Chapter Text
“Talis, we gotta hit this.”
Ekko messages Jayce a link, even though they’re sitting on the same couch. Jayce swipes away from Mel’s Insta page—his absolute kryptonite—and opens up a page that looks downright creepy. White gothic lettering on a black background comes paired with the blare of intense, bass-filled music. Like if a grunge rocker and a DJ had a baby. It’s a video poster for a show featuring some guy named H3X, sparsely visible behind a turntable in shadowy lighting.
Jayce squints. He’s pretty cute. Skinny. Angular. Pierced. Fluffy hair and black nail polish.
“Is he like, special?”
It’s been a long day. They whooped the Krexor Minotaurs in their afternoon game and have the rest of the evening to kill, which Jayce figured they’d spend ordering takeout and crushing out a few rounds of CoD. Ekko got him into that, so he should definitely be down, but Ekko is into everything. Like whatever type of music this H3X dude makes.
“Oh, he’s sick. I’m pretty sure this is the last night of his tour—he was all over the fucking place. We gotta see him. He’s playing at the Forge, too. The fucking Forge, bro.”
Fuck, the Forge. The best nightclub in Zaun, one worth trekking from Piltover to hit, because it’s where everyone who’s anyone from the upper city goes to get a little grimy. Jayce has spent many wild nights there, with his teammates and with Mel, though he hardly remembers the music. He remembers bottle service and shots and dancing, then waking up feeling like absolute dogshit. He doesn't drink like that anymore, even though he can't imagine enduring the chaos of the club without liquor to numb him.
“What if Mel shows up?”
“Man, you have got to stop moping about her.”
“I’m not moping.”
Ekko shoots Jayce a look. “Bruh. You’ve been scrolling her page for the last half hour.”
Jayce does not appreciate Ekko looking over his shoulder and observing his pathetic post-breakup tendencies, but going out is probably better than staying in. Maybe he could find a new supermodel girlfriend. Or boyfriend, whatever lands in his path. And this H3X guy—he’s not bad looking himself.
“Fine,” Jayce relents. “But only if we do VIP.”
Truth is, clubs stress Jayce out these days. There was some glamour when he went from Valor Academy straight onto the Piltover Pioneers, a notorious rookie who earned his title Golden Boy on day one. They’ve won the Cup four out of the six years that Jayce has been center, and were otherwise the runner-up. First loser, Jayce calls it. And he hates losing. Which is why he doesn’t do it very often. He likes it better when the media eats him up, calls him a legend in the making, the GOAT, primed for the hall of fame since day one.
Yeah, it’s good to be golden.
So in those early years he partied a lot, bumping shoulders with icons he thought were untouchable but turned out to be flesh and blood. Movie stars, popstars, models. That was how he met Mel—some charity dinner. She has rich parents, like legit generational wealth, not upper middle class like Jayce. Mom and Dad had enough money to send him to a private school that’s basically an NHL feeder school. They paid for travel to tournaments, for all his equipment, for every single stick he broke after every single loss.
It added up. The sum: he’s pro. He’s on top of his game.
And he doesn’t party like he used to. Not that he was ever the biggest partier in the league, or even on his team. Some of his guys go a little wild off season, guzzling cold ones and packing on a gut they call a bulk. Not Jayce. Sure, he cuts loose at award ceremonies and galas, maybe five nights a year. But celebrity status grates on him. Just a little. The attention he once basked in became a pain in the ass, maybe his fault for milking it so bad, dating up the food chain and cheesing for the paps. Dumb idea.
Now they follow him around and nose into his business. There’s this stupid gossip page that takes blind items, aka rumors of any potential relationship he may have. It was this page who outed him by posting pictures of him and Salo kissing on vacation in sunny Nashramae. So much for the resort having utmost privacy. He took one for the team and came out as bisexual, but man, it hurt. Combine that with being mixed and he’s heard his fair share of slurs. It gets to a point where it’s like, what’s the point?
Sometimes, when he’s dogpiled by fans or the media or both, and they’re touching on him, grabbing him, begging for a scrap of attention—he pictures snapping. The same way he sometimes snaps on the rink: vision red, blood pumping, fists itchy.
Don’t you dare fucking touch me.
I will hunt you down for sport.
And I am very good at sports.
But he would never. He has a reputation. He smiles, and poses, and signs whatever body part people want—within reason. He answers questions graciously, humbly, with just enough ego to keep his enemies biting their nails. He loves the public.
The Zaun Barons should sleep with one eye open.
Jayce pops a xan on the ride to the club. Doctor prescribed. It means he shouldn’t really drink, which is fine, they scored a private booth on the upper level of the Forge. Far away from anyone who might grope him or snap an unflattering shot. Ekko recruited their other best bros and teammates, Marcus and Rictus, for their evening out. No one is as obsessed with H3X as Ekko. He says the guy is a genius and is gonna take off big time, even though he’s pretty underground right now. The voice of the future, apparently.
Jayce would have no clue what that is. He listens to what he listened to in high school, some pop punk and pop-pop, the kinda rap that plays at school dances, auto-generated gym grindset playlists, and some of his mom’s wistful female singers when he was sure he was alone. He does not know what witchclash technogrunge means, though that is what H3X plans on delivering.
“He's pioneering hexcore,” says Ekko. “An entirely new sound.”
Sure, why not. A better way for Jayce to spend his time than stalking his ex-girlfriend all night.
From the VIP balcony, they have a clear view of the stage below, decked out with an insane amount of machinery. There’s a table full of musical contrataptions—Jayce doesn’t know what to call them other than synthesizers, maybe. They’re all variations of black boxes, some with holes and cables connecting those holes, others swathed in grids of colorful buttons. Looks like a baby enrichment board. Something Jayce would have terrorized when he was little.
Behind the table sits a couple of guitars, though one is probably a bass, if Jayce had to guess. One of them has more strings—he’s not quite sure which one is which.
He and the guys kick it on a couple of velvety couches while the opening acts play. It's three local DJs that Jayce thinks sound relatively generic, if not a little edgy. There’s some angst in the driving beats and scratchy vocals. Honestly kind of a vibe. Or maybe that’s his medication hitting.
He’s nursed half a vodka cranberry by the time H3X takes the stage. The house lights cut and fog machines hiss to life in great white clouds. H3X himself enters while bright lights blitz in quick, one second flashes. Not a total strobe effect, but flash, pause, flash, pause, in time to a building drone of the best. Down below, the crowd goes nuts, chanting the guy's name while he lifts a single hand in acknowledgement.
