Work Text:
Viktor’s bones ached before the carriage had even arrived.
Through the wrought iron gates of some Estate, the gala bustled. Beneath vaulted ceilings dressed in crystal chandeliers, the air reeked of sweet wine and roses—though neither could drown out the pungent rot of coin and politics. Strings of violins warbled over the tinkle of flutes and flat laughter. Dress skirts rustled and swished. Boots polished to mirrors tapped over expensive marble floors.
Viktor stood at the edge of it all, leaning just so on his cane, the weight of his leg brace throbbing with each careless bump of a passing server.
“Networking”, Jayce had chirped with that adorable grin, as if the word wasn’t a synonym for bloodletting. “Future development opportunities,” as if progress could be purchased like champagne and cufflinks.
Jayce flourished among them, of course. His smile was blinding, his laugh generous. When he gestured grandly to Viktor—“And this, his is the man whose mind made Hextech possible”—it was like holding up a drowned Yordle. They nodded politely. Smiled with the corners of their eyes.
They surrounded Jayce, buzzing about market expansion and military applications. He soaked it in, face flushed with praise, every bit the poster boy of Piltover’s glory. Viktor, beside him, faded to a shadow.
They didn’t see the mind behind the metal. They saw a broken man propped beside a statue.
He catalogued it clinically, at first. The way their eyes slid past him. The way Jayce didn’t even notice.
Or maybe he did. And he wasn’t sure which would be worse.
His lip curled. The illusion of meritocracy made him itch. The wine in his hand was cloyingly sweet. It matched the aftertaste of being disregarded. Let the peacocks preen. His grip tightened on the glass. He didn’t need them. He never had. But gods, it would have been something to simply be seen.
Viktor smelled her before he saw her. A calculated blend of jasmine and citrus, something delicate layered over something sharper.
The doors parted, and Councilor Merdarda entered not like a guest, but a god descending marble steps to survey worship. The crowd rippled, parted, silenced. Her gown was a slit of starlight, stitched in gold thread that caught the chandelier’s fire with every step. Bronzed skin glowed beneath the weight of jewels arranged like constellations. Her eyes were rimmed in gold, eyelids catching the light and sparkling as if her skin itself was blessed by arcane energy. Even her stillness had velocity.
Viktor’s breath caught, not in awe, but in bitter recognition.
The gala’s true axis. Not Jayce, not Hextech, not the science humming quietly beneath it all, but the woman who could fold an entire room into her palm with the crook of one perfectly manicured finger.
She was everything Viktor was not. Power in a sculpted silhouette. Born to be witnessed. Worshipped.
Jayce moved to greet her, bright smile dimming mid-stride. His hand twitched in an aborted wave.
“Councilor Merdarda,” he began, but his voice cracked, barely a whisper over the strings of the still-warbling violins. She stopped before him.
“Jayce,” she said, each syllable soft as silk and twice as binding.
Their usual dance, the teasing, the banter sharpened to flirtation, stuttered on his tongue. His grin faltered. His eyes dropped. Not to her face. Not to the gilded chain draped over her collarbone or the impossibly delicate dip of her waist.
No… Down.
Viktor saw it.
He saw it.
Jayce’s gaze snagged on her feet—on the delicate strappy heels curled around high arches, toes glinting with molten polish, unshielded, opulent in their bareness. Slender, smooth, polished like sculpture. He stared like they were sacred.
Viktor’s eyebrows rose. He sipped his wine slowly, not because he wanted it, but because the alternative was laughing aloud in disbelief.
Mel, of course, noticed. She always noticed. Her smirk bloomed slowly, like blood in water. Not cruel or mocking, but amused. Curious. She tilted her head, catching Viktor’s eye across the room with an unreadable glint, then turned with effortless dismissal, leaving Jayce standing dumbstruck in her wake.
He stammered something about needing air, collar askew, jaw clenched too tight. The golden boy flushed and fleeing, as if chased by nothing more than a pair of painted toes.
Viktor watched him go, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek.
Interesting.
The space Jayce left behind seemed colder. Quieter.
Viktor didn’t blink. He didn’t move. But inside, something shifted.
Not rage—he knew that flavor far too well. Not longing. Longing was a childish thing, and Viktor had long since dissected it into its component parts. Not jealousy either, though that acidic tang ghosted his tongue.
