Work Text:
He didn’t usually find himself this close to Zaun. He avoided it. It tasted bitter in his throat when he looked upon its fluorescence, its mire, it was bitter. But sometimes there were reasons to journey beyond the limits of the upper side of Piltover, and sometimes there were supplies that were just easier to find in areas that were not so privy to the regulations of the allegedly more righteous. So he went bottomside, wearing a hood, and he didn’t think anything of it.
He didn’t think any of it, that is, until he was back in the proper parts of the city. When he smelt the distinct cut of something he couldn’t forget. He would know. He’d tried. He’d tried to drink it away, tried to forget it, tried to do anything to get it from his mind but he couldn’t. No, he couldn’t forget it, and when his nostrils flared he knew there was no other option but to follow it. It was tinged with iron to the point that he could taste it and it made his mouth water, saliva slick behind his lips. Years. It had been years.
What the fuck was he doing here?
Logically, the best option was to go back to the lab. To his apartment. To forget this olfactory abomination that made his every nerve writhe under his skin like specimens exposed to something offensive. Ignore it. He should ignore it and go on with his life but why–
From his understanding, Viktor–whatever remained of him, in that biomedical grade metal shell–had been on underground suppressants as long as they’d known each other. It was only for a fleeting, very fleeting moment he had not been able to get his hands on them that he…
That was why. That was fucking why. He hadn’t been able to get his hands on suppressants, and that’s why he could smell him. The desire coursed through him from his toes to his fingertips to throw down the supplies he had ventured down here for and skulk after that smell, but he didn’t. Not directly.
But he did follow it. And the more he followed it, and the stronger it was, he noticed there was something else. There was another scent that was woven amongst the musk and iron that made him plant his heels firmly on the cracked concrete of whatever alleyway he trailed Viktor’s hormonal signal through. Something even more acrid, something like the shock of electricity. Something that made him clench his teeth and almost elicited a growl.
It was the hormonal pattern of another alpha.
So it was at this point that the supplies he had come down here for–various odds and ends, a few things that were a little more regulated topside including certain experimental serums that he could replace if he really needed to–were thrown away. The scents got stronger, stronger and he could not give less of a damn exactly why he had come down to Zaun. Suddenly, what he came down to Zaun for was the cutting iron scent and the acrid-electricity of an alpha that dared to touch what was his. He’d tear him apart.
Hell, he’d tear both of them apart, and they would deserve it. He’d fuck him first, though. Rip that alpha’s scent out of his throat along with jugular. He’d deserve it. He’d deserve it.
Bullshit, he was dead. He had known all of it was bullshit.
Somewhere near Emberflit, from his records. Deeper than he had meant to go, but he couldn’t just leave the scent. He couldn’t just drop it. If he was able to, he would have; he would have simply gone on about his day paying no mind to the fact that he had smelled that. But he couldn’t, and he knew he couldn’t, even if he lied and said that he would have preferred to.
Another figure moved in the twilit dark, lank and lean, and with an uneven gait. Even if parts of his body had been changed and augmented, fine tuned and perfect (he hadn’t been imperfect before, he hadn’t been imperfect before) it was still him. If Jayce were without every sense in the world he was convinced he could have known that man by breathing.
A struggle was natural. He would have been more surprised if there had not been a struggle when he, cloaked as he was, somewhere he shouldn’t be, seized the shoulders under the fabric cowl. One of them was pliant. The other was unyielding metal and he wanted to scream: what have you done to yourself. Usually, he knew, this machine herald donned a mask, but he did not today. His eyes…
… Jayce had almost forgotten the color of his eyes.
“Get your hands off me you–brute,” hissed, but there was less defiance in it than there would have been. Only one of the hands that gripped him was flesh. Only one. A growl came from him and it was as though he could see the dissent to his presence melt away. Pheromones. Hormones. They were but skin and bodies and bodies that had known one another and so while Jayce could not say that Viktor softened, the shoving melded to a defiant grip on his arms with finesse. When his nostrils flared, it was over. He knew it was over. He saw the way those eyes, eyes that were still gold but tinged in the sclera with midnight black, rolled back when he pressed his body against what remained of the body in front of him.
