Chapter Text
It starts, of all places, in the heat of the forge.
He rolls his broad shoulders with growing discomfort. It’s not from the feeling of sweat dripping down his face, burning at his golden eyes and beading his upper lip. Iit’s not from the way that his tattered, char-blackened shirt clings to his exhausted, soot-stained and soaking form. It’s not even from the hazy, high temperature of the forge, burning at several thousand degrees, broiling the bare, exposed skin of his neck, arms, and shoulders. No: Jayce Talis has been doing smithwork for far too long to convince himself that these symptoms are anything else.
“Fucking hells,” Jayce curses. “Thought that I wasn’t due for another week...”
The man from Piltover heaves a sigh, exhaling hot air into the scalding atmosphere. With a thunk, he releases his sizable hammer, allowing it to drop to the well-worn anvil below and striking it loudly with a sharp, ringing sound. At this, Jayce gives an unnatural shiver, the vibration running up through his fingertips, to his hands, to his knotted shoulders. He grits his teeth, feeling the wave of movement flow down the strong, firm contours of his body; the thick and tempered musculature of years hammering anvil and bending iron.
And yet, his heat leaves him trembling, thin and frail as a leaf.
“You’d think,” Jayce says loudly to nobody else, “that being here alone here would help make things better…”
His body doesn’t seem to agree. Already the sweet, rich-smelling slick has begun to build upon his skin like a lather. It’s combined with the sweat already running down his face and chest, now moving down the expanse of his shoulders. With a grunt of frustration that turns into the softest, most-suppressed groan, Jayce tears at the blackened fabric of his shirt. In a swift and familiar movement, he’s pulled it up and over his chest, exposing his skin to the heat of the forge. It only makes his shuddering harder.
“...Well. Guess not.” he chuckles darkly.
Jayce is far more than familiar with the swift, all-consuming possession of heats. Before there were calluses built up on his hands, he’d known what it meant to be an omega. He’s survived heat cycles since he had come of age; but with every passing year, they had only seemed to grow worse. While the other omegas around him had seemed to successfully pass with the aid of suppressants, Jayce had only felt himself being ever more torn apart each and every time his heat would begin. By now, he knew the feeling of it better than anything else: the aching. The earnestness. The insatiable, bone-deep, burning hunger.
“Right,” Jayce says, feeling his slick beginning to pool and gather. “Let’s get this over with.”
With the calm familiarity of one who has been through such things many times over, Jayce scans his golden eyes over the forge. On one side of the room, there stands a large, rough-cut, stone table. It’s scattered with various tools and instruments: a beautiful, engraved, heirloom hammer here…the practiced, rough edges of chisel and fullers there…and the strong, sturdy form of an excellent vice, which one might use to clench and hold things firmly together…
Didn’t work last time. Jayce sighs at himself and shakes his head. Too much. Not enough. He sweeps a hand over his brow, runs a hand through the loose threads of hair. With the ghost of wanting, he traces his rough fingers over his skin, tasting the bite of salt lingering on his fingers. Don’t overthink it. Don’t be too ambitious.
With intentionally measured steps, he makes his way over to the table.
He’s done this too much to be self-conscious. Needs it too much to pause and think about it. Throughout the years of rigorous, manual labor to the moments of careful, thoughtful academia, Jayce has learned about what his body needs, in order to pause the heated cravings. He needs to touch, and be touched. He needs the firm, thick feel of something inside him. He needs to be bound, dominated by power, pounded like the white-hot iron caught between his hammer and anvil...
“Fuck!” Jayce hisses. He reaches down, shakily thumbing at his slippery belt. “Fuck, alright! ”
Jayce Talis gives into the burning temptation. With a groan, the man sinks to the floor, his soot-darkened knees striking the stone. For a moment he feels relief: the blessed, cool stone lapping up his tepid wetness. But then, he feels the desperate, manic thrum of his heartbeat. The loud, singing boil of blood in his veins. The burning, urgent, unquenched demand of a fire that is burning, insatiable, deep down inside him.
“Alright,” he agrees.
With practiced hands, Jayce strips off the last of his trousers and undergarments. Laid blissfully bare in the heat of the forge, he drags shaking hands over wet, dripping skin. He groans, stroking his face and pectorals.
Not enough. Jayce swiftly and mercilessly clasps at his nipples, twisting enough to elicit a moan. No. Not enough! Need so much more...
With shaking hands, he traces the hardened lines of his form, imagining it as the touch of an alpha. Through the hazy, half-closed lid of dark, parted lashes, he can almost imagine that these are the fingers of someone else. Someone who uses a knowing, deliberate pressure…the kind that will open him up, wring him out, bend him over.
“F-fuck me,” Jayce pants, the heat rasping his vocal chords.
But his hot, desperate words are swallowed up by the vast expanse of the forge. It leaves him feeling all the more unsatisfied as he trembles there on the cold, empty floor.
Fuck me! I need more...
Jayce sweeps his hand down, stroking his thighs and backside. Thick, aromatic slick coats on his fingertips, providing him with his natural lubrication.
More…
With wet, trembling fingers, he strokes his way down. Jayce moves his hands to the part of his thighs, to the cleft of his buttocks, to cradle the tense, straining need of his satchel.
