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The hospital cafeteria is almost entirely empty at this hour, lit by a too-harsh overhead grid of fluorescents that hum quietly above vinyl floors. The smell of stale pastries and burnt coffee clings to the air. The kitchen closed hours ago, leaving behind a few sad plastic-wrapped sandwiches in the cooler and one overtaxed coffee urn wheezing its last on the pedestal that might as well be an altar for equally overtaxed worshippers of caffeinated glory. In a hospital, the coffee machine might as well be a bacchanal. Outside the tall, narrow windows, the city is nothing but a smear of sodium-orange and shadow, stretching far below Piltover General.
Jayce slouches into a plastic chair at a corner table, his tray half-untouched. He’s still in his scrubs, a fresh set he’d donned after his last surgery had stretched through all of seven hours. His hair is still wet from his locker room shower, too dead-tired to bother drying it before nodding off in the elevator on his way to consume whatever this grilled chicken thing is supposed to be. He’s too tired to taste it anyway.
Across from him, Viktor nurses a cup of tea that smells like licorice and disgust, some Throat Coat blend he likes. Too much anise for Jayce’s tastes and enough honey to make him clog, but Viktor’s on another one of his rants, so perhaps the blend is sweet comfort. His white coat is rumpled from wear, further crushed as a blanket across his lap.
“–and the kicker,” Viktor huffs, gesturing sharply with his cup, copper liquid sloshing over the side, “is that she almost didn’t transfer. Because she read a blog that said hospitals ‘interfere with the sacred process of birth.’ Sacred. She’s lucky she was here. It was a bad dystocia. If she’d listened to that doula any longer, we wouldn’t be celebrating my first McRoberts Maneuver and a clean clavicle fracture. We’d be talking about a funeral. Maybe two. A multigenerational tragedy.”
Jayce winces, setting down his fork.
“Oh, but it gets better,” Viktor continues, the sarcasm thickening his accent and biting at the edges of his voice like he’s chewing on the anger. “No prenatal care. None. Not even a fucking pap smear on record. Do you know what that’s like? Trying to manage an obstetric emergency without knowing anything about the patient at all? You might as well try to land a plane by smell.”
Jayce huffs a tired laugh. “You’ve got a gift for metaphors, man.”
Viktor doesn’t smile. “I just—these Pilties. They have every option, every resource. They live in high rises and pay for water births with coaches who call themselves moon-witches. Meanwhile, patients in Zaun are lucky if they know someone with an intact midwifery license, and even that doesn’t matter when their placental abruption happens at two in the morning and they can’t afford the ambulance.”
Jayce rubs a hand over his face. “Yeah. I mean, I’ve never been to a gynecologist either, but that’s more of a gender crisis thing than a crunchy trad-Pilt thing. You get it.”
He says it lightly, a snort or a roll of Viktor’s eyes expected.
But Viktor just goes very, very still.
Jayce blinks, suddenly feeling like a small child who’s been caught one too many times somewhere he doesn’t belong, or in this case, nowhere to be found in the place he’s supposed to be. There’s shame. Eyes dart around to find any source of escape from the consequences of his actions.
“Uh. Viktor? Are you okay man? Anyway, you were saying something about the McRoberts—”
“No,” Viktor interrupts, voice coming sharp, pristine like the diamond edge of a neurosurgeon’s scalpel. “No, I don’t get it. No. You are joking, Jayce. Tell me you’re trying to be funny right now.”
Jayce straightens in the creaking plastic seat. His first instinct is to, like the child, lie. But he’s got the proverbial cookie crumbs around his mouth already and the stains of molten chocolate chips sticking at his fingers, and he’s not too keen on lying to Viktor anyway. He’d see right through Jayce and that furrow of consternation would morph from exhausted concern for a colleague to disappointment in a single beat of his too-quick heart.
“I mean…” He tries, dragging out the vowels in a high pitched wince of a whine. “...kinda? Not really? And what is comedy really if not partially — ahem — truth?”
Viktor’s eyes widen, losing some of that weary post-shift exhaustion and taking on a slightly manic, near panicked glint. When he speaks, his voice is low and cutting, as if allowing any more passion into his voice would have him screaming and throwing things to the horror of the lingering kitchen staff.
“You are a doctor. A surgeon. You are telling me you have never had a pelvic exam? A pap smear? Not once? You should have had one for your medical school entrance physicals at the very least.”
Jayce’s ears go hot and he shrugs helplessly with a sheepish grimace. “I might’ve gotten to, um, skip that part?” It comes out more question than statement, as if it would be any less damning.
Viktor slams his tea down on the vinyl-padded table so hard it sloshes from the disposable cup. “Oh. Incredible. Just fantastic. So you’re just gambling with your health now, are you? Playing the odds and hoping you don’t have dysplasia or polyps or endometriosis, or Janna forbid, cervical cancer?”
Jayce opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.
“Oh, but I forget,” Viktor barrels on, voice edging into something mockingly saccharine, poison in that cookie jar. “You are Jayce Talis. Because you are such a promising young surgeon, obviously your body is immune to everything. Including, apparently, the need to maintain your own healthcare. You’re trans, Jayce. Not exempt from the needs of your anatomy. Trust me. I think I’d know.”
Shit. Viktor’s getting heated.
The table feels smaller now. The rest of the normally restful room recedes under his best friend’s razored gaze, the world outside the orbit of Viktor and all that righteous concern dissolving into white noise and halogen buzz. Jayce bites his tongue between his molars to keep from cracking them in the guilty grind, tries to swallow the defensive retort rising like bile.
He hadn’t meant for this to become a thing. It was just a dumb joke, a little self-deprecating dig. But now Viktor’s looking at him like he’s grown a second head and declared ortho to be the softest specialty when they both know it’s dermatology.
Jayce can feel his face flushing hot, neck prickling under the severe weight of judgemental eyes turning toward them from across the admittedly mostly-empty cafeteria. Someone two tables over in mint green scrubs— the hallmark of an angel from the Emergency Department, Janna bless his soul —glances up from a half-eaten granola bar. A janitor slows his sweeping pace near the coffee urn, suddenly more interested in wiping the same spot twice.
They’re officially making a scene. Excellent. Just what Jayce needs after a long shift in surgery. It’s midnight on a fucking Tuesday. And Viktor’s crescendoing into a full volume tirade about Jayce’s cervix.
“Well,” Jayce starts, trying to soothe things over with a crooked smile, “to be fair, I haven’t, ah, had anyone down there in…a long time. Not since Mel and I broke it off in undergrad. So I don’t think cancer is a prob—”
“And?” Viktor snaps, interrupting Jayce’s defense. “Time doesn’t take away from the damage, Jayce. In fact, time only makes it worse. For Janna’s sake, what if you do have a lesion?”
Jayce throws up his hands. “I got the shot!” Who cares if the whole ED and janitorial staff hear about this in the morning?
“Oh did you?” Viktor fires back, dripping obstinate disbelief.
“Alright now you’re just being an asshole. And no— Well. I mean—” Jayce falters, rubbing the back of his neck, ears blazing. “I haven’t had anyone … in there. Anyway. So, uh. Yeah.”
Viktor is silent for a moment. It’s almost worse. His hands are curled around the paper tea cup so tightly it’s starting to crumple. Jayce can practically hear the gears turning behind those tired, bloodshot eyes.
So, like always, Jayce and his big mouth fill the silence.
“You get it—”
“Don’t do that.”
Jayce blinks. “Do what?”
“Patronize me.”
Viktor leans forward, elbows braced on the table. “Do you have any idea what an unscreened HPV infection can do to you, vaccination or not? To any of your partners? That big brain of yours must have retained something beyond bones.”
Jayce opens his mouth to continue his defense, but Viktor rolls on.
“You could develop genital warts. And since you are so rare and special, as you obviously think you are, I’d say you’ve got a higher chance than most of getting recurrent respiratory papillomatosis. You know, because the universe loves irony.”
Jayce grimaces. “I don’t think that’s—”
“And it isn’t even just the warts or cancer,” Viktor cuts in, scathing now. “You’re on testosterone therapy. I need the name of your prescriber, by the way, so I can report them to their fucking Board. How have they not required you to have regular screenings? You could wind up with endometrial hyperplasia, or breast cancer — yes, even with the top surgery — or fibroids, or ovarian cysts, or any number of things, because your hormones haven’t been checked by anything more than a general yearly.”
Jayce stares at him, slack jawed. How dare he.
“Hey,” he says, a little more on edge now in response to Viktor’s attitude. “I have an endocrinologist. I went through the process. They just need the blood. It’s all above board. It just…” He huffs, crossing his arms like a petulant child. “It just sounds better than OB-Gyn, y’know?”
Viktor’s eyes narrow, peering at him through offended little slits like some sort of creature. “No, Jayce, I do not know. In case you’ve forgotten in the last ten minutes, I’m in OB-Gyn. And I am a trans man.”
Viktor looks seconds from standing up and walking right out of the cafeteria.
“Viktor…” Jayce starts, scrubbing hard at his own tired eyes. “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”
It doesn’t help. Nothing does. Jayce has barely gotten a word in edgewise, hardly managing more than strangled half-sentences while Viktor’s laid into him with the fury of a man personally offended by his vagina’s lack of medical documentation. He’s heard Viktor rant before. He’s even been on the receiving end more than once, though it’s usually when he skips lunch or forgets to wear his compression socks on surgery days. But this is truly something else, a whole new level of pedantic indignation that, specialty hypochondriacs aside, makes him feel like a first-year med student in cadaver lab again, except now the lesson is about his own neglected anatomy.
Jayce can’t help but get a little indignant himself.
“I’m also a doctor, V.” His voice cracks embarrassingly in his frustration. He’s never been good at expressing it. “I passed all my exams just like you did. I’m not— I didn’t— Look. It’s not like I just decided to ignore it, okay? It’s complicated and weird and so fucking dysphoric, and—”
He gestures at himself vaguely, words failing him. How the hell is he supposed to explain this if Viktor doesn’t get it already?
The idea of putting his feet in stirrups and opening himself up to a stranger like that makes his skin crawl. He spent years pretending whole swaths of his body didn’t exist, gritting his teeth through showers his mother forced him into and dressing in the dark, until the T and the surgery gave him something that finally felt like peace.
Sexual partners have been few and far between, so it’s not like he’s whoring himself out unprotected. He hasn’t had one in years, not since his amicable breakup with Mel, who had known exactly how far to go and where not to touch or be caught looking. There were exactly two women before her as well, short-lived flings when he’d still thought himself simply a lesbian. How wrong he’d been. Being medically ‘intact,’ as demeaning and clinical as the term is, bought him time and excuses; an illusion of control.
’You can have your first pap when you start to become more … generally active’ his PCP had told him once.
Yeah. Good luck with that. The thought of being examined in that way by some well-meaning woman or, worse, a cis-man — it’s always been too much. He shudders at even the passing notion.
Jayce huffs a short, sharp breath out of his nose.
“It’s not like I’m out here sleeping around, alright? I’m not putting anyone else at risk. I wouldn’t do that. I just … I can’t. I just figured—if I don’t have any symptoms and I’m not really very sexually active these days, then what’s the point? I know it’s bad science peddled for comfort, but I’ve been fine so far. It’s not like I—”
“Janna above, Jayce!”
The outburst slices through the stillness not like a scalpel but like a bone saw, grating and forceful. Viktor’s eyes widen then narrow again in his rage, and his chair scrapes forward as he leans in far too close and intense for two colleagues in the workplace, but Jayce doesn’t flinch. He never does when it’s Viktor. He likes it when Viktor gets close, presses at all the tender parts of him until nothing else matters. He’ll take anything Viktor dishes out. That’s what best friends do.
“Dysphoria be damned, you still have a body!” Viktor speaks with urgency, like he’s desperately trying to get Jayce to get it. “It still needs care. You know that! You spend all day fixing other people’s bodies, making sure they heal right, but what? Yours doesn’t count? Yours doesn’t deserve the same attention?”
Viktor doesn’t stop there, and Jayce is too enthralled by the sweetness of his breath at this proximity to stop him.
“Do you know how many trans patients I’ve seen who didn’t get checked out because it made them uncomfortable? Do you know how many of them only came in when it was already too late? When the pain was unbearable, or the bleeding wouldn’t stop, or something ruptured, or metastasized, or their ovary got so twisted up inside them there was no saving it?”
The cafeteria hums around them with a cerebral bell-tone. Viktor presses on.
“It’s not about comfort anymore,” Viktor implores. “It’s about survival. I’m certain oncology probably had a field day with some of those cases. And you—” He stops short, coughing lightly, like he’s trying to shove the emotion back down his throat before it slips out and makes a mess of things. “You, with all the knowledge and resources in the world at your fingertips, medical training from the best university and resident program on the continent, and a best friend who specializes in gynecology and hormone imbalance in trans patients?”
His voice breaks just a little.
“You, of all people, should know better.”
Oh. That’s what it was. Jayce doesn’t speak. He can’t.
There’s a deep, curling pit of self-loathing in his chest, heavy and sticky and unshakeable. Somehow it’s deeper set than the dysphoria because he understands the betrayal felt by him. He stares at his half-empty tray, focusing on a smudge of sauce left behind on the foam like a Rorschach test that will tell him what piece of his fucked up brain is broken so Powder in Psych can put it back together and bill company insurance about it.
He can’t help but think of all the things he preaches to his patients. Preventative care. Early screening. Personal responsibility. How many times has he reassured someone that they deserve to feel safe in their own skin while denying himself the same?
“Okay, okay,” he breathes finally, voice barely above a whisper. “I get it. I’m an idiot. Can we just— can we move on, V?”
Viktor snarls, low and frustrated, before visibly forcing himself to pull in a breath. He forces it out, slow, fingers tapping rhythmically on his cup like it helps to drain the fury from his system.
Too calmly, he demands, “You are getting an exam.”
Jayce looks up, startled. “What?”
“No arguments, Jayce. You are getting a pelvic exam. I’ll do it myself if I have to.”
Jayce sputters. “What are you, my doctor now?”
Viktor doesn’t miss a beat. “I guess I am. Someone has to steer the leaky ship that is your body.”
There’s a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, but it’s tempered with something else. Jayce recognizes the look as the one Viktor gets when he’s already made up his mind. He’s gritted his teeth around an impossible situation and decided he’s going to fix it anyway.
Jayce still feels more than a little uncomfortable, massively hesitant. His fingers curl together, wringing out his sore hands. The idea of such exposure and vulnerability, such total surrender, makes his stomach twist. Even with Viktor.
Especially with Viktor.
And then Viktor says, ever so softly: “Please, Jayce”
Viktor knows exactly what he’s doing, how he presses right up against the fault lines buried in Jayce’s chest and pulls at his soul deep so that he cannot deny him. There’s no arrogance to it, no coercion. There’s nothing but the gentle weight of someone who knows exactly where it hurts and how to push in counter pressure to relieve the soreness. Is it really manipulation when the gentle art of persuasion is being utilized like this?
Of course it is. Jayce hates it.
He hates it because it works.
Jayce is running late.
He hadn’t meant to. Honest. He’d been in surgery far longer than expected.
The motorcycle crash victim had been admitted through Emergency more than halfway through his shift, just after one of the medical assistants had declared it to be a quiet day. Because of course she had.
The case was supposed to be straightforward, an open reduction of a fractured humerus from the accident, but when they got in there and opened the kid up, it was clear the imaging had undersold the extent of the damage. Parts of the bone had been fucking powdered, little white flecks floating in the muscle like the kid’s arm was the world’s bloodiest snowstorm. Put simply, it was a mess that required patience, precision, and a hell of a lot of metal to fix. He’d spent hours excavating the bits that couldn’t be salvaged and rebuilding the rest from what might as well have been a hardware store’s worth of titanium.
But the kid’ll have an arm when he wakes up. It’ll even be functional, with some divine intervention from the miracle workers in PT. It’ll be hell, but if he’s lucky and the nerves recover well, he’ll have decent range of motion. Jayce wonders absently if Vi will end up seeing him. Half their med school cohort had somehow wound up placing at Piltover General, so there’s a good chance of it.
By the time he steps out of the elevator and into the main hospital lobby, the lights have dimmed slightly into their overnight mode. The floors still gleam with too much glare, scrubbed down by the janitorial crew, and the walls hum with the low-grade buzz of vending machines and reception’s nighttime monitors. Jayce rolls his shoulders, trying to shake out the dull, vibrating ache in his upper back. The exhaustion has settled deep into his bones after hours of holding perfectly still, clamping and suturing and drilling an absurd number of screws. His hands still carry the phantom sensations of pressure and resistance. His brain, wired from adrenaline and the effects of sterile-bright operating room light, hasn’t quite caught up to the fact that the shift is over. It’s always like that, after he’s spent more than half a shift piecing someone back together.
He still smells faintly of iodine and nitrile despite yet another locker room shower and fresh set of hospital-issue blue scrubs out of the vending machine.
He spots Viktor before Viktor spots him.
He’s leaning casually against one of the wide marble columns near the front desk, scrolling through his phone with one hand while the other rests on the handle of his cane. His posture is loose, but Jayce can see the subtle lean of fatigue in his frame. His hip tilts a little further to the left, favoring an ache he rarely admits unless someone in his most inner circle physically pries it out of him.
Viktor’s also changed into a clean pair of scrubs, free of amniotic fluid or blood. They’re the same deep navy blue all the residents wear. A scrub cap pulls his hair back off his face, dark fabric patterned with cartoon uteruses. They’re pink and smiley with hearts at the end of their fallopian tubes instead of ovaries. The phrase At Your Cervix! breaks up the pattern at intervals in bubbly white font. It shouldn’t be charming, and yet it is. Somehow. Jayce doesn’t even try to fight the fond smile tugging at his mouth.
There’s a penlight tucked behind Viktor’s right ear like some greaser’s cigarette in the movies despite having perfectly usable pockets. He always does that. Jayce doesn’t know if it’s habit or style or just defiance. Probably all three.
Jayce approaches, already halfway into a rant before he’s even within Viktor’s eyeline.
“Fucking hell, V. I think I just built some dude’s arm from scratch. If I see another titanium screw in the next twenty-four hours, I might start crying.”
Viktor looks up, arching a brow as he falls into step beside Jayce, guiding them toward the east corridor by gently knocking Jayce’s shin with his cane to steer him. “Rough shift?”
“Motorcycle crash,” Jayce mutters, shaking out his right hand like it might release the tension from the joints. “Kid turned his humerus into dust. Pretty sure I spent more time sculpting bone out of titanium than I did using what was left of his skeleton. It’s held together with screws, bone cement, and thoughts and prayers.”
Viktor makes a face like he’s just bitten into something unexpectedly sour. “Ah. So you’re playing God again. Good to know.”
Jayce huffs a tired laugh. “Says the man who spent all day delivering literal babies.”
“Yes, well,” Viktor deadpans, “I don’t put metal plates inside them afterward. They usually come pre-assembled barring any serious emergencies.”
That earns a tired laugh from Jayce as the elevator doors glide open with a ding that sounds far too cheerful for the hours. He follows Viktor inside with the sluggish weight of a man who’s well past his limit. His legs feel like they belong to someone else, all heavy muscle and weighty bone. The overhead fluorescents are starting to drill into his skull as the surgery adrenaline wears off and is replaced by good old fashioned anxiety.
Viktor taps a button for what Jayce assumes is a few floors up to OB-Gyn and outpatient procedure suites. A pit of dread starts forming in Jayce’s stomach. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other as the doors begin to close, trapping them in the quiet metal box.
“You sure we have to do this tonight?” Jayce askes, voice petering into a fatigued whine. “I’m running on fumes, man. I think I’ve been awake for—what? Twenty hours? At least ten of them were in surgery. My circadian rhythm is just vibes at this point and no amount of locker room soap is going to scrub the smell of CHG from my pores. Gonna need Maddie in derm to do extractions or something.”
He’s aware that’s not how any of that works, but a man can dream.
Viktor, for his part, doesn’t even blink. He gives Jayce a perfectly unimpressed sideways look that makes him feel like a particularly dumb med student instead of a competent surgeon well on his way to becoming board certified.
“And whose fault is that?” Viktor replies coolly. “If you’d done this years ago, as is recommended by both ACOG and the CDC, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. You’d have scheduled it for your day off like everyone else.”