At least half of it was augmented metal, and that made Jayce’s chest feel entirely too tight. He wanted to tear his clothes off. He wanted to rip the fabric away to see the body beneath and how much of it was soldered iron. But he had always smelled like iron. It was poetic, in a way.
“Viktor,” and he wanted it to be aggression and a growl, a rumble in his chest, but it almost came off like a whine. Like the begging of a desperate dog, and he damned himself for it; over, over, and over again. “Who is he?”
An advanced step forward and the spine that was, undoubtedly, at least moderately augmented, was pressed flat against the bricks. Hands moved to gripping, holding, reaching. Reaching. Hands that were reaching for him to grab to his shoulders, his arms, his anything, to hold him. Jayce’s intellect was quite aware of the fact that it was undoubtedly only due to the pheromones as opposed to any genuine want. Viktor hated him. And he hated Viktor.
At least, that’s what he told himself.
“Defender–”
“Who is he?” This time it was a growl. It was grit teeth and the wedging of his own hips flush against those that sat broad under a smaller waist. He’d changed his body. He’d changed the shape of some things, because these thighs were more full and he almost swore that the hips were more wide set. Fuck. Fuck. All that flashed though his brain was the scent of omega pheromones and being sheathed fully in a dripping, wet cunt that trembled around him with each thrust. Then it was scraped through with tooth and claw reminding him that some other alpha had done that. That some other alpha had touched what was his enough that the scent clung on, that white-hot, electric scent of ozone. “I’ll fucking kill him.”
The breadth of hips pushed back against his as Viktor’s eyes fluttered closed, as he breathed out shakily, wholly lost in it. It happened that way–especially when he had been on suppressants for so long. The cycles that transpired after withdrawal from those medications that prevented them were more intensive, and that explained the fact that Jayce had to have been at least a mile away but still tracked him by scent. When those broad hips pushed back against him, he felt his control slipping. He tried so very hard to keep it in check, but here he was slotting his hips between those that lifted against his.
It was not steel or iron, that black expanse on his neck. It was malleable, and almost like rubber. It was something Jayce could bite.
“Please,” panted out. Breathless and hot and needy and Jayce buried his face against that faux-skin, that rubber that climbed up his neck and framed his angular face. “Jayce–fuck–I can’t–think.”
It was not quite like rubber. It was not quite like rubber under the pressure of his teeth as he bit down on the neck that was exposed, hearing the choked sound, feeling the way he was clung to.
“Your scent–”
“It should be the only scent on you, you little fucking whore.” His cock throbbed between the girth of his thighs, needing, wanting to be buried in that wet heat. He wanted nothing else than to rut into him like a dog, but he almost wanted to hear him beg for it. “Show you how a real fucking alpha fucks,” growling against the shell of his ear, hands ripping for clothes. He didn’t care. He didn’t care if Viktor limped away from this with cum leaking between his thighs, clad in nothing but scrap. Viktor deserved to remember who was his first. Viktor deserved to remember how it felt to be bred during his heat. It was Jayce’s duty to remind him.
In turn, those hands, some ingenious cocktail of familiar and foreign, aimed to make quick work of his pants. Just enough. Just enough to push the fabric out the way and reach for the already stiffening cock. If he was not too sex-drunk to have wholly written off the notion of embarrassment and shame, he would likely have felt embarrassment that he was fully hard before they had even touched. Before he had even ripped at the crotch of loose-fit pants that the other man wore. Loose and drapey clothing.
Jayce remembered: on the rare instances he went through a heat cycle, he preferred to be comfortable.
