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hexite-dissolving · 5 months ago

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Say my Name, As if it’s Drowning in the Tide - Jayce x Reader (Chapter 2/End)

Summary: But Jayce is weak. So unbelievably weak. And the voice of temptation in the back of his mind insists you will never want him the same way he does you. It’s cowardly, and it’s spineless, and it goes against everything he’s ever been taught to value. Yet none of it seems to matter when he looks at you, bare in front of him, hair wet and sticking to your skin in heavy curls like a siren in the stormy sea. He’d sell his soul if it meant having you, and in more ways than one, he is.

Pairing: Jayce x Reader Modern AU, one-sided Viktor x Reader

Word Count: 8.2K

Warning: Explicit

Tags: Hate Sex, Emotional Roleplay, One-sided Attraction, Switch!Jayce, Rough Sex, Biting, Shower Sex, Oral Sex (Female receiving), Eating Out, Angst, First Time, Virginity, Vaginal Sex, Size Kink, Jayce Has A Big Dick, Self-Hate, Praise Kink, Body Worship, Crying

Notes: A LITTLE LATE BUT AS PROMISED, I’m publishing the ending to this fic before the end of January (and the beginning of my surprise Valentine’s Day event 👀). This one is gonna be quite the emotional ride, so better strap in, fellas (PS: I SWEAR I love Jayce with all my heart I just love toying with his heart because I’m a monster)

(Chapter 1)

“Do you want to know what Viktor likes or not? Because I haven't told you anything about what he wants in bed.”

‘Fuck you’, you wish you could spit back at Jayce. ‘What would you even know about what anyone wants in bed, you pathetic two-pump loser?’

It's extremely tempting, if only to see his face go crimson in frustration and embarrassment again, but you know his fragile little ego might not survive it. And no matter how much you'd like to deny it, he's right: you do want to know about what Viktor likes.

You want to know every single thing about Viktor so badly, it hurts.

You've fallen for him in the same way a forest fire burns: slowly, and then all at once, overwhelming, relentless, all-consuming. It's gotten almost painful to be near him in the last few months, your stomach contorting angrily whenever he gives you a witty smile or laughs at your idiotic banter. The desire for him to look at you, and only you, is searing your skin a little more each passing day; so much so that you wonder if there will be anything left of you but ashes by the time you muster the courage to confess.

And God, do you want to: the need to tell him how you feel has become a constant itch that's as painful as it’s unending. All it would take to quench these all-consuming flames are three little words, three measly syllables, a laughable eight letters.

Yet you just can’t say them.

Because underneath all the bravado you're always putting on, you're nothing more than a hypocrite, who is absolutely terrified of hearing his answer. Of seeing nothing but compassionate pity in those soothing golden eyes of his, a gentle ‘I'm sorry’ forming on his lips, and burning you alive once and for all.

So, you wait for a sign from Viktor: a word, a touch, anything that would make the risk of confessing more bearable. As a born engineer, you've always been pragmatic and logical to a fault; you simply won’t jeopardize your relationship with him based on insignificant data and hopeful speculations. Maybe it's nothing more than a spineless justification to let yourself wither away, but it's the best you, and your burning little heart, can do.

After all, something is comforting about staying in the unknown— in that state of limbo where there's no real acknowledgment of the nature of your feelings, or his. But the fire that is Viktor is relentless, ever burning, and it consumes you inch by inch, growing every minute you spend with him working side by side at the Academy.

It worsens more each time he remembers insignificant details about you: how you like a touch of extra cinnamon in your morning latte, how much you hate seeing your middle name used in the lab's paperwork, how you always fidget with your jewelry when you're stressed— little habits and quirks he somehow never misses or fails to offer a helping hand with.

You've been in love before, but never like this; and you doubt you ever will again. Viktor is the type of person you can only meet once in your life, a shooting star that graces the human eye every thousand years, just to disappear the second you look away, before you ever get the chance to tell it it's beautiful.

And then, there's Jayce.

Jayce, who looks nothing like Viktor, with his muscular frame, perfectly symmetrical smile, and sun-kissed skin.

Jayce, who is nothing like Viktor, with his annoyingly booming voice, total lack of social awareness, and oversized ego. Whose very presence signifies, at best, an incoming headache, and at worst, endless screaming matches and arguments over the most minor details.

Things hadn't always been that way with him. There had been admiration, at first, back when you had been accepted as dean Cecil B. Heimmerdinger’s newest pupil, and the fourth member of his elite team of post-graduates. He had more than his fair share of accolades for a man in his mid-twenties: many of his papers were cited in the highest calibre of academic journals, and he had a list of awards and scholarships almost as long as your arm. You had truly believed you would learn a lot from him.

It barely took a week with him for all your naive and bright-eyed delusions to come crashing down. Behind the pretty face and the accomplishments was nothing but arrogance and disregard for all the discipline you valued. It all came so maddeningly easy to him— school, work, looks—like effort was beneath him, or even worse, completely foreign to him.

He hadn’t been shy with his interest in you for a second, either. Between the corny pickup lines and the obvious stares at the meat of your thighs, Jayce hadn’t been quite subtle; but you had no endearment for men like him. A pretty boy whose grandiose romantic gestures were clearly an attempt to quickly get into your pants, only to leave you behind the moment your novelty had worn off. The type to take everything for granted, including women’s affection, and to never have heard a single ‘no’ in their life.

There was no way you were going to fall for it.

Yet the more drily you rejected his advances, the more Jayce seemed interested in you. It had to simply be the novelty of someone finally rejecting him and seeing his true nature that fascinated him. But it wasn’t love that he felt for you; it couldn't be.

People like him could love no one but themselves.

He would glance at you with desperate puppy eyes whenever he thought you weren’t looking, a shiny toy out of his reach. Every now and then, on one of his trashed design drafts, you’d find tiny pencilled sketches of your face with a surprising level of accuracy. He clearly took some pleasure in arguing with you over everything and nothing, and you'd lie if you said that you never got some enjoyment out of that dynamic.

You had let his resolve weaken you once, and only once, early into your arrival at the lab, and long before you had developed any feelings for the then much more reserved Viktor.

And it had been a mistake.

—

Those first few months had been gruelling for you: as the newest recruit, you did much more dull and tedious paperwork than any practical or creative assignments in the lab. It was hard, and the long hours of staring at nothing but the bright blue light of your computer screen made you dizzy; but you wouldn't have exchanged it for the world.

You had earned your place here by never being complacent, by refusing to see any task as below you or too difficult to accomplish. You had been a diligent student under the harshest of conditions throughout your life, and you would continue reaching higher and higher by working hard, and always proving your worth.

One day soon, you’d be standing at the very top of it all, with your wildest dreams accomplished; and it would be with the knowledge that you had made it there entirely of your own merit.

You had been surprised and apprehensive to see an email from Professor Heimerdinger that morning, requesting that you pass by his office. Heimerdinger was very much not the type to plan out discussions, preferring to randomly pop in and out of the lab to hold impromptu, casual meetings, so the atypically formal message had made you feel uneasy.

You were under the impression you had integrated into the program quite well, and that you had begun nicely bonding with your two lab partners. Although you had had strong reservations about Jayce and his attitude, and were still extremely on the fence about your opinion of him, his puppy-like charm had started to wear you out, and you had agreed to go get coffee with him during that weekend.

You had made it very clear it wasn't a romantic encounter, but a team-bonding exercise: an occasion for him to prove some of your unfavourable impressions of him wrong. Then, maybe, and only maybe, you'd consider the idea of a date with him; but he didn't need to know that yet, lest he’d let it go to his head.

For now, your focus was only on your appointment with Heimerdinger, and the anxious knot in the pit of your stomach.

You knocked on his door gently before coming in, finding the short, older man perched on top of a small ladder, nose-deep in one of the many books that lined every inch of the walls. The countless volumes adorned his office like multicoloured bricks, giving a cozy, yet slightly claustrophobic feel to the small room.

“You asked to see me, professor ?” you cleared your throat, attempting to steady your voice to appear more composed.

Heimerdinger raised his head in surprise, likely so entranced in the huge textbook that dwarfed his small frame that he hadn’t heard you come into his literary fortress—or even remembered he had scheduled a meeting with you.

“Ah, yes, dear girl, come on in and take a seat!” he exclaimed, closing the book with a loud ‘thwack’. He struggled a bit to place it back on one of the shelves as you sat to face his desk, eyeing his precarious position wearily. He, thankfully, managed to make his way down the creaking ladder without incident, landing on his feet with a slight wobble.

“The great, dangerous heights one has to reach to gain knowledge,” he mumbled pensively, a chubby hand running through his wild tuft of dusty blonde hair. “One would think that with twenty years of service here, the finance department could afford to invest in a less perilous stepping stool.”

He made his way to the other side of the desk, settling comfortably in his pillowy chair. He adjusted his thick, round glasses, his expression indecipherable behind the imposing white mustache that covered most of his lower face.

You immediately let yourself fear the worst, your firm conviction that you had been doing well since your arrival crumbling like a house of cards.

“Have I been performing… below your expectations, sir?” you asked abruptly, the anxious ball in your stomach tightening on itself.

Heimerdinger cocked his head to the side in confusion, frowning, his thick eyebrows shifting down like two fuzzy caterpillars.

“Now why would you say such a silly thing? You’ve been going above and beyond, from everything I’ve seen and heard,” he complimented with a reassuring smile. He gave you a sly wink, and you felt your shoulders relax, the tension leaving your body like a puff of smoke. “I have an eye for exceptionally talented people. I wouldn't have recruited you if I hadn’t been wholeheartedly convinced of your capacities.”

“Thank you, sir,” you exhaled, releasing a sharp breath you hadn't realized you were holding. So it was all a misunderstanding then. Everything was alright. “May I ask why you’ve requested to see me this morning, then?”

Heimerdinger only hummed as an answer, opening one of his desk's drawers and digging through a visibly messy pile of documents. “Aha!” he exclaimed, pulling out a single sheet of paper with a flourish, and handing it to you with no further explanation.

