Chapter Text
Viktor does not consider himself to be a complicated person. Most people, if not all, are relatively simple. Small minds outweighed by inflated egos. Loudmouths that spurt hollow rhetoric that never conveys any new information for him to digest.
It's not that he assumes that he’s smarter than everyone else, it's simply a fact. A monopoly that Viktor will claim over the rest of society that has deemed him to be nothing but an oddity, an outlier, or (in the kindest way possible) a scourge of filth in which to wipe their boots on as they step over his brilliance to a better station that benefits only them.
They would crush his warped spine under their dress shoes without blinking an eye. A disturbing thought? Perhaps. A realistic one? Without a doubt.
Viktor does not hold these truths close to his chest by any means. He does not wish for pity or leniency from the topside elites - he never expected any in the city below the bridge and certainly isn’t anticipating it here.
Not when everyone is one step above imbecilic and lacks the common decency to think of a world outside their own social bubble. If something is not clearly reflected in their crystal mirror, it is out of sight and out of their perception to care.
Jayce is no exception. Try as he might, he could never understand the world that exists outside his gold-plated vision. He tries, gods forgive him, he tries. Bless Jayce. Bless Jayce and his foolhardy attempts to relate to Viktor and the adversity someone like him has faced.
Jayce, who is ingenious and the only person Viktor would deem as his equal when it comes to matters of intellect, still could not fathom the depths that a person’s psyche goes through in order to survive in a world not built for them.
Fat thighs, chiselled face with filled in cheeks, healthy coloured skin, and a warm body. Jayce is everything that Viktor is not when it comes to physicality. Essentially, everything that Piltover sees when they look at them standing side by side wondering: ‘how the hell do they fit together?’
They don’t know. They could never know.
Viktor should despise Jayce, and maybe he would if it wasn’t for his big, beautiful brain. The way that he thinks and theorizes with such unorthodox vigour that polite society would deem ‘manic.’
True, if it wasn’t for Jayce’s outward appearance, he would have been discredited at every turn and perhaps even cast out as a lunatic - better to rot in the Undercity or waste away in a psychiatric facility.
And Viktor can’t blame him for that. Jayce didn’t choose the body he was born with the same as Viktor did not. He didn’t choose to be born into a House, (although minor, as he insists at every opportunity), that holds standing within the Uppercity. Jayce did not choose to be as dazzling and handsome as he is.
Viktor should hate him.
But he doesn’t.
And that is the problem.
Fantasies exist in one’s head for a reason. The reason being that they are fantastical i.e.; should not and do not translate over to reality.
So if Viktor started to daydream about his partner in compromising positions, or even just pictured his face, his hands - full of thick fingers, or Piltover’s arse, is there really any harm in that?
He’d felt guilty at first. For crying out loud, this was his friend and work colleague. He should know better than to become involved; even if it was just within the confines of his own mind.
But as time went on, and each orgasm achieved with his own hand, Jayce’s name on his lips when he came around his fingers, it all started to feel so…unfulfilling.
Something had to be done. It was interfering with his partnership—the work! He should find a sexual partner, maybe even go the extra mile to court a man or two? He could get into a relationship. Swap one romance for another. Surely that’s what people did, wasn’t it?
He wouldn’t know.
“I’m in my final year at the Academy,” his date had said. “Studying ancient Ionian scripture from their indigenous tribes. Did you know that…” The boy had continued to speak. Probably something interesting, he was an academic after all. But when his words faded into the background, somewhere between the native dialect tongues, Viktor noticed that he’d completely lost interest.
No. Dating was not going to work. Not whilst Jayce existed in this plane of existence.
Something had to be done.
Viktor’s curiosity was always his fatal flaw.
The inherent drive to understand how things worked. How did Jayce’s body work? What pieces did he have to take apart until he was completely unravelled? Viktor could put him back together again, of course he could. But what buttons did he have to press to elicit which reaction?
Touching Jayce’s nipples makes him whine.
He prefers being eaten out instead of traditional lubricant to stretch him out.
When you press on Jayce’s perineum he will buck his hips up and beg you to touch his dick or his arse.
Jayce accepts his own cum, kissed onto his tongue after he ejaculates into your mouth. He moans for it. Practically begging to taste that genetic material so coveted by Piltovian men and women alike.
In his more risqué fantasies, Jayce asks for his balls to be tugged and twisted. Painful and degrading. It makes him leak like a teenage virgin.
“What do you think?”
Viktor’s eyes do a series of quick blinks. His mind slingshotted back into reality and out of his proverbial ‘what-if’s’.
“What?” Is all he can manage in response to the question, looking up at Jayce through the blue glint of his work goggles.