Hips against him, the blood-swollen head of his cock guided between the thighs. One was flesh. The other augmented rubbery sinew on the inside of it. Not fully metal. Not that Jayce thought he would be incapable of rutting against metal, if that was the proclivity, but the fact this was at least warm was pleasant.
He felt hands prying at his shoulderblades for leverage, feet trying to find purchase, thighs trying to open wide for him as he clasped them closed. Indignation in a voice heady with arousal when those eyes (half familiar, half new; half familiar, half new) sought his out. “Jayce,” if he looked he would lose all sanity, he just knew it, “Jayce,” as though he spat the name. Venom laced with acrid ozone lightning and the cut of iron and he thought he would go insane. “I thought you were going to fuck me,” urging, moving, the heat between his thighs and viscous slick lubricating as the man rutted between his legs. Sometimes the swell of that girthy cock brushed against anatomy that was unchanged. Familiar. The sopping cunt and the clit that he tried to grind back against, to seek some relief; the clit that had over time grown into a small cock. Jayce wondered if it still tasted the same.
But it was not in the forefront of his mind, feeling the way he was rutted against, seeing the sheen of saliva on lips that were in his periphery. His face buried in that neck because that was how he had the most control, or he would have lost it by now. He would have split that waiting entrance open; he would have reminded Viktor who he was, who he belonged to. He would have fucked him.
He didn’t say anything, no. There was the occasional rumble of a growl and the threatening grip that he may split asunder that carefully crafted rubber pseudoskin, but he didn’t. That would be a mess. He didn’t want him dead, just in his proper place.
That place being on Jayce’s cock.
“Bastard,” further attempts to move hips, to move that erection inside of him, each met with resistance. “Bastard, that you are, defender, all tal–gh.”
He was well aware of the fact that his fingers would get bitten, but he didn’t care. They were shoved into that mouth mid speech, deep enough he felt throat muscles contract and heard the sound of a gag. Were it possible for him to get harder, he would have. He felt himself twitch and the growl that came from his clenched teeth as he finally, finally shifted to look at him.
“Never know when to shut up.” Heady and hot, the words dripped from his lips that were swollen from the ministrations of bites and kisses and those eyes that now half-watered after having been gagged sought out his. And they looked at each other, and tried to pretend it was just pheromones as he fingered that mouth that became more pliant over time. “Your mouth is as greedy as your fucking cunt.”
Saliva thickened, mixed with the bile that would precede vomit. Jayce knew enough to not push him to that point. He knew almost exactly how much he could push him, the spit dripping from his lips that Jayce couldn’t pull his eyes away from. The way his eyes rolled back as his throat muscles quivered around the fingers that fucked them, and how Jayce was, for a moment, almost distracted. Almost distracted enough to not notice the warmth of the waiting hole that almost pushed itself into him.
That was when his fingers went deeper, enough that he did gag fully before he withdrew his fingers, the lungs (were those still human, he wondered, or replaced by pumping steel?) allowed to fill with air again.
“Čurák,” he hissed. How the insult was familiar. How the accented word he never knew the true meaning of hit home from a mouth that had gagged, that was now dripping with the wet of bile-slickened expectorate. “Some alpha.”
“Big words from a whore that goes around dripping in another man’s scent,” a growl through clenched teeth. His own patience was fading. Pheromones and scent and heat and Viktor. Above all, Viktor.
“Then make it your scent,” through clenched teeth, eyes watered, cheeks reddened from gagging. And that was the moment that Jayce broke. That was the moment that he slotted his hips properly, seizing the machine herald’s in his own, lifting him, bending him.
Bending him in ways the body in its organic state never could have been bent.
He did not ease in. The slickened head of his cock found its target and in a single movement he buried himself beyond the waiting folds, the body yielding to him immediately. There was not a word for the sound drawn from the throat of the man against the wall. Somewhere between a choke, a gag, a shout, and a cry. There was no longer concern for if they were caught–he was not sure that there ever had been in the first place. The worry was gone from him along with all sense in his mind, focused only on this body that was so, so familiar but so, so different. His body. The yielding entrance that gave way to him and trembled while accepting the sudden intrusion, the sensation of soft heat and wet velvet around his cock.