You grabbed it carefully, quickly looking it over with growing confusion: the bold title only stated your name, next to the words PROJECT TRANSFER.

“Here you go, all signed and completed,” Heimerdinger added with a casual wave of the hand. “I would have simply sent it to you by email, but protocol requires you to sign it in front of me. You know how bureaucrats get,” he rolled his eyes exaggeratedly.

The more snippets you caught of the document, the less you understood. ‘Personal request made by the student to be discharged from desk work duty for the Wyatt Project — Approved by team supervisor — Reason for request: Lack of affinity with the project and given tasks — Signatures of department head, team supervisor, and concerned student below’.

“I’m sorry, what… is this?” you asked slowly in hesitation.

The Wyatt project had been the most tiresome and dull assignment you had been given as of yet at the Academy, and although you often complained about it in your off time, you had never made any sort of official demand to be transferred from it.

“The discharge paper for the Wyatt project,” the older man explained, seemingly surprised by your lack of enthusiasm or recognition. “I was told you didn’t enjoy the busy work much and would prefer a change of pace. I’ll be putting you on the assignment corrections for the undergrads, which should be much simpler and less time-consuming.”

Your mind began racing chaotically, attempting to puzzle how a few unserious, nitpicky rants could have possibly made their way as an official demand to the dean himself. You barely registered the empathic nod he gave you as he cleared his voice, a sparkle of something akin to remorse in his eyes.

“Perhaps I was requesting a lot of you for your very first semester here, with an assignment as advanced as this. My apologies, dear girl. But do know this transfer is a rare exception, and I will require more receptiveness from you for future tasks.”

The slight pitying look he gave you made you feel like throwing up.

You'd disappointed him.

You had failed the expectations of the man who took a chance on you as his youngest pupil, and you weren't even aware of how you had done it.

“I—I mean yes, the Wyatt project is a lot of busy work, but I never—who told you I asked to be taken out?” you managed to stutter.

Who? Who could have possibly gone so out of their way to ruin the reliable and efficient reputation you were working so hard to build here? Your mind came up blank, reviewing the few people you might have said anything to, and not finding a single one who would so blatantly jeopardize your fragile new position.

“Why, Jayce,” Heimerdinger said as if it was entirely obvious. “As your team leader, he gives me monthly reports of the status of each project you're involved with. He was quite adamant about putting you off the Wyatt and onto an easier project.”

A flash of understanding crossed his face at the sight of your decomposing expression.

“Has�� Jayce not discussed this with you?”

No. No, he hadn’t.

You barely remembered the walk out of Heimerdinger's office after that, fuelled only by a mixture of incomprehension and betrayal. With each step, it shifted into something much stronger, a fury burning from your core directed not only at him, but at yourself.

You slammed the door of the lab open, the plexiglass banging against the frame with a dull thud:

“How fucking dare you?!”

Jayce was thankfully alone in the lab, but even if Viktor had been here, you weren't sure you would have managed to control the outpour of anger. The man looked up from his notes in surprise:

“Woah—wait—excuse me?” Jayce stammered, visibly more confused than insulted.

“Who do you think you are to decide what I can do or not?!” you seethed, barreling rapidly towards him. “How dare you go around asking things in my name to our supervisor?”

He got up from his chair hurridly, eyes wide, raising his hands in a placating gesture as if you were a wild animal ready to attack.

"Relax, I really have no idea—" he started hastily, only to stop mid-sentence as realization dawned on him. His brows knit together in confusion. "Wait... is this about the Wyatt project?”

"What else could it possibly be about?!" you yelled, your voice slicing through the silence of the empty lab. Under different circumstances—if this wasn't about your entire career here—you might have remembered that your outburst could easily carry into the corridor, reaching the ears of other students, and even possibly teachers. But blind frustration consumed you, eclipsed only by the raw, aching sense of betrayal you felt towards him.

“But you’ve been telling me and Viktor for weeks how much you hate it,” Jayce argued, frowning, his lips reducing into a thin line. He was genuinely perplexed, like the very concept that he hadn’t done you a service wasn't registering in his mind. “You’re the one who said you wished you could do more work in the lab with us!”

“So you went over my head and told the fucking head of the department I was too lazy to complete the work he gave me?” you retorted without missing a beat. You hadn't realized how close you had gotten to him, your balled fists barely a foot away from his increasingly punchable face. You could smell the artificial scent of body spray off him, and you wrinkled your nose in disgust. “Do you have any idea how unreliable and ungrateful that makes me look as the new girl?! I haven’t even had this position for six months!”

Understanding slowly dawned across his face, and his expression softened, regret pooling in his chartreuse eyes.

"I was just trying to help, I didn't—" he began, his voice gentle and remorseful, but you weren't even close to being done with him.

“Help?” you spat, the word dripping with venom. “Help how? By making me look like I don’t want to work hard? Like I'm a spoiled brat who goes on dates with her team supervisor to get easy jobs? What, do you think I slept my way up here?”

“I’d never—I thought you felt too shy to talk to Heimerdinger, I just wanted to give you a hand as my junior! How is that a bad thing?!” he protested, frustration creeping into his voice.

“It's a bad thing because it means you don't fucking believe in me!” you shot back.

You felt tears prickling at the corners of your eyes, but you blinked them away, willing them gone and clinging to what little pride you had left.

“It means you think I'm too weak or too stupid to do the same work you and Viktor did when you started. That I'm not even enough of an adult to handle my own shit—that I need some random guy at work to baby me!”

He flinched at the harshness of your words, the hurt on his face unmistakable. His mouth opened as if to speak up again, eyes carrying the wounded look of a kicked puppy, but you didn’t let him, refusing to let his charm ever fool you again.

“I don't care if it's because I'm younger than you, or because I'm a woman, or because you think I'm attractive,” you snapped. “I'm staying on the Wyatt project until it's completed, like I signed up to. I won't let you mess up everything I've worked so hard for.”

You took a step back, your feelings too overwhelming to stand staring at him a minute longer. Your instinct about Jayce—that he was as spoiled as he was self-righteous— had been correct from the start, yet you felt no pride in that knowledge; there was only the bitter taste of disappointment.

Your voice was sharp and unforgiving when you spoke up again:

“Do me a favour. Next time you want to help, don’t.

—

And yet, here you are now, in a shitty motel in the middle of nowhere, butt naked in a cramped shower with him, the feeling of his tepid cum still lingering on your thigh.

Jayce Talis wants to help again, and you’d be an absolute fool to accept, or to give him more ground than you already have.

But things are different, this time.

You want his help. You need his help.

You know better now than to believe he feels anything resembling real affection for you. His obsession isn’t love: it’s a fixation born from entitlement, from the relentless need to possess what he’s been denied. You’re nothing more than a challenge, the one girl who refuses to fall for the Academy’s golden boy, and that only makes him want you more. But once he’s had his victory, once this game is over, the thrill will fade, and he’ll lose all interest in pretending he ever cared.

So what’s the harm in saying yes, then? It’s not like either of you will come out of this with any hurt feelings. It’s the same as back then, with him taking you for the easy fool he can be a knight in shining armour for, solving your issues like the great man he is. But at least, this time, he’s had the decency to ask you, first.

"Fine, whatever," you finally grumble, your gaze snapping back to his. A flicker of something unreadable passes through his expression, but you ignore it. It doesn't matter to you, just as you won’t matter to him. "What’s next, Talis?”

—

The issue is that Jayce really hasn't thought that far ahead.

His first and main goal was to distract you from how he had been so stupidly eager, he came without your hands ever even touching his cock. But now, he needs to come up with a next step—fast—before you see right through his bluff and realize he knows far less about Viktor’s sex life than he has so confidently let on.

To his credit, Viktor has always been intensely private about his personal life, even with his closest friends. In all their years of partnership, he had never once introduced Jayce to a girlfriend or boyfriend; never even hinted at a crush, or a stranger who might be something more. No matter how many times Jayce had prodded and teased him in their younger years, Viktor had never let anything slip.

But there is one thing, a small, passing remark, that Jayce does remember.

Back in their very first year together at the Academy, unravelling the enigma that was Viktor had been one of Jayce’s greatest challenges. The man revealed very little about himself and it seemed like science and logic were the sole foundations of his world, an unwavering structure built on nothing but reason and precision.

But every now and then, Viktor would do or say something so entirely unexpected, it shattered any understanding Jayce thought he had of him.

One of those moments had been Viktor’s quiet but undeniable fascination with the arts.

Jayce remembers a particular night, one that has somehow stayed in the back of his mind since. Sitting beside Viktor in the dim glow of the Academy’s theater, watching a play neither of them had particularly planned to see, he had expected boredom, maybe even a few sarcastic quips. Instead, Viktor had been captivated. His sharp eyes, usually so calculating while they worked in the lab, were alight with something softer, something close to wonder, as if he were seeing an entirely new world unfold before him.

"Do you not think it's nice? The music of someone's voice," Viktor had hummed afterward, his tone distant, contemplative, like he was still half-lost in the echoes of the performance.

Jayce had shrugged, stretching his legs out lazily in the cramped theatre seat. Art had never really been his thing—too abstract, too confusing. "I don’t know," he replied casually, "AI is getting pretty good at mimicking it."

Viktor had turned his head slightly, casting Jayce a look that was equal parts amused and disappointed, as if he couldn’t decide whether the comment was genuinely naive or just tragically shortsighted.

Viktor had merely tutted in disapproval, shaking his head. "The human soul, Jayce. The emotions, the passion, the sorrow—that is what a voice carries. We may build a thousand algorithms that reproduce it, down to the subtlest change in tone or pitch… but it will always be missing that.”

Jayce had gone quiet after that, letting the conversation die in the soft hum of the crowd leaving the theater. He didn’t get it then; maybe he does now.

