Work Text:
The first time it happens, they’re already in the middle of sex.
Granted, most things like this happen when they’re already in the middle of sex. Sex is something they’re good at, a private language they’ve never needed words for, which is comforting for someone like Viktor. That is, someone who has never been very good at finding the words to articulate certain parts of herself, and certainly not in English; particularly not when those parts are the darker, twistier, more shameful parts she tended to avoid before meeting Jayce. Like when Jayce tied her up for the first time and edged her until she said nice things about herself, fucking mortifying; like when Jayce fucked her so hard she accidentally said I love you for the first time.
It makes sense, given that she has a habit of being overly intellectual about everything else. She often finds herself so busy in other regards that it can be tricky to remember to find the time to try and know herself or whatever nonsense Jayce is always spouting now that she’s started seeing that shrink. It took breaking up a second time for her to reach the conclusion that Viktor carries trauma in her body, or something, a notion Viktor would have deemed nonsense and been content never to speak of again, except then Jayce went and did independent research and developed theories and hell, fine, maybe Viktor likes feeling analysed, a little. Maybe there’s something uniquely hot about having Jayce’s attention like this, a subject under her microscope, thrown off-kilter and pinned under the scalpel of her utter, devastating focus. It helps that Jayce is fantastic at practical demonstrations.
Suffice to say, Jayce knows how to use sex to get to her.
“Such a pretty girl,” she croons, mouth dripping, four fingers deep in Viktor’s pussy, and Viktor comes so hard she sees stars.
It’s not until afterwards that she realises what did it. To be fair, she’d had four of Jayce’s other fingers in her mouth at the time, not exactly ideal circumstances in which to defend herself. “What you said. Earlier.” Here she is, struggling to find words after a (mostly vanilla and everything) quickie. Humiliating. “When you said… that thing you called me—”
Jayce catches on immediately. “You liked it.”
It’s the fact that she doesn’t word it as a question that has heat clawing at Viktor’s guts. She just came; ridiculous.
She knows how it’s going to sound before she even says it, so there’s no reason she should be so mortified by the fact that it comes out predictably weak and small. “You didn’t even ask first, you lunatic.”
“Which word did you have a problem with?” asks Jayce, catching her by the chin when she tries to turn away. Unbidden, her other hand slides into the back of Viktor’s long hair, tangled and mussed from sex. Her grip is not hard enough to hurt, just presumptuous, brazenly claiming, and it makes even more heat flutter in Viktor’s belly. “Pretty, or girl?”
Viktor squirms. “Does it matter?”
“I’m probably going to say it again, so yeah.”
God. Viktor’s eyes slam shut. “Girl,” she says at length, and wishes it didn’t sound so—ugh. “I am not—you know I’m not. That.”
And okay, fine, sure. Gender can be complicated. Jayce is a butch, she’s a dyke, of course she knows that. It’s not like Viktor believes she has a hard time understanding her particular brand of the whole nonbinary thing either, but it’s—different. They present differently. It’s not as though they ever really talk about it.
“But you are,” Jayce croons, and Viktor’s eyes flutter back open. The hand in her hair tightens into a fist to hold her down. “My girl. My sweet, pretty girl.”
It—ah—devolves somewhat quickly after that. It’s not until several hours later, sweaty and sated and fucked-stupid, all spinny from the endorphins, that Viktor remembers what she was supposed to be upset about. “Just ask next time,” she mutters, hiding her face in Jayce’s neck so that she doesn’t get turned on by the embarrassment and start this whole mess over again. “I don’t mind if you—you know. It’s hot, whatever, you can tell that I like it. But just ask.”
“Sure,” Jayce agrees, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. She doesn’t say it like she expects Viktor to believe her, or like it’s even something to be taken all that seriously in the first place. Ngh.
Viktor presses her hot face deeper into Jayce’s neck and grumbles. “Do not. I’m sore. I am not going again.”
“You know your safe word.”
Viktor hates when she’s right.
