#dicax. you are awesome. i genuinely love ur works

[deepspace-nasty]

reblogging again because i ended up writing my thoughts for you. might've gone crazy but. (throws this and scuttles into the dark) under a read more because its. A Lot

But like a frozen lake in January, Jayce had been scared shitless to even come near, much less throw himself at you. -- love Love LOVE !! when characters are so scared to fall in love. especially with jayce, hes made to be such a prominent figure that he doesnt know what to do with himself - and with the prospects of having to deal with his lower half later on down the line if he does fall for you making it much worse, it makes a delicious concoction of "oh god oh no" and "i want you, i need you" that i find so delightful

With you, he wanted to be stupid. He wanted to he stupid as you touched the shin of your leg to his under the coffee shop table, he wanted to be stupid when you’d gently run your fingertips up the inside of his forearm during some terrible action movie at the local theater. -- i think i need him to be stupid for me too WOAH WHO SAID THAT. crazy draft in here guys

That night, Jayce had clutched his pillow and sobbed and wondered how he could have gotten so lucky. -- JAYCE =[[[ i frowned so hard irl, i need him to know i want to kiss him so sweetly. i love him so much

Luckily, Jayce didn’t have to fake an indigestion — the mere thought of going, with you, wearing nothing but his swimming trunks had been enough to make him throw up the day before (...) -- ☹️☹️☹️☹️ he deserves the world and the best and sloppiest head i can give him

But now you call him puppy when he presses his face into your hands, you call him princess when he’s shy, you call him sweetheart when you want to kiss him, you call him darling when he wakes up, you call him sweet thing when something’s not quite right. -- oouuuugghhhh pet names !!!! pet names that you use enough that he recognizes the tone and context of them without anything else ???!!!! sign me tf up !!!!!

“I want you,” he blurts(...) -- this mightve made me giggle because it reminds me of the cars meme that says this (link)

(...) it’s a word he’s sorely reminded of every time he encounters the prefix micro, and, unfortunately for him, he loves his microwaved ramen soup, and he went into fucking science, so he’s already making his life harder than he should. -- JAYCE. hes so. dare i say it. pathetic. and i love him and thats so endearing. jayce my love. i know i should feel bad but. gods. i cant help but giggle at this

(...) “and how much it means to me that you trusted me enough to tell me." / And he’d never thought of it like that. -- RRRDJAHSJSKAK sorry just. oh my gosh. his feelings of self sabotage and hatred just. destroy that oart of his thinking. head in hands. oouuuugghhhh im sick.

“Jayce, I’d still love you (...) don’t you realize how wonderful you are?” -- i think this section really. hits. its so well written dicax. this is amazing. i think i need this injected into my blood stream and im not joking.

You’ve never been this close. It’s never felt so good. -- genuinely i think this section, from when he says i love you, to. idk the whole fic LMAO make me so light headed w happiness and joy ! it just feels so airy and bright? somehow ? and i absolutely adore it

“I, um… sure I won’t crush you? You sure this— is how you want me?” / “Yes,” you answer, and your lack of hesitation is assuring. -- yeah i think even if he were to crush me id be going out a happy man- WOW THE DRAFT ON THIS WEBSITE.

When his crotch settles against your lower tummy, Jayce instinctively tucks a hand between your bodies, over himself. -- no notes i just want to see it written again. fave paragraph i think.

“Can I kiss you, puppy?” (...) “Yes,” he gasps, with an unfamiliar, heady drunkenness. -: another one that i just wanted to see again. puppy boy jayce is best jayce

Everything’s on fire where you touch it, everything itches for more, and your hands soothe and make it so much worse all at once. Jayce wishes he could shed his skin just so you could touch deeper. Feel more. There’s nothing but tingling, maddening warmth all over. -- read this. read it again. i want you to internalize this. uuuughhhfjakxkda (melts)

“Closer,” he gasps, like that’s anywhere within the realm of possibility. You grab his meaty hips like a cat pouncing on prey, nearly sinking your claws into them, and his pelvis clashes with yours like two flintstones creating a spark. -- GIGGLES LIKE A CARTOON EVIL VILLAIN. YES. OOOHHH MY GOD YES.