Jayce grains, dragging a hand down his face and scrubbing at the stubble along his jaw. “Yeah, yeah, whatever, V. You gonna at least buy me dinner after?”
“Dinner?” Viktor raises an eyebrow, voice going desert dry. But there’s a small upturn at the edge of his mouth, betraying the grin he’s trying to smother. “You think this is a date, Jayce?”
Jayce blushes hot, but shrugs, trying to keep his cool. “I mean, I am putting out,” he says with a syrupy mewl and a coy expression. He knows he’s a brat.
Viktor snorts. “If I had known all it took to get you on your back was a little professional concern, I might have suggested this much sooner.”
“Ha ha. Hilarious,” Jayce deadpans, but he’s smiling and rolling his eyes now. Despite himself. “Tell me, am I special? Or do I need to report you for flirting with all your patients? I am in a very vulnerable position you know, Dr. Viktor.”
Viktor glances forward as the elevator begins to slow, calm as ever in the face of Jayce’s teasing. “Only the ones who make terrible medical decisions and force me to intervene personally.”
Jayce laughs again, short and breathy, but even he can hear the nerves underneath. The floor number lights up with a soft ding, and the doors begin to slide open.
No going back now.
Viktor leads them down a winding corridor that Jayce has never been down before.
When they arrive, the room is… a surprise.
Jayce had been braced for cold sterility and impersonal details. He’d pictured harsh white fluorescents buzzing overhead, stainless steel trays lined up with metal tools, hard plastic furnishings that squeaked humiliatingly under the weight of bodies. He’d assumed this place would be something like the OR, some place that would make him feel like a specimen on a slab.
Instead, the space that Viktor leads him into feels oddly safe.
It’s tucked away behind Radiology, not on the OB or L&D floors at all. It’s quiet, too, far from the bright chaos of the main hospital levels. He can tell that this space sees little use this late at night. If someone needs these kinds of procedures at this time, they’re likely getting them in the ER. It’s cozy almost, if a diagnostic imaging room could be called that.
Soft non-descript hushes play from speakers embedded in the ceiling corners, a gentle swell that mimics distant waves. It doesn’t fill the silence, exactly, but it makes it feel oddly quieter, despite the addition of noise.
Jayce glances around, still half-waiting for the discomfort to settle in. But the overhead lights are low, casting a warm, honeyed glow across the beige walls. The scent of lavender and clean linens wafts through the air, no alcohol or spray pump sticky foam bitterness. Everything is sterile, of course, but not invasively so.
Viktor had very clearly scheduled time in this room with care. It was an intentional choice to make Jayce feel more at home. It sets something warm curling around the lead weight in his stomach.
Jayce had truly been dreading the standard exam setup: a narrow, crinkly-papered chair with stiff faux-leather padding and an inline seemingly engineered to make him feel as unbalanced and insecure as possible. They always look vaguely medieval and are barely enough for most patients to place their toes for balance while they hang their asses precariously off the table.
The thing in front of him is broad and solid, something between a gurney and a proper inpatient bed. There’s no cold, chrome frame, no disposable roll handing off the end with too-thin paper that will stick to nervous sweat and tear underneath when he moves. There are just white sheets, neatly made with the corners carefully tucked. Jayce runs a curious finger over the surface and blinks in surprise.
Jersey cotton.
These aren’t the overwashed, scratchy hospital linens in industrial blends meant to survive autoclaves and enough bleach to make the ocean potable. These are almost real sheets. The ones you’d find in someone’s guest room, or maybe a decent AirBnb. He presses his palm down slowly just to be sure.
Soft. Smooth. Comfortable.
Attached at the sides of the gurney-bed-thing are, of course, stirrups. They still set a deep, clenching pit of anxiety gnawing at Jayce’s insides, but they, too, are different. Better.
Rather than the usual torture-looking brake pads that barely accomodate the toes, let alone the lower half’s stability, these are wider, more thoughtfully designed. They even look cushioned. They’re folded neatly into the sides, unobtrusive until needed. The foot rests are also covered in that same jersey fabric.
It’s the smallest of things, details that could very easily be overlooked. This room is clearly designed as a diagnostic space rather than a procedural one, providing a comfortable experience for patients required to be in lithotomy position for extended periods. Not that Jayce wants to be here any longer than necessary.
Jayce stands at the foot of the bed for a moment longer, not looking at Viktor while he tries to process all the warring feelings of comfort-fear-peace-dread.
“Now I know where all the money in this place is going,” Jayce quips finally, sounding more confident than he feels. He always has been more bark than bite.
Viktor doesn’t look up from where he’s pulling a neat stack of folded fabrics out of one of the built-in cupboards, but the corner of his mouth lifts into a smirk. “Yes, well. Nothing but the best for luxury clientele.”
Jayce snorts. “This is much nicer than the call room I napped in last shift. The stirrups alone have more padding than the mattresses they give us.”
Viktor hums thoughtfully, picking a little at the crisp corner of whatever the bundle in his arms is. “You should’ve seen the clinics back in Entresol,” he manages after a beat. “Half of them didn’t even have exam tables. Just beds pushed against the wall with a paper sheet that afforded just enough privacy that they didn’t get slammed with HIPAA violations.”
Jayce shifts back and forth, heel to heel. His humor sobers as Viktor keeps talking.
“There was one place where I did a summer internship in high school. It was a typical, tiny practice in Zaun. Dr. Reveck’s place. The curtains didn’t close all the way and I don’t think a single board in that building was to code. We had to use flashlights because the overhead bulbs kept shorting. If the power went out, they’d just… keep going. No choice. Patients there were just happy to have a doctor they could afford to see.”
His voice is steady as he speaks, and it isn’t the first time Jayce has heard a story from Viktor about what medicine was like for him “back home,” but Jayce can still hear the bitterness coiled beneath the words.
“Turns out that practice was only affordable because the good Doctor was shilling shimmer on the side, but I digress. Zaun in general does a little better now. With the public health initiative and all. Big centers. Good setups. Government money to burn. Even the doctors pilfer their necessities from the usual offices to keep them running.”
Jayce nods slowly, absorbing the information with stilted intent and rapt fascination of what the hell Viktor has been through. As he always does when it’s Viktor speaking.
“And how do the Pilties use their portion of the expanded government funding that they couldn’t help but borrow from the coffers extended to Zaun?” He laughs again caustically and gestures around. “Designer imaging suites and state-of-the-art equipment that will get handed down to lesser Zaunite practices when it’s a decade obsolete. The money still gets trickled down anyway, so what’s the problem with taking it for themselves first? And, still, they will thank Piltover General for their generosity.”
Jayce doesn’t really know how to respond to that. It isn’t that he’s ignorant of what goes on in Zaun, the steep class divides that still exist between the twin cities. Fraternal, obviously. Viktor, though, levels a softer expression than before at Jayce, warming a little in the wake of his rant.
“At the very least,” he adds, warmth quickly turning downright teasing, “I get to have you comfortable for your first time. Not quite a bed, but it’ll do.”
Viktor gestures to the bed with a wry little smile.
Jayce laughs, more breath than sound. “You make it sound like prom night.”
Viktor smirks again. “Trust me. I’d be wearing better shoes. And I’d have brought that fancy-ass cane you had made for me last Christmas instead of the fomite-free, hospital-approved one.”
“Sit for a minute,” Viktor says after a beat of silence that has Jayce rubbing his sweaty palms down the pockets of his scrub pants.
Viktor motions Jayce toward a small upholstered chair tucked into the corner of the room, rather than toward the bed. It isn’t particularly inviting. It’s too low and it’s upholstered in stiff vinyl colored in that institutional blue hospitals seem to love, though it fades unevenly with age and use and more disinfectant than any one object should ever encounter. But it’s a place to sit after a hellishly long shift, so it will simply have to do. He sinks into it and the seat gives a high-pitched squeak beneath his weight that makes his ears burn with residual embarrassment.
Not even a transition as drastic as his can erase growing up a chubby girl.
Viktor, by contrast, paper weight and stick light, takes the rolling stool at the foot of the bed. It’s one of the saddle-styles he insists on using whenever he’s working. He always says they’re better on his hip, something about the way it keeps his center of mass for better alignment , and he isn’t afraid to force the hospital to supply them under the guise of ADA compliance.
“You and your fancy orthopedic horse tack,” Jayce mutters with an eye roll. He crosses his arms and leans back in his creaking chair.
Viktor raises an eyebrow, shifting on his waist back and forth to settle in. “It is good for my hip.” Yes, he knows. Please take the joke as it is. “And better for long labors. Unlike some of us, I don’t get to just bolt titanium into people willy-nilly and then leave. Babies are on their own timelines.”
Jayce laughs, some of the tension leaving his body for the moment. The jab has no real bite.
“Pretty sure you just like how easy it is to roll around and do your little labor coach stretches,” he snorts
He’s doing them now too, little back and forth shifts
“I do like mobility,” Viktor admits with a shrug. “And joints that still work by the end of a twelve-hour shift.”
Viktor wheels himself over to the rolling metal cart beside the bed and drags it alongside himself to come to a stop in front of Jayce. His face is gentle, but serious, professional and no-nonsense. There’s a strange sense of distance between them. This is a version of Viktor he’s only ever seen in bits and pieces before.
“Alright,” he begins, nudging the tray between them. “I’m going to walk you through exactly what I’ll be doing.”
He sounds soft, soothing and warm, voice pitched low like you might do when trying to calm a wounded animal. It’s only then that Jayce realizes that his hands have migrated to grip the armrests of his chair hard enough to make the plastic creak and his foot has started a restless tapping.
Oh. Jayce is, in fact, the wounded animal here. No. Not a wounded animal. Simply a patient. And Viktor is his physician.
He’s treating this as a real appointment, rather than some favor or compromise. He’s not just some idiot friend he’s decided to strong-arm into a late-night pelvic exam with vague boundaries and too much history between them to name. Jayce is a real patient to Viktor. A nervous first-timer who deserves care and information and reassurance just as much as any other, M.D. next to his name or not.
Jayce supposes, in hindsight, that’s exactly what this is. Less high schooler dragged in by a helicopter parent for STI testing and an IUD, and more twenty-nine years of self-neglect, avoidance, and dysphoria stacked on top of each other like a garbage fire waiting to collapse.
“You’re really doing the whole script, huh?” Jayce asks after what is probably too much silence.
Viktor smirks. “Of course I am. You’re going to get the full experience tonight Jayce. Perhaps you will learn a coping skill or two and be able to make your own appointments in the future, hm?”
"Rude. I'm not anxious enough where I can't make phone calls."
"Right, and when a telemarketer puts you on the spot you actually lead them on instead of hanging up? Yes, no, yes, no, ARGH, I'm so sorrythankyouverymuch."
He's leveled with a look that could kill god.
Unscathed, Viktor lifts a metal speculum from the tray and turns it over in the light. The screw mechanism is loose and makes a soft clanking sound as Viktor moves it around.
“This is the speculum I’ll be using tonight. I know it may look a little intimidating, but I promise it won’t hurt. It might feel like pressure, but it shouldn’t be painful. If it is, I want you to tell me and we’ll stop. Understood?”
Jayce nods warily. “Why did you choose metal instead of plastic? They make the disposable ones now, right?”
"Someone did his homework," Viktor says with a grin, and Jayce sinks his head down from between his shoulders at the too warm pit that Viktor might think Jayce wanted this, him, in this direction of knowledge. “It’s a good question. This one is a medium-sized Pedersen. Typically we use it for patients that haven’t given birth, and it works well for most patients. It’s a bit narrower than some of the others, so it’s less likely to cause discomfort.”
He flexes the handles gently and the screw mechanism clicks again. He stills it between his fingers.
“The metal ones might look scarier, I know,” he continues. “But honestly, they’re smoother and less prone to pinching than the disposable plastic ones. Sometimes, the plastic can have little seams or edges that catch. Metal slides better. I can heat it under warm water if you’re worried about the cold.”
A small, wry smile curves his lips.
“Though, for some patients, the coolness is actually soothing rather than a shock. It’s just a matter of preference.”
Oh. Oh.
"I trust your professional opinion, Viktor." Where the need to use 'professional' came from is beyond him because of course this isn't anything else, but is it? "Whatever you think will be most comfortable is fine with me. ...Especially if you practice patient right to refuse any part of care? That'd be even more comfortable."
“No.”
It was worth the try.
Viktor sets the speculum back on the tray, fingers lingering for a moment as if considering contingencies.
“Don’t worry. I have plastic backups and different sizes just in case. We’ll adjust as we go. Remember, nothing about this exam should hurt. Always know you can tell me to stop or wait or slow down at any time.”
“So you’ve said, Vik—”
Viktor makes sharp eye contact, making sure Jayce is really hearing him.
“You’re in charge here, Jayce. I’m just the hands doing the work.”
Jayce nods, throat growing a little dry. He's not going to make another jab at the fact Viktor denied his ability to leave without an exam because he's just worried for him. Jayce feels bad for making Viktor worry. He also feels bad he feels a little…strange that it's Viktor, and concern about the exam itself has shifted to Viktor finding out. Still, he can't do anything about it so he hopes Vik brushes it off to second-base jitters.
Not that– Not that this is sexual or anything, definitely not.
"Got it," he ends up saying.
Next, Viktor holds up a sealed, sterile package with a slim instrument inside. It’s a tool that looks frighteningly similar to the brush he uses to clean the inside of reusable straws when he does the dishes.
“This one is the cytobrush,” he explains, calm and even. “It might feel a little bristly, but it isn’t painful. I’ll use this to collect cells from your cervix for the Pap smear.”
He sets it down and reaches for another long tool. This one is larger and has softer-looking silicone. It reminds Jayce of a baster.
“Vik, are you doing medical tests or trussing me up like a Thanksgiving turkey?”
Viktor pauses a moment, expression cycling between a second of silent shock and a shuttering, as if to hide something.
“There will be no, ah, ‘trussing up’ tonight, Jayce. These are all normal medical tools.” His features seem sharper than before, voice tighter.
Jayce feels like a scolded child. Heat rises into his face and a low fluttering settles deep in his stomach, separate from the fear-butterflies.
Viktor lifts a pair of forceps next, blunted tips for holding something… delicate. Jayce shivers.
“You don’t have to worry about these,” Viktor calms, and Jayce blushes at being so easy to read. "They’re just for placing gauze if I need to clean any discharge off the cervix. You might feel something a little scratchy if that happens, but nothing painful.”
"Is there usually a lot?" Jayce blurts out.
Viktor stares at him again, hawk-like precision as his pupils dilate slightly. "I'm sorry?"
Jayce struggles with not seeming too much of an idiot about his own biology. "I just...I know some people are...different, and of course this exam isn't the most pleasant, me aside, and there's the whole aspect of self-cleaning or...other triggers. Is there usually a lot that comes out of the cervix in anticipation from your experience? It's just a question. I'm. Curious. About my hormone response comparison. I don't know."
Viktor continues to stare at him, this time with his mouth a little open. Jayce, certainly, did not just essentially ask Viktor if he's going to be wetter than usual during this process. Not at all. There was nothing odd about what he said. It's scientific curiosity strictly about the manner of relay, secretions flowing as the effect of the pituitary’s cause. He has no conscious control over that. It's worth the ask. Jayce isn't much of a wet guy anyway, needing most of his fantasies to be very specific and in his bed although admittedly the other part of the equation is right in front of him. Not like this though. Definitely not like this.
Viktor looks around his periphery, first down then to the side, and then to the other side. He places the forceps carefully back on the tray in favor of picking up a sealed pack. It's familiar.
"Standard supplies."
Oh, so he fucked up. Viktor's just going to ignore him then, because this was about him and it looks like Jayce is trying to deflect. That's stupid. He's stupid.
"Gloves, gauze… and lubricant." Viktor continues. The emphasis makes Jayce look up. "Most do not have enough mucous production to accommodate even a finger as we know, so getting in, you have to learn the limits as you push and pull. Like you're testing the lightness of the gas pedal on a car. Once we get to the cervix, usually it is clean and we can see, but other times there can be a plug. It's thicker, more viscous than what you're thinking of versus what comes from the Bartholin's or the Skene's, or the canal itself. So, the short answer to your question is: no. I do not expect much, if any. However, we also know that the cervix, when relaxed enough, can produce as much that we can call it...eh, ejaculation."
Jayce blinks. "What did you just say?"
Viktor looks entirely too calm now compared to only minutes before. Jayce liked him a little anxious, but now he's just too cool for his liking.
Instead, he looks at the instruments lined up in neat rows, curiosity and apprehension tangled up in equal measure. It reminds him a little of watching someone handle reptiles as a child; a little terrifying but fascinating all the same.
"Jayce."
He snaps up to automatic attention despite the cottony feeling he's starting to get in his head.
"I will talk you through every part as I go, you understand? You won't ever be left wondering what is happening to your body, no matter how foreign it might feel to you. I promise to look after you to the very end, Jayce. I will make this experience something to quell your anxiety."
Jayce nods, not eager, but definitely bobbing a little too fast. He's a little dizzy. Viktor's tone has been casual up till now, but its sudden seriousness isn't off-putting. He just cannot keep looking at him while he swears oaths to Jayce's comfort.
"I understand," he says.
"Good."
Viktor places a hand on his knee, squeezing it lightly. It feels nice.
“You’ve definitely given this speech more than a few times,” Jayce chuckles.
“I have,” Viktor admits. “But I still mean every word of it. I will look after your body like it’s my own.”
Without giving Jayce time to reply, Viktor wheels himself back to the cabinet on the wall. He opens it, taking a small stack of crisp, folded fabric. The top article is pale blue. A hospital gown, Jayce realizes, heart rate ticking up. This is all getting far too real. Too imminent. Below it is a white sheet.
“These are clean,” Viktor says, offering the pile to Jayce with deliberate gentleness. They smell like starch and bleach, just like all the other hospital linens. “Wear the gown so it opens in the front. You can close the ties with a single knot bow. Remove everything, top and bottom. When you’re ready, sit on the end of the bed. The sheet goes across your lap for modesty. I’ll knock before I come back in. Take your time.”
Jayce takes the bundle more clumsily than he should. They’re just linens, but they feel far too heavy in this moment. He nods again, non-verbal, swallowing around the dryness in his throat, all his fluids rerouting to keep his blood pumping too quick as adrenaline threatens to flood his system. His body can’t tell the difference between needing to survive a stat surgery and accepting care.
Viktor, perhaps sensing that Jayce needs some space to process, or simply feeling the awkward panic blooming in Jayce’s chest, doesn’t linger. He stands with the help of his cane and turns toward the door.
The very moment that Viktor steps out, the soothing warmth of his familiar presence leaves too. The soft click of the door shutting rings louder than it should.
The silence that follows is heavy.
Jayce closes his eyes for a moment and inhales slowly, a grounding technique given to him by the otherwise rather useless therapist he’d seen in high school. Still, he counts the breath in for four, holds it for four, then out for eight. He focuses on the white noise from the ceiling speaker that carries on, soft and meaningless. It helps. If only a little.
There are, blessedly, no mirrors in this room. There are no gleaming metal trays or reflective tables or equipment to catch his distorted reflection in. It’s a small mercy that he can’t see himself right now, but that doesn’t stop him from feeling the physical sensations of his body, flesh and muscle and fat moving overtop each other as his fingers drift to the hem of his scrub top. He’s but a child and his security blanket has just walked out of the room, leaving him with nothing but the monsters in his closet.
He pulls it over his head with a practiced motion, but as the fabric lifts away, his hands hesitate. They skim over his chest, tracing the now-familiar ridges of scar tissue that run beneath each pectoral. The skin there is dusky, raised in the memory of old wounds long since healed.
The scars are just a part of him now, as much a fixture of his body as any of the other things he’d gained through his transition — the jawline he’d whittled out through years of hormone injections, the stubble that darkens his chin by the end of a long shift, threatening a truly magnificent beard should he stop shaving for a week. He’d started working out the same week he’d started T, and as the muscle built, it replaced the overly-feminine curves and too-heavy baby fat he’d had once upon a time. Sometimes he sees himself as a sculpture, the definition in his arms and abs and pecs and thighs carved not from stone, but from determination and medical intervention.
And it’s all his.
