Hi I'm Umbra! ͙͘͡★ twenty-five. black writer. she/her
RULES ݁ 🪐˖ MASTERLIST .💫⋆˙⟡
I started a writing blog cause tumblr is sorely lacking comic accurate fics and just content for more obscure media in general. I decided to try my hand at writing, bare with me if it's not great.🙇🏾♀️ I write black, fem! and gn! reader inserts. Non-black people are perfectly welcome.
Clark doesn’t mind the smell of your SWEAT actually. It’s the pheromones. Whatever scent you usually have from the small amount of sweating that happens during the day like during your commute to work or carrying some groceries, he’s noticed it. Super smelling and whatnot. But it even though his body is attuned to yours, your scent usually gets drowned out by just the mass of other smells and bodies that live in Metropolis. It’s on nights like tonight, when you’re in bed, trying not to move too much as a gentle breeze helps cool down your body heat, when Clark decides to be the worst. He just piles himself on top of you, head on your chest and able to get a good whiff of you.
“Ugh, Clark,” you try to shove him off with a groan. “You’re like a hundred kilos and super warm. Get off.”
“Nope.” He just closes his eyes, humming happily. “Smell too good.”
“I’m sweaty and gross.”
He just shrugs, enjoying the smell of you like your his own personal vape while you boil under him.
He also likes your PERIOD. Sure, it can sometimes get in the way of sex and put you out of the mood, but he’s not with you just for that. He likes knowing that your body is functioning like it should. He tracks your cycles. Checks that you’re not too stressed or eating enough so there’s no risk of it stopping. For him, it’s just another sure indicator that you’re fine and healthy. He also keeps track of your PMS symptoms so he can make the most of it with chocolate and cuddles.
Clark has a soft spot for your GOOSEBUMPS. He doesn’t get cold. Well, very rarely. So when his fingers run over your arm at the end of a date night, his arm slung over your shoulder as you walk across one of the city’s bridges, he smiles. Little bumps on your skin that he thinks are adorable. You’re cold before you even know it, your body reacting on instinct. So does his because he’s taking off his jacket and helping you in it.
Another thing he likes are your STRETCH MARKS. With pristine, solid, Kryptonian skin made of steel, he doesn’t even have a single scratch on him. It’s very annoying. But on you, he thinks that the lines decorating your chest, legs, ass, and any other parts of you are extremely cool. He thinks you look like a tiger. A description which isn’t far off from when the two of you end up in the bedroom. There’s just something he likes about how powerful they make you look, like a strong animal.
Clark Kent can’t help but laugh and coo when you get the HICCUPS. Another point on the endless list of things he finds cute about you. He likes the way you get embarrassed and try to hold your breath to make it stop. He likes seeing your entire frame shake from the hiccup. How annoyed you get when your body jerks you out of whatever you were doing.
more from my blog
A/N: got this idea when I was sweating in bed from the summer heat. If I had a boyfriend in bed with me, I’d kick him out. There can’t be two sweaty gross people in bed. This is very short bc I couldn’t think of anything else lol
Listening to you write and the sound of your heartbeat
⋆˚꩜｡ Daredevil x reader (fluffy drabble)
Matt Murdock guesses the letters you write then gets very cheesy about it.
CW: OOC, slightly dirty jokes, short, some light teasing
I'm so scared about this (I'm always scared about posting and OMG 2 IN A DAY??)
"And this letter?" You quiz him as you write on the paper, peering up at Matt as his face remains nonchalant, contemplating in his mind the letter that you are writing on the paper.
He is able to sense it, he listens to the scratch of strokes on the paper. "Three lines, one vertical, two horizontal.'" he plainly declares before making his conclusion, "It's F, right?"
Glancing down at the paper, then back to your husband you catch the slight curve to the corner of his lips, he knows he's correct causing you to dramatically groan "How do you do this!?"
He laughs and adjusts the sunglasses that shield his blind-distant gaze which do not have a specific focus on anything as a result of his missing sense.
Matt simply places a hand on your shoulder, he knows you're present sure, but he enjoys feeling you there. With a content smile he zones himself into the sound of your heartbeat.
"You got a nice heartbeat, sweetheart."
With a confused and raised brow you smirk at him and continue to write and doodle on the paper "Nice, talk dirty to me, maybe you can echolocate the curvature of my ass?"
Moving his chair around the table to sit closer to you, Matt smiles down at the ground. He sits back down after feeling for the seat, holding your hand, "Seriously, I could pick yours out of a line up—and no it isn't unhealthy, you're good." He almost predicts your questions and squeezes your hand.