After the incident, Viktor expects it to be brought up in bed again the next time they fuck. It isn’t; Jayce fucks her the way she always does, possessive and unexpectedly selfish and so good, the exact brand of rough she’d spent years chasing before crash-landing in Jayce’s life. Before their lab and their two breakups and all the complicated messes that led them to this perfect little domestic life: sex that is vicious and nasty and so perfectly designed to scratch that dark little itch in her brain that it’s a wonder they weren’t made for each other. (Sometimes Viktor thinks about it and becomes unreasonably emotional. The thought of a life without Jayce’s touch is nauseating. In all timelines, all possibilities, they belong like this.) It’s good, is what she’s saying. Great even. It’s just—
She’s expecting it. So. When it doesn’t happen, she’s left feeling a little unmoored about the whole thing.
Jayce knows this, of course. Jayce has an uncanny manner of always knowing these things. She relishes Viktor’s confusion and Viktor’s frustration from withholding it like the weapon it is, smug, adoring grin, probably waiting for Viktor to ask for it, which Viktor won’t. It’s degrading enough to admit to herself that she liked it so much last time, Jayce’s bullheadedness and the pleasure-pain of feeling shamed, the sweet mortification of having her boundaries totally discarded, her identity discarded—she shouldn’t like it. The opinionated, feminist part of her brain doesn’t want to like it. And yet.
She’s not going to ask for it. Asking for it would be too much. So what if Jayce has unlocked some new, unexpected perversion. Viktor can handle private abasement just fine. It doesn’t have to be a thing, like Jayce loves turning everything into. It’s fine.
Then she comes home to find the present waiting for her.
It’s a little gift bag sitting innocuously on their shared bed. Jayce has gone to the trouble of adding ribbon and tissue paper and everything. Her giddy anticipation on the car ride home suddenly makes sense, as does the fact that she’s hanging back now in their bedroom doorway like a nervous puppy. She knows Viktor hates surprises, and hates fuss. Viktor makes a point of sighing in nonchalant disgust and bypasses the gift altogether to head for their ensuite.
Jayce catches her by the wrist. “You’re not going to open it?”
“There is no occasion. I can only imagine you’re up to something nefarious.”
Jayce is grinning, which is not a no. “Open it. I thought we deserved a night off, and—y’know, this might be something we like.”
It’s a sex thing, then. Viktor’s eyebrows slide up, intrigued despite her best efforts. “I was going to have a shower to get some of these knots out of my back. Is this something that can wait, or no?”
“How bad’s your pain today?”
“Not bad.” Her new medication is working adequately. That’s not to say that it will continue to work, but she’s learned to take victories where she can get them. “I don’t feel like being on my feet much longer, but I also don’t feel like I need to be in bed.”
Jayce kisses her. “Open it now, then. Come see me after your shower.”
Viktor watches her leave, plainly dumbfounded, and fixes the gift with an openly suspicious glare. Jayce is always wanting to watch her open presents. She’s the kind of person who relishes praise; she comes from a family who all take turns opening presents in front of each other on holidays. That she’d so easily give Viktor privacy for this is—not a good sign, probably.
Viktor opens it.
It takes her a comically long time to comprehend what she’s holding. Once she does, her face starts burning.
It’s just a dress. It’s not even that risque or anything: baby pink, flower patterned, adjustable straps and a loose neckline. It’s also not egregiously short; when she holds it up, the fabric ends at her knees, nothing immodest by any stretch of the imagination. But it’s so far from anything Viktor has even worn in Jayce’s presence that the implications are devastating.
Viktor’s not particularly masculine or anything. Her philosophy on presentation has always been sort of a vague, hand-waving thesis of I don’t care if people get confused about my gender. She wears trousers more often than not because they’re practical, and she’s always been bony enough that she’s sort of flat-chested by default, but she has similarly never shied away from lipstick on a night out or soft flowy fabrics or keeping her hair long.
The difference is that none of this has ever been purposefully feminine. She likes what she likes without too much thought of what it represents. Jayce knows how she identifies, and so she has never seen anything Viktor does as being tied to any gender, just a collection of Viktorisms that make up the sum of her whole. Were she to pick a dress like this for herself, she doesn’t even think that Jayce would bat an eye, because everything that Viktor likes tends to become a little genderless by association.
But the fact that Jayce has picked this out. The idea of her going to the store with the intention of selecting something pink. Choosing this one because of the flowers or the neckline or the length of the hem. Worse than any of this, the thought that she’d selected it while thinking of Viktor like that, or thinking of the things she called her—
Jesus Christ. Viktor’s face is burning. She drops the dress like it’s caught on fire and makes a mad dash for the shower.