Most days, he doesn’t really stop to think about his transition anymore. He passes well enough that he doesn’t have to put much of his already limited mental energy into dysphoria. The scars have become an intrinsic part of him, as they're supposed to, the outer surface finally matching what he feels inside. But there was a time when his arms and hips and chest had been padded in enough adipose tissue that he’d nearly suffocated in his binder, and he still boasted some of the largest breasts in the ninth grade. Not that he wanted to boast. That's just how everyone else felt. Even though the scars have become more familiar, they still ache faintly with the memories of what they show. They will match the ones inside him for a long time, if not forever.
Tonight, to his dismay, he is thinking about it. Every inch of his most hidden places will be seen and examined.
The left cut catches under his fingertips, a knot of raised tissue just beneath his armpit, where the healing hadn’t gone quite to plan. The keloid there is thick, uneven, and a little ugly. It isn’t quite as bad as it used to be, not since he’d started properly treating it, but it’ll always be there to some degree.
He’s a surgeon. He knows, clinically, that it isn’t an uncommon surgical complication. It barely classifies as a complication at all. Healing varies with skin type, genetics, degree of trauma, and a whole host of other things. He’d known the risks going in. He also knows his nipple graft on that side had nearly failed. It had gone white and sluggish with threatened necrosis before it finally pinked back up. He’d lost most of the sensation, but it was intact. He was lucky. That’s what he tells himself.
The rational part of his brain continues to hum clinical reassurances. The same things he’d tell a patient in this exact position if he were their surgeon. Scars don’t diminish the validity of a result. Healing is nonlinear. Bodies do their best, even when the outcomes aren’t tidy.
Unfortunately, that part of his brain isn’t the one in control right now, and neither is he. He isn’t the physician tonight. He’s the patient. He’s Viktor’s patient.
None of that detached, rehearsed logic stops the tightness from rising as he shoves his pants and boxers down, nor the slight tremble in his hands as he unfolds the hospital gown. The blue cotton is soft, worn from hundreds of washes. But it doesn’t quite feel like clothing. Too threadbare.
He still feels naked when he puts it on.
He slides it over his arms, wraps it across his chest, fingers fumbling with the tie. He has to sit for a moment after that, let the blood return to his face. Let his heart stop racing like he’s preparing for combat.
Jayce lowers himself onto the bed. It’s soft, far more comfortable than he expected, almost too forgiving. Still, his leg bounces restlessly, thigh jiggling as he pulls the white sheet across his lap.
He grips the fabric a little too tightly, knuckles paling around the threads. He’s back to his breathing exercises, trying not to hyperventilate himself into a vasovagal reaction before Viktor can even come back in.
He’ll be back soon.
Jayce tries to give himself a little bit of a pep talk.
“Okay, Talis. It’s Viktor. This is fine. Normal even. Viktor is your friend and colleague. He’s a professional. And what’s a pelvic exam between friends, really?”
He feels a little like he should be admitted onto the fourth floor.
This is fine. It has to be. It’s completely normal to feel anxious about medical procedures. And what is it they say? Doctors make the worst patients. Isn’t that the damned truth? Here he is speaking to himself over a standard outpatient diagnostic test—
“—except your best friend is going to be wrist-deep in your reproductive anatomy and you’re in love with him. No big deal at all.”
He clutches the sheet impossibly tighter, pinning the edges securely beneath him as if that’s going to offer any true concealment. Viktor is going to see the most vulnerable parts of him, every inch laid bare. Viktor's going to look at his chest and palpate the tissue with the old hardened scars and make notes about the asymmetry, the order to watch out just to be sure even though so much has been removed. Just like any other patient. He's still at risk for those strange testy things, issues a part of his past, but still intrinsically a part of himself. He’s going to slide fingers inside Jayce with gentle care through the barrier of a glove, open him up with a speculum so Viktor can visualize his deepest parts.
Frankly, it’s not how he imagined this happening.
He knows Viktor’s a professional down to his creaky bones. It’s one of the many things he loves about Viktor.
And yeah. That’s the problem, isn’t it?
He’s been in love with Viktor since their second year of med school. He’d been such a little gunner, correcting professors mid-lecture with that cool, dry tone of his and not even blinking when he was right. All that quiet confidence. And then Jayce found out that Viktor played piano and coded websites as a damn hobby and took a minor in biomedical engineering just to better understand their colleagues on the other side of the aisle.
Then they were assigned as roommates junior year and Viktor was not at all what he expected. He smoked an incredible amount of flower for pain relief, burning patchouli incense to try and cover the smell. It didn’t really work, but he’d flashed his counterfeit medical card—because what boy from Zaun could afford the diagnostic tests he needed to acquire one—at the RA, and had read him to absolute filth for his ableist attitude. Then he’d thrown a research paper at him on the efficacy of medical marijuana and told him he should go back to freshman year or find a new profession altogether if he couldn’t be bothered to learn about pain management. The RA never bothered them for smoking again.
Later that semester, Jayce got the flu right before finals. Viktor had done their entire group project alone because he didn’t trust the rest of their peers to get it right. Viktor brought him soup and let Jayce cough into his chest all night while he worked.
Professional. Brilliant. Attentive. Ridiculously attractive in a "please step on me, Sir" kind of way.
And now he’s going to touch Jayce as his doctor. He’ll be all kind and gentle. And completely unaffected.
Jayce, for his part, refuses to moan. He is not going to get hard. Absolutely not. Goddamn it. He’s never cursed his bottom growth before; he’s quite proud of it, in fact. But right now? Consider it a new anxiety unlocked.
He shifts in place. The longer Viktor takes outside, doing whatever he’s doing out there, the higher he has a chance to spiral. He tries to go back to the cyclical breathing, to pretend like the heat building low in his belly is nothing but residual tension from the stress of the OR. Maybe the appendix he no longer has is bursting or he’s turning into a vampire Twilight-style, blood sugar crashed. It can be anything but what it really is: the unbearable anticipation from the thought of being touched in ways he’s only dared to fantasize about under the category of “yeah, as if” by the man who stars in all of those fantasies, alone in the dark.
Searching for any distraction, Jayce’s eyes flick toward the tray.
Against his better judgement, he leans over a little and lifts the corner of the small paper napkin draped over the instruments.
There they are.
Without Viktor’s soothing commentary, the collection of tools looks… Terrifying.
The surgical steel of the speculum catches the soft light from the overhead fixture. It’s bigger than he remembers seeing them in Viktor’s capable hands (things always seem to be smaller in them), but that could just be the nerves talking.
Jayce presses back against the bed, trying to slow his heart. He knows he’s taken far larger things into his body before. He’s a man with a healthy sex drive. He owns toys. He’s explored. Despite not having partners, he’s not naive.
It’s not going to feel all that different.
Which is exactly the problem.
In those moments where he’s experimented with stimulation, he’d been in control. He’d choose the timing, the angle, the depth. The sensory feedback loop between his hand and his brain and his body is a thing of wonder. He wouldn’t be on his back while the friend he’s in love with tests his anatomy for health concerns.
He needs to get it together. He slams his eyes closed and reaches for any of the other techniques he’d learned in his limited therapy sessions.
Footsteps walk outside the door.
Time’s up.
There’s a soft knock. Jayce flinches like he’s been punched.
“Come in,” he attempts. It comes out too thin, strained and barely above a whisper.
Viktor must hear him, or perhaps the knock was simply a formality, because the door opens a moment later. Viktor slips back into the room quietly. The only sound is a soft tap every other step. He doesn’t speak right away, just gives Jayce a small, calm nod of acknowledgement as he crosses to the far wall to lean his cane in the corner.
Viktor returns to the rolling saddle stool, lowering himself onto it gingerly. He scoots across the floor with his good foot, maneuvering toward the small sink in the corner. The water runs warm, gently steaming in the low light. Jayce tries to focus on the serene sound the water makes as it spills into the metal basin over Viktor’s lean hands that make everything small, like Jayce’s problems. The pre-exam hygiene is familiar, well-practiced by any medical worker. Even though he’ll be using gloves, Viktor diligently scrubs up to his wrists.
Viktor is calm, unhurried. He’s moving extra slow tonight, but it doesn’t seem like his rheumatic joints or overly stretchy connective tissues are particularly bothersome right now. No. He’s going slow just so he doesn’t scare Jayce. He watches quietly as Viktor dries his hands on a folded blue paper towel.
It’s somehow more mortifying than anything else.
Finally, Viktor turns around and wheels his stool a little closer to the bedside and looks at Jayce with gentle consideration. “Still with me?”
He jolts and nods quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”
He is not, in fact, good.
Jayce’s body is wired so tight he feels like he might shake apart from the inside. He wants to crawl out of his own skin, bolt upright and say never mind, call it off, pretend this never happened. But that would be worse, wouldn’t it? To back out. To give up.
Still, Viktor smirks subtly at his too-fast answer, but there’s a knowing and a gentleness underneath it. He doesn’t call Jayce out or push him to say more than he’s ready to.
Jayce would be wasting Viktor’s time and care and consideration and gentleness and lo— his time. He’d be wasting his time and nothing more if he backed out.
And what else is he supposed to say anyway? That he feels like a coiled spring, vibrating with tension? That this whole situation has its fingers in parts of his brain and deep under his skin in an uncomfortable stretch like when a hunter skins an animal, rending fascia from flesh.
Viktor pushes the stool right up the side of the bed.
“We’ll start with the chest exam, if that’s alright with you?”
Icy panic seizes him, heart palpitating so hard it feels like it might break right through his sternum in some inside-out sternotomy, more blood and gore than the ER at 2 AM on a full moon in the middle of retrograde after some intern declared it a quiet night right in front of the nurses’ station on his first rotation. For a moment, his vision blurs, and he swears his jaw aches. His left arm feels like lead and surely some well-meaning nurse fresh off the NCLEX is going to tell him he’s about to become very very popular right before the code sounds.
Snap. Snap. Snap-snap.
Viktor’s fingers in front of his face. Defibrillation of the highest caliber.
“What? Uh— yeah—” His voice cracks painfully and he coughs, sucking in a much needed breath. “Yeah. Chest exam. You got it, doc.”
Viktor’s brow raises, but he doesn’t press. He’d been tasked with taking Jayce to the hospital too many times in undergrad when Jayce was certain he’d been having a heart attack. He'd end up walking out at four in the morning on the day of an exam holding paperwork with a referral to psychiatry while Jayce toddled behind with his bottle of Xanax, hypochondriac and general anxiety probable cause. Eh, it helped with the exam in the end when you're a walking encyclopedia of fears. Now, however, not so much.
Viktor just kind of stares at him a moment expectantly, then, realizing that Jayce is just sort of sitting there, he reaches out to fluff the crinkly pillow at the head of the gurney.
“You will need to lie back Jayce.”
With a shudder and an awkward scootch back that he knows will need to be reversed later, Jayce lurches like he’s been tased. His legs dangle off the edge for just a moment before Viktor grabs a lever below and pulls the extension from where it hides behind them so that Jayce can lay flat. His legs are pressed together, knees tight enough to hold an aspirin, toes pointed stiffly out from underneath the white sheet. His mama would be proud of that at least.
Viktor wheels himself closer to the head of the bed and places a warm hand firmly on Jayce’s shoulder. He doesn’t offer any more words, but his thumb rubs three times over his acromioclavicular joint. Jayce looks up into Viktor’s sharp features looming over him, comforting and familiar. Without his conscious consent, his body starts to relax.
“Alright,” Viktor murmurs. “We’ll begin on the right side. Can you open your gown and lift your arm for me and rest it above your head?”
Jayce takes a breath, deep and slow, and does as instructed. The blue ties tug as he pulls the little bow apart, and he leaves the fabric where it is. It shifts, letting in a draft of cool hospital air as he lifts his arm, and he can feel his right nipple pebble up. The motion tugs a little at the scar tissue near his armpit. It’s just sensation, no pain, but it grounds him, anchors him in his own body.
Viktor gently folds back the front of the gown, baring the right side of Jayce’s chest. The room isn’t cold, but he shivers at the rush all the same.
Deep inside, there’s still a part of him who was raised a Catholic schoolgirl who blanches at feeling so naked and exposed, but Viktor’s gaze settles in on his bared chest and it’s focused and clinical rather than invasive with a leer. He takes comfort in it, though some deep and irrational place of pride aches.
“You’re going to feel me touch now,” Viktor says. “Let me know if anything’s uncomfortable or if you need me to pause, alright?”
“Okay,” Jayce says, the word barely audible.
And then Viktor’s touching him.
Viktor starts under his armpit, pressing carefully with both hands. Jayce’s body pulls away a little instinctively, ticklish in such a tender and vulnerable place, instinct telling him to protect the multitude of very necessary nerves and muscles and tendons and arteries. His breath huffs out and he tries to relax.
Viktor’s fingers are warm, methodical as they move in little circles, palpating the lymph nodes and differentiating the leftover tissue of his now flat pectorals from anything Rounded and Bad. It’s normal. Routine. Viktor’s thumbs press, searching, and his eyes close so he can see better through them.
He’d learned this exact procedure during his rotations in medical school. He’d learned this exact touch pattern before he’d come out as a pre-teen from his GP—it’s important to start practicing self-care when you start to fill out. It isn’t scary or invasive, it’s just health. It’s just Viktor’s hands on his body, pressing and assessing.
Viktor’s hands.
His body doesn’t know what to do with this. Viktor is only checking for abnormalities like unnatural texture or lumps, maybe even bumps. It should be even easier now that the ductal tissue is gone and his hormones are different. There shouldn’t be any concerns about whether something is clogged or cancerous or calcification. It isn’t scary or invasive, it’s just health.
Now that he’s thinking about it more, alone, in his head, there’s no real need to do this, huh? Huh.
Most of his brain understands this in a clinical way. Some unbearable part of it is very aware that Viktor’s palms are warm and nice. The pressure is firm, indenting gently around the sensitive skin of his scars, moving with a reverence that isn’t strictly necessary. Viktor’s fingers are tracing the edges of skin Jayce rarely lets anyone see, let alone touch. That part is anything but clinical.
He goes shirtless in the summer now, a truly euphoric blessing of surgery, but he hasn’t ever let anyone outside of his doctors touch him here. Not for any other reason than there simply hasn’t been anyone he’d want touching him. Well. Not anyone who he should want touching him. Just Viktor. And now he is, and it makes Jayce feel bare in more ways than one.
He hitches, soft in his throat. He prays Viktor doesn’t hear it.
When Viktor reaches the scarred edge of Jayce’s pectoral, Jayce tenses slightly, just enough to register in his breath. It’s not painful. It’s…ticklish in a different way than his armpit had been. A weird, reflexive sensation that dances just beneath the skin, more annoying than uncomfortable.
His breath stutters, and he has to fight the urge to squirm, jaw tightening to keep still.
Viktor doesn’t really react. He doesn’t tease or pause like he might in any other situation. He just moves steadily past, over the smooth flatness, up toward his collarbone with practiced, professional ease.
“Everything feels normal so far,” Viktor murmurs, fingertips pressing gently into the hollow near Jayce’s clavicle. “Any tenderness?”
“No, uh—” Jayce clears his throat. “No pain. I’m just a little ticklish, is all.”
He leaves out how his brain feels like it’s short-circuiting and every touch is sending signals suddenly to the wrong places.
“Good.” Viktor’s voice is even, calm. “You’re doing well, Jayce. I’m going to move to the other side now.”
That certainly didn’t help.
Jayce doesn’t know why that gets to him. Okay, maybe that isn’t exactly true. He knows why it gets to him, but the reasoning is entirely inappropriate and he isn’t very interested in admitting it. Something in his chest and in his gut tightens, a subtle coil of hot nerves that tugs at something far deeper. He stares up at the ceiling, feels his corneas burn from the soft, soft, warm light overhead. Only the eyes, nothing else. That’s better. Anything to distract from the way he’s too aware of Viktor’s hands.
Viktor gingerly tucks the right side of the gown back down and wheels his chair around to the other side of the bed.
Jayce tracks Viktor as he moves, precise and still unhurried. It makes his nerves spike regardless, but he finds himself settling a little when Viktor is back at his side. The air is cool against his skin now rather than sharp, but not as cold as the unease curling low in his stomach.
The left side of his chest is just…different. He went over this, but it somehow remains sudden.
Viktor folds the gown open again with careful fingers, exposing the more heavily scarred tissue.
“Same thing here. Arm up.”
Jayce obeys, lifting his arm above his head.
“Good. Just like that.”
Curling low, and lower still.
Viktor starts, once again, under the armpit. It’s just like before, firm pressure, slow and methodical circles. But this time, Jayce doesn’t feel the ticklish sensation as much. It’s muted. The touch is there, but dulled. He isn’t nearly as twitchy or sensitive on this side, the edge that grounds him gone. The exam happens distantly through thick layers of downy cotton. Viktor must notice because his fingertips dig slightly, lingering at the knotted scar tissue running beneath Jayce’s arm.
Viktor notices, but that raises the concern: what else is he noticing?
“Less sensation here?” His tone is mildly curious. Still clinical, but laced with just enough care to let Jayce know he’s paying attention to him.
Jayce shifts a little on the bed, eyes still on the ceiling though he’s beginning to squint. “Uh, yeah. Been like that since the surgery.”
Viktor hums, a thoughtful sound, and his fingers follow the line of the thickest scar running under Jayce’s arm. Jayce can’t feel much of it directly, of course, but he knows exactly where Viktor’s hands are and that he’s being gentle, even when he doesn’t have to be.
“Healing was harder on this side?”
Jayce exhales sharply. “Yeah. Got a keloid there. It’s not bad now, but at first?” He huffs a short laugh, dry and humorless. “It was a mess. Itched like hell, stretched weird. Probably because I had more to work with. I was, uh, never symmetrical.”
God he’s rambling now. He laughs though it’s not really funny.
He pauses, then adds, perhaps too casually: “Didn’t heal near as pretty as yours, Vik.”
Jayce regrets saying it immediately. He didn’t mean to bring up the difference between them, didn’t mean to compare their scars. It was never a fair fight to begin with. Vik was slight enough that he was eligible for Keyhole. He’s got nearly no scars to speak of. Healed up beautifully.
Viktor doesn’t even blink at his faux pas. Doesn’t correct him or brush it off or try to understand it away. He just continues with professionalism.
“That is common, Jay. The more tissue a patient is working with, the higher the risk of hypertrophic scarring. You’re a surgeon. You know this. It doesn’t mean anything went wrong or that you did anything wrong. Your surgeon did excellent work.” He pauses for a moment as his fingers finish the last press around the most knotted part of the scar. “I just needed to make sure that the irregularities in shape were benign and not new or developing.”
Jayce doesn’t have much to say to that, so he just nods, and Viktor doesn’t dwell.
He finishes his last few palpations, moving easily along the length of Jayce’s pec, no rush or judgement in his thoroughness.
When he’s done, Viktor reaches for the gown again, moving it back into place over Jayce’s chest. His hands, warm from touch despite how cold Jayce feels, brush over Jayce’s skin as he adjusts the fabric. Clinical. Normal.
Jayce tells himself it’s normal, anyway.
He might be covered back up, but he still feels seen in a way he can’t quite put words to.
Finally, Viktor smooths the modesty sheet back into place, pressing lightly against Jayce’s sternum in a final, grounding gesture. There, it is done. That wasn’t so bad, right? It isn’t strictly necessary, but it is friendly. Normal, for them. Two friends. Best friends. Jayce doesn’t mind.
Viktor has always been so good to him.
“Everything looks great,” Viktor says, patting Jayce’s shoulder with practiced reassurance. The next part of this exam is going to be much more difficult. He’ll take the comfort where he can get it. “Feels good too,” he adds, thoughtless and casual. Viktor’s fingers are long enough that he nearly brushes Jayce’s nipple in the process.
Jayce chokes. Well, almost. His brain certainly short-circuits, his ears burn hot enough to combust, and Viktor doesn’t even seem to realize what he just said. Or what he just did.
He simply wheels his stool down toward the foot of the bed, entirely and infuriatingly unbothered. Business as usual.
Jayce abruptly feels like this is no longer business as usual.
His reservations about this process linger, despite one part of his dysphoria being addressed already. It’s still only 20% of what makes this… unnecessary in his mind. Jayce knows what’s coming, but the knowing doesn’t make it easier. If anything, it makes it all so much worse. It’s half the problem, really. Like anticipating an earthquake and still being shocked when the walls start to shake.
Anticipation. That’s new.
