Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When people hear the name Jayce Talis, their first reaction is normally, “Oh, the Calvin Klein guy?”

But it's always followed up by the inevitable correction: “No, he used to be the Calvin Klein guy.” 

Not current noted fashion photographer. Not CFO of Piltover Editorial. Not still smoking hot, if a little out of shape and greying at his temples. Just used to be the Calvin Klein guy.

Jayce is thirty-five. His modeling career basically fizzled out five years ago. Once, pictures of him grinning sheepishly in a pair of tight black boxers and low rise jeans lined the billboards on Sunset Boulevard. Now the only place you’ll find them is in the fading yellow pages of old GQs. The industry moved on once he started aging, since he couldn’t hold onto the same extreme muscle tone as easily as before, greys started coming in, and lines formed on his face. And when the offers stopped coming in completely, Jayce gave up. He let himself go. He decided to throw his efforts into something else, something close enough to modeling to feel it, but not involving his now useless face and body.

Photography came easily. It wasn’t difficult to break into the field, since he already had name recognition and a lingering pretty face. Working with half of the magazine brands helped too. Now, he’s managed to worm his way up to the top, heading the most artistically respected photo conglomerate in the country. But in every article, every interview, he’s written as “Ex-Model Jayce Talis”. It’s inescapable. 

At least he has the distraction of work. 

Despite everything, Cait has stuck with him. She books him last-minute shoots, even if they’re very low-budget, trying to cater to his artistic tastes. He’s been forced into a managerial position, which is torturous in many aspects, and not what he actually wanted. He wanted to take fucking pictures. To admire the models and try and recreate the magic he felt being behind the camera once upon a time. But Cait popped up on his phone now and again with an address and a time, sometimes with a vague description, to help quench that thirst. This morning she sent him a text- last minute shoot, fill in? luxury intnl makeup brand

“I don’t do these kinds of shoots for a reason,” Jayce says into his phone with a sigh, but he is already trudging up the stairs, camera bag slung over his back. The reason in question is the massive language barrier that ends up impeding his work. He doesn't even know what country this is for. He speaks Spanish, sure, but not Italian, French, Russian, Chinese... or any of the hundred other languages this could be centered around.

“Just do it. I know it’s been two weeks. You need this.”

Jayce sighs. She found him in his apartment the other day, still hungover at 4pm after another night of drinking enough beer to kill a frat bro, and falling asleep on his couch in a stained shirt. It was admittedly an ugly sight. So he understands where her concern comes from. “I’ll talk to you later, Caity.”

“Okay. Thanks. Good luck.” With that, the line goes dead, and Jayce stuffs his phone into his pocket before pushing open the door.

There’s the normal rush of a shoot going on inside, people frantically adjusting the lights and fussing with the set. He feels paper shoved into his hands, and he’s squinting to read it. The call sheet is standard– non-editorial unfortunately, meant for some new luxury makeup brand from the Czech Republic that Jayce has never heard of. Low tier, definitely.

He doesn’t recognize a single name on the list, which he expected. He isn’t exactly working high-profile shoots nowadays. Jayce sticks the sheet into his backpack and heads over to the corner, unpacking his camera gear carefully, wiping off his lenses and adjusting the settings. As he does, he can hear the model from around the other side, but can’t see him. Jayce eventually stands, slinging his camera around his neck and walking over to get a look at what he’s working with.

First, he takes a glance over the set. It’s simple, which makes sense for a new brand, but he can tell the concept is stupidly cliche. A massive bed of roses on a lifted, tilted platform– the petals are clearly fake and mostly glued down to the matching background, to help with the illusion. The model will probably lay down on it, so Jayce can get a top-view shot. 

And then he turns the corner, and sees the model.

He’s sitting in hair and makeup, where a frantic young woman scrambles around, shoving coffee at him and doing a mixture of scolding and pleading. They're going back and forth in another language, rapid-fire, the words sharp and quick on the man's tongue. The name on the sheet said Viktor. He whips his hand at the makeup artist, who’s trying to glue rhinestones to his forehead, and he promptly picks them off one by one and lets each fall to the ground.

It’s true. Jayce does not do these kinds of shoots for a reason. 

Viktor is every single one of them, and then some.

An addict. A diva. A model.

All of Jayce’s nightmares come to life in the form of Viktor. And in such a pretty package, too. He’s all long legs and pale skin, draped in a thin blue robe that’s loosely tied around his waist, which Jayce is pretty sure he could cover with both of his hands and feel his fingers touch. His limbs are long and elegant, stick thin, his flesh barely clinging to his bones. His eye sockets are hollow and sunken, dark circles under his eyes that somehow make him look sickly but hot at the same time. Every bone on his face is angular and sharp, lips pink and pursed, carefully shaped brows furrowed in annoyance. 

He’s beautiful. He’s everything Jayce wishes he could still be. He’s youth and perfection and delicacy. He sits there casually, legs crossed and bare feet dangling without a care, so effortlessly graceful and lithe in nothing but a satin robe that makes him look like a lounging Greek nymph. 

Jayce has no clue how he’s going to look at this man for more than five minutes without blinding himself.

He stands there for a moment, just staring, until Viktor turns his head, clearly acutely aware whenever there are eyes on him. When his eyes fix on Jayce, his gaze is truly piercing, dragging up and down Jayce's body like he’s trying to size him up. It does not at all help with the emotional state Jayce is in already. He knows he’s gained weight since ten years ago, his frame more bulky than cut, and his hair is grown out to a longer shag, beard scruffy around his chin. Surely Viktor is putting the pieces together, recognizes his name and face, but is disappointed at the way he’s fallen from grace, his beauty fading quickly. Jayce knows that look. He’s waiting to catch the fall of Viktor’s expression, the slight snideness at his inherent superiority– a shiny new toy compared to the relic Jayce is now.

He’s thankfully interrupted by the makeup artist grabbing Viktor’s chin and turning his face back to her, and Jayce takes the cue to slink back to mess with the drop lights. He feels eyes on his back the whole time, and just pushes past the lump in his throat.

The shoot doesn’t actually start for another ten minutes, after they finally get the styling done and send Viktor walking over to the set. He doesn’t walk evenly, leaning heavily on a cane, but he sets it out of frame once he reaches the edge of the large tilted platform. He carefully climbs up onto it with a hand from the assistant he was fighting with earlier, and lays himself down. Viktor sheds his robe, and all he’s wearing underneath is what look like two strips of sheer fabric covered with the same rose petals. So it’s supposed to look like he’s completely naked in a bed of roses, the only thing keeping him from complete nudity being the rose petals barely draped over his chest and thighs. 

Jayce steps back as Viktor adjusts himself briefly, tilting his head, shifting around before seeming to settle in one place. 

Anxious to get this fucking done already, Jayce holds up his camera, squinting through the viewfinder as he frames Viktor, his torso and upper chest the center of the photo, leading up to his face. “Okay. Shooting in 3, 2, 1–” The camera flashes, and Viktor glances up at him. 

“No. Not yet,” Viktor says loftily in a thick accent, and Jayce bites his lip to keep from snapping back. There’s no need to be bitter. Models can certainly be worse than Viktor. A little prissiness isn’t something worth getting into a whole thing about. Jayce knows Viktor’s type well. He keeps himself drugged up 24/7 and probably eats nothing but energy bars and carefully curated salads, downs blue gatorade and laxative drinks like an alcoholic. He’s permanently exhausted, hungry, and dehydrated. This isn’t a fun industry to break into. Models, especially ones like Viktor that end up finding appeal for their delicate frame, have to suffer to keep themselves looking the exact same between shoots. No one wants a model that can’t keep their appearance the same as their comp cards. 

Viktor reaches out, extending one arm, and crooks his finger at Jayce, who glances over his shoulder quickly to make sure it’s actually him Viktor is gesturing to. There’s no one behind him. He tentatively steps closer, and when Viktor looks at him expectantly, he gives in and steps right up to the platform, his ankles pressing against the bottom of the wood. 

Jayce is leaning right over him now, and he’s practically on top of Viktor in order to get his face properly framed. This is better, admittedly– now, Viktor turns his face, bats his lashes, looking up at the camera coyly, a small smirk on his face. He lets his hand fall back onto the rose-covered backdrop so it rests dramatically on his forehead, partially shadowing his eyes, which glitter with a light dusting of sparkly eyeshadow. Jayce shifts again, so instead Viktor is looking at the camera over his shoulder, and Viktor seems to read his mind and matches his movement to twist to the side.

