collarbone, down further to his belly, and—Well.
You stop short at the same time he says your name. Your mouth has gone dry and you still can't quite hear right, the pitched hissing of the neutralizer lingering as a muted ringing. Or maybe that's new, or maybe you hit your head, or maybe you've died, because between Viktor's freckled thighs, hidden under a trimmed thatch of dark hair, is a cunt.
A few things happen at once. Your spine stiffens and you immediately whirl in an about-face, already feeling a humiliating burn racing up from your jawline to your hairline, carving scorching paths through your skin cells. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck! You would never—never—have expected this situation, this—visual, ever in your life. Not of Viktor, who had always seemed—normal, you catch yourself thinking. Sour distaste with your own worded impulse turns your tongue. You've known him for years: he has never approached normal. It's the golden thread through everything you love about him. Viktor transcends normalcy.
And, yet: even as a voice threads through the ringing, even as the room finally begins to clear completely, it's the only thing you can think of. The sloping of his hipbones, the faint swell of his—
"-ayce. Jayce." and of course he sounds annoyed. Your back is still to him. You clear your throat and smile, shrug, try and imbue some sense-ness into your physicality, bouncing on the balls of your feet and answering with a pitched, thready "hmmmm?"
"A towel. Please."
Of course. He's dripping wet and you're as-yet untouched with your full range of motion and access to the attached bathroom. You reactivate your limbs and stomp towards the cupboard, roughly collecting a navy bundle to carry back to your partner. He's watching you, so you school your vision to remain at shoulder level. He's watching you too hawkishly, though, and locks you in an awkward amount of eye contact as you finally finish picking your way across the detritus to him. He takes the towel from you and wraps it around his waist. You mournfully begin to chirp something about his upper half still being soaked, but shame weighs in your limbs as soon as you realize he's done it for modesty. Despite your initial shock, you realize your reaction likely did not make Viktor feel particularly comfortable.
"Sorry," you say immediately, compulsively. "Viktor. I'm sorry. I didn't mean---"
"It's alright," he replies, a false levity in his voice. He sounds pained, actually; not uncommon for him, but it does relight the part of your brain that had been thinking of his burns. "You didn't do anything wrong. Just an accident."
As difficult as you find it to believe, the simple act of Viktor speaking soothing words to you is enough to ease some of the tightness in your chest. You bend to pick up his crutch, tacitly keeping your eyes on the floor. "Here. Can you walk?" You ask hoarsely. He studies your face, eyes unreadable, and nods. You echo, and he limps out of your sightline.
He lands on a lab stool as soon as you finally locate the first aid kit, rushing back over to him as he takes a deep, gulping breath of air away from the stink of chemicals. The burn cream is in a small, utilitarian pot, and you get all the way though unscrewing it, scooping up a healthy glob of the paste, and reaching for him before you freeze.
Touching Viktor has never felt like a thing that required any sort of permission before. The contour of his nude body flashes in your mind.
"Can I, uh." you swallow. "Touch you? Viktor?"
He sighs. Sometimes Viktor's exhales just sound like sighs, heaved breaths shuddering through his beleaguered body, but you can always tell when they're intentional. When he puts, though he would never admit it, the faintest hint of the theatrical behind them.
"Yes." he groans, voice still tight with pain. You need no recourse, and the full-body shudder that runs through his limbs when you first touch the cream to his burns is enough of an encouragement for you to keep going.
At first, as you work, the only sound he seems capable of producing are hisses, winces, groans through his teeth. You have been burned plenty, probably more than him with your time in the Forge. You know how the pain persists, individual cells marking the end of their microscopic lives in a seemingly endless waterfall of sensory feedback. You hate that you can't take it from him.
Nonetheless, the burn cream is undoubtedly top of the line. By the time you've made it past his diaphragm, the furthest reaching splashes on his collarbones are paler, soothed. The rise and fall of his chest has evened out. You dump endless blessings on modern medicine with every half-second added between his breaths.
You reach the bulk of the splash on his belly and freeze.
The image of his body, momentarily dismissed by virtues of action and anxiety, is helpfully immediately plastered on every television in the hapless sports bar of your mind.
Mournfully, you note that the draping of the towel around his groin does nothing but confirm your initial vision. No cock to speak of to bulge the fabric, just a navy blue cascade over and down his inner thighs. You suspected he knew from the beginning, but this time, you feel him catch you, and your face goes red again.
"I--" you start, with absolutely no idea how you would continue, or Gods forbid, end that sentence. He sighs, and again you immediately identify it to be true.
"I imagine that came as quite a shock for you." he says. You feel masses of tension begin to bleed from your body, your jaw loosening to pour out explanations, apologies, pleas. "I am sorry."
You blink. What?
"No, Viktor, don't—don't apologize." You reply, bewildered. "I'm sorry. I looked when I shouldn't have. I violated your privacy."
You look up at his face. His mouth is set in a grim line, arms crossed over the soothed burns, and you note with surprise that his fingers are tapping against his own bicep in a rapidly descending order. It's one of his most famous nervous habits. Spider hands, you'd called it, before you realized he only permitted the moniker—not enjoyed it. Why would he be nervous? You have performed all of the transgressions of this situation with an efficacy that could almost be commended. Even now, you're kneeled between his legs. You awkwardly shuffle backwards.
"What, were you supposed to avert your eyes while I sprayed acid all over our lab?" Viktor says bitterly. "I made a mistake. Look; there's no way the actuator survived that spill." You accommodate him with a glance over your shoulder. A lump of cooling metal is enough to tell you that particular project likely won't make your quarterly review.
You don't care. You turn back to him.
"It's okay," you try to soothe, but your platitudes merely serve to deepen his frown. "It's just a project. We have all our schematics, all the resources. It'll take less than a day to rebuild."
"Twelve hours, if we don't have to force any of the joints again." Gods, you hate when he sounds like this. It's like every word is directed to ricochet back into his own face. "God damn it."
Despite yourself, your hand comes to rest on his good knee. He jumps. You jerk it back like you've been burned—stupid, to think you could be allowed to offer him any sort of physical comfort. He barely tolerates you touching him when you haven't just seen him nude. You curse yourself silently. "Viktor, it's not your fault. We'll get past it." you try. His face is still pinched, but at least he turns to look at you, instead of staring down the burnt actuator. You vacantly realize you never finished with his burns. "Can I?" you ask, holding up the pot. Weary, he nods.
