#misty gloom | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hy6erion · 2 months ago

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𝐋𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐝, 𝐁𝐢𝐠 𝐛𝐚𝐝

𝐉𝐚𝐲��𝐞 𝐓𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐬 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

✰⍣..𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐚 𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭, 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐬 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐬 𝐫𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐮𝐟𝐟, 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐰𝐨𝐥𝐟 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐤𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐡, 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐮𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐦. 𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠-- 𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐬 𝐚 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐲.

⇢𝐟𝐞𝐦! 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐭 (𝐦𝐝𝐧𝐢), 𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐝! 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐰𝐨𝐥𝐟! 𝐉𝐚𝐲𝐜𝐞, 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐲! 𝐉𝐚𝐲𝐜𝐞, 𝐋𝐎𝐓𝐒 𝐨𝐟 𝐩𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐬𝐞, 𝐜𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞

𝐚/𝐧: @lvlixy I love u for this request (and i’m sorry it took so long (´-ω-`) )

The forest had always been a whispering thing.

Tall, gnarled trees reached to the sky like fingers blackened by ash, their mossy veins twisting along the bark like secrets. The air smelled of damp earth, bark, and pine—thick with the weight of something wild, something watching.

You didn’t mind it, though. You’d walked this path a hundred times. Basket on your arm, hood pulled up to shield your head from the fine misty rain that always lingered in these woods. A bright, soft red—a small, fluttering flame against the cold hues of the forest.

You weren’t supposed to talk to strangers.

You certainly weren’t supposed to speak to men who lurked on the edges of the path, half-shrouded in shadow, with broad shoulders and golden eyes that gleamed like lanterns in the dusk.

But he’d been there last week.

And the week before that.

At first, he’d just watched. One hand braced against a tree trunk, breath slow and even, the thick swell of his chest rising and falling beneath the open laces of his shirt. You thought he might be a hunter—he wore furs over his shoulders, heavy boots, thick leather straps wrapping strong forearms—it made your face warm just thinking about it.

But then he spoke.

Gravel-rough, like a growl beneath a human voice. “You always bring sweets into a forest like this?”

You had paused. Blinked. Clutched your basket a little tighter.

“…They’re for my grandmother” you’d said gently, voice like the first crackle of a fire on a cold day. “She lives past the glen. I always bring her cookies.”

He’d just stared. Expression unreadable. His eyes flicked to the cloth-draped basket on your arm. You had the strange, fluttering urge to offer him one. So you did.

“Would you like one?” you’d asked, lifting the edge of the cloth with delicate fingers.

His brows lifted like he’d never been asked something so innocent in his entire life.

He didn’t take one.

Not that time.

But he watched you walk away. You felt it—burning into the back of your red cloak like a flame trying to crawl into your skin.

⸻

It was raining heavier this time.

The trees shook with the wind, shivering down silver droplets, but you were already halfway to your grandmother’s cottage—boots soft in the loam, heart warm under your cloak.

He was there again.

Leaning against a tree like it was the only thing keeping him upright. A towering silhouette against the blue-gray gloom. Wet hair clung to his brow, curling into his temples, and the water beaded down the sharp line of his jaw before disappearing into his beard. He looked carved from the wild—unkempt, dangerous, beautiful.

You slowed as you approached. He hadn’t spoken this time. Just watched.

“Hello again” you said gently, voice carrying through the soft hiss of rain. Your hand curled around the handle of your basket. “You’re always out here.”

His nostrils flared. He didn’t blink.

“I live here.”

You tilted your head. A drop of rain slid from your hood down your cheek. “In the forest?”

A grunt. “It’s quieter.”

“I suppose it would be.” You smiled. “Would you like a cookie today?”

He looked at you then—really looked. His jaw twitched like he was grinding down a response behind those lips. And then, slow as a storm rolling in, he stepped forward.

His boots sank deep into the mud. His coat of fur shifted on his shoulders. He was so large up close, you had to tilt your head back to meet his gaze. His eyes glowed faintly under his brow—strange, sharp, not quite human.