They’re bizarrely in sync. The rest of the shoot crew is meandering around, chatting quietly, waiting for a break, while they are in their own little world contained in a camera. There’s a weird tension in the air, the discomfort of shooting with an unfamiliar subject for Jayce, and likely the reverse for Viktor. It’s understandable. But somehow they’re communicating without saying a word. The camera flashes again, and again, and again. Jayce leans back to get a further shot, and then when he moves up again, he’s startled by a hand grabbing at his shirt. Jayce is yanked forwards, nearly falling onto Viktor as he stumbles and throws his hand up against the board to keep himself from tripping all the way. 

“Get on top of me,” Viktor hisses– no, he demands. Jayce stares at him, and Viktor stares right back. There’s a million words said between the two of them for that split second, until Jayce reaches down to adjust the tilt of the platform, cranking the wheel to lower it flatter, and he lifts one leg over Viktor’s to straddle him.

One of Jayce’s thighs is larger than both of Viktor’s combined. He looks like a twig compared to Jayce. It makes him feel sick with a number of emotions he doesn’t want to name. Instead, he sits all the way up on his knees, twisting himself to get a few shots from up there, before Viktor tilts his head back and exposes his throat, sliding a hand down his neck seductively, and Jayce’s fingers shakily press the button again with a quiet click. Viktor isn’t looking at the camera. He’s looking directly at Jayce. His eyes are gold, brown amber with flecks of yellow, half-lidded and seductive. It must be accidental. Jayce tries to rationalize it the best he can, but there’s nothing he can do about the half-chub and heart palpitations he’s getting. His professionalism takes a swan dive when he shifts his position, hopefully away from Viktor, but instead Viktor grabs the back of his thigh and tugs him ever closer, making his half-hard cock brush against that skinny thigh through his jeans.

Jayce takes a sharp inhale, and he watches, terrified, as Viktor’s eyes shoot down between them. The look on his face doesn’t change. Instead, he tilts his head back again, fluttering his dark eyelashes and pushing up right against Jayce’s thighs. 

Jayce takes a few more frantic shots, before calling for a five in the strongest voice he can manage. He stumbles off the platform, and when the assistant comes up to him and Viktor nervously, he waves her off.

“That position makes you lightheaded pretty quick,” he jokes easily, and she gives him a shy smile before he takes the fastest pace he can to the bathroom without looking suspicious.

Jayce sets his camera aside and splashes cold water on his face. He takes deep breaths, staring at himself in the mirror above the sink.

There’s grey peppering his hair, which has grown to a shaggy length past his ears, and his beard is equally streaked. His face has lines creasing in it, the warm bronze he used to have faded to a plain dark tan, and the once sharp cuts of his jawline and shoulders have softened with extra weight. He looks tired. He looks old. He looks fat. He looks like shit.

Sometimes, when he’s drunk and miserable at 8pm on a Friday, sitting alone in his apartment, he goes through his old magazine spreads. Looks at himself in his prime and wonders how he didn’t realize back then that it was all temporary. That his body would betray him so fast, that he would become irrelevant and brushed aside by the rest of the world the second things started to slide. The face in the mirror is nothing like the one in those ads anymore. 

The bathroom door swings open, and Viktor saunters in, somehow graceful and seductive even with the way he leans on his cane, which taps with every step. He’s draped in his robe again, and the sash is barely tied around his waist now, just barely hanging onto his hip bones, which stick out sharp and jagged, far too prominent. 

“How are you doing?” He asks casually, stepping up to Jayce beside the sink and leaning against it with an easy tilt of his head and hips. Jayce pointedly stays facing the mirror, refusing to let his eyes wander, instead letting out a long breath. 

“You’re Jayce Talis. You did the Calvin Klein ads about ten years ago,” Viktor continues, unfettered. His accent is heavy, but his English is clear and focused. He speaks directly, but not in a way demonstrating little knowledge of the language- if Jayce had to guess, this is just how he speaks in his native tongue, too. But this is what he was waiting for the whole time. The conversation he has every fucking day of his life, the one that makes him go home and drink until he passes out, the one that made him stand on a ledge once. And having it with Viktor– beautiful, sly, seductive, cocaine-skinny, young, perfect Viktor– is the biggest insult of all. 

“That was me,” Jayce replies automatically, and he lets out a pathetically dry laugh. “Once upon a time.” 

“I remember them. So now you do photography?” Viktor asks. The small talk feels pointed. Jayce finally turns to him, sighing and running a hand down his face.

“Yep.” He doesn’t elaborate. Doesn’t want this conversation to go on any longer than it has to. He doesn’t need to hear any more about his own fall from grace. He doesn’t want to be needled by a prissy model that hasn’t eaten in two days and has three remaining brain cells after so much powder snorted right up into his nasal canals. It’s not fair to blame him. He doesn’t understand yet. He won’t understand until it happens to him eventually. 

Before Jayce can make an excuse to escape, Viktor speaks again. “You also wrote that paper. The one on renewable energy from alternate sources of radiation.” 

Jayce freezes.

He hasn't heard about any of his papers in years. Before modeling, he was on track in grad school to earning his PhD. The modeling was a few quick shoots he did for extra cash to get himself a new car. But then he blew up, and the Calvin Klein ads happened, and suddenly school was shoved to the side, and he never came back. It's a mistake he'll never forgive himself for. He can't bring himself to return, either. It feels like an admittance of defeat. 

“... you read that?” He asks slowly, his eyes finding Viktor again, who just hums in acknowledgement.

“Yes. I used it in my undergraduate thesis. It was a very good read,” Viktor adds casually. 

Okay. Maybe there is more to Viktor than he initially assumed.

“Wow. Uh, no one ever brings that up,” Jayce manages to respond sheepishly. Viktor is still looking at him the same way he stared up at Jayce during the first shooting period. His eyes are narrowed, still flitting over Jayce’s body, and then he steps closer and places a hand on Jayce’s bicep, squeezing it with another hum. His fingers dig into the muscle and fat, and his hand doesn’t even fully wrap around Jayce’s arm. 

“Well. Brains, brawn, beauty. You’ve got it all.” 

Jayce chokes out a laugh, shaking his head incredulously. He has no clue what’s happening here anymore. If this is Viktor’s attempt at flirting, it’s a poor one, mostly just making Jayce feel like the washed-up loser he is now. He doesn’t mind dry wit– he likes it, actually. But he just can’t handle this entire situation right now. “I wouldn’t agree.” 

“More than I have.” Viktor glances down at himself, raising his eyebrows obviously at his body. 

“You’re beautiful,” Jayce blurts out, and Viktor just tilts his head, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“Thank you.” 

Viktor’s hand slowly slides over to his chest, trailing down it, and then he’s getting down on his knees. Jayce’s heart skips a beat in his chest at the view of Viktor settling down on the floor, eyes locked up on Jayce’s, still that seductive gaze. 

“Woah- hey,” Jayce protests as Viktor’s hands reach for his belt, and he covers them with his own, stopping them in place. Viktor's wrists are tiny in his palms, and his eyes meet Jayce's. He can't tell what Viktor is think, his expression unreadable. 

“Oh, come on. Don’t fuss. I’m very good.” He says it like this is a protest he doesn’t get often. Like Jayce should expect this from him. All Jayce feels now is anger, though. Anger at this shitty fucking industry for turning everybody into this. Anger at Viktor for assuming he’s one of the same assholes Jayce had to handle at his age. Anger at himself, for now looking like one of them. Someone smart and beautiful and sharp like Viktor already knows what he has to do to make a name for himself. And now Jayce is one of the pervs at the top, taking advantage of whatever pretty little thing steps his way.

Jayce drops his hands and turns back, sighing and walking out of the bathroom quickly, leaving Viktor sitting alone on the cold tile floor. He needs to get out. Now. He can’t fucking do this. Jayce slings his camera back over his shoulder, packing up his bag quickly, and the assistant comes back up to him, peering up at him meekly with her clipboard in hand.

“Uhm, Mr. Talis, sorry to bother–”

“I’m leaving,” Jayce interrupts gruffly. “I can’t work with this model. I’ll call Violet, she’ll do the shoot, she lives nearby. Thanks.” 

The woman immediately backtracks, throws protests in slightly broken English, but Jayce is already heading out the door, slamming it shut behind him. The industrial metal booms as he heads down the stairs with the echoes bouncing off the concrete walls. He digs his phone out of his pocket once he gets outside and dials Cait, rustling around in his bag for his pack of cigarettes as it rings.