The anxiety hasn’t waned since the beginning, just shifted and mutated with each new step. He tells himself it’s just nerves, the fact that this is all new for him. He’s experiencing vulnerability in a way that should make him feel more empathetic towards his patients and how they feel in the moments when the anesthesiologist is counting down and they’re looking up at him as the lights go out, trusting him not to mutilate or violate them. It isn’t a bad thing.
Until, that is, Viktor is reaching down to unfold the stirrups from the sides of the exam table, fiddling with them until the mechanisms click into place. He adjusts them with smooth, practiced movements, tugging them into the right angles.
Jayce’s mind reminds him loudly of some very particular anxieties, and his body floods him with an entirely new wave of panic. The anticipation, newly fruited, makes it worse in a positive feedback that flows straight to his shameful erection.
It’s something he’s normally quite proud of, even cocky about in certain contexts. It is also going to undoubtedly give him away and Viktor will no longer be the security blanket to cover himself with. It’s a new wave of the fresh hell of his panic.
And it is shameful. Because it’s not just a terror boner. He’s aroused.
This particular fear alone might be one of the most gender affirming experiences in his life, and he’s not even able to enjoy it because he really is about to be found out.
Jayce tries to play off the way he’s forcing himself to take too-deep, too-loud breaths. Viktor doesn’t know what Jayce does and is completely unbothered, and isn’t that just so much worse, somehow? The lie by omission is heavy and thick, some horrible contradictory knot four times the size of the keloid scar.
“Okay, Jayce,” Viktor says, voice low and even, “I’m going to help you get into position. The stirrups are a little wider than what you might be expecting, but they should actually be pretty comfortable.”
Jayce nods stiffly, heart throbbing in his thorax.
His body doesn’t want to move. Every instinct screams no! To close up, clamp down, cross his legs, cover up. But Viktor just waits. He doesn’t push or rush, despite having worked a truly evil double and he has to be exhausted.
That patience is the only thing that allows Jayce to move at all.
He exhales again. Forces himself to shift. Slowly, under the sheet, he lifts one leg at a time, placing his feet into the stirrups. Viktor’s hands find his ankles, guiding him gently, adjusting the angle with practiced ease so Jayce doesn’t have to fumble or flail for balance. It doesn’t help Jayce’s other problem to feel the way Viktor’s fingertips slide over his ankle bones.
The stirrups are comfortable, shockingly so. Covered in that same soft, jersey-like fabric as the sheets. Plush. Forgiving.
Viktor talks him through it, never stopping.
“Go ahead and bend your knees a little for me. Good. Now just rest your feet. Yeah, just like that. See?” A soft smile in his voice. “I’ve got you.”
That really isn’t helping the situation.
Jayce moves sluggishly, but eventually he’s in position. Sort of. He’s too aware of how his thighs are spread, and even though the sheet is still there to give the illusion of modesty, it doesn’t. Not really. He’s still hard, and his mind’s erection is poking right through his flimsy layer of self-comfort.
“You’re doing great, Jayce,” Viktor coaches. Jayce bites his lip. “Scoot down a little. Keep going. Yeah, I know it feels weird, but you’re good. I won’t let you fall. I need you right at the edge here.”
Jayce moves, drags himself down until the base of his spine is at the very end of the bed. He hates how exposed he feels, how his body tenses automatically in response. He knows the positioning is necessary and there’s really no other way to do this, but he doesn’t have to like it. He clutches at the sheet in his lap, poor comfort that it is.
His fingers are clenched tight like before, when Viktor wasn’t there, white-knuckled and sweating. A small act of control. A lifeline. He feels new shame that Viktor isn’t enough now.
“This is the worst fucking position I’ve ever been in,” Jayce bitches, half under his breath because he doesn’t want to upset Viktor, and more importantly he doesn’t want Viktor to be upset with him. But he can’t help it. “I should never have agreed to this.”
The words are more for himself, really. A release valve.
Viktor pointedly ignores the second half of Jayce’s complaint.
“You and every patient I’ve ever seen,” he says simply, like he’s repeating a line he’s said a hundred times before.
And maybe he has.
Somehow the words touch him in a bad way, worse than any mistake Viktor’s kind, gentle fingers could make.
You aren’t special. Not here.
Just another patient. Just another set of anatomy. Viktor’s kindness doesn’t falter, but the words still land wrong. A hot pang somewhere in his chest. He doesn’t want to be just another patient to Viktor. Doesn’t want this to be routine.
He doesn’t want it to be professional if someone’s down there, looking at the deeper parts of him, and maybe that’s the whole problem.
“But I promise,” Viktor continues, his voice gentle, unwavering, “it isn’t nearly as bad as your brain is making it out to be.”
Easy for him to say. He’s the one sitting comfortably on his stool. Good on his hips. Even weight distribution. He’s not the one with his legs spread and his ass hanging off the edge of the bed, skin prickling, chest open, shame crawling up his throat like bile.
Janna fucking above, Jay. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about any of it.
Viktor moves with quiet, practiced purpose as he begins to glove up and prepare his station.
The snap of the nitrile is far too sharp in the quiet of the room, the white noise now grinding like sand.
Jayce flinches.
It shouldn’t affect him like this. It’s not a new sound. It’s one he hears every day. He’s a surgeon. He’s made that sound thousands of times himself in preparation to work on his own patients. But this time, it’s Viktor’s hands inside the gloves. Viktor’s long, pale fingers, now sheathed in a dark indigo.
It sends a quiver straight down Jayce’s spine, and, surprisingly, it has nothing to do with fear.
He peels open the sterile packaging on the collection brushes, setting each one into a smaller disposable tray alongside the labeled sample cup. Everything is laid out with care, precise and tidy.
Then comes the soft pop of lube packets being opened. Jayce swears he can hear the squish of gel being squeezed out, the faint wet click as Viktor arranges them into neat rows beside the tray. Efficient. Unhurried.
What Viktor doesn’t know is that he probably won’t even need the lube in the first place, if the odd clenching in Jayce’s stomach is anything to go by. That was the curling, Jayce surmises, drifting as low as he could go. Jayce prays to any and every divine power who might listen that this will stay, somehow, unknown.
He stares up at the ceiling again like it might open and swallow him whole rather than just provide distraction. It doesn’t. Just the same overhead light casting halos around the fixtures. They, too, offer no escape.
He is not handling this well.
His body is betraying him in ways that he won’t be able to hide for much longer, and Viktor is right there, completely calm and totally unaware of Jayce’s embarrassing predicament.
Jayce makes the mistake of tilting his chin down on his next exhale. His gaze falls just in time to see Viktor pick up one of the little white sachets, squeezing a generous amount of lube onto the first three fingers of his gloved right hand.
It glistens under the lighting, slick and viscous.
He understands better now, the sense of Impending Doom his preceptors taught him to screen for as a sure-fire sign someone was about to start trying their best to die on him.
Viktor rolls his stool forward to situate himself right between Jayce’s propped-up feet. Viktor reaches out, placing his unlubricated hand gently on Jayce’s thigh, a grounding point. Though the pressure is light, Jayce nearly jumps out of his own skin.
“Try and relax for me, Jay,” Viktor says firmly. “Let your knees fall comfortably to the sides.”
Jayce knows he’s tense. His muscles are coiled tight and trying to force it only seems to make it worse. His body fights him every step of the way, but Viktor doesn’t push, just waits. Sweet, patient Viktor. He anchors him in place.
Jayce huffs in frustration. At himself. At all of this. He’s a goddamned doctor.
He somehow makes his knees drop, thighs parting wider as he exhales sharply through his nose to quash the whimper that wants to escape.
“Good, Jay.” Viktor praises. “You keep breathing for me. Okay. You’re going to feel some touch pressure on your vulva now. Nothing scary.”
Nothing scary. Nothing about this falls into the Nothing Scary category, right next to Impending Doom.
Jayce nods, though.
Viktor lifts the modesty sheet.
Jayce expects something. There has to be something in his face, but Viktor doesn’t really do anything. He just stares.
Jayce fights the urge to snap his legs back shut, but instead he just lays his cheek to the side, baring his throat, his belly up. If he had a tail, it would be tucked, but all he can do is try and fail not to shake all the way down to his groin and where he knows he’s a bit puffed.
Then he feels the first swipe of lube across his folds.
It’s too much. Not in a bad way, but in a way that sends a full-body shiver rolling up like Viktor’s damn saddle seat.
Viktor is so, so careful. His touch glides, rather than presses like before, spreading the slickness with gentle feather lightness. Jayce can imagine a lover’s touch, mapping and memorizing.
His body’s certainly treating it that way.
Circles are drawn over him, maybe figure eights, and the gel soon fully covers him along with anything he makes.
The thin barrier of nitrile is the only thing keeping this remotely professional in Jayce’s mind. The medical care aspect is completely banished from his mind, actually, now that he thinks about it.
If it’s fear response, that’s understandable, but Jayce now has the pit in his stomach that maybe he wanted this to be something he might take advantage of. The fear is compounded by a different thing entirely:
Is this what he wanted? Some desperate, perverse excuse to get touched by his best friend? Even if just a little?
Jayce doesn’t know the answer.
He hates that he doesn’t know the answer.
“You’re doing great, Jayce,” Viktor murmurs, voice warm and low like it’s meant to soothe. It doesn’t soothe. It’s definitely causing some heat he’d rather ignore, if he got a choice about it.
“I’m going to insert two fingers now,” Viktor continues evenly, “and you’re going to feel some pressure above your pubic bone. It’s just my hand so I can palpate the organs I need to. I’ll be quick and gentle. Let me know if there’s any pain.”
Jayce wants to scream. Or moan. Or teleport out of his own body. He’s not gonna look at Viktor. He just won’t. Or maybe can’t.
Instead, he clenches the sheet in both hands and nods, forcing his voice to work.
“I’m ready,” he chokes out, the words raspy and too high. He hopes he’s coming across scared, rather than horny.
He’s very unfortunately lucky he can’t really have an orgasm.
Viktor works himself inside carefully, gloved fingers pressing in slow, deliberate increments. The stretch stings a little at first, more pressure than pain, but the lube and Jayce’s own traitorous slick work in tandem to ease the way.
Gods, he hopes Viktor can’t feel that.
Jayce swears Viktor can feel everything.
He can feel the faint ridges of Viktor’s fingertips through the gloves, the shift and flex of lean muscle as he moves, the way they curl slightly, seeking.
He can feel himself clench, helplessly, around the intrusion.
“Relax, Jayce,” Viktor commands, firm and steady, the hand that had been resting on his thigh now gliding up to press down against the soft skin just above his pubic bone.
The tone is the opposite of helpful. Yes, Sir, Jayce almost gasps while his best friend is knuckle-deep in his pussy.
“Yes—” he coughs, “Yeah, okay, sorry.”
It’s a poor attempt at a last minute correction, half-breathless and mortified.
If he notices, Viktor doesn’t comment.
“I’m feeling for your cervix first.” Oh. Great. His cervix. Delightful.
He goes quiet for a moment, pressing deeper as his eyes go unfocused and his expression turns thoughtful.
“Ah. There it is.”
Jayce has to bite down on a sound. The pressure is immense. He’s so fucking sensitive he can feel the positional exaction of glove drag against flesh, the way his muscles twitch involuntarily, the small slick noises every motion elicits.
“I’m just checking its position,” Viktor explains, calm as ever. “A little deep and further back than expected, but not abnormal. You’re nice and soft here — no rigidity or unusual textures.”
Every word out of Viktor’s mouth is another pulse of heat in his gut, another fucking problem. He has to force his body to relax, again, even though it never really worked, to keep himself from milking Viktor’s fingers or, truly mortifying, grinding up into them.
“You’re going to feel some different pressure now.” Viktor warns him, courteous and professional, seemingly oblivious to the absolute nightmare playing out in Jayce’s mind. Of course. Because more pressure is exactly what he needs right now.
Jayce barely hears him over the roar in his own ears.
The hand on Jayce’s lower stomach digs in firmly, pressing down as if to meet his fingertips inside. Fuck.
If Jayce thought the pressure was intense before? It’s almost unbearable now. And yet, he’s so full. He can feel the way the turgid front wall collapses in, molding around Viktor’s fingers. Viktor keeps on talking like nothing is catastrophically wrong.
“Now I’m palpating your uterus. I’m looking for placement, mobility… Any tenderness?”
Jayce wheezes, body twitching. It doesn’t hurt, not really, so he shakes his head too quickly, vision going light with the motion.
Viktor’s hands pause. The one on his stomach remains solid, guarding. The one inside doesn’t retreat. Viktor meets Jayce’s eyes, half plastered onto the table paper.
“You keep breathing for me, Jay. It’ll all be over soon.”
Jayce makes himself nod. Breathe. Focus.
When he’s satisfied that Jayce is following orders, he continues.
“Feels like you might be slightly retroverted,” he says, matter-of-fact. “But that’s also not uncommon.”
“That — uh. Is that anything bad?” Jayce asks, voice cracking slightly. He’s trying desperately to sound normal, like a clinician, but he can’t seem to remember anything from his very brief OB-Gyn rotation. He really is like every other patient, here and now.
It makes Jayce rankle, somewhat, to remember Viktor does this for a living, but it’s an irrational jealousy. Especially when Viktor is so good at what he does, and so comforting. Jayce couldn’t imagine depriving someone as anxious as himself of such a thoughtful, considerate doctor. It’s what every nervous first-timer hopes and prays for.
“No,” Viktor reassures him quickly. “It just means your uterus tilts slightly backward instead of forward. It’s a normal variation, nothing to worry about.”
As he speaks, his fingers shift again, pressing and rotating in a slow, circling motion, like before with the lube on his pussy lips. Jayce has to fight every reflex in his body not to arch his back into the touch and follow with his hips.
“If you’d like,” Viktor offers casually, “I can confirm on ultrasound while we’re here. Since we have the equipment.”
Jayce nods absently. He’s barely hearing Viktor anymore. Everything is reduced to sensation.
The pressure inside, the weight of Viktor’s palm on his abdomen, the way his fingers move and seek in such a maddening pattern. Even the ridge of his gloves is still far too present, too textured, too much. Everything cellularly microscopic is amplified, exaggerated.
Jayce’s body is betraying him in real time.
He can feel it happening. The heat in his stomach has stoked into a low-burning fire, flickering flames licking at the edges of his consciousness and stoking wrong and delicious where Viktor touches. Poke. Poke. Poke.
His dick is, unfortunately, taking even more interest, and if Viktor blessedly hadn’t noticed it before, he will any second. It aches with every breath, sensitive and obscene. He clenches again involuntarily, the walls of his pussy tightening.
He feels it happen. Mortifyingly, he knows Viktor can feel it too.
Apparently, he can orgasm in complete nerve shut-down.
“Hey, you’re alright,” Viktor shushes. His thumb strokes gently over the ridge of Jayce’s hip. He’s still pressing so hard into Jayce’s stomach, though. “Keep breathing through it for me. You’re doing great, Jay.”
Jayce wants a deep, hungry pit, the one gnawing at his insides, to open up beneath this gurney and swallow him whole.
Viktor presses a little deeper, fingers working in a slow counterpoint.
“Just checking your ovaries now,” he says softly.
Jayce understands the mechanics of checking for any abnormalities. Ovarian cancer is too often silent until it’s far too late. Cysts are common, frustratingly so, and far too many go undiagnosed until they rupture or twist.
Understanding doesn’t help so much when the sharp point of Viktor’s distal phalanx twists meanly, slipping under the shifting nitrile of the glove. The gloves are too much, textured and subtle and unforgiving, each pass against his walls a lesson in friction and restraint.
Jayce bites the inside of his cheek hard, hoping the sharp jolt will stop the moan building at the back of his throat.
It is, confoundingly, almost worse when Viktor has felt what he needed to feel within him and begins to withdraw.
Jayce is downright horrified when his pussy clenches, trying to keep Viktor’s fingers deep. They curl deliciously as they drag back through Jayce’s body.
Jayce should feel relief. The pressure is easing. The stretch is gone. But the retreat is slow and deliberate, Viktor’s gloves catching on every nerve ending, the last glimmer of sensation fizzling like a fuse.
And then Viktor’s fingers swipe gently over his folds one last time, smoothing away any excess lube. Just to make the next part easier. It might be Jayce’s breaking point.
He can’t quite choke back the soft, humiliating whimper. His hands fist the sheet tighter and he prays to any god listening that Viktor didn’t hear it.
“It all looks beautiful, Jay,” Viktor says warmly, the compliment somehow professional and devastating all at once. “Everything is right as it should be. Though we really should do a quick ultrasound just to be sure about the uterine positioning. It won’t feel any more uncomfortable than that part of the exam was.”
Jayce is still trying to regulate his breathing, his thoughts, his entire goddamn life, but he manages a mostly steady, “So… are we doing the ultrasound now? Or going straight to the… speculum?”
He can’t help the way he whispers the last word. It's still the part that scares him the most. Which is ridiculous. He’s seen transvaginal ultrasound probes before.
Viktor glances at him, then leans back slightly on the stool, considering. His fingers tap idly against his knee in thought. It makes Jayce hyper aware of how still everything else is. If he weren’t so nervous, he might have caught the slight mirth in Viktor’s voice.
“It would likely be more comfortable than jumping straight to the speculum and Pap, if you’re amenable,” Viktor says at last. “Gives us a chance to confirm positioning before I attempt anything that might be more uncomfortable. Does that sound alright to you?”
It’s not the most airtight medical reasoning, but Jayce is not about to argue.
“Yeah. Uh, sure. Go for it. We might as well just get it over with while we’re here, right? No sense in billing my insurance over it if I have to do it in the future anyway.”
More reasoning that’s less-than-sound, but he’s not backing out now. In for a penny in for a pound. His body is already betraying him, and he figures at least this keeps the focus away from that for a few more minutes.
Hopefully.
Viktor’s already moving toward the equipment in the corner, not wasting a second as he wheels himself over. He makes quick work of setting up the machine. It hums to life with a low, mechanical whir, the screen flickering on as he adjusts the settings. He reaches for the transducer.
Jayce watches as he unwraps the probe. It’s long, sleek, and even bigger than he expected.
“Not gonna lie, Vik. That thing looks… a little intense.”
His voice cracks with half-laughter, half-panic. What the hell has he gotten himself into?
Viktor, ever professional, doesn’t immediately react, sliding the sterile cover over the transducer. It rolls over the length of the device, snug, almost too close to a condom for Jayce’s frayed brain to not think about.
Then Viktor is coating it liberally with lube, stroking his hand up and down the length, the slick sound making Jayce’s breath hitch and his walls clench.
Viktor is Jayce’s best friend, the love of his life, and an absolute menace despite his medical license. He glances up with the smuggest fucking smirk.
“It is not so different from… other things you have handled, hm?”
Jayce bursts into laughter. Full-body, cathartic laughter that shakes his shoulders and has his knees dropping a little wider in the stirrups. It helps. Just a little.
“Great bedside manner, Vik. I’m sure your patients love you.” Like I do. “Quit being an asshole and let’s do this.” Then a pause. “Uh. You sure that’s gonna fit?”
Viktor laughs openly this time. Bright, amused, unbothered.
“Don’t you worry, Jay,” he says as he moves back between Jayce’s thighs with a gleam in his eye. “I’ll go nice and slow for you.”
He places a freshly gloved hand back onto Jayce’s thigh, feather-light.
“Would you like to see the screen, Jayce?” Viktor asks, voice calm and precise. “Depending on your comfort level, if we remove the sheet, I’ll still be able to see if I put the cart out to the side?”
Jayce can’t help but feel a little surge of scientifically motivated excitement at the opportunity. The idea of seeing his own anatomy like this, so intimately and yet passably removed, is fascinating. A one-man case study. A living diagram. He folds up the sheet and places it beside him on the bed.
It was always just an illusion of modesty anyway.
Regardless, he’s still pussy out for Viktor to see. The thought alone makes him clench again, tight and desperate, and he fights the urge to rock his hips in a desperate bid for friction. His whole body is a live wire. He’s so, so fucked.
Viktor positions the machine out to the side so they’ll both be able to visualize.
The new angle makes it worse. He can see Viktor there, framed between his thighs like he belongs there. The fire in Jayce’s stomach only grows hotter.
Viktor’s hand comes back to Jayce’s thigh, thumb moving in little circles in an attempt to comfort. It has the effect of a bellows to embers, rather than a bucket of water like he needs to reduce all his heat to ash.