You held out the cookie with both hands like an offering.

He took it.

Rough fingers, scarred and calloused, brushed over yours as he accepted it—so warm, so big that your hand felt like a doll’s in comparison. You watched him stare at the cookie like it was a foreign object, some strange, alien thing.

You giggled softly. “It’s just sugar and flour. It won’t bite.”

He gave you a look. One brow arched—bemused. “Shame.”

Then he bit it.

Teeth sharp. It cracked between them. You saw the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth—something between amusement and pleasure. He chewed slow. Deliberate. His eyes never left yours.

You swallowed. Your stomach felt like it had butterflies and bees and something heavier. Something… needier.

“…Good?” you asked, shy.

His voice was low when he finally said, “Too sweet.”

You shrank back a little. “Oh. I’m sorry—”

“But I don’t mind” he added, almost like a confession. He licked a crumb from his lower lip, and your eyes followed the motion without meaning to. His tongue was wide. Slow. Almost… animalistic.

You didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know why your thighs pressed together under your skirt, or why the rain suddenly felt hotter against your skin.

His head tilted. “You’re not afraid of me?”

You blinked up at him. “Should I be?”

“…Most people are.”

You smiled at that. “You’ve never given me a reason to be.”

He stepped closer. So close you could feel the heat of him now—radiating off his chest, his arms, his broad frame. You had to crane your neck just to keep his face in view.

He looked at you like he didn’t understand you. Like you were something soft and sacred and very stupid for wandering into a wolf’s den.

He didn’t say another word.

He turned and walked away.

But his scent lingered—woodsmoke, pine, and something feral. Something male. It stuck in your throat like a taste.

And you knew—next week, when you walked this path again, he’d be there.

Waiting.

⸻

You weren’t supposed to go into the woods after sundown.

Not even with your red cloak pulled tight around your shoulders, not even when you knew the trail like the veins of your own hand. But tonight felt different. The wind was wrong—too sharp, slicing through the trees like a whisper with teeth. The birds had gone silent. Even the squirrels and rabbits had disappeared into their dens.

You should’ve listened.

But something pulled you deeper. Something old and instinctual. A strange tug in your chest—tight, trembling, desperate.

You found him by the trees.

At first, you weren’t sure it was him.

There was blood. So much of it. Spattered on the undergrowth, soaked into the ground. His silhouette slumped near the base of a thick pine, half-hidden by its roots and shadows. His coat was torn, hanging from one shoulder like a broken pelt. And his arm—gods, his arm was shredded. Long, brutal gashes ran down from shoulder to elbow, still bleeding, still glistening red and raw in the moonlight.

Your heart stuttered.

“Jayce?” you whispered, breath hitched.

He looked up.

His golden eyes caught the moonlight like a curse. Pain darkened the hollows of his face, but he still growled when he saw you approaching, low and feral. “Go home” he rasped.

You stepped closer.

He bared his teeth. “I said go.”

But you were already dropping to your knees beside him, skirts soaking in the wet earth. “You’re hurt—oh gods, you’re hurt. What happened?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

You pressed your hand to his chest to steady him. His skin was hot. Feverish. The heat of him burned through your palm like a brand. His heart thumped under your touch—fast, too fast.

“It matters to me” you said softly.

His head tilted, face twisted in something unreadable. Like he didn’t know what to do with that kind of softness. Not from a girl in a red cloak with hands too gentle for this world.

You didn’t give him time to argue.

You hooked your arm under his—ignoring how massive and heavy he was—and with some miraculous combination of coaxing, pulling, and sheer stubbornness, you got him to his feet.

And then you took him home.

⸻

Your cottage wasn’t far. A cozy thing, tucked behind a thicket of trees, hidden from the main path. A crooked chimney, ivy-covered stone, soft yellow light spilling from the windows like a warm sigh.

You dragged him inside. He was breathing hard, jaw clenched, trying to hide the way his legs buckled under him. You led him straight to your little table and helped him sit, his blood leaving smears on the wooden floor as you did.