It goes straight to voicemail, and he just sighs and waits for the beep. “Hey, Cait. The shoot didn’t work out, sorry. Whoever that model is, I’m absolutely not dealing with him again.” Jayce can pretend not to know his name, but he’ll never forget Viktor’s face. He’ll never forget the way he looked up at Jayce like he wanted to eat him alive. Like he found Jayce desirable. Brought up that fucking paper, brought up something other than Jayce's fading modeling career, like there was potential that there was something more to him than an aging ex-star. How Viktor slid down to his knees without hesitation. How he expected Jayce to just let him. 

There’s one thing Jayce refuses to be, and that’s one of those photographers. He managed to worm his way out of Viktor's situation many times with his charm, and he was lucky enough to escape it over and over during his career. But now that he’s older, with a position of power, with stick thin gorgeous models barely over eighteen looking up at him with ambition and a craving for fame, he’s staunchly kept business and anything pleasure related separate. It’s messy. It’s always disastrous. And he remembers what it was like to be them. He remembers that craving, the need for the spotlight, the need to climb his way up the ladder. He refuses to be the one that enforces the system.

As he’s trying to flick his lighter open with shaking hands, the door beside the stairs opens with a whoosh. Viktor steps out beside him, no longer in his blue robe, instead in a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. The makeup is already wiped off his face, leaving behind nothing but faint glitter that pops out with every movement of his head in the afternoon light. He looks up at Jayce, and Jayce doesn’t look back as his cigarette catches. 

“I hope you aren’t too angry with me,” Viktor says, slow and careful. Embarrassed. Jayce sighs, running a hand through his hair. 

“I’m not. You’re fine. I get it,” Jayce offers, letting out a long breath of smoke, his head thunking back against the concrete. The nicotine buzz helps him go from mild panic to a casual, simmering dread.

“I…” Viktor trails off. Jayce glances back at him, watching as he worries at his lower lip, tugging it between his teeth. He can see a little red mark now, previously covered by makeup, where he must have chewed at the skin. 

“It’s fine. I know how it is. Violet will be here soon. This shoot isn’t what I thought it would be anyways,” Jayce adds with another sigh and a shake of his head. With no warning, the cigarette is plucked from his fingers, and Viktor takes a long drag, smoke wisping out of his nose in easy curls. He’s one of those people who looks romantic when he smokes, the cigarette just as thin as his long, pale fingers, like some sort of French woman on a balcony. Jayce is pretty sure he looks homeless right now. 

“Well. I am sorry. Here’s the finishing sheet anyway.” Viktor hands back his cigarette, and in his other hand is a folded paper, both of which Jayce plucks back. 

“Thanks. Good luck.” Jayce’s voice is somewhat grave, and Viktor just gives him a nod, turning back to the door. Before he goes, he looks back over his shoulder, eyes flitting over Jayce again, and then the door shuts behind him, and Jayce is alone in the cool outside air again. 

He unfolds the sheet as he pulls up Vi’s number. The email and directions for the raws is all listed, but something is stuck to the bottom. 

In case you want to talk thermodynamics, is scribbled on the back of a paper card, along with a phone number. Flipping it over, Jayce sees that the numbers don’t match. It’s Viktor’s card. The photo on it is a typical headshot, showing off his sunken eyes, that coy smile, the sharpness of his cheek and jaw bones. 

Jayce shoves the card in his pocket, stubs out his cigarette, and lets out a sigh full of all the exhaustion and self-disappointment that’s lingered in him for years. It doesn’t help. 

He doesn’t need this. He can’t let some pretty face get stuck in his mind. He can’t let Viktor get to him. If this is what causes his breakdown– some random newbie already taking all the shortcuts he thinks he has too, just because his body is all he has right now– he’ll never forgive himself. 

He can never see Viktor again. 

He still doesn’t throw the card out when he tosses his cigarette.

Chapter Text

Two days later, Jayce finds himself sketching composition shots without even noticing.

His journal, meant mostly for daily notes and scheduling, is now filled with doodles of a narrow, long body stretched out across a couch, dark all except for the eyes, over and over. The same figure, but with angel wings, haloed in glitter. And again, but with dark wings, arms spread out like a victorious dancer. All drawn with an easy elegance, too thin limbs and no ponytail or indication of long hair, just soft tufts on top of the head. 

Over and over. Again and again. Jayce crumples up the pages and tosses them into his wastebin. 

It doesn’t change anything, though. He still sees hazy flashes of soft lights on a pale figure, all angles and silky brown hair drooping in its face. They’re in his dreams, crowding into his thoughts relentlessly, flashes of the images behind his eyes when he closes them. Jayce’s mind continues to betray him with these visions, despite all his attempts to fight back. 

Work is quiet, but he’s surviving. He gets a text from Cait a short while after the disastrous Czech makeup shoot, and it’s unsurprisingly a job offer. 

Caity: Got an email about this– they said they were looking for you specifically, if possible, but didn’t have your contact info.

The link to the initial model call does have an interesting premise. Edgier stock photos, meant for some sort of concert advertising company. It would be a chance to gently flex his creative muscles, and have a bit of fun with a newly post-grad crew.

J: Sure. Sounds cool

Caity: 😁🎉

Sometimes Jayce feels like Caitlyn babies him too much. Especially since she’s the younger one. He knows she just wants the best for him, but it isn’t exactly easy to push down the embarrassment of getting gigs from his little sister. He’s always been protective of her, and having her step in front of him instead seems a bit pathetic.

He shoots the company an email himself, and they get back to him remarkably quickly with an incredibly enthusiastic response. He’s not surprised. Jayce Talis is a big name for them to get for this weird little arthouse ad shoot. Jayce likes to indulge in these kinds of things every once in a while for his own sanity.

Jayce heads down to the crappy little studio with his lighter camera gear slung over his back. There’s not any need to break out the big guns for this and put unnecessary strain on his back, just for some kids that can’t even handle 4k images on their laptops. He punches in the door code and heads down the hall, the large room with bright lights coming from it the obvious choice. The studio is small, but has a decent setup with a proper screen and some extra camera and flash gear. Jayce is immediately appreciative, and is willing to give this his all. 

“Hey! Jayce Talis, wow,” a young man greets him excitedly, and he gives Jayce a thrilled handshake as he introduces himself as Dmitri. The call sheet is pretty basic, and as he yammers on about his plans for future shoots, Jayce’s eyes fix on the names.

Model: Viktor R.

Jayce’s heart skips a beat. 

“Who’s your model today?” Jayce interrupts, looking up at Dmitri, who pauses.

“Oh, Viktor? We went to school together, he’s Czech and has a super unique face. He’s been getting into modeling pretty seriously lately, so it works out great. He actually suggested you,” he adds as an afterthought with a chuckle. “We figured it was a long shot, but hey! So glad you’re here.” 

Jayce exchanges a few more light pleasantries before heading to the small side room that was set aside specifically for him. It’s clearly a repurposed bathroom that’s the size of a storage closet. He unpacks his gear, switching his lens quickly and snapping his trifold out. He ends up tugging his sweatshirt over his head with a sigh, admitting defeat to the slight nervous sweat he’s worked up. All he can do is try and get through this. He’s going to give these kids some decent shots, but he can’t linger here with Viktor. It’s too weird, too dangerous. He needs to get a hold of himself before he can even look at the man again, let alone talk to him. 

When he heads back into the studio, Dmitri is talking to Viktor himself. It’s odd to see Viktor in casual clothes– he’s just in a faded band tee with a green sheet clearly ironed on the center. He still has that easy grace, the natural modelesque nature of his figure and the way he stands somehow making him look interesting.

Dmitri turns when Jayce tentatively approaches, and he reaches out to clap a hand on his arm. He’s a little overly friendly, but the enthusiasm is better than the total apathy Jayce sees nowadays from most people on photo crews.

“So I’m sure you saw on the call sheet, but we’re getting a bunch of stock shots for concert ads. Hence the weird green rectangle,” he says with a chuckle, gesturing to Viktor, who stands with a hand on his hip and a smug smile spread over his face. Jayce directs his gaze to Dmitri immediately and nods.

“Great. Action shots or stationary?” Jayce asks automatically, unfolding his tripod and loosening the grips. 

“Action. We’re gonna have Viktor pretending to jump and cheer. Won’t even take that long. You ready, guys?” Dmitri asks with a grin, and Viktor just hums and turns to walk to the green screen. Jayce didn’t notice the pads sitting on the floor before, and Viktor climbs on them, using his cane to keep himself upright and bouncing a few times. Definitely a clever work around, and Jayce is glad they aren’t making him actually jump. 