“Voices,” Jayce blurts out, the thought snapping into place like a last-minute save. “Viktor likes hearing people’s voices. I think it’s because of how personal they are to everyone? Something about that just… makes him happy.”

He’s grasping at straws now, but it’s something, and that’s already better than staying silent with his mouth agape like an idiot.

“Maybe, um—maybe you could practice what you’d say to him? The kind of sounds you’d make?” His pulse stutters, but before he can stop himself. “I-I think he’d probably want to eat you out.”

It’s a blatant, bold-faced lie. A shot in the dark dressed up as certainty.

Because that’s not what Viktor said. That’s not even remotely what Viktor said.

It’s what Jayce wants to do.

But he’s already in too deep, tangled in his own bullshit with no way to back out. If he’s going to lie, he might as well be a little selfish about it.

You glare at him with that sharp, dissecting stare, the kind that strips away pretense and weighs his words like they’re under the lens of a microscope. Even though you’re shorter than him, there’s no mistaking who’s in control here; the balance of power tilts undeniably in your favour, and you have him fully, wholly under your thumb.

And he knows it, knows it from the tension in his own shoulders, from the way his lips uncontrollably twitch, from the slight tremor in his voice. He would do anything for this, for you, and he’s not foolish enough to think it doesn’t show. But this moment isn’t about him—not about how much he wants you, or how much he’d give to close the remaining space between your bodies.

It’s about you, and how much you want Viktor.

Jayce already knows your answer before it even leaves your lips.

“Alright. Just…”

You hesitate for just a second, as if there's something else you want to say; a glimpse of uncharacteristic doubt flashes across your face. But it vanishes just as quickly as it came, swallowed by that effortless, burning confidence. Whatever words you might have had for him go up in smoke.

"Forget it. Get on your knees."

Jayce certainly doesn’t need to be told twice.

It’s almost embarrassing how fast he drops, the wet tile beneath him offering no grace. He nearly slips twice as he contorts his broad frame awkwardly, trying to find a stable position. The cramped width of the glass panels press against his shoulders, making his movements all the more difficult.

You tsk at him, unimpressed and visibly growing impatient. The glare you send down his way is all the incentive he needs to stop fumbling and settle as best he can, even as the mosaic tiles dig uncomfortably into his knees.

One of your hands settles on his head, slightly brushing the damp strands of dark hair, and he leans into the touch; it's probably the closest thing to praise he's ever gotten from you.

"Don’t make me regret this," you warn him.

He grins, throwing you a wink with far more cockiness than he actually feels. "Regret is my middle name, baby."

Before you can shoot back a biting remark, his hands are on your hips, firm and certain, pulling you flush against his face. The heat of his breath ghosts over your skin, sending a shiver down your spine.

If this had been different, if it had been real, he would have taken his time. He would have traced every detail of your body with his hands, his lips, his tongue, committing every inch to memory like something sacred. He would have worshipped you slowly, methodically, with the kind of reverence you deserve.

But that's not the case.

Instead, he opts for savagely peppering your inner thighs with warm, rough kisses, just barely letting his teeth graze your skin. You hum in approval, the hand on his scalp petting him like a puppy. The rush of confidence that goes through his body is indescribable, and he makes the bites more insistent, leaving burn-like marks on your skin.

You tug at his hair, just enough to be insistent, but not enough to hurt. For once, he understands you immediately, without you uttering a single word. It’s a little strange —almost ironic— that conversations with you always spiral into arguments, yet here, without speaking at all, you're both in perfect sync.

He obeys the silent command and moves his mouth where you’re guiding him, never pausing the messy, open-mouth kisses against your lower body. It's no surprise that your pussy is as pretty and warm as the rest of you. The hair has been recently trimmed but has grown just enough to tickle against his face as he buries his face comfortably between your legs.

You twitch in his grip the second his tongue touches your folds, but you don't let out a sound. He’s not about to be beaten so easily, though: he gives a strong, assured lick against your clit, and this time you can't suppress a small moan:

“Ah…”

Oh, and God, it's an addictive sound, one that he yearns to hear again, immediately. He copies his movement once, twice, thrice, dizzy off the little vulnerable pants you make under your breath. He's like a starved man, lapping at the fresh water from the shower on your skin just to catch a hint of your juices.

“Hngh-” you inhale sharply when his tongue probes your hole. Your grip on his hair tightens, fingers tangling deeper as you pull him closer. It’s probably just instinct, a mechanical reaction to the rush of pleasure sparking through you; but for a split second, the pressure of your touch feels intentional. Like you want him. And that foolish, aching thought makes his poor little heart clench when you speak again:

“V-Viktor!”

A single word from you, just one name, and reality crashes back down on him like a tidal wave.

He freezes, his tongue flat against your clit, and the warmth of the moment vanishes in an instant, replaced by something sharp and unforgiving. The water hitting his exposed skin from the showerhead suddenly feels ice-cold, seeping into his bones.

This isn’t right. He knows it. And he’s certain you do, too.

But you’ve both chosen this.

You’re as guilty as he is, using him just as much as he’s using you. It’s a pathetic, hollow imitation of the intimacy he truly craves, the kind where your fingers intertwine with his without hesitation, where your voice murmurs words of love meant only for him, where your eyes remain wide open and locked into his.

But there’s no coming back from having tasted you. A single bite of the forbidden fruit, and he’s undone: his sense of judgment shattered, his pride discarded, his dignity crumbling beneath your touch. If this is all you’re willing to give him, if he’s nothing more than a placeholder for someone else—so be it.

He’ll take whatever scraps of affection you’ll offer, no matter how empty. No matter who it’s really meant for.

You let out another wonton moan when he shifts again, his teeth lightly scrapping your clit, and he lets himself wonder what you're imagining behind those closed eyes.

Granted, the who isn’t much of a mystery; that part is painfully obvious. But how?

How does it play out in your head? Is it tender and slow, filled with whispered confessions and gentle touches? Or is it something desperate, something raw, something that strips you down to nothing but need? Against his better judgment and all common sense, he can’t help speculating.

Viktor would probably not enjoy staying on his knees for very long; maybe you're picturing yourself laying in bed with him, his face nestled snuggly between the meat of your thighs. You’d have a smile on your lips, your sparkling eyes wide open, eager to take in every second of the moment. Viktor would probably chuckle at your eagerness, amused by the contrast of how firm and unyielding you are with everyone else, yet how effortlessly you melt in his presence.

“Viktor, please… please…!” you almost beg as he fucks you on his tongue, your hips rhythmically moving along to his pace, moans raw and unfiltered, forgetting about the thin walls and your likely disgruntled neighbours with how lost you are in your fantasy.

Jealousy begins to rear its ugly head in the pit of his stomach, a dangerous thing to start feeling during something that’s supposed to be pure make-believe. But no matter how hard he tries to swallow it down, it lingers, festering beneath the surface.

He can’t help it, spoiled brat that he is. He always wants more. Nothing is ever enough.

His childish ego whispers that he’s the one making you squirm under his touch, that for all your longing, for all the thoughts clouding your mind, he’s the one here. He’s the one touching you, drawing those needy sounds from your lips.

It's his name you should be saying.

He's gotten hard again, the touch of your skin blending with the smell of your body, the sharp taste of your wetness making his head spin. He's humping the air like a dog in heat, aching for any sort of relief. He wants to stay between your legs for as long as humanly possible, let you use him, but he's not sure how much longer he can handle hearing someone else’s name over, and over again.

He manages to pull away from the vice-like grip of your thighs, mouth coated with your juices. He looks up at you, standing above him like a goddess, surrounded by a halo of water from the showerhead.

"I really, really need you right now, baby," he breathes out, voice raw with desperation. He knows he should have some dignity left, some shred of self-respect; but it's all long gone. At this point, he doesn't care what you think of him anymore, not when he’s fallen this low. “Can I please fuck you right here?”

Your eyes flutter open, slow and reluctant, like it physically pains you to be pulled from whatever reverie you were lost in. For a moment, you just look at him, considering his expression, the firm grip on his head easing slightly.

“I…” you start hesitantly. There it is again, just like earlier: something uncertain in your gaze, lost, vulnerable. It’s jarring, unsettling in a way he can’t quite name. It doesn’t belong there, not in your eyes—eyes that are usually so bright, so sure and unwavering.

"Bed. Viktor wouldn't be comfortable here," you mumble under your breath, refusing to meet his eyes. "And don’t call me baby."

Jayce exhales a shaky sigh of relief. He doesn’t argue, doesn’t tease—just moves.

He scrambles to his feet so fast he nearly slips again, catching himself just in time. With a sharp nudge of his elbow, he shuts off the faucet before effortlessly scooping you up from the wet tiles. You yelp in protest, but he ignores it, already carrying you out of the bathroom, his grip firm yet careful.

The second your back hits the mattress, he’s gone, nearly tripping over himself as he rushes to his backpack; balance has never been his forte, but you’ve rendered him so unsteady his legs feel like jello. His hands fumble through the numerous pockets, almost frantic.

Socks, phone, extra boxers, sunglasses, toothbrush, toothpaste—

There!

He raises the lone condom triumphantly into the air, presenting it like a grand prize, his grin wide with victory.

You don’t look half as impressed.

"Do you seriously bring that with you everywhere you go?" you remark drily, one brow arching in clear contempt.

Ah, right. For a moment, in the heat of it all, he had almost forgotten that you really hate him.

“Can we keep the insults for after I'm done fucking you?” he groans, his arm falling in defeat. Yet, despite the frustration laced in his voice, there’s something oddly familiar about this, something comforting. The push and pull, the sharp edges of your words clashing against his: it’s a unique rhythm, a dynamic that belongs to the two of you alone; one that Viktor will never experience.

The idea makes him happier than it should.

You let out a dramatic sigh in response, waving a dismissive hand as if to say ‘whatever’.

He climbs over you, his body still sopping wet, water trailing down his skin and seeping into the sheets beneath you both. Droplets fall from his hair onto yours, cool against the lingering heat of your skin. The bed is going to be disgustingly damp later, and you will certainly complain and blame him for it, but he can’t bring himself to care about it right now.