“Stay” you said firmly. “I’ll get water.”

He scoffed under his breath. “Not going anywhere.”

When you returned with a bowl and cloth, your breath caught.

He had shrugged off what was left of his coat and shirt.

And gods, he looked like something carved from earth and war.

His shoulders were massive, covered in a latticework of old scars—some deep, some shallow, all of them a story. His chest rose and fell with sharp, pained breaths, slick with sweat and dirt and blood. The gashes on his arm were the worst—red and swollen, torn open by something with claws.

“Another wolf did this?” you whispered, dipping the cloth into the water.

He didn’t answer. Just looked at you under those dark lashes, golden eyes unreadable.

You started cleaning the wound carefully.

He flinched when the cloth touched raw skin.

“Sorry” you murmured, “I’ll be gentle…”

He huffed through his nose. “You always are.”

You paused. Looked up at him.

He was watching you.

And not like before—not like the quiet, curious glances he gave in the woods. This was different. Hungrier. Like he couldn’t understand why your hands weren’t shaking. Why you weren’t running.

He looked at you like a man who’d forgotten what tenderness felt like.

You said nothing.

You just kept going—slow, careful, brushing away blood, revealing skin beneath. You reached for the jar of balm you’d made with your grandmother’s old recipe—wild herbs and crushed petals, thick and fragrant. You dabbed some onto your fingers and gently worked it into the torn flesh.

He growled softly—more like a pained exhale than a threat.

Your eyes flicked up. “Does that hurt?”

His voice came out rough. “No. Just… you’re warm.”

You blinked.

His gaze dropped to your hands, still smoothing salve into his arm. His brows drew together like he was trying to solve you. You could feel the heat in the air now—not just from the fire, but from him. From the way he sat shirtless in your little kitchen, bleeding and scarred, looking like he wanted to devour something and didn’t know if it was you or the softness you offered.

“You didn’t have to bring me here” he said finally, voice low.

You smiled. “I know.”

“Why did you?”

You paused. Looked up. Your hand hovered at the edge of one healing gash.

“Because no one else would.”

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t move, either—except for the faint quiver in his jaw, the way his fingers curled into the table edge. You could see the effort it took to hold himself back, to stay still under your touch.

You brushed a strand of hair out of his face. Your fingers ghosted over his brow, the curve of his temple. You didn’t know why you did it. You just… wanted to.

Jayce inhaled sharply.

You pulled back. “I should run a bath for you. You’re still covered in blood.”

“I don��t mind.”

“I do.”

He blinked as you stood, crossing the room to the little tin tub near the fireplace. You poured warm water from the kettle, stoking the fire beneath it, until steam curled from the surface like mist.

He watched you.

Watched as you gathered clean towels, fresh bandages, everything he might need.

When you turned back to him, he was still shirtless. Still bleeding. Still enormous and tense and quiet.

“You’ll feel better once you’re clean” you said gently, nodding toward the tub.

He didn’t move.

“…Do you need help getting in?”

His eyes burned into yours.

You realized what you’d just said. Heat rushed to your face, embarrassment flooding you. “I—I didn’t mean—! I meant if you need to steady yourself, or if your arm hurts, I could—”

He stood up.

The chair creaked behind him. And then he was walking toward you, massive frame moving like a beast restrained. Every step closer made your heart beat louder, faster.

He stood over you, his chest inches from yours, and the scent of pine, smoke, and blood enveloped you.

“You really don’t know what I am, do you?”

You looked up. Swallowed.

His face was close enough to kiss. Close enough to feel the heat of his breath. His eyes flicked to your mouth and back again.

“I don’t care” you whispered.

That stopped him.

Something shifted in his expression—something soft and wounded and wild.

You reached for his hand.

And to your surprise… he let you take it.

You led him to the tub.

The bath steamed gently in the corner of the cottage, curls of mist dancing into the air like ghosts. You tested the water with your hand—warm, almost too warm—but you figured he needed it. The rain had soaked into his skin, and his muscles were stiff with blood and tension. A deep, guttural kind of tension that came from pain… and from something else he refused to name.