(...) "wanna forget where I end and you begin.” -- this shit. is like. so hot. the melding of souls and bodies?? hottest shit in the world

To think you’d ever want to leave when you’re devouring him. Absurd. -- UESASSBJSNSNSBDNND DEVOUR THAT MAN !!!!!!!!! PUT HIM IN YOUR MOUTH AND CLAMP YOUR TEETH DOWN !!!!!!!!!!

(...) all he can do is let you lick the inside of his mouth while he moans like a girl. -- im normal about him (is so pale from blood rushing to my cock i look sick)

Jayce comes down from it shivering, like it wrecked him. He can’t gulp down enough air to sate his lungs, even though he’s gasping for lungfuls. He wonders what your voice’ll sound like when he can hear more than static fuzz. He wonders what your hands will feel like when his skin stops tingling. He wonders what his brain will think once it stops buzzing. / As it turns out, that first thought is shame, except now it crashes down on him tenfold. Without meaning to, he lifts his hips, covering the wet spot at the front of his jeans and wondering why, how. -- is it mean that i love him being embarrassed like this. obviously its not the point of the story, and there is an underlying current of anxiety and the like, but. H. Hes So. Gods.

“We can go together. Just— could you hold me? For just a bit longer?” / There’s another kiss pressed to the top of his head. “I could hold you forever.” -- ooohohdjksmsm the kiss !! the vulnerability !!! waartatsgdbskndns !!!!!!!!!!

dicax youve done it again. genuinely i think you are my favorite writers ever, not even considering the jayce fanfiction that i found you from hahha - you have a wonderful way with words, and your writing can evoke such strong imagery that it is palpable in ny mind's eye. you are such a large inspiration, and i am so happy whenever i see your writing pop up on my feed(s)

this was an amazing read, and very hot- jayce being vulnerable with the reader, trusting them, and taking steps to be more comfortable with himself, and them?! amazing, i love it so much.

small and micro dicks get a lot of flack (as you and others have mentioned) but as someone who stuggles with penetration (and doesn't really have the drive nor need to prep for my preferred penetration lol) i think they are wonderful ! def need more appreciation, not only in writing and fan content but irl as well. big dicks are good but small ones are where its at haha

anyway, dicax, i hope you are doing fantastic. you have made my night with this and i will probably be dreaming of it when i go to bed. jayce's beautiful blushing face and little dick <33

lover, be good to me

18+ MDNI Jayce Talis x GN Reader Word count: 5.1k Synopsis: Jayce unlearns shame. Tags/warnings: Jayce has a small dick, sub Jayce, premature ejaculation, dry humping, love and reassurance. Notes: Just like Jayce, I am also unlearning some shame in the process of posting this. Yes, you got it right -- this is a fully serious fic about him having a micropenis and navigating that. I'm aware small dicks are the butt end of many jokes on the internet, so I'm taking it in my hands not to just normalize it, but to romanticize small dick. I'm also aware that this isn't something most people enjoy fantasizing about, especially when it comes to characters they want to fuck, and that's so okay. If you decide to read on out of nothing but sheer curiosity, I still hope you enjoy Jayce's struggles (and wins!) regarding relationships, love and self-esteem. This might just turn into a miniseries. We shall see.

You’d barged into his life just in time to light up the end of January.

Jayce had clung to the seven hours of daylight which his workday took up in their entirety, he’d showed up for the gym even through the slew of people coming in to follow through on the new year’s resolution they’d end up dropping by the start of February, he’d gone to the same coffee shop he’d been going to since he’d moved to this part of town.

