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[becomerobot]

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March- NSFW w/ @backshots

[becomerobot]

[Continued from here.]

[Viktor's smirk is assured, but he wobbles his head in a slightly bashful manner. This moles, huh? His body changed all over, turning such distinctive markings across his skin into freckles of gold or silver bolts. On his face, he still had the two most obvious marks, the one beneath his eye and the one above his lip. They're easy to pepper attention to, so very obvious in their placement. That Jayce appreciates them is sweet, that does make him feel... human, still. He likes that feeling, it helps ground him, holds him in place with the gratitude of still being able to feel fully.

He adjusts his legs and lifts up from kneeling besides that chair. Jayce is hoist up with him, held beneath his butt and braced between his shoulders by an open palm. The man does have some weight to him again, which is a good sign. That he's not so withered away to just skin and bone.]

Of course you like this. I get to carry you back to our bed.

[While they could just keep being grossly intimate with one another here, Viktor is sure that Jayce also needs rest. You know, after they have their fill of each other for affection. He will just begin walking on that way, this having become something of a pattern now. Because of that, he must joke,]

This time, we can stay a mess. [make a much worse mess of each other, even, who knows, such possibilities are endless]

a few days into august, eventual nsfw im SORRY for how long this is

[hexrot]

[ may it serve you well, jayce. if only it were so fucking simple.

ever since his most recent retreat from having his hooves on the edge of a building's open floor eight stories up, jayce has crashed, and crashed, and crashed— every time from something he couldn't wrap his head around, and when he did, it came with a flurry of emotions that were too untamed to swallow and keep down before the bile rose to his mouth. for one, he is alive. lets start with that: a warm tan to his skin that nearly brings a sunny glow to him. no open wounds, no putrid stenches, no disgusting sound following him. just a small limp, and much more sensitivity to his nerves. they fire off at the smallest of stimuli, where brushes become grabs and temperature either feels too hot or too cold. he actually feels it. he still cannot enter the sunlight's domain, either, so night is when he continues his activities (which didn't really amount to anything other than pacing or hitting things, or.....). but the first time after the occurance that he catches his reflection while washing the stains and peeling away the now dry, anomaly-webbed velvet on his half-rack of antlers, he stares at it a good long while, and what remained of purple smudges under his beard . . . and feels sick. not enough to lose his meal, but enough that he must sit, and keep his head close to a container, just in case.

how he came to be was the worst offender, and something he thinks about for about two days straight, no pauses. minimal contact. frustrated pacing and moments of heated bugling, silent sobbing or just a numb sort of stare at the moon. he should be turning that thing inside and out. studying the history and racing down variables in equations to find a way to replicate what it had done. he can't. he fucking can't concentrate on anything else. because every beat within his chest was a ghost haunting him. every hush of the wind or the rattle of tree branches is a huff, or laugh, when he remembered how it was. every chill was a gaze that cut through him, and the pain within him an insurmountable hole that could never be replaced and ached at the absence just as much as the harm done. it made jayce feel insignificant. it made him feel like a project, like the very dead thing he was— with no way back. no salvation. no fixing. only the key to wind him up again and force him to clatter to his doomsdays being by being forcibly slammed into his back.

jayce would evaluate, flip it around, reevaluate, twist and turn it and wonders if he could've done anything differently to change the outcome. he mulls over his words over and over, overthinking as he does best. whether or not he comes to a reasonable conclusion is out of his grasp; what's done is done. he cannot undo viktor popping his own bloodbag open. he cannot undo his hope to linger rather than fall. he couldn't stop himself from consuming every drop of it like a starving animal. he could not have stopped viktor from stabbing his heart so much its wounds keep bleeding, in the form of distrust. in the form of making two choices for him— the same way jayce had done to viktor. he let him go, sent him off. hurt him in a way jayce never thought he'd hear with his own ears, and then— as if on schedule, he interrupts at jayce's lowest. he waited thirty fucking days to help him, or that's, at least, what jayce had thought it was. until viktor slid blades between his ribs and twisted the hilt.

is fate real, he wonders? did he run himself into a loop he couldn't escape from? is it laughing at them? playing this sick, twisted little game of turning tables and switching roles until either side was battered and bruised beyond proper performance? was this karma? did he deserve all of this? part of jayce comes to the ready denouement that yes, this was all somehow his fault. that yes, he deserved it. he deserved it for not letting viktor go when he had the chance to. he deserved it for making him into a walking anomaly, for taking his choices, for breaking his promises. the world could've been saved, then. they could've avoided everything, even this. so . . . why the fuck can he still not fathom that answer?

jayce knows why, even if his incredulity keeps him from personally seeking viktor out on his first, terrible, horrible, no good very bad day of soaking in the consequences of his love. he's not ready to look into his eyes without fracturing under his beauty, one more time, and running the risk of being ground into dust. so . . . when would he be ready—? on the evening of the second day, jayce sits in his truck, only a little calmer but getting crimped when he was trying to come up with schematics for a cane and couldn't stop thinking about viktor's as a base. because that also came with thinking about viktor.

are they better off apart? jayce thinks about it. the world would be safer. maybe. they wouldn't hurt each other so much. and he wouldn't . . . have this impassible urge to crawl back to him, either. it's fiddling with the radio and getting viktor's softspoken accent out of it that quiets him. what were only a few curious minutes became hours. of a nostalgia he wishes he could hug onto tightly. never let it go. go back to. it's hearing himself when viktor needed him, buring his face in his hands and squeezing his knuckles into his eyes. it's— hearing the mage, one more time, that he realizes something.

and so, without really thinking much of it, fingers twitching— he seeks viktor. ]