Jayce finds himself rising from the couch as if hypnotized and approaching the balcony's metal railing. God, this guy has great hands. Long and slender, wrist tattoos creeping up the tendony backsides of his palms, his elegant fingers decked out in silver rings. He has the same black nail polish, or new black nail polish, whatever. He rests half his weight in a crutch-cane combo device, hip popped to the side, while he fusses with the sprawling arrangement of equipment at his mercy.
He's really good with those damn hands.
Fuck.
He's beyond cute. He's hot. He's tall and willowy with a bone structure that deserves to be photographed, strutted down the runway. He wears a black hoodie and snug black pants that make his long legs look endless, though they end with black combat boots. His short brown hair sticks up in places, the type that would curl if it got longer but instead defies gravity. God, it looks soft. Looks like something Jayce would pay good money to get his hands on. Not that he like, pays for sex. He uses his natural charm.
Jayce admits to himself more or less immediately that he has the hots for H3X. He'd be stupid to deny it, given the chub that grows in his jeans. He doesn't always go for the alternative types—that part of H3X is a bonus, the frosting and sprinkles on a cupcake. Jayce's type is always modelesque. He wants to be stunned, he wants a partner with a beauty singular to all the world, a bespoke flavor, a flavor that should be painted and portraited and hung up in a museum. Each glimpse of H3X is like staring at a fresh sculpture, dozens and dozens of them, as he goes through motions of making music.
His music is good. A pleasant surprise to accompany the pleasant sight. Kinda figures that a guy so babely would be so talented, and Jayce is not a savant when it comes to music. But he knows when his ears like something, and H3X’s throbbing beats scratch an itch inside his skull, an itch he didn't know he had until each song rakes its way through his brain. It’s raw and deep and urgent, grimy yet serene. H3X doesn't stick to his synthesizer type instruments. He picks up a microphone and loops low, sultry vocals, like a siren song that beckons Jayce halfway over the railing. It doesn’t even sound like English but it does something to his guts, wringing his heart and releasing it, a trip to the goddamn laundromat.
Midway through the set, he begins to play his guitar, spiky-edged, its shell a pool of shiny black with a pastel pearlescent center. His hands, bro. The way they move along the instrument's neck, in fluid, graceful motions, as if he choreographed every single tick of his fingers. Jayce wipes the corners of his lips with forefinger and thumb and gently bops his forehead against the topmost rail.
He didn't expect to get a crush so soon after Mel, but then again, when doesn't he have a crush? He was born crushing and he will die crushing. There's always a sweet someone on his mind, though it's not guaranteed that that someone is sweet on him in return. Losing Mel was worse than losing the Cup twice. He’d probably die if it happened again—a breakup or a cup loss. He’s wired to fucking win.
When the set ends, and H3X exits the stage, waving to his cheering fans, he aims a glance up at Jayce. H3X doesn't smile. He doesn't wink. But there's a lightness in his golden eyes, something playful, an unanswered question, or maybe a challenge. It's a pretty something that makes Jayce damn near ravenous.
He turns to Ekko.
“Are you still buddies with the guy who owns this place?”
“Sure am. Why?”
“I need to get backstage. I'm going to ask that hex guy out.”
So, the plan starts to feel goofy when all four guys head past a red velvet stanchion into the industrial recesses of the club. Jayce is totally accustomed to the all-access treatment—that isn't the issue. He just didn't realize that everyone wanted to meet H3X as bad as he did. He was hoping for an exclusive audience, in case things get steamy quick.
It's a setback but not a KO. He can always kick the guys out when they reach that point.
But they hit the second setback the minute the club owner, Finn, leads them through the door with a temporary sign with H3X’s name on it. First off, the room isn’t huge, and four big guys cram inside it all at once. A lot for one little DJ to feast his eyes on, you know? Even if Jayce is the standout hottie, he can’t deny his bros’ attractiveness.
So H3X greets them with a confused expression, his pierced—yes, pierced—lower lip bitten between his teeth. He sits next to one of the openers, DJ Baby Blue, on a vintage floral couch. It’s kinda grimy back here. Definitely eclectic in that Zaun way.
“Woah, woah, woah,” says Baby Blue, springing to her feet with a feline amount of speed. “This is a music venue, boys. The gym is down the street.”
“They’re friends,” says Finn. “And fans. Wanted to come by and say hi. They play for the Piltover Pioneers.”
“Ooo la la! Ice skaters!”
Baby Blue prowls their line-up, a natural formation where they stand shoulder to shoulder. She drags her fingertip along their outwardly puffed pectorals, all eight ripe for a fondle, because no way would Jayce get caught dead slouching. She stops at Ekko and gives his nose a boop.
“I like you the best. Come on, boys. Get cozy while I put the moves on your hunky friend.”
Thankfully, Baby Blue leads Ekko to their own secluded loveseat, which frees the spot next to H3X. Jayce hustles to it and helps himself to a seat, knees spread territorially. He isn’t down to share his conquest.
He sticks out his hand.
“Jayce Talis,” he says. “You might know me as the Golden Boy.”
H3X cocks a single fluffy brow. He looks at Jayce’s hand as if it holds a dead animal.
“I do not know you at all, Mister, eh, Boy?”
“Jayce. Just call me Jayce. And seriously? You don’t recognize me?”
Jayce fires off his award-winning smile, the one he flashes in commercials and magazine ads and match promos. A lot of guys prefer to gameface it as part of PR, but not him. He saves that for the game. Otherwise, he’s cheesing hard and winning hearts.
H3X gives a sliver of a head shake, his amber eyes searching Jayce’s face in pretty back and forth flickers.
“Eh—I am not so much a sports guy. You play ice hockey?”
“Uh, yeah. Professionally. Successfully.”
A little disarming, but not a death sentence. He’s definitely met people who live under a rock and don’t know their local sportstars. Not that Zaun is Jayce's turf, but he’s four time Stanley Cup champion and League MVP two years running. Anyone who’s bought a box of Wheaties in the last twenty four months—hell, anyone who’s walked down the cereal aisle of the grocery store—has seen this face.
This smile.
It doesn’t waver for a second.
Jayce sets his hand on his knee. No point in letting it get cold in the open air, unattended by Viktor’s hand, beautiful, enticing, and clearly hard to get. Serves Jayce right for crushing on a scrawny goth. Not that scrawny is bad—up close, H3X is even more dick-stirring than he was during his set. He sits with one leg curled against his chest, the other stretched long, clad in a metallic brace. He has big black circles in his earlobes and two symmetrical piercings on either side of his lower lip. He wears a leather choker that pokes up from the neck of his hoodie.