Behind you, Jayce stood still. Towering. Silent.

He hadn’t moved since you led him to the edge of the tub, hadn’t said a word. You could feel his eyes on you, heavy and constant. The air between you hummed with something taut and unspoken—something that made your fingers tremble where they hovered above the water.

You turned slowly.

And there he was.

Golden eyes low beneath thick lashes, broad chest rising and falling as he watched you. His massive frame filled the space like a beast barely contained—scarred, wounded, yet still undeniably powerful. He looked… unsure. Like he was waiting for you to change your mind. To finally realize what he was and run.

But you didn’t.

You stepped toward him again, your voice soft. “You can take off the rest of your clothes now… I’ll look away if you’d like.”

He didn’t answer. Just stared down at you for a long moment.

Then his hands went to his waistband.

Your breath caught.

You turned your back—respectful, heart hammering. You heard the shift of leather. The quiet, wet drag of fabric pulled down. A grunt of pain as he moved too fast. The dull sound of his boots hitting the floor.

Your fingers clenched into your skirt.

Then… water.

The soft splash of it. The way it lapped gently at the sides of the tub as his heavy body lowered into it. You imagined it—how his thick thighs would stretch against the edges, how the water would bead on his chest, trickling between muscles and over scars.

You waited a moment before glancing over your shoulder.

Jayce was sunk deep into the tub, arms braced on either side, head tipped back against the wall. His eyes were closed. Drops of water clung to his lashes. His hair, darker now from the damp, curled along his temples and jaw. His chest was still rising a bit too fast, like the heat of the bath wasn’t enough to melt the tension from his body.

You hesitated, then stepped closer with a soft cloth and a clean bowl of water.

“I’m going to clean the rest of your wounds” you said gently. “Just relax. Let me help you.”

His eyes opened. Heavy-lidded. Watching.

“You don’t have to” he said, voice low.

“I want to.”

That made something flicker behind his gaze.

You knelt beside the tub.

His shoulders were so broad your cloth barely covered a third of them at a time. You dipped it into the warm water, wrung it out, and pressed it to his skin. He inhaled sharply.

“Too hot?” you asked, instantly worried.

“No” he muttered. “Just… you.”

You paused.

But then, slowly, you continued—dragging the cloth down over the planes of his shoulder. Over the thick muscle of his arm, his collarbone, the side of his throat. He tilted his head just slightly, exposing his neck to your touch, his jaw tense like he was grinding down something dangerous behind his teeth.

His skin was littered with old wounds—some faded and silver, others fresh and pink. You treated each one with tender care, as if your touch could erase the pain written into them. Your fingers moved with delicate purpose, smoothing balm here, washing blood there. You avoided the waterline of the tub, not daring to glance down too far—though your curiosity itched at you.

You focused on his chest instead.

So strong. So scarred. The water licked at his ribcage, and you trailed your cloth just beneath it, brushing the ridges of hard muscle. His abdomen clenched beneath your touch. You didn’t miss it. You didn’t mention it either.

“You’ve fought a lot” you whispered, wiping along the curve of his shoulder.

“Had to.”

You rinsed the cloth again. Dipped it gently, wringing it out with both hands. “What happened? Tonight.”

He exhaled through his nose. “Another wolf. Bigger. Stronger. He came too close to the edge of my territory. I didn’t like that.”

You stilled.

He hadn’t said it out loud before.

Wolf.

You knew. Of course you knew. The golden eyes, the strength, the scars, the scent—wild and primal and male. But hearing it… confirmed… made your breath come faster.

He turned his head. Watched your reaction.

But you only looked up at him with wide, soft eyes.

“…Does it hurt when you change?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Jayce blinked.

His throat bobbed with a swallow. “Sometimes.”

You touched your hand to the edge of his neck, brushing your thumb along a scratch there. “I’m sorry.”

His eyes darkened.