Jayce smiles, shaking his head and coming around to stand behind Viktor where he sits. Crouched over on his wheeled stool in front of a volatile device prototype.
Gently, Jayce takes the soldering iron that had been blowing continuously into a metal fixture for so long that the entire clasp Viktor had been working on had warped beyond repair. An easy adjustment would now require a full replacement due to his perverted daydreaming.
“I think it's time we both took a break,” Jayce suggests, covering Viktor’s shoulder with his large palm.
“I’m fine.” Viktor grabs an extractor bar from their tool trolley to begin dismantling the part he’s ruined.
The hand on his shoulder squeezes just the smallest amount. No doubt Jayce has a whole library of excuses forming on his tongue about how Viktor shouldn’t push himself so hard, even when it's clear that his mind is elsewhere.
To Viktor’s surprise, he doesn’t press with his usual justifications for a break, just another familiar squeeze and removes himself to return to the workbench.
“Anti-gravity assistance,” Jayce prompts, “for the mining gauntlets. I was saying that if we can’t isolate the specific features we want into the hexcrystals, that we should instead try and shape the steel instead. Forge the components with the runes carved into them so that the crystals react to the instruction.”
It’s prophetic. Manipulate the variable that is within your control instead of trying to dictate an uncompromising force.
Viktor pulls the goggles up to his forehead to look at his partner unobscured. “Yes… Yes I think that would work.”
Something was going to be done.
Jayce Talis lives in a penthouse apartment that overlooks all of Piltover. The only thing taller than the residence in which he sleeps, is the legacy of his great accomplishment: The Hexgates.
Their legacy, Jayce is always reminding him. Their Hextech Dream. A dream designed to help those in need, when really, all it has done so far is put more gold in the pockets of merchants and elites whose pockets are already lined as such. Wealth for the wealthy. A stepping stone so that they can secure endorsement from the council and sponsors; that their magical scientific pursuit is safe and feasible. Only then will they be able to direct their attention to people in the Undercity who need it most.
Jayce is terrific at reminding Viktor of all these things. The necessary evils in order to get what they want. And Viktor’s no politician, but he understands business proceedings enough to know that this is the way the world works. He’s spent a lifetime dedicating his energy not to fight the system, but to use it to his advantage.
So yes, he lets Jayce play the role of show pony. Kissing arse to whoever he has to in order for them to continue working towards the bigger picture.
Though he’d be lying if he said there wasn’t any resentment attached with this arrangement. Both, directed at Jayce for leaving him alone in the lab more and more as the years went on, and at those pompous eels who think they own Jayce like a prized lapdog.
A whore Jayce makes himself. All for Viktor. For them. Their dream.
So when the opportunity arises that a man not quite in that golden inner circle of high society, starts talking to Viktor at a bar one night; mentions that he is ‘a big fan of the Founding Fathers of Hextech’, along with the slip that he purchased a property that was the twin tower of Jayce’s penthouse – well, Viktor is nothing but an opportunist.
A few drinks and filthy words later, and the two of them are in the elevator to the stranger’s top level apartment.
The man tastes vile inside his mouth. His tongue is sloppy and unpractised, like he never bothered to learn to kiss a lover correctly. His apartment, though it mirrors Jayce’s in terms of opulence, leaves much to be desired. Chrome fittings and ugly upholstery Viktor notes whenever he has a second to take a breath and take in the stranger’s residence. Jayce’s apartment also has this sterile design, but it’s Jayce’s, and that alone can excuse even the most horrendous decorating.
“Leave them open,” Viktor tells the man when he goes to shut the bedroom curtains. Viktor is looking into the penthouse across the street, the lights are on, Jayce is home.
“Of course,” the stranger smirks, like he understands what Viktor is thinking. “They are a wondrous thing to look at, aren’t they?”
Ah — he means the Hexgate. As if on queue, a light zaps through the night sky as a ship is sent through to the other side of the world in an instant. They are incredible. But it is not his professional ego that keeps his eyes glued outside the window.
It’s Jayce; who is walking around his kitchen preparing a meal for himself. What is it that he’s making? A recipe that Ximena had taught him when he was a boy? Or something more simple; a sandwich or soup? Maybe just bites of meat, bread, and cheese as he fills his stomach enough to focus his mind on the document he holds. Trade agreements, licensing contracts, more advertisement negotiations of his obnoxiously beautiful face?
It doesn’t matter.
It doesn’t matter at all what Jayce is doing as he goes about his evening. Winding down for the night but never stopping the work. They are so alike.
‘Partner,’ Viktor thinks as the man bends him over and crudely takes him like an Undercity sex worker. ‘That’s my partner.’