On all accounts, it shouldn’t have been an eventful year. It shouldn’t have been the year he’d finally have more than an uncomfortable smile and shake of his head to offer his mama when she’d pose the dreadful question over their weekly Sunday dinner, it shouldn’t have been the year he suddenly found himself waking up excited, it shouldn’t have been the year he threw caution in the wind.

But it is.

Falling for you in the winter had been easy. The first smile you’d offered him after you’d shaken his hand at Vi’s monthly drink-and-lose-your-money-at-poker-parties had made the mere idea of just seven hours of sunlight perfectly bearable. It’d made his lax, dry handshake go wet with exhilarated and unfortunate palm sweat, it’d made his heart leap like he’d actually drank the stupid vodka-redbull cocktail Vi had pushed onto him instead of dumping it into the bathroom sink.

It made losing all of ten bucks to you in the next round of poker worth it.

But like a frozen lake in January, Jayce had been scared shitless to even come near, much less throw himself at you.

He’d watched from a safe distance, laughed at your jokes, tossed some of his own back, marveled at your smile.

He’d never expected to be pulled in. 

You’d asked him out on a not-really-a-date-but-I’d-like-to-get-to-know-you-better outing after the second party of Vi’s you’d spent tiptoeing around each-other, which, by all accounts, was the most wonderful thing to ever happen to Jayce.

And by far the most downright terrifying.

Against better judgement, on that very same night, he’d finally texted you back to ask for the time and place of your not-date.

The fact that you’d replied instantly felt like lake ice cracking under his feet.

Jayce wasn’t unused to being wanted. There’d been enough people to consider him handsome enough to hit on at bars, or even try to not so subtly get into his pants at the academy. He’d gone on a date or two, through his college years.

But he’d never wanted someone quite this badly.

He’d had crushes he’d reasoned himself out of, of course he had; his heart was quick to go soft on anyone offering him any kind of genuine attention, but he’d been smart enough not to let it get too far.

With you, he wanted to be stupid. He wanted to he stupid as you touched the shin of your leg to his under the coffee shop table, he wanted to be stupid when you’d gently run your fingertips up the inside of his forearm during some terrible action movie at the local theater.

He’d wanted to he stupid when you’d asked him if he’d like this to be serious.

He’d wanted to be so, so very stupid when he’d leaned into your cupped palm and let you lay the gentlest kiss to his lips.

You’d asked him, in all your cluelessness, what he was shaking for. You’d kissed his forehead like you hadn’t figuratively plunged him into ice cold water with just the brush of your lips to his hairline, you’d held him, and cooed at him, whispered about how there was nothing to be scared of.

There was so much.

For every hug he spent uncomfortably tilting his hips back and wondering if you could feel anything (or a lack thereof), for every time he got the urge to throw up and run when your hand touched anywhere near his navel, for every time your thigh had drifted between his legs and he’d jumped like he’d been burnt, you’d been gentle, kind, understanding.

You’d cradled his face one mild, cloudy day in mid-April and told him you weren’t expecting anything. You’d kissed the bridge of his nose like a promise, and told him he should never feel like you’re trying to get anything from him — when and where anything sex-related was supposed to happen was entirely in his hands, you’d said.

And you’d promised you had plenty of patience to spare — especially for him. Especially for this.

That night, Jayce had clutched his pillow and sobbed and wondered how he could have gotten so lucky. 

And when that luck would inevitably run out.

You didn’t deserve to be strung along, especially not forever. He couldn’t give you anything.

And it felt wrong to keep you waiting, with the false promise that he would.

But he’d done it anyway. For once in his life, Jayce had been truly and utterly selfish, savoring every moment with you with the looming threat of his own shortcomings breathing down the back of his neck. 

He’d clung to you — to the time he had with you until this relationship was going to meet its inevitable demise — hopelessly, tirelessly, he’d locked every squeeze of your hand and every wrinkle below your smiling eyes and every ridge of your warm palm and every speck of pigment on your iris deep in his heart, charting whatever he could get out in the greatest details his brain could muster. That, at least, would be his to keep, even after you’d leave.