You kiss his cheek and grin, "Good thing you're making a bunch of lawyer money otherwise I would've called you a corny bastard."
"You could just admit that you found that romantic, I feel your heartbeat speeding up anyway."
"Shut up!"
"I love you more sweetheart."
You decide to be a little petty and grab the pen once again writing on the sheet of paper, "Your a dumbass, blind man"
"It's Y-O-U apostrophe R-E." he corrects with joking patronisation, still leaning closer, regardless of acting like a dick.
"Once again, I hate you." you declare with very fake conviction.
He chuckles and his voice grows softer, smoother, "And once again, I love you more."
Summary: In the quiet of his apartment, Clark and you share a deeply intimate moment where being seen becomes something sacred for both of you.
Word count: 7k+
Warnings: fluff, kissing, intimacy (no smut)
A/N:
Not my greatest work so I apologize x
English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.
Happy reading xxx
I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.
The city is quieter from his apartment window.
Not because it is any less alive. You know it is not. You have seen it from your own place, heard the same distant sirens, the same late night laughter echoing up from the street, the same restless rhythm that never really fades. The city does not quiet down for anyone.
But here, with him, it feels like it does.
Like the noise reaches the glass and softens. Like it knows better than to follow him inside.
At his place, the silence is not something that needs to be filled. It is not awkward or heavy or waiting to be broken. It is shared. Chosen. You do not talk just to hear something. You sit in it with him. You let it exist.
And more than that, you feel it shift around him.
Because the city is never quiet for Clark. Not really.
You know that now.
You have seen the way he pauses sometimes, head tilting just slightly like he is listening to something you cannot hear. The way his focus splits, just for a second, like part of him is somewhere else entirely. The way he exhales when he comes back to you, like returning is a choice he makes over and over again.
Even when he sleeps, you suspect it does not stop.
So this, this quiet, this stillness, this space where nothing is demanded of him, where he does not have to listen or respond or be needed, it matters.
And you give it to him without asking for anything in return.
Clark stands by the window when you come out of the bathroom.
The soft light from the city spills in behind him, outlining him in soft gold and shadow. He is not in the suit. Not the one the world sees, and not the one beneath it either. He has shed all of that.
Now he is just Clark.
Your Clark.
Soft cotton shirt, his favorite. You can see the veins of his forearms, the quiet strength there, the way his hands flex slightly like he is trying to release tension he does not even realize he is holding.
His hair is a little messy, more than usual. Like he has been running his fingers through it again and again.
Because he has.
Thinking.
Waiting.
Grounding himself.
He turns when he hears you.
And it is immediate.
The shift.
It happens in an instant, but you never miss it.
His shoulders drop just slightly, like something heavy has been set down. His jaw softens. His eyes find you and stay there, like everything else in the room has stopped existing.
His whole face changes.
“Hey,” he says.
It sounds like wonder.
Like relief.
Like he is seeing you for the first time and also like he has been waiting for you all day.
You feel it land somewhere deep in your chest.
“Hey,” you say back, softer than you expected, like something in you has already matched his tone without thinking.
For a moment, neither of you moves.
The space between you is not empty. It is full of something quiet and growing, something neither of you wants to rush past. You can feel it in the way he looks at you, in the way your body leans just slightly toward him without closing the distance yet.
He lifts his hand, just a small gesture, curling his finger toward himself.
“Come here,” he says quietly.
There is no urgency in it. No demand.
Just an invitation.
You go.
Of course you do.
But he is already moving too.
He always meets you halfway.
Always makes sure you are not the only one crossing the distance.
It is such a small thing, something most people would not even notice, but you do. You always do.
His hands find yours first.
They are warm. Steady. Bigger than yours, but careful with them, like he is holding something he values, not something he assumes belongs to him.
His thumbs brush over your knuckles, slow, absent, grounding.
You feel the shift in him again, subtle but real. Like this, this contact, pulls him fully back into himself. Back into you.
Like he is reminding himself.
You’re here. She’s here. This is real.
“I kept thinking about you today,” he says.
There is something almost hesitant in the confession, like he is offering you a piece of himself and waiting to see how you will take it.
You tilt your head, a small smile tugging at your mouth. “That sounds dangerous.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, breath warm against your skin.
“It usually is.”
There is something in the way he says it. Something honest.
You step just a fraction closer, your fingers tightening slightly around his.