Jayce screws his camera onto the stand, leaving it loose enough to tilt up. It’s not as if Viktor will be getting very high up. The air is quiet for a moment as Dmitri and the two other people on set finish angling the reflectors and lights, but then there’s a loud thud as he drops an old speaker box on the rickety table next to the crappy folding chairs for the crew.

“Hope you don’t mind, we like to play some tunes,” Dmitri calls to Jayce, who shrugs and gives him a plain smile. He misses this kind of youthful ambition and excitement. It’s hard to keep that alive, especially the longer he spends in this career in the arts. 

There’s a blip as Dmitri connects his phone to the speaker, and then old rock is playing from it, a little louder than Jayce would like for his own hearing. But it makes sense– this is supposed to be a concert atmosphere, so too-loud music is fitting. He’s willing to tolerate it for the sheer novelty. 

“You ready?” Dmitri calls across the room again, to Viktor this time, who crosses his arms and raises his eyebrows in response. Dmitri’s laugh is almost a cackle over the music, and he gestures to Jayce. 

“Okay,” Jayce starts, kneeling and angling the camera a little above Viktor’s head in preparation. “Jump.”

“How high?” Viktor replies with a grin, and Jayce swallows, the smug look on Viktor’s face far too attractive, sharp bones and brows, slightly crooked teeth, the little scrunch of his cheek. 

“Just as high as you’re comfortable with,” Jayce says back, as it’s the safest response he could come up with. Viktor’s smirk doesn’t drop, and he gives himself a light bounce, then another, and Jayce’s camera shutter clicks. His hair is in motion, gently tousling itself with his movement.

“Too prissy, V, loosen up!” Dmitri jeers playfully, and Viktor turns and squints in the bright light to where he sat behind it and glares. He shakes his hair out delicately, and Jayce bites his lip, barely hiding his own smile. There’s something about Viktor’s fussy little mannerisms that’s painfully adorable. 

“Jump,” Jayce calls, and Viktor gives him another bounce. He’s able to build up a few higher, almost a real jump, and the whole time, he tilts his head back and shuts his eyes, mouth open with just the very corners of his lips quirking up. It’s a fascinating expression, adrenaline and excitement and heat and seduction, all in one carefully crafted look. Jayce’s shutter clicks again and again, and every shot is centerfold worthy. 

He can see out of the corner of his eye that Dmitri is talking with the assistant, and she returns with an old desk fan, plugging it in and rolling it beside Jayce. 

“Dramatic,” Jayce comments dryly, and she laughs as she plugs it in and the wind starts to blow on Viktor. The humming is an added noise, a symphony that’s beginning to build up in the room.

“Jump!” Dmitri shouts out. “Give us sexy!” 

“Shut up!” Viktor yells back, and Jayce snaps at least ten quick shots right in a row of the bright, wild look he gets when he’s shouting like that. His hair is flowing in the wind now, pushing it back from his face and around his head, and his whole face is alight.

Jayce feels a hand on his shoulder and jolts, nearly knocking over his own tripod, as Dmitri stands there with a similarly wild look in his eyes. It isn’t nearly as attractive as when Viktor does it. There’s something hungrier about it, more predatory somehow. 

“Okay, great!” Dmitri shouts enthusiastically. “You want to stop yet?”

“YEAH!” Viktor yells, his voice faint over the combined noise filling the room. He doesn’t look exhausted, but the goosebumps Jayce can see on his arms mean he’s probably a little cold. The fan continues to blow in Viktor’s face, his hair whipping around his head, and Dmitri steps back to the speaker and cranks up the music even louder. It’s a smart move, a good way to force Viktor to be louder, but they really should just call for a five.

“WHAT?” Dmitri yells back with a huge grin. 

“YES!” Viktor shouts even louder, a crease forming between his brows in mild annoyance. Dmitri’s grin only widens, and he turns the dial on the speaker until his fingers stop. Jayce’s eyes are flicking between the two of them, desperately trying to hear their voices and read their lips.

“WHAT?” Dmitri screams over the blasting music, and Viktor glares at him now. 

“YES, YOU ASS!” Viktor screams back, his fists balling up at his sides. Jayce watches it all, enraptured, the sound of his camera shutter clicking in rapid succession completely inaudible. 

“WHAT’S THAT, VIKTORIA?” Dmitri hollers, and Viktor’s entire face changes, his chest rising and falling faster as his lips part and his eyes widen, seemingly in horror. He looks furious now, his cheeks glowing under the bright lights overhead. 

“FUCK YOU!” Viktor screams. “FUCK YOU, DMITRIK!” Spit flies from his mouth as he screams it, clear as a bell even with the thunderous drums and guitar blasting from the speaker. His cheeks are splotched with angry red, his hair wild and tousled in the wind, fists balled tight at his sides, arms shaking in place. There’s such pure rage in his face, whole and untouched.

The music suddenly peters out, and it isn’t even due to Dmitri’s doing. The end of the song has that weird lull in the end, where the music briefly fades out to nothing, and the timing is nothing if not cosmically perfect. The only sound left is the whirring of the fan, still blowing a strong breeze over Viktor’s face and waving his hair. Jayce’s fingers are frozen over the shoot button, eyes locked on Viktor, and he must be able to feel that everyone else is staring too. He’s breathing hard, and his hands are still shaking. The music starts to pick up again, and it only goes on for a few seconds or so before Dmitri blindly reaches out and slaps at the speaker until it cuts off. 

It’s silent again. 

Dmitri starts to clap slowly, and he walks over to Viktor, who continues to stare back at him, eyes alight still. 

“That was fucking amazing, V,” He says, voice a little louder than necessary due to the music still ringing in everyone’s ears. He reaches out to clap a hand on Viktor’s shoulder, and Viktor shrugs him off with a sharp shoulder check, and promptly storms out. 

It’s awkwardly silent for a moment, and then Dmitri shrugs, laughing sheepishly and shaking his head at Jayce. “He’s dramatic sometimes. That was amazing, though. Can’t wait to see the raws.”

“Maybe you should go check on him,” Jayce suggests as politely as he can, and he hopes he’s successful in keeping the rage out of his voice. He must be, because Dmitri glances back down the hall and shrugs again.

“He’ll be fine. All’s fair in art and war, right?” He chuckles and turns away from Jayce, who just stands there for a second as Dmitri begins to casually start to pack up the set. He’s lost in his thoughts, in his anger, in his horror. This is the most unprofessional and generally fucking awful shoot he’s ever been to. Doing that shit to models was beyond evil. He’s startled out of his own rage by the music starting again. Dmitri had turned it back up. As much as Jayce wants to, he shouldn’t linger any longer, and he ends up following Viktor’s path down the hall. The nearest room is technically his own, and that’s where he heads first.

Jayce opens the door slowly, and is greeted by Viktor’s hunched over form, his shoulders trembling. Jayce’s heart clenches tight, his stomach churning. 

“Hey,” He starts gently, tentatively. Viktor doesn’t even turn around, he just stays facing the wall, half hunched over, leaning against it using his forehead. Jayce swallows, grasping for words he can say to make this all better. There isn’t any, obviously. He doesn’t know if he should say anything at all. He probably shouldn’t. He shuts the door behind himself, and that gets Viktor to turn and face him. The room is so small they’re standing barely a foot apart, and Viktor looks up at him with red-rimmed eyes, pupils blown out massively. It could be from the dim light, or he could have just bumped himself up to the stratosphere. His arms are wrapped around himself, leaving him to awkwardly rest on his better leg without his cane here. The entire atmosphere makes him look so… small. Fragile. Young. Like he’s still just a kid inside, playing grown-up the best he can. 

“Are you okay?” Jayce tries again, his voice just loud enough to be heard over the music. Viktor stares up at him, eyes narrow, and there’s some mixture of suspicion and determination in his gaze. 

“Obviously not,” Viktor mutters, and he reaches up to furiously scrub at his eyes. They’re red and watery still, and he looks almost debauched, face flushed and sparkling with moisture. 

“I’m sorry. I don’t know exactly what happened, but he shouldn’t have done it,” Jayce offers. He really isn’t sure what it was that Dmitri said to piss Viktor off– the name, probably, Viktoria. Maybe he was made fun of for being girly as a kid and it was a nasty nickname. He only faintly heard it, but it sounded like Viktor shouted something back that was an alteration of Dmitri’s name, so this remains his best guess.