No. This was different. A pulse low and electric. Something curious. Calculated. Feral, perhaps, if he were less dignified.
He stared after Jayce’s retreating form, then let his gaze slide back to the woman who’d undone him with nothing but the sight of her feet.
Fascinating.
Viktor’s lips barely moved around a half-smile. Scientific curiosity, nothing more. A reaction measurable, observable. Jayce, the ever-predictable. A man of muscle and mathematics, whose eyes darted like clockwork—always upward, toward prestige, power, shine.
But not this time.
This time they’d dropped.
Viktor’s eyes narrowed behind his glass. Subtle, calculating, detached. He scanned the room as if skimming data points. No other feet on display. Gowns flowed long. Shoes tucked demurely beneath tulle and silk. The polished floors offered no reflections.
Just Mel. Just her feet. Her golden toes, smooth as poured brass, unmarred. The kind of feet untouched by hardship, never caught in the wrong angle of prosthetic joints or raw from cobbled streets.
So… was it feet? Or just hers?
That question sparked something low, hot and mischievous just beneath Viktor’s ribs.
His mind skittered to a thought he didn’t get to push away fast enough.
What if it had been me?
The idea curled in his gut. Not prideful, his own feet were not elegant like Mel’s. Scarred and sharp-boned, the right one twisted by metal, leather straps biting against malformed skin. But he could, in theory, leave them bare. Display them. He could offer something raw instead of polished.
What would Jayce do, faced with that?
Would his voice hitch?
Would his eyes stray?
Would that perfect composure crack again, but for Viktor?
He tilted his head slightly, lips pressing tightly together.
A hypothesis formed in his mind.
He would test the theory. Not out of vanity, not out of spite, not out of lust.
Scientific curiosity, he told himself.
The hum of the gala carried on. Glasses clinking, laughter forced and feather-light, the violin strings winding tighter and tighter.
But to Viktor, the night had narrowed to one point of focus: the man reentering the room with his collar straightened too precisely, cheeks still faintly pink.
He walked differently now. Stiffer. Like a boy caught peeking through a hole in the wall, trying to play at poise. He rejoined the crowd with a laugh too loud, a handshake too firm. The perfect mask slipped back into place, but Viktor had seen the crack.
He didn’t call out to him, didn’t offer a knowing glance, or a sly remark. No, he merely watched.
Jayce dared a glance his way.
Viktor didn’t blink.
And Jayce looked away too fast.
Good.
The strings of the quartet sawed on, but they were background noise now. His mind was elsewhere, sinking lower, curling inward.
He shifted, just slightly, enough to ease the ache in his leg, and his gaze dropped. Down past the sleek fall of his trousers, past the mechanical joint of his brace, to the place where the metal met flesh. His feet, obscured by the utilitarian black of his shoes, polished for the occasion but nothing more.
But in his mind, they were bare.
Pale skin exposed to the golden light, toed curled on cold marble.
Scarred, yes. Crooked, yes. But alive. Marked by years of struggle and survival. Not pristine, but real. He imagined them painted. Deep bronze lacquer glinting where keratin lay on skin. Adorned not with jewels, but with significance.
He imagined Jayce seeing them.
Not just glancing, but seeing. That same frozen falter. That same breath caught in the throat.
That same heat.
Viktor’s finger tapped once against the curve of his cane handle.
Perhaps it was time to introduce a new variable.
In the hush of the lab—gears ticking, chalk tapping rhythmically against the chalkboard, and the occasional clatter of a dropped tool—Viktor began his experiment.
The slipper fell off his foot with the smallest sound. Deliberate. Calculated innocence. He made no mention of it, only leaned back on his stool with a faint grimace, stretching one leg out beneath the worktable, flexing his toes slow and methodical as if tending to a persistent ache. They curled against the cold floor, bone and tendon shifting beneath pale skin, skin puckering next to scars along his instep.
He didn’t look at Jayce.
But he felt him.
The shift in the air. The break in rhythm. The way Jayce’s pen paused over the schematics mid-stroke. He didn’t speak, he rarely did when Viktor was in the zone, but the silence carried weight now.
Viktor’s foot arched. Muscled coiled. Toes spread and flexed again, this time just a touch slower.
Viktor could see Jayce’s eyes flicking down in his peripherals. Not once, but twice.
Tracking. Like a cat watching movement through the weeds. That same calculated focus, eyes dilated.
Viktor said nothing.
