Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It is a beautiful Thursday evening, and Jayce is going to kill himself.

Shame, hounding him like a drum beating loud and hard against the pits of his ears; Shame, blood pounding in his skull, fire scorching out his cheeks. Shame, Shame — chasing after him as he runs up the steps of his apartment building, notebook clutched tight to the center of his chest, struggling to breathe.

He fights with the doorknob like he's being hunted alive, and once inside, Jayce crumbles. His muscles tense up and suddenly release, a twitching rictus of fear. Papers flying from his arms, schoolbag slumping to the floor, journal falling open at his feet…

The last hour of his life doesn't feel real.

It shouldn't be real.

Gods, what was I thinking? Stupid. Stupid! Putting your entire career at risk just because you're— you're—

—You're what? Horny? Pathetic? Stupid? All three at once. A new world record. Great going, Talis.

He puffs out an exasperated sigh, and slides down the door until his body hits the carpet. It's no use. The admonishing isn't enough. His pants are uncomfortably tight around his crotch and strained near buttons; Jayce is unusually hot for the weather, sweaty at the back of his neck, his dick stiff with warmth and want and pumped full of gods-damned adrenaline.

His skin burns where the demon has touched him. The feel of his hands hasn't faded, only deepened. Five slender welts burble around his wrist, above the lines of his scars, compressed from being held against the bookcase. A palm of molten want pours down his stomach like hot water; licks of flame pinch and twist the underside of his thighs.

And his voice.

Jayce thinks of the demon’s buttery voice goading him; he thinks of the hoarse burr of his laugh, the flogging of his smile. Those crooked bunny teeth. How that mouth held him and pinned him in place, how badly those lips taunted him for a week. How badly he wants more, needs more. Needs him.

He slips a hand into his damp briefs and squeezes the base of his dick until it stings. Greedy thing. Stupid thing. He pretends it's the devil's voice mocking him and his body breaks into a shiver, a throb running from the curve of his spine to the tip of his toes. Jayce rubs into his fist so hard and so quickly the friction is enough to burn up his palms. Wet, guilty moisture collects at the glans; he doesn’t touch the head because he doesn't deserve it. He could rut on the fucking carpet. He wants to rut on Viktor’s perfect, lacquered shoes.

Viktor. That's his name.

Devil. Maneater. Plague. He should have listened to the cautious little voice telling him to stay away when they first met; telling him to run. But he didn't, and now he’s in too deep. It’s the only thing he thinks about and he can’t stop. Jayce wants to fall asleep to the sharp, glinting citrine of Viktor’s eyes, gems pointed enough to cut. He wants to be watched, stepped on, choked, bruised. Jayce wants to be punished.

Shame, oh yes, here it comes, rearing up again, so suddenly it makes him whimper. Shame battering him in waves, wracking through his body as he succumbs to desire, thinking of how easily he gave in, made a fool of himself, and how quickly he'd do it again if Viktor asked. He gasps— bucking his hips into the carpet and pretending he's under Viktor’s desk, pretending Viktor’s hands are gripping him by the hair, pressing him between knees, pushing him down, making him work for it. And isn't he embarrassed to be so needy? isn't he ashamed of himself?

He is! God, yes he is—

But Viktor would take pity upon him, press Jayce’s face into the mound of his wet crotch; press the sole of his foot down on Jayce’s guilty, needy, cock. He’d rub him up until his socks got warm and clammy, fuck him through stretched cotton like Jayce fucks into the carpet, sloppy and eager and uncoordinated and, and, and…

Guilty. Jayce thinks of the demon laughing at him and comes hard all over his briefs, running out of breath and imagining it's the seam of Viktor’s pants tight around his face, choking him blind.

Sweat and arousal oozes from his every pore. He needs to be put down like a rabid dog.

***

It’s hard to pin down when his obsession began. This is just a reconstruction.

The first time Jayce hears about the west-wing demon, he's locked inside one of the Academy’s bathroom stalls, metal ruler clutched tight in hand, pretending he doesn't exist. (He thinks he came here to write, to concentrate — but he's been spacing out instead. Attending to the old need of searing lines into his skin with a measurer, hoping for it to calm the wreck of his clouded mind. He’s adrift. The sound of laughter coming from outside the toilet cubby is what pulls him back to reality; like the sound of shit hitting the water, but worse.)

Laughter. How disturbing it seemed to him in that faraway moment. Like they were somehow aware of his position, a gaggle of hecklers taunting him from beyond. Back then the whole world seemed to be in on it, too; in on his bad grades, on his flailing class performance, on the vacant pitying looks he got from his mother, like an unending string of nasty pranks. Jayce was certain the universe was banding together in an orchestrated effort to beat him up and hold him down, show him what his efforts were really worth. The laughter must be simply coming from the audience — the one cheering on his defeat. He had to know what it was about.

He raised his ears. Made an effort. A group of third-year boys huddled near the urinals, ribbing at each other. The youngest among them sounded tense, relating an encounter in his classroom that morning. Something about plagiarism, or being busted in act and then verbally skewered for it by a nosy classmate. The other two clapped their hands soundly on his shoulders and howled like a pack of hyenas, wheezing out replies.

‘Got what you deserved,’ one said. ‘You should be glad that’s all he did,’ the other sniggered. (‘Piss off already,’ grumbled back the cheater, stuck between the abyss and the cliffs.)

‘No, really bro,’ continued the first. ‘You should be fucking glad. You don’t know who he is?’

‘The undertaker.’ laughed the second, in awed, conspiratorial glee. ‘The west-wing demon. The little troll that lives under the library stairs. On a bad day he’d have you stripped off like a chicken and scalded in boiling tar.’

‘Tar? On a bad day, he’d have you caned in the halls for the whole student body to watch. He’d do it himself, nasty fucker.’

‘As if!’ protested the cheater.

‘Psh. You’re new here, Marty. You don’t know the system. He does it professionally, you know. As a side gig.’

‘--Bet Furball keeps him on the payroll just to invent new and painful ways to torture us,’ more snorting. ‘It’s a sanctioned activity, dude. Like we’re his human lab rats. I bet he’s writing a goddamn thesis on it.’

There was the loud sound of a zipper then, water sloshing down the pipes. ‘You’re both so full of shit.’ bemoaned the cheater, footsteps tracking noisily across the bathroom, reaching for where they keep the paper towels and the deafening automated contraption that was once the hand-dryer.

Jayce was vaguely startled to see somebody activating it; it just about unleashes a typhoon. But on further thought, maybe that boy just wanted to drown out more jeering from his entourage. His strategy doesn’t work. They’re unstoppable.

‘And I half-think you liked it, too!’ yelled the first, unrelenting with his teasing. ‘You should ask him for his prices! I think it’s fifty for a whipping! Less if you want to be his punching bag during the exam spree!’

They laugh some more, washing up and clapping away like a small stampede; the door is left swinging like a pendulum when they leave. The old hinges wail in protest. As if finding himself in a broken trance, Jayce looks at the state of his clenched wrists, the red marks he was slapping onto his flesh with the ruler mere minutes prior nearly forgotten, rendered dull and ineffective.

A whipping, his mind repeats, with some admiration. He does it professionally. It’s fifty for a whipping. He can hardly grasp the concept of someone — willingly doing that for him. For anyone, Jayce means. He'd never imagine it happening in the pristine halls of the Academy, anyway. He always thought that particular kind of perversion was a thing made up for bodice-rippers, a fantasy crafted to sell spots in seedy undercity clubs. He’s thumbed books like this before, found them lying dog-eared and dusty at the bottom of clearance bins when searching for evidence of his tales of magic. The provocative covers. The torrid titles.

Jayce is used to hiding this kind of need. Never feeding it. He's been raised with the knowledge that it is a nasty, dangerous itch— but Jayce couldn't help it. As far as he can remember, even way back when he was a just snot-nosed runt drowning in anxiety, he took to chewing on the insides of his cheeks. Sometimes the world was too loud, too fast, or his mind too embroiled in disquiet, and this was a way to make it silent. Make it good again. Rasping his milky little molars on soft flesh until something came off. Tasting enough blood to remember himself as a living thing. Nobody noticed it much, it didn't seem to matter at all until he grew. Then came picking at his nails, rasping at his arms, battering at his calves and running fast hard hands through his hair; anything that kept him away from the razor, the one implement he can't come back from after a fumbled slit. He knows where that leads.

Jayce doesn’t trust himself with blades. Never did. Every morning shave is a measured battle. There's no good way to hide a nick on the cheek. Someone would notice it; and then he'd be problem-boy again. Unstable, hysteric, insane, untrustworthy.

Fifty for a whipping. He likes the way that sounds. The mental calculation is done instantly, in a blur: that's a week's worth of groceries. I can get by on boiled eggs and skimming crackers off the cafeteria. It'd set me right.

See? It'd already make him work harder to stay afloat. It'd make everything go zen. He would be able to focus on his grant proposal, he would be able to finish all his coursework on time, yes, and he’s sure the bruises would last him about a week. Well, he’s half-sure. He’s never been whipped. He’d have to ask how the whole thing works; would it leave an indent? would they clean it, after? Brush some herbal cream into the wound?

A small thrill of satisfaction rushes through his core, when he considers this thought. Jayce is scared of how enticing that sounds, and he forces himself to forget about it.

It must be days after that when things worsen. This is a recreation, remember? He’s muddled on the details. All that’s left are the turning points. Here’s the big one, the shot at the heel: the Kirammans formally reject his research grant application, citing a worrying lapse in performance. The middle of the semester is coming up and Jayce is falling behind, dangerously close to the cutoff point — the kind of thing you get expelled for, when you're enrolled on a scholarship.

And Jayce was counting on that damn grant. All things considered, it was stupid of him to not prepare a plan B, when the health of his operation entirely depends on keeping his patrons happy. Now he’s got no money, and nothing to show for himself in the next two months. (In the back of his mind, he hears his mother’s voice crying again: pious, worrying. Mjio, don’t you think it’s about time you gave up on this fantasy? Don’t you want to do something real with your life?)

He's restless. Losing touch with his routine. With every passing day, Hextech seems more and more like a pipe dream; the product of a lousy childish mind with lame childish whims. Unstable, untrustworthy, explosive— like him. As it stands, it’s far too vague to present at the upcoming summer fair, his claim of backyard magic sounding ridiculous and unsubstantiated to any discerning ears. On the throes of mounting desperation, Jayce finds himself scrambling to put together last-second alternatives, anything to keep his head above water while he sorts out the dip on his curriculum. He goes over a dozen or so pitches, ranging from simple hairdressing machines to futuristic weather diviners, but there’s no heart to this pursuit. None of it seems to stick.

His wastebasket overflows with balled paper. It’s getting bad enough to itch again. He stinks of failure and he knows it. Anguish must show in his face, going by the way his classmates avoid him like the plague.

Jayce’s bedroom is a minor waste deposit — a growing landfill of trinkets, blueprints, open books, dry cups of coffee and dirty clothes. Some mornings he slides out of bed and he cannot see the floor. He cannot see a future. He cracks his notebook open and stares at his own rune-drunk ramblings until the words merge into an unreadable knot. He hears his mother. He hears Mrs. Kiramman telling him she simply doesn’t have the time for charity. Jayce picks up the metal ruler again and measures the length of his thighs in precise hits: five slaps on each side, bright red, bruised square and tall like a couple of wooden fences, feeling like barbed wire around the edges, just enough for him to stop feeling sick. The marks chafe against his pants like a rash and at least, at last, he has a center, he has a focus, he can convince himself to work again.

Jayce takes Saturday off to get his laundry done, avoiding an awkward visit to his Mother's. He can put that off a little longer.

He's plucking coins into one of the washing machines when he hears it again —that heckling laughter, that familiar gossip. It's shorter this time. The group of boys is passing him by on their way to the worklabs, their voices booming and boisterous:

‘Better get real careful around the library hallway. You see who the demon got this time? That poor fucking idiot.’

They’re another species altogether, naturals at the hunt. Their perfect skin and thread-count sweaters, brilliant leather flats on each foot— look at them, beige and spotless, straight out of the box. Jayce nearly shrinks, calves gluing to his scuffed repairshop shoes. He tries to snoop, but they're out of earshot before Jayce can get a hold of the gossip. Under him, the washing machine suddenly roars to life, negating his efforts to spy on someone else's business. Curses spill out from under his lips.

The demon. Huh. He's still on the prowl? Jayce had almost forgotten about it. He feels a rising, bad, reprehensible urge to chew on his nails until he hits skin.

Jayce cracks a workbook open, banishes the thought. When he sits down, the rulings on his thighs throb in protest. He feels too sweaty to hold a pencil upright, but he’ll muscle through it. The deadline for the fair sign-ups is in three days and he still hasn't got a viable project— If things keep on like this, he'll fail the whole fucking course. He needs to focus and do this right.

So, the book.

Mechanics 101: the basics of the steam engine and associated systems. Penned by Dr. Rudolff Baumbach, founder of the artificer's clan. Chapter ten; on costs of operation and sustainability. Fifty for a whipping. Less if you want to be his punching bag during the exam spree— what does that mean? A discount? Free services if you let yourself be walloped? I'm a fairly big guy. I could take it. Well, I could try, at least. What does he look like, anyway? Who the fuck is he? A student? A Staff member? Is he on the faculty list?

Mean guy? That's for sure. Must be a real prick if that's how they speak of him. But how come I never heard of him before? Is he a newcomer? A new teacher? I hope he's not old. That's— there's nothing wrong with being old, but it'd be creepy, I think. I wouldn't be able to face myself in the mirror. Too compromising.

He’s probably a freak.

The word shines when he says it, Freak. Jayce’s new favorite delusion is convincing himself that he doesn’t need it, that he’s not interested, that he’s impervious to the thought; oh, he’s probably a thousand years old, like Heimerdinger. Imagine that, bald and wrinkled, sagging elbows smelling of baby creme. Freak. You wouldn’t want that, would you? He’s probably the shady and slimy sort; a curmudgeon, someone that could ruin his reputation, ruin his life if he wants to, chase him away from the gilded Academy hallways with open proof of his degeneracy. Someone that would make his mother break down and cry.

He finishes up laundry, folds it up, warms up toast and coffee for late-night dinner. He meditates on abstinence. Then Jayce works on project drafts until four in the morning, and he blacks out into a dream where he’s hunted through a dark forest and roasted on a spit by a common fairytale troll.

It’s his Electrics professor who first says that name, Viktor.