Loving you in spring came even more easily. The sunlight became kinder, your eyes brighter, your jokes more intimate. There were times when something had caught his eye, and before he could open his mouth to get out the first word about it, you’d be waiting to meet his gaze with a knowing glint in your eyes. The squeezes of your hands lasted longer, your thumb lingered at his wrist, rubbing, your kisses at his jaw were crying to go lower, but they never did. Above all the affection you had, which Jayce knew was running rampant, you respected him.

And that, along with summer, made everything more complicated.

With shedded layers of clothes came a new sense of vulnerability. Jayce knew there was nothing to suspect through the coarse material of his jeans or shorts which he’d picked for that very purpose, but when you’d stayed over one late May evening, he’d frantically dug through his drawers for his fleece pajama pants.

“I get really cold at night,” he’d lied. You hadn’t said a thing, though he’d been sorely aware of the way they stuck to his sweaty legs in the morning.

Caitlyn had asked him out at a pool party, at the start of June, with you obviously invited as well. Luckily, Jayce didn’t have to fake an indigestion — the mere thought of going, with you, wearing nothing but his swimming trunks had been enough to make him throw up the day before, and he’d had a good enough reason to sit it out.

But now it’s late June and your wine glass is fogging up with the warmth of your laughing breath after a particularly bad joke of his. He’s sure he’s sweating so much he’ll leave a stain the size of his back on your couch, and that his Hawaiian shirt is glued tight to that icky, sweaty space between his shoulder blades.

Your hand, carefully placed at the top of his thigh, yearning but not demanding, gently scratching at him through his jeans, is making his leg bounce. Your smile, wine-softened and heartachingly giddy makes something in Jayce’s chest clench.

He wants to know what your skin tastes like. He wants your mouth claiming every inch of his body, teeth dragging across his damp skin, he wants your breath to mingle with his. He aches with the need of it, his brain buzzes with alcohol-induced horniness and alcohol-diminished sensibility, he wants, he wants, he wants.

His mouth is dry. He wants it slick with your spit. 

“What’s the matter?”

Your index circles at the top of his thigh like a question mark.

“With me?” Jayce asks, dumbly.

You smile. Your hand squeezes the meat of his thigh where it tapers off into his knee. “Felt like I lost you there for a second. Everything alright, sweet thing?”

You’ve called him every iteration and combination of sickeningly names that would have made him gag before he met you. But now you call him puppy when he presses his face into your hands, you call him princess when he’s shy, you call him sweetheart when you want to kiss him, you call him darling when he wakes up, you call him sweet thing when something’s not quite right.

The tendons in your neck stretch with the questioning tilt of your head, the space between your parted lips invites his tongue to nestle between them, the warmth of your hand is soaking through his jeans.

“I want you,” he blurts, without even realizing what he’d just said before he hears himself rasp the words through his dry throat.

“You have me,” you say, like it’s that easy.

It makes Jayce go silent, buzzy mind suddenly quiet with the daunting realization that he soon won’t. Not after you’ll know. Not after he tells you.

“Whenever you feel ready,” you reassure, finding his hand and rubbing a by now familiar circle into his wrist, which Jayce dedicates to memory as possibly the last, “you have me.”

Except he won’t.

But you deserve to know, Jayce reasons —  he’s wasted six of your months on him, selfishly clinging to your affection though he knows he will never live up to what you’re hoping he is.

You, in all your kindness and respect and reverence and loving… you don’t deserve another single month, week, day, hour, minute wasted on his denial and lies. You deserve the truth.

“I’m so sorry,” Jayce says.

“We don’t have to do anything now,” you assure, and he’s sure those words taste achingly familiar by now. You’ve said them more often than he’s deserved hearing them.

And he does have to do something now. Just not what you think.

As he draws in a fortifying breath to just say it, you speak before he can, rushing to get out the words.