It almost felt like a shame not to savor it more. To draw out the sampling of the first time he felt this heat-slicked sex around him in more years than he could cleanly recall. Viktor was so good at keeping track of his medication and his suppressants. Almost frustratingly so. The scent dripped from him like spiced honey with that cutting blade of iron and it drove Jayce absolutely insane.
And while he only rarely felt any attraction to an alpha’s scent, he had to admit that at least Viktor chose an alpha who smelled good.
“Mo–” Viktor only managed to choke half of it out, around his throat that was irritated by being fucked almost to the point that organic throat would transition to augmented tubing. Jayce swore he felt it, or he at least convinced himself he did. It was hard to know. But Viktor only managed out half a word before Jayce was already doing as he knew would be begged for: moving. Fucking him.
It was raw, the sensation of skin on skin. Legs didn’t wrap around his hips but were splayed open as much as they could be. A moment, a brief, passing moment was spared as Jayce’s eyes darted between their bodies. The hips that he swore sat wider now, the waist that was more narrow, and the fact he was able to see the way the abdomen had to expand to accommodate the addition of the thickness of his cock.
He could see his cock when he fucked Viktor, and the mere thought made him moan.
“Fuck me,” came as a demand, panting, ordering, begging, pleading. Legs spread wide and lifted in a way they never could before.
(He almost missed it. He almost missed that body having to cling to him more desperately in moments like this, trembling with the effort but gasping and groaning, and asking: deeper, deeper, despite the ache that Jayce knew ran from hip to ankle.)
“Deeper–”
“Your hole already swallowed my whole cock, V,” growls, gasps, pants, whimpers, all culminating in the fact it was difficult to say whose noise came from who. Torn clothing. Hands reaching, grabbing, gripping, biting. “Can’t fuck you up into your ribcage. You’d probably like that, wouldn’t you?”
The fact Viktor moaned made a sensation leak from his scalp to his spine that felt like ice water in the most arousing way possible. He couldn’t, physically, get the head of his cock any deeper than it was. But that didn’t stop him from thrusting with enough vigor that he tried. From spreading those thighs enough that he could almost convince himself that he was deeper.
How fucked was it that if he could get his cock deeper, cervix, womb, deeper, he would? Deeper than anyone else could be. More inside of him than anyone else could be.
“How much of you have you fucked up?” His fingers found something, somewhere, scar tissue that was bolted in against iron. A press of his digits against the scars meriting a gasp. It was a gasp that was an entanglement of pain and delight because Viktor had always gotten his rocks off to a little bit of pain. They’d discovered that early on, together.
At least, Jayce assumed that’s when it was discovered. The idea that it had been anyone fucking else that helped him come to that realization made the base of his neck burn.
“I bet I could find the right mechanism to disconnect to watch my cum spill out of you.”
He was all but clawing at his chest, now. Trying to grab and grip on to something and tears, tears streamed down his face and dripped onto the pseudoskin. Overstimulation. Jayce delighted in getting this heat-addled man to the point of overstimulation that he cried, and it had almost been too easy. Every brush of that cock head against the deepest part of him caused some indescribable sound. Some symphony that was composed just for him.
He would track that other alpha down and kill him in cold blood. He’d bring a trophy back to Viktor to remind him whose he was.
“Would be a waste, though,” growled against his ear. Viktor couldn’t speak. He was reduced to mere noises and permitted his body to talk, pushing his hips back against every movement between his slicked thighs, at the mercy of the alpha that rolled into him. “All this time–gotta–breed you properly.”
The machine herald all but sobbed at the ministrations of the defender.
“Make you mine.”