(Jayce is well aware of the meanings attached to the word: Victor, with a C — that means winner, champion, conquistador. A thing that is unbeaten, inevitable.)

Professor Habersham tells him it's spelled the other way, with a K. More clearly: he tells Jayce he has a stack of papers meant to be delivered to one Viktor, with that K. Listen closely, child. The professor has recently sprained his arm and he needs help penning down this message, he needs someone to run a minor errand for him after class, and of course Jayce had jumped at the first opportunity to seem useful. He figures maybe he’d avoid expulsion by being remembered well among the right circles.

“Write that down, it's for Viktor, with a K— the teacher’s assistant. You’ll find him sitting in his office in the west-wing library, where staff keeps the old log books. Have you ever been there, son?”

Jayce nods, lying. He grips the stack of papers to his chest. He’s heard of this place before, he recognizes it; he feels that old itch peaking. Like letting a glass cup shatter and picking up the dust with his hands, like all those little sharp sprinkles burying into his skin, pinching, eating through. Like a thousand bloody and microscopic kisses.

“I need those forms delivered today,” the professor’s mustache says, eager to leave. “Don’t forget it.”

Viktor. The demon has a lovely name.

***

It’s nearly 7PM when Jayce musters up enough courage to knock on the sturdy oak door.

There he is, on the corner of the west-wing library: a hidden treasury of marked boxes and sturdy old tomes. Dust collects at the bottom of the shelves like a fine golden powder. It’s cramped, dimly lit, the only windows being round portholes above the staircase climbing up to the second level. Nobody comes here much. He feels like he has to lead up to it.

Jayce is going for a proud, confident knock, but his hands are way too shaky. Ta-ta-ta-tum! Fuck. The result makes him sound impatient.

“I'm held up at the desk. Come in.” Says the voice from inside. The answer is sharp, immediate.

Too quick. Jayce is spooked all over again. The back of his neck beads with body water. Deep down at his core, he knows he doesn’t want to leave this man waiting; his object of anticipation, the mystery torturer-to-be. He doesn’t sound old, not even a little bit, and that frightens him even more. (What if he’s not bald? What if he’s not a freak?)

By the time he turns the polished brass handle, Jayce’s fate has already been sealed.

He steps into the office and the first thing that hits him is the smell; dark chocolate with hints of smoke. Rich, thick, absolutely everywhere. And then there is — him. Sitting behind the desk, half-obscured by a stack of white paper. He throws a glance towards Jayce and then back to his writings. One glance is more than enough.

“—Apologies for the poor form. You've caught me in the crosshairs of a smoke break.” Says Mr. Big Handsome Brown Eyes, in this rumbling, velveteen voice that goes down like a spoonful of honey, scritching at the back of his throat. Jayce briefly forgets how to think. “I'd tell you to ignore the mess, but well, that's just irresponsible. Student?”

He runs a slender hand through perfectly unkempt almond hair. His uniform is rumpled, buttons popped, white tie pulled loose to reveal a strip of pale skin. The whole image is a little off, tilted ever so slightly to the left. It's unprofessional in the most delightful of ways; he looks like a mess. He looks to be the same age as Jayce, or close enough to count. He looks nice, Jayce thinks. Really nice. A mug of hot cocoa sits dangerously close to the rim of the table. And what was that, a question?

“Um, yeah, I…” Jayce says, like a fool. “Student. From — I have the paperwork from Mr. Habersham's class— sorry, I mean the last sign-ups for the fair—”

The man laughs a little. His pen moves with a frightening speed, like an automaton. “I meant, I have to take your name. I had assumed the rest. He's the only one missing.”

“Ah, shit.”

His eyes flicker up again. The brightest and warmest gems Jayce has ever seen scrunch up in mean delight. “So would Shit be the name or surname?”

(Thinking back on it, it was the eyes that charmed him first. Slightly drooped, dark and peaking eyelashes. Like they were painted on by a doting hand. Jayce immediately understood why a man might want to kiss him.)

“No, I--My name is Jayce.” he feels his cheeks flaring in response to the lightest teasing, burning bright like a stove. “Jayce Talis.”

“Hm. I suppose the first thing is a nickname, then? How absolutely curious.” says Viktor, who by this point must certainly be the devil. He takes the mug in hand and sips, returning to his affairs. “You don’t have to stand at the door, Mr. Talis. Do come in.”

The fifty bucks sit like a bundle of nuclear tissue in his pocket. Jayce wants very badly to come in. “Sorry,” he says, on instinct. It's not the smallest office he's ever seen, but every elevated surface is already taken by crates, folders, or loose classroom apparel. The only empty corner Jayce finds has a cane leaning upon it. “Where do you want… this?”

“Anywhere is fine. Although closer to me is preferable.” Viktor shrugs, loose-limbed. Something in the way he says it seems like a little dare, or an invitation.

He moves closer, and the angle of the paper pile is no longer able to obstruct Viktor’s body. Up close, he's smaller than Jayce had anticipated— and gentler, with a twitchy sparrow-like quality to his hard angular limbs. His lips are bitten thin. He has a scent of citrus herbs and smoke about him that is utterly disarming.

Jayce is certain he knows the smell from somewhere, but he can’t quite name it. It’s concentrated here, laid on thick.

He places the forms folder on top of Viktor’s to-do pile, scrunching up his nose.

It's chocolaty but pungent. it's, it's… dank?

And that’s when it hits him.

“You're stoned.” Jayce says it out loud a bit dumbly, admiring, almost. “Really? Here?” and Viktor laughs a little, guilty as charged. He gives up on the pretense on the spot.

The blunt he was hiding under the teacher desk is brought up; up to his lips, as he takes a needy and self-satisfied drag, unwinding his shoulders on the exhale the way lazy cats roll under the sun. He is absolutely unrepentant.

“What can I say? I was stressed. And my formal shift's over, anyway. That's technically off the clock.” Every single time he looks at Jayce it's brief and like lightning falling from the sky. He wants to be struck again. He wants this warm and mellow voice to pick him out as a worthy presence in the room. “You've seen nothing. Run along, now. This will be our little secret.”

Jayce nods almost instinctively— a secret, he wants to be a secret, something small and kept, a beloved piece of thrill— and he nearly leaves. But something holds him back in this man's orbit. His loose tie, his shifting hands, all that quietly suppressed clockwork energy. How the room engulfs him whole. They seem like they could be equals in chaos, if nothing else.

“Do you need help?” Jayce asks.

“What?”

Big playful almond eyes look at him again. He feels brave. Uniquely in his element, fully equipped to handle this.

“I mean— you look like you're totally swamped. I could, you know, lend a hand.” What? What is he doing right now? the words are shooting off of their own accord. “I have time.” no he doesn't.

Viktor seems infinitely amused by his notion. His eyebrows lift up in a show of mirth.

“I'm reviewing first-year proposals, Mr. Talis. I'm sure you understand the concept of confidential information.”

“Ah. That’s,”

“A little above your clearance level, I should think.”

And then he's promptly blushing again, embarrassed. Caught on the infraction of being overfamiliar. “Yes it is. Sorry. You're right.” Jayce shuffles his feet back, reaching for the door. “I hope you have a good—”

He’s stopped short of leaving by a raised hand. Just a second, it says. (Pale. Two moles. A trace of red and blue veins.) Viktor rummages for something in his drawers, mumbling. On second thought…

“—could you bring me a muffin from the cafeteria? Or, whichever leftovers they have around. I believe they'll close in 15 minutes.” He writes down lines on a spare piece of paper, quickly, and offers it to Jayce. It looks like a code word and a signature. “Grab something for yourself, if you like. It’ll be in the trash tomorrow.”

Jayce is eager to take the paper, and the quest, to please this thin-lipped man. He wants to ask him about the whipping services and if they are true but he doesn't know how; now doesn't seem like the appropriate moment. He's being nice. Jayce likes nice. It makes him feel wanted.

The cafeteria is over in the next building. If he intends to make it in time, he'll have to run.

“--And, ah, Mr. Talis!”

Jayce freezes with half his body shooting out of the door.

“Your shoes.” Viktor politely clears his throat. “I believe they're unlaced.”

***

The following days taste like blueberry muffin, lingering traces of smoke. He turns the scene in his mind over and over. Viktor said thank you when Jayce handed him the overstuffed styrofoam plate, have a good night right before he closed the door. So kind. Not like a demon at all.

Jayce doubts himself, then; did he really have the right man? The two concepts seem contradictory — what he’s seen running in sharp contrast against what he’s heard. Does he just hide it better? Is that really the excuse, coming from a man who’d admit to smuggling a cigarette in an instant?

But there’s some secret things Jayce doesn’t tell anybody. He should be one to know.

He switches from class to class and with every bell ring, he thinks about Viktor. Conceptually, like an alluring puzzle box. Like a haughty visual illusion. Like a welcome distraction. Jayce is either running numbers or he's thinking about Viktor, pen tapping against the outside of his mouth.

Interestingly, he learns that Viktor is a student, but they don't seem to share classes. Jayce knows this because he's taken to studying the windows now, scanning the crowds when he's outside. It seems like his free workshop periods line up perfectly with Viktor’s lecture periods; a pity, if it wasn't for these papers they wouldn't have a reason to meet. But Viktor is in the engineering course track, he thinks. (He hopes.) That’s one great thing to have in common.

He learns that Viktor is often rushing from place to place, and he often does it with a cane. From classroom to library, library to office, office to some other, fourth place — and he seems so busy, with that same aura of impatience hanging above his head — far too hurried to approach. But he catches Jayce’s eye in the hallway, once. Jayce waves at him. Viktor recognizes him from afar, but he doesn't stop to wave back. (The lack of warmth in this response makes him wilt, ever so slightly.)

They’re less than acquaintances. Jayce is not sure how to bridge that gap.

Once or twice, they brush shoulders completely by accident, because the campus is not that large. They’ll be standing next to each other on the line to the cafeteria, or holding up the buttons for the elevator lift. On those occasions Jayce will grip his satchel and say something unbelievably stupid, like, ‘Working hard today?’ to which Viktor barely replies — he’ll hum, at best — the picture of disinterest. Then the steel doors open again and he’s pouring out, rejoining Heimerdinger in one of his habitual strolls. The professor’s voice quickly drowns out any opening for idle chatter.

Jayce doesn't have a problem, he's convinced of it — what he has is a Viktor fixation. It’s a completely healthy, natural impulse to have. In his opinion, it was only a matter of time until this happened to him; he’s living near a college cluster, hormones are at an all-time high, people fuck all the time. It doesn't have to mean anything. It's just a feature of the environment, like the type of soil or a species-destroying virus might be. The whole student body is infected with it, and nobody's hiding their sores. They get aggravating crushes that lead into all sorts of mortifying peacock displays, and then they bone in elaborate backyard parties, like a rite of passage. People who aren't him, in any case. Jayce stopped getting invited to those once it became clear that his priorities lay elsewhere.

So it is absolutely normal, the way he's acting. It's measured. It's understandable. He's not being weird.

(Does Viktor think he's weird? He hopes that's not the case.)

***

It all comes to a head like this: Jayce, lukewarm chocolate croissant in hand, with his ear lightly pressed into the wood of Viktor’s office door, trying to hear if the doctor is in.

The west-wing library is empty, but still within operating hours. It's the middle of the week and Jayce should be at his first workshop on account of his grades, but he's decided to put an end to this charade. He's schematized how this is going to go, already. Jayce will knock, calmly, and Viktor will let him in — a repeat of their first truly good encounter. Jayce will be polite upon entry, smile a wide, prince-charming smile, and then he will produce the pastry cradled behind his back like a magic trick; at which point Viktor will either sigh or laugh, if he's feeling generous— and regardless of what his reaction is, Jayce will be a big boy and invite him out to dinner, or lunch, or mid-afternoon treat if that sounds more arousing.

Point being, he's going to make a move. If Viktor agrees, they'll sort out the place, date, and all these other merry details. And if Viktor tells him no, he'll simply suck it up and move on with his life.

Suck it up, you heard that? No taking it back. It’s do or die, buddy.

Jayce takes a deep breath, and he pats his hair down for good measure. He can’t really hear if Viktor is inside, but the desktop fan keeps whirring and that must mean something.

It’s time.

He touches the brass handle. Or rather grips it, like an oily tit. His hands are a slip-n-slide.

You’re going to suck. It. Up.

Jayce pushes the door open. He leans in. Big, big smile!

And lo and behold: It’s empty. Not only empty but dark, too, like a desolate walk-in closet. The desktop fan whirrs with great sustained effort, unaware of its own futility. Like an old man, Jayce thinks; or like himself, failing at this whole song and dance.

The smile cracks off his face. It’s just his luck that today of all days, he’d get the timing wrong. Must be something about Viktor’s schedule he’s missed, or— well, it doesn’t matter. Nothing does. This is just embarrassing. Jayce lets himself in and pulls the plug on the hardworking little contraption, trying to not feel too much sympathy at the way the blades sadly crawl to a stop. He's anthropomorphizing again. Suck it up. Jayce turns around, closes the door behind him as he leaves.

Viktor stands by the entrance of the library, staring at him. At Jayce. At Jayce leaving his dark and empty room.

His eyes are open so wide they could be rectangles. Jayce wants to scream.

“You.” He says it like a curse. Like a command. “You again!” Viktor charges at him so quickly it’s like a death march. He’s howling, baring his teeth. “What do you think you’re doing in my office?”

“I– Nothing, I swear I—” Jayce gags.

“Oh, I’ll be the judge of that. Trying to play tricks on me, are you? Planted a little evidence under my desk, perhaps? You must think you're so bright. As if you're the first.”

Viktor all but elbows him out of the way, throwing the door open. His nostrils flare. Once. Twice. His hand squeezes the grip of his cane like he wants to kill with it. Jayce feels guilty, guilty, guilty.

“What did you do?” he prompts again, not spotting an immediate crime. “I'll give you one chance to come clean, and just that.”

“I wouldn't— I turned your fan off. That's all. It was a waste of energy and I, I just… I didn't touch anything else.”

“Do you sincerely believe I'm stupid, Mr. Talis? Or blind?” Viktor whirls suddenly upon him, and Jayce stumbles back. “Do you think I haven't seen you, skulking around the corners, peering through every window, following me around the hallways like a creep? You're not subtle. I could name mammoths quieter than you.”

Jayce flushes bright, painful red. His lips are useless. He clutches the croissant like a lifeline, like a teddy bear. Viktor keeps advancing and he keeps backing away; the exit is disappearing beyond sight, there’s no escape but forward. His back suddenly hits a bookshelf.

