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The chandeliers glitter like a thousand stars above his head, all gold and crystal, light refracting into a spectacle meant to dazzle the room into submission.
Music swells, a waltz sweeping across the marble floor where masked figures twirl in gowns and suits that whisper wealth with every swish of silk and clink of glass.
Jayce hates it.
He hates the too-sweet perfume clinging to the air, the way laughter at the Council’s jokes echoes hollow in the vaulted ceiling, the gleam of ambition hidden behind feathered masks.
He is supposed to thrive here – Piltover’s golden boy, shining hope of innovation, the prodigy the Council holds up like a jewel. People recognize him even under a mask; they always do. His height, his shoulders, his smile… it is impossible to hide.
Which is precisely why he wants to.
“Stand straighter, smile brighter, drink less,” Mel whispered at him on the way in, her smile like honey and steel, her masks – both literal and figurative – never slipping.
She thrives in this world, cutting through layers of lies with velvet words, but Jayce? He is… restless in it, which is a very kind word to use for it. His hands itch for tools, for notes, for work. This – the empty chatter, the endless flattery – is suffocating.
But here he is again, dragged into yet another masquerade gala because Mel insists it is necessary. Sponsors and patrons must be courted, after all, and Jayce Talis is a face worth showing off, even if masked.
A prize, a promise.
He plays his part, shaking hands, nodding through empty words, smiling until his cheeks ache, and still, through the glitter and the noise, he feels out of place like a hammer laid across a dinner table, absurd and useless.
Not even an hour in, Jayce has already lost count of how many times he’s been asked to dance.
Most he waves off with polite excuses, blaming exhaustion or needing to keep a clear head. But some invitations are impossible to refuse – not when a patron’s purse strings dangle in the balance, nor when Mel’s hand rests pointedly against his arm with that look that means behave.
His current partner is tolerable enough.
Perfumed, chattering about trade routes, smiling too widely behind a jeweled mask. Jayce lets her lead the conversation, answers where he must, smiles when expected. The song ends slower than it should have, he bows, she curtsies, and he escapes back toward the gilded edge of the floor. The usual.
The next is worse. So much worse.
Mr. Darvi’s wife, clad in feathers and wine-dark silk, drapes herself over him before he can even decline. Her fingers dig into his arm, her perfume cloying, her voice syrup-sweet in his ear.
“My, my. The golden boy himself.”
Jayce forces a smile, because he has to, but he hates the way she looks at him, like he’s an auction prize, a body to be purchased alongside the ideas in his head. She’s notorious for it – touching too freely, whispering too closely, demanding things she has no right to demand.
He knows, of course, how many in this room see him as more than a face to parade. Men and women alike have made it clear they think his body is part of the bargain, a bonus if they invest their coin in him. Jayce has protected himself from that so far – he is not willing to literally whore himself out for this, no matter how desperate the funding might get. Thankfully, Mel agrees with him on that point, though he knows other Council members, Salo chief among them, would happily push him toward that fate.
And the prime specimen of these people, who’s – if the rumors are to be believed – tried to slip contracts into bed along with herself more than once, is the woman currently pulling him onto the floor with surprising strength, pressing close as the orchestra swells.
Her grip is firm on his shoulder, her other hand sliding too low against his waist. Jayce stiffens, his movements mechanical as they circle with the other dancers.
“So tall, so handsome,” she purrs, tilting her mask just enough that her painted lips almost brush his jaw. Ugh. “I see why the Council parades you about. Tell me, Mr. Talis, do you work as tirelessly in private as you do in the lab?”
His jaw tightens. “My work speaks for itself, madam.”
Her laugh is shrill, cutting through the music. “Oh, but I’d much rather you speak for yourself. Or better… show me.” Her nails scrape lightly against the back of his neck, and he has to bite back the urge to push her back. “You must get so lonely, carrying Piltover’s future on your pretty broad shoulders.”
Jayce swallows his disgust and keeps his smile fixed, though it feels brittle. “I manage well enough.”
“Mm. A shame.” She leans in closer, breath hot against his ear. “I could manage you better.”
He feels the weight of every eye in the room, the Council’s wives and investors, the vultures who would feast on a single slip. His skin crawls where her fingers dig into his side.
He lifts his gaze toward Mel across the ballroom, begging silently: Get me out of this.
For once, Mel’s mask slips just slightly – an apologetic flicker in her eyes, the tiniest shake of her head. They need Darvis’ influence. Which means at least one full dance.
The song stretches on like a punishment. Jayce’s jaw aches from clenching, his skin burns where her hands linger, and all he can do is endure until the last note finally fades.
She does not release him immediately. Instead, her nails curl tighter into his sleeve as she tilts her head up, lips parting in a smile that makes his stomach churn. “Another, darling? Surely you wouldn’t leave me wanting after just one.”
Panic rises hot in his chest, but he just bows stiffly, forcing civility into every line of his posture. “Forgive me, madam, but I promised Ms. Medarda I would speak to one of our benefactors. I shouldn’t keep them waiting.”
Before she can argue, he steps back, releases her hands, and retreats with a speed that would be indecorous if not for the mask covering him.
He does not look back, not when he feels her eyes on him, nor when the crowd shifts to swallow her up again.
The gilded doors stand open, leading out to the terrace where cooler air spills in from the night. Jayce strides toward it like a man breaking for freedom, lungs straining for relief. He pushes past a cluster of laughing patrons and slips out beneath the lantern light.
The night air is sharp against Jayce’s flushed skin, a balm after the suffocating perfume and heat inside. He leans heavy on the railing, trying to steady his breath, when movement at the edge of the terrace catches his attention.