Eyeliner smudges around his doe-like eyes, widened further by clean coats of mascara. He’s like, part girl. Or the kinda guy who doesn’t care about the rules of masculinity. Totally fine by Jayce, but it means he’s gonna have to work harder to find a common ground other than let me in your pants right now.
“So, your set was super sick,” Jayce says. “How long have you been doing music?”
H3X hesitates. Maybe he’s shy, suffering from stranger danger because Jayce and the boys barged in on him by surprise. Those pretty eyes search Jayce, kinda scour him, and he hopes it’s more of a check out than a size up.
“Many years,” H3X says. “Eh, more than two decades. My grandfather taught me guitar as soon as I was big enough to hold it. Electronic composition—that came later. High school. I have always created. It’s in my nature, I suppose.”
“Hell yeah. I feel that. I mean—I don’t make art, but hockey is kinda like art, if you think about it. It’s like, my entire life.”
“I can see it,” says H3X. “Your art, as you say, is practically bursting out of your shirt.”
H3X hooks a finger beneath the sleeve of Jayce’s polo, which cuts his arm off mid-bicep and really cradles his delt. The sensation of H3X’s bare skin against his forces a laugh from Jayce's lips. Oh, he’s being flirted with alright. Fucking score. Top fucking cheese.
“Gotta plenty more of that,” he says. He leans his upper arm on the back cushion of the couch and flexes for the full impact of his life’s work. He rests his head in his hand and lets the sight settle between them. Just him, H3X, and a hefty helping of bicep.
“What brought you to my show, Jayce Talis?”
“Ekko. He’s a big fan. I’m a big fan too, for what it’s worth. As of tonight.”
“I see.”
“You're crazy talented. I don't know a lot about making music, but I know what sounds good, and you sound incredible. Whatever hexcore is, I'm totally on board.”
A blush blooms behind H3X’s mole-kissed cheeks. Jayce admires it while they sit in a tiny bit of silence. Not Jayce’s favorite place to sit, but he’s trying to leave room for H3X to think, which he’s clearly doing, based on the cute scrunch between his brows. Big, fluffy brows. Really kissable looking. Same with his lips. Either they’re just super red naturally, or H3X is wearing gloss.
What’s the quickest path to getting a taste of this absolute bombshell?
“Wanna go out with me sometime?”
H3X’s head cocks back.
“How utterly bold,” he says.
Jayce gives a slight shrug. “You miss one hundred percent of the shots you don’t take, and my shooting percentage is twenty-four.”
“So you have a twenty-four percent chance of scoring a date with a man you've barely met?”
“Uh, yeah. More or less. Come on. Tell me I'm not the hottest guy on your roster.”
H3X tamps down a smile, his lips forcibly curved in a frown while his eyes gleam, bright like a cat’s. He walks his hand up from Jayce’s knee to the thickest part of his thigh. He swirls a polished fingertip there, mere inches from where Jayce's cock simmers, primed for a plunge wherever is wet and welcome.
“I must admit, you’re quite the tantalizing prospect.”
“Thanks,” Jayce says, assuming it’s a compliment. “So, uh, can I get your number?”
H3X offers up an open palm, onto which Jayce surrenders his phone, unlocked. H3X enters his number into the phone app and calls himself, then immediately hangs up. He passes the phone back to Jayce.
“There,” he says.
Jayce hurries to fire off a text—a confirmation that the number is real, and he won’t immediately lose connection with this babe. Jayce isn’t above DMing on Insta, but he prefers to court the old fashioned way. Feels more personal.
Heya 😀 it’s Jayce
H3X picks up his phone from the arm of the couch when it buzzes and pecks out a simple reply, the corner of his mouth curled into a pretty little smirk.
His reply is simple:
its viktor
Okay, so, the whole plan was a little dumb. Jayce wasn't really thinking straight the night of Viktor's show—see a pretty boy, secure the pretty boy. His hindbrain took over. The same hunting hound who shows up on the rink made an appearance in that green room. He put on as many moves as he could before he lost his one-on-one time with Viktor, because everyone wanted to sing his praises, and it was late regardless. He was at his place of employment, for fuck’s sake.
Jayce isn't mad that he didn't get to lay pipe that night. He can be patient.
But he's gonna need a lot of patience.
The major issue is that he’s on the road for two weeks. He's in the heat of the season, at the point where he's off his home ice, out in treacherous territory where he has to fight even harder for a win. Meanwhile, he’s got a hottie on his mind nonstop, a hottie who actively wants to go on a date but who will have to wait until Jayce comes home.
Yeah, it’s motivating. He’ll have something to look forward to when he gets back, ideally with seven straight victories under his belt. He’ll also have two straight weeks of blueballs, of monstrous erections that he has to eradicate by hand, either in the shower or quietly under the covers, with another guy sleeping in the hotel bed next to him. Not optimal, but necessary.
For the time being, he gets to know Viktor via text. It’s probably for the best, this little buffer period where they feel out their explosive chemistry. They message more or less constantly, their conversations stretching over long travel days into the long nights post-game.
He learns about Viktor, how he recently switched to making music full time but used to work as receptionist at a tattoo shop. It's how he got all his ink, which Jayce has studied fastidiously via social media. Stretches of science-fiction splatter patterns run up Viktor's arms and spill onto his chest, something Jayce infers from a picture of Viktor in a tight-fitting tank. He has little runic sigils smattered on his knuckles that look old, fading irregularly. His piercings were another perk of working at the shop: eyebrow, snakebites, gauges, plus the welcome surprise of his nipple piercings. They’re visible in that damn tank top picture. Yes, Jayce spends cumulative hours ogling it, and yes, with his hand stuck in his sweats. Viktor weaponizes his modeling capabilities in the frame, offering the smolder of the century, his eyes heavy-lidded, his lips pouty.
It’s a miracle Jayce hasn’t liked the post by accident, which would be the embarrassment of the century, given that it’s from two whole years ago. He won’t issue himself a license to retroactively stalk until they’re officially dating, if they even get that far. For now he guzzles Viktor’s pages for any shot of his pretty body, images he commits to memory and replays when he needs a pick-me-up in the locker room or on the bench.
Viktor was born and raised in Zaun. Kinda makes him an opp, but he doesn't root for the Barons, so they’re all square. He has a studio apartment in the thick of the old industrial district where he lives and records his music. Jayce can always keep the convo going if they’re talking about Viktor’s music—the first day they message each other, he asks about the machines he used during his show. He gets a half dozen pictures and a Great Wall of Text. Like, ten screens full of an explanation as to how Viktor sets up his software, his turntables, his modular synths, mixing boards, and MIDI controllers. There’s some insane lore behind it, and Jayce finds himself fascinated. He never runs out of questions to ask—pretty much his super power. Once he gets someone to light up, he can feed that fire to the end of time. Keep himself warm while he's at. Win-win baby.