“What were you thinking about, baby?” you ask, softer now.
The word slips out naturally. It always does with him.
His gaze drops, but not like he is avoiding you.
It is slower than that.
Like he is looking at you differently now. Like he is choosing where to start, which detail to give you first, because all of them matter and he does not want to get it wrong.
“About how you looked this morning,” he says.
Your breath catches a little.
“The light was coming in through the blinds,” he continues, his voice quieter now, more inward, like he is replaying it as he speaks. “It hit your shoulder first. Just… right there.”
His fingers lift from your hand, brushing lightly against your shoulder as he says it, not quite touching, just hovering, tracing the memory.
“I could see everything,” he murmurs. “Every little detail. The way your skin changed in the light. The way it… softened.”
His throat moves as he swallows.
“I didn’t want to move,” he admits. “I thought if I did, it would disappear. Like I’d imagined it. Like I’d lose it.”
His eyes flicker back up to yours then, something deeper in them now.
“Like I’d lose you.”
Your chest tightens so suddenly it almost hurts.
“Clark, honey,” you whisper.
There is so much in that. Reassurance. Affection. Something a little fragile.
“I mean it,” he says, stepping closer, closing what little distance is left between you. “I notice everything about you. I don’t think I could stop even if I tried.”
His hand lifts again, slower this time.
He gives you space.
Time.
A choice.
You lean into it before he even finishes the motion.
His fingers meet your cheek, brushing along it like he is reacquainting himself with something familiar and still somehow new every time. His touch is light, but intentional. He does not just touch you. He feels you.
His thumb traces the line of your jaw, then drifts down, slow, to the side of your neck.
You can feel his restraint there.
Not distance.
Control.
The kind that comes from caring too much, not too little.
There is nothing rushed about him. Nothing that feels like he is taking or assuming or skipping ahead.
Everything he does feels like a question.
Even when he does not say it.
“Can I, baby, please?” he asks softly.
His other hand hovers near the hem of your shirt, not touching, not pulling. Just there. Waiting.
The word please does something to you.
The way he says it does more.
Like he means it. Like he would stop immediately if you said no, no matter how much he wants this.
You nod before he even finishes speaking.
Faster than you meant to.
Faster than you have ever nodded at anything.
“Yes,” you breathe. “Yes, Clark.”
His eyes close for a brief second, like that answer hits him somewhere deep.
When they open again, there is something warmer there. Something almost overwhelmed.
He exhales slowly.
And it sounds like relief.
Like gratitude.
Like you have given him something he does not take lightly, something he will handle with care no matter what.
When he lifts the fabric, he does it slowly.
Not because he is unsure. Not because he does not want to. You can feel how much he wants to in the way his breath has already changed, in the way his fingers tighten just slightly before he steadies them again.
He does it slowly because he is paying attention.
Because with you, he always does.
His fingertips brush the hem first, barely there, like he is reacquainting himself with the boundary before he crosses it. Then he begins to lift, inch by inch, careful and deliberate, like there is something sacred in the act itself.
His eyes follow.
They do not wander. They do not rush ahead.
They stay exactly where his hands are, tracing every inch of skin as it is revealed, like he is reading something he has waited his whole life to understand. Like if he moves too quickly, he might miss something important.
Like you are something important.
The fabric slides higher, and you can feel the air shift against your skin, feel his gaze even more than his touch.
It is not consuming.
It is warm.
Intent.
You feel seen in a way that almost knocks the breath out of you.
Not looked at.
Not admired from a distance.
Seen.
Like he is not just noticing what you look like, but what you are. Every mark, every line, every part of you that tells a story he wants to learn.
His breath catches.
It is quiet, almost inaudible, but you feel it. The slight pause. The way his chest stills for just a second before he exhales again.
“God,” he murmurs, barely above a whisper.
Not performative. Not said for you.
It slips out of him like something he could not hold back.
You let out a soft, nervous laugh, your hands hovering near his wrists like you are not sure what to do with yourself under that kind of attention.
“It’s just me, Clark.”
The moment the words leave your mouth, he shakes his head.
Immediately.
Firm, but gentle.
“No, baby,” he says, his voice low, certain. “It’s not just you.”
There is something in the way he says it that settles deep in your chest. Not flattery. Not exaggeration.
Truth.
The shirt slips fully from your shoulders, and he takes it from you carefully, like it is something fragile, something that matters because it was yours. He sets it aside without looking away from you for more than a second.