You begin to paint the cream down the rest of the burn, noting with satisfaction that the tapping of his fingers begins to slow. The silence of the lab feels massive, stretching the distance between you to fathoms. Not that you'd ever had cause to drag your fingers down his torso, but under any circumstance this close to Viktor you usually can't shut your mouth. You love to talk to him.
Fuck, you can't stop thinking about his cunt.
"Jayce, I should not have to say it, but…" he starts, trailing off as your eyes meet again. You nod before he finishes. He does anyway. "No one can know about this. Please."
"Of course not." You're not stupid enough to think he's talking about the acid spillage. They'll likely need minor structural repairwork on the floor anyways, no way to hide that. "Viktor, I would never. I mean that."
He levels his eyes—golden, so, golden—with yours. You can't help but sink.
"Thank you, Jayce."
You swallow, and nod. "It'll stay between us."
You can't stop thinking about it.
Whatever you could first chalk up to shock or shame has long since dissipated. It's been weeks and you cannot stop thinking about Viktor's cunt.
You dream about him. You always have, and you aren't even new to it in this particular capacity. However, where your previous had been speculative, hazy; filled with approximations and assumptions, they have sharpened into despairing clarity. You wake up with dried flakes of precome in the hair on your lower belly. You wake up so hard that the tendons of your inner thighs are already sore from strain. You come in your sleep pants from a dream where Viktor, eyes shining, just opens his legs for you.
It's bad. It's so fucking bad. You're keeping shoddy hours at the lab, coming in late and leaving early. It's showing in the work, the parts of the projects where your aptitudes and expertise take over from Viktor's falling woefully behind. Parts lay unassembled on your workbench. In meetings, you zone out and provide clearly unsatisfactory answers. Despite the frowns, the disgruntled and concerned looks from the lab techs, the only thing you can think about is him.
It's an uncomfortable and almost rather virginal feeling, to be just so into something so grossly unexplored in your own sexual exploits. You have always liked women; always favored men. You have expressed your favor with gusto. You have never, in all of your expressions, seen anything like Viktor.
You had long recognized your attraction to him, from the very early days, even. He had been gorgeous, slender, dark and pale, something foreign and alluring. However, it had been his mind that had transformed your attraction into something more lasting. He had dragged you into a world you never could have imagined, just on the basis of his intellect. He had taken your stolen toys, your broken spirit, and given you enough of a kick in the ass to actually make something of yourself.
He saved your life, is the truth of it. You could never have expected it, but you loved him for it. Your more base instincts truly, madly deeply wanted to fuck him for it.
Those instincts have been alarmingly close to the surface as of late.
You play the game for as long as you can. At first you try to keep the opposite of Viktor's hours: The logic is sound enough—equal work, just offered at different times. However, you quickly discover that Viktor's hours are both so numerous and so varied that there really isn't a true 'opposite' that isn't just staying home. Admittedly, you were being a bit of an optimist with this particular tactic—you'd spent multiple continuous days in the lab with him before, missed scores of sunsets and seen twice as many sunrises. The work could consume you both. It was one of the most potent parts of your relationship, one of the things that drew you so close you could feel your heart beating in time with his.
So anyway. No dice.
The next effort is a bit more orchestrated: You make sure you're never alone with him. It requires keeping scrapingly corporate time, considering you don't pay or allow techs to stay outside of the building's public hours, but the wonderful thing about techs is that they are many, and they are eager. There's always some intern with big dreams and a recent thesis that wants to jabber your ear off about their research; always some managing tech that has woes with the I's and II's that they want you to fix. They're perhaps a little bewildered at your sudden willingness to be perpetually disturbed, but hell, you're Jayce Talis. They're going to take the opportunity. It even tunes you in on some of the lab gossip, which is as asinine as ever, but truthfully luxuriously distracting from your own preoccupations.
Of course, this solution leaves you unprotected from actually seeing him.
Your projects can get pretty big. The lab is functionally one open space, with only rooms that are small out of necessity—hermeneutics, x-ray, zero-g—relegated to doorways along the walls. He's in and out of those more than you are, but for large parts of the day, you're both functionally in one large room together. It's fucking torture: You immediately look away as soon as he turns to face you. You stop talking when he walks past you. Sometimes you'll have to physically re-orient yourself at your workspace when he sits in your line of sight. You are well aware that, if you were to be judged by actions alone, you are being kind of a douchebag.
Still, it's better than the alternative. The dreams haven't stopped, have only deepened, become more detailed. Even if the original image didn't cut across your mind every time you saw him, harboring your mind's own blisteringly horny fabrications would be enough to avert your eyes. Waking up from a dream of being nose deep in his cunt just to stroll in to see him bent over a diagram is only made barely tolerable by a combination of constant distraction and tacit ignoring. You are being such an asshole.
And he notices. Of course he does, you knew he would. He's just too smart for you; always has been. As early as a few days in do his glances turn cautious, worried, confused. He tries to get your attention and you don’t hear him, change the topic, make up an excuse to walk away. He starts normal, necessary, project-oriented conversations and you shut him out. Every time. The thought of him on his knees is pervasive enough to make even the most utilitarian exchanges impossible.
This, of course, makes Viktor angry. You honestly prefer it to the worry, because really, he should be angry with you. The worry was agony, watching him wonder if he had done something wrong, if there was some unseen transgression you were holding against him. At least once he's angry at you there's no question about culpability. It gives you a nice little boost in your own perpetual self-flagellation, too. You always feel small and stupid when Viktor's mad at you. It does a lot of the heavy lifting.
In the end, you hold out for just shy of a month. Longer than you expected.
You were in later than you meant to be. Sleeping in to prolong a dream about fucking his mouth with a major deadline approaching means that, no matter how many techs start to pack up and go home, no matter how many stayed a little late just to chat it up with the Man of Progress, you are eventually left alone in the lab. It's harrowing for a few minutes, before you begin to believe that Viktor may actually have gone home in time. It's rare, but he's done it before. You're actually a little excited for some alone time in the lab. It's been weeks since you had any time to really melt into the work, to let it carry you away, to follow the currents, the contours, until—
"What the fuck is going on with you."
Click. Lock. Griiiind.
Your heart sinks into your fucking stomach. Between the emotion in his voice and the unmistakable sound of the two-way lock grinding into place, you're already thinking about bending him over the workbench and making him cry. After all your efforts, you're locked alone in your lab in the middle of the night with Viktor. It almost makes you want to cry. After all your hard work, you're going to tell him everything and he's never going to speak to you again.