Viktor's light hits like sunshine after forty days of rain. He sends clips of his daily composing work, and no, Jayce does not use them exclusively for horndog purposes. Yeah, they feature Viktor’s capable hands as he adeptly maneuvers knobs and sliders, or the strings of his guitar. Or sometimes snippets of his vocals, doctored in his signature eerie timbre, looped into something passionate and haunting.
It’s like, Jayce’s heart gets a boner. So he doesn’t feel so bad when he gets boner-boners too, because he’s head over heels for his emo baby. Jacking off to non-erotic videos is okay if he also has crazy strong feelings.
He's not alone in that—the horniness and the heartache.
He flexes his classic courtship technique right out of the gate: a gym selfie. No one can resist, not men, not women, and not Viktor. He opts for one mid-pump, stripped to his shorts, a towel slung over his shoulder to keep one trap a little mysterious. The focus is his posed quad, his flexed abs, and the arm bent to hold his phone. It hovers right beneath his jaw, drawing attention to his textbook perfect mew.
As for his dick? Well, he wasn’t that hard, his shorts are just tight, made to look smaller by the relative girth of his thighs. If Viktor zooms in on Jayce's bulge, that’s on him.
my god…golden boy indeed
Like what you see 😏
oh to be the mop afforded the privilege of slurping your sweat off the floor
Lmaoooo
Thirsty much
parched
Maybe I shouldn’t send any more pics then
Dehydration is no joke
incorrect
just called my doctor
he said i need a steady drip of gym selfies
lest i perish prematurely
Oh yeah???
In that case…
So selfies are a super mutual, daily occurrence. Viktor is shy about sending face pics, so Jayce has to butter him up to get them, with as many compliments as he can manage without sounding like a deranged simp: you're so gorgeous, I wanna kiss your moles, your nose, your pretty cheekbones. You would look great in a wedding dress, by the way. A diamond ring, too. How soon can we put one on your finger, sweetheart? Right answers only.
Jayce asks for body pictures as slyly as he can, given that Viktor doesn't hit the gym, not in the same sense. He does intense physical therapy for the cerebral palsy that impacts his leg. That's why he wears a leg brace and uses a crutch—support and balance to mitigate his symptoms. He also wears a spinal brace for scoliosis, something Jayce learns about the first night he requests a topless pic. Served him right for hitting Viktor with a what are you wearing when Viktor said he was in bed.
Jayce doesn't know if he's allowed to sexualize the brace, even though it reminds him vaguely of corsets and scifi-tinged high fashion, and even though Viktor's pierced nipples and flat pecs squish out of the top of the firm plastic casing—the first time Jayce has seen them out in the open. It takes him ten minutes to generate a levelheaded reply, and even then, Viktor beats him to the punch.
you don't have to pity me
you can just admire my nipples
Haha well
You caught me 🫠
Honorable mention to your moles
Good to know you have them everywhere
you haven't seen everywhere jayce 🌚
See? See! This is what Jayce has to contend with while he's bricked up one bed over from Ekko, who saws logs like he's a goddamn lumberjack. Get a CPAP already, man!
Jayce can hardly woo himself a DJ boyfriend under these conditions, but he perseveres. He gets a miraculous opportunity in the early afternoon before an evening game, between his morning workout and their call time. Ekko stayed at the gym to shower and grab lunch with some of the other guys, which means Jayce has the room entirely to himself.
He texts Viktor on his way up the elevator.
I've seen all your tattoos, right?
do you think you're being subtle…
No 😎
I know you have more
Feel free to share them
truly shameless
i almost want to withhold
The second the door to the room latches shut behind Jayce, he kicks off his sneakers, tugs his shirt overhead, and yanks down his shorts. He works his chub up on the way into the bathroom, figuring if Ekko shows up, whatever he's up to will be contained within these four walls.
How's this for shameless?
Jayce snaps a quick mirror selfie, palming down his cock for faux modesty, with a few plump inches at his base left exposed. It also features his meticulously groomed pubes, the tidiest triangle on the team. He would be more cautious if he wasn't fully aware of how good looking he was. Like no one can say no to the body he's perfected via sweat, blood, and tears, held together some days by webs of compression tape and a drive for eternal glory.
when i get my hands on you…
Be specific 😊
well
im either going to carve up one of those juicy pectorals and pan fry it
or perhaps i will simply see if you bleed gold
if so, i will melt you into ingots and toss every pound of you into my safe, where you shall exist in perpetuity, appreciating in value and never leaving my side
This is why Jayce doesn't sweat sending suggestive pics or jacking off to Viktor's clothed selfies—the dude is a freak. Kinda feral with it when he gets horned up. He can out horndog Jayce any day of the week.
Tattoos, he types out with one hand. The other one is busy stroking. Please?
He’s hoping for one tattoo in particular—in the brace shot, there’s a tiny hint of a black ink between Viktor’s flat pecs. An intricate line that leads down between them, to sexy new horizons of skin unknown to Jayce. But Viktor could also have a tramp stamp. Maybe something on his upper thigh. Hell, Jayce would even take foot ink at this point, and he'd nut just as quick. He’s ravenous for whatever Viktor gives him.
The image he receives makes him groan Viktor's name out loud. It's of Viktor’s bare and bony torso, stretched along a canvas of white sheets, speckled with moles and stamped pink with the indent of his brace. Down his sternum and in between his ribs dangles the inky impression of a censer, the type that priests wave around to make mass smell crazy good, but super ornate, fit for a medieval king. Coiled around his hips is a scaly serpent whose head and tail meet below Viktor’s belly button, so low on his torso that Jayce can see where Viktor razors off his happy trail. Lithe muscular lines lead directly to his pubic bone and a mole that must be so, so close to his juiciest bits.
The frame cuts off before revealing those bits, but Jayce can use the power of his imagination to fill in the gaps. He's guessing Viktor shaves everywhere. He's guessing his hole is bald and insanely lickable.
You're so fucking hot
why thank you
I'll be real
I'm gonna crank one out looking at you
Like right fucking now
consider the cranking mutual
Fuck
Viktor
If I call
Can I listen
The next few moments of watching Viktor type are agony. He stops and starts a good few times before sending over a curt fine. Jayce calls in a heartbeat, and Viktor picks up just as quick, but he gets quiet after his initial breathy hello. Jayce partially expected more dirty talk like the whole gold ingot situation, but what he gets is delicate fleshy sounds and the sweetest little whimpers. Jayce has to stop whacking so hard to hear what Viktor is up to, which seems to be a really tender type of stroking. He gasps at the top of each motion—or maybe the bottom, it's not like Jayce can see—but he senses that Viktor's rhythm is slow and deep, not fast and furious. Not like Jayce's baseline: crank like your life depends on it.
