Archive of Our Own

Viktor knew this day would come.

High up in his tower, in the safe confines of his study, far isolated from the din of battle and smoke and bloodshed, he sees his stronghold laid to waste.

Houses destroyed, set on fire, smoldering remains of collapsed wood and stone. His people on the ground, stiffening, glassy eyed but no doubt still warm, fresh blood drenching the dirt.

More continue to fall, screams and pleads from their mouths before arrows pierce their heads and swords plunge through their hearts. Ruthless, clean, and swift.

In the heart of chaos is a man clad in full plate armor, all heavy, glistening steel, blinding under the hot sun, not a single bloodstain on him as he exudes an aura of holy light.

His hand glows with crackling white energy, blessed by holy deities to cut down enemies in his path, bolts of lightning striking down with each wave of his arm to smite Viktor's people where they stand.

His hair has grown out from what Viktor remembers, long enough now to cover the nape of his neck, with a trimmed beard to match, every bit the vision of a knight in shiny armor that Viktor had once clung to, admired.

Loved.

How foolish he was, in his pitiful youth.

Viktor clenches his jaw and draws on what remains of his power, beckoning the dredges to obey against the crippling tide of exhaustion, black energy coalescing around his fists. He draws in the air, a familiar dance as magic hums in a dark cloud around him, webs of tendrils shooting towards the sky.

The heavens split, cracks in the cloudless day as scorching balls of fire begin to descend down with frightening speed, a hellish meteor shower exploding upon impact and fire bursting forth.

Some of the knights are instantly vaporized, so quick that not a single sound escapes before they're reduced to nothing, not even cinders. Others cry and flee as the fire spreads, engulfing all that Viktor can see — the city, his people, his enemies — it's little solace for what he's already lost, will never get back.

Yet in the flames, he sees a single figure standing tall and proud, that irritating, unfaltering golden aura still about him, unfazed by the sea of flames, marching ever steadily on.

The figure locks gaze with Viktor through the acres of burning land, up the spiraling tower and through the window from which Viktor keeps a watchful eye and commands his people.

His eyes are hardened gold, only cold hatred and determination coloring his features. It makes Viktor's insides clench, sick to his stomach as his heart skips a beat, contorting painfully in his chest when it should've been long dead, severed from something as trite as heartache.

At that very moment, Viktor knows the battle has been lost.

The figure draws a gleaming arc in the air with his hand, cutting into the mortal plane with a shower of sparks, then steps through, disappearing from the field of wreckage in a blink.

Viktor lets out a shaking exhale and turns his back to the window, feeling the last of his strength leave him, and he slides down the smooth cobblestone wall, shrinking into a heap on the carpeted floor, watching as the same sparks reappear before him.

The man steps through the dimension door, stature large and imposing, fully blocking the door out of Viktor's study from where Viktor sits. He tosses his shield aside with a loud thud, muttering a quick prayer with the holy symbol around his neck, sword raised as he walks forward, boots and armor thundering with each step.

Viktor shivers as an oppressive aura begins to radiate outward, closing in on him from all sides, a thick, uncomfortable heat that saps his strength like a leech and locks him in place until the sword is at his throat, too spent to try and counter it.

"Jayce," he says, looking up at the man. Soft like a lover's call, but a feeble imitation, poisoned by the irreversible divide between them. "Faithful servant of the All Creator. They call you Defender of Tomorrow these days, if I recall correctly."

Jayce is as handsome as the day Viktor left him.

Up close, Viktor can see the mark of time, the faint beginnings of wrinkles by his eyes and lips, old, faded scars that are new to Viktor's eyes. Rugged, jaded by the turbulent years and hardship. No thanks to Viktor.

Viktor's heart gives another painful squeeze.

But it's not regret. No.

Jayce has— they've both done too much to each other, hurt, destruction that can't be taken back, blood on their hands that Viktor doesn't regret a single instance of.

Jayce deserved it all and more. (That's what he tells himself, every night.)

But that weak, sentimental part of him, that part he's locked away for good, languishing in the deep recesses of his psyche — it yearns for the years they had spent apart, missed watching Jayce mature and grow into the man he is today, the parts of Jayce he'll never be able to see.

The sword presses harder against his throat, cold steel against warm skin, sharp edge cutting into him, and he feels a slight trickle of blood. Jayce remains impassive, eyes as cold as the blade, almost as if waiting for Viktor to say more, to do something, even though he's the one keeping Viktor pinned against the wall with his spell.

"What are you waiting for? You have the right hand of Zaun at your mercy."

Something coppery bubbles up in Viktor's chest. He coughs it out as it burns through his nose and throat, dark, viscous blood that splatters onto Jayce's sword and instantly sizzles, disintegrated by the All Creator's holy light. He really wore himself out in the battle, far more than he'd realized.