“Yes. He should not have done it,” Viktor echoes back weakly, sniffing and tilting his head back, blinking back the tears beading in his eyes still. “I am surprised, I never thought he would betray someone like that. But, thank you for coming today.” 

Jayce’s head spins at the sudden shift in conversation, and while he definitely had more questions, he didn’t want to make Viktor even more upset by trying to ask something with his severe foot-in-mouth syndrome haunting him in every sentence. But he also does want to know about this, so he asks, “Why did you ask for me?” 

Viktor blinks a few more times, and dabs delicately at his face with another sniff. “I liked your photos.” 

The answer is so simple and said so easily that Jayce desperately wants to believe it. He wants to believe Viktor just saw his photos and enjoyed his art. But Jayce doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to fully accept that people might actually be interested in his work. Especially people who tried to get on their knees and give him a blowjob ten minutes they met.

Viktor is a special case, alright?

“Thanks,” Jayce replies sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh. You’re a great model.”

“You mean I’m hot,” Viktor replies casually, looking off to the side with a snort. His tone reeks of self-deprecation despite the flattering words. Jayce furrows his eyebrows.

“No. Well– yes. But you’ve got this natural grace and elegance. And apparently fire too. That’s special, y’know?” Jayce says, still sheepish. Viktor’s eyes slide back to him, narrowed now. His gaze remains suspicious, but maybe with a hint of hopefulness. Jayce tentatively reaches out to gently touch his narrow bare shoulder, and the second his fingers make contact, Viktor steps forwards and places a hand on the center of Jayce’ chest. 

“Do you want me?” He asks in a murmur, tilting his head. Jayce’s heart is rabbit fast in his chest, thumping right below where Viktor’s hand rests. He licks his lips and nods.

Viktor’s fist clenches in his shirt, and then he steps back up against the wall of the tiny room, pulling Jayce close, and kissing him. His lips are soft and small and warm, and Jayce’s hand tightens on his shoulder, holding him close firmly while he sinks into Viktor’s mouth. Kissing Viktor feels so right despite how every other part of this situation is wrong– the tiny closet, the sound of the music and other people outside of it, the still drying tear tracks on Viktor’s cheeks, the way Jayce’s body presses him into the wall so easily. Viktor pulls back a few inches, letting out a short breath and studying Jayce’s face. The moment is quiet and still, between them in the small room. 

“I’m a man. But not in a traditional sense,” he finally says, slow and measured. He takes Jayce’ hand from his shoulder and moves it to his own chest, through the fabric of his thin t-shirt, where his chest curves up slightly.

“What– oh, are you– oh,” Jayce says in a stutter, going from confusion to understanding to nervous excitement in the span of one mangled sentence. It didn’t click at first, but then suddenly, everything added up. The name– fucking hell, if it was what he thinks it was, Jayce is going to run that kid’s company into the ground . 

“And what does that mean,” Viktor says, raising his eyebrows, shifting a bit away from Jayce, whose hand curves to hold his chest tightly.

“I didn’t realize. I– you're really flat.” He isn't sure if that counts as a compliment, but Viktor smirks in response, and he shifts himself back again to press into Jayce’s hand. 

“Yes, I am lucky that I don't really have tits,” Viktor says dryly with a sheepish smile, and it’s almost a brag, his voice holding a hint of pride. A sense of accomplishment. Jayce just tucks a strand of Viktor’s hair behind his ear.

“I don’t care either way. Can I touch you?” Jayce says softly, and it has Viktor humming in contentment, closing the distance between them and pressing their bodies closer together. Jayce’s thigh slots between both of his, and it’s ridiculously large in comparison. Jayce feels a wash of embarrassment and nausea rush through him in a wave, but surprisingly, Viktor just groans and rocks his hips down, the friction making him sigh in relief. Jayce’s hands come up to cup Viktor’s face, hand sliding through his hair as he drags him through a languid, messy kiss, the two of them trading soft noises back and forth.

Viktor pants into his mouth, head buried in Jayce’s neck as he ruts against Jayce’s thigh. Jayce can feel the wetness soaking through his jeans, sticking to his skin, and with a groan, he slides his hand down Viktor’s pants and manages to curl his fingers so Viktor can grind against them. There’s a soft whimper against his neck, teeth scraping over his skin, and his cock throbs almost painfully as he can feel the hard bud of Viktor’s clit rubbing back and forth against his two fingers. 

“That feel good?” Jayce whispers right up next to his ear, and Viktor immediately nods several times, face still buried in Jayce’s neck, and he adds a small moan to his response. Suddenly his hands are climbing up Jayce’s thighs, and he brings one back to brace against the wall behind him while he fumbles to undo Jayce’s belt and pull out his cock. Viktor strokes him confidently, and the first touch of his palm has Jayce tilting his own head back and groaning again softly. 

“Fuck, just like that,” he murmurs, and they’re both thrusting up into each other’s hands, bodies pressed together so close Jayce can feel the warmth of Viktor’s skin all over. Viktor surges forward and claims Jayce’s lips again, letting out a high moan into his mouth as he begins to rub firm circles into Viktor’s boxers, making his thighs shake where they’re pinned against the wall by Jayce’s. Viktor’s hand squeezes his cock abruptly, and a strangled sound comes from his throat as Viktor’s hips jerk erratically and he throws his head back, eyes shut tight and mouth dropping open, a weak moan escaping from it that rings out clear over the music. Viktor’s legs shake again and Jayce shoves his knee up against the wall, easily supporting all of his weight as they give out. Viktor brushes his thumb over the head of Jayce’s cock, and he tilts his head up, lips brushing over Jayce’s ear.

“Cum for me, Jayce, cum for me,” he purrs, still a little breathless, and that’s the final push that has Jayce groaning low in his chest and spurting into Viktor’s hand. As his climax runs through him, lightning fast and white hot, Viktor grabs his face and kisses him, deep and messy, their tongues tangling. When his head finally clears, Jayce leans back. As they both stand there– well, Jayce stands, with Viktor basically sitting on his thigh– panting in the afterglow, the sound of the music is still going in the background, Dmitri and the assistant chatting absently. Holy fuck, I just had sex with a model on set. Jayce can’t even think of a punishment for himself that could live up to the crime. 

Viktor leans forward, pressing his lips softly to Jayce’s, and Jayce is melting right into it when he pulls away completely. Viktor lifts his sticky hand and licks it clean, which somehow makes Jayce’s cock attempt to rise again, and his heart is thumping wildly in his chest. 

He can’t think of anything to say, and without a word, Viktor plucks Jayce’s sweatshirt off the hook, ties it around his waist, and slips out of the room. When Jayce manages to recover himself and pack up his gear, Viktor is already long gone. 

This is beyond a slip up. This is a violation. Jayce committed a sin so abhorrent he couldn’t even pray it away if he was still religious. He spends the entire drive home yelling at himself, guilt twisting deep in his stomach.

The second he gets home, he runs to his desk and sketches an entire composition in a haze of four hours. Jayce just stares at it when he’s done, and it’s like he’s come out of a trance. He barely even remembers doing anything. It’s also one of the best composition ideas he’s ever thought of. And yet, the model is so painfully, so obviously Viktor.

He takes the comp card from where he hid it from himself at the back of his desk drawer and turns it over in his hands. His phone calls to him seductively from its spot on the table. 

He rips the comp card up and tosses the shreds into his trash, and cracks open a bottle of whiskey seconds later in both triumph and defeat.

Chapter Text

Viktor wakes up at five in the morning, stark naked in a bed far nicer than his own, his body sore and head throbbing.

His eyes open to the blinking red alarm of the digital clock beside the bed. He manages to reach over and slap at it so the alarm silences. Viktor rolls over, rubbing his eyes and twisting his leg in the sheets with a wince. He took off his brace, he always does before going home with someone lest they find another thing to look at that’s wrong with his body. Viktor can use the dim lights to hide the pins on his spine, the way his leg itself has bruises all the time, how his back is misshapen, but it’s best to keep the things he needs to conceal at a minimum. He has plenty of his own secrets to juggle already. 

Whoever took him here last night is long gone. Viktor stretches briefly, making his low back and knees pop, and then wobbles up and out of bed, heading into the ensuite to turn the shower on. He loves to indulge in the fancy showers in these high-rise apartment bathrooms, the strong flow and immediate hot water that doesn’t waver. It soaks his hair, runs down his body in rivulets, slowly warming the bone-deep chill that he always carries. With how thin he’s gotten lately, thanks to a new brand of greek yogurt that has about as many calories as a stick of gum, he’s just never warm anymore. But a hot shower, sauna, or jacuzzi certainly helps for a bit. 