He tries to match Viktor’s pace, but he can't match Viktor's silence. As always, words tumble out of his mouth before he can stop them.
“We should probably talk—hnngh—about what's going to happen when I get my hands on you. Forget about eating my pecs. That ain't happening. You know I could hold your entire waist in my hands, right? You're tiny, V. You're a fucking fraction of me. I don't even know where my dick is gonna go when I get inside your guts. It might pop out of your cute little tummy. I'll be able to see every pump. I’ll literally watch you fill with cum.”
“Jayce,” Viktor pants. “I'm—”
He moans, low and guttural. Jayce pictures it: Viktor's hips thrust off his bed and into his skilled hand as he milks out a load on that hollow stomach of his. That's all it takes to throw Jayce over the edge.
“Viktor,” he huffs out, cum shooting onto the lip of the sink. “Fuck, Viktor.”
He takes a beat to catch his breath and get reoriented to the fact that he literally called Viktor up just to bust a quick nut. Pretty fucking slutty and very impulsive. Talk about dick for brains.
“Are you still there, Golden Boy?”
“Uh huh. One sec.”
Jayce washes the jizz and dick smell off of his hands. He's aware that he's sweaty and stinky, his skin sticky and his pits rather ripe, but he heads out of the bathroom. He flops onto his crisp, king-sized bed with his phone pressed to his ear.
“I'm here.”
“You're diabolical, Jayce. I don't know that I've ever heard such filthy things come out of a man's mouth.”
“Hah. Sorry about that.”
Jayce runs a hand over his face, as if that’ll wipe the blush from his forehead and cheeks. He doesn’t know where it came from either, until he remembers the picture that Viktor sent. Yeah, he deserved every single word. Jayce stands by what he said in his moment of dire horniness.
“So when will my beau return from the war and deliver on such promises?”
“Tonight’s the last game of the trip. Then we have a home game the day we get back.”
“Mhm.”
“And then—”
Well. The playoffs. Grinding two-a-day workouts and drills, or otherwise showing up for the most important games of the season. It isn't necessarily the best time to court a new lover, truth be told. He's fucking busy. He's on the road and on the rink and when he's not, he's in PT and in recovery, eating enough food and sleeping enough to fuel the cycle over and over.
“Jayce,” Viktor purrs. He has a low voice and such a sexy accent. “Pick a specific date, please.”
“Come to my home game,” he decides. “I can get you a couple of tickets. And then after we decimate the Titans, I'll bring you home with me. I'll make good on my promise. I'm not a bullshitter.”
That night, with a date on the books, Jayce coasts through the game against the Ixaocan Cardinals. He uses Viktor’s topless shot as motivation: he will return from the war, and creampie his beloved into oblivion. He throws down a natty hat trick in the second and third periods, and revels in the spray of Pioneer caps that clutter the rink.
He has fans everywhere.
He’s the fucking GOAT.
And GOATs get the girl. Viktor admits he has never been to a single hockey game, but he is excited to see Jayce cream the Titans. It shouldn’t be too hard, as long as their shitty center Dmitri Kozlov stays in his goddamn lane. They've each been fined for starting and ending shit with each other, and Jayce wouldn’t hesitate to do it again.
Well, he gets his chance. Midway through the first period, Jayce has already scored a wrap-around and coast-to-coast. After the second goal, he scans the stands for Viktor. Since he isn't an official WAG, he isn't in the box with the rest of them, in their bright red bomber jackets bedazzled with their player’s number. Jayce spots Viktor a few rows back—a real fucking feat given how reedy he is. He wears a billowy black button-up, unbuttoned to flaunt a black choker and a pale triangle of cleavage. Of course he’d show up rocking his usual gothic chic, though he’d look even better in a burgundy number 24 jersey.
Jayce waves and blows Viktor a quick kiss, which he catches and clutches to his chest.
“New boyfriend, huh?” Dmitri tongues his mouthguard, pink spit oozing out around the blue plastic shell. “I eat little twinks like that for breakfast. Better lock him down, or I’ll have him on my cock by midnight.”
“Get fucked, Kozlov. He doesn’t want whatever disease you have. He's an artist. He’s got fucking taste.”
“Oh, I’ll get a fucking taste alright.”
“Eat shit.”
Jayce slams his padded shoulder into Dmitri’s chest at full force, sending them skidding backwards against the board. He gets two handfuls of Dmitri’s jersey and a single headbutt, helmet to helmet, before the guys and refs slide over and rip them apart.
It is an absolute honor to dish out another hat trick and beat the Titans 3-1.
Viktor is fucking magical.
He’s Jayce's new lucky charm.
After answering a few post game questions and hitting a hard-earned shower, Jayce meets Viktor outside the player entrance. He leans against the wall, a ways away from where the other WAGs greet their guys, chewing his cheek with wide doe eyes.
He straightens up when Jayce waves.
“Hey, babe,” Jayce greets him. He slips a hand along Viktor’s trim waist and helps himself to a kiss on the cheek. He needs to get Viktor home ASAP, or he’s at risk of ripping the poor guy’s clothes off right here in the parking lot. He’s paired his silky shirt with sleek trousers belted tight, and his usual gauges are replaced with ones that give the impression that thick daggers stab through his earlobes.
“Well played,” says Viktor.
“Uh, thanks. Yeah. I don’t fuck around. I play to win.”
“It was an exhilarating experience. You’re quite ferocious out on the battlefield. Out for blood, even.”
Jayce laughs. Maybe he’s talking about the almost-fight? Hardly a fight. Like a two out of five, if that. More like one point five.
“Just had to claim what’s mine.”
Jayce kisses Viktor’s forehead before escorting him to his SUV, his arm curled around Viktor’s waist supportively. He holds Viktor's hand to give him a boost into the passenger seat, and they hit the road. After games, Jayce is always too exhausted to cook, so his tradition is grabbing takeout from his favorite steakhouse. They know who he is and his go-to order—two ribeyes with chimichurri and crispy potatoes—but tonight he calls them up to add Viktor's choice of entree. Salmon salad. It's like he's cutting, except he really doesn't need to cut. Guess he has to maintain his skinny physique somehow. Salmon salad it is.