The sight of his fully hard cock resting on your inner thigh makes his throat dry almost instantly. Jayce is more than aware he’s well endowed, and he hasn’t shied away from using it as a selling argument for flirting before; but this is so very different. His size dwarfs your cunt, like a little toy underneath him; the realization that he's going to get so deep inside of you that you'll never be able to fully get rid of him is enough to break whatever hesitation he might have still had.

He glances up at you with a cocky grin, expecting you to eye his arguably imposing member with some anticipation, only to find that you're looking away, gaze lost somewhere in the printed forest of the peeling wallpaper.

He clears his throat, and you turn back towards him, expression distant, maybe even cold.

“Want me to, um… prep you a bit?” he asks. He knows you’re soaking wet, he's made quite sure of that, but the thickness of his cock has usually required him to use a few fingers with his previous partners.

You seem disinterested, barely sparing him a look:

“I don't care. Just do it, Talis.”

The absurdity of the fact that you’re still using his last name after he’s eaten you out—and right before he screws you—would be comical if it wasn’t so deeply sad. He tears the plastic wrapper open, rolling the condom on himself without another word. He aligns his member with your entrance, just barely spreading your folds with his dick, before you interrupt him with a firm hand on his bicep.

The look you give him is full of something unspoken, heavy with meaning he can’t quite grasp—or maybe just refuses to.

"Just… be gentle,” you ask stiffly, like you doubt he’s even capable of it. “Like Viktor would."

That last part splinters something inside him, shatters a piece of his heart he thought had accepted he would never be the one you’d want.

For a second, everything blurs. The floodgate cracks open, and with it, the jealousy he thought he had under control surges forward, unrestrained and bitter.

Because Viktor. Always Viktor.

And never him.

He pushes in without replying, groaning at the resistance his tip is already facing. It takes a bit more force, but the head of his cock finally passes through the ring of muscle, and he's able to slowly and fully sheathe himself in, your wetness making the slide easier.

“Fuck- fuck, you're tight,” he sputters, the words falling out of him without his control. “You're so fucking tight, princess.”

Maybe it’s just that he hasn’t gotten laid in too long, but he doesn’t think he's ever been inside someone who feels this snug around him, like you were made for him. You’re walls are fluttering around him, squeezing him so firmly it’s as if your pussy is forbidding him from leaving. It's heavenly, and he stays still for a moment, just to carve in his memory the exact way you’re clenching around his cock.

A quick glance at your face tells him everything he needs to know: your eyes are squeezed shut, your brows furrowed deeply, likely lost in a world where he isn’t the one above you. There’s no doubt in his mind that you’re picturing him instead, rewriting reality with Viktor’s touch, Viktor’s voice, Viktor’s presence.

That’s fine. Perfectly fine.

Because by the time he’s done, by the time he gives it to you just right—hard enough, deep enough, good enough—he’ll make sure the only name you’re screaming is Jayce.

He starts pulling out before sharply shoving himself back in, and you let out an absolutely broken cry. There. As a sound that's for no one else but him.

He repeats the motion, again and again, the sharp feeling of your nails digging into his back making all thought incoherent. Your cries are driving him insane, raw and oversensitive, and he pounds into you harder with the knowledge Jayce Talis is the one tearing them out from your throat.

He looks down where your bodies meet, drunk off the idea of seeing his fat cock plunging into you, but he freezes.

There's blood.

It's not much, just a little red that has tinted some of your combined juices, but it's there, a stark contrast against your skin.

He opens and closes his mouth in incomprehension; he had been harsh, and hungry, yes, but you should have been wet enough to take him with only a slight burn, a nice feeling of fullness. How?

He looks at you in panic: your eyes are still sealed shut, but unshed tears have pooled in their corners, your lips stuck in a thin line.

You’re crying.

It’s so silent, so light, that he hadn't even heard it despite your proximity, despite him being quite literally inside of you. He’s staring at you, dumbfounded—the tightness, the blood, the tears—as the math begins to add up very unpleasantly in his head.

"Wait, are you—" he starts, voice laced with panicked disbelief.

You don’t answer.

Instead, you turn your face away, hiding it behind the crook of your arm, ever the prideful one. But he sees it anyway, the telltale tremble of your bottom lip.

And just like that, every ounce of his frustration, every drop of jealousy, vanishes in an instant. What’s left is something colder, heavier—realization.

You're a virgin.

His stomach twists. "I'm sorry, I—I had no idea—" he stammers, his mind racing to catch up. "Did I hurt you? Oh my god, yeah, I did. Do you want to stop? I’m so sorry—"

The words tumble out in a frantic rush, hands hovering over you like he doesn’t know where they should be—whether to comfort, to retreat, or to hold you close.

He moves to pull out, but you make a pained hissing sound, grabbing his arm to keep him in place.

You stay silent, breathing haggard, clinging to him like a buoy in a storm. Your fingers dig into his skin painfully, but you still refuse to meet his gaze.

Jayce swallows thickly, his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. Carefully, he slides a hand beneath your head, lifting it just enough to keep you from sinking further into yourself. With the other, he brushes away a few damp strands of hair stuck to your clammy forehead. You don’t speak, and neither does he.

There’s nothing he can say right now that wouldn’t feel meaningless.

Your eyes eventually open, and the few tears you had been holding back finally spill down your cheeks. He catches them with the pad of his finger, wiping them away as gently as he can.

You’re so still in his arms it scares him. Fragile in a way he’s never seen before. Like a doll he’s played too rough with, beautiful, limp, and oh so breakable. Not meant for the big, clumsy, uncalculated hands of someone like him, but rather, for a gentle and precise touch.

Meant for hands like Viktor’s.

The thought cuts deep, a jagged wound of self-loathing splitting open inside him. Jayce has never hated himself more than in this moment.

"I'm fine," you murmur at last, your voice steadier than he expected. "It’s not like I haven’t done anything before, I'm not a prude, just… not this."

You pause, exhaling slowly before finally admitting the words you’ve been trying to say all along. "I know it’s stupid, but I don’t want to look like a clueless idiot if Viktor ever… wants me."

Jayce’s chest aches at how small your voice sounds, at the quiet vulnerability you’re letting slip through the cracks after being so closed off to him for almost three years.

Why do you always say you’re fine when you aren’t? Why won’t you ever let me help? Why can’t you admit you’re scared?

"Viktor would never think you're an idiot," he breathes. "He’d think you’re the smartest girl in the entire world."

You hesitate: “…Yeah?”

"Yeah," he confirms without missing a beat. Then, with a faint smile, he can’t help but add, teasing, "Maybe just a little too thick-headed for your own good."

A weak but genuine laugh escapes your lips, lightening the weight between you, the tension slowly washing away, the tide receding just enough to let you both breathe.

"Big words from someone who compliments himself in the mirror, Jayce," you shoot back with a smirk, eyes glinting with a flicker of mischief. “And it’s not like you’re that big, anyway.”

He huffs out a laugh in disbelief: “Are you seriously pulling that card right now?”

You snort in reply, unable to hold your smile back.

It’s all so absurd, so fucked, tangled in emotions he doesn’t fully understand. But here you are, smiling at him—teasing, but genuine. A fragile thread of connection woven between sarcasm and chaos.

And then it hits him.

You’ve finally said his name.

Not in anger. Not in passing. Not as part of some joke.

Just his name, wrapped in laughter, soft around the edges.

It’s not exactly in the way he’s craved, not in the way that would make this his; but still, his name has left your lips with a real smile, with your eyes looking at nothing but him. Despite everything, it settles something deep inside him, filling the hollow space that’s been eating him alive.

It makes him feel whole.

"I’ll be fine," you tell him again, voice back to the one he knows and adores. "Just… a little slower, alright?"

Jayce exhales, nodding, his grip on you instinctively firming— not possessive, not demanding. Just there. An anchor for you, as much as it is for himself. He’s going to make sure you’re actually fine for once.

“Yeah. Of course,” he promises, but more than that, it carries the weight of a vow, something unspoken yet deeply solemn, something true.

If he’s water, then you are fire, never defeated, blazing brightly with something that could consume him whole. Maybe that’s why he lets himself drown in you—because it’s the only way he can hold onto something that he was never meant to touch.

You will always burn him, and he will always yield to the sound of his name on your lips.

🌸 Taglist Darlings 🌸: @soniiyi , @mischievous-piltovan, , @luv-urself-first, @girlidkthinkofsmth , @starflesh-moth , @raynoway , @just1cefor4ll , @apexie100

Tip a Coffee ☕: ko-fi.com/lefruitdelapassion

#ohhhh ouchie this hurt me /pos #this was SO GOOD. my god #i need to scream about this but it's like 7 am but ogh #just. everything about this but especially jayce taking CRUMBS of affection. oh my heart #reboggle

187 notes · View notes

hexite-dissolving · 5 months ago

Text

lover, be good to me

[Part 1] -> [Part 2]

Jayce Talis x GN Reader

Word count: 8.4k

Synopsis: Jayce unlearns shame.

18+ MDNI. Sexual content under the cut

Tags/warnings: Jayce has a micropenis, sub Jayce, handjobs, nipple play, love and reassurance, comfort, fluff, no mention of reader anatomy

Notes:

1. For those of you who are new here: hi! Yes, you read the tags right, this fic is about Jayce having a micropenis and having passionate, loving sex about it. If you decide to read on, I’d recommend having a look at part 1 first, and I hope you look at small dicks in a kinder, perhaps even more loving light after this.

2. Here is the much awaited 2nd part! I’ve gushed about this before but it really does floor me just how much love this fic has received. Posting the first part really was more of a test of courage than anything else, because I did not expect anyone beyond a pretty niche audience caring very much for this fic. If not for all the lovely comments, this wouldn’t be here. Thank you all :] <3

“C’mere, sweet thing.”