Jayce keeps his inscrutable gaze, tilting his head and observing Viktor as if he's an interesting specimen under a magnifying glass, not unlike the silly magic experiments they used to do in their youth. Viktor must be as puzzling and foreign to Jayce as Jayce is to him. And as they should be, with all the years of separation between them.

"Why did you kill my mother?" Jayce finally asks. Rough, gravel-like, deeper and darker than in Viktor's memory, fatigued from the long and brutal fight. But still dangerous, a note of power coiled underneath the exhaustion, ready to strike.

It sends another shiver down Viktor's spine as his stomach clenches in dismay.

He should've expected it, had braced himself for Jayce to ask him for months, years, but bitterness still hits him like a ton of steel, turns the blood in his veins into ice, body seizing in place. That is the person he is to Jayce now, after all.

That he would ever kill Ximena in cold blood is laughable. Ximena, who had always treated Viktor with kindness, took him under her wing like a second son when he lost his parents, fed and clothed him and taught him every Piltover custom she knew. But evidently not to Jayce.

Not to the Jayce who no longer trusted him the day Viktor unlocked his wild magic. Uncontrollable, dangerous, evil magic that ran potently in his bloodline and tainted his being. That Jayce had stood by, then, let Viktor be exiled with nothing but the clothes on his back, penniless and name in ruins.

He's simply a ruthless monster to Piltover. Unhinged, sorcerer scum like they'd always warned in their bedtime stories, someone who would stoop as low as murdering Jayce's mother for all that she's ever done for him.

Viktor spits out the remnants of acrid blood, watches as it evaporates again to nothing. Filth in the All Creator's eyes. "It was necessary. Sometimes you need to strike where it hurts most."

He swallows and lets the statement sink in, watches as Jayce narrows his eyes, searching Viktor's face. Considering.

Some of Silco's men had gotten to her before Viktor had even caught wind of it being planned, and it'd worked as well as they had hoped. Jayce was out of commission for many months when she died, more than ample time for them to take back much of the land Piltover had raided and claimed, swinging the war back in their favor when Piltover's most prized paladin was gone.

But it's simpler to go with the lie, pretend that he was the one who killed Ximena and cement the image of the man in Jayce's head. Violent. Heartless. Viktor doesn't think the person he's become these days is that different, anyway.

Jayce clenches his jaw, muscles working, teeth grinding, the sword in his hand shaking an infinitesimal degree. The first crack in his stony mask, a hint of frustration. "Did you ever regret it? Any of this?"

Viktor barely suppresses a laugh.

He can imagine it all too easily, the mental gymnastics that Jayce is prone to do, desperate to hold onto something that would grant Viktor an inch of grace, some measure of redemption, proof that Viktor isn't the terrifying, wicked presence as the Pilties speak of him now.

Better to crush that wishful thinking before it even blooms.

"No."

And that much is the truth — there was never a world where Viktor would've stood by and watched Piltover raze Zaun to the ground, destroy his homeland under the guise of self defense, of justice under the All Creator. He would choose to fight against Piltover a thousand times over, even if it meant forsaking Jayce.

(Jayce forsook him first.)

Jayce smiles — just a ghostly twitch of the muscle, mirthless. Something flashes through his eyes, too quick for Viktor to catch. "Neither do I."

The sword glides downward, tracing over the hollow of Viktor's throat and past his collarbones, coming to a stop where Viktor's heart beats in frantic, hummingbird pulses. It cuts cleanly through the layers of robes Viktor wears, fabric splattered ocher by his blood, but not through his skin.

Jayce seems to be considering it, though. He holds it to Viktor's heart, wordless, eyebrows slightly drawn as if deep in thought. One well-aimed plunge will shatter right through Viktor's ribcage and into the heart, an instant death. It would be a mercy for Viktor, for all that he's done against Jayce's people.

And he would gladly embrace it, too. It is a killing blow to Silco with his territory fallen, leaving only the heart of Zaun as their last line of defense. The war is lost for all intents and purposes, has done nothing but take and take, so many lives perished in a meaningless crusade, so much blood spilled that rivers ran red.

Viktor closes his eyes and waits.

But the piercing blade never comes.

He hears Jayce's breathing, deep and labored, the sharp tip digging into his chest, the hissing of blood continuously evaporating upon contact, but only a shallow cut, a spare few droplets.

Eventually he reopens his eyes and looks up at Jayce. The other man's expressions have rearranged to be carefully blank, eyes unreadable, lips pursed into a thin line, but Viktor recognizes it with familiar dread. It's the calm before the storm, the streak of mania Jayce has always kept well hidden, terrifying, destructive when unleashed.

"They want you alive," Jayce says. His voice remains quiet and even. Almost contemplative, if Viktor didn't know better.

The sword wanders downward still, effortlessly shredding through the fabric. Viktor's robes slide down his shoulders in a heaping pile, bunching around his hips. "Put you on public trial according to the law. Make an example out of you."