There’s another reason he likes these showers so much. After a mostly unsatisfying night, he can use the detachable showerhead to get himself off up to five times in a row. The typically middle-aged and sadistic chasers he hooks up with every chance he gets aren't often amazing in bed, and most of them like to degrade him to filth. Which just isn't really his thing. But as long as he gets in a good bump before, and a good smoke after, it's fine. It works out. It's an exchange Viktor is willing to live with. A night of sleep out of his own terrible bed, some cash or a job, the idea of being wanted– each one on its own is enough. 

Viktor leans back against the wall tiles and drifts the showerhead down the concave lull of his stomach, between his hip bones and over his thighs, while he tries to bring a fantasy forward in his mind. Typically he just plays around with one of the better memories of clients he had when he was a teenager– the older men who came in with pitying looks, who called him “kiddo” or “sweet boy”. The ones that kissed him slow and deep, made him cum at least once, left behind red scratches from their beards between Viktor’s thighs and on his neck. They were so big compared to him, but used their bulk carefully, cradling him like a baby in their strong arms. They wanted him to call them “daddy”, which worked out well, because it came naturally from his lips. There’s never been a thought in his head about why that isn’t weird for him. Even if there was, Viktor didn’t care. He’d never known his father, so what comparison was there to make? 

He’s about to start flicking through his memories when he lands right on the other day, in what could generously be called a closet, with the Jayce Talis. That shoot was so mixed with hurt and pleasure he couldn’t tell them apart anymore, but he finally separates the day in two, with a clear reason for it. Dmitri and the morning are brushed away in favor of remembering Jayce cupping his cheek, asking to touch him, telling him how flat and small he was. 

All of it has Viktor rocking his hips up into the stream, his wet hair sticking to the tile behind his head where it presses against the wall. His breaths come faster, and he remembers how big Jayce was compared to him, how he could hold Viktor’s weight with a single thigh easily, how taut the muscles were there as Viktor grinded down against it. Jayce’s large, warm fingers rubbing his clit, his deep, soft voice in Viktor’s ear– that feel good?  His groans, how ragged his breaths became when Viktor stroked his cock, how thick and heavy it was in his hands, how well it would probably fill him up–

Viktor cums with a long sigh of satisfaction, hips slowing in their circles as his cunt throbs faintly with light aftershocks. He still slides his fingers inside, curling them up and making himself moan soft as a whisper. Jayce’s cock would fill him up so fucking good, he could hold Viktor steady and use him like a doll. Jayce could bounce him on it with or without Viktor’s permission, but Viktor would never say no. (Not that he ever has, anyways.) Viktor bites down on his lip, and when he cums on his own fingers with a noise that can only be described as a squeak, it’s to the thought of Jayce pressing him down with his whole body and fucking into him slow and deep. 

Viktor rinses the conditioner out of his hair and gets out of the shower, drying off and leaving the bathroom to shamelessly walk around the apartment naked. He finds his clothes where they were discarded on the floor last night, an incriminating trail leading from the bedroom to the front door. After tugging them back on, Viktor opens his phone, and guiltily opens his messages to text Sky. 

V: come get me?

nebe🩵🌻: Drop a pin.

V: ď nebe 💋

Punctual and dependable as ever, Sky’s car pulls up outside of the apartment building twenty minutes later. Viktor spends that time casually looking through the apartment. The bedside drawers don’t reveal anything interesting but a watch on top, and the kitchen is mostly empty. Viktor eventually wanders into the office and approaches the desk, running his finger along the shiny varnished wood. There’s a pair of framed photos turned around. Viktor nudges one, and when the image faces him, his stomach churns.

The man he slept with last night is smiling in the picture, with two young girls holding his hands and a woman bending down to kiss his cheek. She’s beautiful. His daughters have their mother’s warm brown hair and dark skin. Viktor turns the other frame around, and is faced with something even worse.

It’s one of the daughters, smiling and tilting her head against a smaller girl with black hair, who is sticking her tongue out. The daughter shows off braces with blue bands, and her friend has a glittery blue tongue piercing. 

Viktor thinks of the Polaroid pinned above his bed, the selfie he and Sky took when they were thirteen. She brought her dad’s old camera to the summer camp she begged Viktor to spend two months at with her. Viktor was lucky enough to qualify for the scholarship program, and also lucky enough to be in a foster home at the time where the parents felt like signing forms, and who were just glad to have him out of the house for a while without having to pay a cent. Sky got her braces during the school year, refusing to smile for days until Viktor wrote her an obscene note in math class. And two days later, Viktor managed to get a piercing kit from his then-boyfriend (who was twenty-three and his future agent), and showed up to class with a tongue piercing. Sky chose purple bands, and so Viktor found a cheap piece of purple jewelry to stick in. After that, she smiled with her full teeth every time.

Viktor turns both photos back around and leaves the building. 

The shoot he’s doing today is not his first choice. Any time Viktor is specifically requested to send headshots or he gets an email addressing him casually with a Hey Viktor!, he’s immediately on alert. These shoots normally mean good money, but also up to four hours of the world’s most handsy photographer and the sluttiest concept shots ever. But this is how he got out of WFP and into paid shoots, so he’s learned to tolerate it. 

The second Viktor sees the sheer white cotton of the shorts and tank hanging in wardrobe, he knows what’s happening today. Thankfully last night’s conquest wasn’t particularly into marking him up, so he doesn't even need to pretend not to hear the makeup artist when she finds bruises everywhere and asks if he’s okay. He’s barely dolled up for this, which isn’t common for these shoots, and gets sent out of the chair in less than twenty minutes. All that’s on his face is a light dusting of makeup, and he’s dressed in the thin cotton quickly. With time to spare, he grabs his backpack and heads to the bathroom. It’s thankfully empty and silent, and he locks himself in a stall and neatly measures out three lines of powder onto the back of the thin hardcover book he carries around for this exact reason. The whirring that fills his head and makes his limbs jumpy is just what he needs to survive this. Tonight he’ll treat himself to something extra. Maybe a strawberry protein bar, or one of those Halo Top ice creams. Just one or two scoops, obviously measured and weighed, and all depending on how well today goes. 

He leaves the stall and quickly returns to the set, leaving his bag behind in his makeup chair. He’s already a little cold as he walks over into the lights, spotting the green turf covering a large patch of the floor. There’s fake grass in front of the green screen, the overhead lights warm and natural, almost romantic. He thinks back to the concepts– a girl on her bed, kicking her feet and twirling her hair, and a ridiculous photo of a bikini model running through a sprinkler. 

“Alright, lay down on your stomach,” the director calls suddenly, and Viktor sets his cane aside and carefully drops to his knees, and then lays down flat on the grass.

“A little to the left– yeah, there. Feet up.” He’s going to need the stronger painkillers tonight– this position is not kind to his back or knees. There’s a book sitting in front of him, blending in with the grass, and he picks it up.

“Perfect. Move your feet, and open the book. Relax the shoulders.” His voice is excited, and Viktor just goes through the motions as usual, bending his knees and expertly masking the wince as he kicks his feet. He focuses on opening the book and blankly staring at the words. 

“Water on,” someone calls, and Viktor’s stomach tenses as he feels the dripping of water over his whole body. He can feel the thin cotton sticking to his skin, clinging to his limbs, and the water is warm but his body doesn't absorb any of the heat. He tenses all his limbs to keep himself from shivering, while trying to keep his shoulders looking relaxed and face even. 

“Perfect. Gorgeous. Be a little flirty with it,” the man calls this time, and Viktor’s stomach continues to bubble with anxiety. He tilts his head up, looking at the camera with pursed lips and a sultry stare. Sexy. Sexy. Be sexy, he thinks to himself like a mantra. 

Sexy. Flirty. His head is starting to throb as the water drips into his hair and down his neck. He must be visibly shivering now, but the camera keeps clicking. 

“Hey– doing great, are you– okay?” Someone calls, maybe the director, maybe not. The words are bubbly and useless in his ears. Of course he’s okay. He’s focused. Viktor bats his eyelashes and grits his teeth behind his cheeky, pursed smile.

Be flirty. Sell it. Sell the image.

As he does, the water continues to flow over him, and the bright lights in his eyes make his vision go fuzzy. He’s suddenly blinking back spots, his body hot and cold all over, and the knot in his stomach is twisting worse than ever. His head feels so heavy. The camera keeps clicking, a rhythmic clap in his head, and it feels like it’s aligned with his heartbeat. The lights are so bright the world has turned into a world of flashing neon colors. 