She’s in there for what even she can admit is too long, emerging with splotchy-pink all over her pale body, restless despite the hot water’s efforts otherwise. She hesitantly tiptoes back into their bedroom, half expecting to find Jayce there with the dress and a big shit-eating grin on her face so that Viktor can snap at her for being pushy. But there is just the dress, leering at her from the centre of the bed where she left it, looking enticingly soft.
Fuck it.
Jayce is waiting for her in the kitchen. She doesn’t say anything mean or teasing like Viktor expects her to, but she does look at her. And look, and look, and look. Eventually, Viktor grows tired of simply being looked at and crowds into her space, mostly just for something to do with her hands.
“You are no better than a man,” she mutters, unable to make eye contact.
Jayce’s hands slide up her back to settle around her waist. They’re so big they almost encircle her entire circumference. “Can you blame me?”
“Yes. You are an unrepentant pervert.” Viktor feels her bottom lip sticking out, knows it looks like she’s bratting. She’s not entirely doing it on purpose. “Go on, then. What else do you have planned for our, eh, ‘night off’ as you called it?”
She’s being a little sarcastic—neither of them ever really have nights off, one of them will inevitably bring up work eventually, a side-effect of being research partners first and romantic partners later—but Jayce tilts her head consideringly like she’s taking the words in earnest. “I was thinking a home-cooked meal—something easy, pasta—and then maybe a movie?”
“Mm. That would be nice, actually.” It doesn’t explain the dress, but it’s inevitable they’ll fuck later, and maybe Jayce just wants to let herself get worked up in a slower-burning way than usual. Viktor can live with that. She doesn’t mind a low simmering arousal herself for a few hours, something to look forward to.
She steps back, intending to make herself comfortable in the living room, but Jayce catches her by the hips to keep her in place. Viktor turns back to her with an arch look. “Have you changed your mind already?”
Jayce shakes her head. “Just not sure how you’re planning to cook from the living room.”
Viktor’s face lights on fire. She drops eye-contact immediately, suddenly very interested in the tiles. “I… but you always cook.”
“Mm.”
It’s not an answer. Viktor struggles to find the words, suddenly too-aware of the heat of Jayce’s hands and how short the hem of her dress is. “I’m not… as good at cooking as you are.”
Jayce laughs. “It’s pasta. You’ll manage.”
It’s so demanding, the hidden imperative in those words, as is the way her hand drops with no warning to palm Viktor’s ass under the dress. She can’t help it; she gasps, thighs falling open, whole body swaying into Jayce’s like it can’t be prevented, operating on autopilot. The frank, knowing look Jayce gives her makes a tremble zip down her spine, hands suddenly unsteady. Jayce smiles and steps out of her space. “I’ll be in the living room.”
Even once she’s no longer in the room with her, Viktor can’t calm down. It takes several tries to walk to the stove and consider the bag of pasta. Getting the burner started and filling a pot with water is a whole other quest.
She scrubs her hands across her face, embarrassed, unable to calm down. She knows how to cook pasta. There’s no reason that something like this should be getting her so worked up that she’s openly fighting the urge to slip into subspace. By the time she’s got the water at a boil and a timer set on her phone she’s a mess, white-knuckling the counter while she waits. The jar of sauce is already open, like Jayce didn’t think she could do it on her own. Fuck. Fuck.
“Jayce,” she calls unsteadily, trying not to make too much noise as she sets the pot back in the sink once she’s done draining it. “Dinner is… ready.”
Is she expected to plate it, too? God, she hopes not. She doesn’t know if she’ll be able to manage finding bowls and forks, and what a humiliating thought that is, that simply being asked to cook for her partner is enough to unravel her this way. But it’s not, she knows, just the act of being asked to cook for her partner. It’s the implications. Hell, they’ve never been a traditional couple. The idea that Viktor would ever be paraded around like—like a little housewife, or something, it’s—
“Thanks,” Jayce calls back from the living room, sounding perfectly level. “Can you put the lid on and come here? I’m not that hungry yet.”