Then his hands come back.
Slower now.
Lighter.
Like he understands the shift, the vulnerability of this moment, and meets it with something just as careful.
His fingertips find your collarbone first.
He traces along it, gently, mapping the shape like he is committing it to memory. The dip, the slight curve, the way it meets your shoulder.
His touch is feather light, but you feel every inch of it.
Then his eyes follow.
Slower than his hands.
Taking in what his fingers already know, what they are still learning.
Every difference in tone. Every faint shadow. Every mark that might have gone unnoticed by anyone else.
But not by him.
Never by him.
“This,” he says quietly.
His finger pauses over a faint scar near your shoulder, brushing over it like he has been thinking about it for a long time.
“I have always wanted to ask,” he admits, his voice softer now, almost careful. “What happened here?”
You glance down briefly, then back at him.
“Fell off a bike when I was a kid.”
There is a small pause.
Then his expression shifts.
Not to pity.
To something softer.
Fonder.
“You were brave, I bet,” he says.
You huff a quiet laugh. “I cried for an hour.”
“I would have, too,” he replies without hesitation. “Still do, sometimes, if we’re being honest.”
That pulls your attention fully back to him.
You look at him, really look.
At the openness in his face. The lack of pretense. The way he offers pieces of himself so easily to you, like he trusts you to hold them.
He meets your gaze without flinching.
No walls.
No distance.
Just Clark.
Your Clark.
His lips press gently to that scar.
The contact is soft. Warm.
Unhurried.
He does not rush past it. He does not treat it like something to overlook.
He stays.
Just for a moment.
A quiet, deliberate kiss that feels like acknowledgment. Like gratitude. Like he is honoring the fact that this is part of you.
Your breath stutters.
It is not just the touch.
It is the intention behind it.
He pulls back just enough to look at it again, like he is making sure he has memorized it properly.
Not just the shape of it.
But what it means that you let him see it.
His eyes linger there, softer now, almost reverent, like he is committing it to something deeper than memory. Then he leans in again, slower this time, pressing another soft kiss just below it.
He does not rush away after.
He stays.
His lips resting there for a second longer than before, his breath warm against your skin, like he is grounding himself in the feeling of you.
Then lower.
There is no clear decision in it, no moment where he chooses where to go next.
His attention simply shifts, drawn by something else.
A scattering of freckles across your skin.
Small. Uneven. Faint enough that someone else might overlook them entirely.
He does not.
Of course he does not.
His gaze softens even more when he notices them, like he has just found something he was not expecting but instantly treasures.
“I like these,” he murmurs.
His lips follow his words, brushing over them one by one, not in a straight line, not careful in a structured way, just… following. Letting himself be guided by what he sees, what he feels.
Each kiss is light, but intentional.
You feel every single one.
You let out a quiet breath, your fingers tightening slightly on his shoulder, steadying yourself. “You like everything.”
There is a softness in your voice, but also something else now. Something warmer. Something that matches him.
“I do,” he says simply.
No embarrassment.
Just honesty.
“Especially when it’s you.”
The way he says it is not teasing.
Not playful.
It settles into you, warm and certain, like something you can lean on.
He keeps moving, but there is still no urgency in him.
No rush to get anywhere.
He is not thinking ahead.
He is here.
With you.
His hand drifts along your side, slow, the back of his fingers tracing a faint mark near your ribs. He pauses there, his touch light, like he is learning it first through feeling before he lets himself follow with anything more.
“You’ve got so many of these,” he murmurs quietly.
“Marks?” you ask softly.
“Stories,” he corrects.
The word lands differently.
His thumb brushes over it once more before his lips follow, pressing a slow, warm kiss there, lingering longer this time.
You feel it deeper.
Not just the contact.
The intention behind it.
Your fingers slide slightly into his hair, not pulling, just holding, and he exhales softly at the touch, leaning into it without thinking.
His hand follows the gentle curve of your side next, slower now, like he is tracing something he does not want to forget. His palm rests there for a moment, feeling the shape of you, the way your body shifts under his touch.
“Right here,” he murmurs quietly, almost to himself, his thumb brushing along the curve again. “I keep noticing this.”
You let out a soft, breathy laugh. “It’s just my body, Clark.”
“No,” he says immediately, his hand stilling for a second before moving again, slower. “It’s you.”
There is weight in that.
Something that makes your chest tighten.