“Yeah, just like that.”
Breathy, coarse, cigarette-hoarse pants.
“Oh fuck– you know what you’re doing.”
What an obvious statement. Of course Viktor knows what he’s doing. It doesn’t take a man of his IQ to figure out the proper way to suck a dick.
“Yeah… mhmm… Fuck, baby.”
‘Baby’. Ugh. He’d always hated being called that. A pet name only ever reserved for the bedroom and most often used by men towards women. Fetishizing. Feminising.
Though should he really be surprised? That’s exactly what this man thought of him. An oddity from the underground that was polished just enough to pass Piltover standards. It was Jayce the man truly coveted, though even with his unsurprisingly small mind, he understood that the Golden Boy would never indulge in the basic fuck that he brought.
Viktor looks past the man’s hips at the clock on the wall. Quarter past midnight. And Jayce still hasn’t returned home.
There was no social event on tonight — he would have moaned about it in the lab today. So where is he?
“Wait,” the man pulls Viktor off his cock, a long string of saliva connecting reddened lips to reddened tip. “Still gotta fuck you, baby.”
There it is again. Viktor should really stop referring to him as ‘the man’ and give him a proper name. Not his actual name, obviously, and not just because Viktor has no recollection of what it is. If he’s intent on calling him ‘baby’ perhaps Viktor should call him ‘mother’. No, that’s too far, even for him.
‘Clove’. Yes, that will do. To match the kind of cigarettes he smokes that irritate Viktor’s already brittle lungs.
Viktor pulls himself up off the floor on his cane, cursing himself for having agreed to be knelt this long in the first place. Clove’s hands are already at his trouser fronts, shifting them down.
“Do you have any oil?” Viktor asks, quickly. Clove twists his face, taken aback in the confusion. Normally, Viktor would already arrive prepared. A stretched, oiled hole ready to take the all too mediocre cock.
Clove thought it was for his benefit. “Can’t wait to be fucked, can you?” He had once joked. Viktor had laughed back, not forced whatsoever, it was utterly amusing that this man thought he was preparing himself in a haste of unbridled lust and not to get it over with quicker. The sooner he was bent over, looking out the window to the penthouse across the way, the sooner Viktor could imagine that it was Jayce inside him.
Though that vision could never ring quite believable. Jayce would fuck him far better than Clove. Even with the fumbling to never hit his prostate would be accompanied by: “What about here, Vik? Does this feel any better? Should I try another position?” Viktor could turn even the most unsatisfying sexual encounter into a pleasurable one if Jayce were the one involved.
Clove retrieves a vial of oil from his bathroom, rather unhappily about the delay. A needed one though — Jayce was not home yet. Viktor was prepared as he always was, but he needed to draw this out longer.
“Here,” Viktor holds out his hand, “I’ll do it myself.” And doesn’t Clove just look relieved at that? Nothing like Jayce. Jayce would insist on opening Viktor up with his own fingers. He’d probably want to use his tongue and his thumbs. The thought is enough to stir Viktor’s cock with interest for the first time tonight.
Clove lies down on his feather bed, casually fondling himself as he sits back to watch.
“Not going to face me?” He asks when Viktor braces himself against the floor to ceiling window, staring into Jayce’s dark apartment.
“I thought you’d prefer this view,” Viktor replies. It’s dark enough that Clove won’t be able to tell that Viktor’s ring is already plenty loose, at least for his underachieving equipment. Plus, Viktor is good at playing pretend.
He starts with one oiled finger, sliding it into himself and faking a hiss at the sting of that first breach. Clove hums noncommittally behind him. Viktor tries to drown it out.
After drawing it out for as long as he can, Viktor adds a second finger. He twists his wrist in a way that makes it seem like he really is working himself open for the man on the bed. By the sound of the slapping, tacky skin behind him, he’s doing a convincing enough performance to elicit preemptive masturbation.
Halfway through a performed moan, the lights go on in Jayce’s apartment.
Finally.
Jayce hangs his jacket up by the door, along with his scarf. Poor Jayce, winter really is such a hard time for him. If Viktor could, he’d orientate the planet so that the sun would never stray too far all year long.
A second coat gets hung next to Jayce’s. What? A person, a young man, follows Jayce into his apartment. Both men are smiling, Jayce is laughing at something the stranger has said. Together, they enter the living room and Jayce fetches a bottle of liquor from his cabinet, pouring them a generous glass.
They move to the settee. Both sit down on opposite sides of the coffee table, but then—after another overly flirtatious smile, Jayce is jumping over to the stranger’s side. So close that their shoulders are touching. The imposter would be able to feel the warmth of Jayce’s thick thigh radiating against his undeserving own.