Viktor grumbles to herself about having to put the lid on when she went to all the effort of cooking, but she obeys without further protest and joins Jayce in the living room. Jayce is splayed out on the couch in her signature dyke-spread, taking up far too much space, arm slung across the back and gaze on the television. Viktor doesn’t even notice until she’s already within breathing distance, and by then she’s so dazed by it that any chance of defending herself has flown out the window. Jayce is fully dressed other than the fact that she’s got her cock on.
Viktor’s eyes stick on it, standing proudly between the open edges of her fly. It’s her favourite one, big and thick and realistic, sculpted vein under the head that Viktor loves to run her teeth over. Jayce looks up at her as if just noticing she’s here, then pointedly pats her lap. “Come on. Why don’t you come sit on it like a good girl?”
Viktor’s knees buckle. She almost trips over her own feet.
Jayce helps to lower her carefully into her lap, big hand supporting Viktor’s bad knee. The fact that she’s wearing the dress means the only barrier between her overheated flesh and the cool silicon of Jayce’s cock is the flimsy fabric layer of her underwear, which are already well on their way to being soaked through. Viktor starts panting immediately, rubbing herself against it with aborted jerks of her hips.
Jayce’s hands find their way to her waist again, grinding her to a stop. “So eager,” she hums, thumbing the seam of Viktor’s mouth sweetly. “Good girls wait to get their rewards, though.”
Viktor’s face burns. “Jayce—”
Jayce reaches up and lowers the straps of Viktor’s dress until her bare breasts are exposed to the room. Her nipples harden immediately, peaked and sensitive in the cool air. Jayce doesn’t even touch them, just stares, no indication at all that she plans on doing anything differently until Viktor starts squirming. Without warning, she grabs two rough handfuls and squeezes hard enough to make Viktor cry out.
“So sensitive,” Jayce croons. “So soft. What am I gonna do with you, silly girl? You can’t even take care of yourself. Need someone big and strong to come do it for you, huh?”
Viktor is losing her mind. This is the only explanation. She’s going crazy from the diabolical combination of the rough treatment and the syrupy sweet cadence of Jayce’s voice, the awfulness of the words themselves hidden in the lilting tone, sugary poison making her tremble like a fucking leaf in her partner’s lap. “Please,” she chokes. “Jayce, come on, please.”
“Please what, pretty girl?”
Viktor slams her eyes shut and whines sharply through her nose. “S-stop—stop calling me that, I—”
“Oh? Have I got it wrong?” Viktor cracks her eyes open just in time to watch Jayce’s darken, hazel turning molten, narrow ring of colour surrounding the bottomless swell of her pupils. In a heartbeat, she flips them, repositioning Viktor so that her back is to Jayce’s chest. The movement leaves her thighs open, no stability without relying on Jayce for balance, not even enough purchase to plant her feet. She’ll never get over that, Jayce being so effortlessly strong, moving her like it’s nothing. Her voice is right up against Viktor’s overheated ear when she speaks. “Should I call you my good boy instead? Is that it, honey? You wanna be a dumb pretty boy for me, all slutty and confused in your little dress?”
Viktor whines. It feels like she might cry, all of a sudden. “No. No, n-no, I—”
“No? I’m confused. I must have gotten it right the first time, then.” Reaching under the dress, Jayce drags her fingers through the mess between Viktor’s legs. With a firm tug, she has her underwear down, and uses her hold on Viktor’s thigh to lift her enough to leave them dangling over one ankle, like she can’t even be bothered removing them properly. Her hand returns to the same place immediately, blunt fingers pushing through where she’s soaked. “Only slutty girls get wet here. Do you want something, baby? You can have it if you ask for it.”
Viktor determines she is going to die from humiliation before she ever gets Jayce’s cock in her. She knows Jayce wants to hear it, though, and it takes all her willpower to force the words out. “Please, let me,” she manages, and fumbles out the rest: “P-please, fuck me.”
“With what, beautiful?”
Oh, god. “W-with your…” She swallows. Remembers her manners. “Please fuck me with your cock.”
“With my big fat cock?” Jayce croons sweetly. “Is that what you meant to say? Please split open your tiny little pussy, please treat you like the cocksleeve you are—is that what you meant to say, sweetheart?”
Viktor is dying. She opens her mouth to respond, but a choked gasp is about all she manages before she starts breathing like she’s asphyxiating. And like, she knows Jayce is a bit of a freak, it’s why they work so well together, but this is a whole new level. It sends her tumbling into incoherence in about two seconds flat, all shame thrown to the wind as she starts nodding and babbling and begging and finally, it’s enough to put a dent in Jayce’s self-control. To be fair, it was never all that solid to begin with.