His lips follow his hand again, pressing a kiss where your skin dips and rises, and he pauses there longer than anywhere else so far. His thumb brushes over the same spot again and again, like he is fascinated by it, like he cannot quite get enough of the way it feels under his hand.
Every kiss feels placed.
Chosen.
Not careless.
Like he is acknowledging each part of you, not skipping over anything, not letting anything be less important.
When his hands settle at your waist, he stills.
You feel it immediately.
The shift.
Not away from you.
Deeper into the moment.
His thumbs rest against your skin, pressing just slightly, like he is grounding himself again, like he is checking in without words.
His head lifts slowly, his gaze finding yours.
There is something in his eyes now.
Warmer.
More open.
But also deeper.
“Tell me if you want me to stop, baby,” he says.
His voice is steady, but softer now, like the words matter more the further he goes, like he needs to hear it from you again.
You shake your head immediately, stepping closer instead of away, your hands sliding up his shoulders, holding him there.
“I won’t,” you whisper.
Your voice is softer, but sure.
Certain.
He searches your face anyway.
Really searches.
His eyes move over you, not just looking for the answer, but for the feeling behind it. For any hesitation, any doubt, anything he might have missed.
There is none.
Only warmth.
Only trust.
Only him.
Something in his expression softens completely when he realizes that.
He exhales, barely, but you feel it against your skin.
And when he continues, it is different.
Still gentle.
But there is more of him in it now.
More want.
His hands hold your waist a little more firmly, not tight, not controlling, just… present. Certain. Like he is allowing himself to stay there without second guessing it.
His lips return to your skin, slower now, deeper, lingering longer with each kiss like he is savoring the way you respond, the way you lean into him.
There is still desire in it.
You feel it in the warmth of his hands, in the way his breath deepens, in the way his touch is no longer tentative.
But beneath it, there is something steadier.
Something that makes the moment feel heavier in the best way.
Something that feels like gratitude.
“You don’t know what this means to me,” he says softly.
His forehead comes to rest briefly against your stomach, his hands still at your waist, holding you there, like he needs the contact to steady himself.
“That you trust me like this.”
Your fingers slide into his hair without thinking, threading through it, holding him gently, your touch soft but grounding.
“I trust you because it’s you,” you say.
You do not overthink it.
You do not need to.
It is simple.
It is everything.
His eyes close.
You feel it in the way his body softens against you, the way his grip shifts, not tighter, but closer, like he is leaning into you instead of holding himself back.
“I don’t take that lightly, honey,” he murmurs. “I swear.”
There is something almost fragile in the way he says it.
“I know, baby.”
Your fingers brush lightly through his hair again, slower this time, reassuring.
He lifts his head just enough to press another kiss there, softer now, less searching, more settled, like he is not trying to learn anymore.
Just be.
His hands move up your back, slow and steady, palms warm against your skin, grounding both of you, pulling you just a little closer into him.
When he looks up again, it hits you.
That look.
Not overwhelming.
Not intense in a way that takes.
But deep.
Full of something that feels like love sitting right beneath the surface.
“You’re incredible,” he says.
The words are softer now, but they carry more.
You smile, a little shy under it, your hands sliding down to rest against his chest again. “Clark.”
“No,” he insists gently.
His hand lifts, cupping your face now, his thumb brushing lightly along your cheek, his touch steady, certain.
“Let me say it,” he murmurs. “Let me have this.”
There is vulnerability in it.
Like he needs you to hear it.
Like he needs to say it out loud.
You nod, softer now. “Okay.”
The moment settles between you.
Then he moves.
He steps closer then, closing the last of the space between you, his arms wrapping around you fully, pulling you into him.
It is warm.
Safe.
Your skin against his feels like something more than contact. Like a quiet conversation neither of you is trying to rush through.
No urgency.
No pressure.
Just closeness.
He rests his cheek against your temple, turning his face slightly so he can breathe you in, his hand still moving slowly against your back in soft, absent circles.
“I don’t want to rush this,” he murmurs.
“We’re not,” you reply softly.
“I know,” he says. There is a small pause, like he is searching for the right way to explain it. “I just… I want to remember every second.”
You smile into his shoulder, your arms tightening around him just slightly. “You probably will.”
“I will,” he says quietly. “I remember everything about you.”
His hand continues its slow, steady rhythm against your back.
Grounding.
Certain.
Like he has nowhere else he would rather be.
He stays there for a while.
Not because he does not know what to do next, but because he does. Because he could keep going, could let his hands wander and his mouth follow and lose himself in you completely.