He follows your call like a well-trained dog, closing the distance between you the moment you turn around from behind the shower curtain. His underwear’s gone almost dry by now, and it’s awkward at best and an absolute sensory nightmare at worst to still wear them.

“It’ll take a while ‘til the water warms,” you say. Your hands hover at his hips, then lift to tug at the first button of your shirt, then hesitate again, and you look at him, posing an unspoken question.

“Could I undress you first?” Jayce asks in reply.

It’s an unfair demand to make; you’ve given so much to him tonight already, and you’ve given him so much time and patience these six months. But, he reasons, seeing you first, touching you, it might just soothe some of his nerves.

“Yes.”

He nearly pounces on you before he catches himself, steadies himself. You’ve been patient — so can he.

Jayce starts at your shirt, fiddles with the buttons as the airy cotton slides down your collarbone to your shoulders.

You are just so gorgeous. He’d drank in glimpses of you wherever he could throughout your months spent together, especially after you’d been fresh out of the shower with just a towel tucked around your form and you’d caught his gaze with a mischievous little smile, but never a demand.

“I love you,” he whispers, because saying he wishes he could undress you and have all the time in the world to stare at you the way he stares at paintings in museums, marveling at the brushstrokes, the choice of colour, the technique — well, that might sound a bit off-putting. But it’s true, he wants to follow the flow of your body hair like brush strokes, wants to know where the artfully selected pigment of your skin goes darker, where it goes lighter, he wants to pick at every muscle and bone and until he’s intimately familiar with the inner workings of you.

He stops at the button of your jeans, tracing over the brass to soothe his nerves.

You settle your hands over his, and pluck your pants open like it’s nothing. You let him slide them down to the middle of your thigh before you kick them away like they’ve been a particular nuisance to you, like you’d been itching to get them off.

“Can I…?” Jayce swallows the rest of his sentence. He wishes he could find a way of going about it that would make him sound like less of a virgin, but then again, that is unfortunately exactly what he is.

You give an affirmative little hum, even going as far as to press yourself into his hands when he hesitates. Jayce slips his thumbs underneath the fabric and draws the circles you always rub into the skin of his arm on you.

Based on the way you lean in for a kiss that’s all smiles and less tongue, you notice.

“Go ahead.”

If he weren’t afraid they might give out on him (and also weren’t faced with the unforgiving tile below), Jayce might’ve gotten on his knees as he tugged your underwear down your legs, and kissed his way up. It’s what you’d have deserved; that level of worship, but, unfortunately, he very much lacks the gall to do his romantic vision justice, and he figures he’d rather not embarrass himself more than he has to.

He settles for palming at the inside of your thigh, and licking his way down your neck, savoring the smell and taste of you.

It’s heady, potent, it’s… unlike anything he’s ever had. He’s caught whiffs of you before, but he’s only now realizing they’d never been truly you — it’d been your deodorant, your fragrance, your hair products, never a truly pure version of your innate, animalic smell.

And that was probably for the best. If he’d have smelled you like this months ago, he might have thrown caution into the wind and ripped off his pants then and there, micropenis be damned.

You laugh, tugging at his hair.

“Are you sniffing me, Jayce Talis?”

“I’m sorry.” He backs away like you’ve reprimanded him. “It’s just— I didn’t realize until now. That you smelled this good. Can I— should I touch you? Would you like me to?”

Your grin is answer enough. “I most definitely would, but — well. For the sake of my water bill, I’d rather we do it in the shower.”

Oh. That had completely slipped his mind.

You brace both hands on his chest, on either side of where his shirt hangs open to reveal a sliver of his chest hair.

“Go right ahead,” he says dejectedly, like his voice isn’t cracking midway through.

You’re slow in spite of the fact that the water’s most definitely warm by now, slowly thumbing his shirt open before you slip it off his shoulders lovingly.

And then, in playful retribution; you tuck your face into his neck and inhale.

It’s cold on his pulsepoint, makes him feel like you’re savoring him.

“Yeah… I get it now,” you try to pass it off as a joke, but there has to be a grain of truth in it considering you linger to kiss and lick at his neck even after you’ve said it. You keep at it even as you loop your fingers into his belt and undo it fast and hungry.

His belt buckle clinks like an alarm as you slide it open, making one last, shrill sound after you pluck and zip his jeans open and let them drop down his legs.

And he’s back to square one.

“Wait, wait,” he blurts, covering himself with both hands this time around. “I, uh. Dammit. I’m not— let me… let me at least have the benefit of not being covered in my own cum before you have to see me naked for the first time.”

“I don’t have to see anything,” you remind. And that is true, of course it is, but — it’s not that easy. You’ve held him so gently through the first orgasm not caused by his own hands, you’ve kissed him with overwhelming reverence in spite of how pathetic it was; he owes you something. Anything.

You wouldn’t want it to be like this, though.

He’s sure of it now, that you’d hate to see him give in to a pressure you are desperately trying not to put on his shoulders.

“How about…” you chew the inside of your cheek in thought for a second, before you look to him, and there’s just something in the way your arms encircle him and the way your chest rumbles with the soothing timbre of your voice that makes him put his full faith into the suggestion you’re about to make instead of dreading it. “You hop on in first, and you’ll let me know if you want me to join you after that?”

That sounds really good. A moment to himself, to gather the remainders of him that have melted into your warm, loving palms, and form a coherent thought.

“Okay,” Jayce says. He draws a steadying breath of the humid, warm air, and says it again, with less gravity but just as much earnesty. And a smile that must be irresistible, because you’re pressing a kiss to it the second it splits his lips.

“Okay,” you parrot it back at him, and next thing he knows your hands are achingly amiss, your warmth gone as you unstick yourself from him.

But a different kind of warmth floods him as you turn around unprompted, staring at the grains of the wood in your bathroom door with the closest thing Jayce’s ever seen to solemnity.

“Or I can even step out of the room, if—“

“Stay.”

Anyone else might have spurred him into getting on with it, anyone else might have rolled their eyes if he’d asked them to turn around, but not you. Never you.

You hold even the most shameful parts of him with a loving care he’s not thought possible. You could ask him for his heart and he’d tear his chest open to give it to you. He trusts you’d keep it beating. He trusts you’d keep it safe.

And he should really be hopping into the shower before he starts crying over the mere act of you respecting his privacy.

So Jayce awkwardly pads to the opposite corner of the room, where the shower is, making sure he’s facing away as he peels his underwear off. He wishes he could say he trusts you fully, and he does, and he should, but something in his brain won’t budge unless he still hides, just in case, just to be sure.

He kicks his already discarded jeans over his boxers the second they’re on the floor. The last thing you need to see is his cum stain.

Once he finishes maneuvering his wide frame into the small shower and pulls the curtain behind himself, he calls for you, telling you that he’s out of sight now. The door can’t be a particularly interesting thing to look at, and he’d rather you have some freedom in… well, your own bathroom.

Jayce then steps below the hot stream.

God, the summer heat had made him forget just how blissful it is to not be sticky with sweat. He lathers himself up as quickly as he can while being as thorough as the pace allows, and gets to work on the dry cum stuck to him. Jayce has to resist the impulse to scrutinize himself beyond just cleanliness — no point in that now, nothing more to change. Well, except for the stray hairs he’s missed the last time he trimmed his pubes, but— this isn’t a dog show, and his dick’s not the prettiest poodle the kennel has to offer. So he resists the urge to haphazardly look for something in your shower to shave off the stubble below his navel, and the longer fuzz on his balls.

He hopes you won’t mind the hair.

Shit, hair’s the least of his worries — he hopes you won’t mind the rest of him.

There is, at least, not much to complain about when it comes to his body (save for the stubborn love handles and the layer of pudge where his abs should be — it’s really not his fault that carbs soothe his soul when nothing else does). Jayce has spent enough time chugging down protein shakes and picking up weights to ensure his body’s something he mostly likes looking at. But with every added inch of muscle to his thighs and shoulders, it’s all served to make the gross imbalance of his dick proportioned to the rest of his body worse.

Jayce knows he’s overcompensated in the only way he knows how, but fuck, if it doesn’t feel like he’s made his predicament more hopeless on most days.

And right now, as he stares down at the carved curves of his flexed quads and the size of his chest and frankly the size of everything about him except for his fucking dick, he wonders if you should be subjected to such a sight with the end goal of still loving him in spite of it.

You’d manage, because it’s you. You always do. But should you have to?

“All good in there?”

Your voice startles him like someone just flipped the faucet from cozy warm to ice cold.

“Yes, yeah, great, why wouldn’t— it’s good. I’m good.”

The way you chuckle makes some muscles in his shoulders distend in a pavlovian response.

“Definitely sounds like it,” you joke. “… are you, though? Should I wait for you outside?”

And the answer to that comes very easily to him.

“No. Don’t.” Jayce pauses for a moment, and wonders just how much you need to know of what he wants — and the answer is everything. Baring the naked, vulnerable truth to you has never been a mistake til now, and he wants to believe that’s not changing anytime soon. “Please, I’d like you… here. With me. Like, in the shower, too.”

And he lothes the way his voice sounds small, like it’s coming from someone half his size, like it’s coming from someone terrified, but — it is.

“Can I come in… now?”

Jayce nods, until he realizes you can’t see him through the curtain, so he croaks a yes. You ask him if he’s sure. He wishes he weren’t half-lying when he croaks yes a second time.

He faces the shower with closed eyes as you step in behind him, as if bracing for impact, or as if squeezing them shut would somehow make him invisible. Like playing hide and seek for the first time, when it hadn’t quite sunk into his young mind that simply pushing the world out of sight won’t count for shit in the art of hiding.

But you draw him out of it with gentle hands, smoothing up his waist, cradling him close, and your chest’s warm against his back. Everything about the wonders of skin-to-skin contact he’s ever heard about — medical or otherwise — and scoffed at make dizzying sense now.