“I could have you expelled for this. Or suspended, at the very least. Is that what you want, hm? All your midterms, gone? Speak!” Viktor hits his cane on the ground and a thrill rushes up Jayce’s ears.

“Of course not, no, I'd never—”

“Are you getting paid to watch me, Mr. Talis? Have you figured out where I live? Did someone put you up to this?”

“No! dear lord, no, It's just me, I'm only—”

“Then what the hell is your problem? What do you want from me?”

His blood is pumping. His ears are screaming. Shame. Jayce’s head is hot like a furnace, like the forge, like embers melting through his cheeks. Shame. He balks, and he blanches, suddenly: “I want to be your punching bag.”

“What did you just say?”

Oh no, Jayce thinks. Oh no. Wrong answer. You were supposed to ask him out first, you stupid fuck.

“I,” Jayce can't look at him, suddenly. It's like staring at the sun. “I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. Forget it, please.”

“That’s not what you said. Repeat it.”

Jayce feels like he could cry.

“I said.” breath in, out. “I want to be your punching bag.”

He risks a glance at Viktor’s face in what feels like a thousand years. His expression is stony, unreadable. Shocked, perhaps. Suspended in time.

Then Viktor slaps his right cheek with the force of a freight train. Jayce moans; it burns like all the blood vessels on the side of his face have ignited, his legs feel woozy, he can't help himself—

“This is what you want?” Viktor, breathing. Incensed. Scandalized. “This is what you're looking for?”

“Yes,” Jayce gasps.

Viktor slaps him again. Left cheek this time, so the solar flare is evenly distributed on the sides of his face. Guilty. Jayce swallows a whimper and his pants are tight, tight, tight.

There's a sound like a huff, like a large train arriving at the station; deep and labored, outside of Jayce’s purview. It's not him making the sound. Viktor is the one panting.

“Are you a pervert, Mr. Talis?” He registers a lick of lips. A strand of wild brown hair, dislocated, falling into his eyes.

Maybe, he thinks. “I don't know.” Jayce answers.

“But you like this.” and now Viktor's voice is rising with a note of bewildered hilarity. “You’re hard.”

Shame. The bottom of Viktor’s cane prods at his crotch, a giant accusatory finger squashing the side of his dick. He nudges at the lump a little, making it flush a bit harder as it bounces in his pants. Viktor laughs. Jayce is hit with a wave of incendiary bliss.

“Oh, I see it now. You're not a psycho-killer. You're a reject.” Viktor snatches his cane away, and Jayce mourns the sudden loss of touch, squeezing his thighs together. His bones feel like jelly. At some point in the encounter he dropped his gift pastry, and the paper bag lies half-stepped on the floor.

Jayce keeps looking down at the laces on his shoes. His brain is melting. He doesn't know what else to do.

“Pull it out.” The demon orders, half-amused. He doesn't need to raise his voice for it to work — he is quiet and sharp, precise like a needle. “That’s what you want, isn't it? That's what you follow me for?”

Yes, Jayce nods quickly, feeling a sense of release. Yes it is.

He unbuckles his belt, hands at once too big to work the buttons properly. Jayce feels swollen as if inflamed. Every corner of his body rebels against instruction— he's making aborted half-movements, making a fool of himself.

His cock twitches free in the muggy afternoon air.

“Well?” The devil prompts, hungry for blood. “Aren't you going to touch yourself?”

Jayce is a little embarrassed to start. It's ridiculous to chicken out now, when he's already bowed and pulled his cock out to begin with, but it happens. His hands tremble like an earthquake and he feels like he might piss himself, or maybe that’s just a symptom of his fever. He cups his hand over the head and squirms, overstimulated. Is this how he's supposed to do it? Is the demon actually going to watch?

Jayce risks a glance at his tormentor, then. Just one, from under the bush of his eyebrows, barely moving his head.

Viktor is staring at him. Bright half-lidded eyes. Mouth open. His face all red.

“You’re the worst pervert I’ve ever met.” he says, and he slaps Jayce’s hand away, pulling him down by his uniform tie.

Shame. The back of Jayce’s palm stings; the chronological bone in his brain snags, all he knows is that two things start happening in quick succession. The demon’s tongue licks up his throat, and a warm and knobby hand wraps around his dick, swallowing him completely. The underside is sweaty and rough, rolling on his skin with far more than enough friction. Jayce’s eyes flutter back. He grips the bookcase behind him for support. Viktor squeezes— his breath comes in hot puffs, his teeth dig soft indents against Jayce’s neck.

“Viktor–”

The demon bites him and Jayce breaks down into a low whine, hardly recognizing his own voice. Pain shoots down his spine; it’s his favorite, the extravagant, luxurious kind of burn. It tastes sweet. He tries to put a hand on Viktor’s waist, longing to bring their bodies closer; the demon grabs him by the wrist mid-motion, pressing back. “You sound pathetic.” he says.

He grips Jayce hard enough that it seems like a form of support. The thrusts of his leading hand grow wet; Jayce is so pent-up he’s leaking freely between Viktor’s fingers. Precome smears around his length, rubbed into his skin like sticky oil; his hips jerk desperately into the smothering clutch of Viktor’s hand. It feels so good. Jayce doesn’t know who or where he is, all he can focus on is the intensity of this feeling, the building of this pleasure, the clench under his belly, the fuzzy sparks behind his eyes—

Jayce sags against the bookcase, his legs spread. He turns his head into the crook of the demon’s ear, nose trailing the side of his face. “More, please,” he sobs.

Viktor’s skin grows hot. He mutters something into the space off Jayce’s shoulder, hand briefly slowing to a punishing pace. He considers the request, pulls back a little. The palm of his other hand climbs from Jayce’s wrist to his chest, then his chin. Viktor grips him around the jaw, forcing Jayce to look at him. For a second, they are perfect mirrors: faces flushed, hair unkempt, pupils blown wide. Desire. Then Viktor dives into his lips.

There's the softness of that gentle, wanting kiss, and underneath it there's the hand squeezing around Jayce’s throat. He could immolate, right now — Jayce could catch a spark and ignite on a whim. Viktor’s palm jacks him off furiously and Viktor’s tongue pushes into his mouth, muffling the rising noise of his pleas. He feels eaten, choked, fucked through; utter uncompromising bliss. His cock throbs in warning and the demon’s fingers cup around his glans, mean to the last moment, tugging on his oversensitive head until it spurts.

Jayce comes like a bell-ringing dairy cow; arms somehow wrapping around Viktor’s hair and shoulders, hips twitching into the motion, pooling into the hand that edges him along. The shockwave hits him once, twice— three good hits, boiling hot, better than a couple of tall wooden fences. His knees give out. He slumps down the wall, letting go of Viktor’s lips.

The demon pulls free from him, slender hand showing a mix of blistering red and stark white like an old burn lotion, rivulets sliding down his fingertips. He’s heaving, dripping; it’s Jayce’s cum that he’s sticky with. Somehow that’s the thing he feels ashamed of the most. There’s a lot of it and he can’t explain himself, suddenly. It seems like someone has extracted from him the exact measure of his want, emptied him out until all that was left was this thick film of semi-translucent jello.

Viktor considers the cum gathered in his hand like an experiment. He watches the webbing spread between his fingertips, and gives it a little taste. Just one good, broad lick.

“Mmph.” He keeps it in his mouth, swallows bitterly. His nose curls. “Your diet is reprehensible. I'm washing this away.”

Viktor finds the nook where he’s stashed his cane and turns around, seemingly unfazed about the whole thing, if not a little bit drunk on adrenaline. Jayce bats down an ebbing urge to trail behind him on all fours. His dick still weeps with faint trickles of interest. The floor feels pillowed. This high could maybe last him all year.

The demon stops right before turning the corner, remembering himself.

“Oh and— the west wing will be closed for floor cleaning. They sent me a tube this morning. Take your time, but don’t be here when I come back.”

Chapter Text

It is a ballroom like any other. The violins weep, the chandeliers sparkle, and the crème de la crème make their practiced rounds, with their tongues full of venom and purses full of gossip. The invites are expensive, exclusive, highly sought after. This is where deals are brokered. This is where democracy gets golden-showered in champagne.

It's revolting.

As usual, every single carny and quack doctor in Piltover wants to secure a meeting with councilor Heimerdinger, and in the offshoot corner of the bar, it is Viktor’s job to ensure they don't ever get a chance.

He's seen all kinds: so-called ‘medical experts’ pitching dubious treatments, entertainers in glitzy suits looking for a private meeting where they might try to convince the old yordle to part with a few millions in cash, sham philanthropists with their fake grants and faker orphan houses. Lazy heirs from rich clans begging for a place to unload a generous chunk of their inheritance money, in exchange for a no-sweat, instantaneous Academy degree.

It's all money, with these people. It's all they fucking talk about.

In Viktor’s eyes, they all look a little bit alike. It's in the perfectly straight white teeth, bleached until almost translucent. It's in the chiming and clattering of a hundred gold pieces or fine diamonds hanging from their disgusting outfits. It's the bulged-out stare, carved in excessive makeup or made twitchy and impatient by a few licks of cocaine. Sometimes the powder is still caulked on their gums. They'll try to give Viktor a reassuring smile and all he sees is that wet sandy paste, like the polish on their false teeth might be disintegrating, and how he longs to scream fake, fake, fake.

Heimerdinger is late, as he often is. Probably distracted with some shiny new contraption he's spotted on the road, blissfully unaware of how the VIP guests turn feverish at the prospect of his arrival. Two hundred years and his perception of time no longer matches reality — this is why Viktor exists, and why he is employed to manage these situations,— but no amount of gentle adjustment can hide the fact that the Dean is, even on his best days, a little bit senile.

It's an open secret. It's the reason why the conmen are so eager to form a queue when they see him standing at the corner of a party. He's the golden goose of easy marks, if you're talented enough to talk your way past his crotchety assistant.

Most aren't. Talented or well-spoken, that is. Their arguments are constructed to dazzle toddlers. Stock promises of wealth, or growth, or miraculous ingenuity that suppose the listener is yet-another coke fiend with a poor attention span who needs something grand and shiny to gravitate towards. That assumption proves to be their fatal mistake. Viktor is a skeptic at heart, and he’s been trained to mercilessly eviscerate every flimsy opening statement, looking for holes to exploit and something to grade. It's rare to see anything getting a pass.

Once upon a time, he believed this might confer him actual, legitimate power to change things. That a position as prestigious and well-sought after as Heimerdinger's assistant meant he'd have the ears of the elite on real problems, on concrete things that could be fixed, for the citizens that need it most and for the greater good of the undercity: but that couldn't be farther from the truth.

Two months working the job and Viktor quickly realized his voice didn't mean much at all. He was a human day-planner, a filter for the most odious kind of office guests, nothing more. If he tried to act as an advisor, he'd be laughed out of the room. If he tried to speak up as a Zaunite, he'd be comitting full-blown social suicide.

No, he was paid to do one thing only, and most importantly, he was paid to do it without complaint.

Almost two years bound to the secretary chair and he'd adapted to the asphyxiating hole in the ground dug out specially for him — his job: damage control.

Viktor swirls a champagne flute filled with water and tries to look appropriately bored as the latest high-prestige sham doctor, Mr. Cerletti, goes on a small tirade about the benefits of his proposed cure for all kinds of mental and spiritual depressions: electroshock therapy.

He hates this man. Hates. Viktor can't even put up a fake smile in his presence. His body refuses the half-hearted ventriloquism, freezes up like a block of ice. Out of every kind of opportunist lowlife in this city, it's the eugenicists that he despises the most. They all believe themselves to be so uniquely superior, as if they're God's only achievement on earth.

Viktor knows what he looks like, in the eyes of such a nonsense practitioner. Here is a willing lab rat, they must think, preparing their sacs of blood leeches and vials of shining mercury. Here is a poor idiot desperate enough to drink poison from my hands.

Well, they're wrong.

Mr. Cerletti is a near-bald sack of pus, so sickly pale he's almost green, and the self-congratulating warble of his voice is universally repellant. He’s had three wives, and all of them have left him after an armchair diagnosis of rapid-onset hysteria. The first two settled for a quiet and immediate divorce while the latest disappeared in the dead of the night, after months of poking holes in his clothes and tainting his food with a small number of natural intoxicants. “You see, such are the dangers of bad breeding in the weaker sex,” Cerletti complains, like the gob of phlegm that he is. He can't seem to shut up, flapping his gums even when Viktor looks the other way. “She was prone to fits. Random bursts of violence or suddenly heightened emotions, no doubt exacerbated by the unpredictable female wiring in her brain. Frigid in her spousal duties but incorrigible when it came to, ah, the allure of extramarital daydreams. Her logic overridden by her nether organs. Dreadful! You see, it is a logically proven fact that the hysteric is a walking contradiction. A danger to herself and others. A condition my groundbreaking treatment may remediate in spades.”

His treatment, oh, Viktor wants to scoff in his face. Gluing wires to a poor woman's head and periodically frying half of her brain until she forgets how to function. Treatment, alright. What an absolute horrorshow.

Viktor can't help but think that it's a shame, how the wife never succeeded in her ploys to kill him. The woman was on to something: it would have done the world a great good. Saved them from dealing with another self-aggrandizing sociopath. Viktor wishes he could say that to his face, watch how Mr. Cerletti's head turns the shade of a rotten onion. Viktor wishes he could spit on his food, splash his drink on that stupid curled mustache of his. Though of course, he can't. These are only ridiculous nether-brained daydreams. Consequences of his bad breeding.

“How unfortunate,” Viktor says instead, unsmiling. He feels nothing but utter contempt for this man, and it's bleeding through. He's waited for Heimerdinger to make an appearance at the gala for hours, harassed with the task of taking his messages and reminders, but the yordle is still a no-show. The burden of telling this troglodyte no falls to Viktor, once more. “It's a shame that nothing can be done, seeing as your theory falls short of every official Academy standard. No studies. No papers. No data. So, as you know, I'm no help.”

Mr. Cerletti grins a disgusting asslicking grin.

“Oh, dear, but that's where you're wrong. I have every intent to prove it, given the support of your facilities—”

“-- The Academy's facilities, you mean.” Viktor corrects. “Which, I will remind you, cannot be lent or borrowed for any sum. If you wish to prove something, your only options are submitting a paper for review like all the rest, or re-enrolling as a medical student, where we may supervise you.”

“Surely we can find a better arrangement?”