And still, he chooses this.
This pause.
This closeness.
This moment where nothing is rushed and nothing is taken for granted.
Your arms are around him now, fully, your hands resting against his back beneath the soft fabric of his shirt. You can feel the warmth of him through it, the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the way he leans into you just slightly more than before.
Like he is letting himself need this.
“You okay?” you murmur softly, your fingers brushing lightly along the back of his neck.
He nods against you, but he does not pull away yet.
“Yeah,” he says, voice quieter than before. “Better than okay.”
You smile faintly, pressing your cheek a little closer to his.
“You always say that.”
“Because it’s always true,” he replies.
There is a small pause.
But this time, you feel something shift in yourself.
Not away from him.
Toward him.
Your hands, which had been resting against his back, begin to move. Slowly at first, almost tentative, like you are learning him the same way he has been learning you.
Your fingertips trace along the fabric of his shirt, following the lines of his shoulders, the shape of him beneath it. You feel the way his muscles react, subtle but real, the way his breath changes just slightly when you do.
He notices.
Of course he does.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, his hands still steady at your waist, but his attention fully on you now.
“Hey,” he murmurs softly, searching your face. “What is it?”
Your fingers pause at the hem of his shirt.
You glance down for a second, then back up at him, something softer in your expression now. Something a little more certain.
“Can I?” you ask quietly.
His brows knit just slightly, not in confusion, but in focus. “Can you…?”
Your fingers brush lightly against the edge of his shirt again, answering the question without fully saying it.
“Take this off?” you finish softly.
For a moment, he just looks at you.
And something in his expression shifts.
Not hesitation.
Something deeper.
Something that almost looks like… being undone.
“Yeah,” he says, but it comes out quieter than he expects. He clears his throat slightly, then nods again, more certain this time. “Yeah. You can.”
There is no performance in it. No bravado.
Just trust.
Just you.
Your hands move slowly, the same way his did with you.
You hook your fingers gently under the hem of his shirt, but you do not rush. You pause for just a second, your eyes flicking up to his again, checking in the way he always does with you.
He nods, softer this time.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs.
So you lift.
Slowly.
Carefully.
And you realize something almost immediately.
He is holding still for you.
Not stiff.
Not tense.
But aware.
Like every movement you make matters to him.
The fabric slides up, revealing warm skin beneath, and your breath catches just slightly despite yourself. You have seen him before, you have touched him before, but this feels different.
Because now you are the one looking.
The one taking your time.
The one learning.
His chest rises a little deeper as the shirt lifts higher, his eyes never leaving your face, like he is watching your reaction more than anything else.
“You’re staring,” he says softly, a hint of something shy in his voice.
You smile faintly. “So were you.”
“Yeah,” he admits. “Fair.”
You lift the shirt further, over his shoulders, and he helps just slightly at the end, not taking over, just easing it off so you do not have to struggle.
When it is gone, you hold it for a second, then set it aside the same way he did with yours.
Carefully.
Then your hands return to him.
And for the first time, he is the one who stills under your touch.
Not because he does not want it.
Because he does.
You can feel that too.
Your fingers hover for just a moment over his chest before finally settling there, light at first, like you are testing the space between you.
He exhales.
Slow.
Controlled.
“You okay?” you ask softly, echoing his earlier words.
He nods, but his voice is quieter when he answers. “Yeah. I just… I don’t think anyone’s ever looked at me like that before.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m something to… take your time with,” he says.
Your chest tightens.
Your fingers begin to move, tracing lightly across his skin, following the lines of him the way he followed yours. You are slower than you need to be. More careful.
Because now you understand.
“You are,” you say softly.
His eyes flicker shut for just a second.
Your fingertips move along his collarbone, mirroring him without even realizing it, mapping the shape, the subtle dips and edges.
“You carry everything here,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him.
He lets out a quiet breath, something almost like a laugh but softer. “Yeah. I guess I do.”
Your hand slides lower, then back up, learning, memorizing.
“You don’t have to,” you add gently.
“I know,” he says. “Not when I’m with you.”
That settles something between you.
You lean in then, closer, your touch growing more certain as your lips follow, pressing a soft kiss just beneath his collarbone.
He inhales sharply.
Not pulling away.
Just feeling it.
“Is this okay?” you whisper against his skin.
“Yes,” he says immediately. “More than okay, baby.”
Your lips linger there, just like his did with you. Not rushed. Not searching.
Intentional.