"Jayce, it is one thing to have a personal issue with me, but it is impacting the work." His voice is tight with fury. You let him have it. "Weeks of this! I-I mean, avoiding me, that is one thing, but bringing hordes of techs into the lab to—to shield yourself from me? It has been impossible to think over the noise!"
Your heart drops even lower. To your toes, maybe. You hadn't even considered that. God, the noise level in the lab must be twice as high as normal. There's a tech that laughs compulsively, loudly, who is very much in the "seeking investors" phase of his career. Viktor has always impressed to you how valuable silence is in his process. Forget your troubles; Viktor hasn’t been able to think in a month.
You drag a hand down your face. You are suuuuch an asshole.
"Viktor, I'm sorry," you start, but he isn't done.
"I traced it back, you know." He's so mad his shoulders are heaving with the effort. He grits his teeth and continues, right as you realize exactly what he traced "it" back to.
"Jayce, I thought I didn't have to ask for your confidence, but I never believed I would have to ask you for your understanding."
Oh. Nausea actually swells in your throat at that. Of all of the considerations you imagined he had made as to the reason for your disposition, this one had never occurred to you. He's still talking. You consider just how hard you would have to hit your head on the edge of the table to knock yourself out.
"I thought there was more here. Clearly I am wrong." The anger has drained from his voice. You hate hearing him tired more than anything. "That such a thing would matter to you at all."
Your tongue has swollen to fill your entire mouth. There are so many words that there are none, your heart and your mind racing as your body sits frozen. Viktor looks exhausted, but god, he's as magnetic as the day you met him. As badly as you want to spill your guts to him, tell him everything, you're paralyzed. He's beautiful. You love him. You're half hard.
He sighs, silence taking over the lab for an agonizing second.
"There's no way you ever believed I wouldn't notice." Viktor says. His voice is quiet, sad, resigned. "So I thought, what could he be doing but prolonging it. Just to make me suffer."
Your head hangs low, a dead weight at the end of your neck. The pain in your chest from offering Viktor no protest is only surmounted by the bowling ball of shame in your stomach. You realize, with startling clarity, that you have never struggled with telling Viktor the truth before.
You also haven't answered him. He's standing, arms crossed, at the far end of the lab, and you know from that expression that you aren't getting out of this with your mouth shut.
"Well." He says, tight. "Explain yourself."
You sigh, pinch your temples, and begin to speak.
"You're right." you tell him. You watch him begin to process that, a whopping amount of grief the first thing you see in his eyes, but you barrel forward. "It did start with the acid. It was about you." He scoffs. You take a breath.
"I haven't been able to get you out of my head," you groan, one hand to your temple. "It's alI dream about. Fuck, I'm so sorry. I couldn't just—carry on, see you so often. And alone? Fuck, Viktor, you have no idea. All I can think about is your cunt."
The words ring out. You hazard a glance at him.
"Uh—Can I call it that?" You backpedal. He nods nearly imperceptibly.
Viktor's eyes are wide, burnished gold, framed in thick lashes and dark smudged bruises. He's still in his work clothes, possibly from the day before—they're certainly wrinkled enough. His crutch gleams by his side. He's stock still. You don't think you've ever seen him more in shock.
"God, I've never been this bad about anyone before, I promise," you stress, splaying your hands out in the air in front of you. Even with how plainly inexcusable your actions clearly are, you at least don't want him to think you're some lifelong pervert. "I promise I'm not a creep. I don't know why. It's just you."
You close your eyes, imagining the response Viktor must be weaving as the threads of a noose tightening around your neck. You don't have a clue what your career, hell, your life will even look like without him. It feels impossibly bleak.
"I don't understand." You take the words like a champ. He could say whatever he wanted to you now and you'd take it, just grateful for any last words you get to hear in his voice. "You did all this because you are… attracted to me?"
Face burning, you nod miserably. "I'm sorry. I know you're not an object, Gods, Viktor, you know I love you, that I respect you, but I—I just can't get your body out of my head. I'm having dreams, Viktor, I- I can't get them to stop. It won't stop." You note with surprise that your own voice is trembling. In retrospect, this has really fucking sucked. You've been very, very lonely without him.
There's another pause, but a shorter one.
"Let me get this straight." You nod, straightening, a willing subject. He's not yet begun to be as cruel as you anticipate, so you take the chance to savor as much of his attention as you can before it sours. "You put our lab six weeks behind schedule because you are overwhelmingly attracted to—" he glances down, deadpan, and your dick traitorously twitches—"—My vagina."
Viktor has always managed to make the big picture seem rather simple. You are absolutely certain you are bright red. "Um. Well—"
"And you were afraid of what?" He asks, in that softly bewildered tone he reserves only for you, borne of his impossibly fathomless faith that any conflict between the two of you is only a matter of misunderstanding. You can't believe you're hearing it now. "That I would feel objectified?"
You nod. And, just for good measure: "I'm so sorry."
Viktor hums. Your heart aches when you look at him. The dream you had last night of fucking your cum back inside of him flashes unbidden across your mind.
"I have to admit, this is not the… condition I expected." he says. You nod.
"I'll, uh. God, I wouldn't know how to split the lab. I'll talk to the academy about finding me a new space." You are at least a little proud of the resolve in your voice. "You can have everything here. I'll, uh, get one of the techs to collect my notes."
He blinks. Gods, you've never stopped loving his eyes. "What are you talking about?"
You blink right back. "Uh, I'm leaving. I can't imagine you still want me around your lab, knowing that I. Uh. This."
Viktor looks unbelievably confused. "Jayce, I don't want you to leave the lab."
That brings you up short. After everything—his muted reaction, his grace—you still didn't expect this degree of amnesty. "You'll—you're letting me stay?"
"Letting you stay?" If you weren't in such shock, you would almost detect a tinge of good humor to his voice. "Jayce, it's your lab. It's our lab. I would never take that away from you over something like this."
"Something like this?!" You rear your head, practically. "Viktor, this is inexcusable. The things I've thought, the things I-I've—"
"You seem to be making much of this." Viktor interrupts you, tone light. "Jayce, please listen to me."
You force yourself to shut your mouth. Always, for what he has to say.
"I am not angry with you. I will admit I am bewildered by the way you have gone about telling me, but I believe the foundation of this problem is that you are attracted to me and have struggled with processing that."
You almost want to cry, again. Viktor in his endlessly forgiving nature is still trying to make you feel better.