A figure stands in the shadows, barely a few feet away – slender and poised, a mask glinting faintly under the lantern light.
Wordlessly, the stranger flicks open a small case, slides a thin cigarette between his lips, and strikes a match. Smoke curls lazily into the night as he steps closer. Without a word, he offers another, a simple gesture held out between gloved fingers.
Jayce blinks, startled. “Oh… uh, no. Thanks. I don’t smoke.”
The stranger tilts his head, a faint hum of acknowledgment escaping him, and tucks the cigarette away again. His voice, when it comes, is low, accented, and deliberate. “Pity. It helps. At least, when one is trapped in there.”
Jayce lets out a breathless laugh, half a groan. “You’re telling me.” He glances back through the open doors, where music and laughter still spill out like something suffocating. “Feels more like a prison than a party.”
The stranger exhales smoke, golden eyes glinting behind the mask. “Prisons come in many shapes.”
Jayce huffs another laugh, scrubbing a hand over his face. For the first time all night, the words don’t feel rehearsed or demanded. They’re just… words. Real ones. And he finds himself answering before he can stop.
“Yeah. Guess I know that better than I’d like.”
The stranger leans his elbows against the railing beside him, posture relaxed, gaze fixed somewhere out in the dark. “And yet you are here.”
Jayce glances sideways at him, caught by the sharpness of the profile beneath the mask, by the measured calm in his voice. His accent seems familiar, but he can’t quite place if he’s met this person before.
“Dragged here, more like. Believe me, I’d rather be anywhere else. Workshop, lab, even… even a broom closet would be preferable.”
That earns him a quiet sound, something between amusement and disbelief. “You are not alone in that sentiment.”
They lapse into silence for a moment, both watching the fog of smoke curl up into the night. Jayce feels the tension drain from his shoulders, more quickly than he expects.
Strange.
He doesn’t think he knows this man, not even a name, but the company is… easier. Lighter. Better than anything he’s endured inside.
He risks another glance, studies the curve of the stranger’s mouth beneath the dark mask, the way the lanternlight glints off his hair, attractive even half-covered.
The stranger is not suffocating the way everyone else at these parties tends to be – where every smile hides a contract, every touch a transaction. No, he doesn’t flirt, doesn’t demand, doesn’t press for anything. He is simply here, steady and amused, and that makes Jayce want to lean closer.
Even worse, that makes him want to flirt, for once, just because it’s fun. Because he is genuinely interested in this person for once, and not because he has to. The realization makes him flush hotter than the wine did.
“So,” Jayce says, covering his sudden awkwardness with a grin, “do you usually lurk in the shadows of parties, offering smokes to strangers? Or am I just lucky?”
The stranger exhales, eyes flicking toward him for a fraction of a second before returning to the night. “Call it… curiosity. You looked as though you needed rescuing.”
Jayce barks out a laugh, warm and real this time. “That obvious, huh?”
“Obvious enough.”
“Well, thanks for that,” Jayce shakes his head, still grinning. „Honestly? You might be the best thing I’ve met at one of these ridiculous galas.”
A quiet chuckle slips from behind the mask. The stranger leans closer, not enough to touch, but enough that Jayce feels the shift in the air between them, the warmth of breath, the suggestion of proximity.
“Bold,” he murmurs.
Jayce swallows, his pulse quickening. “I’ve been told that before.”
“Mm. I imagine you have.” The stranger’s gaze lingers, unreadable, before flicking back toward the ballroom.
Jayce’s hand curls against the railing, steadying himself, because he can’t shake the thought that this man, whoever he is, might be the most interesting person he’s met in years. But he still knows that he has to practice caution.
“So,” Jayce says, testing the waters, “you wouldn’t happen to be an investor, would you? Looking to corner me outside before the Councilmen can snatch me up?”
The stranger exhales smoke, lips curving faintly. “No.”
“Journalist, then?” Jayce presses, narrowing his eyes with exaggerated suspicion. “Trying to lure me into giving you the exclusive scandal of the season?”
Another amused hum. “Hardly.”
Jayce tilts his head, studying him. “So you’re not here to buy me, or use me, or wring me out for secrets?”
“No,” the stranger says simply, voice calm, unshaken. “I am only here.”
Jayce – who knows all too well that words can lie and thus has had to make himself an expert in detecting deceit from a single flicker of the eyes – stares at him for a long moment, searching for a catch, a trap, anything that proves this man is just another vulture with sharper feathers. But there’s nothing; only that steady gaze, that faint curl of smoke, that quiet voice with its lilting accent.
And suddenly Jayce feels lighter. Safer. Intrigued in a way that coils low in his chest.
He grins, softer now, leaning back against the railing with him. “Then you really are the exception here.”
The stranger inclines his head at that, neither accepting nor denying the compliment. For a heartbeat, Jayce imagines what it might be like to peel back the mask, to learn the truth of the sharp eyes hidden beneath. He almost considers asking the stranger for his name.
But just as the thought takes root, movement from the ballroom interrupts and Mel steps out onto the terrace, her mask gleaming under lanternlight, her hand light but insistent on Jayce’s arm within seconds.
“They’re missing you inside,” she murmurs smoothly.
Jayce exhales, shoulders sinking for just half a moment before he reassumes his usual posture.
He turns back toward the stranger, reluctant to let the moment end so abruptly. “Will I see you on the dance floor?”
The stranger lets out a quiet sound, almost a laugh, and turns just enough that the lanternlight catches on the dark line of a cane Jayce hadn’t noticed until now. “Unlikely,” he says, tone calm, unbothered.