How could he not want to crawl into you when there’s more solace to be found in the warmth of your skin than anything he’s ever been told? How could he not want to feel you flood his every crevice when you soak through him faster than warm water ever has? Everything in his body feels like it aches and has been buttered up in healing, soothing balm.

You’re everything.

“Hey,” you whisper, pressing a breathy, humid kiss between his shoulder blades.

“Hi,” he says back, because it feels right to greet you again, when his world’s been painted in such different colours just from your form molded to his. When nothing is the way it used to be seconds ago, how could he not greet you like you’re new, how could he not press back into you like you were always meant to be there, missing half, missing home, missing comfort, missing piece?

How has he lived his whole life before you? How’s the sun ever gone up without your smile pressed into his back, how’s snow ever fallen without your heat to melt it just in time for spring, how’s air ever filled his lungs before you were there to draw it out of him with a kiss?

Jayce sucks in a breath so big your arms move to accommodate the growing width of his chest. The air tastes sweeter.

He wants to tell you everything. He can’t get out a single word.

“My soap smells good on you,” you say.

You’d smell better on me, Jayce wants to say. You’d taste better, feel better, look better, too. You need to be on me, everywhere, now.

If only the yearning thought of it were more terrifying than doing it.

“Are you scared?” You try again at his lack of an answer.

To death and not really anymore should not be two co-existing answers, but they are.

“A little,” is what he settles on.

You nod in understanding, rubbing at the soapy, soaked fuzz on his chest.

“What would you like me to do to help?”

And frankly, more of what you’ve been doing sounds like a splendid idea. Certainly makes him want to throw up a lot less than turning around to face you here and now and awkwardly gesturing at his dick and waiting for you to say something.

“You could touch me first,” he suggests.

You go rigid against his back for a second, before you let out a sighing, humid breath that sounds positively exhilarated. Like you’d been praying to hear him say that.

“I’d love that.” Your voice comes out dry on the word love, like you’re parched and he’s water. You cup at the meat of his hips, then give a squeeze that, although gentle, borders on desperate. “Show me where,” you say, “show me how.”

“My chest,” he settles, because that’s far away enough from the worst part of him. And he’s spent enough time maxing out his bench-presses to make sure it’d be worth touching.

You take the notion of working him very seriously. Your arms hinge up, forearms tucked into his pits, to reach the very top of his clavicle. As if you’re appreciating carved marble, you trace your fingertips over the ridges of bone, sculpted muscle, and the pillowy layer of healthy chub on his tits.

You lean your weight into him a little as you knead his pecs, giving a dreamy little hum like he’s the most comfortable mattress you’ve ever laid on. The stripe you lick up his spine, something between an animalistic caress and a marking of territory, is enough to have Jayce reaching forward to brace his hands against cold tile. You huff an amused little laugh, push your hips into the spot between his ass and the backs of his thighs just so.

“You’re adorable, puppy.”

But your hands are careful in their exploration in spite of your teasing, swirling fingertips into his damp chest hair, trailing down the chubby curve of his pecs until your palms are tucked beneath the meat of them. You jiggle his tits in your hands with a delighted chuckle, rubbing closer to where he’s most sensitive, familiar patterns on unexplored territories. His skin prickles with goosebumps at the featherlight touch of your thumbs at the very rim of where his skin turns dark pink and sensitive.

“Can I touch them?”

Jayce is brainless enough just from the hint of stimulation that it takes him well over three seconds to understand what you’re referring to when you say them.

He swallows his nerves, and tells you the second most embarrassing thing he’s said tonight:

“I’m… a little sensitive there. Be careful.”

The way your hips can’t help but twitch against his ass and your hands squeeze the meat of his chest just a fraction tighter have him believing that maybe this trait can be so much more than just embarrassing.

“I will,” you promise.

You pluck at the bud of his nipple like it’s a dainty chamomile floweret. It makes his brain turn to mush.

He had no idea something so simple could feel this good. He’s had to change shirts if the material was too coarse and he could never handle the jet of a shower hitting his nipples directly, it’s not like he didn’t know they were sensitive, but—

You make his body sing in unfamiliar ways, and he hopes you don’t mind the fact that they’re all just as new to him as they are to you. He hopes you don’t mind the fact that he can’t tell you what he’d like you to do to him because he frankly has no idea, he hopes you don’t mind the exploration.

Jayce wishes he were facing you now, so that you might swallow up his embarrassing little gasp when you tug at his nipples again, both at a time. His dick twitches with interest at every inch of contact, his head swims.

“You are sensitive,” you purr with delight, like you’ve made a groundbreaking discovery, still circling the halo of his now hard nipples with your thumb. His nerves are alight just from that hint of a touch, and god, he’s desperate. “That’s so hot.”

He knows he’s fishing for compliments, basking in your words, but he can’t help but turn to look at you over his shoulder with a shy little grin and ask, with a batting of his eyelashes: “You really think so?”

“Yes, Jayce, holy shit.” You squeeze the meat of his pecs to emphasize your point, and Jayce is positively mesmerized with the way the chub of his fat pecs spills between your fingers as you do. You dwell on them for a second longer, pinching and pulling with the faintest insistence, before you decide you want more.

His heart speeds up, and he’s reminded of the sore fact that he’s not all well-worked, shapely muscle, and that his chest is about as ideal as his body gets.

But you touch the more unseemly parts of him with the same enthusiasm as his chest almost as if to contradict those thoughts with your own hands. You knead the chub on his hips like a purring cat, you trace the sensitive crest of his hips with thumbs so steady you might as well be sculpting him anew.

And maybe you are. Maybe the form he takes on afterward is the same one as before, because you want him as he is, chub and hair and love handles and stretchmarks and small fuckin’ dick and all.

You squeeze his hips with an admiration and hunger that’s near-terrifying. You spend a minute following the trail of hair on the middle of his stomach, petting him the way you would a dog. Letting the fuzz run between your fingers, scratching at the skin below gently, rubbing all of it with your palms to savor the texture.

“Feels like you were made to be touched and held and fondled,” you whisper in his ear. “You’re just… so soft, Jayce, I could spend hours squeezing every part of you that gives.”

God, he’s so hard it hurts. Jayce feels himself leak at your words, at the low tone of your voice.

“I’d let you,” he replies.

But as your hands follow the grain of his hair, they inevitably end up lower, below his navel, where his hair goes coarser and his skin’s so unfamiliar with touch it crawls from it. Involuntarily, Jayce goes suddenly rigid, core braced like he’s waiting for a gut-punch, and your hands are off the moment he does.

“It’s alright,” you coo at him like you would at a spooked cat, before your palms rise back up to touch safe, comforting places. You rub familiar circles into the groove below his deltoid, you kiss between his shoulder blades in an attempt at reassurance. “We can stop here, Jayce. You know this.”

“It was just… unexpected.” He pauses for a second to wonder how much of that is the truth, before he swallows his nerves. He wants you to touch him. It’s just — there’s so much. The novelty of your hands on him, sparks in their wake, traveling to places he’s buried under layers of thick clothing and even thicker layers of shame, all uncovered for you to touch, not knowing when, or how, it’s… a lot.

“Could I, uh,” Jayce feels for your hands on each of his shoulders, wrapping his fingers around them gently, bringing them forward. “Could I take your hands and put them where I want them? I think… knowing when and where they go would help.”

“Of course.” You kiss between his shoulders again, nuzzling into the lax muscle like you’re trying to nose your way into his ribcage. “Put them anywhere you want, Jayce, you know I’m excited to touch any part of you.”

He hopes to god you mean that.

And he wants to take your word for it, so he brings them back up to his chest, and admits: “I really liked it when you touched me here.”

You give one squeeze at his pectorals that serves the purpose of making your words ring all the more true. “That makes two of us.”

His nipples had been left standing for attention but sorely ignored for a good minute or so, and the first gentle pinch of your index and thumb at them is bliss.

“You love this, don’t you? Me playing with your tits?” Jayce can’t help but groan at your pick of words, and realizes there will be some unpacking to be done as to why the sheer term makes him tingle all over. Your grin blooms at his spine — of course you’ve noticed. But you flick them when he’s silent; just a gentle little nudge in the direction you want him.

“Y-yeah,” he babbles, cock stirring at how crushed he feels below your gaze, your touch, your wanting, right where you want him, butterfly pinned to a cork board. “So much.”

“I’d like to twist them a little, would you want me to?”

Like you need to even ask. Like the mere thought of it isn’t making him twitch.

“Please.”

You pull at them gently, until pink, soap-slick skin slips from between the rough pads of your fingers. But you don’t relent this time around — as they’ve slipped free, nerves still buzzing from the attention and release, you take the buds between your fingers again, and, holding your breath to hear him, gauge him, listen to him, you do what you do best. Find new ways to make him lose his mind.

Jayce gasps at the first gentle twist of his nipples, winded breath cracking into a girlish moan as you tug and wring just on the mind-numbingly pleasurable side of almost painful.

“O-oh, that— that… feels so good.” Jayce shivers, chest pushed into your palms. You press into him further, meat crushing meat, seeking to sink into him, nosing at the back of his neck with your breath so cold he knows you’re trying to drown in his scent.

It makes him ache.

“Yeah?” you purr, kneading at his sore nipples, languid and greedy, “needed me to touch you like this for so long, hm?”

You flick them, so unexpected it feels like someone flicked the lights off in his brain.

“Shit—!”

And off they stay, leaving him brainless, pliant, to how you tease at his chest — his tits, he remembers — tugging and twisting and rubbing until he’s dripping.

Warmth’s been swelling in his tummy since the moment you’d taken him in your arms in this fuzzy hot steam, water’s been pearling down his front and you’ve been licking and sucking at his back, by all means, he’s wet already. But he doesn’t realize that he’s dripping until his cock twitches for attention and water washes a droplet of his precum down the sensitive bulbous tip of his little cock.

He doesn’t realize he’s dripping until his hips shoot forward chasing nothing. Chasing you.

He’s never burned for touch more than now.

“More,” he pleads.