"Viktor, I don't need to process that. Your body is yours, and it requires no explanation. I have been attracted to you for a very long time—years. Before I knew, ever." That seems to hit him harder, a flush coloring his cheeks. You belatedly realize you've revealed something rather larger, but what the hell. You never want him to think you're ashamed of exactly how you feel about him. "I've wanted you from the moment I laid eyes on you. I just—I'm sorry. There's no way to explain it."
"So it really is my cunt." Viktor muses. "But it also isn't. Interesting."
And, he starts walking over to you. It's beyond the pale. Your hands start to shake. The dry metallic scrape and thunk of his crutch is a sound so deeply loved in your memory that your heart hurts.
"Jayce, you are a curious man," he sighs, and you sit up straighter, if only to greaten the space between your bodies. "You are so careful with me. So anxious for me to feel your respect."
"Of course." You breathe. "I love you. I think you're a genius. You have to know that."
He nods. "I do. And I love you. And you know that."
Some weeks-old knot in your chest loosens entirely. You hadn’t realized just how heavy the weight of losing him so completely had weighed on your shoulders. An exhale like a sob of relief shudders out of your chest.
"Yeah." you breathe.
"I think it is now too late for us to discuss much further." You nod, relieved, infinitely relieved at both the idea of talking to him again and some sleep. "But Jayce, I want you to know. This changes nothing. We will be okay. We are okay."
You nod, small.
Viktor presses his hand to the wall. You hear the clickclickGriiiind of the lock. The door swings open behind him, and he begins to walk towards it. You watch the light slide down the heels of his shoes.
"For the record, Jayce," he says, standing just at the rim of warmth from the lamp at your elbow. "I am flattered. And it is nice to know that my own rather… long-standing attractions are reciprocated."
You blink. Oh, Gods. You feel a spiritual lock unclick around the sheer possibility.
"Perhaps we can explore those sometime," Viktor says, and suddenly all you want is to be at home, asleep, rutting into your sheets over slick, plush, visceral dreams. More than that, though, you want the real thing. Knowing you can have it is an exhilaratingly new kind of drug.
"Yeah." You croak. "Please. Viktor, I—"
"Goodnight, Jayce," he hums. "Sleep well."
The door is barely shut behind him before you're reaching into your pants, palming your cock in a desperate attempt to relieve some of the unrelenting pressure that had been building since Viktor's speech. You don't move a muscle to go home until you've come into your fist, panting, phantasmagoric images of him dancing in the black spots in your vision. It's good he has the head start— you may very well have taken him in the hallway if you had kept his company much longer.
Perhaps we can explore them sometime.
Your dreams of sometime are deliriously good.
There's a party. There are usually parties. Piltover is flush with them; Pilties love a bash. A bazaar, a gala, whatever, always someone's birthday, an anniversary, a city holiday, a wedding. Celebration is common and generous. In the social circles that Hextech catapulted the two of you into, they are nearly continuous. You had peers in your Academy days that made it clear early on that they were never going to pursue a career like you, that they would never have to. That the Academy was just another phase in their lives in which they went to a different set of parties, to break the monotony of the parties they were going to before and would be going to after. You never really bonded with those people, and you don't have many that you would still consider friends, but your blisteringly fast post-expellation climb to becoming the Golden Boy of Piltover renewed their interest in you. There's a pile of just invitations to just Piltie parties whenever your mail is brought up, and it's almost always the biggest, most gilded one.
Sometimes you're tempted to close your eyes and grab a random one and go, just get stupidly drunk at some acquaintance's mansion or penthouse, make a fool and a mess of yourself and leave. It's an impulse neatly quelled by the fact that you would then have to talk to said acquaintance, and clean up your own mess later.
Fortunately, one of the letters this week is Mel's. Her family's Name Day. The wonderful thing about her being the head of her own household is that her parties are infinitely less stuffy than, say, the Kirammen. No generational preferences to war; no music chosen by anyone's parents. They feel fresher than other Council parties. It's part of the reason why you deign to ask Viktor to join you.
Things have been better. Your dreams have far from ceased, but they are nearing what you would hazard to call manageable. You still wake up hard more days than not, but that's actually not that new. You are a young man, after all. A younger man. You have been woefully stunted in your ability to ah, pick up, as of late, considering there are now tapestries of your face stories tall across the city, making your right hand the lion's share of your company. It hasn't helped that each open faced, parted-lipped devotee of Progress in every bar you end up in seems to be more interested in fucking your tapestries than a real person. You don't find explaining to some merchant's daughter your proclivities particularly appealing anyway. You need to preserve some semblance of machismo for these people to like you.
Anyway. Mel's party. Inviting Viktor.
Things with him have been better, too. You're both playing catch-up in the lab to pay for your demonstration, but you're playing it together, which is making the process both infinitely quicker and much more pleasant. He talks to you like nothing's changed, but there's a deliberateness to it that makes you well aware that he's trying to show you that things are okay, to clear out any cobwebs or dark corners of doubt that you still harbor in your mind. It's one of the greatest gestures he offers you, time and again: thorough clarity. Complete understanding. It's something that has been so deeply, agonizingly important to both of you for so long that you know he's doing it on purpose. You try to reciprocate and you find that your unbidden dreams, waking and otherwise, recede with your efforts. It makes you feel a little stupid for ever thinking you could, or should want to, solve anything without him. You're partners. You're brothers. He's the other half of your working consciousness. It was infinitely, deliriously, endlessly stupid to think that you could ever solve anything without him.
Unfortunately, the thing being solved is your inability to control your attraction to him. Your attraction to him has gone nowhere. You want to fuck him so badly that it makes you feel like you're vibrating with it, shaking with just how badly you need to make him come. You can look him in the eyes, now, laugh, talk seriously, but your cock still reacts to his body: you have to adjust yourself in your slacks at least once a day. He catches you, usually with no further acknowledgement than a fond sigh.
He also catches you staring nearly every time. Part of your reciprocal clarity is that you try not to look away immediately, give something like a bashful smile or a small shrug so he knows that you know he's caught you. He smiles back, most of the time, offers you a fond snort or a sigh. Clearly demonstrating that Viktor is both completely fine with your attention and also has no interest in you acting on it in that moment. You let your mouth flood with spit when he rolls his head on his shoulders. You let yourself stare at the curve of his hip away from his crutch. He gives you a knowing smirk every time.