Heat rushes to Jayce’s face, shame curling hot in his chest. Of course. How had he missed it? He feels like a jackass for asking. He clears his throat, nodding quickly. “Right. Of course.”
He wants to say something else but Mel already guides him back into the crowd while his ears burn, and his mind still circle the smoke, the accent, the golden eyes behind the mask – and the intrigue that gnaws at him with every step back into the suffocating light.
The porch is quiet again once Jayce disappears into the golden blur of the ballroom, Mel’s hand firm on his arm. Viktor lingers in the shadows, cane steady against the stone, watching the empty space where the tall man had stood only moments before.
Jayce Talis. Of course it had to be him.
He knew the Council’s prodigy by reputation long before tonight – the papers, the whispers, the bright-eyed speeches about innovation.
And in passing, he had seen him at many of these functions, moving with the confidence of someone who had never been told no long enough to believe it. Never noticing a simple assistant like Viktor.
But Jayce himself: too large, too radiant, and too loud to ignore.
Yet tonight, outside with his mask askew and his laughter cracking real through the night air, he had been… different. Human.
And far more attractive up close than Viktor wants to admit. Broad shoulders that caught the lanternlight, a grin too infectious for its own good, eyes that warmed even through the artifice of a masterfully crafted mask. Viktor’s mind, sharp and disciplined, had strayed more than once to what it would be like to taste that practiced grin.
He takes a slow drag from what remains of his cigarette, smoke curling sharp and bitter in his lungs. He had meant only to observe. To slip in, unremarked, listen and learn what Piltover’s elite whispered when they thought the world belonged to them while playing a live ’who’s who’ lexicon for Heimerdinger, who for all his brilliance, is extremely forgetful about faces.
He had not planned for conversation. Certainly not with Jayce.
And yet…
The boy had been flustered, restless, and shining with all the wrong kinds of attention from all the wrong people. For a moment, Viktor had almost pitied him. Then he had spoken, and Viktor had found himself entertained in spite of everything. Bold, yes, but unpracticed in true gamesmanship. Reckless. Disarmingly earnest. Attractive enough to make Viktor wonder, against his better judgment, what else that eagerness could be turned toward.
Dangerous, Viktor reminds himself. He cannot afford to indulge curiosity.
Jayce Talis is a symbol, a darling of the Council, a golden mask over Piltover’s hypocrisy. Nothing good could come from letting him closer.
And still… Viktor’s mouth twists around a quiet, amused breath. He hadn’t expected to enjoy the company. Hadn’t expected to find Jayce’s grin infectious, his questions unguarded, and his eyes warm even through the artifice of the golden mask.
He stubs out the cigarette on the railing, tucks the case back into his coat, and straightens with a wince. Enough. Better to leave now, before foolish thoughts take root.
Because whatever else Jayce Talis is, he is not for Viktor.
Inside again, the masquerade is in full motion, a tide of silk and feathers swirling beneath chandeliers.
Viktor moves along the edge of the crowd, careful and unobtrusive. He never comes to these things for pleasure – only because Heimerdinger insists. So Viktor lingers, watching, cataloguing. The names, the alliances, the patterns. Tedious work, but necessary.
And yet, tonight, his gaze drifts. Again and again, back to Jayce.
On the dance floor, the golden boy is radiant even beneath the mask, taller than the rest, his partner’s silk skirts flaring as he turns her. Laughter spills from him, but Viktor knows it for a mask too – knows the stiffness in his shoulders, the weariness in his eyes when he thinks no one is looking – but still, he shines.
Too bright for this room.
Too tempting for Viktor’s wandering imagination.
A shame.
At one point, Jayce’s gaze skims the crowd and catches on him. For a heartbeat too long, their eyes meet across the room – his wide and questioning; Viktor’s steady and unreadable. Then the dance turns him away, and the moment is gone.
Viktor exhales slowly, shifting his pose into something more comfortable. He should not look again. He should return his task, the reason he endures these suffocating halls at all. Shouldn’t be this tempted by this man.
But despite his best efforts, it happens again.
Another song, another partner, Jayce looking up at just the right moment. Their eyes collide, and this time neither of them looks away. Something unsettles in Viktor’s chest, sharp and curious, as heat coils low in his gut.
He had always dismissed Jayce as little more than charisma and broad shoulders, all grin and no depth. A himbo with a hammer, adored for shining but not for thinking.
But the man who laughed on the terrace, who tested him with cautious questions, who looked relieved when Viktor gave no sign of wanting to own him – that man is harder to dismiss. Attractive, intelligent, and reckless – a combination Viktor knows he should avoid.
Could there be more to him, even? He doubts it. Surely not. And yet…
Viktor shifts his weight again. He wants to leave already, to slip away before this curiosity roots any deeper, but it is too early. The deal is clear: he must endure these events when they come, and if he attends, he stays until Heimerdinger leaves.
Few occasions, but full nights. That is the price of being indispensable.
So he stays. And, against his better judgement, he looks for Jayce.
Finds him across the crowd, then tears his gaze away. Looks again, and again, and… and then their eyes meet once more. This time Jayce does not pretend. He finishes a dance, excuses himself from his partner, and begins to move toward him with purpose.
Viktor’s stomach tightens. He should disappear, but Jayce’s path cuts clean through the crowd. He can see the determination in the line of his shoulders, the curiosity burning hot even through the mask.