Jayce slings his gear duffel over his shoulder and carries the massive takeout bag up from the parking garage into his building. He could totally afford a mansion out in the more residential areas of Piltover, like the one he already bought his mama, but he prefers his downtown penthouse. There's something so satisfying about living high above the city, watching all his fans, each speck of light that crowds the streets far below. Feels good to be top dog, you know?
Jayce also does what he can to assist Viktor, though Viktor seems pretty self-sufficient with his crutch. He really reminds Jayce of a little fawnling out in the woods. Like one who got his leg hurt and walks a little slow. It's endearing. Jayce is chill with moving slow forever if it means he’s moving beside Viktor.
The first place Viktor heads when they make it inside is the big, floor-to-ceiling windows that enclose three quarters of the living area.
“For fuck’s sake,” is what he says.
“Nice view, right?”
“How does it feel to be a god among mere mortals?”
“Honestly? Pretty fucking incredible.”
Viktor gives Jayce’s belly a light jab with his elbow.
“You’re so full of it,” he teases.
“And you’ll be full of it later.”
Jayce nips lightly at Viktor’s ear before heading over to the kitchen. He wishes he had the energy for setting the table, getting out the cloth napkins and cutlery, maybe lighting a few candles. But if he doesn’t put some food down in the next few minutes, his body is gonna start eating itself. He's gonna get weak and lose his winning streak.
“Keeping it kinda casual,” Jayce says, as he unpackages their dinner and arranges it on the island. “Did you want anything to drink?”
“Water is good.”
“Gotta quench your thirst, right?”
Jayce winks, and Viktor's pale cheeks turn rose red. He's a little quieter than Jayce expected, given how much of a rapport they built up over the last couple of weeks, and the fact that they definitely jerked off together over the phone. Like no need to be shy anymore. But it seems to be a part of Viktor’s personality to absorb the world through those wide eyes, digesting his surroundings before he opens his mouth. He messes with his lip piercings as he takes a seat on the stool beside Jayce's, his tongue probing the interior side of the metal stud. To Jayce, it’s an advertisement: kiss me now.
Patience, man. Patience.
He’s pretty sure sex is guaranteed, they just have to go step by step. The old fashioned way. Dinner before poundtown. They chat about Jayce's place while they tuck into their food. Mostly Jayce monologues about how his realtor found the condo for him, how he hired a designer to get it filled out. Not all of it, he clarifies, when Viktor lifts a judgy brow. Or what Jayce figures is judgy. He has taste! He collects cool rocks, like one from each of the countries and cities he visits, depending on what kind of minerals they mine locally. Just a thing he picked up when he was little. And he knows he’s supposed to buy art from real people, not corporations. Ekko taught him that. Said it was a sound investment in his community.
Jayce wolfs down both his steaks and a family sized portion of potatoes in the time it takes Viktor to peck at half his salad. Jayce almost makes a dig at Vik for eating like a bird, then he remembers his dick is going inside Viktor’s digestive tract later. Probably for the best if he doesn’t overload it. He's being considerate.
The next step is dessert: a dish of bread pudding with special cream sauce. Jayce had to add a little bit of romance to their first evening together, and he’s glad he did, because Viktor tears into pudding like a man starved. So much for keeping his insides empty—it probably won’t move him through fast enough to do any damage.
When Viktor announces he's finished and sets his spoon down, Jayce swipes the remnants of cream from the corner of Viktor's lips. He sucks it off his thumb. Really sweet. Super sweet. Tinged with Viktor's babeliness.
“I feel like I'm about to become dinner,” Viktor says.
“Huh?”
“It’s the way you're staring at me. Like you could gobble me up.”
“Well, can I?”
Jayce sets a hand on Viktor's thigh and slides it up against his groin. His pinky finger grazes what must be Viktor's package: a warm, soft bundle. Meat. Food. Yum.
“I suppose that is what I came here for,” Viktor says. “Perhaps we should proceed to the bedroom? I prefer to engage sexually while laying down.”
“Say less, babe.”
He does what he’s wanted to for weeks: he scoops beneath Viktor's ass and plucks him clean off his stool, into his arms. He’s light as a butterfly and equally reactive.
“Oh,” he puffs. “Oh my.”
He tries to find a place on Jayce’s body to hold, his hands scrambling over Jayce's shoulders, to his lats, finally clasping Jayce’s neck. Those cold fingers on the thrum of his carotid solidify his brick. Being in Viktor’s grasp is the perfect place, his gentle weight satisfying and appetite provoking.
Jayce can’t resist latching into a kiss as he marches part-blind towards his bedroom. He’s needed to know Viktor’s taste, the feel of those pretty lips, since the very moment they met. Viktor tastes like dessert: Jayce's first discovery when he meshes their lips and licks the hard rim of Viktor’s teeth. Viktor is a docile kisser. His mouth is small. Jayce supplies the ferocity with aggressive nipping of Viktor’s lower lip. He shoves his tongue inside and occupies the entirety of Viktor’s sweet mouth. The poor thing can hardly kiss back with his tongue trapped and many whimpers purring up his throat.
Jayce bumps the back of Viktor’s head into the doorframe, and Viktor’s teeth come down on his tongue.
“Shit,” Jayce says. He swallows blood and ducks down to get them over the threshold, fingers carded protectively through Viktor’s fluffy hair. He tries to set Viktor down on his bed gently, with no bounceback, because he realizes he is responsible for some fragile goods. He's not overly aggressive during sex—he thinks so at least—he’s just super passionate. He likes to be thorough. He likes to get his partners puddled into the sheets, blissed out and mind blown. He can’t blow Viktor’s mind if he hurts him.
“So, uh. Can I take it all off?”
He kneels between Viktor’s legs, a hand curled around Viktor’s ankle. Or rather, his brace. He wears it underneath his pants tonight, since they’re a little loose-fitting.
“Eh, yes. It can all go. Be careful with my brace. And, eh. I am not very mobile without it. Do not expect any grand acts of athleticism from me.”
“Fuck no,” says Jayce. “I got that part covered. You just like, lay back and get comfy. And tell me if I fuck anything up. Otherwise, I'm gonna do all the work. Gonna give you the king treatment tonight, V.”
The king treatment begins with a considerate strip down. Jayce pretends he’s like, a guy at a museum. The guy who washes the paintings and restores the old books. A white glove type of service, where he doesn’t move too fast or jerk Viktor’s limbs around. He's Jayce's porcelain doll. He unbuttons the silky shirt and slips it over Viktor's sloping shoulders. He rolls Viktor’s pants down, revealing the mechanics of his brace and a tiny pair of black boxer briefs. His cock sits trapped beneath the cotton, part way chubbed.
Jayce will get his hands on those jewels soon enough.