You keep thinking about sometime. The cue is entirely his to give. You don't know if it means that one late-night glance at his waist will lead to him pulling you in, opening his plush mouth and letting you take what you want so badly over the carved stone of your workspace. You don't know if you should be waiting for a clearly innuendo-ridden invitation to his apartment, or even some form of irony-laden invite in the mail. You have no idea at all. You keep an eye on your mailbox anyway. Most of the time you find yourself wishing that he would just kiss you and lead you to the couch in the side room, so you wouldn't have to second guess anymore. Your dreams take further shape.
In the one you have more than any others, you're in the lab. You imagine Viktor would make endless fun of you if he knew that your favorite wet dream was set there, but it's the setting of most of your waking hours these days, so you resolve to not feel too embarrassed about it. He's always half-dressed, pants down around his ankles while you eat him out like it's the end of the world. Your imagination has gleefully surmised that Viktor is loud in bed, and your name groaned low in his voice echoes into your waking hours. You bury your face between his legs, spread him open with your thumbs just enough to see the slick, pulsing wetness of his core, and suck his cock like you're starving.
It's your favorite. You come from it almost every night.
You ask him about the party anticipating he will say no. He usually does; Viktor is not from this world. You learned when you were still in school that he does not enjoy celebration made so pedestrian, so constant. He will celebrate a project milestone with the gusto of an Academy freshman, but he usually feels the city's constant merriment to be a particularly obnoxious output of bourgeois excess. But, he likes Mel, and it's been a while, so you square your shoulders and you try.
He stares at you. There's something inscrutable in his eyes, and for a moment you imagine he's about to grab you by the back of the neck and drag you to the back room, that he's going to put you between his knees for good this time.
Instead, he nods.
"Ah, what the hell."
You blink. "Wait—really?"
Viktor shrugs and stands from the project he was working on, crossing the room to grab another set of miniscule hex keys from storage. "Yes, really. I like Councilor Medarda, and I haven't been to a Name Day party in years. They were never common in Piltover, but they're fewer now."
You know this. It's why you thought this might work. You just can't seem to believe that it actually did. "I know."
He smiles at you, and Gods, you're still so helpless. No one could ever expect you to be anything but hopelessly in love with him.
"Thank you for inviting me, Jayce. I will see you tonight."
You swallow. "Actually, I was hoping I could pick you up. Eight?"
His smile turns vulpine, ever so slightly, and all of a sudden you feel staggeringly warm and crushingly eager. You want him so badly. You need him to know that you can fuck him right.
"Eight it is."
Your erection doesn't flag completely for the rest of the day.
He's in black and gold when he slots into the opposite side of your driver's backseat. All you can think about for the entire ride to the chateau is how badly you want to ruin his perfect hair.
The party is held in an atrium sort of building, high on a hill above the city. Guests chatter between ornately sculpted hedges and floral arrangements, backdropped by a massive sculptural fountain in the middle of the room. Mel is resplendent when you greet her, and she turns to Viktor as soon as she finishes with you. It's one of the many things you appreciate about her: where some of the city has been slow to describe Viktor as your partner, she was there from the beginning. She had watched how he completed the circuit. Her appreciation for him shines in her eyes as they embrace.
"С именинами, Councilor," he says to her. "It is so nice to see some traditions carried forward."
She smiles at him, radiant. "Of course, Viktor. Thank you for coming."
After that, you're more or less thrown to the wolves. Everyone wants to talk to you in places like this, and where it was once a point of pride, a chance to get drunk on attention and public interest, it's now something more of a… dance. A quiet sidestepping, a few rounds on the floor, a simple pas de deux of a hello and a goodbye. You have sacrificed your eagerness, but now you have grace. It streamlines the process of getting to the point where you can get drunk with your friends.
You make it out of this one in record time, less than twenty minutes, you think. The people here are a bit younger, and the occasion has made them more interested in enjoying themselves than making deals. Another thing you love about a Mel Medarda Rager. You shake your last hand and extract yourself from the throng, immediately zeroing in on a dark form leaned against the wall by the bar. You'd never miss him.
"Sorry, sorry, I just had to—" you start as you approach, the usual song and dance where you apologize for inevitably leaving him alone at these parties. Long ago Viktor had patiently explained that no, he doesn't want to be included, and no, he doesn't mind waiting for you to finish playing politics. You still apologize, every time, if only to emphasize how much you prefer his company to stuffed suits. You're pretty sure he knows by now, but you're not going to stop.
"It's alright," he sighs, a warm smile dipping only to accommodate the rim of his cut crystal glass. "The bartender knows how to make fissure cocktails."
You snort. Of course, he's gone off and assessed the drinking situation. Your little partner. "So I should order what?"
"Just ask for a Zaunite sour. Two."
You nod, and head off, and return to him. Your life is a magnetic loop of coming back to Viktor. You really, really like it that way.
You drink. You talk. You laugh. Friends and associates rotate through, but your attention is always on him. On the inch of flesh between his jaw and his collar, on his throat when he swallows. He looks gorgeous under the light of warm, soft-glowing floating orbs. You had a particularly intoxicating dream about putting his ankles by his ears this morning, and you find yourself unashamedly imagining recreating that pose for everyone here to see. To demonstrate to the world the sheer devotion your body carries to his.
You don't get the chance, but the night bleeds on.
Before you know it, the two of you are traipsing down the stairs of the chateau, his arm slung around your shoulder and yours around his. You giggle and snort your way back to your carriage, and the way his voice bubbles out of him to vibrate so close to your chest makes you feel a singing potential in your muscles. Gods, you want to take him apart. You want to make him see stars. You want to look into his eyes as you make him feel things he's never felt before.
Instead, you slur to your driver to take him home. As you pull away from the glass dome, a turn slides his body into yours. He doesn't move, and you don't either, feeling his body unspooling against yours. He's warm. You're sure you feel warmer to him.
He looks up at you as you glide through the streets of Piltover, streetlights flashing golden intervals across his face. You look down at him.
"I love you," he says.
It feels different this time, somehow, but you echo him anyway. You don't think there's any way to love a person that would feel out of place in your feelings for him.
The carriage pulls to a stop outside of Viktor's building. You've been in his apartment before, in all of its deep reds and gem tones, but now you're mostly thinking of your own bed, of what dreams your mind has concocted out of the sensory input of the evening. Your entire side where Viktor touched you still feels warmer than the rest of your body. He straightens, wraps a hand around his crutch, pushes open the far door and gets out. The cool night air feels good on your face, and you swear there's a trace of his cologne blowing in behind him. The door shuts, and you close your eyes.
Then, there's a quiet knock on your window. You open them.
Viktor is standing there, hand on his hip, that same warm smile curving his lips. You open the window.