“You’re not afraid of me” he said, voice a little rougher.

“No.”

“You should be.”

You leaned in, almost without thinking. Your palm was flat against his chest now, just above his heart.

“You keep saying that” you murmured, “but I’ve only ever seen you hurt… tired… kind.”

A muscle in his jaw ticked.

“I could tear you in half.”

You smiled. “But you won’t.”

He stared at you.

The only sound in the cottage was the slow drip of water from the cloth, the soft hiss of the fire. Your hand stayed on his chest, and his stayed at the edges of the tub—clenched, white-knuckled, like he was holding himself back from doing something stupid.

“You don’t understand” he growled, voice barely contained. “The way you smell… the way you look at me. It—it messes with my head. You’re so sweet.”

Your cheeks flushed. “Is that… bad?”

He shut his eyes tightly. “It’s dangerous.”

You pulled your hand back, slowly, fingers trembling. But not from fear.

From want.

“Then tell me to stop” you said softly.

He opened his eyes again. And you saw it—the conflict, the need, the ache swimming there. Like he wanted you so badly it hurt. But still, he said nothing.

So you dipped the cloth again, and continued your soft ministrations.

Because he didn’t tell you to stop.

And somewhere deep down, you knew—

He didn’t want to.

⸻

Jayce hadn’t intended to come back.

At least, not that day.

He told himself he was fine. Told himself that the lingering warmth in his chest would fade, that the memory of your hands on his skin, your soft voice in his ear, would eventually stop haunting him. He wasn’t some lovesick fool. He was a wolf. A creature of instinct and survival. He didn’t need comfort. Didn’t need softness. Didn’t need… you.

But the forest felt empty without you in it.

The birdsong grated against his ears. The river sounded too loud. The wind too quiet. He tried patrolling the edges of his territory like always, but every rustle in the trees made him turn his head, hoping—expecting—you to be there. That stupid red cloak flashing between the trees. That voice calling his name, like you weren’t afraid of what he was. Like you were calling him home.

But you weren’t there.

And gods, it hurt.

By the third day, something in him snapped.

He shifted before he even realized it—skin giving way to fur, spine snapping, hands warping into paws. It wasn’t violent, not like usual. It rolled over him like a wave. Fast. Desperate. Directionless.

And then… he ran.

⸻

You were in the garden when you heard it.

The scratching.

Soft at first. Then harder. Urgent. You looked up from your basket of wildflowers, heart skipping. The sun had just begun to dip behind the trees, painting the sky in swirls of rose and gold. Birds chirped overhead. Wind rustled through the tall grass.

But the sound came again—clawing, just beneath the door.

You knew it was him before you even stood.

You dropped the basket and ran barefoot across the grass, skirts lifted just enough to keep from tripping. Your door trembled on its hinges as the weight behind it grew more insistent—thud, thud, scratch—and when you opened it, heart in your throat, there he was.

Jayce.

In wolf form.

But not the towering, snarling beast you imagined from stories. Not the predator you were warned about as a child. No. He was massive, yes—easily taller than your hip at the shoulder, fur thick and dark, eyes gold and gleaming—but he looked…

Devastated.

His ears were low. His tail tucked. His huge body sagged like every limb weighed a thousand pounds. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

Your breath caught. “Jayce…?”

He made a noise in his throat—soft, low, miserable.

Then, he stepped forward and collapsed.

Right there on your threshold.

You dropped to your knees beside him, hands flying to his fur. “Oh gods—what happened? Are you hurt? Are you—?”

He whimpered.

Not from pain.

From something else.

You stroked his head, gentle, soothing. “It’s okay… you’re okay now. You came back…”

His fur was thick and coarse in some places, soft and downy in others. He pressed his snout against your thigh and whined, a sound so pitiful it made your heart ache. You leaned over him, arms wrapped gently around his neck, burying your fingers into the dense fur there.

“You missed me, didn’t you?” you whispered.

He huffed against your leg. Then nodded.