You move again, slower, following what you notice. The warmth of his skin. The steady rhythm of his breathing. The places where he reacts just slightly more.
“Oh God,” he murmurs, voice softer now.
“What?”
“I just-,” he says, almost breathless. “It’s… a lot.”
You smile faintly against him. “Good or overwhelming?”
“Both,” he admits. “In the best way.”
Your hand slides up to his shoulder, grounding him the same way he grounded you, your thumb brushing slow, steady circles.
“I’ve got you,” you whisper.
“I know you do, baby,” he says.
And he does.
You can feel it in the way he lets himself relax into your touch, the way his hands settle at your waist again, not guiding, not leading.
Just holding.
Just there with you.
The quiet wraps around you both again, soft and full, and this time, he is the one being seen.
And he lets you.
Your lips linger against his skin for a moment longer before you pull back just enough to look at him again.
He looks… different like this.
Not because he has changed, but because you are seeing him the way he has been seeing you.
Fully.
Your hands rest against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm beneath your palms, the warmth of him, the quiet strength he carries so easily for everyone else.
But here, with you, it is softer.
More human.
More him.
Your thumbs brush lightly over his skin, slow and absent, like you are grounding yourself the same way he always does.
He watches you.
Not guarded. Not unsure.
Just… open.
Like whatever you say next matters.
“You’re so beautiful,” you tell him softly.
The words are simple.
But they land.
You see it happen.
His breath catches, not sharp, but enough. His brows pull together just slightly, like he is not sure he heard you right.
“…what?” he murmurs.
You smile faintly, your hands moving a little higher, tracing along his collarbone the same way he did with you.
“You’re beautiful, Clark,” you repeat, a little more certain this time. “I mean it.”
He shakes his head automatically, a quiet reflex. “I’m not—”
“Hey,” you interrupt gently.
Your hand lifts, brushing along his jaw, guiding his gaze back to yours.
“Don’t do that.”
He stills.
Not defensive.
Just… listening.
“You don’t get to decide what I see,” you say softly. “Not right now.”
There is no sharpness in your voice. Just warmth. Just truth.
His lips press together, but he nods, just slightly.
“Okay,” he says quietly.
Your fingers drift back down, slower now, more intentional.
“You are,” you continue. “The way you hold yourself back all the time, like you’re afraid of taking up too much space… the way you still choose to be gentle anyway.”
Your touch follows your words, tracing the lines of him like they are part of the explanation.
“The way you look at me,” you add, softer now. “Like I’m something you’re grateful for instead of something you expect.”
His breath unsteadies.
Your hand settles over his heart.
“And this,” you murmur. “You feel everything so deeply. You carry so much, and you still… you still show up kind.”
His eyes close for a second, like that part is harder to hear than anything else.
Like being seen is one thing.
But being understood like that, being spoken about like he is something worth taking time with, something worth loving in detail… that is different.
When they open again, there is something vulnerable there.
Something softer than you have ever seen on him.
Something that feels like he has stepped closer to you without moving at all.
“No one’s ever said that to me like that,” he admits.
His voice is quieter now, rougher around the edges, like the words are still settling somewhere deep in his chest.
Your thumb brushes slow circles against his skin, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath it.
“Then they weren’t paying attention.”
You say it simply, but your touch says more. The way you linger. The way you do not rush past him.
A quiet breath leaves him, almost like a laugh, but softer. Warmer.
“Guess I got lucky, then.”
“You did,” you murmur, your lips curving just slightly, your fingers tracing a little higher, a little slower.
“And so did I.”
Something shifts in his expression when you say that.
Like he is not used to being wanted in the same way he wants.
His hands tighten just slightly at your waist, pulling you closer, not abrupt, not demanding, just enough to close the space that feels unnecessary now.
Like he needs you nearer.
Like he always does.
“You don’t have to just let me be the one who sees,” you add, softer now, your voice dropping with the weight of it. “I want to know you like that too. Every part.”
He swallows.
You feel it under your fingertips.
His gaze drops briefly to your hand against his chest, like he is grounding himself there, then lifts back up to your face.
There is something in his eyes now.
Not just softness.
Want.
Not rushed. Not consuming.
But deep. Steady. Patient.
“You already do,” he says quietly. “More than anyone ever has.”
“Not yet,” you whisper, leaning just a fraction closer, your breath brushing his lips now. “But I want to.”
That does it.
You see it happen.
Whatever carefulness he has been holding onto loosens, just slightly.
Not gone.