Sell it. Sell it. Sell it, is all he thinks before his eyes shut and he’s face down in the fake grass, the sprinkler still raining down over his limp body. At least I will die beautiful is the last thought in his head.

When Viktor opens his eyes again, fluttering back to life, his stomach still aches and now his head throbs something fierce. He’s laying down in a familiar adjacent office, the lights off overhead. Thankfully he can’t feel the wet, cold cotton clinging to his body still, now back in his own sweatshirt and leggings. His phone is ringing beside him on the couch. He manages to reach out and pick it up with a shaky hand, his head throbbing as he blindly accepts the call.

“Hey,” he croaks into the phone.

“Hey. I figured you’d be done by now. How was the shoot?” Sky’s voice comes through, and Viktor’s stomach clenches tight as he tries to clear the roughness from his throat.

“Gross. Basically a wet t-shirt contest,” he answers weakly. Thankfully Sky laughs. She always humors him with these things, with the casual grossness of the shoots, of the things he’s done to survive. She knows that Viktor fiercely rejects handouts whenever he can. If there’s any other option, he’ll take it. 

“Yikes. Want to go out for lunch?”

“I’m fine. They had craft,” he lies easily. Sky hums. They both know it’s a lie. She’s kind enough not to push today. She’s all but given up on feeding him more than necessary to gain weight back, and often shoves homemade smoothies likely stocked with vitamin capsules into his hands with no warning. 

“They’re 200 calories each. I measured,” she insisted. Viktor checked it himself, and she was correct, but he was still wary. He refused every other one until she pushed for it. It’s just because she cares. He knows that, so he can’t resent her for it. 

“Okay. We should do dinner or something this week,” she adds.

“Sounds good.” Viktor would have been glad to keep talking, but his stomach suddenly pulses, and his head gets light again. His throat is starting to constrict.

“I gotta go, my bus is here. Talk to you later,” he manages quickly, and the second she says goodbye, he hangs up and shoves his phone into his pocket. He manages to sit up, still woozy but staying upright regardless. He fumbles for the light switch and gets himself down from the couch he was on, and then hobbles along the hallway to the floor’s bathrooms. 

Viktor stumbles into the stall and falls to his knees just in time, as the swirling nausea climbs all the way up his throat and forces its way out. He promptly pukes up clear bile, since there was nothing in his stomach for the last twenty-four hours as he knew he had a shoot today. He coughs a few times, his throat scratchy and his head still throbbing. Dragging himself off the floor, he gets to the sink and rinses his mouth out, and splashes his face with cold water for good measure. 

With a deep breath, he looks up into the mirror. His face is pale and ashy, cheeks and the hollows of his eyes dark and sunken. His hair is actually starting to thin now, so he needs to get more protein shakes fast, or it’ll fall out all together. His mind runs the calculations at lightning speed– he has a single banana in his bag, as well as his water bottle and two sugar-free gatorades. And he can probably get home and scrape together a salad. 

Digging into his pants pockets, Viktor pulls out his lucky break– a trusty pack of cinnamon gum. He learned it’s the best way to hide the acidic smell of bile, far more effective than mint or any of the sugary ones. He’s not a lazy bulimic– not that it would even work, he’s well aware of the scientific consequences of vomiting constantly, and he can’t sacrifice his teeth if he wants to keep working. The rest of his body is allowed to fall apart, but he keeps his looks carefully in check. He’s honestly not even sure what causes the random gagging fits anymore, it could be any number of things at this point. He pops two pieces of gum in his mouth as he walks out of the bathroom, but before he can open the door, someone else is pushing it towards him. 

“Oh,” Jayce says. “Hey, Viktor.”

Viktor stares up at him. Jayce is in a tight black t-shirt, loosely tucked into a pair of work jeans. He has a pencil tucked behind his ear. He stands tall and imposing, large and strong, muscled with the sort of softness that comes with his slight aging. Meanwhile, Viktor is shaky like a newborn faun on his legs. His head aches like hell, he definitely smells like puke, he just passed out at a shoot, not even for the first time, and he needs a line so fucking badly right now. 

“Hello, Jayce,” he responds simply. His voice is throaty, and Jayce’s face changes, softening. He tilts his head, his face warm and curious.

“Did you just have a shoot?” Jayce asks. 

“Yes. We– finished early,” Viktor decides on, and it’s a weak lie. He’s too exhausted to put in real effort to charm Jayce right now. It’s not like it’s realistic for him to actually like Viktor. Indulging in one-time sex on set isn’t a declaration of love. 

“Me too. Are you…” His eyes scan up and down Viktor’s body, and another wave of nausea courses through it immediately. He’s down right now, BMI nearly at 16.5, so his body looks good, he knows that. But he can’t help but scrutinize Jayce’s gaze and search for revulsion in it. All he finds is worry. That’s fine. Everyone looks at him like that. Always have. He was the disabled kid, the teen prostitute, and now the drugged up too-thin model. Pity is typical. He knows to just ignore it.

“I’m fine,” Viktor snaps anyways, because he’s starving and his mouth tastes like vomit and cinnamon and his head hurts and he needs a line so fucking bad. Jayce’s mouth shuts from where it hung open before, and he glances away, biting his lip. He regrets his words immediately, and knows now is the time to get the fuck out. Viktor unsteadily places a hand on the door and moves to walk past him, but Jayce stops him with a hand on his upper arm.

“Are you?” He asks gently, his eyes full of concern and curiosity. His entire hand covers Viktor’s tricep, his tan skin and dark hair standing out starkly against Viktor’s pale, dotted arm, with only the faintest wisps of mousy brown hair. Viktor’s brow furrows, and he gives up. He yanks his arm away and turns around, going back into the bathroom and leaning against the sink with a heavy sigh. Jayce follows, and the door swings shut behind him. There’s a strange gap between them, which Jayce shrinks by approaching, now just a few feet away. He smells like something faintly fresh and citrus, a brief aquatic note on the end. Viktor knows his perfumes– they’re great resale items, and he’s been given too many to count as expensive gifts– and this isn’t one, more subtle, just an aftershave or beard oil. Viktor drinks it in the way he always does with the smells of luxury he wants to remember forever. All he can think about now is how he must still smell like cinnamon and puke still, so he spits his gum into the trash and rinses out his mouth with no shame. Jayce thankfully doesn’t comment.

“When did you start modelling?” he asks after an awkwardly quiet moment.

“Fourteen,” Viktor responds automatically.

Jayce raises his eyebrows. “That’s young. I didn’t start til almost twenty.”

“Well, it was better than my current job at the time, and my then-boyfriend was an agent.” As is usual, Viktor pointedly leaves out most of the details of how he came to be where he is. Because people don’t know how to handle it. They can’t fathom a life like his, where every day was a struggle to survive, where he had to fight his way to twenty-three. How could someone like Jayce Talis understand that before ten, Viktor was on the street? That at eleven, when the system finally found him, he fought tooth and nail to stay there? That by twelve, he’d been through six different foster families, none of which could afford his treatments? That at thirteen, he knew full well he was a boy, but let his hair grow out and started wearing tissue-stuffed push-up bras so he could go to nightclubs with Alec and go home with grown men every weekend to afford off-market drugs? 

“An agent? In high school?”

Of course someone like Jayce Talis could never understand.

And since he asked a dumb question, dug too deep without thinking, without realizing just how fucked up Viktor is, Viktor responds with the honest and unforgiving answer. “No, he was twenty-three.” 

He suddenly realizes that he’s the same age as his middle school boyfriend. It’s admittedly sickening.

“Oh,” is Jayce’s soft response, as expected, his face creasing with sadness.

“It was fine. He was fine,” Viktor says tiredly, because it’s always what he says when people react to any mention of his childhood. “But not a great agent, I dropped him a few years in.” He doesn’t mention that it was mostly because Alec wanted to keep pimping him out, which he really didn’t need to do anymore with the modelling giving him enough to scrape by on its own. 

“My agent was my mom,” Jayce says with a chuckle. “She didn’t really like that I started modelling, but she was happy I was happy, I guess.” 

Viktor isn’t sure how to respond. My mother died in childbirth, that sounds great, though. What’s it like to have a mom? To not blame yourself for her death? To not wish you weren’t born, just to live a failure of a life with a failure of a body? Is it nice? It sounds nice.

“That sounds nice,” Viktor ends up answering pathetically, his eyes locked on the floor. 