“And I just— listen, Jayce, if there’s, you know, something else going on, like, I don’t know, uh, one of your balls is bigger than the other or some unusual birthmark or anything else, that— it doesn’t matter to me. Okay?”

And what he wouldn’t give to have one testicle bigger than the other or some strange birthmark rather than this. He still derives some momentary relief from your reassurance, clings to some false hope that makes his confession just the slightest bit easier.

“It’s none of those things,” he admits. “I, uh…” he swallows, and grips your hand like it’s the last time. He doesn’t think he’s ever admitted it out loud. He’s never had to — always ran from whatever situation could have lead to it before he would have had to.

You lean in a smidge closer, squeeze his hand a hint tighter. It makes him physically sick.

Jayce shrinks in on himself without meaning to, and from the way you exhale, it’s either breaking your heart or frustrating you. He hopes it’s the former. He crosses his legs. He draws in one last, steadying breath. This is where it ends.

“I have a small dick.”

He doesn’t look at your face, doesn’t want to hear a thing, he lets his ears ring and his brain go numb and his muscles go taut waiting for the impact of a sentence or a mocking laugh or something.

“That’s it?” You say, and though you say it in disbelief, rather than with malice, Jayce can’t help but imagine it in an even worse context than this. It’s what he’s been hearing you say in his head every time you’ve invited him to hop into the shower with you or held him anywhere near his waist while you cuddled. 

But that is very obviously not it. You must think he’s exaggerating, that he’s just shy. He can’t let you give him the benefit of the doubt, not anymore.

“When I say small I mean, uh…” Jayce loses his wording, and, overwhelmed with shame, he lowers his face into his free hand. He doesn’t have the heart to even peek at you through his fingers. Jesus Christ, he thinks, here goes. “I mean really small. I don’t mean short of five inches small, I don’t mean, smaller than average, I mean— fuck. Fuck. Listen, I’m, I have a— I have a micropenis.”

He can actually count the times he’s said that word out loud on one hand. It’s a word he hates even thinking about, it’s a word he mishears during normal, unrelated conversations more often than he’d care to admit, it’s a word he’s sorely reminded of every time he encounters the prefix micro, and, unfortunately for him, he loves his microwaved ramen soup, and he went into fucking science, so he’s already making his life harder than he should.

But then you make it so easy.

You hold his hand in both of yours now, slowly bringing his knuckles to your lips and kissing them the same way you’d kissed his forehead all those months ago. You press in a little closer to his side, not invasively, but enough to have your knee nudging his. 

“Can you look at me, sweetheart?”

And so he does, peeking at you from between his ring finger and middle finger, resisting the urge to apologize again. 

Why are you smiling?

“I don’t think I can put into words how little that matters to me,” you say, and Jayce wants to argue with it, to ask you not to be kind now because you deserve better, you deserve someone who can give you everything, and he can’t, he can’t, “and how much it means to me that you trusted me enough to tell me.”

And he’d never thought of it like that.

All this time, he’d thought of it as holding on to you, to his love for you, for just another day. Another minute. As long as he could.

Not once had he thought of it as giving you the time to win his trust.

But he’s being selfish to reframe it like this, and he has been selfish for all of six months now, and he’s going to be selfish if he lets you believe this when you have no idea what you’re getting yourself into.

He’s broken in a way that can’t be fixed, and there will never be enough love to throw at this part of himself to change his limitations. You’re getting yourself into this because, god help you, you like him, and you think this is the kind of thing that can be compromised on. That can be worked through.

Jayce knows it isn’t. From the first chick he’d allowed to take his pants off when he was nineteen and drunk at a house party and just wanted to get losing his virginity over with (she’d left without a word as soon as she caught a glimpse of the outline of his erection through his boxers), to the guy who’d grinded himself against him at a gay bar when he was twenty three and got mad because he couldn’t feel a hard-on, fuck, even from the my-dick-is-bigger-than-yours conversations his peers had shared in the seventh grade boys’ locker rooms, Jayce fucking knows better. 