And Viktor, damn him, thinks about what else those shoulders might bear – the weight of Viktor himself, pressed down into them. He thinks of that mouth, curved in triumph, wrapped around laughter, wrapped around… other things. Heat coils low in his gut, sharp and reckless.
And for the first time tonight, he doesn’t want to cannot simply melt away.
He lingers where he is as the golden boy closes the distance – one measured step after another, until the press of bodies shifts and suddenly there is no barrier left between them.
“I understand you are not a dancer,” Jayce says, a little breathless, grin tugging at his lips. “Then have a drink with me instead.”
Viktor tilts his head, fighting to suppress a smile. “No.”
“That wasn’t a question,” Jayce chuckles, undeterred. “Come on. A drink, the balcony, or a walk. Your choice.”
Viktor exhales slowly, lips pressing thin as though weighing every possible excuse. Jayce’s grin only widens, the invitation hanging stubbornly between them.
Finally, Viktor inclines his head, resigned but not unamused. “Very well. A walk.”
Jayce’s smile brightens, triumphant, and he gestures toward the balcony doors with a sweep of his arm.
Against his better judgement Viktor allows himself to be led, curiosity and caution locked in a quiet war within his chest, while his traitorous mind keeps circling the idea of those broad hands gripping him tight in the dark.
The gardens stretch wide beyond the stone balustrade, lanterns strung along winding paths, their light soft against the dark hedges and late-blooming flowers. The hum of the masquerade fades behind them with every step, replaced by the distant hum of night insects and the crunch of gravel underfoot.
Viktor moves with measured ease, while the golden boy beside him walks with restless energy. Their silence is companionable, but Viktor can feel the weight of it pressing, inevitable, until Jayce breaks it.
“So, if you don’t dance and you don’t drink… what do you do at these things?”
Viktor exhales through his nose, amused, and something in Jayce makes him want to be truthful, without all the masks. “Endure.”
Jayce laughs, and the sound is brighter than anything in the ballroom. Too bright. Viktor tries not to let it affect him.
“Gods, I knew I wasn’t the only one. The wine’s terrible, the food’s bland, and don’t even get me started on the Council’s speeches. You’d think they’d invent a way to make parties less of a nightmare by now.”
“That would require them to admit these events are for anything other than parading themselves,” Viktor huffs.
Jayce barks out another laugh, shaking his head. “Exactly. You get it.”
They fall into step along the lanternlit path, trading small observations – about the gaudy decorations, the hollow laughter spilling from the hall, the absurdity of wearing masks when everyone already knows who half the people are.
It feels easy, too easy, and Viktor finds himself watching Jayce’s profile in the glow, drawn to him like nothing before.
After a while, Jayce slows, his tone shifting. “You know… all of this – the parties, the politics, the flattery – it isn’t me. What I really care about is the work. Building things that matter. Proving that Piltover can be more than shiny façades and empty words.”
Viktor doesn’t reply, curious about what Jayce wants to get to.
“I keep thinking,” Jayce continues, words tumbling faster now, “what if we’re wasting our chance? What if we could do more? Not just gadgets for trade or showpieces for the Council, but something real. Something powerful. What if we could take what everyone’s too afraid to touch – magic – and make it into something useful? Something safe. Through technology.”
Viktor stills mid-step, his cane striking sharp against gravel. His gaze slides toward the other man, eyes narrowing behind the mask. “Magic,” he repeats slowly. “Through technology.”
“Exactly,” Jayce nods, reckless and unguarded. “There are these crystals… they already have form, and structure. Why not treat them like equations? If we could stabilize them, if we could make them behave in a predictable way, it wouldn’t be sorcery anymore. It would be science.”
Interest stirs sharp in Viktor’s chest before he can stop it. He had expected bravado, charm, and empty confidence, not… this. “That is… ambitious,” he admits. Is there really something behind all that shine?
Jayce grins, radiant in a way that makes Viktor want to look away. “Ambitious is the only way anything gets done. The Council would hate it, of course. Too dangerous, too unstable, all that nonsense. But I can’t stop thinking about it. Magic, in our hands. What we could build.”
Foolish, Viktor tells himself. Dangerous. And yet his mind is already working, sketching invisible equations. Genius. “You would need containment sigils. A lattice strong enough to survive feedback. And safeguards… many safeguards.”
Jayce suddenly leans down, snatching a stick from the path. “Here, look—” He scratches a rough sketch into the dirt, lines and circles glowing faintly in Viktor’s imagination. “If you build the lattice like this, anchor it here, you could channel the energy without blowback.”
Gods above, the sight of Jayce Talis, already unfairly hot, talking about innovation in this excited and eager voice, goes straight to Viktor’s dick. He shoves the thoughts aside and leans closer against his better judgment, pointing with the tip of his cane.
“Not unless you balance the output here. Otherwise, the feedback will shatter the array.”
Jayce laughs, exhilarated, dragging more lines through the soil. “Yes! Exactly! But if we reroute the flow… see—”
Their shoulders brush as they bend over the rough diagram, their voices overlapping, excitement sparking quick and hot. Viktor feels the pull of it like a current, impossible to resist – the intoxicating rush of another mind speaking his language, reckless but alive with possibility.
And is he really to blame if it isn’t just the brilliance that tempts him, but the nearness, the warmth of Jayce’s body, the scent of sweat and wine and heady want?
Viktor sees the flicker of Jayce’s gaze drop to his lips and linger there, pupils blown wide. The realization that this is mutual jolts through Viktor’s chest like lightning. Mutual attraction in and of itself isn’t unique; he has stolen moments before, in shadows at parties, mouths pressed quick and hungry against his, hands fumbling before the night ended in silence.