Viktor takes a trembling breath. Jayce's sword remains too close for him to move — one wrong gesture and Jayce can send the blade deep inside him where it would hurt, but not enough to kill.

It's all too clear that Jayce plans to toy with him, wants to draw it out as long and painfully as possible. He doesn't blame Jayce.

But it doesn't quite make sense.

Not the mental and emotional level response that Jayce is exhibiting, but the fact that Jayce has always been bound by his Oath to the Crown, his unswerving duty to the sovereign and its people, to uphold its laws.

It's the source of his power as a paladin, the reason his sword, his symbol, his armor continue to shine with holy light in its purest form.

To mete out selfish punishment is to flout the law, and yet the light does not falter as he rakes his eyes over Jayce's holy symbol in confusion, keenly feeling its might as a hot burn against his body, in Jayce's oppressive aura that continues to immobilize his limbs.

Something is not right.

Viktor straightens against the cobblestone, another mouthful of blood welling in his throat. He turns his face away to spit it out, forcing down the panic beginning to curdle in his stomach. "What are you doing, Jayce?"

What have you done to yourself?

"Sparing you," Jayce says, clipped. "I'd asked for this job so I can kill you with my own hands, before anyone else can ever get to you."

It's unsettling how calmly Jayce can say these things.

Viktor remembers him as a much more naive man, heart of gold and eager to please, if occasionally quick to anger and prone to bouts of impulse. He can never imagine these venomous words leaving the old Jayce's mouth, the old Jayce he knew.

He supposes that they are both different men now.

"I'd spent many nights thinking about it, how I would do it. Dreamed about it. A knife to the heart, smiting you from afar. Or—" Jayce continues, keeping his sword against Viktor's navel as his other hand comes up to wrap itself around Viktor's neck.

It's big enough to nearly circle around, rough and calloused, a counterpoint to the gentleness he holds Viktor— "snapping your neck in an instant."

"What are you waiting for, then?"

Viktor can feel his throat bob against Jayce's hand as it pulls in slowly, applying only the tiniest bit of pressure that Viktor can still speak and breathe normally, but the weight of his hand stays as a reminder of how easily Jayce can kill him in the blink of an eye, with Viktor trapped in his grasp.

He feels a warm exhale from Jayce, hears a clatter as the sword is tossed to one side, and Jayce's hand lowers, thumb stroking the cut on his throat, a burning ache but no longer bleeding from how shallow it was. Jayce's eyes seem to soften, a tender, sickening emotion alongside the crazed glint.

The magic that entraps Viktor disappears with a snap.

What foolish sentimentality.

Viktor draws in a full lungful of air, freed at last from the spell, and his hands come up in a flash to grab onto Jayce's forearm, reciting a quick incantation as lightning lances from his fingers to Jayce.

The effect is instantaneous — arcs of electricity fly, the effects amplified by Jayce's metal armor, shocking him under the rings of chainmail and steel. Jayce lets out a guttural cry as he staggers backwards and lets go of Viktor, clutching the spot on his forearm where he took the brunt of the impact, a smoldering black print in the shape of Viktor's fingertips.

Viktor grabs his staff and clambers up the windowsill, shattering the glass and already beginning to summon his flying boots before he's forcibly yanked back down by Jayce with an arm locked around his neck, this time with crushing strength that knocks the air out of his windpipes.

They both crash back to the floor as Viktor splutters, gasping for air, hands clawing at Jayce's grip and body writhing as he slams painfully into the firm ridges of Jayce's armor.

Jayce maneuvers to pin Viktor underneath him, twisting Viktor's arms behind his back and shoving a knee against Viktor's bucking hip and legs. "It's suicide for you to go out there," he growls, frustration palpable this time.

"Let me die with dignity," Viktor wheezes out, jerking his arms against Jayce's grasp. He's met with another stern shove against the floor, carpet rubbing harshly against his bare torso.

"Viktor."

And he despises the way Jayce says his name, too soft, too full of mocking, saccharine affection. He tries again to extract himself from underneath Jayce, a futile gesture when Jayce has always far outmatched him in strength, but he refuses to take defeat as shameful as this.

"Be honest with me for once, Viktor. You still care."

The absurdity of his statement elicits laughter from Viktor, shocked and pitchy. Viktor coughs out a few more specks of blood, wishing he could turn and spit it in Jayce's face, marr those handsome features with grime and ruin that infuriatingly high and mighty image.

"You must've knocked your head on the way here," Viktor says instead.

Of course he doesn't care.

Why would he?

The same man who promised to dream together, forge a brighter future together in one breath, then tossed Viktor away in the next when he realized the very essence of Viktor was everything that stood against the good of Piltover, against the All Creator he swore to protect.

What was there to cling onto?