His fingers moved across his work, adjusting energy flow through the circuitry with mechanical precision.
He waited.
Jayce cleared his throat.
Still Viktor didn’t speak. Just observe. External forces will convolute the results of the experiment.
Later, long after Jayce had gone—mumbling some half-formed excuse about needing a nap, though his hands had trembled a little when he packed up—Viktor remained.
His noted sprawled across the desk, half laced with machine logic and human heat.
Test #1
Observation 1: Eye movement consistent. Delay before redirecting gaze: 2.7 seconds.
Note: Mel was not a fluke.
Hypothesis A: Jayce has an overall fixation, with the human subject having little to no relevance.
Hypothesis B: Jayce has a fixation, but the human subject is relevant.
Course of Action: Test controlled exposure. Vary conditions. Determine threshold.
He paused, glancing down at his bare foot, toes curled against cool metal, the marks of his work and his body plainly visible.
The same foot Jayce had been practically drooling over.
Viktor tapped his pen once, sharp and deliberate.
Further testing required.
Experiment #2: Controlled Environment, Increased Exposure
The key to a proper experiment was isolating the variable.
Mel had been too much stimulus at once—gold, perfume, power, polish. A one-woman overload of erotic stimuli. If Viktor wanted real data, he had to strip away the context. Create an environment where feet were commonplace, where Jayce’s reaction could be properly measured against the backdrop of normalcy.
Which is how Viktor found himself suggesting with deceptive nonchalance, a visit to a high-end public bathhouse that Jayce had offhandedly mentioned once during a late-night debrief, saying something like “We need to unwind, Vik. A restful spa day could do our minds some good.”
Viktor filed the comment away. And now, weeks later, he made use of it.
“It will be beneficial for my circulation,” Viktor said that morning as Jayce blinked blearily at his tea. “And tension release. You’ve been rubbing your neck so much lately, I assumed you were about to snap it.”
Jayce had laughed and scrubbed a hand through his hair. “You planning to dunk me in ice water for science?"
Viktor’s lips curved. “Not this time.”
The bathhouse was quiet in the late afternoon. Soft music was being played by a harpist. The air was heavy with steam and lavender. The dressing rooms were spacious, adorned in tasteful marble and warm wood. Robes hung in neat rows. The attendants bowed politely and didn’t stare at Viktor’s leg, which he noted with cold appreciation.
Jayce shed his clothes with easy grace, all muscle and sun-browned skin, utterly unaware of himself. Viktor, ever precise, unfastened his braces and folded his trousers with methodical care, slipping into a plain linen robe.
They stepped into the central pool chamber—vaulted ceilings, glistening tile, warm water steaming. And everywhere, feet.
Bare. Wet. Relaxed.
Viktor kept his eyes on Jayce.
Jayce didn’t react much. He relaxed into the heat, stretched as he lowered into the pool, hissing a little when the warmth hit his thighs. Viktor joined him more carefully, cane left nearby, one arm hooked over the smooth stone edge.
“Feels better than I expected,” Jayce murmured, eyes closed. “You were right.”
“I usually am,” Viktor replied, but his mind was still set on observation.
A group of bathers padded past them. A group of young women. Objectively beautiful, but nothing noteworthy that stuck out. Their feet were taken care of, but they lacked anything that stood out. No nail polish, no jewelry.
Jayce continued to relax as if nothing had happened. Viktor noted this mentally.
Moments later, another group of bathers. One woman, one man—robes undone, bare feet slapping lightly on the tile. The woman had anklets. The man had glittering polish. Jayce’s eyes flicked open.
There it is.
Viktor tracked it: the brief twitch of Jayce’s gaze downward. A beat too long. A flicker of tongue across his lower lip. He shifted his weight beneath the water. Subtle, but Viktor caught it. Logged it.
Jayce said nothing. But something in his expression had changed.
His breathing was a little deeper, his fingers drummed against the pool edge without rhythm.
Viktor leaned back and extended his legs—bare, pale, his feet emerging just above the waterline. He let his toes flex slowly, water trailing off the arch in elegant drops. Casual. Exposed.
Jayce didn’t look directly, but his jaw tightened. His gaze flicked and flicked again, never quite settling. He shifted closer without realizing it.
Viktor nearly smiled.
He stayed like that for a while, legs drifting languidly in the water, letting his foot slide just close enough that the ripples kissed Jayce’s hip. He watched Jayce go still.