But Jayce Talis is not just any partner to be indulged and forgotten. He is dangerous. Too visible. Too tempting.
Still, Viktor’s imagination betrays him: that pretty mouth against his throat, around his cock, sighing when Viktor’s hand tangles in his hair, moaning his name. The image is so sharp he almost sways with it.
And Jayce leans closer – too close – mask tilted, breath warm and unsteady, as though daring him to close the distance. It would take nothing, nothing at all, to bridge it, and for a suspended moment, Viktor’s breath stills, the possibility burning between them, temptation flooding so strong it almost knocks him off balance.
Then reason crashes back in – who and where he is, who Jayce is – and he pulls away sharply. Jayce startles too, clearing his throat, face flushed beneath the mask, and the tension lingers like static, unspent and dangerous.
“Your theories are reckless,” Viktor says lightly, voice even though his pulse is not. He tells himself it is the truth. That it is a dismissal.
Jayce swallows, forcing a crooked smile. “Maybe. But you liked them.”
And damn him, he is right.
Viktor forces his hand behind his back, schooling his expression into something cool and unreadable. “I find reckless ideas all the time,” he says, though he knows his gaze betrays him, lingering on the diagram, then on Jayce’s flushed mouth. “That does not make them worth pursuing.”
Jayce huffs a laugh, undeterred, stepping closer again, that stubborn spark in his eyes. “Sure. But you don’t talk about them like this. Not unless you care. You’re enjoying this.”
Viktor’s jaw tightens. He should shut this down. He forces himself to remember what Jayce Talis is – a symbol, a Council darling, a complication he cannot afford. Still, his mind betrays him with flashes of what it would be like to push him back against the hedge, to feel those broad hands gripping him tight.
“Enjoyment,” Viktor quietly says at last, “is… irrelevant.”
“Not to me,” Jayce says, softer now. He leans a little closer, his grin gentler, coaxing instead of pushing. “Come on. Just admit it. You immediately understood what I said and built on it. You’re having fun.”
Viktor looks at him, at the open, earnest face beneath the mask, at the dirt-scratched runes glowing with possibility in both their minds. He should retreat. He should end this now, before it tangles further. Instead, he hears himself say, almost grudgingly, “Perhaps… a little.”
Jayce’s grin splits wide and triumphant, and Viktor looks away quickly, heart unsteady, reminding himself that this is only a diversion. It must be.
He steadies himself, schooling his tone back into calm neutrality. “You should return inside. By now, they will be missing you.”
Jayce follows his gaze toward the ballroom doors, shoulders slumping. He looks like he would rather leap into the hedges than step back into that hall of feathers and silk. Still, after a beat, he nods. “Yeah. You’re probably right.”
He hesitates – one step, two – then turns back as if to say something more. His eyes shine in the lanternlight, lingering on Viktor’s mouth for one reckless second too long. Viktor’s chest tightens, a treacherous thought flaring that Jayce might kiss him anyway, here, now, consequences be damned.
Viktor remains still, all his masks inscrutable, and the moment passes. With a soft sigh, Jayce turns away and strides back toward the glow of the masquerade, and Viktor lingers a moment longer, the phantom of possibility still humming against his skin, before following at a measured distance.
Face once again unreadable, he slips back into the crowd, unseen and unknown.
The ballroom greets him again in a flood of color and sound – silk skirts brushing marble, chandeliers raining light, music swelling like a tide that threatens to pull him under.
Jayce straightens his shoulders, lets the mask of the golden boy slide back into place, and steps once more into the crowd.
But something is different now.
He feels it in the warmth still clinging to his skin, in the echo of a voice low and accented curling through his mind, in the remembered glint of eyes behind a mask.
The stranger was brilliant, sharp, and steady in a way that cuts through the noise. Jayce has no name for him, no title, no place in Piltover’s hierarchy – but he cannot shake the pull. He doesn’t want to.
He takes another partner when asked, smiles when required, turns with the music as though he’s been trained for it all his life. The woman’s perfume is cloying, the man’s hand stiff in his own, the laughter forced, the words meaningless. Jayce nods, answers politely, but his mind is elsewhere – back in the garden, in the dirt-scratched diagrams, in the spark of discovery that lit between them.
Between steps, he searches. Scans the edge of the crowd, the shadows near the pillars, the curve of the balcony above. A flicker of dark hair, a tilt of a cane, the impression of a figure watching… it’s enough to make his breath catch, to send his heart pounding harder than the music’s beat.
He shouldn’t be this affected. He doesn’t even know who the man is.
But gods, the way he spoke; precise and deliberate, like every word mattered. The way he moved; calm and controlled, like a feline predator. The way his eyes glinted; sharp and steady, like he cut straight through Jayce’s masks to the man beneath.
The way his presence steadied the chaos in Jayce’s chest when nothing else tonight had managed to.
It’s infuriating.
It’s intoxicating.
Another dance ends and Jayce bows, forces a smile, and lets his partner melt back into the crowd. But his mind doesn’t linger on her or on any of the faces swirling past. He’s still in the garden, still crouched over a rough lattice sketched in dirt, still hearing the stranger’s voice adding to his own idea. Still chasing the high of it – the thrill of someone who could actually keep up.
It should be enough. But it isn’t, because his treacherous thoughts keep derailing, spiraling lower. One second he imagines the stranger’s mouth shaping equations, a hand steady on his cane, and then suddenly, unpromptedly, that hand gripping him instead, that mouth gasping around him, the man bent back while Jayce fucks him senseless. The image blindsides him, makes his throat dry, makes him stumble on the next dance step.