“I’m going to insert the probe now,” he says, voice gentle but direct. “It’s just slow pressure, same as before. You just let me know if this is uncomfortable at any point, alright?”
Jayce nods, then barely bites back a whimper as the first push begins.
The first push is smooth, patient, but by Janna, it’s a lot. It’s different from the stretch of fingers, deeper, heavier, fuller. It’s a direct, contrasting juxtaposition to the feather light hand still settled on Jayce’s upper thigh. That can’t be wholly professional.
He can’t help the breathless little whimper that punches out of him as the bulbous tip of the probe pushes up into some impossibly deep place.
“It’s a lot, I know,” Viktor murmurs, eyes fixed on the screen. “Ah, there we go. I’m slotted into the fornix now. A little more pressure as I… mm. There. Pressing up anteriorly now. Great view.”
It takes him a beat to realize he’s been talking to himself. He shoots Jayce a sheepish smile.
“But you’re handling it well. Just keep breathing through for me. I’m going to move the transducer just a bit to get a sagittal view. So we can see the uterus in long-axis and assess its size and position.”
Jayce feels the probe tilt forward inside him, nudging into a new, deeper angle. His whole body wants to shift up into the pressure, to chase the feeling, but he forces himself to stay still.
Viktor adjusts the machine’s interface, and the screen fills with grayscale shapes. Shadows shift and bloom with every subtle move of the probe.
“Good job, Jayce. Uncomfortable? … No? That’s good. You’re doing a very good job, staying relaxed for me.”
He continues on without really waiting for a response beyond Jayce’s stiff, wide-eyed nod.
He tilts his head slightly, continuing smoothly, as if he hadn’t said all of that.
“That, right there, is your uterus. Right here,” he circles an area with the probe, and Jayce sees the way the shapes move under the pressure inside him. “You can see how it’s housed slightly against this other shape. Looks like we were right that it’s retroverted. It tilts back rather than forward. Nothing too concerning.”
Jayce has to struggle to find his voice, to focus on anything other than how deep the probe feels. His throat clicks wetly with the effort.
“And that’s just … normal?” He wheezes. Mortifying. Well, it’s better than the whining and moaning that could’ve escaped. It was a non-zero chance.
Viktor glances up briefly, giving just the smallest smirk at Jayce’s clear discomfort. He is, for what it’s worth, trying to keep things professional. But Jayce has the sinking, panicky suspicion that his too-smart best friend is catching on.
“Mhm. Very normal. Though, in some cases, a fixed retroverted position can indicate adhesions from endometriosis,” Viktor explains, slipping easily back into his teaching voice. “But you don’t seem to have any restriction in movement when I palpate. See how your organs shift freely here?”
He places his hand gently on Jayce’s abdomen again, applying a firm, downward palpation, squishing his organs around.
Jayce can see the way they float in his abdomen on the screen. The counter-pressure is so much more intense than it had been during the manual exam. He jolts slightly, thighs tensing, before remembering to relax.
Viktor adjusts the probe again, sweeping in a slow arc to bring the ovaries into view. The physical angle changes, shifting inside Jayce, and his toes curl reflexively, digging into the soft cushion of the stirrups.
He knows Viktor sees it and hears the unsteady breath he exhales as he leans up between Jayce’s legs to tap the machine’s interface again to shift the image.
A sharp wave of shameful embarrassment courses through Jayce’s body. It’s made all the worse by the way it brings even higher arousal along with it.
As he sits back down, his thumb shifts slightly from where he’s pressing into Jayce’s tummy. It brushes absently on Jayce’s hip. It’s unintentionally intimate.
Or not so unintentional?
“Ah,” Viktor huffs a little laugh. “And there’s your right ovary. It is looking particularly … active today.”
Jayce shifts a little, unable to help himself, and the image on the screen blurs into another shapeless smear of gray. Viktor rights it again with a gentle press of the probe, deeper than before.
“Yeah? And what’s that mean?” Jayce asks, gritting his teeth around a moan he can’t let escape.
Somewhere deep in the logical, clinical, medically-trained parts of his brain, he already knows what Viktor must mean. He might deal with bones, rather than all the fleshy bits, but he did go to medical school. He knows exactly what that little fluid-filled follicle is.
“You are late in the follicular phase,” Viktor murmurs, eyes still on the screen. “Right on the cusp of rupture—ah, that is to say… ovulation. It would explain why you are so very—” he hums softly, adjusting the angle of the probe, “—sensitive right now.”
Jayce’s whole body jerks a little. The stretch and weight and the feeling of fullness is unbearable. The probe is hitting some spot deep inside that feels like a cattle prod to the nervous system.
And then there’s the wetness.
He’s dripping, hot and thick, down to leak around the probe where it stuffs him full to slick his thighs and form thick globs that glue stray strands of pubic hair together in viscous clumps. Every time the transducer is moved inside him, more gushes out with obscene squelching noises.
While his testosterone injections have, blessedly, had the desired side effect of amenorrhea, he knows by the fluctuations in color and viscosity that it’s entirely plausible he’s still ovulating regularly. Sometimes he leaks thin, clear, stretchy slick like a sieve and suffers this needy, crawling heat in his pelvis. For days he’ll be so horny he can barely sit still.
He knows he’s a mess. It’s mortifying.
Viktor leverages his free hand over Jayce’s stomach again, fingers splayed across his skin. It’s grounding, like he’s holding Jayce there, keeping him still, holding him down. The press is so, so good.
Jayce’s hips rock forward just a fraction, involuntary, helpless.
Right as his cunt clenches hard around the probe.
Viktor notices. Because of course he does.
Jayce knows the exact moment it registers. Viktor’s eyes flick downward, catching the way Jayce’s thighs are trembling, the way he’s clenching down, pulse-tight, around the probe every time Viktor shifts it even slightly. His body is pulling the transducer deeper and deeper like it’ll squirt more than lube deep inside him to cool the burning ache in his empty womb.
He doesn’t look away, not even as Jayce feels the traitorous twitch of his bottom growth, hard and obvious.
Jayce watches as Viktor’s throat bobs with an aborted little swallow. A faint flush creeps up his neck, pink rising past the collar of his scrubs. The pale blue of the collar only seems to complement Viktor's rosy complexion even more.
Jayce isn’t the only one feeling … something here.
For a dizzying, reckless moment, Jayce wants to play it up, just to see if he can make Viktor crack first, but then Viktor hits him with it:
“Jayce. Sweetheart.”
The pet name lands like a punch to the gut. Jayce nearly whimpers at the sound alone. He’s no better than a pathetic little puppy, wagging his dick at the slightest attention.
"I can see that you’re ovulating, and I wanted you to know we can stop if you’re uncomfortable, or keep this strictly within professional bounds."
Jayce isn’t uncomfortable.
That’s the problem.
He opens his mouth to say as much, but he doesn’t get the chance.
Viktor pauses, withdraws the probe slowly, carefully, and sets it down on the sterile tray. Then, with clinical efficiency, he strips off his gloves.
Jayce’s gut drops.
For one long, horrible moment, he’s convinced he’s ruined everything. He’s made Viktor uncomfortable and he’s crossed a line and now Viktor’s going to leave him sitting here, exposed and humiliated.
If the pressure was unbearable before, this sudden feeling of emptiness is crushing.
Viktor wheels himself back to the side, where he grabs a pack of moist towelettes from the wall shelf and peels one free. The plastic packaging crinkles too loudly for the too-quiet space.
He pointedly doesn’t meet Jayce’s eyes as he wheels back over and unfolds the little white square. He starts slow, gently laying the cool cloth against Jayce’s inner thigh, swiping inward with glacial patience to clear the worst of the sticky mess.
He does finally look up, searching Jayce’s face for some sign before touching anything more intimate.
Jayce isn’t sure what Viktor’s asking him with that look, but he knows what his own body is screaming for.
He nods once.
Viktor continues.
He’s ungloved now, slick, dirty nitrile laying inert in the whicker-shelled wastebasket. Viktor shouldn’t be doing this. It should be horrifying from a medical standpoint. Any standpoint, really. But here he is. And Jayce can feel it.
The wipe is just a barrier, barely even that, and the warm bare fingers behind it brush slowly over his perineum, down to where the slick is still pooling at the base of his hole.
Jayce gasps, eyes snapping shut, gap-teeth digging into his bottom lip. The nerves around his anus light up like a wildfire, raw and reactive. It has Jayce panting and squeezing his eyes shut as he tries to cling to sanity.
His cunt clenches around nothing, a useless little impulse to squeeze. He’s achingly empty.
He wants to feel more than the touch of the towelette, wants Viktor himself to lay those long, delicate fingers on every part of him, strip away the fear and the hidden longing and leave him molten with pleasure and safety. He needs Viktor to touch him already, to revere him or to ruin him totally. He doesn’t care which.
And then it stops.
The touch lifts. The cloth disappears.
No, no, no. Come back.
Jayce hears the snap of a new pair of gloves.
“If you are amenable, Jayce,” Viktor says, voice roughened at the edges like he’s holding something back by the sheer force of all the strength in his too-elastic limbs; “I would very much like to help you with the symptoms, yes?”
Jayce chokes on a breath, whimpering as he croaks: ”What?”
Viktor’s hand finds Jayce’s stomach again, returning that grounding pressure. Jayce swears his whole body shivers at the simple touch, every follicle on his body goose-fleshing as if to reach out to grab, to hold Viktor all the closer.
Viktor watches him carefully, waiting, but the way his eyes flick down for just a split second tells Jayce everything he needs to know. Viktor knows exactly what Jayce is feeling.
Jayce thinks he might feel it too.
“I know I have you in a vulnerable position here,” Viktor says quietly, voice coated in thick shame. “Please feel free to tell me no. This wouldn’t be clinical for me. I can stop, if that is a stretch too far for our relationship. Or even just for this moment. Now.”
Jayce practically cuts him off, words tripping over his own tongue in a rush to run from his lips.
“No, don’t… don’t stop. I didn’t think being vulnerable like this would feel good, but it… it’s you, so of course it does. I’ve wanted this since undergrad. If that makes you uncomfortable, we should stop, because if you help with my symptoms, I will be expecting dinner with you the minute a restaurant is actually open again.”
Jayce can’t believe he’s saying this now, with his entire pussy on display, stirrups keeping him spread wide open to Viktor’s gaze. Years and years of keeping his feelings close to his chest, and he chooses now to finally release his deepest secret. He hopes it isn’t the last release he feels tonight.
Viktor’s expression pinches with flushed desire and sudden, unleashed desperation, and one hand shoots forward as if to steady himself. He uses Jayce to do so.
“That long?” Viktor coos, husky and breathless. “Poor baby. You must be starving for it by now.”
Jayce whimpers, chest heaving around a broken sigh that he tries—fails—to muffle.
“Oh, don’t hide, sweet thing,” Viktor croons, retreating only far enough to begin preparing his tools. “You’ve already done so well, telling me you want it, Jay. Now don’t be afraid to let me hear your desire, too. Let those pretty noises out for me.”
He glances back toward him with a heated look that makes Jayce’s stomach flip. It lands somewhere in the vicinity of his cunt. Viktor keeps on talking while the sterile packages crinkle open and the instruments clink.
“Show me how much you want me, and I promise you’ll get your rewards for being such a model patient and letting me examine you, inside and out. You were so nervous about this, weren’t you? But look at you, all spread out and ready for me. Good boy.”
Jayce actually has the audacity to laugh at that, a gentle little huff of amusement that somehow makes even more wetness slip out of him.
Viktor breathes a shaky, “Fuck,” at the sight.
“You think I’m desperate for it,” Jayce teases weakly, breath catching, “but you should see yourself, V.”
Viktor huffs a little growl of a laugh, but it’s frayed at the edges with restraint.
“Can you blame me?” Viktor asks, but then he does give a little reprimanding tap to the inside of Jayce’s thigh. Then, with a low hum of authority: “Be a good boy, let me finish what we’re doing here, and you’ll get your treat.”
With his non-dominant hand, Viktor finally touches him properly.
It’s a slow, deliberate rub as he slicks lube across Jayce’s folds even though there’s already more than enough. This is so far beyond the realm of plausibly deniable.
Viktor told him that he wants to hear so Jayce doesn’t bother to quench the moan as his hips tilt up instinctively into the contact, needy and unthinking. Now that he’s allowed, he can’t stop.
“Ah. That’s it, Jay.” Viktor’s voice is low and smooth. “Feels much better to let it go and relax, doesn’t it?”
Jayce burns at the praise. Another keening sound wrenches from his throat, half-laughing, half-sobbing. It’s the way Viktor says it, effortless, like this is the natural next step. What a reward for finally giving in.
Viktor’s fingers shift, the pointer and middle splitting into a V on either side of Jayce’s vulva. They press outward, spreading him open carefully. His labia part with ease under Viktor’s careful hands.
Like everything with Viktor, when it comes to the practice of medicine, at least, it’s methodical. Precise. But to Jayce, it just feels like he’s being systematically opened up.
It’s so much hotter than it has any right to be.
He knows Viktor is just getting a better view of the introitus so that he can put the speculum inside, but fuck.
It’s intimate. Intentional. Worshipful.
It makes his stomach tighten, and for the first time since Viktor started this whole exam, he can’t even be bothered to be afraid anymore.
He just wants.
The air is cool between his spread legs, and so is the metal when Viktor finally presses the speculum against his entrance. He doesn’t push for a moment, just holding it against him so Jayce can feel the width of the blunt edges without the force of intrusion.
“I’m going to insert the speculum now. Just breathe for me, Jayce. Your body knows what to do. Let yourself take it nice and slow.”
Jayce barely hears him over the sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. It mirrors the way he can feel it pounding in his dick.
The slide of the metal is smooth, but the width — By Janna, the width — makes his toes curl in the stirrups. He forces himself to breathe, just like Viktor told him to. He wants to do good. To be good.
The pressure increases as Viktor pushes the blades of the device in, in, in until it’s fully seated, slotted up deep inside. It already feels so big, even closed like this.
“Let’s get a better look at you, hm?” Viktor hums. “Hold still for me, Jay.” It’s a command that makes his cock twitch. He’s so hard the cool air is almost painful where the head peeks up out of the hood.
Viktor’s thumb strokes gently up and down Jayce’s labia in an attempt to soothe. Instead, though, Jayce’s breath wheezes around a choked whimper and he fights to follow orders, to stay still for Viktor.
“Breathe, lasko,” Viktor corrects gently, giving a little tap to the meeting of his labia and groin. “Don’t hold your breath. Just let it happen.”
He returns to that rhythmic stroking.
Viktor knows what he’s doing, exactly how much Jayce is getting off on this. Jayce is dizzy with the feeling of being spread open, held open. Exposed. Every breath is laborious, an exercise in treading water through the psychedelic sea that threatens to drown him.
The first click of the speculum widening makes Jayce’s pulse spike. The pressure intensifies, deep and unrelenting. Viktor’s thumb stays on him, rubbing light, teasing circles against his slick folds as the speculum widens another notch.
Jayce whimpers, eyes rolling back and tongue slipping out of his mouth, slack and panting. He can feel himself spreading wide open to the cool air. Now that he’s this aroused, this spread open, he can’t imagine having ever been afraid of this sensation. He just wants Viktor to open him even wider, fill him full enough to split open around him.
“Oh, you took that very well,” Viktor says softly. He sounds surprised, a little breathless himself, almost like he wasn’t expecting the words to slip out.
He’s enjoying this.
Jayce can tell by the way Viktor’s fingers linger, and how his thumb presses a little more firmly into the puffy flesh of him, slipping around the solid jaws of the speculum. It’s especially obvious, though, in the way Viktor’s hips rock into the pommel of his stool as his eyes flicker down to watch while Jayce's dick twitches and he clenches uselessly above the device spreading him open wide.
For a moment, Jayce thinks that Viktor’s going to go about collecting his sample without much preamble.
He is very, very wrong.
Viktor’s free hand moves, gloved fingers sliding up, and finally, finally ghosting over Jayce’s cock.
Fuck.
He’s already aching, swollen from the build up of arousal. A ragged moan wrenches its way out of Jayce’s throat. It is far too loud in the quiet space, but he can’t seem to care while his hips are desperately canting, trying to chase that brief contact.
“Unfortunately,” Viktor says, peering into the cavity the speculum creates while his thumb keeps making micro-strokes that don’t do much but drive Jayce crazy. “—doing the ultrasound left a bit more lubricant behind than we’d like when collecting a sample. It makes the view murky and can keep us from getting the cells we need. I’ll need to clean you up a bit, alright?”
Jayce doesn’t trust himself to speak. He nods instead, eyes wide.
Viktor reaches for a pair of hemostats; small, locking forceps with curved, delicate tips. Jayce can hear the metallic clink as they open. Then comes the softer sound of the faint crinkle of sterile gauze being unfolded and another quiet click as Viktor clamps it into place.
Jayce can’t see what’s happening inside him, but the anticipation is almost worse. His thighs are trembling and his hips keep chasing, matching the tiny, rocking rhythm Viktor sets in his chair as he rolls back between Jayce’s legs.
“Be still, Jay,” Viktor commands, punctuating himself with a sharp little tap to Jayce’s cock.
Jayce’s back bows and his head tilts back, glazed eyes locking on the ceiling while some animal noise rips its way out of him. He’s locked in that position for several long, agonizing moments where the sensation consumes him. By the time his back is on the mattress again, he’s panting hard, trying desperately not to cum on the spot.
The hand that struck him comes down to stabilize the speculum so his clenching doesn’t eject it from his body.
The other hand moves, holding the hemostats. Snug between the teeth, a small square of gauze looks like a tiny cloud. Viktor brings them up between the open blades of the speculum, careful not to scrape at his canal.
The metal is cool, accompanied by little sensations of displaced air as they advance inside. When it makes contact, the gauze is softer than Jayce expects, spongy and gently textured. It brushes ticklishly just beyond where the speculum parts him open, and then deeper, right against his cervix.
Jayce makes a shocked, keening whimper and his hips shift in surprise.
It isn’t painful. Or even uncomfortable. It’s simply … strange— a proprioceptive anomaly he’s never experienced before. He’s being tended to, so deep inside.
The gauze makes controlled, swiping passes, each one a careful stick and release of pressure. He can feel the soft gauze getting wet and sticky with his own mucus, sliding against the sensitive tissue of his cervix.
“There we go,” Viktor says mildly. “Just cleaning the visual field. Almost done. You’re doing great. Just a little more pressure.”
A little more pressure? He’s already so full and being touched so deeply. How is he meant to take more?
The last pass is a soft glide directly across the visible edge of his cervix, a slow, nearly worshipful sweep. He punctuates the glide with another calm stroke of his thumb along the underside of Jayce’s cock.
All Jayce can do is let out little whimpers, sounds like an animal too small for his massive frame, head thrashing back and forth while he fights to be good and keep his hips still like Viktor commanded him.
Jayce thinks he might actually die right here on the exam table, right at Viktor’s mercy. Maybe he already is, raptured up to heaven to look upon God between his legs. Or whatever those weird door-to-door cult missionaries had spouted on about when they’d ignored his “Night shift worker. Do not knock. No soliciting.” sign. He’d grown up too Catholic for Evangelicals to hold much sway with their vague threats of damnation, anyway.
“Vik, please—” Jayce whines, but the sound is cut off as he tries, in vain, to get himself the fuck together and spare any shreds of his shattered dignity. He tenses up, knees coming up and in, trying uselessly to hide himself from view.
Viktor’s hand leaves Jayce’s cock to rest firmly back on his inner thigh, gently but insistently keeping him from covering himself, from hiding himself away.
“Let me make you feel good, okay Jay-baby?” Viktor coos. His voice is velvety and coaxing, and it helps Jayce breathe and calm himself a little even as those fingers stroke, warm and slick through the nitrile. “You deserve it for taking everything I give you so well.”
Jayce’s brain short circuits. His neurons feel like live wires, arcing and sparking as everything narrows, spinning to a slow stop, gears creaking against each other. He wouldn’t be surprised if smoke started pouring from his ears like some children’s cartoon.
He’s helpless but to give whatever of himself Viktor wishes to take, to take whatever Viktor wishes to give. He’s writhing under Viktor’s touch, desperate for more.