"Viktor."

He hears the sound of cloth being shredded, the sensation of expensive fabric against himself, silky smooth, binding his wrists in a secure knot — tied up by his own robes. How humiliating.

Jayce flips him onto his back, keeping his weight on Viktor's legs. Viktor's arms press uncomfortably against him now, trapped between him and the floor, forcing his back into an unnatural arc. It would've put a strain on his old body, before ancient magic surged through every fiber of his being and birthed him anew, returning vigor and mobility to his being.

"You've always worn your heart on your sleeve," Jayce sighs. The hardness in his features seems to have faded, replaced by something Viktor would think is wistful, even loving if he didn't know better, but the dangerous glint remains, lurking within the honeyed depths. "You're an open book, V."

The pet name dredges up too many old memories as well. Like stinging, infected wounds that Viktor loathes to admit, memories of their youth, when Viktor naively believed there was nothing that could break him and Jayce apart.

He struggles again, useless under Jayce's iron strength and the paralyzing mass of his armor.

"Kill me," he says, insides withering from shame at the pleading tone he's taken on.

But it hurts far more to be reminded of the past, to have Jayce so close in physical proximity, acting in all the ways that makes the traitorous, weak part of Viktor want to believe that Jayce, too, might still care.

"I did truly want to kill you, at first. Thought it'd be the best for both of us for months."

The hand is back on Viktor's face, drifting over his split and bleeding lip, wiping away more of his tainted blood. It frizzles at Jayce's touch, bending to the searing glow, and even Jayce himself feels too bright to look at. "But the way you're looking at me, V. That's how I knew. So I changed my mind."

He moves further to Viktor's chest, palm cupped over the rapid flutter of Viktor's heart, caressing the mark of sorcery, an ugly, organic, sprawling pattern that'd materialized the day Jayce had pumped experimental healing magic into his body in a desperate bid to save his life, awakening the wild magic that laid dormant since birth.

And it travels further down, tracing over Viktor's navel, resting at the waistband of his breeches.

Viktor freezes, his mind finally clicking into place.

"So you will neither kill me nor turn me in," he says slowly. His breath is shaking, pulse frantic as he forces his voice to remain calm. "You intend to… what? Fuck me into submission?"

"If that's what I have to do."

Jayce leans down and closes his lips over the side of Viktor's neck, mouthing at the fragile skin beneath his jaw, licking at the column of pale muscle before he bites down hard with his canines, so hard it's only a hair from breaking through skin.

Viktor jolts, a moan slipping out of his mouth, unbidden.

In his darkest, his most pitiful moments alone, he's thought about this.

Wanted this, craved this, yearned for the feeling of Jayce's body against his, a heavy, comforting weight draped over his smaller frame. Jayce's calloused hands roaming him, the exhilarating friction, the way Jayce would mark Viktor as his with lips and fingers and cock and leave him begging for more.

Viktor would fuck himself with his fingers to these memories, too slender, too soft to match how Jayce's felt, mind racing to recreate how Jayce would make love to him when they were younger, then coming with a stifled cry. And the post-sex clarity would always hit, remind him of how pathetic he is for still wanting it from a man who wished nothing but the worst for him.

Jayce's mouth trails hotly down his throat, sucking more marks by his clavicles, and a hand moves to massage one of the pink and erect nubs on Viktor's chest, stroking, squeezing, flicking.

"C-cruel and unusual punishment, Jayce," Viktor gasps between the traitorous moans, the bucking of his hips, seeking for more. "Is this not illegal in the laws of Piltover? What of your oath?"

Jayce scoffs against Viktor's skin, a derisive noise. "My old oath is long dead and gone."

Viktor's mind screeches to a halt, though his body continues to react to the ministrations, undeterred.

"I reforged it with the All Creator when you left," Jayce murmurs. He shifts to kneel between Viktor's legs and spreads them wide open, a knee coming up to press against Viktor's crotch, featherlight, teasing. "My loyalty, my power — it's no longer tied to the Crown."

He rips Viktor's breeches open. "It's with Vengeance."

Viktor shivers as the cold air hits his exposed cunt, feels the draft from his open window coming in and washing over his naked body, settling in his bones, Jayce's mouth and hands a heated counterpoint against it all. But it's not enough to melt the ice he feels on the inside, the stone in his stomach, the mouthful of bile and blood rising to his throat.

It's just as he had feared.

No wonder Jayce continues to exude holy light, his power unhindered despite the blasphemous actions against the crown. The adherence to law no longer matters now that he's traded his allegiance to it for vengeance.

This is what Jayce truly intends, then. Not just taking Viktor, but to make Viktor admit that he's still held onto Jayce for all these years, strip his heart and dignity alongside his body so that Jayce can crush them with his own hands, rip it all to shreds as payback for murdering Jayce's mother and waging war against his people.