“I can’t— we can’t. You have no idea what—“

“Jayce, I’d still love you, and want to be with you even if you’d told me you’d never want sex.”

That alone is enough to make him lift his face from the sweaty expanse of his own palm.

“You were alright with… no sex?” He swallows. “Ever?”

“Jesus, Jayce, for a guy like you, I’d accept fucking my own hand for probably the rest of my life. I mean, have you… don’t you realize how wonderful you are?”

That word collides with the walls of his skull and bounces around in it like a fucking two thousands DVD logo before he dares internalizing it, and he finds himself sobbing before it sinks to the bottom of his brain like a penny in a wishing well. Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful.

For the first time in six months, Jayce is the one to throw himself into a kiss. He cradles your face in his sweaty palms like it’s a porcelain vase, he kisses your lips like he wants to eat you.

“I love you,” he sobs, gasping for breath and licking into your mouth and sniffling and smiling and laughing and Jesus fucking Christ, he can’t think straight. “I love you.”

Your hands cup his cheeks, the way they do when you call him puppy and he nuzzles his nose into them, but right now he thinks he’s spent long enough limiting himself to your hands and lips — he wants to know the insides of your mouth. 

“I love you too,” you say the second you draw back and gulp down just enough air to breathe it back out at him. Your hands are on his neck, scratching at his five o’clock shadow, your breath is humid on his slick lips.

“I’ve wanted… you for so long,” he mutters. Jayce doesn’t know where to put his hands, he paws at your clothed shoulders clumsily. “Felt so desperate for you that it hurt.”

“Not anymore,” you coo at him, nosing under his jaw. He resists the reflex to jerk away even as you put your hands on his hips and tug him closer. Not close enough for you to feel any of him yet, but close enough to assure him you want him just as bad. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, Jayce, I’m so sorry it took so long—“

He shakes his head, and has to hold in a genuine giggle at the way his nose grazes yours when he does. You’re so warm. Your breath tickles. You’ve never been this close. It’s never felt so good. 

“My fault,” he says. “I was scared.”

He still is.

You brush the hair from his face, smiling up at him like he’s the last ray of sunlight after the winter solstice. “Not anymore.”

“Not anymore.” How he wishes it were true. 

You press one last kiss to his lips, not a hungry one, not licking into his mouth, just a brush of your lips, not so different from the first kiss you’d gifted him all these months ago. Not a single one of them wasted, Jayce realizes. Hopefully.

You sit there for a second, simply taking him in, one hand on his face, the other at his ribcage. His heart flutters below it like a trapped bird.

And then he laughs. He’s not sure why, but he laughs like you just told him a tremendous little joke, or like you’re jabbing your fingers into his sides, but it’s none of those things, it’s like his heart is leaping and he’s not sure what to do to keep up with it other than laugh.

You hold him like you understand. And judging from the wide, near-dopey smile on your face, you do.

“Come here,” you say, rubbing at his sweaty back, pawing at him like you need him closer. 

“How—?” Jayce clears his throat awkwardly, and looks at the space between you with a clueless nervousness. “Where do you want me? How do you want me?”

“You could sit on my lap, if… you want to. If that’s alright.”

You turn from how you’ve been sitting cross-legged to face him, and now your legs dangle off the couch and your soles are set nice and sturdy on the floor. The flat of your thighs is undeniably inviting, but that’s nothing new.

“Yeah,” Jayce agrees, and, for possibly the first time in his life, spreads his knees and puts them on either side of your thighs. Awkwardly, he hovers, and his knees suddenly feel weak even though he’s just hit a new deadlift PR at the gym last week. “I, um… sure I won’t crush you? You sure this— is how you want me?”

“Yes,” you answer, and your lack of hesitation is assuring. Your hands settle on his hips, not pulling, not pushing, just soothing. 

Slowly, he sits himself on your lap, dropping the first half of his weight on you gradually, carefully watching your face, before, with a little nod from you, he finally settles.