“Anything you need,” you whisper. “Show me where.”

There’s a tension in your hands that’s atlantean — bearing the weight of the world though you’re merely holding his chest, and all that swells within. They sit steady in his own in spite of it all, only your pinky fingers flared out to have a taste of what awaits lower.

He takes you where you want to go; he takes you where he wants you to go. Down the subtle swell of his tummy now sucked in with tension, down where his fuzzy hair grows thicker and darker, past the dip of his navel.

He’s caught somewhere between the icy prickles of the fear coursing through him, screaming at him all the ways in which he’s unfit for this, undeserving, and the way he burns for you. The way he burns everywhere your skin’s stuck to his own, the way he burns brighter everywhere it isn’t.

You’re water and an ember all at once. You could put him out. You could set him alight. You’re going to — if he finds it within him to let you.

“Jayce…” All of him shivers with the sound of his name christened in your mouth and made anew into the world’s most wonderful sound. Your voice has never sounded heavier with want, your whisper never lighter with hesitance. You plant a wet kiss between his shoulder blades, scratch your nails gently through the fuzz right above his cock.

You’re so close. So close to his skin, so close to his heart, so close to what he’s been hiding and burying for months. You’re closer than he ever thought you’d be less than an hour ago.

He wants you closer.

He wants you to know. He wants you to love him, in spite of it all.

So he takes one last breath, as though preparing for a dive in cold water, and does the second bravest thing he’s done tonight. He takes your hands lower.

The silence deafens him.

Jayce hears nothing but the pitter patter of the shower droplets falling off the both of you, the marked lack of anything else — including his own breath.

And then you gasp.

It’s a fragile little sound, lost on anything and anyone but him — but then again, it’s not meant for anything or anyone but him.

You cup your hand over his dick like he’s delicate, letting nothing beyond the meatier, softer parts of your palm graze over him. After a moment’s hesitation, you lean closer like you need it, until the heel of your palm’s pressing into where his tummy draws into a V shape, until your hand covers him wholly.

Jayce gasps with it, too — the pressure where he’s been aching for it; the relief of you, not pulling back but squeezing at him gently, as though trying to see him with your hands.

“I can’t believe I finally—” you swallow softly, your exhale coming out in a burst as though it’s exhilarating to have him. “Finally get to touch you like this.”

You kiss his spine again, sending a rattling shiver through the length of it. Jayce gasps out your name in a tremor, because nothing else in this world feels worth saying. You respond to his call by running your thumb from the root of his cock to the tip, rubbing at where he’s been dripping for you.

That alone is vehement — makes his knees buckle like he’s been kicked, makes him brace himself against the cold tiles in front of him, makes him arch his hips into your loving hand. Jayce makes an embarrassing sound, one that has you humming with delight.

“Oh,” you breathe, somehow pressing him even closer with the hand that isn’t cradling him where he aches. He can feel your breath racing against his back, he swears his own would be fogging up the tile in front of him if it weren’t already damp with the humidity. You mouth at his skin like you’re hungry, and god, he wants to feed you.

“Do you…” he draws a fortifying breath, “want to see me, too?”

Your inhale stutters, stops, stuck. Leaves you with your next sentence.

“If you’re ready, yes.” He feels your desperate nod, the way your forehead bumps his spine. “More than anything.”

Jayce knows he’s the sentimental type. Has been told so by many people, both well-meaning and not, and he is once again faced with the indubitable truth of it as he reaches for the hand on his cock and laces your fingers. He holds it for comfort, holds it because it’s yours.

He almost chokes up with the realization that you understand that truth intrinsically, that you handle it with all the deftness and delicacy of a clockmaker, because you stroke your thumb over his own in encouragement. Before you nose against his back like an enamored cat and whisper: “I love you.”

He lets those words wash over him, lets them lick at his wildly beating heart the way an animal licks at its distressed young, before he slowly turns. Can’t help the way he stares away, at the fog on the tiles, at his matte reflection in them, before a hand cups at his cheek. Gently tugs him out of his incoming panic, back into his body, back to you.

Your hand cradles his face like he’s a fragile little thing, turns him to look at you, strokes gently down the dip of his cheek. Oh, how he’s missed seeing you, prettiest painting in the museum, loveliest flower in the meadow, brightest ray of the sun. He can’t help but grasp your jaw in both hands like it’s water, like it’s treasure, and marvel at you. Why does it feel like it’s been so long since he’s seen you last?

“I missed you,” you whisper. Jayce swears there’s tears at your waterline, maybe — but it might be just the steam.

You look at him for a long moment. Not the unexplored, tempting rest of him, but his eyes, his reluctant, sappy little smile, his quivering lip, and you let yourself be held, holding him in return. You stroke his lip with your thumb, pressing gently at the fullness of it, so much so it has Jayce, brainless as he is, almost dipping his head to envelop it in his mouth. But you’re faster than he is — your teeth clack with the eager impact of your mouths, without the cushion of your lips, because neither of you can stop grinning. Your sigh is cold in the wet kiss, your teeth nip at his bottom lip as though it’s the peel of a soft fruit you’d like to taste.

Your gasp muffles into the kiss, your hand brushes from his face to his hair, cradles him closer, your other hand finds his hip and pulls, tugs, an echo of your words from less than an hour before: come here, come here, come here. You breathe him in like he’s air, you move on from his mouth to his cheek, his nose, his eyelids. Like no amount of kisses will ever suffice, like he needs to be smothered in them.

And it that moment, he’s so desired he wonders how he’d ever managed to feel anything but. Something in him cracks, something so fragile it was already on the verge of breaking anyway, something he’s glad shatters. Because his windpipe goes strangle-tight before a little sob wrecks him, before he nuzzles you with all the uncalculated affection of some enamored little cat, pressing his face against you for more.

“Baby boy,” you soothe. “Sweet baby boy.”

The new pet name has him leaving your lips in favor of somewhere safer, somewhere to hide his clear embarrassment. He finds it in the slope of your neck, face tucked under your jaw, and can’t help another sniffle, can’t help the shake of his shoulders, the way he crumbles. Jayce paws at your hips, too. He’s not sure what for.

He wishes he could stay where he is even as you take half a step away, just enough to be able to glance down between your bodies. A terrified tremble licks at his edges, spreads from his fingertips to his wrists, to his knees, rattles all of him as you look in silence and he prays, he prays—

“Oh, look at you.” Your thumb rubs at the angle of his jaw before you work up the courage to ask: “Can I touch you?”

As absurd as it sounds, Jayce thinks he might actually die if you don’t.

“Please.”

He settles his cheek to yours as you both look down between your bodies. Watches as the hand at his jaw slides south: over the ridge of his collarbone, down the chub of his pectoral. Over the plane of his stomach, over the padding right under his bellybutton, through the trimmed fuzz below, until, until…

Until your knuckles brush over the pink little tip of his cock, but dip lower still, until his balls rest in the cup of your palm. Gently, you raise all of him as though he’s a shiny new find in the sands of a beach.

…To marvel at.

You’re silent for a long, worrying second, before Jayce can hear your smile.

“As pretty as the rest of you.” Your words are the highest form of comfort he’s ever known, fondling him where he’s most sensitive is a close second. He’s at full mast, a humble two and a half inches long with a soft upward curve, already leaking. Jayce gasps, whines when you give one soft, final little squeeze at his balls before you move on further up. He can’t help but cling to you, slinging both arms over your shoulders, as you wrap the first half of your fist around him in a clumsy attempt at pleasuring him. Though it’s nothing groundbreaking in and of itself, being touched, stroked, overwhelms him with the sheer novelty, and has his cock weeping into the cradle of your hand. The backs of your fingertips sit nearly flat against your palm with how you have to ball your fist to really grasp him.

Your hand moves awkwardly, uncertainly. Desperate to touch and pleasure, but unsure how, you tug at his cock the way you would an average sized one, and it slips from your grasp before he gets to feel much of it.

He’s not the only one who’s nervous here.

“Wait.” Jayce’s hand finds your wrist. “Let me show you how?”

At that, a relieved, awkward little laugh leaves your lungs, you smile up at him with an eager nod. “I’d really like that.”

You place your hand atop his hip gingerly while you raptly watch the sight before you. How he takes himself in his hand, swallowing his nerves.

“I, uh… I use three fingers,” Jayce awkwardly begins. His index and middle finger brush below his chubby little cock, his thumb rests on top. Pinching the root between them, he slides up by softly flicking his wrist, stroking his foreskin over the petal pink tip. A small droplet pearls from his slit with the touch. Then Jayce strokes downward, delicate cockhead popping out from the confines of his foreskin, exposed to the humid air. His own touch alone makes him buzz, just from the fact that he’s doing it for you, before you. Just because you lick your lips like you’re hungry for it when he finally dares to look at you, and concludes, quite dumbly: “Like this.”

“One more time for me,” you urge, and Jayce gives you a few more instead, gently touching himself under your rapt, devouring gaze. You swallow thickly when he begins to drip a little more abundantly under the attention, clear but thick droplets of precum oozing from the slit. You gasp for it like you’re the one being touched, and it makes Jayce drop his forehead to your shoulder. “Oh, I could watch you all day,” you confess it against the shell of his ear. “It’s… Jesus, Jayce, you’re so hypnotic.”

The words make his spine rattle. His skin bloom with goosebumps.

Him? Hypnotic?

Jayce can’t help a small, exhilarated giggle at the thought. You trail kisses from his ear along the dip of his cheek.

“I mean it,” you say.

“I know you do. It’s just…” Jayce swallows his next words. Unbelievable? So good it can’t be true? He feels himself twitch when his hand involuntarily speeds. “Hah. It’s a lot, I guess.”

You grasp his wrist, at the clearly defined strip where his skin is paler and softer than the rest, where his beloved bracelet usually sits. Your nose nudges his cheek, and the little kiss you press to the corner of his lips is surprisingly chaste for the fact that you’re palming down his stomach.