Viktor is blurring all the lines between friend-partner-lover-professional. Beyond blurring. He’s absolutely obliterating every line of conduct. If Jayce were anyone else and not desperately in love with Viktor, he’d be the Board’s worst nightmare. It all just makes this somehow hotter. So much hotter. Because beyond the flimsy line of propriety in this room, there is also the knowledge that Viktor would never do this with anyone else. He’s doing this because it’s Jayce.
He’s still explaining parts of the procedure in that smooth, even tone, but it’s interspersed with praise and affirmations that have Jayce’s brain slipping down, down … down into a space few lovers have ever been able to guide him to.
His brain lets go of every ounce of residual fear-response, and he settles back to float in the rocking ocean waves of empty-headed comfort. He is cared for. He is safe. He is loved.
It’s so easy to let himself slip into that fuzzy space with Viktor because, most of all, he knows Viktor. He knows him at his most acerbic and avoidant. He knows how Viktor hates to be vulnerable, the Zaunite street-rat inside him wholly unwilling to roll over to show its soft underbelly for risk of finding that belly field-dressed in a back alley with some Shimmervein’s spoon.
But Viktor isn’t being acerbic or avoidant now. He certainly isn’t cautious.
Viktor finds very few people in his life worth the trouble of giving up his rigid self-preservation instincts for, but he is a deeply devoted doctor. On top of that, he is an incredibly compassionate, loving person beneath all his many layers.
It makes part of Jayce feel utterly at home to have all that focused, competent attention trained on him, on his body, lasered in on his pleasure. each and every movement and teaching Jayce with his hands and his words how to ease into this vulnerability he’s never had with anyone else before. He’s got all that sharp-eyed attention on Jayce, and he’s gently coaxing him into both relaxation and a new kind of tension that leaves Jayce’s head dizzy with want.
He needs more.
“Viktor,” Jayce moans. “Fuck, I—”
“Shhh, sweetheart. I’ve got you. You just focus on being good for me.” Viktor punctuates the reassurance with another slow, circling stroke of his gloved hand over the tip of Jayce’s cock.
Then Viktor reaches behind his ear, pulls out his penlight, and clicks it on without fanfare. He slides it between his teeth, holding it there with practiced ease.
Unlike with most patient scenarios, his free hand isn’t clean. It’s coated thoroughly in the damning evidence of Jayce’s arousal, small webs of it clinging to the chestnut baby hairs poking out from Viktor’s scrub cap. More wetness glistens just in front of Viktor’s lips along the textured metal of the light.
Viktor’s nostrils flare, obviously scenting the musky fluids. Then his cheeks hollow as he suckles at what he can reach. Jayce has to look away a moment before he implodes and causes some world-ending crisis event by becoming the first man-turned-black-hole in the short history of humankind, just so that he can keep worshipping his best friend for all eternity.
“There we are. Now I can see you properly.”
The pen gives Viktor a slight lisp when he speaks, and Jayce shouldn't find that hot, but everything about this is turning his brain to mush. Soon it will drip out his ears like his arousal drips from his pussy, rolling out syrupy and sweet for Viktor’s pleasure.
The glow from the light casts a soft, clinical halo across Viktor’s face as he leans in, adjusting the speculum slightly. Jayce’s legs shift in the stirrups with the motion, and the pressure inside him adjusts with the tilt.
“I don’t think I have this quite wide enough. Apologies,” Viktor mutters around the penlight. “Arousal tends to pull the cervix on a posterior axis. Too far back for me to get a clean view like this.”
“What—ah! What do you need me to do?” Jayce whines, voice hitching. He wants to be good. So good. For Viktor.
Viktor glances up to make eye contact. “You just take some more deep breaths for me. There’s going to be a little more pressure, but you can take it, Jay.”
Then there’s another labored click-click-click, a few sharp, mechanical sounds.
They’re tiny, innocuous even on their own, but outright devastating in context.
The speculum opens him impossibly wider with each click, the deep pressure blooming inside him until Jayce chokes on the sound he tries to bite down.
He can’t help it. His hips twitch, his whole body arches, and then he’s moaning, gasping, begging without even knowing what he’s begging for. More? Less? Both? Neither?
“Vik—fuck, I—please! I don’t—fuck. Need— ah!”
Viktor doesn’t respond with words at first. Instead, he smooths his fingers lightly on the inside of Jayce’s thigh.
Jayce begins to realize that maybe Viktor just really likes his thighs. Maybe Viktor just really likes him.
“Easy, Jayce,” Viktor coos, like he’s shushing a startled horse. “I’ve got it in view now.”
There’s a beat of near-silence, the only sounds Jayce’s own high, whining wheezes.
“It’s a beautiful cervix. No visible lesions, no signs of irritation or discoloration. Mucus and dilation is congruent with the presentation of ovulation. Textbook.”
Jayce flushes hard, from his chest all the way up to his ears. He’s burning alive, an ant caught in the sizzling beam of a giant’s loupe. His face is radiating and his abdomen is scorching, the heat in his skin felt as acutely as the stretch inside him.
There’s a soft rustle of gloves and packaging, the clink of metal against metal as Viktor discards the forceps and preps his next tool.
“I’m going to use the cervical broom first,” Viktor tells him, devastatingly gentle, but matter-of-fact. "That’s the one I showed you that looks kind of like a baster brush."
Jayce can feel his muscles beginning to tense, to lock down against the anticipation of intruding tools, but Viktor’s there. His hand comes back to rest on Jayce’s vastus medialis, and he starts to relax again under Viktor’s cooling touch.
“It’s the soft one. Shouldn’t hurt. But you tell me if you feel anything too uncomfortable. I have to do five rotations, but it’ll be over quickly.” He smirks devilishly. “Then you can have a reward.”
Jayce forces himself to keep breathing, deep wheezes of air he sucks down to the hot pit in his stomach. He has to keep being good for Viktor. He has to be a good boy for his—
The cool displaced-air sensation, that foreign little tickle, makes him want to rock. It’s deeper than before, brushing against the back of his canal, pressing oh so gently against his cervix.
He closes his eyes at the sensation. He can feel every individual bristle bending under the moderate pressure Viktor applies as he rotates.
Even in all the myriad sensations, pain isn’t one of them.
It doesn’t hurt.
However, it is very weird. In his aroused state, it’s more a tease than an intrusion.
“There we go. Still breathing, still so perfect for me. One… two… three… four… and five.”
The broom is withdrawn quickly, and Jayce gasps. It’s not from pain, but from the sudden absence. He’s full of pressure and need, and now his cervix feels awake.
Sensitive.
Open.
From here, Viktor moves efficiently, placing the sample in a thin vial of preservative fluid, swirling it around a few times to properly coat the cells for transport to pathology. It would certainly be a shame if they went to all this trouble for their impromptu sexual awakening to ruin the sample.
How terrible it would be to repeat the experience…
Every second of waiting makes Jayce feel more sensitive, more needy. The speculum is still pried open inside him, keeping him stretched and vulnerable.
He’s leaking, aching, burning for something, for anything. He just needs Viktor in any way he can have him. He’ll shatter apart into a million pieces and scatter across the universe as star-stuff if Viktor doesn’t keep touching him soon.
Viktor turns back to Jayce as soon as he’s done preserving the sample. His gloves are still on, hands still slick with a combination of Jayce and lube.
His expression goes soft, like maybe something inside him is slipping, exposing some concealed, pillowy place that is out of reach for most.
He doesn’t speak again, just looks at Jayce spread out before him. He’s wide open and trembling, ruddy pink with arousal and embarrassment, and vivid want. Jayce is panting, trying so hard to hold still, to be good, even though his cock is throbbing with how hard it is, peeking up out of the clitoral hood and twitching in time with his heartbeat.
Viktor’s expression takes on a look of hunger, like he’s still that starving boy and Jayce is his first meal in weeks. His eyeline tracks from Jayce’s face down to Jayce’s cock.
Jayce looks down with him, just to see. He’s flushed dark, glistening wet, twitching with every shift of his hips. He’s so desperate for Viktor’s attention while he watches, letting Jayce squirm for a moment beneath the heavy weight of his gaze.
Then, deliberately, he brings one hand up and curls his thumb and forefinger around the base of Jayce’s cock.
“Look at you. So hard for me, and I’ve barely touched you. Do you perform this way for all your physicians?”
There’s a gentle mocking note in Viktor’s voice now. It makes Jayce feel small and weak and utterly at Viktor’s mercy.
Jayce moans, sharp and bitten-off, his hip lifting into the touch. He’s panting around his words now. “Fuck. Vik, please—”
Viktor’s finger pulls back the hood and his slick thumb brushes lazily over the head. “This is your reward, Jayce. For being so good for me. For taking everything so well so far.”
Viktor keeps his touch light, frustratingly soft, dragging just enough pressure along the underside of Jayce’s cock in slow circles to make him ache.
“You like being taken care of like this, don’t you, Jay?” Jayce whimpers in response, and Viktor gives him a soft, wicked little smile. “But of course you do.”
Jayce can barely think, barely see. His body is strung tight, shaking, sweat forming at his temples. Every inch of him begs for more. Viktor strokes him a few more times, just enough to get him right there, teetering on the edge of building something more.
Then it’s over. It’s far too soon.
Jayce whines in protest, hips trying to chase despite the stirrups keeping him mostly stationary.
“Oh, baby, that was a very pretty sound. Feels good?” Viktor teases, slick thumb rubbing lazily over Jayce’s hip bone to trace his iliac furrows. “I know, sweetheart. But I need just a little more from you. One last part of our exam, and then I’ll take care of everything for you. Just let me finish, hm?”
“Yes!” Jayce gasps, delirious with sensation, head thrashing side to side. “Please, Vik. Anything you want. Anything at all.”
Viktor shuffles around with something on his little side tray again. Rather than anxious, Jayce’s body is tense with anticipation now. Viktor’s going to do one more test on him and then he’s going to really get his reward. He’d take anything at this point, even another maddening edge.
He’ll be so good for Viktor that Viktor will want to keep him here forever.
He’ll be his perfect little test subject, let him run every experiment he wants, so long as Viktor keeps touching him like that after.
Viktor has another tool in one hand, ready to take another sample. Rather than Jayce’s thigh, Viktor goes back to stroking up and down his vulva, just outside where the speculum holds him open. He can feel Viktor’s thumb dipping barely inside to tease at the sensitive tissues of the introitus.
It’s making him lose his mind.
“This last one is the cytobrush, Jay. It’s the one that looks a little like a straw cleaner. It is, unfortunately, rougher. You might feel a little pinch, but it’ll be over quick.” He pauses, teasing. “But I know you can handle it. Just keep those deep breaths and those pretty sounds up for me, alright?"
The cytobrush is very different from the cool tickling of the broom. The moment it touches inside him, Jayce can’t help but jerk and whine. The pinch is real, sharp and scratchy, almost scraping.
It really should break the mood, should shock him out of the arousal. It doesn’t. It just makes it more and more intense. The pain is a bright spark that only sharpens the hunger coiled tight in his gut.
Jayce can’t help the words that tumble senselessly from his lips. "Ah—fuck, please, Viktor—! Need—need you to touch me—please, I can’t— Need you to fuck me, please, please, please.”
Viktor pauses for a moment, hands not leaving Jayce, the cytobrush still pressed deep inside but no longer moving.
Viktor’s free hand presses lightly on Jayce’s thigh to keep him steady, dragging in to come just shy of Jayce’s sensitive cock, just shy of relief. He’s rocking too, hips pressing into the pommel of that saddle stool again while he looks at Jayce like he’s going to eat him alive again.
Janna could only be so kind.
“You’re doing so well for me, Jay. You’ve done such a great job taking everything I give you. I’ve got all the samples I need now. Let me get this one in the cup and then I’m going to take good care of you, alright?”
Jayce nods frantically, panting and desperate while Viktor pulls the cytobrush out of him and drops the sample in the catch fluid.
Viktor’s hands are shaking a little this time. He’s just as keyed up and desperate as Jayce is. He wants this just as bad. Something as prideful as a great-feathered bird in Jayce’s chest preens.
As soon as the sample is safely capped, Viktor releases the locking mechanism on the speculum, lets it collapse upon itself in tiny fragmented stutters of motion. It pulls out of Jayce with a warm gushy feeling that leaves him feeling far too empty.
The second it’s gone, Jayce gasps, his whole body reacting like something vital has been taken away. The sudden emptiness aches far more than the stretch had.
“No—no, wait. Fuck, Vik—” his voice cracks around his words, hips lifting as if he can follow the sensation, as if he can keep it inside somehow. “Please, put something back. I can’t— I feel so fucking empty, Vik. I need— Janna, please—”
“What sweet noise you make for me, Jay. You want more, you say?”
Jayce is still panting, visibly trembling in the stirrups, eyes blown wide and glassy with want. His pussy clenches on nothing, the emptiness after the speculum withdrawal nearly unbearable. He can feel himself dripping down the cleft of his perineum, the clean-up Viktor had done earlier useless in the face of his dripping, drooling arousal.
“I was doing so good, wasn’t I?” Jayce asks on a desperate whine. He knows what a needy, pathetic slut he’s being for Viktor. He’ll have time to be embarrassed later. The words just keep spilling, tripping over his dumb, lolling tongue. “Please, let me have more. I can take it. I’ll be so good, I promise. I need you. Need your fingers, your mouth, I’ll even take the ultrasound again if you want. Just don’t leave me like this— Please!”
He’s sobbing, fat, rolling tears, salting his temples. He doesn’t let Viktor speak. “I was so full for you. Need that back. Need you back inside me. Fill me, fill me, fill me. Need you to break me. Make me yours.”
Viktor hushes him gently, hand cupping the inside of Jayce’s thigh with steady pressure, keeping him open where his knees are rising with his desperate writhing.
“Easy, sweetheart. I’ve got you. I said I’d take care of you, didn’t I? You just relax and let me.”
Viktor reaches between Jayce’s thighs, gloved fingers brushing through slick folds. Viktor goes slow, his middle finger gliding between swollen lips, parting them with a trembling languidity that borders on worshipful praise.
The folded wrinkles of the gloves catch enticingly as they drag the textured nitrile, but the glide is otherwise perfect, frictionless. Jayce whimpers as Viktor pushes just one finger inside him and chokes on a moan when that finger, suddenly feeling a lot less intense than it had during the manual exam not thirty minutes ago, curls up to massage at his walls.
Viktor smirks up between Jayce’s parted knees. When he speaks, it’s in a cloying, teasing sort of way. “What’s wrong, Jay? You still need more? Oh don’t you worry. Settle down. I’m just getting started. You’ll be surprised how much you can take.”
A second finger joins the first, and a third in quick succession. Viktor’s hands are slight but long, and his fingers aren’t as thick as the speculum, but the way they move and curl inside him instead of statically holding him open has Jayce’s hips rolling, trying to chase the sensation. It feels so good, so much better like this than the tools, but still, he’s become so greedy. He needs more.
And more he gets. Viktor keeps rubbing the turgid flesh of his g-spot with unerring precision, rhythmic curls of ribbed fingerprints.
Viktor brings his other hand up to slot Jayce’s dick in between the V of his middle and pointer. He presses in and down to stimulate the clitoral bulbs hidden just below slick, swollen flesh.
Jayce can feel the pressure starting to build in his pelvis, the way his dick is catching the air as the clitoral hood is fully pulled back from Viktor’s press, the way his bladder is starting to feel strangely engaged, but not full.
It almost disguises the way that Viktor’s pinky finger is starting to threaten at Jayce’s opening.
Viktor looks up at him, expression full of something like curiosity, bordering on awe.
“That’s it, Jayce. Keep relaxing your knees open,” he instructs, crooking his fingers meanly. “You’re going to want to tense up and hold it in. Don’t,” a tug on his dick met with a keening whine. “Keep relaxing your abdomen Jayce. No fighting it.”
“What—fuck! I’ll try,” he whimpers, tilting his hips up. He clings to any shred of sanity, forcing the words out. “I’ll try, but what are you doing to me?”
Viktor ignores the question in favor of continuing his methodical treatment.
“Good job, Jayce. Keep relaxing. You’re so tight like this but I know you can take more, greedy thing. You were made for this. Relax, Jayce.”
Viktor waits for Jayce to take a deep breath, then presses in the fourth finger, his pinky. It catches for a moment on Jayce’s lip, but his folds stretch easily enough around the intrusion. It’s the first time since the speculum withdrew that he’s felt full, and his eyes start rolling back in his head.
“Don’t clench,” Viktor coaches, concentrating intensely like he’s waiting for some sort of … sign? Jayce doesn’t know what for, but it could be the seventh trumpet for all he cares. The rapture’s already begun, and he’s already looking at a god. “Breathe and keep relaxing all your muscles, Jayce. That’s it. Look how beautifully you stretch for me.”
Unimpeded by his knuckles now, Viktor is able to press in even deeper than before, able to curl his fingers with far more force to bully Jayce’s g-spot while his other hand rocks the V of his fingers back and forth. Viktor’s fingers are so deep that not only is he able to press so firmly to the g-spot, the middle finger finds purchase against Jayce’s cervix to massage there.
A bright spark of panic blooms in Jayce’s chest. It’s so intense, oversensitized as he is from the sample collection. The overwhelming pleasure that’s beginning to build in his pelvis makes him want to run far, far away, but he beats the feeling down with a hammer.
He’s writhing, head tossing back and forth hard enough to land him in a cervical collar – the wrong kind for this situation, unfortunately.
Jayce bucks his hips wildly, trying desperately for purchase to fuck himself on Viktor’s fingers, or perhaps to run away from the intensity of the width and fullness and force. But with his shaking legs held open and his ass hanging off the gurney, he doesn’t have much choice but to stay spread open and keep his pelvis tilted down and relaxed. Just as the Doctor ordered.
He’s never experienced the build to orgasm this intensely before, and it’s more than a little overwhelming but it just feels so damned good.
“Feels so good,” Jayce whines aloud, thoughts spilling over. Then the broken, semi panicked babbling starts as that intense pressure in his pelvic floor keeps building and building. “Didn’t know I could feel this full. So full, too full, please Vik dunno if I can take it. Fuck! Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck. Too much. I can’t— What’s happening to me? Vik, I—”
“You have some tenderness here, don’t you Jayce?” Viktor asks, talking Jayce through it even as he starts to truly fall apart. All the while, he’s rolling his hips, the leather of the saddle stool creaking. “That’s okay, let me rub it for you, all the way up here in your cervix, too. Shh, I’ve got you. You’re just getting close. Let it build. Let it break over you. Keep taking deep breaths for me, Jayce.”
Jayce’s whole body is shaking uncontrollably under the onslaught. He feels suspended between Viktor’s fingers inside him and the incessant pressure on either side of his dick. His hips move without conscious thought, just the instinct to chase the pleasure juxtaposed to the urge to run from it.
The sensation is unlike anything he’s ever felt. It isn’t tight like an orgasm usually feels, but wide, deep – a sharper heat building low in his pelvis and climbing.
His walls feel raw and swollen under the unrelenting squirm of Viktor’s fingers and his cervix is sore and sensitive from the exam. Still, Viktor doesn’t stop pressing, rubbing, coaxing him toward an orgasm Jayce knows is going to rip him apart. His moans shift, high and strained, turning to gasps that are wrenched with such force from his throat he barely recognizes his own voice. His thighs are twitching uncontrollably in the stirrups and his belly is tightening.
Panic. Sheer panic, unspooling like copper wire in him, bracing and constricting until he seizes.
“Vik! Wait, fuck— something’s happening!”
“Don’t fight it, Jayce. Let it all go. You’re gonna come so hard for me, sweetheart. Gonna make a mess all over my hand, aren’t you?”
The tight rubber band of tension in Jayce’s stomach stretches to its breaking point, and his whole body convulses with the intense release. It slams into him in waves, and for a moment it feels like he’s genuinely lost control of his bladder for the first time in his entire adult life.
What the fuck is happening to him?
His pelvic floor muscles contract in pulses, pushing out, and he feels himself start to gush over Viktor’s hand, hot and wet and endless. His thighs lock up, spine arching off the table. He lets out a loud, broken moan as he tries so hard to hold himself back, to keep himself from leaking or cumming.
He’s going to piss himself. Honest to Janna, he’s going to piss himself all over Viktor’s hand.