“I'm afraid we can't.” Viktor pretends to sip so he can wrap up the argument, and he makes a move to stand up. “Now, if you'll excuse me. I think the hour has gotten late enough,”

He steps forward and stumbles back. Cerletti has put a hand on his cane. He's clutching it down to the ground, the animal.

“I'm not speaking of Heimerdinger,” The arrogance of him. “Surely you would understand the importance of making strides in our medicine, Viktor. Perhaps more than anyone else in this room.”

Viktor hates him. Hates. “What are you suggesting?”

The quack doctor wrinkles his face in a poor mimicry of empathy, attempting to express a rehearsed sort of concern that simply isn't there, betrayed by the unmistakable meanness of his eyes. There's white caulked on his teeth.

“Why, your leg.” Cerletti starts, barely able to conceal the smugness of his preening. “It's a birth defect, isn't it? A random spazzing of your genes. Passed down from your mother's genes. Don't you see the obvious connection? How every problem has a root? Something we would be able to isolate, prevent, and eventually fix, if you gave me the time to work. I believe you could put in a good word for me. And when the time comes, Viktor, I'd happily put in a good word for you.”

The gall of him. The stupidity—

“I’m not interested.” Viktor hisses, anger flaring so deep that his face warms up, and he tugs on his cane hard enough to shake himself free.

The unbearable man keeps talking, but Viktor hears nothing else as he burrows into the swaying crowd, his cane gavelling into the polished marble. He's so angry he's pummeling forward like an old goat, his shoulders hitting golden pauldrons and his feet catching on diamond gowns, soiling the ballroom with his footsteps, upsetting the other guests. Complaints erupt around him but Viktor refuses to stop and listen.

Scammers. Quacks. Coke fiends and dynasty babies. He's surrounded by a circus of well-dressed idiots, and every single one of them is stupider and more entitled than the last. Viktor feels like he could vomit.

More than anything else, he hates that he needs this stupid job to stay alive.

***

Viktor has this recurring dream where he goes on a murder spree. Sometimes he masturbates about it. Not to the gruesome deed itself, to be clear, but to the enticing idea of what comes after.

Can you picture that? Being hunted, being a wanted man? All that adrenaline pumping in his veins. The threat of danger lurking in every corner. Enforcers gunning on his trail. Only one thought inhabiting his mind: escape! Run away! And Viktor knows how he'd like to do it, in the dream. It would be a classy affair, a locked-room extravaganza. Very often it’ll begin with his sleeping pills crushed into a dozen party goblets, and that loaded silver tray going around and around, to statesmen, to bankers, to councilmen, to Heimerdinger, until they all start feeling drowsy and drop to the floor like a bunch of dead flies. Viktor would spare the caterers, of course, but the rest of these fuckers can go right down to hell.

In the dream, Viktor is free enough to ruin everything. He upturns the dinner table, fists the gleaming turkey, puts his cane through a champagne pyramid and sends glass flying through the ceiling. He pops his suit open and pisses on the gaudy arrangement of ferns. He crushes Mr. Cerletti’s head like a limp and wrinkly piñata — call this hysteria, asshole! — and in the rush of exhilarating debasement that follows, Viktor is finally brave enough to say exactly what he thinks of him— what he thinks of them all, the politicians and opportunists alike, the collected worthless scum in charge of ruling this city. Fake, it's what you are. Fake! Fake!

Sometimes when he’s brave he dreams about dousing the whole councilroom in gasoline and bringing a match to have it all spark. He imagines the fire devouring palace after palace like a great hungry maw, infernal teeth leaving nothing behind; not a single brick or bone, not even a trace of their jewelry. Imagine that. Countless stacks of cash burnt to cinders! A clean break from reality! They'd have to start over, from the ground up, suddenly as naked and worthless as everyone else. It would be utter chaos. It would be divine judgement.

And then there's the aftermath of his own life, of course.

He'd have to lie and run and hide for hours, maybe weeks. He'd have to put on a disguise, pick up a ride on one of the fishing boats, and if he's lucky, Viktor would disappear into the ocean forever. He'd destroy his own career and maybe throw himself overboard, who knows. Nobody would suspect the cripple at first, but he’s savvy enough to understand how Piltover works on a microscopic level — eventually, behind every disaster, every mistake, every downslope, there must be a Zaunite to blame. It just so happens that in this case Viktor is the only one in the room. It would be his fault even if he didn’t do it, because it's in his lineage and imbued in his bones, or so they say. So he doesn't feel bad about any of it. That foregone conclusion retroactively imbues the dirty fantasy with meaning, makes the deathfest worth revisiting, time and time again. This indulgence is his by birthright.

Let me be a self-fulfilling prophecy, is what Viktor thinks, basking in the heat of those glorious flames. So long as they all burn with me.

It is liberating. It is terrifying. It feels like overdosing on oxytocin. And then he jolts awake with his undershirt sticky in cold sweat and finds himself laying down in the same dented bed he lies in every night, his aching leg half-numb and the sun barely peeking through the curtains of his shoebox apartment. Everything is immediately far less glamorous.

This is usually the part where he masturbates furiously, trying to recapture the last glimmers of that fading magic. Viktor is a professional clit-rubber in the sense that he clocks in weekly and he gets the job done with outstanding precision, but he doesn't feel much if at all satisfied with the results. His orgasms hit below the minimum wage line.

Simply put— It's a whole lot of effort for a passing glimpse of pleasure, but he engages in the sport anyway, like a seasoned veteran of self-abuse. His wrist may crimp up at an odd angle but he gets twenty seconds of fuzzy, floaty bliss, just enough goodness for him to regain feeling on his weak leg before it’s time for his morning shift, and he gets all this for free; so it's obviously a good trade, in his book. It takes him less than two minutes. He can do it dry or wet. Viktor doesn't even need to stick anything inside himself, he's that skilled. (More often than not, he's not even properly horny —this being an unfortunate side effect of his pharmaceutical regimen— but his body responds to the button-mashing like any well calibrated machine. Or like a starved cow that’s used to being milked every morning.)

The vivid dreams are only the kindling phenomenon. They started as soon as he was prescribed new sleeping pills. It was a little bothersome at first, when he'd wake up unsettled and believing all his objectionable delusions had really come to pass; checking his hands for blood, checking the walls for any signs of fire, touching his throat to make sure he wasn't foaming seasalt — but by now, Viktor has grown used to the steps of this little waltz. There is a certain freedom in surrendering to your deepest subconscious, some benefits to letting all those wild monkeys run free.

Sometimes Viktor’s brain goes a little easy on him, dreaming up a nameless hunk with beautiful arms to console him in the last hours of his fated journey. A pirate, a fisherman, a sweaty deck-sweeper; their names didn’t matter. The transience was the point. To Viktor, the appeal lies in crossing paths with a total stranger and having their eyes meet his above the waves, contesting that inquiring gaze for a moment too long, reeling it closer towards him, in that slow dance of seduction. This is followed by a lingering hand on his hip, and a recitation of the natural cliches: Come here often? Are you looking for someone? Could that someone be me, sweetheart?

Oh, he likes those very much.

Viktor usually makes himself come to the thought of being fucked inside a broom closet. Its beard burns scratching on the nape of his neck and large, sloppy hands hoisting up his chest, a strong palm bracing the jittering bone of his thigh. He wants to seduce a lonely mariner who’ll kiss him like a man starved, who’ll dote on him like a far-off mirage, all ravishing desperation, afraid that any moment he might vanish into thin air; in the most selfish of ways, Viktor wants to feel special. He wants to convert this man into an accomplice to his vanishing act, make him swear secrecy between the heat of his legs one last time, before he’s never seen again. One last hurrah for the human race.

It’s the fine line between the reproduction and self-destruction instinct, blurred until they’re precisely the same thing. Kill, escape, copulate, die. Maybe fuck until you're stupid before you die. Get one final good rub in, stretch it out in a parting hail mary, see if you can get someone, anyone, to moan your pitiful and forgettable name. At least you'll be a good fuck. At last, you'll be remembered fondly, as a particularly wet and tight hole.

And then his bedside alarm rings, and Viktor’s hot, hunky sailor disappears right when he’s at the cusp of an orgasm.

His wrist aches. His legs are shaking, protesting a dry release. He hasn't even come.

The little bells ring inside his skull like a phrenologist's hammer, squashing every trace of lust. Duty calls. Heimerdinger will want to see him in thirty minutes.

***

Viktor realizes he misses nicotine exactly one week into his dance with the academy stalker.

A stalker, yes, you heard that right. Viktor isn't sure where he's come from, or who he might have pissed off to deserve a giant thorn on his shoe — but the facts of the matter are that one day he isn't there, and on the other, he's everywhere.

He's a student, that much Viktor has figured out. Engineering classes by morning, faulty lab attendance, forgettable grades. Some lower-house aspirant enrolled under the grace of a larger patron. The name on Viktor's filing system reads Jayce Talis.

Jayce Talis has dark hair and light hazel eyes which burn like a pair of lamplights in the gloom. Jayce Talis has the broad shoulders and heavy footsteps of a serial killer. More pressingly, Jayce Talis appears to be following him.

Viktor will be in class, politely listening to one of his teachers droning on and on, and the man will be there on the corner of the window, like a watchful, peering shadow.

Viktor will be waiting in line at the cafeteria, and the man will be there, ungainly contours making him stand out between the herd of other students, head bowed to face the tiny milk box on his tray.

Viktor will be crossing the halls after period and the man will be there too, ten or fifteen footsteps behind, hidden around the corner. He lifts one unnervingly big hand when he spots Viktor looking back, and his palm is a sickening smear of pure red, old dried blood seeping through a layer of tightly wrapped bandages. Is that his fucking blood? Or is it someone else's?

He smiles. Viktor feels a chill run down his spine, and he immediately walks away.

Undercity logic dictates that this is an intimidation tactic of some kind— that someone wants to see him paranoid, or at least very afraid. For one moment Viktor believes it might've been Mr. Cerletti, enacting a cynical revenge as payback for the spurned proposal. But would he really waste his time shaking down an assistant? Would he really be so reckless with his money, paying off a novice to do the dirty deed? (He could be. He would be. Leave it to that man to devise the worst tortures imaginable.)

But Cerletti is far from the only asshole he has blown off during his shift. There were others before him and there will be more after. Viktor would bring his concerns to the Dean’s table, but he needs to be sure of who he’s accusing, first. If he’s even accusing anybody. The fact that a student is doing this makes him sick under the stomach; he’s never been well-liked among his peers, Viktor knows that, the student body reminds him of their scathing indifference often enough. But this… is a whole new low.

Viktor starts locking the office door. He hunkers down to finish his paperwork, and one hour in, he finds himself missing cigarettes. He craves the bitter aftertaste, the comfort in that brief, directed high, even if it eventually turned his lungs to mush. Nicotine has never betrayed his brain the way other intoxicants do. Weed makes him act docile and reckless, and now he’s paying for it. If he had been sober the first time he met Jayce Talis, perhaps he could have spotted the underlying threat early on. Perhaps he could have turned him away at the door, put up some unbreakable walls.

Instead, it appears that he’s given the man an excuse to act with exceeding familiarity.

One day turns into two, then three, then four; and Talis is still there at the outermost edge of Viktor’s vision, lurking about like an ungodly fixture and doing a poor job at pretending he’s not following him around. He pretends he’s reading a book. He pretends he’s writing something down, only to stop when Viktor walks by. He pretends he just-so-happened to reach for the exact same muffin Viktor is reaching for during the lunch rush, and he has the gall to apologize and tell him to keep it, like he hasn’t already rubbed off his disgusting bloody murder-bacteria over the top glaze.

He keeps getting bolder. He keeps trying harder. It’s uncanny.

Once, Talis pushes his way into the same empty lift elevator Viktor is using. The iron bars are millimeters from closing, and then WHAM, his five sausage fingers are squeezing through the gap and clattering the doors back open. Jayce spills into the compartment the same way a cat throws up; ungraceful, furred, gasping on all fours. His satchel is half open and his rulers and pencils are bouncing out like hairballs. He wastes ten seconds collecting his things from the floor and pushing them back into his bag before he looks up.

And then he pretends he didn’t know Viktor was there to begin with.

“--Sorry,” Talis immediately says, sweaty and reddening around the ears. When he gets up, he has a whole full head above Viktor, the creep. It’s hard to not shrink back from the proximity, but Viktor proudly stands his ground as the stranger keeps on speaking. “I, er. I’m late for my quarterly review. I had to. Jump no matter what, you know?”

Jayce fake-laughs. Viktor narrows his eyes slightly, and pretends he doesn’t listen. Two can play this game.

When he looks down he can see Jayce’s shoelaces are untied again, explaining the ‘accident’. Viktor has to bite his tongue to not bring that up. It’s an old lift and it takes a little while; god knows what may happen if he gives Talis further permission to speak.

They’re trapped together for almost a minute. He barely breathes. Viktor wonders if his stalker has already followed him home, and if this display is just some sort of sick preamble to the final bout, like a wolf toying with the kill. From up this close, he can make out Jayce’s muscles stiff under the uniform, count the papers shoved inside his pockets. The man beside him shifts and fidgets like a typical suspect. He holds his bag to his chest like it might carry the murder instrument. What would it even be? A knife? A hatchet? Maybe just a heavy wrench, for the joke of it.

And that would be fucking funny, wouldn’t it? It would be incredibly ironic, wouldn’t it not? He’s the two-bit worm from the undercity who spends his free time dreaming about beautiful slaughter, and he’s going to get his head bashed in by a common topside freak.

He wonders, briefly, if Jayce would even know where to hit, or if he'd panic after the first bone-crunching strike. He imagines the site of his death as some sort of messy art installation, splatters spraying out to every wall, bits of his teeth stuck to the ceiling. His mouth sours.

The elevator gates swing open to the top floor. Beside him, Jayce is still stuttering something. Viktor grips his cane harder and he steps out without listening, spotting the bush of Heimerdinger's orange furs just down the hall.

He hasn't had a wet dream ever since this whole mess started out. Every passing day seems duller by contrast, a dark pit approaching with seemingly no end. His mind is too preoccupied with survival to give willingly to surrender, and internally, Viktor feels himself cracking. There are no morning glories. There are no orgasms. There is no respite from the pain; these past few nights, he's only had distressing chase nightmares.

His patience has nearly boiled to its limit. If Jayce doesn’t kill him soon, Viktor might just wring his neck first.

***

It still happens, in a way. But it's nothing like he imagined.