He'd always known that Jayce must've hated him, but he's never considered — never wanted to consider — just how much hatred there could be, cannot have imagined the level of cruelty Jayce would one day become capable of.

That obsessive streak of his has unleashed itself at last, an all-consuming flame, raging, deadly, bent on smiting Viktor to cinders.

"So this is still justice." Viktor's nails cut into his palms, fists tightly clenched. He chokes back another noise when Jayce presses a kiss to his cheek, hands stroking the inside of his thighs; his body is in sharp conflict with his mind, desperate, physically drunk on the attention, demanding even more. "What twisted justice in the name of the All Creator."

"It's absolution, V," Jayce breathes, soft, terrifying, grating. Viktor wants him to drop the loving act, wipe that self-assured attitude from his face, would rather Jayce tear him apart than play whatever this psychological game is. "Tell me you want me, too."

"You have— haahh—" Viktor lets out a needy mewl when Jayce's fingers ghost over his crotch, already disgracefully wet and leaking past his folds, just shy of touching him properly— "lost your mind."

"I've lost it since I lost you."

And what an absurd lie that is, when Jayce has never once reached out in all the years apart.

Viktor had held onto hope in the beginning that surely Jayce would come for him, write to him or send a discreet message. He'd waited, thinking, hoping with a naive heart that he would receive a sign, anything to prove that he'd still meant something to Jayce, that he wasn't just abandoned.

They'd only met on the battlefield thereafter.

For a moment the fury overtakes him, spitting, overpowering rage that Jayce would think him to be so gullible, and he takes note how Jayce seems to have drawn back, perched into his heels with an almost regretful look in his eyes.

Tender, weak. An opening.

Viktor kicks his legs out, aiming for Jayce's chest and sending him teetering backwards, caught off guard and unbalanced. He grits his teeth and rolls onto his side, limbs scrabbling for leverage to push himself back up from the floor, wrists straining against the bonds.

The fabric is loosening, its structural integrity already ruptured when Jayce had torn into it, the fibers delicate and fraying.

There's still a chance to run if he can just—

"Hold."

Ropes fly from Jayce's outstretched palm towards Viktor, winding around Viktor's arms and tying them together with a much stronger grip, knocking him back down onto the floor. More ropes snake up his legs to loop around his ankles and thighs, connecting them in neat knots and anchoring to the furniture around him, forcing his legs wide and rendering them immobile in a way that his old body could've never withstood.

It's elegant work, the web of lattice and knots across his body — perfectly Jayce and his technical ingenuity, both practical and refined.

And it's quite possibly the most humiliating thing Viktor's ever experienced, bound and spread open as he is, dripping cunt on display. A lamb ready for slaughter.

Jayce only casts him a fleeting glance before he's clasping his holy symbol again and chanting an invocation. A mist of white light takes form and envelops them in a bubble of warmth — or it should've been warmth, but it feels suffocating to Viktor as his open cuts prickle, protesting against the holy energy woven into Jayce's spell.

It pries at his tired mind, sinking into him like a dense fog as he's too exhausted to try resisting. He recognizes it as a Zone of Truth, stealing away his ability to lie. Jayce seems to flinch as well as the spell settles over himself, as if he's voluntarily letting the spell take control of him, too.

"You…" Viktor glares at Jayce, shocked by the underhanded choice.

"I'm trying to make it easy for both of us. Tell me the truth Viktor." Jayce meets the glare, unfazed as Viktor struggles against the ropes with renewed frenzy. He looks earnest, even, brimming with that maddening confidence. "I know you still love me. You've been wanting this. Speak."

The magic-imbued command sweeps over Viktor before he can react, ensnaring him in a chokehold, urging him to respond, to obey.

"I love you," Viktor gasps, the treacherous truth spilling out of his mouth beyond control, helpless to stop it. "Never stopped loving— wanting you. I wish I never did."

He wants to die.

Something hot wells up in his eyes, blurring Jayce's figure. He can only make out the vague shapes of Jayce, can see that Jayce is shedding his armor piece by piece until there's nothing left but his undershirt and breeches, dropping them to the ground in succession, each resounding thud like another knife to Viktor's heart.

Jayce has finally heard what he's wanted.

Now there's only one thing left for the taking.

He's sure Jayce must look smug, having successfully dug into Viktor's heart and torn out the secret he's harbored for so long. Concrete proof in his hands for how pathetic Viktor has always been, his woeful need for love, for attention, no matter how much he's spent years otherwise.

Viktor chokes when a sob breaks through, an aborted, despairing noise, betraying his true thoughts, his tears gathering and cascading down his face. "Please, Jayce. Kill me if you still harbor even the slightest bit of affection for me. On account of who we used to be."

Jayce leans back down with forearms on either side of Viktor, the weight of him pressing down on Viktor like a cage, rough linen against Viktor's chest, the scorching furnace of Jayce's body temperature smothering his clammy skin.