Then stand. Abruptly.
“I—uh. Gonna check out the cold plunge. Be right back.”
Viktor didn’t watch him go. He didn’t need to. He had all the data he required for this experiment.
Hypothesis B strengthened.
The next phase required precision—not in measurements, but in presentation.
Viktor arrived early, as always, but this time his attire deviated from the usual utilitarian austerity. His waistcoat and normal dress shirt remained, but beneath it, his trouser legs were rolled up just above the ankle. Not enough to shout. Just enough to whisper. The skin there was pale, taut over lean muscle and sharp bone. A stark contrast to the gilded elegance Mel had worn. His exposure was not luxury, but defiance. Here. Look.
And adorning that pale joint, just above the arch of his left foot—an anklet. Delicate. Gold. Thin enough to vanish if you blinked, but Viktor had chosen it with cruel intent: a chain with the faintest gleam when it caught the light. It made no noise. It did not swing or demand attention. It simply was.
Barely noticeable. Unless you were looking.
And Jayce would be.
The man burst into the lab five minutes late, hair a mess, tie askew, muttering something about people loitering in the halls, and then—
He saw it.
Viktor didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He remained half-bent over the diagnostic relay, the fine cuff of his trousers just barely risen to expose the flash of gold and skin. The anklet winked like a secret held at the edge of a kiss. His foot moved once—stretching idly, as if he’d simply gotten comfortable.
Jayce’s words jammed mid-sentence.
Then silence. Long. Sharp.
Viktor did not look up. But he felt the gaze.
From the corner of his vision, he could see the twitch of Jayce’s fingers around his notebook, the fixed line of his jaw, the flicker of his tongue across his bottom lip as if suddenly, impossibly dry.
The variable had been introduced.
Viktor’s lips curled in satisfaction, and he turned a page in his notes as though nothing in the world had shifted.
But later, when Jayce excused himself with uncharacteristic haste—again, again—Viktor returned to the blank space beside his diagrams and wrote:
Test #3
Observation: Subject fixated within 4.5 seconds. Sustained glance: 8.1 seconds. Physiological response: visible tension, stuttered breath, suspected erection.
Conclusion: Positive correlation.
Course of action: Nail polish. Observe saturation thresholds. Preferred hues?
His pen paused. Then, underlined:
Make him look again.
Test #4: Nail Polish.
Gold. The same shade Mel had worn that first time. It was warpaint lacquered onto nail, each toe a tiny rebellion, a silent flare of challenge. He painted them himself with steady, surgeon-like care. Each stroke was even, glossy, immaculate. No chips. No smudges.
Jayce would recognize the color instantly, if he had any blood left in his brain after he noticed.
Viktor wore his lab slippers that day. Comfort over elegance, soft velvet lined with support for his bad leg. Jayce had seen them a hundred times. Had once joked about how frumpy they looked. But today they were part of the staging.
For hours, his toes remained hidden. He made no show of them. They weren’t bait—yet.
Viktor focused on the equations scrawled across the board, murmuring algorithms, lost in the rhythm of numbers and logic. Jayce was beside him, tinkering with a regulator, brow furrowed.
Then, without looking, Viktor moved.
He shifted his weight, bracing his good leg as he tilted his foot forward, slow and mindless, the heel of his slipper slipping down, catching just at the ball of his foot. It dangled there, then rocked lazily—back and forth, back and forth—while he worked a particularly stubborn calculation.
Jayce kept glancing.
Viktor slid the slipper forward again, letting it fall with a soft, deliberate thud.
The sound was quiet. Barely louder than a sigh. But it sliced through the air like a dropped scalpel.
Jayce’s gaze whipped down, immediate, instinctual, and Viktor saw it this time.
Saw the way his jaw clenched. Saw the flare in his nostrils, the sudden stillness that froze his shoulders. His eyes didn’t just glance—they latched. Locked on the exposed toes, golden and gleaming against pale skin, each one a threat disguised as art.
Viktor didn’t speak.
He just flexed his toes, curling them slowly, the paint catching the overhead lights, and watched from the corner of his eye as Jayce looked like he’d been struck behind the knees.
Later, once the silence grew thick and Jayce fled the room again—no excuse this time, just a muttered “back in a minute” and a stumble toward the washroom—Viktor reached for his notebook, sliding it open.