It’s so good. It’s so terrifying.

When his crotch settles against your lower tummy, Jayce instinctively tucks a hand between your bodies, over himself.

Your hand follows suit, fingernails gently scratching at the inside of his forearm in a way that raises goosebumps.

“We don’t have to do anything tonight,” you say. “Knowing, understanding, it’s… it really is enough for me for now. Want you to be ready. Just— don’t hide yourself from me. You don’t have to do that anymore.”

Jayce swallows down a chunk of his fear that doesn’t want to be chewed through, and slowly lifts his hand from between his legs with a stuttered breath. Before he gets to even bring the tip of his tongue to the back of his teeth to form the s in sorry, you’re already cooing at him, arms winding around his shaky, meek frame.

“There you go.”

It suddenly hits him that he’s far too overwhelmed to do anything other than melt in your arms and let you hold him. But an uncomfortable question gnaws at the back of his mind as he feels himself going stiff, and he dreads just about any answer you could give.

“Can you feel anything?” He wishes he hadn’t asked.

But you nod, and he’s not sure if he should be apologizing or pulling away, until you speak. “I can feel you relaxing… going softer in my arms.”

And he doesn’t think there could be a better reply to his question. His thighs are still shaky with nerves, trembling around your own, but he lets you explore the already familiar regions on his body like they’re new again. And they are, in some delightful way; he gets what you mean as you feel your way down his lower back: he’s going laxer by the minute, basking in your touch like a sleepy cat under the kiss of sunlight.

Letting his body smoothen itself against yours, finally, without caring about giving himself away, it’s blissful enough that his eyes go dewy again with fresh tears.

He never thought the simple act of getting held, of having all of himself enveloped by someone he loves, would be this good. He wants to drown in you. He wants you to be dust and roll around in you. He wants you to be honey and stick to his every crevice.

“Can I kiss you, puppy?”

Jayce perks up at the sound of your voice alone, leans into the hand you bring to the scruff of his nape to gently scratch at it.

“Yes,” he gasps, with an unfamiliar, heady drunkenness. Like the mere contact with you, the mere exchange of your bodies’ warmth, is enough to get his brain boozy, high and dumb.

He wants to drink your breath. Wants to suck it out of your lungs when you press your lips to his, but he settles for sucking on your tongue. Jayce never thought he could feel gluttonous enough to want to consume someone whole, but you’re an exception — you’re an exception in a great deal of many things, and he loves you for it.

Your hands are on his shoulders, then tracing down his spine, down to the chub of his hips that spills out on the side of his jeans, then on the chub at the front of his tummy, and they’re groping and bold and greedy. Everything’s on fire where you touch it, everything itches for more, and your hands soothe and make it so much worse all at once. Jayce wishes he could shed his skin just so you could touch deeper. Feel more. There’s nothing but tingling, maddening warmth all over.

“Closer,” he gasps, like that’s anywhere within the realm of possibility. You grab his meaty hips like a cat pouncing on prey, nearly sinking your claws into them, and his pelvis clashes with yours like two flintstones creating a spark.

“You’re so, so soft,” you gasp into the spot below his ear. Your teeth scratch at his pulse, killing bite on a prey animal, and Jayce seeks it even though it makes his heart freeze. “Can’t believe I managed to last six months holding you just barely, touching you just barely, when you fit so good in my arms. Wanna melt into you, oh, Jayce, wanna— wanna forget where I end and you begin.”

Something about the rasp of your voice, the way you mutter those words into the side of his neck makes them feel like they’re shot straight into his bloodstream. They make him boil.

He offers himself up to you in the only way that crosses his hazy mind, which is lolling his head to the side and pressing the soft spot under his jaw into your teeth, begging to be claimed.

You take the bait instantly. You lick first, priming the skin with a coat of what must by now be a perfect mixture of his and your spit, and he feels his legs spreading wider on their own accord just from your tongue lapping at his neck.