"Well, are you coming?" he asks, and your mouth floods with spit. It's the kind of thing you've been dreaming of. You can't believe you're really hearing it.
"Yeah! Um. Yes." You splutter, and you're out of the cab before you really know what's happening. Your driver leans out of the window, clearly wanting direction, and you turn back to Viktor for an answer. You always do. He nods imperceptibly.
"Go home," you tell your driver, as the words sing through your blood, heating you up, plumping your cock. "Thank you. Good night, Theirry."
You're inside of the building before the carriage is out of sight.
It's not the immediate crush of bodies that part of you was hoping for, but you do relax a little when Viktor doesn't so much as glance at you before calling the elevator and stepping inside. Clearly he's not interested in anything public, which, regrettably, is rather wise. Even if there wasn't enough of a scandal in the two of you drunkenly fucking in a lobby, Viktor had made it clear that he was uninterested in anyone knowing the specifics of his anatomy. You could understand that. Pilties.
His apartment is as cluttered and warm as ever, deep colors and rich fabrics. It had been a slow tapestry to build, auctions and street finds and gifts slowly piling in to make for a veritable den. It's never really done, but you feel a completeness as you stand in the living room, hands awkwardly in your pockets. Your mouth is bone dry, tongue sticking to the roof. You realize, in a detached hilarity, that you're nervous. It's rather virginal.
Viktor, to his merit, appears only mildly amused. He turns on a few lamps as he meanders throughout the room, slowly imbuing it with the warmth you know he loves.
"You know, Jayce, I've had a very interesting few weeks," he intones, and you realize immediately that you've been caught. He wasn't just turning on lamps—he's circling you, now, a slow walk with a choice few pieces of furniture between you. Your dick twitches. "My own partner, openly lusting after me in my own lab."
Your face burns hot. You swallow. "I know."
Viktor stops to look at you, framed in between a couch and an armchair. "I can feel when you look at me, Jayce. Like a physical touch."
You level your eyes on him at that. You catch the shudder that runs down his spine. "Can you now?" You counter, deliriously overjoyed that you can now say things to him.
"Like a brand," he murmurs, and your feet begin to move you towards him without any input from you. He holds up a hand and tsks, and you stop dead in your tracks. "Not yet."
You swallow, and nod, and do as you're told. He resumes walking.
"To think, that my partner, after all these years, suddenly couldn't contain himself because of such a simple discovery."
You huff. "I think it was as much a discovery about myself, to be honest."
Viktor smiles, and stops walking, again. This time, he's between you and his bedroom door. You feel the gravity tug at your core again.
"Come here." he says. You're inches away from him in seconds. You wait there, an endless ball of potential energy. You feel like he's got a leash on you, something as small and innocuous as a string tied around his finger that can yank your whole body forward with as much of a twitch. You're thinking about the chemical shower. How his thighs, dotted and flecked with brown moles, had glistened under the water. How his hair had been trimmed.
"Get on your knees."
It's the most glorious thing you've ever heard. You fall to your knees unabashedly, your whole weight impacting the thick carpet. You're eye level with his crotch, and you groan before you can stop yourself. Just being this close to him, knowing what's behind a few thin layers of fabric, is enough for your cock to be straining your slacks. He smiles down at you, and with one hand, slowly starts undoing his belt.
You can't help it. You press the heel of your palm to your stiff cock, hissing a breath out between your teeth. It's too much, too real, so much better and closer and hotter than anything you've ever dreamed. Watching Viktor slowly shuck a well-fitting pair of dress pants with one hand feels like the most important thing you've ever seen. Your mouth is full of spit, and you only swallow once you catch yourself about to start drooling.
"Pull them down," he intones, and you obey, and then Viktor is standing in front of you in just a pair of plain black boxers, and you can't take it anymore.
You lunge forward. He makes a noise of surprise but doesn't stop you, doesn't back up an inch as you bury your face in between his thighs. Your tongue presses up against his cock through the thin layer and you hear Viktor moan for the first time, a high pitched sound of surprise that flattens into something richer, more satisfied. You groan in kind and press in further, breathing in the smell of him, feeling a faint dampness press against your lips. Fuck, he's already wet. The knowledge that this demonstration turned him on as much as you makes you press harder against your cock, shove your face in closer to his core. You lave your tongue flat against what you can reach of his slit and he groans like he's been punched, a thin-fingered hand tangling in your short hair. He pulls you in closer and you obey, sucking and kissing and licking his cunt through his boxers like a real fiend. If it were ever possible for you to get hooked on something before ever having it, you'd call this addiction. You suspect that, if you are ever allowed a repeat performance, the world will be only too apt.
He lets you make love to his underwear for longer than you would prefer, but hell, you both know it's Viktor's show, and you're truly just happy to be here. You can taste, smell him ever so faintly, and you can feel the contours of his clit and his hole through the thin fabric, feel the swell of his pelvis and the ridges of his lips. You wouldn't call it enough, because no amount of Viktor ever is, but if he sent you home after this you would still be thankful. You're halfway through something like a mental prayer of thanks when he pulls you backwards and you follow, easy as ever, happiest exactly where he wants you. You're so hard that the plane of muscle in your lower belly is beginning to ache.
He studies you, messing your hair up just the faintest bit more, and you can't help but smile up at him. You're so fucking grateful. You need him to know that. His lips purse as he looks down at you, the hand in your hair coming down to cradle your Adam's apple. You swallow so he can feel it. His eyes crinkle.
"Gods, Jayce, do you know what you look like?" He says, in a sort of reverent whisper. You color. You imagine it's a messy picture; spit dribbling down the column of your throat, hair wild, lips parted, palm over your groin. You shiver at the idea of Viktor thinking you look pathetic.
"My golden boy. So eager to please. So eager to eat my cunt."
You can't help it. You moan, a rumbling sound that you're sure he can feel in the vibrations of his hand on your throat. Your eyelids flutter, the heady idea of eating it for real nearly a physical sensation on its own. You rock further forward and he hums, an almost-condescending sound that only makes you list further toward him. He has you so good. It's impossible to escape his orbit.
"Stand up, love." he tells you, and it takes you a moment to follow accordingly but you're eventually standing, blinking black spots from your vision, adjusting yourself so your balls aren't riding awkwardly in the front of your boxers. He looks up at you, and you can see that your height difference hasn't done a lick of damage to the cool control in his face. You want to fuck him so hard that the mere idea of control is miles away from his mind.