He thumbs the side of Viktor's face, wiping away his tear streaks. "Shhhhh. It's okay."

And he kisses Viktor.

It's sweet and gentle, just like he used to many years ago when Viktor was still sick and human and fragile, when the war was but an abstract thing, a distant possibility. As if he loves Viktor, and the thought only makes Viktor spiral further.

But it also burns in a way that it did not used to, the inescapable, infinite power of Jayce's holy light seeping into the kiss, as if to rid the filth in Viktor's being and wash him clean.

Viktor can hardly regulate his breathing, chest heaving from the burden of his cries, can only let Jayce slide into his mouth with little resistance, deepening the kiss and coaxing his tongue, taste the familiar iron and hearth of Jayce.

But he lets himself drown in it all, take in every part of Jayce that he's missed in these years, Jayce's kiss and his taste and his touch. And he loathes himself as he does, for giving up, giving in so easily, a hapless moth to the flame, never able to resist Jayce.

Maybe he does deserve to be taken apart like this, for all the blood on his hands.

Jayce seems to be content with taking it slow, kissing Viktor like he means it, like he's making up for lost time as his hands wander over Viktor's body, light and unhurried. They linger by the scar on Viktor's chest, tracing the lines of his sorcerer's mark as he breaks away from the kiss. "Did this hurt?"

"Huh?"

Viktor stares at him, dazed and light-headed from the kiss.

"I never regretted it, by the way." Jayce's voice is quiet, but razor-sharp with emotion, brittle and dark. "Since it meant keeping you alive."

"Wait, Jayce—"

Jayce silences him with another kiss, swallowing whatever words Viktor had wanted to say. His hands fumble with his own breeches, shedding them with a rustle and tossing them in a heap alongside his armor, then lines his hips to Viktor's.

Viktor moans, feeling the hard line of Jayce's cock against his folds, hot and throbbing, wants to rub against it if he wasn't so trapped by the ropes, chase for any friction for his own neglected cock.

It's meaningless to fight it, at this point.

"I've wanted this for so long. Dreamed about this, too." Jayce grinds ever so slightly, dick rutting in the copious amounts of slick that has collected, his breath hitching too. "Having you back in my arms and fucking you so hard you can't even think about leaving me again."

It's as if Jayce cared.

But it just doesn't make sense to Viktor.

But the Zone of Truth is still up; Viktor can see it in the air, the shimmer of holy light that continues to hang over them. Every word Jayce says must be true, but they can't seem to make sense in Viktor's head, too incongruent with what Viktor has always held as the truth.

That Jayce couldn't— wouldn't care about him. Not anymore.

"Look at me, V."

A hand cups his chin, redirecting his face back to Jayce, forcing him to make eye contact. Viktor blinks back his tears, attempting to refocus his vision, but Jayce remains a swirling image, fading in and out. The other man seems insistent, though, with his eyebrows knitted together, golden eyes ablaze with something Viktor can't make out.

"I'd always wanted to find you. But I was a coward. I couldn't risk breaking my oath to the crown."

… Jayce had … what?

"I thought that I'd be nothing without my powers. I couldn't protect you."

Viktor's head is swimming as he considers Jayce's words. It's everything he'd wanted to hear, even resorted to praying to the All Creator in his lowest moments, after he had been abandoned, had hated himself for it.

It's too good to be true, too perfect that it must be an illusion.

But it is the truth, hanging over Viktor in the shape of Jayce's holy aura and his solid form bracketing Viktor, taunting him, mocking him for all the lost years, the bitterness, the foolishness.

"You'd wanted—" Viktor inhales sharply, aghast.

"I never stopped."

The hand on Viktor's face moves down to his throat, thumb over the rapidly beating pulse. "But I found that I could reforge my oath, and the one of vengeance called to me, compelled me towards all of those who started this war, kept us apart all this time."

Jayce's voice drops deeper, sincere, dangerous, heavy with promise. "I'm not leaving you again."

The tip of Jayce's cock nudges against Viktor's hole, pushing through the tight ring of muscle, slow but unrelenting. He feeds it into Viktor's waiting cunt inch by inch, keeps another firm hand on Viktor's hip as Viktor squirms and gasps, his underprepared entrance fluttering from the intrusion, the stretch almost too much.

He hasn't had anything thicker than his own fingers since he'd left Jayce, had forgotten how big Jayce is, body seizing until Jayce finally stops and bottoms out in him with a grunt.

"So perfect for me," Jayce breathes, words unsteady but sounding pleased. He kisses the side of Viktor's face, tongue darting out to lick the salt of his tears. "And all mine."

It's overwhelming, having the full length of Jayce sheathed in him and splitting him open, Jayce's confession still swirling in his head.