“Yes,” you gasp, palming at his tailbone in encouragement, “want all of you. Need all of you. Never hide again. Not from me.”

Jayce shakes his head — the mere prospect of it all, the fact that he’d been so desperately afraid — it’s like a dot on the horizon, distant and forgotten. How can there be fear when there’s so much love, so much wanting, so much hunger?

“You have me.” He shivers as you start pawing at his hips again, can’t swallow back a moan when you latch onto his neck and suck. Your mouth is wide open, like you want all of him you can get, like you need a bite of him so big you can’t even begin to chew on it. 

To think you’d ever want to leave when you’re devouring him. Absurd.

“I love you,” your voice rumbles in your chest, Jayce can feel it from how he’s pressing his own rib cage into yours. You lick up his neck, up his jaw, kiss your way to the front of his chin in searching. “C'mere to me, fuck, c’mere.”

And the second he tilts his head down to catch your lips, everything in his body goes out like a light. His breath leaves his body like he’s been punched, every softened muscle goes rock hard, his brainstem sparks into electric flames, and all he can do is let you lick the inside of his mouth while he moans like a girl.

He’s frozen, braindead, taut with tension, his ears are ringing, he can’t breathe, Jesus, he can’t breathe, he’s, he’s— oh.

Oh, no.

You shush him, wrapping your arms around his sunken shoulders protectively, cradling him close as he rides out the unexpected wave of his orgasm, kissing his temple as he muffles his cries into your clothed shoulder. He holds onto you like you might fade away if he doesn’t. 

“Baby boy,” you coo. “Baaaby boy. There you go.”

Jayce comes down from it shivering, like it wrecked him. He can’t gulp down enough air to sate his lungs, even though he’s gasping for lungfuls. He wonders what your voice’ll sound like when he can hear more than static fuzz. He wonders what your hands will feel like when his skin stops tingling. He wonders what his brain will think once it stops buzzing.

As it turns out, that first thought is shame, except now it crashes down on him tenfold. Without meaning to, he lifts his hips, covering the wet spot at the front of his jeans and wondering why, how.

“I’m, hah, so sorry,” he rushes to say. His mind reels with a thousand things he could say to mend the shameful fact that he came in his pants over a kiss. But what is there to say, other than apologize and hope you’d understand? “It happened… so suddenly, really, I didn’t realize, I’m… I’m not like this usually, I promise…” 

You run a hand up his sweaty back, reeling him back in gently, reassuringly. You let him tuck his chin between your neck and your shoulder, you hold him like he’s worth his body weight in gold. 

And then you laugh. 

If this is a dream, he hopes his alarm is hours away.

“Oh, Jayce. Are you kidding? You’re glorious.” You press a quick kiss to his dewy cheek like you mean it, and Jayce wants to believe you do. If the past six months have taught him anything, it’s that you see him in a much kinder light than he’s ever dared stepping into. He wants to believe you mean it. “How do you feel?” You ask, and he realizes he hasn’t got the slightest clue.

Jayce settles on sticky, and tells you so. And decidedly not glorious, but he doesn’t want to contradict you. If you think so of him, he will try his best to let the compliment wash over him.

“We could take a shower,” you suggest. This is your apartment — the thought is daunting. He’s been in your shower before, but it’d always been for quick, desperate pits-junk-ass-and-feet-showers, never more, for fear you’d walk in even though he’d locked the door twice. 

And he realizes that fear is not quite gone yet — yes, you’ve reassured him plenty, you’ve held him while he came, but… you haven’t actually seen him.

“I can go first,” you suggest, “and you can join me when you’re ready. Or not at all, if that’s what you’d prefer.”

“I want to,” Jayce says. And though your hands settle on his hips with finality, he powers through the feeling of his own mess sticking to him and tucks his head under your jaw. “We can go together. Just— could you hold me? For just a bit longer?”

There’s another kiss pressed to the top of his head. “I could hold you forever.”