Mine, mine. He all but crushed the leaner figure back against the wall with the vigor of his thrusts. Impending orgasm felt aligned with damnation because it meant that it would end. His own brain devolved. His thoughts were scrambled, becoming nothing. While Viktor sobbed, his breath heaved, his hands gripped and held and pulled and he wondered if Viktor could still bleed. How hard would he have to bite down on the black at his lips before it sprung forth something resembling blood? And what would it be? Would it taste acidic or like iron? There was so much about this body that he did not know.
That he wanted to know.
“Jayce,” because it was the only thing Viktor managed to say, to think, to please, “please,” please, please.
How he could listen to that mantra of begging forever. That feeling of being so wanted. So desperately hungered for, even if they hated each other. They were supposed to hate each other.
It was pheromones, and heat cycles, the urge for an alpha to breed an omega, it was possession and memories and he could almost convince himself of that until they kissed. Until he seized that brunette hair and crushed their lips together, tasting salt and the iron of blood. A split lip, maybe, or maybe the intoxicant of the scent of heat, he didn’t know. It was crushing, biting, all consuming; it was pressure that was a lightning bolt down his spine as he came, he came inside that eager and waiting hot crevasse between Viktor’s thighs.
His scent, now. It would be his scent that would permeate the scent of anyone who had keen enough senses. His own scent that resembled the scent of forge-flame, musk, and once someone said there were hints of bergamot in it. One became immune to cognizance of one’s own scent after a while; he could never tell. But he could tell when it frothed with the oratory offense that was the cut of Viktor’s near-metallic heat scent.
And then Viktor bit hard on his lower lip, enough that he knew the iron that blossomed on his tastebuds was his own blood and he hissed out a sound of disdain, moving, shifting. The high dropped. It dropped with such suddenness that it almost left him dizzy, moving to draw himself out.
It was the hand of flesh that reached between them to hold the base of his cock, to squeeze, to keep him from pulling out. He groaned into the touch, feeling his own mix of frothed blood and saliva dripping from the corner of his mouth.
“Don’t move.” He was not used to the black sclera, what used to be white. How had he done that? How had he done most of the things that he had done? Clarity filled him, filled them both, and the shared moment caused them both to hold their quivering breaths. “Don’t.”
Aftershocks of orgasm still washed over him, the dribbling of his semen still spilling into the waiting cunt that held so, so tight. His mind was almost blank, hormones urging him, wanting him to do it again, again, so he rolled his hips slowly. How beautiful Viktor was when he was lost in his overstimulation like he was now.
“I said don’t move,” how his voice was wrecked by a combination of the fact his mouth had been fucked and the sounds that he had made. How Jayce would think about those sounds for months to come. “I didn’t say to fuck me again,” hissed out between teeth that were clenched, teeth that had bit down on his lower lip until he bled.
“What if I did?” laboriously panted, his feet shifted, his cock moving from where it had withdrawn just slightly. “Gotta make sure what other fucking alpha is hanging around you knows you’re not a free omega.”
The shudder wracked his entire body, including the wet velvet of the inner walls that still held on to him. The hitch of breath and shift of thigh. Viktor’s body was entirely willing to go again, and again, and again. From his recollection, the last time they had fucked during heat it had been no fewer than four orgasms. He almost wondered if they could break that record, after so long apart.
“There is no other alpha,” was exhaled out through clenched teeth, and Jayce’s thick brows furrowed over his eyes. Still buried inside of him. Still feeling the way that he was held so tight and so deep.
“That isn’t your sc–”
Viktor gasped. Jayce moved just a little bit, keeping him there, staying buried inside of him because like hell was he going to let any of this go. The hand that had wedged itself between them and encircled his cock gripped tighter. “My suppliers and I have been experimenting with–gh–synthetic hormones that augment genetic patterns…”
“Pseudoalpha injections,” Jayce replied, breathing just a little laborious. He pushed forward, moving his hips, deeper, buried once more inside of him. The hand around his cock did not do much to stop him. He wasn’t convinced he was trying. “That’s why your cock is bigger.”