“Yeah,” Jayce responds softly. “I was just doing it to make some extra cash during college. Kinda wish I started back in high school,” he adds with a quiet, nervous chuckle. Viktor’s gaze flicks back up to Jayce, curious.

“Wish your fifteen minutes came earlier?” Viktor snarks impulsively, and he almost regrets it, but Jayce’s eyes light up and fix on his.

“Hah. Yeah, sometimes,” he admits sheepishly, reaching up to rub his chin. Viktor hums, drumming his fingers along the edge of the countertop.

“Well. Just wanted to make sure you were okay. I heard the walkie call about someone getting injured– that was you, right?” He asks tentatively, and Viktor sighs.

“I got a little faint. It was no big deal,” he replies, smoother than expected. The world is starting to clear a little now, in the lull after his coke wears off but before the craving sets in to something more dangerous. 

“Did you eat before the shoot?” Jayce asks genuinely, and Viktor huffs a laugh, which makes him pause and, surprisingly, shake his head. “Right. Nothing twenty-four hours before. But that wasn’t a fitting shot, that’s just– a lot.” 

“I’m surprised you remember that rule,” Viktor comments truthfully.

“They had it for me, at least. Normally it was more about drinking, though, no liquids twelve hours before. It’s part of the muscle cutting,” he explains with a shrug, but before Viktor can try and drag the subject out further, he pivots right back. “Well, I have a slice of pizza in my bag, and there’s a microwave next door. You should eat something real now.” 

Viktor’s ears start to heat, and he knows they’re reddening behind his hair. Now he’s just embarrassed. Because Jayce must know full well he would never eat a fucking slice of pizza . He’s not a binger, and he won’t eat things like that even to prove himself as healthy to other people. He claims strange allergies half the time, which fools most of them well enough, but a fellow model could see through that with ease. So he’s offering just to humiliate him. Great.

“No thanks, I’m lactose intolerant,” he replies casually with a sniff, stretching his lower leg before just pushing himself up to sit on the countertop, his legs dangling from it, immediately taking the pressure off. Jayce steps closer to him, and Viktor just watches quietly as he approaches, standing almost between his thighs now. Even sitting elevated like this, Jayce is still obviously taller, and his frame completely covers Viktor’s.

“Are you in pain right now/” Jayce asks quietly, and he stares at Viktor so intensely that all he can do is nod. 

“Are you in pain all the time?” Viktor hesitates before slowly nodding once more. Jayce’s head dips, his eyes shutting tight, and Viktor tries to lean back against the mirror away from Jayce as subtly as he can. Jayce’s hands come up to hold Viktor’s thighs, and then Jayce’s mouth is on his, and nothing else matters. Jayce tastes like mint, and up close his smell is even better, cool and refreshing, calming and masculine. Viktor sinks into his mouth gladly, reaching up to take hold of the back of his head so he can’t pull away, fingers curling into his hair. This feels like the smallest spot of light in the gloomy storm that is Viktor’s life. Jayce just keeps showing up and doing this. It’s dangerous to get too attached, to start to expect Jayce to come in and offer that relief when he doesn’t even know he needs it. 

Viktor can’t focus on that right now. He just kisses Jayce until his breath is coming fast and heavy, his lips red and spit-slick, and Jayce finally pulls away the smallest amount to kiss furiously down his neck, shoving aside his hoodie to press his lips to every inch of skin he can reach. 

“Jayce–” Viktor gasps as a hand crawls down to his waistband and yanks the fabric down with ease. Before he can say another word, Jayce’s hands grip tight on his thighs as he gets down on his knees. The image of his dark hair drooping slightly into his face, eyes hard with pure focus as he tugs the rest of Viktor’s pants and boxers down to his ankles, is a sight to behold. Viktor has to lean back against the mirror as his chest rises and falls fast and hard, the porcelain cold beneath his thighs contrasting with Jayce’s warm hands on top of them as he spreads them wide. Jayce is moving faster than Viktor can keep up, and a tongue is dragging through his folds before he even realizes what’s happening. A moan crawls out of his throat almost immediately, and then there’s a quiet stream of whimpers. When Jayce purses his lips and brings Viktor’s clit between them, he barely manages to clap a hand over his mouth to muffle the quiet scream he lets out, his body thrumming with pleasure.

And then, the doorknob on the bathroom jiggles, and both of them freeze in place.

Viktor has no clue who it is that walks in. The man’s face and anything besides his general form is blurry and incoherent in his mind, fear completely blinding him. 

“Out,” Jayce says, voice calm and strong with a deadly sharp edge to it. The man stands there, hand still on the door, for only a moment longer before promptly turning on his heel and walking away, his footsteps echoing down the hall with fast clicks. Viktor’s heart is thumping in his chest, making the whole thing rattle as he continues to practically pant. Jayce’s head turns back to him, and his eyes flick up to Viktor just as he leans down and opens his mouth again. They have the gleam of a predator. Viktor’s entire stomach tenses as Jayce pushes his tongue inside of him, instinctively clenching tight around the muscle and earning a quiet groan from Jayce himself. That alone has Viktor’s hips sliding forwards, and Jayce’s hands move back to grip them. His palms are massive, the warmth pressing right into the sharp bones of Viktor’s hips, and he pushes up uselessly against them. 

“Fuck me,” he whispers this time, and Jayce hums and the shock goes straight through his cunt. “God, please,” he adds.

Jayce hums again, and Viktor reaches out to scrabble at his head, tugging his hair as he whimpers. “Please, fuck me, god, get up here–” 

Jayce doesn’t budge, and in his disoriented desperation, Viktor gasps out “daddy, please” without even thinking. Jayce’s hands immediately tighten around his hips, holding them so tight Viktor briefly worries his brittle bones might snap in Jayce’s grip. His head finally emerges from between Viktor’s legs, who watches with his stomach twisting nervously as Jayce rises back up, his eyes wild and equally desperate.

“Baby,” he whispers, voice choked, and Viktor spreads his legs and arches his neck, the most revealing display he can possibly imagine. Jayce looks him up and down like he’s trying to decide how to eat Viktor whole. His face is dark, head ducked halfway, making him appear even more predatory. Viktor’s insides are clenching with an instinctual fear, but every other part of his mind and body wants to appeal to Jayce, to draw him closer. 

He doesn’t win the battle entirely, however, as Jayce grabs his hips but doesn’t move to undo his own belt. Instead, his fingers press to Viktor’s entrance and two slide in with ease. The intrusion has Viktor almost choking on his own air. It’s a compromise he can live with. Jayce’s other hand slides up his back, stroking over it in soothing circles, forcing Viktor to scoot forwards and rest against his chest as Jayce’s fingers curl inside of him and make his legs tremble. His fingers are so much larger than Viktor’s own, getting so much deeper inside, spreading him open like nothing else, hard and hot, and Viktor can practically pretend it’s actually Jayce’s cock. 

“Daddy,” he gasps between punched-out breaths with each thrust of Jayce’s fingers. Jayce shushes him, hand still warm and large on his back, spanning nearly half of it with just his palm. “Daddy, J–Jayce, fuck–”

“Just like that, sweetheart, you got it,” Jayce murmurs in his ear, low and calm and sweet, and that’s all it takes for Viktor’s pussy to flutter around his fingers and his vision to white out completely, ears filled with a faint ringing, and the world is gone for a second time today.

When Viktor wakes up for the third time that day, it’s in the same office as before. He’s filled with a dizzying sense of deja vu as he slowly sits up, finding himself still in his regular clothes, his bag and phone on the couch beside him. One of his gatorades is cracked open on the table nearby, and as Viktor picks it up, he finds the piece of paper stuck to it.

Rest up, and eat something.

Let’s work together soon. [email protected]

Viktor stares at the tight, fast handwriting for a long moment, before tucking the scrap carefully into his pocket. 

Once he gets out of the studio, it’s nearly evening. On his way home, he thinks about what he could possibly say to Jayce now. Thanks for making me cum so hard I passed out, hope that wasn’t too weird. Want to photograph me naked? Honestly, that isn’t too far off from half of the conversations he has with directors nowadays. The industry is just sex, money, sex, money, with some art thrown in occasionally, all fueled by a drug cocktail keeping everyone alive in the insanity. He hates his life. He doesn’t deserve someone like Jayce. 

He also is going to die. And this can be one of his dangerous indulgences. One of those things that will kill him eventually, but not soon enough to worry about. Jayce Talis can be his new flavor of nicotine. And Viktor can already tell he’s a different kind of addictive.