The brace isn’t any more complicated than Jayce’s shoulder pads or chest plate, just an assortment of velcro straps and buckles. It leaves a red shadow of itself in Viktor’s twiggy little leg, which Jayce kisses from ankle to thigh. He lands at Viktor’s crotch.
“Ready?” he asks.
“Eh, yes. As I’ll ever be.”
So, Viktor is kinda hung. Not super hung, not as hung as Jayce. But he’s not small. A good six inches flops onto his belly after Jayce removes Viktor’s undies, pink and soft-looking despite being swollen.
“I knew it,” says Jayce.
“Knew what?”
Viktor looks up at him with the sweetest rumple in his brow.
“You shave.”
“Oh, eh. I wax. I’m not so dextrous as to wield a razor blade near my testicles.”
“Fuck, dude.” Jayce palms his achy cock over his dress slacks. “I need to be naked too. Then I’m devouring you.”
He returns to a kneeling position between Viktor’s legs once he’s free of clothing, free to jerk his cock hard while he crouches close to his newest obsession: Viktor’s hairless junk. His hands slide onto Viktor’s inked up hips, already arced up and primed for grabbing, while his mouth collects Viktor’s nuts. Soft, squishy, flesh-tasting. Velvety on the tongue. Delicious and comforting when Jayce sucks the entire sack into his mouth. He especially loves the little sounds Viktor makes. He can already tell that he’s gonna ravish the poor guy, and he’s barely started.
He ups the ante by licking up Viktor’s shaft. By now he’s hard enough that his pretty pink head pokes out of his foreskin, also velvety soft as it caresses Jayce's tastebuds. He teases the underside of Viktor's tip to the tune of many stuttered syllables: “Oh, eh, oo.” The loudest cry yet comes when Jayce swallows not only Viktor's head, but his entire length. Viktor is small enough to fit down Jayce’s throat, no need to battle his gag reflex. No, he gets a nice meal slobbering on Viktor’s dick, feasting on his fast breath and the way he squirms in the sheets.
“Jayce, Jayce, Jayce,” he pants.
Aw yeah—it’s just like being in a stadium, hearing Viktor chant his name like that. His favorite place to be: stuck in another person’s mouth. Viktor’s mouth. It motivates him to suck harder, go deeper, and torment Viktor’s tip with thorough lashings of his tongue. Viktor busts with a feline howl that almost borders on a sob, going tense as if electrocuted, then dropping flat dead on the sheets. He trembles while Jayce swallows the load and laps up the sloppy dregs of his spit.
“Please, Jayce. Ah—”
Viktor lightly tugs on Jayce’s head to indicate that he should pull off. He does so, grinning wide.
“Good, huh?”
Viktor nods, flushed, his lashes drooping over his gilded eyes. Already fucked out and they’ve barely gotten started.
“Can you handle more?” Jayce asks. He thumbs the soft part of Viktor’s belly where his thumbs nearly meet. “I haven’t even opened you up.”
“Oh, God,” Viktor moans, throwing his head back into the pillows. “For some reason I expected to last longer. Pure ego. I was not built to endure in the face of such talent.”
Jayce's heart glows: the talent is him! Smiling at Vik is the best feeling in the world.
“Don't let it go to your head, Golden Boy.”
“Too late. I'm gonna live off that compliment for like, a decade.”
“Well, if you desire more praise, you should also know that I'm quite intimidated by your size. I've never had a partner so endowed. I truly fear for my rectum.”
“Nah, you’ll be fine. I can take it slow, promise. I got plenty of lube and nowhere else to be.”
Jayce is definitely good at sex—no doubt about it. He’s too fit to be shit at it. But he has his own quirks. Like for some reason, he doesn’t mind getting his partners off first. He’s really fine letting himself be hard, and he’d be fine if he nutted without even getting inside. Mostly he enjoys being bricked with good company. Hole or no hole, he’s hanging out with Viktor naked and horny. There’s gonna be a happy ending, so why rush it?
It’s Jayce's first time being a guy since high school, when he experimented with a guy on his team. That's where he learned about anal and how to prepare your bottom. He sees the build-up as an important part of the process. Gotta worship the guy taking dick.
So he makes sure that Viktor is comfy, his legs slightly bent and propped on pillows, his asshole lifted for proper access. Pink, waxed, and so fucking yummy looking. Jayce doesn’t even start with lube first—he starts with his damn mouth. Viktor seems a little surprised, but Jayce lets Viktor work the surprise out of his system with a bunch of little gasps and some light petting of Jayce’s head and shoulders. Viktor is the type of guy who pretends to fight, which is really cute. No babe, you are not strong enough to get my mouth off your ass. But gold star for trying.
Once Viktor gets over his little fight reaction, he melts, surrenders to the very skillful workings of Jayce's tongue both around his rim and plunged inside. A good rimjob gets the ass spiritually prepared for more insertion, in Jayce's experience. It won't gape, but it’ll somehow be ready for the level up.
The level up is fingers, of course. That’s when the lube comes into play. Jayce starts with his thumb, but quickly graduates to his pointer and middle finger, because Viktor’s ass is clearly greedy. He might have even fucked himself before the game—a really great mental image for Jayce to chew on. He thumps his fingers into Viktor's slick hole while beating the shit out of his dick. Viktor looks even sexier with a hand up his ass. He keeps his eyes scrunched back, lip bitten, his hands clenched around mounds of bedding. A fresh pearl of pre glistens on his tip, but doesn’t seem inclined to touch himself. A little goes a long way with this pretty creature.
“I think you can handle more,” says Jayce. He offers a third finger. It will guarantee safe passage for his girth, and he needs that fucking passage. He needs to bury his entire length inside Viktor’s guts, and he needs Viktor to love it.
Viktor loves it.
He cock stiffens fully while Jayce pumps inside him. It begins to flag, untouched. Seems like Viktor enjoys delaying his own pleasure as much as Jayce, until he moans, “Please—fuck me—now.”
Say less. Jayce lubes his dick and positions himself flush against Viktor’s spread thighs. He hasn’t fucked a goth guy before, but he totally sees the appeal. He likes the way Viktor's belly tattoo swells and contracts with his frantic breath. How his nipple piercings quiver and make the faintest tinkling sound.
He fucking loves the collar. It reminds Jayce of the type of collars pets wear, and he likes thinking of Viktor as a pet. Not that he’s an animal or anything. It’s more that he belongs to Jayce. This pale, skinny mole-speckled creature with his girly makeup and knives shoved through his ears. He’s a rare breed. He's the prettiest decoration that Jayce can imagine bouncing on his cock. His body is art. That's it, yeah.