It was barely a movement. Barely even human. But you felt it. The confession. The truth of it.

You smiled softly. “Come in, then. You need rest.”

He let you guide him inside—slowly, limping with exhaustion. He shifted back once the door shut behind you, stumbling into himself, bare and breathless, muscles trembling as he dropped onto your rug. His human form was flushed, damp with sweat, and his eyes… his eyes looked starved.

Not for food. Not even for touch.

But for you.

You knelt beside him once more, reaching up to brush the hair from his forehead. “You came all this way for me?”

His lashes fluttered. “Didn’t know where else to go.”

“Oh, Jayce…”

He looked up at you then, gaze heavy with something he couldn’t say. His whole body seemed to sag under it—this crushing weight of longing and confusion and loneliness he didn’t know how to carry.

You leaned in without thinking, wrapping your arms around him, drawing his big, trembling frame into your lap. He went boneless, head pressed to your chest, the furrow in his brow softening just slightly.

And then you started brushing his hair.

Slow. Repetitive. Gentle.

He shuddered. Not from cold. From the intimacy.

“Good boy” you whispered, stroking through his dark curls.

Jayce whined.

His arms twitched, clutched at the hem of your dress. His cheek pressed harder into your chest. His breath stuttered, unsteady.

“You’re safe here. You’re always safe here” you murmured, still brushing. “You’re so strong… so brave… but you don’t have to be, not with me.”

He whimpered.

You smiled and dragged your fingers down his shoulder blades, over his broad back. The old wounds there were tight with scar tissue, but your touch was featherlight. Comforting. Loving. He trembled again—one big shiver rolling down his spine.

“I like when you come to see me” you continued, your voice soft and playful now. “You act so mean and scary in the woods, but I think you just want to be loved.”

He made a broken noise. Something halfway between a growl and a groan.

Your fingers slid to his shoulders, kneading softly into the muscles there. “You hold so much tension here,” you murmured. “Poor thing…”

“Please…” he rasped suddenly.

You paused. “Jayce?”

His head lifted from your lap, eyes wild, burning.

“Please. I need to—I need you.”

Your heart stopped.

He reached for you, hands trembling, cupping your face with almost reverent care. Like you were something holy. His thumbs brushed your cheeks, and his voice broke.

“I can’t take it anymore” he whispered. “The way you talk to me. The way you touch me. You’re so kind it hurts. I ache for you. I don’t know how to stop.”

You stared at him, stunned, lips parted.

“I don’t want to scare you” he choked out. “I don’t want to ruin you. But I need to feel you. Please.”

Your hands gently moved to cover his. You leaned into his touch.

And you smiled.

“Okay” you said sweetly. “You can.”

He blinked. “Wh-what?”

“I said yes” you whispered, your fingers sliding up into his hair. “You don’t have to beg. I want you, too.”

Jayce groaned, head bowing against your chest again like the strength had left him entirely.

You held him there, stroking his back, whispering his name like a balm, like a spell. The fire cracked softly in the hearth. Your breath mingled in the warmth between you.

And he whispered, “Thank you” like it was a prayer.

⸻

It happened right there on the rug.

The air was warm from the fire, golden light flickering across Jayce’s broad back, catching on the sheen of sweat starting to gather at the nape of his neck. He was on top of you, arms braced on either side of your head, breath hot and shaky as he looked down at you like he couldn’t quite believe this was real.

Like you weren’t real.

His knees were spread wide on either side of your hips, thighs flexed and trembling, and he was barely managing to hold himself back. His cock was hard and heavy, brushing your thigh—twitching whenever you whispered something sweet.

And you… you were looking up at him like he was something sacred.

You cupped his face with both hands, your thumbs brushing the curve of his jaw, the slope of his cheekbones. “You’re so beautiful like this,” you whispered, kissing the bridge of his nose. “So strong. So good.”

Jayce whined.

The sound tore from his throat—unrestrained, needy, like a pup being cradled too gently. His golden eyes fluttered closed, and his chest shuddered as you kissed him again—his cheek, his jaw, the soft spot just beneath his ear.