It all comes to a head like this: Jayce, breathless and curled up on the dusty library floor, his mouth kissed until almost bruising and his pants wrapped around his knees. He's flushed like a ripe tomato. His dick is dripping wet. Viktor’s palm is dripping with his cum.

And he really understands exactly what's going on then, with this overwhelming clarity. Jayce isn't scary. He's not a hired hand or saboteur; he's not a murderer. He's not a threat. He's just pathetic.

His tongue tasted like a nervous caramel habit. His knees are weak, his touch timid and apologetic. When pushed against the wall, he whimpers like a beaten puppy, keening into the rough of Viktor’s hand.

Don't be here when I come back.

Fuck, he thinks, I really did that, didn't I?

After a hasty retreat, Viktor tries to wash the vestiges of the act from his hands but his palm still feels too warm, the blood beneath it prickling as if mutated by contact. He still smells Jayce on the side of his shoulder, a thick masculine perfume lingering on his blazer and in the air. (Just a musky hint of sweat to it.) He sees Jayce, too, and that is the worst part — in the other side of the smudgy bathroom mirror, in the privacy of Viktor’s mind and in the darkness behind his eyelids, he sees Jayce with his uniform shorn open and his bronze thighs spread wide, begging to be fondled. He gasps. He moans. His skin is dewy-soft at the mercy of Viktor’s fingertips and he shudders under the lightest touch.

Viktor thinks of Jayce’s rippling muscles bound under a length of red rope and his cunt runs as wet as the fucking river. He's terribly hot, probably having some kind of delayed chemical reaction, like kissing the man somehow upset his blood sugar. It's unnatural. Even walking feels wrong. His pussy throbs like it's been lit by a stovetop and it makes no sense, Jayce didn't even touch him, if anything he's the one who laid there and took it like a slut.

Oh. That thought strikes him like a well-pointed bolt between the thighs. Viktor feels suddenly woozy, bracing against the counter and squeezing his aching legs together. He's sure the bathroom is empty and locked because the masterkey is sitting in his pocket, but for a moment he still looks over his shoulder, irrationally checking for a trespasser, for Jayce, for anything.

And when he finds no one, Viktor tugs his pants down to his knees right in front of the fancy marble sink, and he fingers his dick until his brain leaks out of his ears— his cunt shiny in the cool open air, eager for molestation, dreaming of stuffing Jayce Talis from the back end to the front one. The upper hole could fit a ballgag. The lower one could be squeezing around his cock. He'd be begging for it, that dirty little thing.

Viktor exfoliates his cock with his damp, cum-touched fingers, thinking of Jayce’s glossy hazelnut eyes pearling with tears, of his whiny, gasping porcelain doll mouth, and he comes so hard and so fast that a layer of slick drips down his seizing knuckles. It sprays through the gaps of his fingers. A second coat of pheromones, applied over the first one.

He is breathless, parched, loudly overheating. The mirror shows him the cage of a frenzied and lusty animal, a pre-human man. Viktor feels briefly deranged, like he's trapped inside another one of his murder-spree fantasies.

Then he begins to laugh, completely and utterly beyond giving a shit.

***

Come Friday, the following message is slipped between the vents of Jayce’s student locker:

‘You know exactly who I am. Let's skip to business.

If you want to talk about what happened in the library, meet me tomorrow at 2PM by the Cherryside cafe, upstairs table. I will be there for an hour and no longer.

Show up alone, and don't try anything.’

Viktor tucks the little white envelope inside, checks the safety of the lock like a robber, and all but marches away.

***

He has no idea if Jayce will come.

Viktor wakes up on the day of the rendezvous with an acute case of cold feet. Another night without dreams— he's up at six, running purely on coffee and the memory of Jayce's toned navel. Picking an outfit turns out to be disastrous, as his closet is only moderately equipped for his day-to-day duties and Viktor hasn’t set aside money to waste on much else.

All of his clothes feel too shabby under close scrutiny; the linen unflattering, the colors too dead, the tight collars drawing attention to the growing sallowness of his cheeks. He comes to the embarrassing conclusion that his stalker must have already been spoiled with all his best angles, catalogued every inch of his barely passable veneer of personhood, and all that is left to be presented of his own accord are the leftovers. He lies in scraps and tatters, the world's horniest Cinderella.

Sure, he's washed and dried and even dabbed himself in creams, but Viktor knows he's no sight, and he's certainly not wooing anybody. He's not sure why Jayce is interested, to begin with— he has theories about that, things to do with the appeal of shock and awe and sometimes objectification, the inarguable pull of the grotesque— but the meeting was his idea, he's the one inviting misfortune upon his life, and so Viktor gets it into his head that he's not allowed to back down. He slips into his shoes and buttons up his trousers. At the very least, he will attend to his arrangement, ready to be stood up like a man.

It wouldn't be the first time Viktor has spooked someone away. He's lived through this outcome before, and he will do it again.

So it is all the more shocking when he arrives at the Cafe's top floor a whole five minutes before the meeting is supposed to take place, and Jayce is already there, comfortably sitting on the corner table, midway through enjoying a delicate serving of Piltover's softest pudding.

He has been provided with a thin and overly long silver spoon. The total effect of it is that when he brings the dessert to his lips, it is as though Viktor is watching a furred pet bunny nibbling on a sugarcube; the pom-pom tail wagging, its floppy ears quivering with untold delight.

That barbaric feeling hits him again, abruptly hijacking his thoughts. Viktor's well-laid plans are thrown out and replaced with a sudden urge to stick his thumbs inside that boy's mouth; see how sharp are his teeth, what other things he might love to suck. He freezes up at the edge of the fancy cabin attic, and it's enough for Jayce’s eyes to lift from his plate.

He sees Viktor and drops the spoon. Jayce’s body language is unguarded and easy to read — he tenses up, shoulders going rigid and eyes distending, a fiery blush spreading from his nose to the edges of his face like he's been caught tugging his dick out. He wonders if he should stay put or get up, bumps his hip on the glass table trying to decide a little too quickly, until he finally manages to stand and say “Hi,” into the empty upper floor, stilling next to their table like a novice butler.

Viktor grips the nouveau wood railing for stability, afraid that the moment he starts moving his bad knees will give out and send him tumbling back the spiraling stairs.

“You're early.” he manages to say, stepping forward into the sunlight. Careful now.

“I was… maybe a little excited.” Jayce confesses, at once too flustered and trusting. The budding rosiness in his face has reached his ears. He shuffles expectantly, pulling Viktor’s chair for him to sit, gesturing to the plush cushion. “I didn't think you would want to see me at all after… ah, you know.”

That thick perfume is hanging in the air. Viktor feels a piece of his loins stir.

I know, he agrees, quietly and only to himself, and he allows a sheepish Jayce to be a gentleman and tuck him into the table. He supposes he's owed that much.

“Thank you.” Viktor says, clearing his throat. He looks down at the menu to avoid the impossible shine in the man’s black-rimmed eyes. Soon enough, they're seated face to face. “Though I must admit, I didn't think you would show up either. So. Are you shameless as a rule, or just with me?”

“I,” Jayce stalls for a second, wetting his lips. He fidgets with the leather gem bracelet he always wears on his non-bloodied hand. It's a pretty blue crystal, for a pretty flustered boy. “To be honest, I've never actually done this before. You're just…”

“--An easier target?” Viktor prods. He wants to get this out in the open as quickly as possible.

“—I was going to say special.” Jayce finishes. He breathes like a weight is shifting in his chest. “I've never met anyone like you.”

What a cute and useless euphemism, Viktor thinks, humorlessly. It takes effort to not roll his eyes. “Well then, is it the cane that excites you, Mr. Talis? Is it the fact that it makes me easier to track? Harder to run away?”

“No.” Jayce’s face scrunches up in bitter lime confusion. A floppy strand of his soft hair comes loose, framing his eyebrows. “Don't… speak like that. It's upsetting.” he mutters, almost offended on Viktor's behalf.

“You'll deny self-definition to a cripple?”

“That’s not why I like you,” Jayce insists, so distressed that it makes Viktor’s eyebrows rise. It's the most bravery he's demonstrated so far; perhaps he's taken the implied predation as an insult.

“Why do you like me, then?” Viktor squints. “We've spoken once. We're practically strangers.”

“It was way more than once.” Jayce corrects him, juvenile, blushing; he squeezes his hands in his lap. “I see you around all the time,”

“Well, yes. I do recall establishing that you were stalking me.”

“— I like the way you speak. Your voice, it's… Disarming and beautiful. I could listen to it forever. I wanted to find some way to speak with you, but you're always so busy— and maybe you found me disgusting, I don't know. I couldn’t figure out how to make it work no matter how much I tried. I like your hair. I like your eyes, Viktor. They make me feel like I'm being peeled apart. I read your essays. I think you're brilliant. I can't stop thinking about your hands on me.” Jayce rattles off until he tires himself out, breathing heavily. He looks like he is, somehow, moments away from bursting into tears.

Viktor opens his mouth, thoughts swimming, and then he quickly snaps it shut again. He needs to digest this properly. Hells, he needs to think.

How to describe such a fascinating subject?

Jayce Talis sits like a girl. Despite the heavy eyebags and the weight of his shoulders, he keeps his nervous hands crumpled on his lap, thighs glued together, arms squeezing his bosom. He's looking at Viktor for approval. He keeps picking at his bandages, crossing and uncrossing his legs, avoiding eye contact.

Viktor wants to bite him again.

“What's wrong with your hand?” he asks instead. Still poking, still testing the waters.

Jayce takes a beat longer to answer this question. His eyebrows draw closer. On his lap, his healthy palm reaches around to eclipse the bad one, as if there's still time to hide the damage now.

“I broke a glass cup.” he explains, quietly, with a liar's mouth. “Didn't clean it up well enough.”

So it was his blood, after all.

Viktor hums in turn, putting two and two together. He remembers a lattice of red and purple marks on the intimate skin of Jayce’s thighs; he remembers grasping a wandering wrist and finding the texture of bumpy ridges.

“Do you make a habit of hurting yourself, Jayce?”

Initially, he doesn't answer. They sit in silence and Viktor starts to think he crossed an invisible line by using his name, or acknowledging the scars at all. Jayce seems in every respect like a cornered fawn, deprived of his usual deflective and charming responses.

But something builds in him slowly, taking root.

“Sometimes.” Jayce confesses, “It’s what I do to make things quieter.”

“Is that why you want me to hit you?”

Jayce visibly winces at Viktor's choice of words. Something flashes in his eyes: is it regret?

“I'm sorry.” Jayce shakes his head, disengaging completely. “I'll pay for my stuff and go.”

“I didn't tell you to get up.” Viktor cuts in before he gets a chance. “I asked you a question. Yes or no?”

“Yes.” the word seems to hurt him as it comes out, leaping out of his trembling lips. “I want you to do whatever you want with me. I want to forget. I want your voice in my head instead.”

Viktor is fever-hot under the collar.

“Whatever I want is a dangerous license, Mr. Talis.”

“Jayce,” he insists. “I know it is. But I like it when you say my name.”

“Jayce.” Viktor repeats, to the man's very apparent and shivering delight. He grows bolder; leaning his weight into the glass like he means to smuggle a valuable secret. Jayce’s attention is all on him — unbearably faithful, lapping up his every word.

It's the voice that he likes, isn't it? There's no shame in laying it on thick.

Viktor smiles faintly, and he says—

“For the past two days, I've only been able to think about how much I want you on your knees.”

Jayce's breath hitches. He's thought about a lot more than that, to tell the truth; the real thing ranges from blindfolds to metal bars, but just this quaint, fleeting admission is enough to turn Talis into melted butter. Now his hands seemingly exist to cover his crotch. He doesn't know how to speak.

“Would you enjoy that, Jayce?” Viktor slips an arm under the table and reaches for Jayce's knee. His leg jumps a little upon contact, and Viktor spreads his palm over the surface of Jayce’s thigh slowly, coaxing him. The skin is velvety beneath. “Would you be alright with stripping and opening yourself for me? Have you ever taken a cock?”

“Yeah. I mean, no—” Jayce stumbles, choirboy-reverent, and the blush is back with a vengeance. “I want to. I've never actually…”

Viktor can feel the weight of his bulge filling the slack in his pants. It takes all of his restraint to not dive in and grip it; he’s a man possessed.

“Oh, I can teach you how.” Viktor promises. Jayce’s eyes never leave his lips. “We'll go very slow. And if you're good for me, I might give you a nice reward.”

Jayce openly whines. The corners of Viktor’s smile twitch.

Jackpot.

“Finish your pudding.” he orders, gathering himself back. This is more for Jayce's benefit than his own; while it is tempting to push just to see if he could come in his own pants, that wouldn't be very practical for the walking they'll do after.

“We can start as soon as you're done.”

Chapter Text

Jayce is pretty sure he failed to go through with the whole suicide business. It is somewhat strange, then, to note how the workings of the day seem to be leading him straight towards heaven.

He had expected admonishment. He had expected rage, disgust, and a considerable number of threatening glances. He had prepared for the absolute worst scenario, had steeled himself for the sure certainty of rejection, of looming ridicule and further attack. The last couple of nights were tied up in a mire of paranoid over-eating and hiding under the covers— as if Jayce was a doomsday prepper, fighting off the ghostly remnants of Viktor’s touch— so he obviously didn't expect this. The letter. The meeting. The reciprocal spark of interest lurking in the deep rough of the other man’s voice.

And who would have dared to imagine such sudden, complete understanding?

But there it is: Viktor walks right by his side, suited up in all his almond coat glory. Their arms sway so close they could brush. He strides quietly. Peacefully. One could almost say happily, if Jayce could convince himself to stay positive about the outcome of things. It's a damn good sight to behold.

The afternoon sun crowns the horizon. Chimes tinkle in the breeze. People gather around the mobile park fountain, excitedly chatting by the benches. Viktor guides him out of the cafe and into the streets, carrying Jayce’s secret like a wounded dove, safely tucked inside his breast pocket. Viktor who's patient and understanding. Viktor who's seen right through the ugly scarred bits of Jayce and decided to keep him anyway. Viktor, who's a little too good to be true.

It’s the fancy part of town, which means everyone is a bit too picturesque in that offputting way that makes him feel sullied. All of those strangers seem clothed in a plait of success, bearing the doubtless gait of someone who's done something of their lives and then popped out one or two children, or adopted a poodle with a pedigree. They are perfect and happy and Jayce is not; they can tell he's a pretender, sniffing it on him like tacky day-old sweat.