Test #4
Observation: Immediate fixation. Eye movement rapid. Full-body tension.
Exposure: Partial. Concealed until 3.5 hours in.
Note: Potential for slipper thud as conditioned stimulus. Pavlovian link possible?
He tapped the pen once against the page.
The data had grown denser. He’d filled pages with observations, diagrams, annotations. He’d measured Jayce’s glances to the second, catalogued every fidget, every shift in posture, every breath caught just a beat too long.
But something had started happening that no variable could explain.
It crept in slowly, like a symptomless virus. He’d tell himself he was studying—scrutinizing pupil dilation, tracking the tremble in Jayce’s fingers when Viktor crossed his legs just right, toes flexed, the anklet catching light. Controlled conditions. Repeatable triggers.
But then he’d find his own gaze drifting—studying not Jayce’s reactions but Jayce himself. The cut of his jaw, the heat in his neck, the way his lips parted ever so slightly when he thought Viktor wasn’t looking. He’d started to want the looks. Not for confirmation. Not for the thrill of accuracy.
But for the ache it stirred.
The way Jayce stared, like Viktor was undressing him, even though it was just hit foot, just a painted toe curled against the floor. It burned straight through the layers Viktor had always relied on: logic, detachment, the shield of reason.
And then came the moment he couldn’t rationalize.
He caught himself flexing his toes beneath the workbench even when Jayce wasn’t in the lab. Alone. Nothing to observe. Just the ghost of heat where Jayce’s gaze had once lingered. The phantom weight of attention that wasn’t there anymore. He sat there, trembling, breath tight in his chest, cunt twitching under his pants with nothing touching him but the memory of being watched.
That thought hit like a hammer to the ribs. He hadn’t been testing Jayce. He’d been teasing him, tempting him.
He wanted him desperate. Flustered. Unguarded. He wanted to watch Jayce unravel. He wanted Jayce’s hands gripping his ankle, kissing the toes he’d painted, gasping as though worshipping at some altar Viktor had lured him to without ever needing to ask.
His fingers twitched around his pen. The page blurred for a moment. He blinked hard, then wrote with steady, deliberate strokes:
New variable: Emotional contamination.
Hypothesis: This may no longer be entirely scientific.
Course of action: Escalation.
He underlined it once.
Then again.
Viktor was done with restraint.
Desire curled hot and precise in his chest. He had dissected his own hunger, mapped its neural paths, and now that he’d named it—want—he could no longer pretend it was anything else. He wanted Jayce. Not in theory. Not in secret. He wanted, needed, to see him come apart.
Today, subtlety died.
He dressed for war.
The leggings clung like a second skin, matte black and seamless except for where they split—stirrups running beneath the arches of his feet, drawing the eye down in a clean, unbroken line. The stretch of fabric lifted the muscle there, emphasized the sinew, the strength. Viktor’s steps felt different in them. Predatory. Intentional. Every shift of his weight dragged the stirrups tighter beneath him, and he knew how the arch of his foot looked as he walked. Knew it exposed every angle Jayce had failed not to look at before.
The red on his toes gleamed like blood on porcelain. He chose the color with intention, not aesthetic whim. A pointed, precise red, the exact shade of House Talis.
And then, his final addition: the toe ring.
Gold. Thin. Minimalist. Nothing ostentatious. Just a loop around the second-to-last toe on his right foot. An intimate adornment, the kind you didn’t wear unless someone was going to kneel close enough to see it.
He didn’t hide it.
He arrived in the lab with the slippers in hand, not on foot, and didn’t put them on. Simply carried them in, set them aside, and took his usual place at his workbench. Barefoot, but anything but exposed. Armed.
Jayce entered minute later, laughing about something from the morning council meeting—but the sound trailed off as soon as he saw Viktor.
He didn’t say a word.
His eyes dropped immediately.
First the leggings. Then the stirrups. Then, those red painted toes. And finally… the ring.
His mouth parted. His breath caught.
Viktor turned to him slowly in his chair, letting the line of his leg twist just enough, drawing attention to the way his foot arched under tension.
He didn’t smile.
He dared.
Jayce looked wrecked already, like something in his chest had turned over. He shifted on his feet, glanced away, and then glanced back. Viktor’s toes flexed. The ring glinted. Jayce stared.
And stared.
“You’re late,” Viktor said, voice low, dry, as if nothing had changed.