He takes in huge gulps of air, trying to breathe through the stretch, the burn of the ropes, the chaos of conflicting thoughts and emotions battling inside of him, and he thinks for a second, hysterical, that death would be kinder than this.

Then Jayce begins to move.

Slowly, patiently, drawing himself out almost completely before driving back in, pushing deeper and deeper, as if molding Viktor's insides into the shape of Jayce.

Viktor quivers with each thrust, unable to stop the feeble, needy cries from his lips, always too much and not enough. And he's paradoxically too exhausted and too wired to even think, has no choice but to take and take, over and over until Jayce shatters him into pieces.

It frightens him to let himself go like this, every fiber of his being at the mercy of Jayce, body strung up and presented like a marionette, obedient to Jayce's every word, every stroke.

But the part he loathes most about himself, the part that's all too breakable, emotional, pitiful, always begging, craving to be loved — it embraces Jayce's command over him, wants nothing more than to let Jayce take over, take all of him.

He's been too tired, been thinking for far too hard, too long.

Time blends into an endless continuum, his mind only focused on the drag of Jayce's cock in and out, the press of Jayce's lips against his skin, the bruising grip on his body, consuming every bit of his awareness and rendering him useless.

He's caught by surprise when his peak finally washes over him, a slow building wave creeping up onto him until it snaps, the pleasure immediately becoming too much, all encompassing. His body convulses from the shock, come gushing out of his entrance and drenching his own thighs, cock still hard and aching, untouched as Jayce continues to drive into him, heedless of his orgasm.

"J-Jayce," he hiccups.

Jayce's cock is too much all of a sudden, every nerve lit and firing, hypersensitive to every bit of touch, every bit of friction. But there's nowhere to go, caught as he is under Jayce, and Jayce doesn't seem to plan on stopping.

"Please, Jayce. Please, please."

He doesn't know what he's pleading for, only registers the incessant thrusting of Jayce's dick in him, carrying him through the aftershocks, the continuous tremors wracking through his body.

"You can give me one more, V." Jayce's teeth grazes Viktor's ear, his voice hot, tantalizing, imploring. "Give yourself totally over to me."

Viktor keens as Jayce adjusts his angle, rubbing right against where he's most sensitive. His shoulders are aching, and so does his back and thighs from staying in one position for too long, and he wonders deliriously if pushing for a second orgasm is what kills him instead of a blade through the heart.

And he hears a voice, whiny, broken, loud and incessant in his ears before it dawns on him that it's himself, crying out with Jayce's every movement.

"Release."

The ropes instantly drop him from the vice-like grip, collapsing into a pile on the floor, and his own limbs go slack as well without the support, flopping bonelessly down.

Jayce pulls himself out with a wet pop, and Viktor lets out another mewl from the loss, hole clenching down on nothing, realizing that he does want— need more. Needs Jayce's presence, Jayce's cock in him, needs the hollowness inside him to be filled until he can't think.

He feels himself being rolled to his side, the scraps of his torn robes being removed from his wrists, finally freeing his arms and shoulders before a heavy mass lowers to the floor as well and settles behind him, pulling his sweat soaked back flush against Jayce's chest.

Jayce gently pushes Viktor's thigh forward, nudging his legs apart as Jayce's fingers spread his swollen labia, two fingers sliding back into his hole and stretching it open. The blunt head of Jayce's cock catches the dripping rim, rutting against the mess that's accumulated before pushing slowly back in.

It's a more awkward angle this way; Viktor tilts his hips back for better access and feels a responding, amused huff against his neck as Jayce's hand moves back up Viktor's thigh, hooking it at the knee, bringing it higher up and drawing the leg closer to Viktor's chest.

Viktor hisses at the burn returning to his muscle, cutting off into a whimper when Jayce begins to fuck into him in earnest, his other arm coming around underneath Viktor's neck to rest on his chest, locking Viktor against his body.

It's much more sloppy, rough, his ears filled with obscene sounds of skin slapping skin, and he can't quite get off without Jayce's cock pressing in the right places. He whines again and squirms against Jayce's back, fighting to find a more comfortable angle, only to be stuck in Jayce's arms.

"Touch yourself."

There's a note of command in Jayce's tone, even without the help of his spells, and Viktor can only wordlessly nod and obey, hand gliding down past his abdomen where he can feel the large bulge of Jayce's dick against the smooth plane of his stomach.

He shudders when his palm grinds against the hard and neglected nub, pussy squeezing together with gratifying relief, hearing a curse behind him as Jayce's hips stutter before bringing them fiercely back in.

And he begins to work himself back to the peak, matching his movements with Jayce's, moans growing louder with every thrust, thoughts dissolving into nothing, centered only on the thick girth of Jayce's cock fucking into him, the harsh pressure of his fingers on his clit, the relentless waves of pleasure consuming his mind.