No. No. No!
Viktor pulls his fingers out of himself all too quickly. Underwear and pants come back up over his hips as he flails to get a hold of his cane.
“What’s wrong?”
Shirt in hand. Where did he put his goddamn vest?
“Viktor?”
Vest on (but undone, he’ll fix it in the elevator), coat is by the door with his shoes. Fuck the socks.
“I just remembered, I have something due in the morning.” An altogether nothing excuse. Like he cares.
“Oh. Something new with Hextech?”
Viktor doesn’t bother with an answer to that, sliding his bare feet into his loafers and shrugging on his winter coat.
Janna help the residents of this building; the elevator best be free.
knock knock knock
Pause.
KNOCK KNOCK
Finally, the sounds of telltale movement come from behind the penthouse front door.
“Just a second!” Jayce calls out, voice obscured by the infernal wooden obstacle. Thoughts of Jayce wiping his mouth clean from the stranger’s saliva uninvitingly flood Viktor’s mind. Maybe he’s taking his time to pull up his trousers and those clumsy fingers are fighting with the intricate buttons?
Gods forgive, what if Jayce is having to dry clean out the copious amounts of oil and semen that is presently falling out of his opened arse?
Just for the sake of it, Viktor knocks again.
The door opens, and Jayce’s unimpressed scowl quickly morphs into a look of concern. Thick eyebrows peaking in between his brow above eyes that scan over Viktor’s body for signs of injury. How sweet.
“Viktor!” Seeing no physical ailments—well, at least no new ones, Jayce reaches out and touches the side of his spindly upper arm.
“I, er…” Past Jayce’s bulking form, Viktor sees the stranger looking towards the front door. The moustached man actually has the wherewithal to look like Viktor is the one intruding, when he is clearly the outlier in this equation. “Water. Please.”
Naturally, Viktor doesn’t even have to push past Jayce to enter. The front door is swung open and Jayce reaches the kitchen in record strides to fill a glass for his partner.
Viktor provides a nod in thanks, taking the drink and not having to disguise the way that his mouth laps it down. It was an exhausting effort to come here as quickly as he did.
Once the glass is downed, placed back into Jayce’s waiting hands, does Viktor finally make a point of staring unabridged at the situation unfolding.
Two glasses of liquor on the paper covered coffee table. Stranger’s waistcoat unbuttoned. Jayce’s cravat is undone showing off the five o’clock shadow that has started to creep up his neck.
Depravities afoot. Viktor flares his nostrils like an angry bull.
“Oh, uh,” stumbling, Jayce raises a hand to the strange man. “This is–”
“Anti-gravity stabilizers,” Viktor cuts him off. There was no reason for this intruder to hold a name. “You mentioned them the other week. For the mining gloves.”
“Uh, y-yeah.” Jayce clears his throat and then repeats with more confidence. “Yeah I did.”
“Well, I was thinking, why stop there? Why not use the weightlessness feature to craft onto augmented biocomponents?”
Jayce blinks, thinking it over, then a smile fills his face. “Your brace.”
Eh, it's not exactly where Viktor was going, but he’s not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. And really, it’s not surprising that the first thing Jayce thought of was him. He shoots the onlooker another pointed glare; as if to communicate: “see? I will always be the one in the forefront of his thoughts.”
Misreading the situation, or possibly reading it completely correctly for what it is, Jayce makes a half-hearted excuse to his guest. Gentleman that he is, even helps him with his coat as he’s unceremoniously banished from the penthouse.
Jayce cleans up the leftover glasses of alcohol and replaces them with two mugs and a pot of coffee.
“Okay,” Jayce sits down on the couch, next to Viktor - not opposite, and picks up his pencil. “What else are you thinking?”
Only a few days pass before Viktor finds himself back inside Clove’s apartment. Palm pressed firmly against the glass whilst the other supports the remaining weight on his cane.
It’s brutal, to be fucked like this.
First, the salt in the wound that is an uncaring man not insisting on lying his immobile lover onto the bedspread. Viktor wanted to be as close to the window as he could and Clove made no efforts to advocate for his body’s comfort.
Second, the plain fact that Viktor is allowing such an urchin to enter him time and time again, all so he can fulfill his peeping habit.
Across the way, Jayce pads around the penthouse in casual clothes. Seeing him so dressed down is glimpsing into a domestic fantasy that seems far too innocent to be indulged in whilst Viktor engages in the acts that he does to receive it.
The balcony door opens and Jayce steps outside. Interesting development. He looks uncertain, almost hesitant. Fear spikes at the base of Viktor’s spine.