The sides of his face start pulling into a compulsive powerless smile as if a harpoon has been pointed at him. There's no way Viktor hasn't noticed. No way he doesn't think the same.

So what's the catch? There has to be a catch. Of course this isn't actually happening.

Jayce's feet are traipsing on clouds while his mind struggles to catch up. Jayce’s hands are sweaty, flapping gracelessly at his sides. They fit badly inside his pockets, refusing to squeeze in the designated gaps like he's wearing oven mittens. It's not the gentle poise of Viktor’s knuckles. It's not the measured tap of Viktor’s cane. Their proximity only serves to emphasize the ungainly size of his failures. He's a far cry from a model citizen. Jayce is catastrophizing again.

(He's taking you directly to an Academy inspector. He's going to expel you. He's gathering evidence for a sexual harassment trial. No— he's gathering evidence to blackmail you. It's worse. You’re going to be fucked for life.)

They end up arriving at the student housing complex, that old turquoise block building marked by a layer of faded paint. Jayce is nervous at the sight of it, irrationally worrying that he'll be spotted and recognized, even though no one here knows his name.

(Maybe he's gathered the whole class. Maybe he's brought them all here surprise-party style, and they're all hiding behind the door, waiting to burst your eardrums the moment you push through the first floor. Of course there is a catch. You should run. What are you even waiting for? You’re bait. You’re nibbling on a fishhook.)

Yet somehow when the double-doors are pushed open, there is no salivating crowd. He's consumed by a rush of pure relief, and then fright. It's worse. It has to be worse. They take the creaky stairs and Jayce expects a guillotine to drop from the highest archway, cleanly bisecting his head from body.

But the tip of the blade never comes. The world doesn't spin on its axis to kick him down the flight of stairs. The ground beneath his feet doesn't fade away in a cruel prank; it's a perfectly good afternoon, and they keep moving until they reach a simple black door, the number fifteen precariously balanced on its center. It is cast in old lacquered wood, a trait it shares with all the other apartments. Jayce can overhear students loudly chatting under recorded band music at the end of this very same corridor. The building is dilapidated, the walls thin. A piece of yellow bubblegum is stuck on the nearest railing. Jayce smells sweat. Jayce expects eyes.

Jayce looks straight ahead like a neurotic back alley dog.

Apparently clueless to the ongoing freakout, Viktor checks his pants and suit pockets until he finds a solitary key on a string. It goes into the lock, turning only once before the mechanism slides open.

“There we go.” Viktor mutters, faintly hard of breath. He strides ahead like nothing else concerns him. Jayce expects the euthanizing shot, but it never comes.

The insides reveal a small, clean apartment. Just enough space for two. Only one door carved off to the side, a table tucked in the leftmost corner. The bed is carefully made. The curtains behind it are peach-toned, light glowing past the textile like the reflections on a cellophane candy wrapper. It's far cleaner and prettier than Jayce's own studio, that's for sure. It's like a gods-damned dollhouse, he thinks, astonished; it's like the sliced maquettes abandoned by the toybox in Caitlyn's room.

So Jayce slowly follows him inside, a part of him still dreamwalking. Still turning his ears in search of gunfire sounds. He's hit with this delayed realization that maybe, just maybe, he might be safe and sound.

“Is this… your bedroom?” he ends up wondering out loud, equal parts charmed and dumbstruck. It’s so impersonal. So professional.

Viktor only laughs in response.

“It’s strangely reassuring to know you can’t tell the difference.” he says, clicking the lock back in place. “But no, it isn’t. This is more of a, how shall we say– an extra job perk?” Jayce watches him dangle the string from his raised fingers with a hint of mischief. The key glitters, its surface made of warm and oily brass. “It’s all very hush-hush, of course. I expect you won’t be telling.”

“Of course.” Jayce repeats, solemn as the church. He’s effortlessly amused by such a display of showmanship; smiling at the implication that he’s privy to yet another minor office transgression. He likes the thought of Viktor making an exception out of him. The concept of preferential treatment has his chest kindling. “If anyone asks, I don't know where this is. I've never been here.”

“Fast learner. Very good.” Viktor says, and the key swiftly disappears. “You’ll have to forgive the damp smell, if you catch a whiff of it. The leaky ceiling was only recently fixed. I thought about freshening up the place yesterday but it didn’t seem prudent to leave a flame burning overnight.”

“That would be a lot worse than a leak,” Jayce agrees, wondering if they're friends all of a sudden, and he doesn’t notice how firmly his feet are locked in place until he sees Viktor reaching for the bedside drawer on the far end of the room. He pulls a round candle out.

Then he takes off his heavy coat, leaning on the bed. The slanted outline of his shoulders shines with peachy technicolor light. Distant glimpses could never do him any justice. He's a vision ripped straight out of a moving picture; untouchable, hand-sculpted, luxuriously crafted.

And then Viktor looks back a little. “Would you care to join me, Mr. Talis?”

Jayce’s knees are shot to shit. “I, ah– yes, of course. I'll be right—”

“Strip.” With one casual flick of his wrist, Viktor sparks a lighter on the candle, and falls seated on the bed. “I want you between my legs and on your knees.”

The command works like a magic trick.

His cheeks flare. The air immediately shifts and grows thinner, as if the recording lens of the universe has been pinched around this singular, human point of focus, something Jayce is beginning to recognize as the unique effect of Viktor’s presence in a room. He’s not sure if anyone else feels this way, only that he does. Gravely.

Jayce instinctively pads his fingers down his own buttons. He doesn't need to think about it— near Viktor’s orbit of influence, the little things stop mattering. His worries are squashed beneath those long, studious fingers. Lost in the stray strands of his unruly hair. Jayce is a split magnet being pulled to his rightful end. Tugged towards attention like a kitten on a string.

Viktor watches his shirt come undone, and his eyes are as molten as the outside veil of sunlight. He lets out an appreciative hum at the sight of Jayce's half-exposed chest. The sound is like a small consideration, interested, ponderous. An inquiry of sorts. It's Jayce's sophomore nightmare that the whole class will look at him and see right through his clothes, transformed into a rush of desire with a simple flourish of the magician's hand.

Now you see me.

His blouse slides to the floor. His belt is up next.

Viktor tuts once more, head slightly leaning on one side of his shoulder as if to capture a better angle. “So, Jayce.” he relishes the foreign name in his mouth like a particularly tasty morsel, warmth blanketing Jayce's limbs at the use of it. “Enlighten me. Am I really meant to believe I'm the first man privy to the sight?”

—What?

“l wouldn't… lie about that.” he feels himself sputtering like this is an oral exam he didn't prepare for.

“It's just hard to wrap my head around, is all.” Viktor continues, somewhat playfully. “Lucky me. In different circumstances, I'd have you penned for a locker room delight.”

Jayce feels a sudden heatwave coming on. He fumbles with getting his pants off, his shoes refusing any applied pressure trying to slide them out of his feet. He's familiar with locker rooms, immensely so, enough to associate their memory to hot gusts of water and stolen glances at the backs of naked men. Grease smeared down the flesh of one's pectorals. The air dewy with perspiration, thick with something else. Shame, powerful and arresting as it's always been with him. Shame of wanting it and not having the courage; shame of leering when he shouldn't, shame of not knowing what to do about any part of that growing appetite.

“Oh. So I'm definitely on to something.” Viktor smirks, not letting a single sign of weakness go unnoticed. “Let me guess. Too shy to accept an obscene offer after practice?”

Too many eyes on him. Too many expectations. Too afraid to be squeezed into a box he dislikes.

“Not, um. Not exactly.” Jayce pulls one pant leg free and braces himself on the table, nervous laugh bubbling out of his throat. “I keep to myself. Keep my head down. I always…” he feels the excuse drifting away from him like so many wasted opportunities. How humiliating would it be now, to open his big mouth and let the truth fall out from his lips?

The last party I went to was an unmitigated disaster. I haven't been in contact with anyone ever since. Not close contact. Not intimate. It's embarrassing. I don't like how people look at me like some blunt object. Like I'm a weapon, a big dumb battering ram. I don't like dainty girls, or squeezing their necks, or when sex is a thing I'm supposed to dole out on somebody who's only interested in my dick and would laugh at the thought of holding me under.

Jayce flails in silence for a good five seconds. Agonizes over it. Finally, he says; “...Just never had the chance, I guess.”

“A pity.” Viktor says, studying his mannerisms a bit more closely. If he knows Jayce is hiding behind a lie, he's considerate enough to not mention it.

Instead, he gestures with his nose towards a point beyond the crest of Jayce’s shoulder, in the corner of the room.

“I've brought some things for you. Just in case we, eh, got off on the right foot,” Viktor says, as Jayce finally liberates his other leg and tries, unsuccessfully, to not be embarrassed at today's choice of underwear— one of his rattiest, a thread coming loose under the band. Why the fuck did he pick this? He's a mess. He feels too old and too unkempt to be given this much grace. “You should browse the selection and bring me anything of interest.”

“Right–o.” Jayce coughs, though he isn't sure what Viktor means until the exact moment he turns around.

The other side of the table is lined up with a shameless procession of sex toys, arranged like a wedding buffet. There is a plug. There is a whip. There are fuzzy handcuffs and a refillable glass of lube. There is a length of coiling and gentle rope bundled by the corner; a velvet blindfold, a piece of cloth that probably goes wrapped around a mouth. But these aren't the things that make him freeze, really.

“Don't feel obligated to please me in particular.” Viktor comments, as Jayce involuntarily hovers a hand next to a big, shapely cock made of silicone. There are three of them in line, this one being the tallest, the curves of it sculpted in an inviting shade of plum. It's bigger than Jayce's own, molded in a deliberate way that makes him feel extremely jealous. Jayce has always thought of his appendage as an item separate from himself, some sort of half-finished simian lever, perhaps, or an awkward masculine externality that's a bit too floppy and too crooked to be fully attractive. Like a truly well-behaved boy, he only ever touches himself in the dark, fearing damnation will claim him on every stroke. But this thing. This thing—

It's making his mouth water. His cheeks flush. He can't stop staring at it.

The lilt of Viktor’s voice suggests a teasing smile.

“If I may— I'd like for us to know each other little by little. No extraordinary expectations. You should limit yourself to one of the other two.”

Bossy, Jayce thinks, swelling with a bout of inexplicable stubbornness. The smallest toy is thick and smooth but it doesn't seem like it would satisfy his bottomless animal hunger. So what next? The middle option is not too long nor too short, curling nicely inside his hand. He'd call it a looker if he saw it in the open showers. It's faintly pink; the texture heavy in a way that gives him shivers. Yeah, alright. Jayce quickly decides. This will do just as good.

He snatches the lube and then the rope for good measure, feeling like a squirrel comically stocking up for the winter. Part of him wants to reach for the short leather whip to top it all off, the tails of it beckoning like accessories on an ancient cursed wand— but he's getting enough stage fright already. What if this is the only time Viktor will have him? What if Jayce ruins it like he does everything else? He's not sure he can stand the mortification of tapping out if all this proves to be too much for him; not made for his particular kind of body, running contrary to every rule of what nature expects of him as a man.

He needs this to be good. He needs to be good. Just one time, just this once.

Because the truth, when he really gets down to it, is that Jayce is hard and strong like a slab of iron, but he itches with the bruising desire to be hammered into a better shape. Any shape, so long as it is loved. This is close enough.

“You can bring them to me, if you're done.” And there's Viktor’s voice, making the call.

Jayce breathes in to prepare himself, filling his lungs with gumption. Then he stumbles towards the light.

Viktor catches him by the waistband of his cotton undies before he fully arrives — one finger hooked around the top, a vaguely disapproving click of his mouth, I thought I made myself clear, he complains, tugging insistently — and he gets rid of Jayce’s last line of defense just in time to have his naked cock sitting at eye level with his skull.

A more appreciative sound soon follows. That's better, he croons, weighing Jayce’s member with his hand. It's still a little soft, able to be rolled and squeezed with one palm, regardless of Jayce’s bashful writhing in response. Viktor’s skin radiates warmth; the liveliness of it is intoxicating. He finds it borderline impossible to stay still.

Viktor is still touching him that way when he speaks again, watching Jayce’s dick stir and grow with rapt scientific fascination: “So. I figure out of the two of us I should be the one setting up some ground rules. You are far too permissive. Though I suspect you know that already, hm?” He gives the pouch of his balls a squeeze. Jayce’s brain pinches with a heady burst of white.

“The conditions are these: You will listen to me. You will not touch me until I deem it appropriate. You will say enough, loudly and repeatedly, if you want me to stop. This arrangement is strictly private, and you will not make comment of it at school or any other grounds— you will not give people the impression that we know or like each other in any way. You will stop following me, and you will wait for me to contact you before any encounter. All of those things are non-negotiable. I want you to understand, Mr. Talis, and have no doubt in your mind about this— the moment you cross that line, the moment you belittle me or embarass me in any way, I will make it my personal mission to ruin your life. Are we clear?”

Jayce nods like a febrile hostage at a bank robbery. Viktor’s grip relaxes.

“But with that understood,” he continues, soft purr of a voice returning as he traces the marks on Jayce’s thighs, “I believe we can be very, very good to each other, Jayce. On occasion. With moderation. But good nonetheless. Will you take your seat?”

Jayce instantly melts on the carpet, finally down where he belongs: hidden between the space of Viktor’s knees. His cock is already half-hard and twitchy with want. It's enough to leave a man breathless. (One of Viktor’s hands presses into the swoop of his hair and oh, now his heart truly skips a beat. Jayce’s eyes flutter into the touch. He wants to lean forward.)

To add insult to injury, Viktor pets him anyway. Crowds Jayce with the shade of his body, as if he too could be hidden away, tucked inside the lining of his coat. The air is scented like woodsmoke and cinnamon. Like a candle still burning. Jayce feels himself drifting into another life.

“You've put me in a rather delicate position, Jayce.” Viktor sighs wantonly. “You see, I'm not a violent man. I'm not particularly strong, either. I don't believe I could do a very good job of hurting you in the way you're used to, even if I tried.” a soft palm touches the back of Jayce’s throat. Viktor’s lips, wet from speaking, part to say nothing at all. He wants to breathe him in.

“But I can make you weak in other ways. We might be able to find an agreement that pleases us both.”

“I'd like that,” Jayce rumbles. “Very much.”

“I thought you might say that.” Viktor smiles with the corner of his mouth. “And I also thought… you might find it gratifying to share your own conditions, if you're open to it.”