"So loud," Jayce chuckles, not unkind. "You've needed this."

Viktor nods again.

Jayce is right. He always is.

It's as if his soul is bared to Jayce, an open book for reading, the other man in tune with Viktor's every motion, every word, every thought. Just like he always has been.

Two fingers probe at his lips, easing his mouth open and slipping in, pressing down onto his tongue. Viktor immediately sucks on the digits, tasting the salt and iron from himself and Jayce, moaning as he does.

But then the fingers reach a little deeper, press a little harder, right on the border of triggering his gag reflex. Viktor lets out a sound of protest, only for Jayce to shove another finger into his mouth and fuck into him harder, stuffing him full on both ends and holding him down.

The pressure keeps building, taking over the growing numbness in his cunt and cock from the merciless treatment, and Viktor begins to tremble, more and more violently with each passing moment, body tensing, bracing itself for what's to come.

He keens around the fingers in his mouth, hardly able to hold back the noises, tears prickling in his eyes as his hand works furiously. He's so close he can feel it, the precipice dangling in the edges of his consciousness, about to break.

"Come for me."

And that does it.

Viktor comes with a cry for the second time, body jerking in Jayce's arms, fingers stuttering, pussy convulsing in waves as his slick floods his thighs and Jayce's dick, and he bites down hard on Jayce's fingers, hard enough to taste blood.

Jayce yelps in pain, faltering for a split second before resuming his thrusts, pistoning his hips only once, twice, three times more before he buries himself deep into Viktor and comes as well, teeth closing around the juncture between Viktor's neck and shoulder, muffling his own shout.

Viktor can feel the hot spurts of come coating his insides as Jayce's dick pulses repeatedly in him, soaking them both even more, leaving his abdomen uncomfortably full.

He whimpers when Jayce extricates his fingers from Viktor's mouth, moving to sling it around Viktor's chest, sticky and wet, mouth worrying the deep indent he's made on Viktor as he lets down Viktor's raised thigh.

The muscle throbs in pain as adrenaline fades and soreness sets in, and Viktor becomes aware of the pain in the rest of his body, the aches in his shoulders and back and both legs, his raw and swollen cunt from the intense friction.

He faintly registers Jayce by his ear, whispering a nonstop stream of what he thinks is praise, sweet and tender, broad hands roaming his body in comforting strokes, keeping his hole warm and plugged as he feels himself completely melting in Jayce's arms.

The pent up exhaustion is sweeping over him like a tide, days worth of overexertion and sleeplessness finally catching up to him, swift and punishing.

"I love you."

Viktor hears the words but doesn't react, eyes already shut, darkness closing in on his mind, enveloping him in a cocoon, too tired, too emotionally wrung out.

Come daybreak, he may find himself in the dungeons. Or the morning will not come at all, if Jayce decides to spare him the humiliation and kill him.

But he can't find it in himself to care anymore, though. Just lets himself believe in Jayce and indulge in the moment for once, afford a rare kindness to himself where he was always too cautious, too scared to allow, until sleep overtakes him at last.

Viktor comes to with a start, brain still foggy and slow, muscles and joints screaming in pain as if he was trampled by horses. Wetness leaks out of his cunt when he stirs, warm, viscous liquid coating a soft, foreign pair of breeches.

He blinks up at the unfamiliar ceiling, golden sunlight filtering through drawn curtains in burnished hues, his room modestly furnished but cozy. And he picks at the cotton shirt he's wearing, grimacing when it rubs against tender skin, bruised and sensitive from the beard and rope burns.

Piltover's dungeons were far darker and wetter than this, from what he recalls. The air was often suffocatingly humid, reeking of mold and grime and waste, deep underground as it was, lit only by an occasional torch along its stone walls.

And it should be much colder, his breath should be coming out as white puffs, but the bed is comfortable, safe, and so are the thick covers that are tucked around him.

He doesn't understand.

There's a creak and Viktor immediately bolts upright, wincing as his body protests at the sudden movement, turning to the source of the noise. The door opens and Jayce steps in, donned in just a loose green tunic and slacks, hair shaggy and unkempt, with dark circles under his eyes.

It's jarring to see Jayce these days without his armor. Viktor had become so accustomed to meeting the other man on the battlefield, always well-groomed and put together, a beacon of eye-searing holy light, a handsome but formidable force to behold.

He stares at Jayce now, watching in shock as Jayce breaks into a quick stride and swings himself onto the bed, pulling Viktor into a crushing hug and knocking the wind out of his lungs.

"Everything will be okay now, Viktor," he hears Jayce say, gently stroking Viktor's back and kissing his hair.

And that's when he notices the tears in his own eyes, pouring down his face since he awoke, silent but uncontrollable, dripping onto Jayce's shoulder where his chin rests.

Viktor hesitates for a beat before his arms come up to circle around Jayce, choosing once more to believe.