The inhale through his nose was as sharp as the cutting metal of his scent, the way his nostrils flared made his groin ache with the desire to fuck him again, and again, and again, deeper. He would find a way to go deeper, he was sure of it. Bury himself further, split him open, deeper. Crawl inside of his ribcage if he could. “You–”
“Of course I fucking felt it,” and even as Viktor audibly whimpered, he drew his cock out. Still mostly hard. Pheromones were fucked like that–he had to go again, and again, and again. He forced those thighs together again, no longer splayed open, rutting against them again. The twitch of the small cock against his drove him mad. He’d had a bit of a cock before… everything. But it had grown enough that it made Jayce’s mouth water. But not this time.
He’d suck his cock next time, but he was too busy fucking him. Rutting him.
“Don’t,” an exhale, a heavy thing, panting. “Don’t tease me again, if you are going to fuck me, then f–”
“No,” one hand on that waist that he was quite sure he could wrap his hands around, if he so desired. He almost wanted to test the theory. “No. I’m going to fuck you just like this until you cum from your little cock being teased.” He felt the twitch: the all over twitch. Pushing him closer, and closer, and closer. To bring him to orgasm without direct touch was one of Jayce’s favorite things.
It always had been.
“No wonder,” he managed out, heavy breath, feeling the way that–even as he resisted, even as he didn’t want it to happen, even as he seemingly lamented it–those hips moved back against the intrusion of his cock between slicked thighs. Between the spilled cum and the slick of arousal, it was almost as wet as his cunt. Almost. It was enough to fuck with ease, at least. “No wonder I’d never smelled an alpha scent that made my mouth water.”
“Jayce–”
“You’ve not even cum for me yet,” accented by burdensome breathing. He felt the tremble of those thighs. Were Viktor’s feet even on the ground, or was he clinging on to him to keep from collapsing? Any number of things could be true. “You’re going to. Like this. Grinding your cock against mine.”
The scent of sex and pheromones. Stimulation. Enough to chase away the cognizance that had begun to settle in between the two of them and for that, he had to admit–he was glad. It was easier to not think. It was easiest to simply get lost in the swimming sensation; better than getting drunk, better than getting high. Burying his face against that neck and searching with his mouth for the exact point where skin would yield under his teeth was better than he could have expected.
Hitched breath. The way he knew those dark lashes fluttered closed against his cheeks, the way he could see in his mind how those eyes rolled back, he could feel how it was almost in desperation that the machine herald rocked his hips against him. Even without looking upon him, he knew exactly how his facial expression shifted and changed with each sensation.
He had never been loud when he came. The tell that he was close was always that his noises almost became muted, as though every thought, every sensation, everything was solely focused upon the feelings that blossomed from between his legs. Every movement, every twitch of his hips that pushed back in an attempt to seek sensation. To get enough, just enough sensation. Enough of his trembling folds and slicked cock rutting against the swollen erection between his thighs.
“Viktor,” a growl. A low sound, gravelly and in his chest as fingers held tighter, tighter, pushing into the muscle of shoulders, gripping tight to him. Clung to him. Indeed, he clung to him, to the point that even if his feet did not touch the ground, even if it was only the strength of the defender that kept him from crumbling. “Viktor.” How good it felt. How good it felt to be rutting against him, to be inhaling the scent of him, how good it felt to have him.
Short breaths. Short breaths and silence, hands holding, gripping, it was the precipice, the peak, the held breath before the drop. And then it came, “Jayce,” quieter than the shouts and the gasps and all the sounds that had come before. Tears streaked down his face for reasons that he simply did not look too far into: “Jayce!”
An arch of his back in the way it never could have before, gripping, dragging, holding. Heaving and tangling his fingers into the short-cropped brown hair of the defender. This is when he was dragged, half dragged, half allowed, back to kiss him,
“Mine,” Jayce exhaled.
“Mine,” Viktor answered.