“You belong in a museum, baby,” Jayce says, as he aims his head into Viktor's slack hole. His length follows, squeezed yet slickly permitted, until Jayce’s pubes flatten against Viktor’s cheeks.
“Fuuuuck,” he groans. “How’s that feeling?”
“Eh, good,” Viktor says. His breath comes really shallow, as if he was the one doing erotic cardio, and beyond that. Like he might be suffering or something. Spooked. He looks down at their conjoined bodies with black-pupiled awe. Jayce watches a concerted swallow work down the slender column of his throat.
“Are you alright, V?”
“Mm,” he says. “I am—eh—flustered.”
“Do you wanna be more calm?”
“I don’t know. I—” He swallows again before dropping his head back and shutting his eyes. “Is it okay—I may, eh. Be quiet. Unless I am in pain.”
“I got you, baby. You relax, okay? I told you, I can take it slow. I have all the time in the world.”
Jayce proves it by resisting the urge to jackhammer Vik, when he’s clearly already overcome. Sometimes faster and harder isn’t better. And he likes whatever mood falls over Viktor when he’s lanced on eight fat inches, all meek and whimpery, like how he got on the phone. It’s super cute. It reminds Jayce of a baby animal, a little deer. Not that he wants to fuck a deer. He’s fucking Viktor, and treating him gently as he can, while still showering him with affection. Jayce could never resist that.
He dishes out slow, deliberate strokes, retracting one inch at a time, pausing, then sliding himself back in. He likes to watch it happen, the airtight pucker around his vein-fat shaft, while simultaneously restraining himself from immediate orgasm. He wants to last as long as he can, which really won’t be long, because of how warm and snug Viktor feels. Jayce holds up Viktor’s thighs, the limbs so slight that Jayce’s hands nearly circle them in full. It drives him fucking crazy—knowing he could break Viktor, rip open his guts. He won’t though. He won’t.
Jayce kisses the moles on Viktor’s ankles and calves. Then he stoops forward, propping himself up on his arms beside Viktor’s head. He takes the opportunity to suck on Viktor’s nipples, which taste exactly like his metallic piercings. Jayce loves how they feel on his tongue, how the harder he sucks, the more Viktor sputters. It’s an on-switch, and Viktor is already about as on as it gets. His dick twitches between their bellies, a visceral reminder of what Jayce’s dick is up to.
He's gotta fucking cum. He can’t hold on much longer.
He has one final trick. Or quirk, whatever. It helps him get off better than anything else, but freaks out anyone who isn’t super down. Doesn’t stop him from doing it.
“V, sweetheart, can I tell you something?”
He smashes himself clean inside Viktor’s dick-hugging hole.
“Yes,” Viktor gasps. He grounds himself by latching onto Jayce's glutes, his fingernails trenched into the meatiest part. Doesn't sting a bit. Feels good, if anything.
“Can you look at me?”
“Oh—eh.”
Viktor’s eyes crack open. Little gems of tears drip from the corner of his lashes, bringing specks of black makeup down his cheeks.
Shit. Jayce’s heart thumps. It hurts. Feels the same as he did when he listened to H3X play his music the first time.
“I know we’ve barely met,” he starts. “But I just wanted to let you know that these last few weeks have been some of the best of my life. It’s really great talking to you. Getting to know you. You mean a lot to me, Viktor.”
Jayce expects a smile at the bare minimum. Maybe a few words of acknowledgement, or even more tears.
Instead, a droplet of blood slinks out of Viktor’s right nostril. He stares wide-eyed, frail limbs trembling under Jayce's bulk. He’s outstayed his welcome. He’s hurting Viktor.
“Oh, shit. You’re bleeding.”
“Don’t—”
Jayce could have grabbed a tissue. He thinks this thought nanoseconds after he’s already acted and dropped his mouth to Viktor’s face. He licks up the blood. Kinda sucks it straight out of his nostril. He’s not afraid of a little gore, and it isn’t the first time he’s tasted another guy’s blood. In the League, that’s just another Friday night. Jayce wants whatever Viktor has. He doesn’t give a fuck.
And Viktor moans. He comes back to life just enough to take hold of Jayce's neck.
“Thank you,” he breathes, into the close space they’ve invented for themselves, where they pass back and forth the same muggy air. “I—adore you.”
Fuck. Yes. It’s all the ammo Jayce needs to distribute his final strokes, his dick fiery with the urge to let loose, to paint Viktor's walls. He kisses a little path to Viktor’s neck, and decides that he should do his final final trick, a hickey that will be visible for an entire week. He’s a guy who likes leaving a mark. Making an impact. Having a legacy. They don't put you on a cereal box if you're forgettable. So Jayce suctions a tender mouthful of Viktor’s flesh and basks in the subsequent moan that billows from Viktor’s lips. His hole clenches up in a series of rapid flutters felt along Jayce’s length. His balls seize up.
He explodes, planted as deep as he can go, while Viktor’s cock spasms between their bellies. It’s a miraculous feeling to nut in sequence. Talk about unity. About partnership.
There’s a little bit of rearranging that has to go down before they can begin post-fuck cuddles, a very crucial step for Jayce. He’ll have about thirty minutes of peace holding Viktor’s naked form until he bricks up again and can’t think straight anymore. Viktor requests the position of little spoon. So after a brief wipe down, Jayce curls himself around Viktor’s backside. He admires his hickey, which is red now, but will be purple soon enough.
“I’m good, huh?” he says.
“Devastating,” says Viktor. “It may take a month to recover.”
“Oh. Uh. Not in a bad way, right? That was me being gentle.”
“I could tell. Any rougher and you would have turned me into jam.”
“Woof. Viktor jam. Sounds kinda tasty, not gonna lie.”
“So I’m still on the menu, then.”
Jayce peers over Viktor’s head and catches him with a sly smirk on his face.
“Yeah,” says Jayce. “I’m always hungry.”
“It was very sweet what you said, when you were inside of me. Right at the end.”
Viktor opens his eyes and meets Jayce's gaze, with the type of precision that indicates he knew Jayce was already staring. He smiles reflexively. When in doubt, smile. That's the Golden Boy way.
“Well, I meant every word. So.”
“Good. I am very fond of you as well. I take it you want to continue our entanglement?”
Entanglement. That's one way to put it.
“More than anything,” says Jayce. “And maybe we could call our entanglement dating. Or like, boyfriends.”
“Boyfriends. I am amenable to that.”
“Sick.”
Jayce dips down for a kiss, slow and sweet, led by Viktor's cautious lips.
Boyfriends.
Boyfriends.
Jayce shoots and scores. Damn it feels good to be goated.