“--I don't have any. I just want you to fuck me.”

“Are you sure that's all?”

“I’m—” Jayce starts, but he knows he's lying on impulse even as he says it. He is heavy with a betrayal of himself, a feeling hard to ignore. “There's… there's something else, I guess.” he offers bitterly, apropos of nothing. It's stupid. It doesn't go with Viktor’s rules. His chest is achy and hollow and he feels dumb for even thinking about it.

“Go on, then. I'm all ears.”

Jayce delays the answer, as if he could stall for time. He bites his lip. The words he's searching for right now are slow to form and hard to admit.

“Can you kiss me?”

He doesn't say I Want, because those are Viktor’s words. Viktor’s terms. A law above his own. To desire and to deserve are wholly separate things. He's known this for a long time, from the moment they stepped in.

And yet — despite all sense of propriety, Viktor doesn't chastise him for it. He only pauses, his nails retracting from the back of Jayce’s scalp. He tips Jayce’s chin upward, angling it so there’s no way to avoid the crystalline fire of his eyes.

“Deal.” Viktor mutters, a blink before he graces Jayce’s lips with a sealing kiss. It's all press and no tongue, the way they do it on stage, the way you propose to a would-be lover. Jayce’s whole being arches into it, breathing soundly when Viktor drags his upper lip. He pulls away quicker than Jayce would've liked, still expertly composed, his cheeks barely red. “Just an appetizer.” Viktor says. “You can earn the real thing if you behave yourself.”

Jayce means to say yes in response, but the keening sound that comes out of him is barely human. Viktor seems to find that very amusing.

“Come on, then. Be a dear and help me take care of my pants.”

The words wrap around the confines of his mind like an incantation, and Jayce is eager to put his hands to the task.

Dear. He called you dear. He is buoyant, giddy, gone.

***

After so many years spent chasing any trace of the mythical occult arts, Jayce has heard a great deal of tales about will-warping magic. There’s a ritual from the mountains that allows a priestess to turn a sheep's blood into a love potion. There’s a pale flower up east, in the world beyond their tiny ocean, whose petals may be fed to any creature you desire to keep under your control. There are Vastayan songs that can rewrite any emotion; further still, there were once rivers blessed with the power to enslave the dead.

In the books, these acts are always fantastical — grandiose accomplishments, larger than life. The fabled effects so awe-inspiring, so instantly efficient, that any record of their practices in full had to be scrubbed away from mortalkind. These days, it is said only spirits and old learned mages may still harness such knowledge.

That is how Viktor’s voice settles in his stomach. That is how wholeheartedly Jayce falls under his spell.

In that secret realm of peachy cellophane, Viktor instructs him, quietly, on where and how he despises to be touched; the parts of his leg that warrant extra care, the joints on his body where Jayce’s hands shouldn't linger. He is a good, firm teacher. Direct but not unkind.

His trousers pull away to reveal a wealth of porcelain skin, rosiness blooming from the center like a gentle heat. Jayce's breath catches in his throat, drinking him in. A trail of brown hair runs down his navel and disappears under a tight black harness secured around his hips; its metal rings winking in the sunlight. That's no mistake. He came prepared for this.

When Viktor asks to be handed the bottle of lube, Jayce doesn’t even blink, happily swallowing the petals laid under his tongue. It doesn't occur to him at any point that Viktor may use it on himself. So he watches, slack-jawed, as the transparent drizzle of liquid pools softly between the squeeze of his thighs— and he gasps as Viktor’s fingers dip further into the plush of that forbidden space, sinking down to the last knuckle, oiling up the inner sides evenly.

This is where you'll play today, Viktor tells him. His eyes show dirty delight in every word. Do you like it?

Jayce feels his face turning magnificently warm.

“You– you mean you want me to—?”

“Come on up, yes. On my lap, lean on the good side.” and he dips his fingers in the squish of his thighs again, as if making a point of demonstration: “I want to hold you right here while I work you open.”

Oh. Oh, gods.

Every particle in Jayce's body seems unstable as he crawls up the bed. First, Viktor makes good on his choosing of the red rope: Jayce’s wrists are bound together with two secure loops, his hands knotted into an obliging display that reads almost like a prayer. A little length of rope dangles away free from one end and when he’s all done, Viktor tugs on it like a leash, guiding him forward.

The slide into his lap is better than heaven. Jayce sinks to the hilt in one smooth motion, the friction swallowing him up until he meets the resting blanket. His mouth falls open. Viktor's body is so sticky and warm. This is so much better than his hand.

Viktor tells him “No rutting.” which is really quite difficult to resist when he’s laid belly-down, his dick squashed right between the hot wonder of those thighs. Jayce is mortified with embarrassment; his head is swimming with arousal, his ass is, by all accounts, completely bare in the air, and Viktor’s legs clamp around his throbbing length like a pair of mean and cushy pincers. He wants to rut into that heat so fucking badly. It takes every ounce of his self-control to keep the need in check.

“Breathe,” Viktor says, his touch sliding slow and languid down Jayce’s spine, as if he savors the way it makes him squirm. Viktor’s fingers press gently into his tailbone, then move to palm the cleft of his ass, where he gives a good, hearty squeeze. “You know we’re just about to start.”

“Please.” Jayce whines as hears the glass bottle being uncapped again. He breathes hard.

The first finger goes in so easily. Viktor warms up the lube with his hands before he presses a single digit to the soft pucker of Jayce’s hole, and he’s patient, teasing. The pads of his fingers kissing up pressure around his entrance, coaxing him open. He pets the soft bulge of his perineum with an overwhelming dexterity, the pulse of it travelling down and fast. Jayce’s brain is all gooey silk by the time Viktor fully pushes his index past the rim, and he takes to it hungrily.

“I do hope you haven’t lied to me.” Viktor teases with a deep hum, the base of his hand flush to Jayce’s skin. Slowly, he pulls out and then pushes back in, finding very little resistance. The weight of him is ceaseless, inebriating. “Are you sure I’m the first?”

“--I swear,” Jayce shakes his head into the bedding, hips stuttering in place. “I do, I– please, Viktor,”

“Hush.” Viktor says, to Jayce’s increasing whines. “You're needier than I thought.”

And maybe it is a test. Maybe this is Viktor’s way of interrogating him when he couldn’t, before: maybe this is how he makes sure to get an answer that satisfies his curiosity. Jayce doesn't mind. He'd drool all over himself if he had to. He'd go much lower if asked.

Viktor’s fingers press into him slick and heavy, a second one soon pushing to join the tempo of the first with a little more difficulty, a little more burn to the stretch he's looking for. The gel coating his hand makes any repeated movement into a filthy, steady beat, the act of fucking in and out of his hole ringing like a wet and squishy metronome, plainly audible in the quiet of the room, ringing low in Jayce’s ears.

Please, he thinks. Please, please, please. He can hear his heart beating. He can hear his blood pumping. His hips angle up to chase Viktor’s touch until he's pushed back down, crying with a jolt of unbidden pleasure that comes from having Viktor’s legs wrapped tight around his cock. And then the fingers inside him push deeper, habile and relentless, curling in search of something dangerous, fire spreading up his body whenever Viktor taps that sensitive spot in his walls, and the wave of ecstasy he's feeling is so good, unlocking him from within. He gets a little lost on it. The applied pressure travels down his body, down his raw bones, opening him wider, deeper, until he's no longer a person but maybe just a gasping mouth.

He moves faster. And Jayce’s ankles are slowly but surely seizing up, his groin tightening, his cock aching, his vision black and blown up; Viktor is scruffing him around the neck and driving into his prostate again and again, until his composure shatters— Jayce moans loud and needy into the fresh blankets, his teary eyes all but rolling back. It feels so— so good— the sting and the burst of it, to be fucked by Viktor’s hand, to hump into the sticky space in his thighs until—

The SLAP hits him across the ass so suddenly Jayce briefly goes deaf. It burns with the viciousness of a tennis racket. He chokes up, nerves flaring, tears sprouting down his cheeks for a completely different reason.

“What did I tell you? No rutting.” Viktor hisses at the sound of his whimpering, and Jayce is pretty sure he’s left a red handprint on one of his cheeks.

“--M'sorry,” Jayce sniffles. Fuck, his voice sounds like a mess. “I didn't mean to, It just, you just feel so good, I couldn't—”

“I don't want your apologies. I want obedience.” Viktor says, and Jayce feels so terribly empty now, deprived of his touch. “Look at you. You can barely make it past a minute. What do you think I'll do with that?”

Punish me, the sickly part of Jayce’s brain screams.

“I’ll be better,” he heaves instead. “I promise. I swear I'll control myself—”

Another SLAP lands mercilessly fast against his backside, the impact of Viktor's palm searing like a delicious brand. Jayce’s voice dies out in the back of his throat; he gnaws on his lip, eyebrows pulled tight. His thoughts are fuzzy, loving static.

“You're gaping at me.” Viktor drawls, the pads of his fingers hooking around the pulsing clench of Jayce’s hole. Jayce can’t help but suck them in. Fuck me fuck me fuck me. “This is what you like best, isn't it? Being treated like the little whore that you are.”

Please, please, Jayce thinks. “Mmf!” is what comes out.

He gets another rasping smack for his trouble. He's sure all the lube they're using is being smudged around.

Viktor bullies three of his fingers into the slick mess of his ass, his knuckles long and unrelenting, petting the delicate bundle of nerves that make Jayce seize and mewl on his lap. “You're such a slut,” he remarks, accented voice dripping with arousal, one fist tight on the back of Jayce’s raven hair and the other picking up speed like he wants to mold a place inside Jayce’s body just for his use. A rough imprint stretched around Viktor’s shape. “You just can't help yourself, hmm? No wonder why you're desperate. Your pussy has been so empty.”

His—?

Jayce stutters like he's going to cry, his forehead down on the bedding and his shackled arms held out, pleasure building so far deep in his gut his eyes glaze over. Suddenly the friction of Viktor’s thighs is too much, he's too sensitive, trapped between an impossible onslaught of stimulation. He's not going to last.

Viktor’s following laugh is debauched and self-congratulating, like he's just figured out the last piece of a puzzle. “Do you like that, Jayce? You’re so worked up now, sucking up my fingers. And all I had to do was talk about your tight little cunt.”

“Vik—” Jayce’s knees start shaking without warning. He squirms. His cock stiffens. He opens his mouth to take a breath but ends up gulping it down piecemeal, choking on air as a wave of devastating lust crashes down his body. Viktor’s still rubbing him up, the mean sway of his fingers, his abdomen tensing with the unrelenting touch, preening, gloating, a simmering ebb of pleasure that builds and builds until it overflows, his cock spurting on the sheets to the press of Viktor’s knuckles, he's coming and all he can think is a wailing chorus of of fuckfuckfuckfuck!

There's nothing he can do to stop it, in the end. No holding it back. Jayce squeezes his eyes shut as the orgasm is petted out of him, his head swims. Time slips away from him entirely.

He lays very still as he's rolled onto the bed, lingering on the heady rush of endorphins. His limbs are slack, unspooled, floaty. Viktor untangles himself from under his legs and moves away without a word. Jayce tries to not take that personally, hiding his face in the smoke-scented pillows so he has an excuse to not look him in the eye. He feels so light and so heavy at the same time. The air smells sweet.

You ruined it, he thinks, panicking a little. You blew this off like an idiot and now he's going to leave.

“Jayce.” Viktor’s voice comes, and he tenses up.

“--I'm sorry.”

“What?” there's a hand on his shoulder then, turning him around.

“I promise I'll be better. I will—”

“Oh, shush.” There’s a faint twinge of annoyance to his voice, but aside from that he says it with so much tranquility. The image of embers on the fire; that captivating roughness imbued in his throat. “Look at me. Let me see your eyes.”

When Jayce’s vision focuses, Viktor is leaning over him by the edge of the bed, perched on his arm. His pupils shine like two fat blackberries, dark and ripe with interest. He brushes away the sweaty hair on Jayce’s forehead and seems to take him in.

“You’re not mad?” Jayce asks. He doesn't know where to put his hands with all that rope.

Viktor simply tilts his head to one side. “Well, you’ve certainly made a mess of me. I guess it depends on how good you are at cleaning it up.”

Jayce swallows, a little slow. “I will. But my hands…?” he tries putting it together on his head, distracted by the blush of red on Viktor's cheeks, and it isn't until the man moves again that he gets a better, proper idea of what's going on.

“Open your mouth.” Viktor says, knees swaying on either side of Jayce’s chest. The pretty pink dildo is mounted on his leather harness like a great shadow eclipsing over his face, but that's not what he wants Jayce to focus on, not really— Because the toy is angled up, and Viktor’s hips are tilted to expose the bare underside of his groin. He's so wet it should be criminal; his cunt puffy with excitement and decorated with a mixture of slick, lube, and a web of Jayce’s own cum. “Come on, tongue out.” he prompts, smug when it becomes evident that Jayce is just as hungry as he feels. “Clean me up nice and I’ll see about that kiss.”

When Viktor sits on him Jayce’s eyes go all crossed, his field of vision blocked by the silicone cock resting on his skull. It's not a very dignified job by any measure. The spunk dribbles down his chin and he laps it up even though it's bitter; Viktor’s natural taste more than makes up for it, the tangy release of his cunt almost sweet by contrast.

Viktor moans so prettily as a reward, rocking his body back and forth into Jayce’s willing mouth, the plump jut of his little cock quickly becoming one of Jayce’s favorite places to flick at with the tip of his tongue. His fists are tight on Jayce’s hair as he drives the motion, the act of it nearly violent, bestial in its sheer desperation.

“Don't stop, don't stop— Jayce,” Viktor grits out, his legs faltering like unsteady plinths when Jayce finally starts sucking in earnest, though the push of gravity only adds to how effectively he's smothering the other's face. Jayce is on him and in him, thrilled at the sensation of blunt nails soothing across his scalp, both dizzy and energetic at the lack of air around him.

Very good, very good boy, Viktor coos, his insides clenching around the thickest part of Jayce’s tongue when he reaches his precipice. Fuck, suck me again— fuck! He bucks harder, his movements erratic and imprecise, keening obscenities through his orgasm while Jayce lies helpless and pliant, laving attention on his fluttering pussy even as he shakes and shakes above him.

When Viktor pushes himself away there is an embarrassingly loud suction-stop noise, his juices glimmering on Jayce’s cheeks, a trail of slick connecting them at an incriminating distance. Jayce feels more hungry and sated than any normal human being could possibly be. He's drunk, maybe. High, definitely. He licks at the edges of his mouth to get more of Viktor’s waning taste and distantly, like it belongs to someone else's body and not his own, he feels his erection flush back into attention.