He swallows, forcing his composure back, but the ache remains.
He lingers at the edge of the floor, gaze darting, restless. Somewhere out there, the stranger still moves unseen. Somewhere behind a mask, those eyes are still watching, perhaps even watching him.
And the thought of it – of being seen, truly seen, not as Piltover’s golden boy but as himself – sets a fire low in his chest that no amount of champagne or applause can extinguish.
The ballroom spins around him with music, laughter, silk flashing gold and crimson, but Jayce moves through it as if half asleep. Every step of the dances feels even more mechanical than usual, every smile rehearsed, every laugh brittle. He doesn’t belong here.
So he keeps searching. Again and again his gaze sweeps the crowd, past masks and feathers and jeweled smiles, until – there. The same hair, dark mask, a figure standing half in shadow near the edge of the floor. Their eyes meet and Jayce’s chest tightens, that fire in his stomach flaring hotter as he sees that same heat mirrored in the other man’s eyes.
He looks away too quickly, blood rushing up his neck. But then it happens again. And again. Each time, longer, until the weight of it steals his breath. Every time he swears he won’t look again… and every time he does.
By the fourth, fifth glance, it’s unbearable. His pulse hammers, his whole body restless with the thought of him. He can’t think straight. He doesn’t know if what he wants is to drag the man back to the garden and keep talking about runes until dawn, or to press him into the nearest wall and fuck him senseless. Maybe both. Maybe in that order. Maybe at the same time.
The next time their eyes lock, he doesn’t think, just makes the smallest of nods toward the far exit, the one that leads back to the gardens. Subtle enough that no one else would notice. Obvious enough that the stranger must.
And before Jayce realizes what he’s done, he’s already moving. Slipping past the crowd, through laughter and perfume and candlelight, until the air cools again against his flushed skin. He steps into the night, lungs straining, heart pounding like he’s leapt off a cliff.
A moment later, the soft tap of a cane follows.
He doesn’t look back, doesn’t need to. He pushes deeper into the gardens, searching for shadow, for silence, for somewhere hidden. And when he finds it – an alcove tucked between high hedges and ivy-clad stone – the stranger is already there, close enough that Jayce stops breathing.
They stand suspended in the lantern-dappled dark, far too close to be polite, breath mingling. Jayce wants to speak, to ask another question, to draw out that sharp voice again just to hear it.
But when the stranger finally does open his mouth, something inside Jayce snaps. Science talk can come later. The ideas will still be there, but what won’t wait is this need clawing at his chest, this ache to taste him.
Then the distance shatters and their mouths crash together, fierce and urgent, all the restraint of the evening breaking in an instant. Jayce fists a hand in the stranger’s waistcoat, dragging him closer, while the stranger’s grip curls tight on his arm, steadying him, claiming him.
It’s reckless, it’s dangerous… it’s the only thing that makes sense.
The kiss burns hotter with every passing second, urgency sparking like fire through dry kindling. Jayce presses forward, crowding the stranger back towards the wall, mouths crashing, parting, meeting again with bruising intensity. His mask shifts askew but he doesn’t care about anything but the taste of smoke and wine and the low sound the stranger makes when Jayce drags him closer by the lapels.
It feels right. For once tonight, for once in weeks, maybe years, Jayce feels like he is doing something right. No hollow smiles, no rehearsed words, no empty laughter… just this. Heat and breath and hands roaming desperately over fabric and form.
The stranger’s cane clatters softly against the wall as his hand slides into Jayce’s hair, tugging just enough to draw a groan that’s swallowed between them. Jayce’s palms trace down his back, pulling them closer, closer, until not even air could fit between. Each moan, each gasp, is stolen, devoured, consumed in the fever of the kiss.
Jayce wants more.
Needs more.
Every nerve screams with it, every thought drowned out by the pounding of his heart and the steady, intoxicating weight of the man against him. His lips trail down to the stranger’s jaw, rough kisses pressed to warm skin, before returning hungrily to his mouth again.
And then, suddenly, the stranger pulls back. Breath ragged, mask a little crooked, his hand still tangled in Jayce’s hair but holding him away. His voice is low and steady, even as his chest heaves.
“You shouldn’t.”
Jayce’s chest heaves, his lips swollen, his blood roaring in his ears. He understands the meaning, knows he should agree, but just stares at the man, wide-eyed, and breathes out, defiant and desperate: “Stop me, then.”
The response is a kiss that burns even hotter with every passing second, urgency sparking like fire through dry kindling.
Jayce’s mouth trails lower, down along the sharp line of his jaw, then the hollow of his throat, kissing rough and hungry against heated skin. Each muffled sound that slips from the stranger’s lips only spurs him on, makes him desperate for more, goes straight to his cock that has started to make his pants uncomfortable.
The stranger’s hands are no longer cautious either; they roam with intent, sliding over Jayce’s chest, down his back, slipping beneath the hem of his shirt to trace bare skin. Jayce shudders at the touch, heat sparking everywhere those fingers wander.
“Here…” Jayce murmurs between frantic kisses, urging him up, half-lifting until the man perches against the cool stone wall. Jayce steps between his knees, bodies pressed tight, fumbling with the ties of his coat and pushing it off his shoulders, readjusting them so the man sits on the coat instead of the stone.
Meanwhile, his own shirt is being tugged from his waistband, fingers sliding lower, toying with fastenings. Jayce’s breath catches when said deft fingers undo just enough for the night air to rush in cool against his heated skin, but not enough to expose his cock. He groans into the kiss, one hand braced on the stone, the other clutching tight at the other man’s hip.