"Please tell me we're going to your bedroom." Your voice is hoarse. He smiles up at you.
"Well, yes, Jayce, unless you want to fuck me in the kitchen."
You save that thought for later and kiss him. Somewhere in his sardonic response you had realized you haven't kissed him yet, ever, not even once. It's a damn shame it's taken you this long—It's the most perfect anything has ever been on your first try, and probably bumps your 3% success rate up a few decimals. He breathes a little gasp when you first grab him but he melts right in after, plush mouth opening for you, and you're just gone in it, the feeling of his soft tongue brushing yours, the contour of his body against your front, the feeling of his arm settling around your neck. You could die here. God, you love him.
He bites at your bottom lip and you kiss him harder, forcing your tongue into his mouth, holding his jaw like he belongs to you. It's an intoxicating feeling, and the way he shivers when you thumb at the corner of his mouth makes you groan. You shove your thigh up between his legs at the same time that his hand tightens on the back of your neck and you both moan into the kiss, your spit slick lips desperately chasing his. He's pressed to you in every possible way and you never want it to end.
"Bedroom." he gasps, and you spring into frantic motion. Viktor has never much enjoyed people moving him around, but right now you don't care, scooping him up and carrying him through his own doorway like a new bride. His bed is the same as always, a dark void of messy sheets, and you lay him out on it like you've always dreamed. He lets you arrange his limbs, straighten his hips, untie his shoes. He watches you in mild amusement as you go about taking care of him, something you're so familiar with and so grateful for that your bones ache. You shimmy his pants down his legs, and after he gives you one of his minute little nods, you pull his boxers down with them.
And then he's bare.
Just for you.
And sure enough, Viktor's pussy is laid out for you, a wet pink notch at the juncture of his thighs, his cock poking out from between his lips, pink and swollen. His hair is just as dark and just as trimmed. The same cluster of moles on his left thigh is still there. You feel a dribble of precome absorb into your briefs.
"Well?" Viktor says, and you note with surprise that there is some worry in his voice. His knees have even drawn in towards his torso a bit, protecting his core like he's afraid you might—what, not like it? You're not having that. You take his legs by the knees and gently part them, careful with his weaker, and seal your mouth perfectly into place over his cock.
Viktor shrieks. You barely hold back a smirk, instead doubling down, sucking him further in between your lips, laving your tongue along the underside. It's a bit bigger than the clits you've seen in the past, and god, it makes your cock throb, knowing that this has been at the juncture of Viktor's legs for his entire life, that as long as you've known him he's had this pretty perfect cunt sitting here waiting for you. It makes you feel crazy possessive and kind of perverted, imagining how much quicker you would have acted on your attraction to him if you had known. Gods, you would have fucked him before graduation. You would have fucked him before he opened his mouth.
"Jayce, please," he whines, and you pop off his little cock, panting. He's propped up against a dark mass of soft pillows, looking down at you, chest heaving. Good, that's what you wanted. For his composed, neatly condescending calm to dissolve. To take him apart, to show him just how good you can make him feel. You're rutting your dick down into the mattress over it. You need to be inside him with a fury that could fire up a Hexgate.
"Sorry," you whisper, your voice only further shredded. "I got carried away. It's just—"
"You really love pussy, hm?" Viktor teases. You snort.
"Not to be too sentimental, Viktor, but it's just your pussy. It's—you have a pussy. You have to understand."
He snorts right back. "Seems like I don't need to understand. You doing alright down there?"
You glance down, even though you can't see anything past the point where your chest joins the comforter. You can feel your dick aching, though, pumping pre into your underwear at a frankly petulant pace. You rock into the comforter in response, looking up with him with an expression that is hopefully just desperate enough for him to understand that you really can't take it that much longer. You are vaguely concerned you might nut as soon as your head touches his lips, and you can't have that.
"Viktor." You intone. "Please. Please let me fuck you."
He hums. From his place above you, posed so elegantly in recline, he looks sort of royal. You've never been more of a supplicant.
"I don't know, I like hearing how badly you want it," he sighs, his voice musical, toying. "Ask nicely."
You moan as your hips grind forward, unbidden. "Viktor, Viktor, Viktor," you chant, breathless, needy. "Fuck, Viktor, please let me put my cock inside you, it's all I can think about, Viktor, fuck, your cunt, I need to be inside you. I need to fuck you til you bleed." Every word of it is gospel. You watch his face flush and then drain of color at the end of your little tirade, his chapped lips parted, chest heaving. You watch a little dribble of slick pulse out of his hole. Your dick throbs in kind.
"Please." you breathe. The room is completely silent.
After a moment that feels like it stretches into infinity, Viktor, who looks just as caught as you imagine you did in the living room, gives you one of his tiny little nods. It's the best gift he's ever given you.
"Yes, yeah, okay," he breathes, but you're already moving, shucking your clothes in record time, bullying yourself up between his legs. Your bare cock lands against the facet of his cunt for the first time and you both groan, visceral, the animal of your bodies feeling something entirely right for the very first time. You can't hold yourself back from experimentally rutting against his cunt once, twice, just feeling the sticky sweet drag of him against the underside of your cock. It's electrifying, a powered but incomplete circuit, an endless potential with a clear single motion to finish it. You need to slam home against his cervix like it'll save you. You need it so badly that you aren't actually sure you would survive if Viktor denied you now.
You look down at him, for any sign that he doesn't want this. At the slightest signal you would climb right back off of him, bury your face back between his thighs, kiss him until the sun comes up, anything. Anything he wants, forever. It's what you've lived for since you met him.
Instead, he smiles, all teeth, all fox. "Are you going to fuck my cunt or not, Talis?" he taunts, and fuck it, he's the one who opened the floodgates. He asked for it. You can take what you've always wanted.
You pull back the barest inch to notch against his hole and feed the head in, watching him tense, anticipating it. Good. He should be fucking bracing.
You slam your cock inside him with the force of weeks of desperate pining, backed by years on years of thrumming lust. His mouth falls open and his eyes go sightless, his shoulders rigid in the pillows, his cunt fluttering around you. You have to stop and grit your teeth to stop from coming right there, shooting a fat load into him at just the right time. You need to take him apart before you can take your own pleasure, though, and after a few breaths through your teeth to compose yourself you rock up into him experimentally. That gets him: Viktor moans, low and drawn out, and one of his hands comes up to clutch at the fabric by his ear. His grip tightens as you pull out and push back in, ever so slow, experimental. He's tighter and hotter and slicker than your imagination could have ever conjured. His cunt clings and drags against you, an endless wet grind that's so dirty you can barely take it.