His head is stuffy in the most pleasing of ways, the effect of it not unlike wearing a pair of cozy earmuffs. Will Viktor fuck him now? Jayce hopes he's been enticed enough; for his own ego and sense of pride, he wants to believe he's been sufficiently debauched, broken in expertly enough to earn a corresponding prize.

More importantly, he really, really wants to feel Viktor’s cock in him.

Viktor is spread-eagle dripping on his chest, brushing his hair back when he catches Jayce’s wandering eye. This time he doesn't run. His lips quirk into a lazy, private smile.

“My. You’re quite a sight.” he breathes, his chest taking a minute longer to find its road back towards a steady rhythm.

“Good?” Jayce mutters, coveting his approval.

“Very good.” Viktor tips his body forward, murmuring in kind. There's nobody else here but he still wants to make sure only Jayce gets to hear his praise. “Makes me want to keep you all to myself.”

He dives in lower until their lips touch, licks a stripe across the mess coating every groove of Jayce's mouth. Viktor invades him gently, his hands on Jayce's chest and sinking further into his body, prompting him to respond with his tongue. The actual kiss is drunk and indulgent; heads turning, a back and forth of soft sounds. Viktor’s hands get around his nipples and Jayce squirms with how sensitive he feels now, how broken open. When Viktor pinches him his spine arches above the bed, the lower half of his body turning jealous with the sudden shift in attention. His chest possibly gets as hard as his wanting cock.

And Viktor kisses him, unhurriedly. Certain of the effect he's having on Jayce’s expectant body, trilling every time he tugs a little harder and hears a loud enthusiastic response. Jayce feels newly bruised but wanted, like a favorite dessert, a beloved toy. He's anchored in his body, brand new.

When he feels Viktor moving away this time he knows it's not for long, and not too far; just enough for him to rearrange their bodies, dragging him to the edge of the bed, where he can stand and loom tall.

Does it still feel all tight inside? He teases, grinning meanly as he feels for Jayce’s cunt. Two fingers dipping into him, popping out. Do you want me to fix it, darling?

Robbed of all words, all Jayce can say is Please.

Viktor pours the lube very generously down his shaft, fisting around it for a good spread — it makes sense, as from this downturned angle, the thing looks enormous. Certainly bigger than three fingers in his hand.

“Legs up for me.” Viktor orders, spellbinding quality unbroken with how quickly Jayce adjusts to his request.

The result is simple. His knees bent but lifted, carefully exposing all his soft animal parts, one of Viktor’s hands gripping tightly around his leg to have a steady bracing support while the other does the necessary service of lining them up.

When the head of his cock nudges up against Jayce’s hole breath catches in his throat— he’s excited, anxious, now positively afraid that this might be way too big and he's completely over his head— but as the warning flare travels down his limbs Viktor pushes in slowly, direct but not unkind, steadily claiming ground while soothing him, and Jayce forgets how to panic.

He feels like he's forging a slack inside his body. Like his lungs need to relearn their proper pathways. Like he's burning up. Jayce whimpers mindlessly as he bottoms out; the sensation of the metal base kissing up against his pussy like something wonderful, reassuring him that he's not crazy, not imagining that lump in his abdomen as a result of him being all filled up. Gods, he feels like Viktor is settling in as deep as his gut.

“Breathe.” Says Viktor, and that's the only warning Jayce gets before he starts moving. He's big enough to hurt but Jayce likes that, delirious with a pinch of ache in every thrust. His head knocks back, eyes closed, air hiccuping out of his lungs. Viktor fucks into his hole slow as a warmup, and then braces himself on both of Jayce’s legs, pining them to his chest and him down to the mattress, bent in the middle, pliant and wide open.

Jayce's vision grows spotty, sensations amplified. Viktor’s fingers dig into his muscle, these blunt little half moons cresting on his thigh. The silicone plump and heavy where drags and pulls across his prostate, sending tears rushing up his eyes. His body is all hot and bursting, chasing streaks of light. When Jayce blinks them away he pushes the beads of water out and the sight above him in bed is Viktor’s red, concentrating face, his hair bouncing, skin shiny with sweat. His eyes bear down on Jayce like a starving predator.

Jayce’s not sure why that flusters him when he's already wrecked open, but it does, and a shiver washes over his temple and down his spine. He's rendered loud and incoherent, language systems fried, clenching around Viktor’s dick with no way to even escape his gaze, making more noise than he means to let out. He thinks he's crying.

Instead of stopping, Viktor asks, almost conversationally: “Can you come without touch?” his voice isn't raised. It's all scientific inquiry, this soft purring trance. He grinds his hips into a closer, shorter rhythm. “What do you think, Jayce? Shall we try?”

The new angle punches a shaky nod out of him, his unattended cock already leaking across his stomach. Viktor plunges mercilessly on, half perched on the bed and driven by so much gluttonous intent he barely seems strained. His eyebrows are crooked, though, and sometimes the lube catches with a wet, dirty sound on the out-thrust, and it pulls the arousal out of him with a quiet sigh. The back of Jayce’s neck prickles at that. And really, it must be the sound, or something about his fucked-up brain responding only to clear instructions. Because his thoughts all catch fire when Viktor asks “Think I can fill you up, sweetheart?”

A tiny, far-away part of him knows that's impossible. But a much larger part starts throbbing madly in response. Jayce wants to be owned. He wants to be marked. He wants a lingering redness on every inch of his body Viktor has touched and fuck, he wants it to last.

Jayce keens brokenly and Viktor latches on that, as sharp as a mind reader. His mouth finds its way to Jayce’s shoulder, then bites along his neck, grinding lazily until he sees stars. Viktor pants into his jaw, breathless, teeth grazing the flesh: “You'll be dripping full of me. Leaking between your legs.”

Jayce pictures the white-hot mess of it, inside. The liquid, sloshing heaviness, how wet and stretched he would feel, used up, fucked open, exhausted and whole. Topped up with Viktor’s come.

“That’s right,” Viktor croons in his ear, setting a punishing pace. “Come on. I know you want it. Give in to me.”

He feels like he can't breathe. Can't speak. Viktor’s filled him up so much there's no space left, just this ceaseless, increasing pleasure. Jayce gasps, clenches up all at once, and chokes up a sob as his dick breaks a jet stream of white over his own stomach.

***

His wrists are a bit sore when Viktor pulls his knots loose. The whole thing was definitely set up too tight, he grumbles, leaving lines on his skin.

Not that Jayce minds in the slightest.

Curled on the bed as he is with Viktor hovering over him, he feels like a wholy different kind of toy— a babydoll to fuss over, perhaps. A fixer-upper. Viktor takes the time to clean the worst of him with wet wipes. This means the tear tracks, the drool and the sweat-stained crevices; the dry slick on his nose and the cum pooled inside his bellybutton. Jayce can't muster up a lot of words at the moment, so he hopes his sleepy expression looks appropriately thankful.

It's not that Jayce doesn’t want to help. He's just awfully distracted by how handsome Viktor looks when he's fixated on a task. (And maybe Jayce’s arms feel weak. Maybe his bones feel like jello, and that's why he doesn't mind. So what? You can't sue him for that.)

The room smells so thickly of sex they've got the window cracked open, hoping the evening breeze will blow in something nice. After the initial post-coitus rush subsided the first thing Viktor did was get rid of the dirty blanket, bundling it away and throwing it in some empty corner, but that didn't do a lot to cover up the crime. The general musk of it remained imprinted in the walls, daubed on their skin like blood spray particles. There's only so much you can mask with a single cinnamon candle. The tiny thing never stood a chance.

When Viktor gets to his lower half he clicks his tongue a little, surveying the field of apparent damage. Jayce’s not exactly concerned about it but he supposes at least one of Viktor's nails might've drawn blood. Personally speaking, he's glad about that. Or, will be, if it has happened. Jayce's not sure about the whole of his body right now. He finds that ignorance is strangely comfortable.

Viktor asks him if he wants to get up for a piss, or if he's hungry. Jayce shrugs both times. Really what he wants is to burrow in the mattress and take a long, good nap, but not if he's alone. A big part of his daydream includes nesting close enough to Viktor to be able to hear his heart.

“Fine, I'll pee then.” Viktor rolls his eyes, and he's gone for a minute or two, but Jayce is comfortable with waiting when he's got full vision of the suite door.

His shirt is off when he comes back, which is interesting. Jayce wonders if they got the one he was wearing all tacky and feels a perverse sort of delight. Striped down Viktor is less like a sparrow and more like a long-tailed weasel, or an otter, or a very skinny cat. He's got another blunt in his hands and Jayce is valiantly trying to count how many moles he has but whenever his eyes bounce up he sees Viktor's tiny breasts again and rapidly loses count, turning bashful. Sure he's had the guy sit on his face but that feels special. It feels private.

He wonders if they are special. Probably not, but he'd like that.

“You don't mind if I smoke, right?” Viktor asks after he's used the candle to light the thing, seemingly out of awkward politeness, ‘cause he's already taken a drag.

Jayce shakes his head no. Satisfied, Viktor sits on the bed next to his arm and he pulls his legs up, tucking his good foot and letting the other one be slack. Jayce is being really careful in logging his every move just in case he's supposed to go away now. He hopes not. The night breeze is nice and he dearly appreciates the way Viktor’s figure looks when he's framed by lamplight. It makes him feel older than he actually is; but in a paradoxical sense, like he’s a night-beast or a woodsprite. How's that phrase? Dry beyond his years? That's not right.

“I can hear you thinking from here.” Viktor notes, pokerfaced. He looks sidelong at Jayce and he swears for a moment his yellow eyes flare up like a cat's. “Would be nice to know what about, if you don't mind.”

Jayce manages another shrug, and a measly, half-uttered ‘mmhhh.’

Impossibly, Viktor laughs.

“Right.” he says, letting his eyes close and his head fall back until it touches the fading wallpaper.

They remain like that for a spell, Jayce slowly working up a nerve while Viktor sucks on his thinning cigar, his free hand brushing ancient patterns into the fluff of Jayce’s scalp. He could probably sleep like this, he thinks. He’d love to, but he probably shouldn’t do that.

Jayce gets brave enough to tuck himself closer to Viktor’s hip, his hand laying over a pale ankle in a motion that’s kind of like a hug but not quite. Viktor doesn’t tell him to fuck off, so he’s satisfied. They stay together in that lull until he runs out of smoke, and by that hour the moon is fat and glimmering bright in the sky.

“You’re like a chimney.” Jayce says, after a long enough pause that he’s surprised to hear how rough his voice sounds.

Viktor cracks a smirk, and cracks a heavy eye open: guilty as charged. “Is that why you’re attracted to me, Talis?”

“I do enjoy an oven,” Jayce nods, which sounds cryptic, but is fairly true. “Toasty. Lots of heat.”

It is Viktor’s turn to go ‘Hmph.’

“Should’ve known your talk about papers was all empty flattery.” he mutters, and though there’s no heart in it Jayce takes offense in his name.

“I-I did read your papers. They were great! They’ve got you shelved in the main library, Viktor. That’s huge.” In the very back of it, he doesn’t say, because there’s better things for Jayce to focus on: the ingenuity and cleverness of his designs, for instance, both the approved pitches and the rejected ones. The obvious amount of heart that went into his processes, into his calculations. Viktor’s essays and proposals were drafted with an overwhelming fervor for progress— the sociological, radical kind— the sort of self-righteous demolishing screeds that made Jayce want to get up from his chair and pace for ten minutes, staring at his shitty notebook and wondering how he could possibly emulate that.

Galvanizing, was the word. Molotov-up-your-ass. Viktor was the Dean’s assistant, for fucks sake. He had single handedly designed and overseen the construction of an autonomous water-treatment facility in the Academy’s name; the only public good they’ve ever sponsored in the last fifteen years.

Not that there weren’t attempts after that. Viktor had drafted plenty. They just never got greenlit.

“-- I really liked your robots, too.” Jayce flushes, as it slowly dawns on him that he went from not talking at all to talking way too much. But now he’s perched on his arms and it's so difficult to seem casual about it. “The um,” he looks down, his ears prickling, avoiding the hypnotic pull of Viktor’s naked, bobbing nipples. “The toxic waste cleaners. I thought that was cutting edge. Selfless.” It had been trashed like all the others but Jayce could see the genius of it. They just needed a better battery. A self-renewing source. Something he could solve.

“I believe the council legally defined them as ‘hideously expensive.’ But selfless is an interesting way to phrase that.” Viktor rebates, old bitterness clearly stamped in his face.

“Well, the council is fucking stupid.” Jayce shoots back without thinking, and then his heart falls to his ass when he realizes what he just said.

He looks at Viktor with huge, careful eyes. Viktor looks back at him in kind.

“Do not say that where other people can hear.” Viktor grits out, touching his temple. “Your grades are bad enough, Jayce. Your sponsor would get you culled for that. Immediate termination.”

“I know…” he tries, weakly.

“—No, you do not. You’re the most impulsive man I've ever met. It's frankly alarming. I don't know how you're still alive.”

Jayce winces, and drops his face onto Viktor’s lap.

“Please don't kick me out.” he begs, vowels muffled on the other's warm thigh. “I really liked this. I like you.”

“You know I don't make these decisions, Jayce.” Viktor lets out a tired exhale. “If I'm… being candid, I shouldn't be advising you at all. In this or any matter. But I find your company agreeable enough that it'd be a shame to see you go.”

Momentary bliss. A stupid gushing smile makes its way onto his face. “Really?”

“Yes? I've looked at your files. You're two drops away from being crossed out of the program for good. It's abysmal. I've seen how Cassandra works, believe me, she's not shy about resource preservation. You need to get your shit together before you're in the butcher block.”

Oh, fuck. Jayce grimaces in sudden, horrific understanding. You're serious. I thought we were flirting.

“Look, I want this. I liked this. I think I need this.” Viktor holds up his jaw, speaking with a godlike sense of authority. “But If you tank your career over how much you need your dick stroked, I'm gone. Do you understand?”

“I do.” Jayce nods, quickly. Quicker, to denote how serious he's taking it. “I do, yeah. Of course I'll take care of it, Viktor. If I fail this course I'll kill myself.”

Viktor looks at him blankly.

“Jayce.” he warns.

“--Figuratively. Like—A manner of speech.”

No matter. Viktor drags him by the throat until they’re kissing again.