“Such a good boy” you whispered. “You came all this way to be close to me…”

“I couldn’t help it” he rasped, his voice thick and ruined. “I tried. I tried to stay away. But you’re in my head—I dream about your voice. About your touch.”

“You don’t have to dream anymore,” you breathed. “I’m right here. I want this. I want you.”

His hips rolled forward, just barely, and the head of his cock dragged over your entrance. He groaned—deep and low and guttural—and dropped his forehead to your shoulder, panting like he’d just run through the forest on all fours.

“You’re shaking” you murmured sweetly.

“I’m trying not to lose it” he growled. “I want to take my time—but you’re so warm, so soft—gods, I can smell you—”

You kissed the side of his face, hands stroking through his hair. “Then go slow. I’ll help you.”

And he did.

Jayce sat up, planting his feet wide and low so he could squat over you, hands gripping your thighs to steady himself. His thighs were huge, quivering with restraint, the muscles carved and flexing as he held himself above you like some desperate, starving beast who’d finally been offered something sacred. His cock bobbed between you—thick, flushed, leaking—and you whimpered as he dragged the tip through your slick folds, teasing himself, trembling.

You reached up and stroked his face again.

“Jayce” you whispered, “I want you inside me. Please.”

He whined again.

Then he pushed forward—slowly, carefully, like he was terrified you’d shatter beneath him. His length stretched you inch by inch, the thick head breaching you with a delicious burn. He let out a choked, broken sob of a breath, his mouth falling open, and his hands tightened on your thighs.

“Fuck— you’re so tight”

You held his gaze, breathless. “You’re doing so good, baby. You’re being so gentle. I’m so proud of you…”

His hips bucked sharply at that.

He bottomed out with a guttural moan, the position letting him sink deep, his pelvis flush against yours, chest heaving like he’d just survived something dangerous.

You reached up and kissed his temple, then the corner of his mouth. “See? That wasn’t so scary.”

His eyes rolled back.

“You keep saying things like that,” he panted, “and I’m gonna lose it. I—fuck—I can’t—”

“You can” you whispered. “I want you to.”

And that was it.

Jayce started to move.

Slow at first—his thighs straining as he lifted himself up and sank back down again, groaning as his cock dragged through your walls with aching precision. You moaned beneath him, hands exploring every inch of him you could reach—his chest, his waist, the trembling muscles of his thighs as he squatted low, grinding into you on every downstroke.

“Oh gods, you’re perfect” he gasped. “You feel so good, I—fuck, I can’t believe you let me—”

You ran your hands over his arms, dragging your nails lightly down his biceps, then leaned up and kissed his chest—soft, open-mouthed, reverent. “Of course I did. Look at you… so big and strong. And you’re being so good for me.”

Jayce’s head dropped back and he whined again—softer this time, more helpless. Like he didn’t know what to do with the affection. Like he’d never been praised in bed. Like no one had ever called him good before.

You kissed up the line of his throat. “I love when you whine for me…”

His hips faltered—grinding down instead of thrusting, his cock rubbing perfectly against your sweet spot. He trembled so hard it nearly knocked him off balance.

“I’m close,” he choked. “Already—I—I can’t hold—”

“It’s okay” you cooed. “Let go, Jayce. Let me take care of you.”

His movements stuttered. Then sped up—sloppy, frantic, messy. His thighs burned from holding himself up, and his hands moved to cradle your head, your waist, like he couldn’t decide where to hold on while he came apart.

You pulled his face down to yours and kissed him—tender, wet, slow. Your tongue brushed his, and he shuddered with a moan, spilling inside you with a long, low groan that shook his whole body.

He didn’t pull out.

Just collapsed forward—carefully, shaking, chest pressed to yours, panting into your neck like he couldn’t catch his breath.

You wrapped your arms around him, stroking his hair, humming softly against his cheek.

“You did so good” you whispered, smiling. “So, so good for me.”

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