MORE!…
He begins to finger himself; first, gingerly, then with increasing roughness. Jayce throws back his head and breathes, open-mouthed, sucking down lungfuls of hot air around him. It’s stifling, and he is alone. He needs to be fucked, to be bred, to be held down by the powerful force of an alpha, and filled with the things that he wants, and does not have…
"FUCK!” Jayces rasps, his strong hands wringing and pounding his body.
Even so, the attention still is not enough, and the heat consumes him just as he’d known it would.
With a familiar sense of resignation, Jayce reaches out for his hammer, his fingertips searching and dripping hot slick on the stone. When they finally find and caress the cool, reassuring firmness of the tool, Jayce feels his eyelids flicker and close in glorious anticipation.
Good, he breathes to himself. Good boy. You know what comes next.
With a practiced touch, Jayce tugs his slippery hands over the handle. Thick and clear, the lubrication now drips from his eager body, and it glides from his fingers over the surface. Careful, with familiar precision, Jayce opens himself and pulls the hammer in, handle-first, and clasps the familiar form inside him. A bolt of ecstatic feeling runs through him.
“F-fuck!” he gasps.
And, for a moment, it is just enough.
Jayce trembles and quivers, his body sucking and pulling against the long, smooth handle. The iron hammer-head glistens between his tense fingers, and he pants and writhes against the length inside him.
And then, when he dares, he pushes.
Jayce begins to pump the hammer length inside and out, gasping and shuddering with every movement. Still, the heat-induced orgasm eludes him, and the faster he pushes, the further he pulls, all the more the heat outlasts and outruns him.
“Please–!”
Jayce feels a moment of wild desperation. In a panic, he wonders what might happen if he cannot satisfy his urges. He wonders what it might look like for others to walk in on him, wanton and open upon the forge floor. He wonders how his pleas and pathetic moaning might sound to others, if overheard by forge workers, students, or even councilors.
Jayce shudders. Wait. Who?!
He pictures the ring of peak, powerful reigning alphas. Not twenty-four hours ago, he had stood for the very first time on trial before them, with each and every one gazing down at him with fierce judgement and speculation. It had taken all of his might to bite down on his tongue, to resist the urge to not slip up about magic…until he had. He’d let out the fantasy of his nearly-possible science, his golden dream of making Piltover better. The potential for a new life had dazzled before his eyes, then had leaked out through the cracks of his hands.
And yet, one of them had snapped to attention.
F-fuck!
Jayce gasps as a fire roars suddenly to life within him. Out from the dazzling flames, he glimpses the face of Mel Medarda: beautiful, powerful, the most smooth and cunning politician of the lot of them.
“N-no,” Jayce huffs, his pleasure combining with dread. “No. Not Medarda…”
Talented as she is stunning, the golden-flecked councillor from Noxus had rested her heavy, dark eyes upon him during his trial, settling upon him like cool, heavy stone. Jayce had pretended not to notice; after all, in spite of all of the jokes of his peers, Jayce Talis was no fool. He knows all the Medardas, and how someone like her would never take him. Yes, Mel Medarda is renowned among alphas for being unattached, and for sating the needs of countless omega lovers. But she is far too well-connected, far to brilliant, to think of an obsolete house like Talis.
And yet…and yet…
As Jayce ponders the smooth, dark features of the incredible woman, he feels the heat kindling an answer inside him. Yes: he had felt her eyes resting heavy upon him, hadn't he? And, yes, she had been interested in his thoughts: holding Jayce and his words in her radiant gaze, weighing and measuring all that could be future. She’d traced his form with her eyes, midnight-black and intelligent as the stars…and she’d traced her tongue, over her soft lips and mouth.
She’d never have you, Jayce tells himself. GIVE YOURSELF OVER! his heat demands.
With a shaking, shuddering cry, Jayce finds himself rising towards his climax. Against better judgement, he forces eyes shut, thinking of how Mel Medarda might tend a lover.
She doesn’t do attachments. She’s above your station. S HE WOULD BREAK YOU! JUST HOW YOU’RE WANTING!
With a heaving, wet sigh, Jayce hits an orgasm.
It clenches through his body, clamping his legs and hole shut, wringing a strained gasp and sob from within him. In a moment of trembling relief and relaxation, he feels his flushed, tensed muscled relax, and the quaking of his weak legs undo beneath him. He collapses, limp and content upon the forge floor, drawing the shaft of the hammer out from him. Stilled, momentarily satisfied, Jayce pants blinks through hot tears to gather his bearings.
“S-so,” he says, mind pleasantly hazy and buzzing. “I ought to increase my suppressant prescription...”
Soaking with sweat, sticky with the fading remnants of his heat-slick, Jayce Talis rises to standing upon the stone floor. He gathers his things, tugs on his wrecked pants, even gathers the charred, filthy remains of his shirt. With a half-embarrassed, half-grateful gesture, he strokes the drying length of his hammer, then tucks it firmly away in his belt. He’ll clean up the forge, return to his quarters, and scrumb himself down from the mess that he’s made.
And then…
Jayce shivers, feeling the tenderness of his chafed, bothered, bruised skin. The ache, the ruthless, never-ending forge of his heat, is already rising up in hunger.
Then. I will go out and find Mel Medarda.
And maybe, perhaps, his need might be quenched.
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