Just as he’s about to push Clove out of him, smash the glass with his cane and scream out to Jayce: “Stop! Don’t!” a completely unexpected thing occurs.
Jayce, feet hip-width apart on his open balcony, pushes the top of his loose pants down and pulls out his cock.
What.
WHAT.
His hesitant expression morphs into a pleasured one with each exercised stroke. Jayce paws at his own chest, rubbing his nipples through the fabric of his shirt.
Viktor can’t believe what he’s seeing; he cranes his neck up higher, intent on not letting it fall for a second.
Though he might not be able to see the hardened nubs that Jayce pinches and twists, he doesn’t need to try hard to imagine how they must look right now. He’s seen Jayce shirtless enough times; filthy and sweating working in the forge. Expeditions to stare at his partner’s bare chest have nearly come at the cost of his consciousness; fear of fainting prevalent from both the temperatures and the nakedness that came from the Talis Forge.
They would be taut and erect now. Dark brown points with areolas wrinkled from arousal and stimulation. Viktor’s mouth waters at the thought of chewing one in between his teeth.
Across the way, Jayce increases the speed of his pumps. Sharp and purposeful. An expression on his face that means he’s focussed on reaching his goal—what he wants. The manic look he gets that scares off many, but gods does it make Viktor’s legs shake in a different way.
How fascinating. Completely unabashed and unreserved. Masturbating into the night sky and revelling in the taste of supremacy that comes with pleasure at its peak.
The Man of Tomorrow, standing higher than everyone else, painting Piltover with his seed.
A purgative rain that showers to wash all the topsiders down into the deepest fissures of Zaun. And as their bodies are swept away from the tidal release of progress, they will turn their faces once more to his golden light—to bask in its brilliance. And incredulous Jayce, all charm and charisma, will meet them with that celebrity grin of his and simply say: “You’re welcome.”
Last night’s activities bring with it a world of agony. It shouldn’t surprise him. Being in that position for so long, craning his neck in an unnatural way so that he could keep his eyes on the penthouse balcony, all the while being fucked mercilessly with a lover that cared little for how his enthusiastic thrusts would affect a body such as Viktor’s.
Yes, he could have brought it up. He could have turned around and scolded Clove for treating him so roughly without consideration for his fragile composition. But that would have involved an honest conversation. One where Viktor spoke openly about the failings of his body. That was never going to happen. That type of transparency is only ever reserved for his real partner; and even then, he keeps most of that hidden. An iceberg that Jayce is only ever allowed to see the point of.
Viktor reaches for a blueprint across the other end of the work bench, the stretch causing his back brace to pinch a muscle aggravated by last night’s positions. He attempts to mask the involuntary wince he makes and the way that his fingers jerk when grabbing the schematic.
Straightening back up on his stool as best he can, he rolls his hips from side to side to subtly shift the brace off the pressing muscle.
And Jayce, of course, notices right away. Nothing seems to escape him. But Viktor, all quick eyes and quick wits, redirects before he even has a chance to voice his concerns.
“This missing parameter is doing my head in.” He passes over the notes of scrawl he’d been working on. “Find the elusive bastard for me, will you?”
Jayce twitches, his face pinching and twisting as his thoughts to fix the problem of Viktor’s pain are overcome by his egotistical urge to prove his cleverness.
And Viktor asked him to. He’s giving Jayce a task. He’s asking Jayce for his assistance.
Jayce takes the paper from him, leans over the work desk and uncaps a pen with his teeth. Ready to show off his worth to the only person that really matters.
It’s pleasing when this happens. The satisfaction of Jayce petering down his baser instincts to follow direction at Viktor’s behest.
You really are all mine to play with, aren’t you?
Back hunched in concentration, the way that his focused gaze is determined in reaching for a solution in the problem laid out in front of him. The same look of conviction he has whilst he touches himself.
That’s his Jayce; always so focussed on the end goal that he fails to enjoy the present.
Viktor would make him forget about the future. The constant need to perform, pretending to be something that they both know he’s not.
With Viktor’s hand around him, that fat cock better reserved for pleasure houses, Jayce’s face would be a picture of nothing but bliss. Empty thoughts vacating his wonderful brain except for the revenant image of Viktor making him throb and cum and cry.
Viktor bites his lip, remembering the ungodly amount of ejaculate the man beside him produces. Buckets and buckets of wet, hot cum running over the fittings of his brace and drying in between the divots to stay there forever. Jayce’s seed, fused to him and hidden underneath his clothes like a dirty secret. An avant-garde artwork of semen, leather and metal.
Suddenly the pain all feels worth it.