Jayce didn’t answer at first. He looked like a man halfway drowned. Lungs full of confusion, nerves thrumming, skin too tight for his body. He stood frozen near the table, fists clenched and useless at his sides, like he didn’t know whether to grab Viktor or bolt for the exit.
“You…” he tried, voice ragged, barely stitched together. “Viktor, you have to know what you’re doing, right? To me?”
Viktor didn’t answer right away.
Instead, he gave him that slow, glacial blink—boredom with edges. Then tilted his foot with precision, letting the gold ring on his toe catch the lamplight again. He watched Jayce’s pupils follow it like a starving dog watching a scrap fall from the table.
“Hm?” Viktor said, head tilting, voice lilting with faux-innocence. “Doing what, exactly?”
He crossed his legs, slow and deliberate, the fabric of the leggings stretching tight across his thigh, stirrup still looped under his arch. The position angled his foot directly into Jayce’s line of sight. Viktor tapped that ringed toe once, twice, against the other foot. Casual, like it was nothing. Like it wasn’t holding Jayce hostage.
Jayce made a strangled sound in the back of his throat.
Viktor leaned back in his chair, resting his elbow along the armrest, gaze cool, collected. Masking the spike of adrenaline and heat coiling low in his stomach. He had expected resistance. Retreat. Another awkward excuse and a slammed door. But Jayce hadn’t moved.
No. He was sweating.
And staring.
Viktor’s lips quirked. Not quite a smile. Not yet.
“Something wrong, Jayce?” he asked, deadpan. “You seem… distracted.”
Jayce exhaled like he’d been punched. “You’re torturing me.”
Viktor uncrossed his legs, then crossed them the other way, giving him the other foot this time. The stirrup pulled taut beneath the arch, the ringed toe flexing again—taunting.
Jayce’s breath hitched. Audible, ragged, animal. His whole body had gone tense, trembling like a held note on the verge of snapping. And Viktor saw it. Noticed it the way he noticed arc currents, pressure valves, the infinitesimal crack before glass fractures.
The outline straining against Jayce’s slacks, thick and twitching with every shift of Viktor’s foot.
Viktor’s leg crossed once more, leisurely, the toe ring glittering with malicious elegance as he arched, flexed, then relaxed his foot again. His toes flexed and every curl dragged Jayce deeper.
He saw it in his face—that moment of collapse. The break. When control fell away like the lab door he didn’t’ bolt through.
Viktor extended one finger and crooked it—beckoning.
Just once.
The reaction was immediate.
Jayce dropped.
To his knees with a rough thud, palms hitting the tile like surrender. There was no hesitation now. No excuses. No pretense of professionalism. Just want. Raw and reverberating, crawling from his throat as he looked up, eyes wild, lips parted, voice wrecked.
“Viktor—fuck—please,” Jayce rasped, his hands hovering uselessly in the air like he didn’t know whether to worship or touch or weep.
“Please let me—let me touch them. I can’t stop thinking—”
Viktor blinked, stunned not by the begging, but by the sheer depth of it. This wasn’t just arousal. It was desperation—weeks, maybe even months, of buried tension tearing itself free in one glorious, shameless collapse.
Still seated, still silent, Viktor let one foot lower toward him, slow as dripping mercury.
Jayce whimpered.
And Viktor, a fabricated calm, tilted his head.
“Was my hypothesis correct?” he murmured. “Are you really so easy?”
Jayce shook his head frantically, panting now, a man unraveling at the altar of red-painted toes. “No, no. Viktor, it’s because it’s you. When I see anklets and strappy heels, and, fuck, painted toes, all I can think about is how it would look on you.” He was panting between words now.
“I’ll do anything,” he begged, eyes glued to Viktor’s foot like it was salvation. “Please let me taste you. Let me worship them—”
And Viktor—gods help him—throbbed with it.
Power. Want. Victory.
Viktor lifted his foot and pressed the sole flat against Jayce’s face.
Jayce moaned.
Not a subtle sound. Not a polite gasp.
It ripped from him, guttural and obscene, as if Viktor had reached inside his trousers and wrung the sound straight from his cock. His eyes fluttered shut. His hands trembled where they hovered uselessly near Viktor’s ankles, like he didn’t dare touch unless granted permission.
