[ there is only one surefire way for jayce to get rid of the problem flagging him from his pants, and he's not about to think of the worst possible thing to force himself soft. not when he's in a big fucking mood, and what had once been a controllable passing thought is now off the leash and out to get him, wild and clawing at the cage of his own want. jayce stiffly makes it into the bathroom with a new change of clothes tucked under his arm while he still fights to pin his blanket around him. door: locked. he swings a bathroom stall wide open to shuffle into and sit on a closed toilet seat. he throws the blanket over the stall walls and does the same with his clean pants. the one he wears now is . . .
an embarrassing, fucking mess. so wet with chilled spend that he swore he could hear the sound it made with each step and it felt like the entire world could hear him trying to waddle down the steps with his legs spread ridiculously enough to avoid that squelch that shifted right along with the fabric folds, unbothered.
jayce drives his weight to his heels, unbuttons his trousers and gods almighty, it nearly pops out like a horror movie jumpscare. really fucking scary, actually, to have essentially came in his sleep and still this hard.
has he ever even been this hard?
shit he whispers, between huffs of breathing from the desperate sprint over, peeling soiled briefs back and pulling his pants down from the waist to the knees. most of the fabric has already absorbed the sitting back with legs spread, jayce was aching, painfully aching to blow off the pent up steam— after only a moment's worth of hesitation, jayce hushes fuck it and lines his fingertips over the length of his swollen shaft. he doesn't have a single lick of decency to even fake thinking about faceless silhouettes, or curves or corsets or thigh-high socks. his thoughts go straight to the dream from the night before, the stranger that had welcomed him at his feet, made him part like a vulnerable book and submit with ease— without, technically, doing a single thing to him and vice versa. and hell, if he didn't enjoy it. if he didn't crave it. if he wasn't imagining the accent from start to finish, now, linked to golden amber eyes and defined cheekbones.
good boy, his memory repeats in the very illusion he wants, and jayce plummets like a moth to a flame, a hare in a trap. he leaks from the plump head of his cock in a single stroke upward and forces his throat to strangle the noise begging to part the waves of his need. jayce doesn't have time, nor the patience, to take it easy and enjoy himself. this wasn't about exploration, but indeed the breakthrough already realized. he finds an agreeable pace, picks up from there, and runs with hid mind's eye, unbound by shame—
because he wants viktor. he wants viktor. fuck, he's wanted viktor and didn't do shit but run from it. he wants viktor. he wants him to tell him to sit at his feet, to spread his legs, pull at his tie and tell him to undress, to part his lips to his fingers, to tell him to do anything and gods he'd do it. good boy, he coos, the curl of his thin cupid's bow very being more kissable. by now, jayce is stroking himself at a maddening pace, thighs straining and shivering as the pooled heat building in his dick rises and rises and rises—
jayce he hears, so softspoken, so sultry and so real that jayce himself can't take it; he gapes, covers the spurting tip of his shaft as he comes in the palm of his hand in a sputtering, spasming mess. his frame slumps back against the wall, his hair sticks to the sweat against his temples. his scales burn so bright he's a northern light on legs.
shit, is his first coherent thought between breaths. shit. he just jerked off to his partner of nearly a decade. shit. he had a wet dream, related to the thought of him. shit. guilt seeps through the cracks of mindless indulgence now that he has released it, and with that, the cloudy haze that had plagued his head from the moment he was awake.
things have changed. viktor would never be what he'd just imagined. he'd never be the same again.
shit.
and it was all his fault. ]
. . . Shit.
[ it takes a moment for jayce to find his footing. clean up. change. wash off with bottled water and a cloth, for a dry bath, of sorts.
jayce needed to think.
so he takes a little while longer, to make sure his eyes weren't suspiciously red. ]
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gooning
an embarrassing, fucking mess. so wet with chilled spend that he swore he could hear the sound it made with each step and it felt like the entire world could hear him trying to waddle down the steps with his legs spread ridiculously enough to avoid that squelch that shifted right along with the fabric folds, unbothered.
jayce drives his weight to his heels, unbuttons his trousers and gods almighty, it nearly pops out like a horror movie jumpscare. really fucking scary, actually, to have essentially came in his sleep and still this hard.
has he ever even been this hard?
shit he whispers, between huffs of breathing from the desperate sprint over, peeling soiled briefs back and pulling his pants down from the waist to the knees. most of the fabric has already absorbed the sitting back with legs spread, jayce was aching, painfully aching to blow off the pent up steam— after only a moment's worth of hesitation, jayce hushes fuck it and lines his fingertips over the length of his swollen shaft. he doesn't have a single lick of decency to even fake thinking about faceless silhouettes, or curves or corsets or thigh-high socks. his thoughts go straight to the dream from the night before, the stranger that had welcomed him at his feet, made him part like a vulnerable book and submit with ease— without, technically, doing a single thing to him and vice versa. and hell, if he didn't enjoy it. if he didn't crave it. if he wasn't imagining the accent from start to finish, now, linked to golden amber eyes and defined cheekbones.
good boy, his memory repeats in the very illusion he wants, and jayce plummets like a moth to a flame, a hare in a trap. he leaks from the plump head of his cock in a single stroke upward and forces his throat to strangle the noise begging to part the waves of his need. jayce doesn't have time, nor the patience, to take it easy and enjoy himself. this wasn't about exploration, but indeed the breakthrough already realized. he finds an agreeable pace, picks up from there, and runs with hid mind's eye, unbound by shame—
because he wants viktor. he wants viktor. fuck, he's wanted viktor and didn't do shit but run from it. he wants viktor. he wants him to tell him to sit at his feet, to spread his legs, pull at his tie and tell him to undress, to part his lips to his fingers, to tell him to do anything and gods he'd do it. good boy, he coos, the curl of his thin cupid's bow very being more kissable. by now, jayce is stroking himself at a maddening pace, thighs straining and shivering as the pooled heat building in his dick rises and rises and rises—
jayce he hears, so softspoken, so sultry and so real that jayce himself can't take it; he gapes, covers the spurting tip of his shaft as he comes in the palm of his hand in a sputtering, spasming mess. his frame slumps back against the wall, his hair sticks to the sweat against his temples. his scales burn so bright he's a northern light on legs.
shit, is his first coherent thought between breaths. shit. he just jerked off to his partner of nearly a decade. shit. he had a wet dream, related to the thought of him. shit. guilt seeps through the cracks of mindless indulgence now that he has released it, and with that, the cloudy haze that had plagued his head from the moment he was awake.
things have changed. viktor would never be what he'd just imagined. he'd never be the same again.
shit.
and it was all his fault. ]
. . . Shit.
[ it takes a moment for jayce to find his footing. clean up. change. wash off with bottled water and a cloth, for a dry bath, of sorts.
jayce needed to think.
so he takes a little while longer, to make sure his eyes weren't suspiciously red. ]