"Fuck," he breathes. You snap to attention.
"How does it feel?" You ask, before you can stop yourself. At least you didn't ask him if he was okay; that would have been a real faux pas. Instead, his eyes flutter shut as a faint furrow between his brow forms. He pulses around your cock. He's checking, you realize. Fondness and arousal curl tight in your chest. Gods, you love this little freak.
"Full," he mumbles after a moment, opening his honey-golden eyes to look at you. "Mm, stretched. An inexorable presence."
You snort, even as your cock twitches inside of him. As silly as academic language should be in the bedroom, you like his wording. Inexorable. You cant your hips forward just to emphasize your newfound inexorability. He grunts.
"You feel so tight around me," you tell him, because fair's fair. He exhales a quiet moan, a slender hand reaching down to brush over his clit. "So hot. So slick, baby, fucking perfect for me." he whines, and you fuck up into him hard, just to see.
He takes it fucking beautifully, the prettiest thing you've ever seen writhing as your cock thuds against the very deepest part of him. You do it again, and again, until you're setting a punishing rhythm, slamming the head of your cock into the back of his cunt. He squeals as you set the pace, holding his legs apart with both of your hands. You catch him looking at them and follow his gaze. He's right: your big, tan hand wrapped around the milky sensitive flesh of his inner thigh is a sight to behold. You grip him a little tighter and both of you make a sound at the sight of your fingers pressing indents into his flesh. He whines louder and tilts his head back. The image of his neck covered in your bites and bruises flashes so bright in your mind that you practically lunge forward, abandoning his legs to brace yourself over his chest, fucking up into him so deep your balls slap on his ass at the same time you sink your teeth into his neck.
Viktor comes, screaming, on your cock. You feel it more than see it, face buried in the joint of his neck, but the rhythmic seizing of the muscles in his pussy and the filthy, bitten-off noises he's making are enough to clue you in. You fuck him through it, tight and hot and hard, and it's only when he starts pawing at your shoulders do you slow down even a little.
"Jayce," he whines, and you're on him again, kissing all over his face and neck like he's a holy statue. Your hips stutter forward as you kiss him. "Fuck, Viktor," you groan, feeling one of his hands come up to cup your jaw. "So fucking perfect for me. Just like that, love." You smooth his hair away from his forehead as you feel his breathing start to even. "Was that good?" You ask, unable to stop yourself, breaking character just to make sure he's not, like, mad at you. The last thing you want is to make Viktor feel bad.
Instead, he uses the hand on your cheek to direct your gaze to level with his. His eyes are glazed over, pink lips still parted. He looks well fucked. You feel quite proud of yourself.
"Yes," he breathes, and you feel his cunt weakly clench down around you. A blurt of slick dribbles out of him and onto your balls. You need to pump a fucking load into this man. "Yes, Jayce, Gods, I can't—"
"Please," you grit, because hey, you don't know if Viktor has any interest in being fucked after coming. You wish you could tack something on to signal any kind of nonchalance, hey, no pressure, or something, but fuck it, you need to come in him. You have no interest in being casual. "Viktor, please, I need to come, please let me keep fucking you. Please."
You keep looking him in his eyes. Persuasion, or something. He lets out a little noise and you are suddenly overcome with the feeling that this is what all your years of work have been for, bar Hextech, bar anything. This is your prize. This is complete understanding.
"Take what you need, Jayce," he murmurs, and you're pulling out and slamming back into him with a sound so guttural it's almost nonhuman. Viktor keens, but you're chasing your own white rabbit now, and you don't stop for a second, fucking into him with every ounce of strength in your admittedly formidable body. You look down at the point where the two of you are joined, your cock inside his cunt, his come oozing out around you. You rut your hips up into him once, twice, three times, and you come, finally, your cock pulsing thick ropes of hot cum into his pussy. It feels like your body is falling out of itself, expanding endlessly into the glittering expanse of the night sky, fireworks are exploding behind your eyes. It's a big fucking load, your dick still spitting out spend by the time you get your brain back inside your skull. Your hips shudder to a stop with the last few spurts. Viktor is a whimpering, panting mess below you, slender hands gripping your biceps, and you've never loved more, felt more, wanted more for another living being in your life. He's going to be everything for you forever. There's no way around it. This is your life's work.
You don't want to pull out, but you can't rest your weight on him and you're starting to get a bit tacky around the edges, so you carefully extract your cock from him one last time. A dribble of white follows you, then a bit more, and then, Gods, you're watching your own load drip out of your partner's cunt. Viktor must be able to feel it because he groans, reaches down and spreads himself, teasing a finger through the mess. Trancelike, you lift your own hand and use two fingers to gently prod the mixture back inside of him. Your dick seems interested in enacting your oft-revisited dream of fucking it back deeper, but one glance at the clock and Viktor's drooping eyelids puts a pin in those plans. Later. You have time, luxurious, endless, perfect time. All for him.
You crawl up beside him and gather him in your arms, spooning him from behind like you've always imagined you'd fit together best. His ass wiggles in against your dick and you drape your hand over his skinny hip to still him. He huffs, but he doesn't move again, and he lets you arrange him exactly as you like, one arm just under the crook of his neck and the other draped over his narrow waist. Your legs tangle with his as you pull a heavy, dark blanket over the two of you, the warmth of his body and the dull thrum in your abs pulling you closer to him, deeper into sleep.
You tighten your arm around his waist. "I loved that," you slur, lips pressed to the fine hair at the base of his neck. Almost on instinct, the hand dangling over his belly slides down to cup over his mound. It's a perfectly chaste hold, but you feel the heat of him behind your fingers anyway. He shudders. You smile to yourself. "I love your cunt."
Viktor laughs, a sleepy, tinkling sound. "I loved it too, Jayce," he sighs, settling deeper and, you're almost certain, pressing his pussy the slightest bit harder against your palm. "And I think you are very special about that other thing."
"That other thing?" you laugh, but you're both so damn tired. He shrugs in your hold.
"I love you, too," you mumble as your eyelids finally become too determined to close. "More n' all the other stuff."
You stay awake just long enough to hear his response.
"I love you too, Jayce."
You fall asleep with your hand cupped over him, and when you wake up, he's already grinding against it, moaning your name in a pitch too heady for you to do anything but move.
Notes:
Thank you for reading, especially if you read both! Please consider leaving a comment if you liked or caught a spelling error. Love you <3
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