Viktor’s other foot came to rest on Jayce’s shoulder, light, yet possessive. Anchoring him there on the floor, caged beneath Viktor’s weight and will. The warmth of Jayce’s breath against his arch sent a tight ripple of pleasure through him, all the way to his core.
“So responsive,” Viktor murmured, watching him with fascination.
Jayce’s tongue darted out—messy, desperate. He licked along the underside of Viktor’s foot, the arch first, then up toward the toes, as if he were starved and this was his feast. His breath was heavy, erratic, and the way he groaned with each stroke—each sloppy glide of tongue against skin—made Viktor feel electrified.
“Slower,” Viktor commanded, voice low, a hum of heat and precision. “No need to rush, sweet boy.”
Jayce whimpered, lips dragging down the ball of Viktor’s foot, tongue spreading warm, wet reverence like paint on a canvas. Each flick made Viktor’s breath hitch—just slightly. He wasn’t immune, just practiced, but each swipe of Jayce’s tongue was going right to Viktor’s pulsing cunt. He could feel himself twitching and dripping, underwear undoubtedly past soaked.
Viktor’s heel dragged lower, smooth and unhurried, until the arch of his foot pressed directly over the thick shape in Jayce’s trousers. The contact was firm, not cruel—just enough to make Jayce’s breath hitch, to make his hips jump like a live wire, grinding up into it with a needy whine muffled beneath the foot still planted on his face.
“Look at you,” Viktor drawled, voice laced with velvet contempt. “Desperate thing. You want to fuck my foot that badly?”
Jayce’s moan vibrated against Viktor’s sole, lips parted around the skin, eyes fluttering. He nodded—or tried to—throat tight with whimpers, every movement one of frantic, burning want.
“Take it out,” Viktor ordered. “Since you’ve been such a good little thing, I’ll let you rut properly. One foot only. Don’t waste it.”
Jayce didn’t need to be told twice. Hands clumsy with eagerness, he fumbled his cock free—thick, flushed, already leaking like his body had been waiting for permission to lose control. He grabbed Viktor’s foot in one hand, reverent and trembling, and wedged it against himself, pushing the arch tight to the underside of his cock. His groan was long, shuddering, as he began to thrust—slow at first, testing, then wild and filthy.
His hips snapped forward like he couldn’t help it, fucking Viktor’s foot like it was the only warm thing left in the world, the only place he belonged. He chased the drag of skin against his shaft, the faint rasp of callus and the cold press of Viktor’s ring grinding into the base each time he pushed deep.
And all the while, Viktor sat back in the chair, eyes pinned to Jayce’s face. Unmoved. Unmoved—until he lifted the foot that had silenced Jayce’s cries, flexing it with sinuous precision, sliding it slowly down Jayce’s chest and belly.
Jayce was too lost to notice, still grinding shamelessly, noises raw and broken spilling from his mouth. Then—Viktor’s toes found the soft heat of his balls, brushing lightly, then pressing just enough to make Jayce seize.
Jayce gasped, a strangled sob caught in his throat. His whole body locked, and he came with a broken, helpless cry, thick spurts painting Viktor’s foot, his own hand clenching around Viktor’s ankle like it was the only thing anchoring him to earth. Even spent, he kept humping—little twitches, aftershocks, like his cock hadn’t realized it was over.
Viktor didn’t give Jayce more than a breath—barely a heartbeat of reprieve—before his fingers tangled into Jayce’s hair, not yanking, not punishing, but firm—commanding. His gaze pinned Jayce where he knelt, still trembling from the aftermath, lips red, chin wet.
“Use that mouth,” Viktor said, low and sharp, voice thrumming with control. “You want to be good for me, don’t you?”
Jayce nodded, dazed, pupils blown wide as he leaned into Viktor’s grip like a leash.
Viktor tugged down the waist of his leggings—slow, deliberate—until his cunt was bare and glistening, flushed and slick, the scent of him thick in the air. Wet not from himself alone. Anticipation, dominance, need—all soaked into the heat between his legs.
Jayce moaned just seeing it. His hands fluttered up but didn’t dare touch—not until Viktor guided him, tilting his head down, not rough but inescapable. Jayce went willingly, mouth open, tongue already out, whining like he was starved.
When he finally kissed Viktor’s cunt, it was like a man drowning finding air. His lips latched around Viktor’s clit, tongue working in broad, desperate strokes that turned quickly into something sharper, more focused. He sucked with worship, with purpose, groaning into him like it wasn’t just hunger but devotion.