His face goes crimson with humiliation even as his body is still pulsing, still gushing. He tries to clamp down on his thighs, to push Viktor’s hand away, but Viktor doesn’t stop, keeps his body between Jayce’s knees and his hands massaging Jayce inside and out, now complete with a loud squelching sound.
He’s going to die. Viktor’s mouth parts to reveal his eulogy.
“Shhhh. Don’t you dare apologize. That’s it Jay-bird. You sing so pretty for me like this. You’re perfect. You did so well. You haven’t done anything wrong. This is just your body letting go. Let it.”
The words reach him. Something in Jayce breaks open and he sobs out a breath and finally lets it happen.
His whole body keeps shaking, cunt spasming helplessly around Viktor’s fingers as more wetness spills out of him in hot pulses now that he’s stopped fighting it. His cock throbs against Viktor’s palm. He’s soaked, slick pooling between his thighs, dripping over Viktor’s hand and onto the sheet beneath him.
The pleasure is blinding, easily the most intense thing he’s ever felt.
It doesn’t even feel like an orgasm. It’s the systemic coming undone of every muscle and the too-good overwhelm of every nerve in his body. It feels neverending. And Viktor’s still there. Still inside him. Still whispering low praise into the space between his thighs while Jayce comes back down and the convulsions and gushes slow.
Jayce’s pussy is throbbing around Viktor’s fingers, still stretched full and twitching around the four of them.
Viktor keeps his fingers inside, squelching through each new dribble of squirt as Jayce comes down, curling them lazily. He keeps dragging wrinkled nitrile over Jayce sore, soaked walls and Jayce simply cannot keep from whimpering. The drag of textured nitrile against overstimulated tissue ... It’s not pain exactly, but it’s too bright. Too much.
“Vik! Wait—please.” He tries to breathe through it, but his breaths come more like sobs than pants. “The gloves—ah!”
Viktor does pause, ever attentive, though he doesn’t stop. Jayce blinks, trying to focus on Viktor’s face through the framing of his own thighs.
“Be good and use your words to ask me what you need, Jayce,” he demands.
It’s vulnerable, having to open himself up like this, the way that he’s being opened up between his legs. His voice comes out a pathetic whine. “I want you, Vik. Just you. The gloves—fuck! I just want to feel your skin.”
“Very good, Jayce,” Viktor praises. “Thank you for asking me for what you need. I’ll always provide it when you ask, Jay.”
Viktor pulls his fingers out, and Jayce lets out a desperate whine at the sudden, clenching emptiness. Viktor smirks and snaps his gloves off, slick and soaked as they are, with a surgeon’s precision. He pushes back, wheeling himself in his stool over to the trashcan and places them carefully into it.
Jayce starts to shake his head with an embarrassing immediacy, hips tilting up again, thighs falling open wide in a plea all their own. He’s sobbing a little now, a panic at being left alone and empty rising in his chest, clouding over the more sane parts of his mind.
“No, no, nononono,” he babbles around hiccuping little breaths. He’s got real tears forming at the corners of his eyes now, ready to fall at a moment’s notice.
Viktor pushes back between Jayce’s legs as quickly as he can. He gets his hand back on Jayce’s thigh, this time warm and dry and bare. It doesn’t catch in the dense fur of his pubic hair as it slides up and down in a petting motion. It just brushes.
“Shh, shh, shh, I’m here Jay-bird. You needed me?” Viktor coos. “Hm? You needed my skin?”
He runs his knobby knuckles along Jayce’s adductors, spread so prettily for him, before opening his palm flat to knead and grip into the supple fat just below the divots of his crotch. Jayce knows the Hippocratic oath says to do no harm, but he secretly hopes that Viktor’s leaving bruises in his wake.
Jayce’s breathing starts to slow, his watery blubberings easier to parse out. “I can’t— I want—,” whining, pawing and grasping at the gurney sheet because he doesn’t know what to do with his hands and he doesn’t want to hang onto the bed.
He wants to hang on to Viktor, Viktor, Viktor.
But he’s too far away, still gliding around on that little stool, wheels creaking as his hips shift like he’s — oh. He is.
The thought is fleeting in comparison to how nice Viktor’s bare hands feel on his legs, and he doesn’t want it to stop. Ever. Viktor is nice. Viktor takes care of him. Viktor will take care of him the rest of the way. The rest of his life, possibly. It’s fine. It’s okay.
A long winded whimper escapes him, and he shivers a thrashing withdrawal, an Emergency Department drop off, just after the nasal spray, no longer dying but in that quiet eye of the storm right before they come up swinging. Either way, he goes still and soft. Viktor rewards him by pressing a kiss somewhere between a knee and a throbbing cunt that wants to kiss back.
“Oh, Jay baby, you like being touched like this?” Viktor asks in this cooing, coiling, uncharitable kind of way, mean and sordid and heated all in one go. It’s something he’d never thought he might hear from his best friend. His only response is dumb, slack jawed nodding against the pillow while his head falls back and his eyes get reacquainted with the ceiling.
Viktor’s thumbs drive harder into the meat of Jayce’s thigh, and Jayce nearly falls off the stirrups with how he wants to ride up, arch his back and open up even further, just like that speculum had opened him right up. As mortifying as the procedure was, never mind the squirting, Jayce can’t help but think about showing Viktor even more of himself.
“That’s such a good boy, Jayce. You’ve been such a model patient for me. You want an even more thorough examination now? I’m so proud of you for taking your pelvic health so seriously after being negligent for so long.”
There is only space for a breath before the first sharp crack lands squarely on Jayce’s most sensitive parts. The sound comes first, sharp, wet, a little sticky, echoing in the quiet of the room, loud enough on its own to make him flinch before the sensation fully registers.
Then, there’s a blooming, unfurling heat. The sting rolls outward from where Viktor’s palm struck, right across the soaked, swollen lips. His cock is still hard from arousal, his cunt soft from orgasm, the whole of him absolutely drenched and frothy.
It’s not just pain, but a sweet-heat fire that seems mild on the front end, but ratchets up the scoville units once the bite is taken. He’s never felt a need so great in all his life.
His cock jumps, bulbospongiosus and ischiocavernosus muscles spasming. He’s so exposed and responsive to the cool air that wafts when Viktor’s hands pull away that it’s just like ice across his glans for a split second before the fire.
The next slap lands squarely over everything, clit, hood, the flushed lips of his inner folds where they splay open just a little from their stretching, drooling down his perineum to pool concerningly close to his sphincter. He doesn’t know whether to recoil or chase the sting.
“Fuck—fuck— Viktor! What the hell was that?” His voice breaks midway between shock and arousal. He’s burning, his whole world narrowed down to the sting of that strike and the man who gave it.
“Never. Neglect. Yourself. Again.” Viktor punctuates each word with another slap to Jayce’s wet pussy, sounds like splashing in puddles in rubber boots and kicked puppy cries echoing on the soft cream walls. Each strike is soothed with a maddening thumb running over his engorged clit.
The heat units climb up the scale, Anaheim to Jalapeño to Serrano to Scotch Bonnet to Ghost. Then to Carolina goddamn Reaper that has nothing to do with another slap and everything to do with Viktor’s breath suddenly so hot and close.
“V,” he hiccups, “V, wait. The lube— it’s dirty. You should wipe me with the gauze pads. It won’t taste—” He cuts off with a keening wail as yet another molten slap lands on its tender, swollen, aching mark.
“None of that,” Viktor commands sharply, accent barbed, cutting straight through the noise in Jayce’s head. The chastisement is immediate and effective, stilling Jayce’s frantic rocking with the sharp snap of authority.
Then Viktor breathes in, reaching into some deep well of patience, and gentles his tone. His palm comes to rest flat and wide across Jayce’s pussy, the touch both grounding and overwhelming, steady pressure gliding up and down in firm strokes. The weight of it alone makes Jayce arch his back.
“Your body knows what it wants,” Viktor murmurs, voice quieter now, reverent. “Trust that I know what I want, too.”
And then Viktor’s mouth is on him, sure and intense.
It doesn’t land quiet where Jayce expected. He’d expected direct stimulation to all those aching, overwrung nerves. Instead, the plush heat of lips lands higher, almost playful in comparison, kissing the soft, fleshy swell of his mons.
The effect is anything but chaste.
Jayce jolts like he’s been shocked, the contact too tender and too hungry all at once. Viktor buries his face in Jayce’s happy trail, nose smushed deep as he inhales greedily, groaning like Jayce is the most intoxicating thing he’s ever smelled.
It makes Jayce feel sexy.
His head tilts back, lips parted around a moan he doesn’t manage to voice. The surrender is immediate, full-bodied. Viktor rewards it, mouth parting, tongue slipping low and under until he lifts Jayce’s cock up with nothing but the strength of the muscle.
The first slick, messy slurp of Viktor’s mouth around him shatters something in Jayce’s spine. He cries out, voice cracking, becoming a silent scream when three fingers slide gently and inescapably into his sensitive, clenching hole.
They sink deep in one smooth glide, Viktor’s other hand keeping him spread and still as Jayce flutters and gasps and flails in helpless pleasure.
“F-fuck, so much,” Jayce whimpers. But his hips twitch up, chasing, needing. He wants more of that fullness, wants to be split wide on Viktor’s fingers again, wants to be filled so deep it rewrites the shape of his bones.
“You can take it, though, can’t you?” Viktor croons, beginning to scissor his fingers wide then wider in slow degrees, until Jayce can feel his own jaw stretching in tandem, his entire body peeling apart to accommodate Viktor.
Jayce shudders, heels digging into the stirrups as he grinds back onto those stretching fingers. “Yes, sir,” he gasps, and his voice breaks on the title, half-pleading, half fucking lost.
He writhes, a groan wrenching from him when Viktor’s fingers slide so deep his knuckles push bruisingly into Jayce’s labia.
Viktor hums his approval, and it vibrates straight through Jayce’s core. “Good job, Jay,” he says, and then flicks his tongue back and forth across Jayce’s straining, swollen dick, fast and teasing, just enough to make Jayce twitch and cry out.
The stimulation is overwhelming, each flick and swirl of tongue like a current running down Jayce’s spine. It hurts so good it makes Jayce whine and pant in rapid little bursts of air, his abs tensing. His thighs quiver, his abs jump, breath catching in frantic little gasps. He lifts his head to look down, needing to see, to convince himself this is real, that Viktor is actually there, mouth and fingers and praise wrapped around him like a fever dream made flesh.
Viktor tucks a pinkie into Jayce’s folds. His tongue nudges firmly underneath Jayce’s cock this time, broad and solid and devastating, and Jayce nearly blacks out. He rubs Jayce steadily up and down, the wet, solid texture of Viktor’s tongue making Jayce’s eyes cross and his head fall back.
The pressure shifts, and Viktor’s fingers push deeper — four now — sinking in with the slick, steady grace of a practiced hand and an eager partner. There’s no resistance left. Jayce opens around him with a cry, trembling, clenching, taking.
“Oh, fuck!” Jayce whines, voice disappearing into a muffled, breathy wail. He bears down, rides the thick, blessed pressure of Viktor’s fingers all the way to the knuckles, and sobs when it still doesn’t seem deep enough. He groans, chest heaving, and fucks his hips up like he can force them deeper.
He writhes, hips twitching, trying to impale himself further, chase the fullness, the friction, the stretch. He wants to be wrecked.
“Easy,” Viktor murmurs, but he doesn’t stop. He curls his thumb inwards, presses just right over the slit of Jayce’s urethra, teasing and grinding.
That’s what finally makes Jayce gush again, slick flooding down, thick and wet and hot. It drips over Viktor’s hand, coats his palm, makes a mess of Jayce’s thighs and the already-drenched cotton of the sheets.
“Deeper,” Jayce sobs. “Please, please, please, Doctor!” His voice breaks again, nothing but raw want, stripped completely of anything so base as ego or shame. “Need it— need you to make me take it. I can do it, I can, I can—”
Viktor tucks his thumb downward, gliding it along the slick curve of Jayce’s pussy, already dripping from the relentless stimulation. He nudges it up into the center of his palm, slowly pushing forward, spreading the already stretched ring of muscle even further around the thick base of his fingers.
“You sure you can handle more, sweet thing?” Viktor asks, his voice wrecked and low, ragged with restrained want.
Jayce nods without hesitation, whimpering, his whole body begging even before his mouth can form the words. His hips rock down with a trembling jerk, and his hole flutters around Viktor’s thumb, twitching with overstimulation and hunger for more.
The feeling is so much more intense without the gloves now. He can feel every detail warm, callused detail of Viktor’s skin, right down to the whorls of his fingerprints. Even the faint flutter of tendon and bone under the skin as Viktor spreads all four of his fingers with a slick, messy squelch, makes Jayce’s body clamp and open again.
“Please,” Jayce pants. “Please, I want more. Want you to give me everything.”
His voice is soaked in desperation, seeking no escape but complete and total surrender.
“I’ll take it, promise,” he begs, “I’ll be so good for you, Doctor.”
Viktor moans out loud at that, shameless and deep.
His fingers curl inside Jayce, grinding against his inner walls like he’s trying to carve out a home for himself in the softest parts of him. There’s something wild in the motion. Not clinical. Not patient.
Feral.
Jayce alone has turned this man into the wildest, most animal parts of himself. Intoxicating.
“Oh, I know you will, sweet boy,” Viktor croons, soothing his other hand up Jayce’s thigh, petting him softly in counterpoint to the abrupt retreat of his fingers, curling tighter until he can bully a path deeper into Jayce, thumb following with a notching squeeze of resistance.
He strokes his palm upward in long, indulgent passes, calming the tremors with touch alone. Without warning, those thick fingers pull back with a slick sound, curling tighter as they go. The stretch lessens for a breath, only to return with more force as Viktor shoves deeper again, adjusting the angle and letting his thumb press in alongside them. The resistance is real now, the fullness obscene.
Jayce pants, moans, writhes, his whole body trembling beneath the stretch and fullness. He can’t find words. Viktor doesn’t push too far, letting Jayce pant and moan and squirm while he adjusts to the new stretch.
“There you go, Jayce,” Viktor murmurs, voice hushed like he’s offering comfort at a bedside. “You’ve been so good. Staying so present and calm for me this whole time, sweetheart.”
Jayce sobs, guttural and raw and hiccuping.
“You’re such a good patient. I know you can handle it. You trust me, yes?” Viktor’s voice is soft, persuasive, full of awe. “It amazes me what the human body can do, and you, Jayce… you’d be a model study for dilation. You’re already so wet and open for me.”
The words make Jayce leak again, a hot gush that makes Viktor groan. His thumb grinds just a little deeper, and Jayce gasps through his teeth.
“Come now,” Viktor continues, coaxing, patient but commanding. “Let me show you just how much you can take?”
Jayce throws a trembling hand over his mouth and sinks his teeth into the backs of his own knuckles, choking on his own whines. He gnaws down to muffle the sobs wracking his chest. The only sounds are the slick grind of Viktor’s fingers, the desperate creak of the stirrups under Jayce’s thighs, and the soft, wet gasp of breath through clenched teeth.
The hand on his thigh comes down in another sharp, reprimanding tap. It’s not cruel, just corrective.
“Relax, Jay-baby,” he says again, just above a whisper. “I asked you a question. Answer for me.”
Jayce’s tears spill over for real this time, warmth streaking down his cheeks. It’s incredibly intimate, how Viktor is making him feel so so good, and he’s never felt this safe, especially not broken apart like this. It’s an unbearable gentleness to be known this way, split open and undone.
Viktor wants him.
Viktor loves him.
Viktor treats Jayce like every bone in his body belongs to one of the saints, holy idols to wrap up in gold tabernacles and genuflect to. His pussy is Viktor’s eucharist, and his slick is blessed, transubstantiated wine. His body is a feast of sacraments, communion, confession, reconciliation, a baptism anointing Viktor with his very essence.
Viktor looks up at him like he’s made of light and feathers and far too many eyes, a miracle to be witnessed and opened, explored and worshipped. Viktor sees him, every inch, every flaw, every vulnerability, and still touches him like he’s priceless.
“Yes, sir,” Jayce replies unthinkingly. He feels himself flutter around Viktor’s fingers.
And it unlocks something in him.
He clenches hard around Viktor’s fingers. “I trust you,” he gasps. “Want you to make me feel things nobody else ever made me feel.”
He sobs again, this one half-laughter, delirious with emotion. “Hurts a little, but I know you’ll fuck me better, Doctor— you fill me up so good.”
Viktor groans, fingers twisting deep, spreading him wider still.
“Good boy,” Viktor whispers, breathless, reverent. “My good, brave boy.”
Viktor swallows audibly, between the wheezing rasp of Jayce’s breathing, throat bobbing just above the soft trail of hair below Jayce’s navel. He rocks his hips and steadies himself for a moment, letting his forehead press against Jayce’s trembling abdomen, anchoring himself in the scent and heat of him.
Jayce is gasping, lungs dragging in air with a shallow, panicked rhythm, and Viktor can feel every rise and fall beneath his cheek, can hear the wet sounds of arousal thick in the air between them as Jayce’s pussy clenches and leaks.
He shifts his weight, one hand sliding up to steady Jayce’s thigh. The other curls into a firm bracket, and he presses the heel of it directly against Jayce’s cock, rubbing tight, mean little circles to force Jayce’s cunt to open up and leak for him. He’s demanding in his coaxing. The wet mess of Jayce’s cunt flutters and spasms under the pressure, leaking slick and cum in steady pulses now.
Jayce cries out, loud and hoarse, his whole body quaking under the force of it.
Viktor shifts his grip on Jayce’s thigh, braces him wide and steady, and begins to push. Not with two fingers. Not with three. But with all of them, four thick digits and the knobby, deceptive ridge of his thumb folding in tight against his palm.
He pushes even deeper.
Viktor’s knuckles manage to make the tight squeeze through the ring of muscle with an obscene, dragging pop, the slick stretch catching just long enough to draw a guttural, shattered sound from Jayce’s throat. Jayce’s hole swallows him down, the full width of his palm, until the heel of Viktor’s hand presses flush to his perineum.
Jayce sobs, full-bodied and breathless, his limbs shaking as he bucks and gasps through the shock of being so utterly, helplessly full.
Viktor pauses, lets him feel how wide and stretched he is with Viktor’s whole fucking hand inside. His body adjusts slowly, making way for the tight clench of Viktor’s fist.
He came into this room tonight terrified of a speculum, and here he is now. Being fisted by his best friend.
Jayce is panting hard when Viktor finally begins to move. He’s slow at first, gentle even, if such a thing can be called gentle. His wrist shifts, rocks, the whole of his fist gliding in small, controlled motions that drag over the swollen walls of Jayce’s canal. He uses his other thumb to stroke slow and maddening over Jayce’s cock where it twitches, foreskin stretched taut over the head, flattening pressure competing with the jutting hardness of his erection.
He feels pinnied in some sweet, blurry spiral of overstimulated descent.
“You’re doing so well for me,” Viktor breathes. “Taking it all. That’s it, Jayce. Just like that.”
He leans forward and presses a kiss to Jayce’s quivering gracilis, deep and reverent. Then another band, and another. Every inch of skin he can reach, he worships, even as his wrist twists, his fist pushing deeper, his thumb folding tighter against the soft heat inside.
The lube and slick have soaked his wrist, his fist moving with rhythmic squelches that should embarrass Jayce, but only make him clench harder, wetter. Lube and cum smear the apex of Jayce’s thighs with each thrust. His pussy seems to pulse in time with Viktor’s thrusts, sucking him deep inside like a fist could spurt and cool his burning walls in seed that stays. He swallows Viktor’s fist and takes it all like he was made for it.
Viktor tenses his knuckles.
Jayce nearly chokes on the sound that lurches out of him, part sob, part bark, part stunned cry. It trails off into a little whine of relief and pain all rolled into one pathetic sound. His body arches high, nearly yanking the stirrups out of their brackets, heels kicking against the steel frame.
Viktor’s hand throbs inside him, tightening and releasing in a slow, steady rhythm—tight, slack, tight, slack—that echoes the pounding of his pulse in his chest and dick.
The whirlpool of sensation is insane, breaking loose something inside him. It drives a thick wedge of panic-need-pleasure through Jayce’s gut, and he finds himself sobbing in time with every squeeze of Viktor’s hand. His cock aches like it’s going to spill out of itself, and then Jayce strangles himself on a dying groan that barely counts as a human sound, and he clenches hard as his body slams headfirst into an orgasm he hadn’t even felt the warning signs for. It rips through him, turning every nerve ending in his body into a live wire.