For every touch Jayce gives, he receives one in return – frantic, needy, and insistent. The world has narrowed to nothing but the scrape of ivy against stone, the taste of smoke and wine, and the reckless thrill of wanting more than he has ever dared before.
The heat between them coils tighter, feverish, and impossible to stop. Jayce kisses hard against the stranger’s mouth, then drags his lips lower again, down the line of his throat, tasting the rush of skin made hot by urgency. His hands are everywhere – spanning a slim waist, clenching at cloth, hungry to touch more.
And then he is sliding one hand lower, beneath layers, pushing into heat where he expects hardness. The wetness he finds instead makes him falter for the briefest breath and his mind stutters. Surprise, yes – but no hesitation. If anything, the shock burns through him as a sharper want.
The stranger’s head tips back, mask tilting, eyes darting to Jayce’s as if to measure him, to ask without words: is this alright?
Jayce holds that gaze, steady and certain – and then he presses in, sinking his fingers inside him. The answer is in the way his hand moves, unhurried but sure, in the soft groan he swallows into the stranger’s mouth as he kisses him again.
The moan that tears from the stranger’s throat is long, low, and utterly undone. Jayce drinks it in greedily, shuddering at the sound, every nerve alight with the knowledge that he is the one drawing it out, that this masked, untouchable figure is unraveling under his hand.
While there is something about the anonymity he likes, he reaches up, almost without thinking, fingers brushing the edge of the mask. “Let me see you,” he murmurs, voice rough with longing. “I want to–”
Firm fingers catch his wrist, shaking his head. His voice is steady, though Jayce hears the strain beneath it. “No. It is better for both of us if we remain strangers tonight.”
Jayce’s heart lurches in protest and he stops, pulling both his hands away from the stranger’s body. He wants to see him, wants to know the face behind the voice, the eyes that have held him so steady. He imagines beauty, sharp and arresting, and aches with the need to confirm it. But the hand on his wrist is unyielding, and at last he forces himself to let go.
He swallows hard, nodding once though frustration burns in his chest.
As their mouths crash together again, Jayce’s hand roams higher, fingers tracing the soft edges of the mask, the curve across cheek and brow. Something unexpected takes root instead, with the mask itself becoming part of the thrill like a forbidden fruit, a barrier that sharpens every glance and every stolen sound.
He cups it in both hands like it’s precious, pressing his lips to its surface when he pulls back for air. A kiss to the cheekplate, a lingering press to the smooth ridge above the stranger’s brow, then back to his mouth again.
The stranger stiffens for a beat, surprised, but then a low, rough sound escapes him, and his grip in Jayce’s hair tightens. Encouraged, Jayce drags his lips along the mask’s edge, worshipping the sharp lines as if they’re part of the man himself, tongue darting just enough to taste cold metal and warm skin beneath. His hand returns to the man’s pants, sinking two of his fingers in with ease.
“You like this?” Jayce whispers, lips brushing the edge of the mask. He doesn’t wait for an answer, pressing another hungry kiss to its surface and matching the pace of his fingers to it. “Because I do. Fuck, I do.”
The stranger shudders, the smallest nod breaking through his composure, and pulls Jayce back into another bruising kiss. When Jayce presses him harder against the wall, grinding close, he lets Jayce have it, mask and all, every kiss turned into an act of devotion, every moan swallowed beneath the anonymity that binds them tighter rather than keeping them apart.
His grip slides to Jayce’s hip, pulling him impossibly closer with a wordless urgency that leaves no doubt of what he wants now.
The stranger’s moans still linger in Jayce’s ears when deft fingers tug his waistband lower, urging and insistent, until his cock springs free. Jayce stills, blinking down at him in the shadows, until the meaning is unmistakable. The masked face tilts toward him, intent clear even without words.
Jayce lets out a breathless laugh, ragged at the edges. “Eager, aren’t you?”
No reply, only a hand slipping lower, steady and deliberate, wrapping around his leaking dick with a certainty that robs him of speech. Jayce’s body jolts, a groan torn from deep in his chest as heat and want explode through him all at once. There’s no mistaking it, no hesitation in what the stranger wants, no disguise for his need.
And, well, Jayce is only too happy to oblige.
He exhales, the want too sharp to deny, and withdraws his fingers with care but no delay, shifting his grip instead to the stranger’s waist once again. With one sure movement, he positions him higher against the low stone wall, braced and waiting, and frees both of them from their pants just enough.
Jayce presses closer, chest heaving, heart hammering, all his thoughts being occupied by the prospect of burying himself inside the other man until he cries out. The need is blinding in its clarity as he lines himself up, groaning at the feeling of the head of his cock nudging against the wetness and heat.
When he finally pushes in, there is no hesitation. Slick heat wraps around him, tight and clinging, and the sensation crashes over Jayce in a wave so fierce it steals his breath. It’s wet, perfect, and consuming – so right it drowns out every doubt, every carefully rehearsed mask he’s worn tonight.
He buries himself deeper in the stranger’s body, groaning at the way his cunt grips him, drawing him in like it never intends to let him go. The masked man clings tighter, nails biting through fabric, dragging him closer, and Jayce bottoms out, drawing a moan from them both.
He savors the feeling for a moment before slowly starting to move; every thrust a controlled urgency, every sound a surrender, every shudder a promise that this – this – is what he has been chasing without even knowing it.