Viktor exhaled through his nose, steady and pleased, his hand tightening in Jayce’s hair, holding him there, exactly where he belonged. “That’s it,” he murmured, eyes half-lidded as he rocked his hips slow against Jayce’s mouth. “Made just to please me.”
Jayce moaned in agreement, every sound lost against wet flesh. He licked, he sucked, he made out Viktor’s clit like it was a lover’s mouth, like he could speak devotion through friction alone, lips sealing around it again and again. Viktor tasted like salt and skin and heat, and Jayce couldn’t get enough—tongue dragging lower, then back up, breath catching as he pushed in deeper.
Viktor’s thighs tensed on either side of his face, his slick coating Jayce’s chin as he ground into the rhythm, calm but relentless. Jayce just moaned louder, hands clutching Viktor’s hips like they were anchor points, desperate not to be pulled away.
Viktor’s grip twisted tighter in Jayce’s hair as his hips began to move with abandon—not the slow, controlled roll of before, but something frantic, wild, utterly self-serving. He used Jayce’s face like it belonged to him, like it was made for this and nothing else. His slick thighs clenched tighter around Jayce’s flushed cheeks, cunt grinding down over his mouth with each breathless thrust.
Jayce moaned into it, tongue obediently flat and eager, just a platform now—wet, warm, steady. He let Viktor fuck his tongue like it was nothing more than a toy crafted for Viktor’s singular pleasure. His eyes rolled back, lashes fluttering, fingers digging into Viktor’s hips to hold him in place even as the muscles above him surged and flexed in rhythmic, urgent pulses.
The sounds Viktor made shifted—no longer calculated, no longer cool. High-pitched and raw, his voice cracked as he started chanting Jayce’s name like it was the only word left in his mouth. Each breath was a broken syllable, trembling between command and plea.
“Jayce—Jayce—fuck, Jayce—”
Then Viktor’s whole body locked, trembling at the edge, before the dam broke.
His cunt spasmed, a torrent gushing across Jayce’s face in hot, pulsing bursts. It soaked his lips, his chin, even his cheeks, as Viktor cried out, grinding down hard against his tongue like it could pull every last tremor out of him. Jayce never flinched. He took it—eager, devoted, practically beaming as Viktor came undone all over his face.
Jayce didn’t move from where Viktor had left him—kneeling, soaked in slick and flushed with awe. He leaned in without hesitation, tongue darting out to catch what he could, lapping slow and reverent at Viktor’s thighs, his folds, the shine clinging to soft skin. Each stroke was tender, devotional, as though cleaning up was a privilege rather than a task.
Then, lips parting with a soft, wet sigh, he began to kiss his way downward. Along Viktor’s leg, over the fabric still clinging to his thigh, down to his calf, his ankle. Every kiss was gentle now—worshipful, not greedy. When he reached Viktor’s foot, he didn’t rush. He nuzzled against it, cheek pressing into the arch, eyes half-lidded, murmuring something low and unintelligible before placing the lightest kiss on the top of it. Then another. Then one more.
Viktor’s hand came down at last—fingers stroking Jayce’s hair, slow and firm, the touch grounding. His breathing had evened, but the glow hadn’t left his cheeks. His posture softened as he looked down at the mess of a man kneeling before him. When he spoke, his voice was quieter than before—still rich, still measured, but stripped of that clinical distance.
“I told myself it was about observation,” Viktor said, stroking his fingers through damp hair, smoothing it back. “That you were just… a subject. A curiosity.”
His hand lingered, thumb tracing the curve of Jayce’s temple.
“I measured your responses. Noted the flush in your cheeks, the dilation of your pupils, the tremors in your limbs.” A faint, crooked smile pulled at Viktor’s lips. “All data. All perfectly catalogued.”
Jayce gazed up at him, lips parted, still dazed with devotion.
“But somewhere along the line…” Viktor’s voice wavered—just barely. “It stopped being about the data. It stopped being about theory.”
He exhaled through his nose, long and slow, as if the next words cost something to say.
“I realized how precious you are to me, Jayce. Not because of your reactions. But because it’s you.”
His hand slid down, cupping Jayce’s jaw. His thumb traced the slick on Jayce’s cheek—not to wipe it away, but to feel it.
“Brilliant, foolish, loyal you. I wouldn’t trade that for a thousand theories.”