It completely takes him over, sends sparks from his cock to the top of his skull and back through again until he’s tingling and curling, ripping at the sheet and shoving hard enough at the stirrups with his heels to hear them creak over his own desperate panting.
Viktor doesn’t stop, even as the shocks of orgasm subside into post-cum overstimulation.
“There’s my good boy,” Viktor moans faintly, his tongue falling out to practically swallow Jayce whole as he begins to work his fist inside, tongue dragging over the inside of Jayce’s thigh, licking the sweat and slick off his skin before descending back on his cock.
Viktor uncurls his fist in a way that feels weirdly alien. The pressure changes as Viktor loosens his hand from within him, fingers blooming outward like petals inside his cunt. It’s too much. Jayce whines, high and desperate, his voice trembling on the edge of panic.
“Yes, sir, thank you, sir,” Jayce breathes, splintered and shivering. The words tumble out like he doesn’t even know what they mean anymore. They’re the remnants of neural processing after the prion that ends the world has consumed his conscious mind.
He whines, high and tenderly nervous when Viktor’s hand doesn’t stop moving inside him, pushing and pressing on every sensitive spot that’s been swollen and needy ever since he got his fingers in the first time. Jayce feels like he’s going to combust from the heat and pressure.
“Doctor, wait,” Jayce manages to squeak, lost to everything except the squirming desire to be good. “Too much—wait—”
And then Viktor stills, instantly. His fist holds steady, his touch easing.
“It’s okay, baby,” he murmurs, quiet and sweet. “I just gotta slip out, okay? Let me get myself where I won’t hurt you, hm?” The last little exhalation is punctuated by a sucking, teasing kiss right on the tip of Jayce’s messy, swollen cock.
Jayce shivers, thighs clenching. His eyes flutter. He sobs again, quieter this time.
It’s all he can do to nod.
The stinging overstimulation is enough that Jayce tightens, and then bears down with Viktor instinctively. His body doesn’t know whether to cling or push, to surrender or retreat. He bears down against Viktor’s hand as it begins to slide out, his muscles fluttering and gripping at every knuckle as though trying to hold him inside forever.
Viktor moves carefully. The broad pad of his thumb comes first, sliding free and folding back into Viktor’s own palm. Then the knuckles, deposited one by one, each firm push leaving behind a gush of slick fluid that runs hot down the curve of Viktor’s wrist. It’s almost ritualistic, the slow unwinding of everything that’s been built between them, the fullness retreating but the intimacy somehow deepening.
And Viktor praises him for it. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t pull. He murmurs low, adoring coos of delight under his breath as his hand withdraws. The sound is soft, but it lands deep. It’s like he’s… Janna, it’s like he’s helping Jayce deliver. He is playing midwife and lover both, coaxing him gently through the last impossible stretch of something he didn’t even know he could do.
It’s too much. All at once. Too much sensation, too much vulnerability, too much want.
Jayce cries openly now, no dignity left to save. Tears blur his vision, spill hot down his temples. He reaches out, hands flailing, pathetic in his need but unable to stop himself, grabbing for Viktor. He needs him closer.
He needs Viktor back to keep him whole, pressing open and holding together at the same time. Now with his hand gone, Jayce feels hollow, stripped, floating in some space adjacent to the submissive lull he’d felt earlier, but wrong somehow.
His breaths won’t come in or out right. They stutter and catch in his throat. His body still trembles with aftershocks.
Still, he manages to beg: “Come up here?”
It’s a plea more than a question. A cracked, shivering sound from the deepest part of him. An instinctive bid for comfort, for Viktor himself, for his weight and warmth on top of the emptiness.
Viktor does not need to be told twice.
The moment the words are out of Jayce’s mouth, Viktor is already moving, awkward and eager. It’s obvious his leg is sore, knee buckling under his hip, but he doesn’t seem phased in the slightest. He shifts on his shaky legs, climbing up onto the exam table.
Jayce reaches out to hold his slight frame steady, one broad hand bracing against Viktor’s hip, the other reaching automatically to support his bad leg as he swings it up.
It is, perhaps, a little clumsy. But it is also intimate and real. Viktor slips a little on the way, letting Jayce right his body and pull him the remaining distance to straddle his lower abdomen.
They make eye contact, laughing softly together.
For a moment, they can only look at each other and smile. It lights up Viktor’s face in a way that makes Jayce’s heart palpitate, but this time it isn’t in fear.
“Vik,” Jayce says after a moment with a weak, breathless laugh, his hands still at Viktor’s waist. “You’re gonna ruin your scrubs.”
Viktor huffs, half a smirk, half a groan. “They were due for retirement anyway.”
Still, he shifts, lifting up onto his knees as best he can, pitching forward slightly to start wrestling his scrub pants down over his hips. If getting into place was awkward, this is downright ungraceful.
Perhaps Viktor should have undressed prior to mounting him.
C’est la vie, or whatever. Jayce is too determined for this not to work.
There’s no pretense left between them now, anyway. Jayce reaches to help, and together, they fumble the fabric down Viktor’s thighs. Viktor scoots higher up the table, and Jayce curls forward just enough to tug the pants down one leg, then the other, guiding the soft material over each knee until they fall away entirely. Viktor’s thighs are flushed, bare, beautiful in the sterile light of the exam room.
When he sits back, he lands higher than before from all the movement. His ass rests just above Jayce’s sternum now, cock pressing insistently into his pec.
Viktor’s shirt, now untucked, falls down past his waist, hiding his cunt from Jayce’s view, but Jayce can feel how soaked Viktor has gotten as Viktor shifts, leaving clinging trails of cum in the dense thatch of hair covering his chest.
Viktor makes eye contact with Jayce, making a show of arching his back and sticking his tongue out to collect the remnants of Jayce’s cum. Jayce is mesmerized, watching with his tongue lolling out like a puppy in mirror as Viktor lifts the hem of the shirt and tugs it up over his head.
It gets stuck for just a split second coming over his head. When it’s finally off and being discarded to the floor somewhere, it takes Viktor’s scrub cap with it, revealing stringy, sweat-damp strands of chocolatey brown hair that clings around his temples.
Viktor is beautiful above him, an ethereal light-being. The simmering glow of the room reflects off Viktor’s milk-pale skin. Moles break up the pale shine of him, dotted enticingly up and down the expanse, constellations for Jayce to map with kisses some other time. A larger one sits just above Viktor’s left nipple, and Jayce can’t help but to reach up and gently thumb along it. Viktor smirks down at him and brings his attention back to the main event by grinding his slick pussy down on Jayce’s sternum.
Jayce shudders.
The chill of the exam room hasn’t let up. His chest is damp and gleaming from sweat and slick, and his nipples are already hard, pebbled points from the cold. Viktor watches, grinning like a devil. His hands trail down, fingers light and deliberate, and he hums, low and fond, as he drags his thumbs across Jayce’s chest.
“Need to get you warmed back up,” Viktor murmurs, the promise in his voice as gentle as it is filthy. He plucks one nipple, and Jayce jolts with a broken little gasp, spine arching like Viktor had hit a nerve.
He does it again, pinching and rolling, coaxing Jayce into twitching like he’s being electrocuted. His eyes flutter and his body pulls taut. He’s incredibly aware of how empty and gaping his cunt is in the cool, open air.
“Oh, there you are,” Viktor coos, soft and wicked. “Sensitive boy. Of course you are.”
Viktor’s hands come down to bracket either side of Jayce’s face, boxing him in, and he uses the leverage to scoot up again, just a few inches more. Jayce feels so safe, pressed down under Viktor’s weight, surrounded by him on all sides.
Oh, Janna. He’s going to sit on my face.
Viktor slides his knees in under Jayce’s triceps, pinning his arms in place. The motion is natural, fluid. It leaves Jayce’s chest exposed and helpless beneath him, muscles trembling from restraint, and Viktor settles. His weight presses down, his inner thighs bracketing Jayce’s ribs, and his cock, hard and flushed, slots perfectly against one of Jayce’s pert nipples.
Viktor gasps. Jayce is so sure Viktor doesn’t mean to stop there, only half way to Jayce’s waiting, hungry mouth. The sound slips out raw, sudden, almost startled. His whole body shudders with the contact.
“Fuck,” he breathes, hips stuttering into a grind.
Jayce cries out. It’s not even a word, just a high, breathless, overwhelmed noise as Viktor starts to move, slow and firm.
This is good, too. This is so, so good. Viktor will just have to ride his tongue some other time.
Viktor’s cock is slimmer than Jayce’s, the hood less fleshy around his growth. There’s less foreskin, leaving the narrow head exposed where it bumps into the hard peak of Jayce’s nipple.
His cock drags against Jayce’s chest, sliding over slick skin and that aching, over-sensitive nipple. His thrusts are shallow but insistent, rocking against the tight nub until Jayce is squirming beneath him, eyes wide and mouth slack.
Viktor plants his hands on either side of Jayce’s head, leaning over him. He’s panting now too, his rhythm desperate and focused, his gaze locked onto Jayce’s flushed, breathless face.
“You like this?” Viktor pants. “You like when I use your chest to get off like this? Look at you, baby. You’ll take whatever you get, huh? Perfect boy.”
Jayce can’t even answer. He just whines, open-throated and raw, and arches up into Viktor’s grinding motions like he needs it, as if he could possibly cum again just from Viktor’s pretty cock rubbing a single nipple.
Viktor keeps going, using the leverage of his hands next to Jayce’s ears to keep riding. He humps Jayce’s chest like it’s his goddamn right. His cock catches with every pass, the head dragging delicious friction over that tender peak, and Jayce shakes, his hole tightening like another orgasm might explode from him.
He’s still leaking squirt and cum steadily.
Viktor moans, filthy mutterings still spilling from his lips. If it’s still intelligible, Jayce can’t hear it anymore though. His ears are ringing from the waves of sensation and the incredible view.
His head drops for a moment, bending at the waist so his forehead can brush against Jayce’s as he rocks even harder.
Their mouths touch, but it isn’t a kiss. He’s speaking directly into Jayce’s gasping lips.
“My good boy,” Viktor rasps, wrecked and adoring. “Look at you. You let me use you like this — let me make a mess of you — fuck, Jayce, you’re perfect.”
This moment with Viktor feels closer to God than any prayer he’d ever uttered at mass. A greater reward, perhaps, than eternal salvation could ever be. Anything eternal wouldn’t be worth it, anyway, if Viktor weren’t there.
For all the filthy ways Viktor takes him apart, being wanted so completely like this is the thing that’s undoing him most of all.
Jayce is already desperate and squirmy under him, bucking a little too wildly. He nearly unseats Viktor and Viktor’s spine seems to seize up from the effort of maintaining his balance.
Viktor sits up sharply and leans back, bracing his hands behind him on Jayce’s knee. The new position has Viktor’s head tossed back, the long, pale column of his neck bobbing enticingly with his gasps. The rest of him forms lines that would make a dancer weep with envy, all long, lean muscle.
Jayce’s knees drop open a little wider, and his bucking is futile, bringing his cock no closer to Viktor’s hands. There is no avenue for relief. The stirrups keep him open to the air, exposed and wanting.
Viktor squeezes one hand tighter around Jayce’s knee, just hard enough that his nails leave little half-moons in the tender skin of his inner thigh in a stinging bit. He bucks his hips up at the sting, a broken gasp tearing out of him.
“You need to hold still for me, baby,” Viktor gasps, still rutting his cock against Jayce’s chest, dragging himself up and down over the slick heat of his nipple. His nails scrape downward, blunt but insistent, slipping proximally toward Jayce’s trembling inner thigh.
Jayce does not hold still about it. He moans like he’s being fucked open instead of just scraped with nails, heat flashing through him like wildfire ripping straight through his core.
“So needy,” Viktor pants, sounding almost amused but with a tremor of hunger at the edge of it.
He leans back slightly, hips flexing, spine arching as he glances over his shoulder as if shifting to observe something inconveniently distracting, but his weight stays pressed to Jayce’s chest. Then the hand not clinging to Jayce’s thigh dips suddenly between the slick, hot mess of Jayce’s folds. Three fingers push in, testing, curling, spreading. Jayce chokes and squirms, still incapable of not rocking into the phantom pressure even as Viktor lifts his hand away.
Viktor doesn’t go far. Jayce feels a cooling shift of air between his spread, trembling thighs, and then Viktor’s hand comes back down and strikes, open-palmed, right across his throbbing t‑dick and swollen lips. The sound is wet and obscene.
“Fuck!” Jayce cries out, ragged and broken as an electric jolt of painful pleasure arcs through him, a circuit that releases everywhere at once. His thighs quiver. His abs spasm. His breath hitches into sobs.
The heat of another impending orgasm swells so harshly it feels like it’s burning in his chest, scorching his throat the way tears might. Fresh tears spill over anyway. Still, he doesn’t let his arm slip where he’s bracing Viktor’s leg, keeping him upright. The sore churn of his muscles from straining to hold Viktor steady only sends him further down, into that floaty, trembling place where Viktor’s weight holds him, possesses him, keeps him safe. He doesn’t have to think about anything except—
“Ohh, miláček, there you go. Let those pretty eyes roll back. It’s okay. I’ve got you. Take me, just take it sweetheart,” Viktor croons, his voice breaking apart with gasps and moans of mounting rapture, spine bowing.
“Yes, sir, can I–?” Jayce cuts himself off to swallow dryly. “Can I have your hand again, please? Please, please, please? Wanna cum with you, V.”
Viktor almost destabilizes himself with how quickly he moves to sit up and rock his weight back so he can reach better.
He plants one hand firmly against Jayce’s pussy, bracing himself with his other palm on Jayce’s pubic bone. He’s leaned back now, thighs quivering where Jayce grips them to keep him steady, and he keeps grinding on Jayce’s chest, fucking the tight valley between his pecs and the tail end of the raised keloid scar. The angle stretches Viktor’s ab muscles, makes his own body go tight and squeezy. His cock drags across Jayce’s nipple again, a wet, obscene slide, and his fingers claw into Jayce’s slick heat at the same time, digging at his t‑dick and his folds with a rhythmic pressure.
Jayce’s head tips back, mouth open on a moan as he watches Viktor’s body start to tremble. His best friend, his doctor, this brilliant, feral, fae-creature of a man above him, fucks down hard and lets out a strangled sound as his whole frame locks up. Jayce sees it when Viktor’s back arches, sees the taut line of his stomach and the tremor in his thighs—
And then Viktor squirts. A sudden, hot gush splashes over Jayce’s chest, streaking across his nipples, his scars, slicking everything as Viktor grinds through it. The valleys between his muscles become little rivers and inlets, lakes of cum pooling in his clavicle and jugular notch.
His lolling tongue manages to catch a few drops of the spray, and Jayce keens at the bitter brine of ambrosia bestowed upon him.
He rocks up into Viktor’s clawing hand, grinding against the way Viktor’s fingers are working him, rubbing over his cock in hard, deliberate strokes. He can feel Viktor’s slick running down his skin, warm and messy, as Viktor keeps bracing himself on Jayce’s pubic bone, still trembling, still moving. Jayce’s hips cant up once, twice, and then he’s cumming too, hard and fast and uncontrollable. His whole body bows under Viktor’s weight, thighs shaking violently as he spills over Viktor’s hand, pulsing and gushing around Viktor’s fingers.
Viktor groans, a sound half-praise, half-wrecked, and rides out his own release against Jayce’s chest, still stroking Jayce through every aftershock with his slippery fingers until the tremors finally start to ebb.
Jayce clutches at him weakly, still shivering and pinned.
Jayce can scarcely catch his breath now, and he finds himself staring dizzily up at the ceiling tiles, the warm ambient light intercutting and splicing with blue faux-shadows from the digital screens. He doesn’t pull, because he can’t. Viktor isn’t someone who can be yanked around, but he does squeeze, arm trembling in the long straining stretch where it’s been stuck since they began.
“Oh, darling,” Viktor murmurs, and then a string of words Jayce has never heard before spills low from his throat.
The crushing anxiety on Jayce’s chest pushes harder in, and he squirms, a sharp yelping whine escaping him in fear as a hand lands on his face, holding him still, but then. Oh. That’s Viktor. Oh, that’s good. He moans, melting into the touch, his elbow thudding against the exam table as his hand traces limply over Viktor’s bony hip.
He feels divine. Jayce rubs his thumb over Viktor’s skin, supple under the grooves of his fingertips like the damp inner flesh of a sea-shell. Beautiful. Viktor’s smell permeates Jayce’s space, hair hanging down around his cheekbones, his sunken eyebags drawing Jayce’s gaze inward, back into pinpoint focus where he nuzzles cutely into Viktor’s cheek.
“Hi,” Jayce sighs happily.
“I’m going to need to burn these sheets, darling,” Viktor purrs, nosing lazily at Jayce’s cheek until it squishes under the point. Their foreheads roll together. “I can’t let anyone get their hands on this room before I fucking scrub it like a serial killer.”
Jayce giggles. “Silly,” he rasps, chest still hitching with recursive sobs, not so much sad as he is just continuing to release. He feels like Viktor could completely flatten him out, smooth away the imperfections of body and form until all that was left was comfort and blue.
“I could be a decent killer,” Viktor defends softly, in that patient way he always plays the Devil’s advocate. “I’m methodical, organized, in the medical field, and—”
Jayce snorts a helpless laugh right into Viktor’s cheek. “Is this your big ploy to get me all weak and incapacitated so you can drink my blood, or whatever?”
Viktor pats his cheek and leans in for a smacking kiss. “That’s vampires, dear boy, and I think you need some calories and a nice big nap, hm?”
The cloying hope for an actual date rears its head inside Jayce’s chest, a heart-bursting swell of momentary anxiety that he wrestles into submission with the weight of Viktor’s hands on his face. He turns his head just slightly to the right, until he’s afforded some small curtain of privacy to hide his nauseating terrified excitement. It doesn’t help that Jayce can smell the soft, intoxicating mint and tea tree oil shampoo Viktor uses when he gets a faceful of loose curls, Viktor’s scrub cap long discarded somewhere in the crime scene debris. He’s so close. Impossibly. Jayce burns with a pleasant, low delight to feel Viktor trailing kisses down the side of his cheek, lips buzzing in the coarse shadow of his shave, and then lower, until Viktor’s mouth seals across his pulse point.
“You’re still taking me to dinner, yeah?” Jayce asks weakly, a thin tremor entering his words, splintering them against his will.
Viktor softens, the lines of his body becoming clearer and sharper the longer they stay tangled together, like waking up from the gauzy embrace of a nightmare and trying to configure all your limbs again. Jayce can feel Viktor’s knees squeeze his waist as he shifts, breath ghosting over Jayce’s chin and up to his mouth where he lands an absolutely heartwrenching kiss to Jayce’s lips. Viktor’s mouth quivers, his breathing sharp, and he threads both hands in Jayce’s hair and rolls their foreheads together again when, all too quickly, they both have to break apart and pant unevenly, two tandem halves making a circuitous whole.
“Breakfast, miláček. And yes,” Viktor promises, punctuating it with another kiss (one of millions, Jayce hopes). “After we clean, yes.”
Jayce groans, acting put-upon, though his body does ache for an actual bed where he can curl up and sleep through all ten of his morning alarms with Viktor’s head on his chest. He grumbles sleepily, though Viktor himself doesn’t seem hard-pressed to move yet, either.
“Five more minutes?” Jayce whimpers cutely.
Viktor hums, nearly a growl, and nips playfully over Jayce’s nose before pressing a chaste smooch to the bridge of it. “Yes, sweetheart. Five minutes. Mostly because I don’t think I can move this leg, yet.”
The laugh that comes from both of them could be a filtered effect on two speakers, the same sound chopped and looped around the same origin, and it fills Jayce’s chest with a certainty and self-assuredness he hasn’t felt in a long, long time. Enough that he thinks it’s within reason to say the next part out loud, finally.
“I love you,” he whispers.
Part of him wonders if even that is a bridge too far.
Viktor sits up a little, looking down at him with sheer delight and wonder, a boyishly giddy smile peeling his lips apart over the zipper of teeth, which break open with the joyous reply.
“I love you, too, moje serce.”
And though Jayce can’t say he’s certain about much, he knows without a doubt that Viktor means it.