With two strong hands, Jayce lifts Viktor by the hips and helps her sink down onto her waiting cock. The stretch is incredible. Jayce likes straps as big and ridiculous as the rest of her, an agonising slide to get inside of Viktor, the burn of zero preparation with no pause, just a persistent slide home until she’s so deep that Viktor swears she can feel her in her stomach, so overwhelmed her eyes have rolled back.
“Good girl,” Jayce says, so sweetly and right at her ear, and Viktor comes.
It takes until her ears stop ringing to register that Jayce is moaning. She’s petting her everywhere, hands grabbing, overcome. Apparently obsessed with the fact that she’s made Viktor come without even a hand on her otherwise, and Viktor’s face burns when she realises. She’s come just from this, from the feeling of being filled up and had in her silly little dress while Jayce calls her a good girl.
Whatever modicum of self-control she’d apparently been clinging to snaps after that. Jayce pushes her down, hands scrabbling for purchase against the arm of the couch, and fucks her. It’s a zero to a hundred kind of unhinged viciousness, a savage pace before Viktor’s totally ready for it, overstimulation lighting up her nerves before it tips back over into feeling good. Viktor can tell that Jayce is wearing her grinding pad, tucked up against her cunt in those insanely attractive hip-hugging harness boxers she wears, riding it and chasing sensation as she grinds up into Viktor’s body, using her, god—
And then she starts talking.
“That’s it,” she’s saying, panting from the effort of fucking Viktor this hard. Holding her where she wants her, prying her body open and bullying her way inside over and over. “That’s it, my good girl. You were fucking made for this.”
Viktor wails, the sound getting caught in her throat halfway through. She loses her breath entirely when Jayce starts hammering away at a particularly devastating angle, as attuned to Viktor’s body and how to make her come undone as always. “Yeah,” Jayce moans, starting to sound a little manic as she scrabbles to get a hand on Viktor’s clit. “Yeah, that’s it. You were, weren’t you? Made for taking my cock, my pretty girl—fuck, Viktoria—”
That’s what does it, her use of Viktor’s whole ass fucking government name. Viktor breaks down into tears, sobbing as she crash-lands into her second orgasm, so intense it whites out her vision entirely.
Jayce fucks her through it and then keeps fucking her, selfishly chasing her own pleasure, grabbing at Viktor’s body with bruising hands. Viktor is whining and squirming in genuine pain by the time she finally starts to slow down, panting. Another minute, and Jayce starts laving wet, blurry-mouthed kisses over the back of Viktor’s sweaty neck. She helps her slowly onto her side before pulling out. “Okay?”
“Okay,” Viktor mumbles, still under.
“Not too much?”
“Of course it was too much.” Despite the hazy state of her head she still manages to send a glare up in Jayce’s general direction. Her hair is plastered to her head with sweat and sticking up in ridiculous directions. She’s biting back laughter at whatever she sees on Viktor’s face. “It’s you. You’re always too much.”
She pulls her down to kiss her, and their mouths become too busy to speak for a while.
At last Jayce breaks the pleasant, stretching silence. “You know I know you’re not a girl, right?”
Viktor hums. “I know. It is—complicated. The way I feel about…” She presses her lips together, hand gesturing limply, trying to find the words. “It’s like how you’re not a girl either. But it’s different.”
Jayce catches her hand mid-air and drags it in to press her mouth to it. She scrapes her kiss-bitten lips over the knobbly ridges of Viktor’s knuckles, the purple-blue veins of her inner wrist. “Sometimes I can’t help but think about us like two sides of the same coin. Like we’re the same being or something.” She ducks her head, cheeks colouring. “I’m not trying to sound… I know you’re your own person. I just wish I could crawl inside you sometimes. Fuck. That’s unhinged, right? You make me sort of unhinged.”
But Viktor’s chest is aching. Not because she believes her, but because she knows exactly what she means. “It’s okay,” she says, burying her fingers in Jayce’s hair. “You make me feel unhinged, also.”
The ensuing silence is nice. Comfortable. By the time they remember the pasta, it’s gone unsalvageably cold on the stove.