“It’s the truth,” you say. Like a lover’s embrace, your palm slides home, cradling his knuckles the same way all of you cradles him when you share a bed. You don’t brush him out of the way, you just hold, but the intent is clear, and Jayce isn’t so inclined to wait anymore.

He’s been patient for all of six months. He’s been terrified for all of six months. He wants to be none of those things anymore.

Your fingers replace his own on his dick, and something in his soul melts at the awkward little smile you flash at him as you reluctantly start to pump his length.

It’s already better. There is more tact to your touch, more coordination. You stroke him like he’s shown you, and it’s not overwhelming, but it’s tender, it’s warm, it rocks him like a ship on a calm sea.

“Like this?”

“Mhm.”

The tip of your nose brushes down his cheek: a singular, steady brushstroke on a fresh canvas, your breath hits the tendon of his neck like a splash of watercolor. Then, you start to paint in truth, lips sealing to his neck, teeth pinching, sucking.

You always had such a way for making him feel devoured, even before you had the softest, most vulnerable part of him in the palm of your hand, and his neck between your jaws.

But now, it’s so good it knocks the wind out of him.

“A-ah,” he gasps, pushing into your teeth, urging you not to stop. And you don’t, god, you never do, always so eager to do right by him, to hold him where he needs it, to touch him where it burns, to kiss where he’s aching. The hand that isn’t stroking him off inches up his spine, between meaty shoulders, then passes back down, presses him so close there’s barely space for you to keep stroking him, and finally reaches its destination: his ass. There, you grab a greedy, contrastingly heavy handed palmful of his asscheek.

“What else can I do?” You breathe the question into the side of his neck, pressing kisses to the blooming bruise between sentences. Your grip on his cheek turns gentle, kneading, before you flash him your most winning smile. “Show me all the secrets, baby.”

It’s something that comes intuitively— not something he’d given much particular thought. There is some digging to be done before he can give you an answer, and you’re patient as he does it, you always are.

“You can rub just the tip between your fingers.” Jayce demonstrates it for you though you don’t look like you’d need it, thumb circling his index and middle finger. As your touch brushes from root to tip and lingers, he’s reminded of another detail worth mentioning: “Um, g-gently, at first, or it can be… too much, if—”

“I’ve got you.” Reluctantly, but not a touch rougher than he asked, you mimic what he’s shown you, effectively massaging his dainty dick between your fingers, rubbing it almost like idly playing with a coin. “Like this?”

Exactly like that, Jayce would have answered, hadn’t the mere touch been like having a lighter held under his brainstem. He’s reduced to a sloppy, whimpering mess, mouth open in a silent wail, sitting biddably still as to let you work him however you deem fit.

Somewhere behind the blood pulsing in his ears, he swears he can hear you laugh, before your free hand comes to cup his cheek.

Pleasure licks at the edge of his being, swallows him whole a second later when you rub a little quicker.

And finally chews him when you rub harder.

“Too much?”

“N-no, no, not yet.”

It feels like two flintstones sparking together in his stomach, turning into a blaze, devastating, eating, so much, oh, just right.

“I-I’m, uh—“

The hand on his ass brushes up the entire, glorious expanse of his back, and settles on his nape in a loving cradle surprisingly fast, makes him feel safe, held, wanted.

Your kiss at his neck serves as encouragement.

“I can tell, baby, you’re almost there.” Your voice envelops him like a gentle hand, of course you can tell, of course you know. When have you not? When have you ever been wrong about him? “I know it’ll be perfect. Show me, puppy.”

He will not be perfect — not in his eyes, not in anyone else’s. But perhaps under your warm, loving gaze… maybe.

Both his palms grasp at the one arm you have at his nape, holding on for dear life while he leans in, planting his forehead on your shoulder.

You pump him once, twice, and then, when the tension between his hips goes stretched-elastic-band-tight, when the metaphorical boiling pot of his pleasure overflows, Jayce almost drops to his knees.

He finds it within a distant, semi-conscious corner of his mind to brace some of his weight on the wall beside him, but the rest becomes yours to bear.

“I‘ve got you, Jayce.” A kiss to his cheek, stretched taut with his lowered jaw, his full lungs, ready to burst. “Yeah, I’ve got you.”

And you hold him so steady Jayce can’t help but soften. He wishes he could soak up into you, wishes he could be warm wax, clinging to you like a second skin.

There’s a pulse that pounds at him, before you draw in an expectant, exhilarated breath in anticipation of his orgasm. He feels it too, low in the cradle of his hips, brewing up hotter, sharper, licking at the bottom of his lungs and clawing at his stomach, until finally, finally — it lances through him.

“O-oh, fffuck,” he drawls, grasping at your back, breathing under your neck. “Sorry,” he says anyway because in some deep-rooted part of his mind, he should be. Sorry for the ensuing mess, the ensuing sounds, sorry for how much it’ll be.

To think that a mere touch of your fingertips has his knees going jelly soft, toes curling, tender heat in his stomach blowing into an all consuming flame. His lips part to drink the humid air like it could put him out, but your touch draws sparks, keeps him alight, keeps him ecstatic.

Your cheek smoothes to his stubbled one, your head lowered next to his own to spectate his orgasm alongside him. Though the thought of being seen eats at him, pleasure overrides it, swallows it like a tidal wave, and Jayce finds himself curling against you, balls drawing up, thighs flexing, lungs tight, tight tight, and oh, he’s done for. He feels himself liquify and burn all at once.

Leaking into your hand, twitching desperately, raising himself up on the his toes, scratching at the tile like this is his first time grappling with such pleasure.

You let him ride it out. You pet him through it until he remembers he can settle his weight back to his heels instead of his tippy toes, you pet him through it as he remembers how to breathe.

Jayce knows his orgasms don’t look as intense as they feel, as intense as they should — not a vehement burst of white, just a trickle of his cum, not a virile jerk of his cock, but a weak twitch — underwhelming at best. He’s come to terms with that.

And yet, you watch it as though you want to carve every second of it into memory.

“Mhm, that’s it.” You milk him of his release with gentle but demanding fingers, a pool of liquid pearl in the palm of your hand, you squeeze all of his cock in your fist when he’s done, yelping a little with the pleasure-pain of it. Your gaze feels as though it melts him when you lift your eyes to him, calm and warm and loving. Your lips find his in a sweet kiss, you suckle at his bottom lip like you’d want to drink him up from the puddle he’s become. “My sweet boy.” Those words pressed into his mouth taste like fresh honey. “My baby.”

They make him feel full and satisfied, like he could live off of the high of hearing them, of eating them, of coming for you — for the rest of his gentle days. How could they be anything but, with you at his side?

“I love you too, s-so much,” Jayce gasps, before another kitten lick at the seam of your mouth. He can’t help a small sniffle along with a laugh, and though it feels silly, to be reacting like this to being witnessed and held and pleasured, what else does he have? If not tears of relief, if not a grin so wide his face hurts? “That was, I mean, I’m—“ he paws at you as though he might find the words within you, kisses you again though his brain fogs only harder when you lick him back.

You both catch your breaths for a moment.

“It was a lot, wasn’t it?” You empathize, brushing damp fingers through his hair. Letting go of his slick cock to stroke his stomach with the back of your fingertips. Jayce lets his forehead bump yours in a catlike display of affection, before he nods.

“It was… everything.”

What a reductive way to put it, what a lack of words for you, for this, for him.

You smile like you understand exactly what he means anyway, and Jayce doesn’t know what other way to praise you for it than to wrap all of himself around you and squeeze. Your laugh comes out delighted, then a little strangled, before he lets go, and you kiss him again.

Some part of him almost has the audacity to be disappointed when you switch places with him and rinse yourself off too, then turn off the water. Your towels are fluffy and warm, draped on the bathroom heater. There is a puerile playfulness, to patting each other dry, to sharing kisses that smell of your body wash and of warm cotton and floral detergent, to stick so close together even as you take him to your bedroom that walking’s kind of a nuisance.

But then you lay back on your bed like you want to make snow angels on your sheets, and you gaze at him from below lidded lashes in invitation. Jayce crawls closer, savors the smell of your bedding, distinctly yours, before he finds the source of it, finds your mellow scent at the side of your neck, a hound dog sniffing for it. Shoves his face in it the way he’d had just before all of this, except more shameless, more greedy. Inhales you.

“Tickles,” you tell him between laughs, palming at his shoulder in a dishonest attempt at getting away. When he won’t relent, you do, and your hand slides lower, from his shoulder to his ribs, his waist, his hip, his ass. “C’mere.”

You press him closer, make all of his naked form seam to yours, and Jayce has half the mind to twitch away from you on just muscle memory alone.

“It’s okay,” you assure.

“I know.” Jayce presses a kiss to the first thing within reach of his lips: your cheek. “Thank you.”

It will just take the darker corners of his mind some time to let that realization soak through. He knows you’ll have the patience for it — he’s not sure he will.

After a fortifying breath, Jayce finds it within himself to shift his hips until he’s pressed against you, soft small dick and fuzzy tummy and thick thighs and all. He links his leg with yours, drapes a reluctant arm across your stomach, which you press down against your body in assurance.

The silence that follows is bliss. Just your breaths, the hushed creak of the mattress, the summer evening outside. Crickets. The soft, humming scratch of skin brushing skin, when your hand trails up and down his back.

The ambience becomes cottony, fuzzy, lost in something of a dreamless, easy slumber.

“How do you feel?”

Jayce hadn’t realized he’d been half asleep until your voice almost rouses him, and he takes a second to replay your words in his head before their meaning follows soon thereafter.

That question rings familiar, and so does his answer.

“Glorious,” he says.

“Good.” Your nose brushes his, your lashes tickle his cheek. “You were exactly that.”

#dude. DUUUUUUDE #dicax you've done it again oh my god #this legit brought me to tears I'm so serious #and also made me appreciate my own body albeit differently than the focus of this piece #god. well done man well done #jayce talis x reader #jayce talis #reboggle

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