Their bodies find a rhythm, moving together with mounting urgency, heat pooling fast and fierce. Jayce buries his face against the stranger’s throat, teeth grazing skin as his groans turn to broken, fervent sounds, each one caught and swallowed in the press of lips. His entire being narrows to this moment, this fire, this need to please the man clinging so tightly to him.
The hand that isn’t leaning against the wall for support slips lower again, fingers searching for the spot that will draw the most pleasure, watching the man’s response. The stranger stiffens, gasps against his mouth with a surprised look first, then pleased surrender, eyes half-lidded with want.
“A little to the left,” he manages out and Jayce adjusts, fingers rubbing in firm, steady circles. A low, drawn out moan muffled by the man biting Jayce’s shoulder confirms that he found the spot, every moan quickly turning breathier.
It unravels him further. Jayce’s blood sings with it, with the knowledge that he can give this, that he can draw such sounds from a man who holds himself so carefully in check.
He moves with more purpose now, hips thrusting in rhythm, hand working in tandem, desperate to give as much as he takes. Every groan, every shudder that rocks through the stranger feels like a victory, feels like proof that he is doing this right.
And with every thrust, every sound, every shuddering breath, Jayce teeters closer to the edge – pleasure building, overwhelming, inevitable.
Their rhythm builds higher, faster, a frantic cadence neither can hold back now. Jayce’s body moves on pure instinct, hips driving hard, hand working with single-minded purpose,
The stranger clings tighter, fingers digging into Jayce’s shoulders, muffled cries lost against his throat. Jayce moans with him, kissing hungrily, swallowing every sound as if he can keep it for himself.
He feels the shift when the stranger starts to break, his body tightening, shuddering, breath catching in ragged, helpless gasps. Jayce forces himself to keep the rhythm steady despite the urge to go faster in desperation to bring the stranger over the edge. His efforts are rewarded with a long and raw moan, one that might as well echo in the ballroom as the man clenches around him, arching, fingernails digging into Jayce’s skin.
The sight alone is enough to send him over the edge as well. Release crashes through him in a wave so fierce it steals his breath, his vision sparking white as his body seizes with it, buried deep in the slick, perfect heat.
For a long moment, there is nothing but the sound of their harsh breathing, the cool night air sharp against sweat-damp skin. Jayce presses his forehead to the stranger’s shoulder, trembling, lips brushing fabric as he tries to catch his breath.
And then – because the need to please still burns, or maybe because he can’t let this moment end yet – Jayce eases out and shifts lower, kissing down the stranger’s throat, over his still-clothed chest, further still.
His palms spread steady over trembling thighs as he sinks down between them, mouth seeking with single-minded hunger. He licks into the stranger’s cunt like he’s starving, tasting slickness and the faint tang of his own release mixed there.
He moans low against it, devouring with reverence. The flavor is filthy, intoxicating, and oddly empowering – proof of what they’ve just shared, proof that they took each other to the brink and back.
The stranger stiffens, startled, eyes darting down as if to gauge what this means – but Jayce only meets his gaze, lips glistening, tongue insistent, worshipping like it’s the only thing in the world that matters.
“Let me,” Jayce pants between strokes of his tongue, voice rough with awe. “Let me taste you, make you come again.”
And he does. Fingers work his clit in firm circles as his mouth seals around him, drawing ragged cries from a man who fights to keep quiet, whose control frays more with every flick of Jayce’s tongue. Hips jerk, legs trembling, and when he finally comes a second time, the feeling that bursts through Jayce’s body is incomparable to anything in the world.
He presses a last kiss to the man’s swollen cunt and drags himself back up, mouth wet, face flushed, kissing him hard as if to make sure he knows: he’s tasted him, claimed him, and would do it again without hesitation.
He looks down at the mask that’s still in place, breath still uneven. Jayce aches to tear it away, to see him, to know him – but he doesn’t. He remembers the warning. The refusal.
“You didn’t have to,” the stranger murmurs at last, voice low and rough with exertion.
Jayce lets out a hoarse laugh, pressing one more kiss to his mouth. “Stop me next time, then.”
When the stranger speaks, it’s low, but tinged with something sharper now. “Bold of you to assume there will be a next time.”
Jayce, drunk on the high of it, on the closeness, on the lingering fire in his veins, can’t bring himself to care about the sudden letdown. His lips twitch into a crooked grin, hoarse but sure. “Bold of you to think I’d let this be the last.”
That earns him nothing but silence. The stranger only shifts, steady hands tugging his trousers back into place, smoothing his coat, adjusting his hair with practiced precision. Jayce watches him, chest still heaving, utterly undone while the other man pieces himself back together.
The crunch of gravel carries toward them – footsteps, laughter, the rustle of silk. Another couple, sneaking off into the garden. Instinctively, they both still, the heat of their exchange sealed in sudden silence. Two masked figures hidden in the shadows, breath quieting, waiting to remain unseen.
When the intruders pass, Jayce breaks the silence, voice low, pleading before he can stop himself. “Will you tell me who you are, now?”
The stranger’s golden eyes linger on him for a heartbeat, unreadable in the lanternlight. No answer comes. Only a shake of the head, final and resolute, before he slips back into the direction of the ballroom, cane tapping softly against stone.
By the time Jayce gathers himself enough to follow, the man has vanished into the crowd.
And Jayce dances when asked, smiles when pressed, but every turn of the floor is haunted by the absence, by the memory of hands and lips and the fire they struck in him.
With every unanswered glance around the hall, his intrigue only deepens and sharpens. Whoever the masked stranger was, he has left Jayce undone, restless, and hungry for more.
And as another dance ends, Jayce catches himself whispering the truth he cannot shake…
I need to know who he is.