But softened by something warmer.
Something that feels a lot like being wanted back.
Something in him gives.
Not the strength. Not the control.
The distance.
It disappears.
Not the careful version of him.
Not the one who measures every movement.
Just Clark.
Your Clark.
His hand lifts, covering yours where it rests against his chest, pressing it there more firmly, like he wants you to feel it. All of it. The steady rhythm, the slight quickening, the way his body responds to you without him even trying to hide it.
“You can,” he says.
And it sounds like more than permission.
It sounds like trust.
Like he is offering you something real.
There is no hesitation now.
No space left between you.
Just the warmth of him, the quiet intensity of his gaze, the way his thumb shifts over your hand like he does not want to let it go.
Your fingers curl slightly under his, pressing back, feeling the strength there, the life in him.
You lean in again.
Slower this time.
Closer.
Your lips brush softly against his skin, just above his heart.
The contact is gentle, but the reaction is not.
He inhales sharply, his head tipping forward just slightly, like the feeling catches him off guard even though he is the one who asked for this.
“Yeah,” he breathes. “Okay… yeah.”
Your lips linger there.
Not moving yet.
Just feeling him.
His heartbeat.
The warmth of his skin.
The way his hands shift at your waist, not guiding, not controlling, just holding you there like he needs you close to stay steady.
Your other hand slides up his shoulder, fingers spreading against him, grounding him the same way he has been grounding you all night.
“I’ve got you,” you whisper.
And you mean it.
Not just in this moment.
In all of it.
He exhales slowly, his forehead coming down to rest against yours, your noses brushing, your breath mingling in the small space between you.
“I know,” he says softly.
But he does not pull away.
Instead, he lingers there, close enough that your lips almost touch, like he is waiting, like he is letting himself feel this fully before he takes the next step.
Your hand shifts from his chest to his jaw, fingers brushing along the line of it, guiding him just slightly.
He does not resist.
He never does with you.
When your lips finally meet his, it is slow.
Not tentative.
Intentional.
There is no rush in it, but there is depth.
Something that has been building, layer by layer, in every look, every touch, every quiet moment you have shared.
His hand tightens at your waist as he kisses you, just slightly, like something in him gives in to the feeling, like he cannot quite hold back the way he usually does.
You feel it.
The want.
The way he leans into you, just a little more than before.
Not overwhelming.
But undeniable.
He kisses you like he has been thinking about it.
Like he has replayed it in his head and still it feels better now, real, with you right here.
Your fingers slide into his hair, and he exhales against your lips, the sound soft, almost helpless, like he feels too much and does not want to stop.
When you pull back just slightly, it is not far.
Never far.
His forehead rests against yours again, his breath uneven now, his hands still holding you close like he has no intention of letting go anytime soon.
“You’re gonna ruin me like this,” he murmurs, voice low, not complaining, not warning.
Something softer.
You smile faintly, your thumb brushing along his cheek.
“Good,” you whisper.
His eyes flicker open, something warm and a little undone in them.
Yeah,” he says quietly. “Yeah… good.”
But he doesn’t move away.
If anything, he leans closer.
Like the word unlocked something in him he has been holding back all night.
Your thumb is still resting against his cheek, and he turns his face just slightly into your touch, eyes half-lidded now, focused only on you. There is something warmer in his gaze, something deeper than before.
Not just tenderness.
Want.
Not sharp. Not overwhelming.
But steady. Certain. Growing.
“You keep looking at me like that,” you murmur softly.
“Like what?” he asks, though he knows.
“Like you’re about to do something.”
A faint smile touches his lips, but it does not break the intensity of the moment.
“I am,” he says quietly.
Your breath catches, just a little.
His hand lifts from your waist, slow, deliberate, fingers brushing up along your side, tracing a path he has already learned but wants to feel again. This time there is less hesitation. Not less care, never that, but more certainty in the way he touches you.
Like he knows you are not going anywhere.
Like he knows you want this too.
“You feel it, don’t you?” he murmurs, his voice lower now, closer.
“Feel what?” you whisper, even though your body already knows.
“This,” he says, his hand settling at your waist again, pulling you just a fraction closer, enough that there is no space left between you. “Us. Like it’s… building.”
“It is,” you breathe.
Your hands find him again, sliding up his chest, slower this time, not exploring anymore but holding, feeling the warmth, the strength, the way he reacts to every inch of your touch.
He exhales softly when your fingers press just a little firmer, like he is grounding himself in you again.
“God,” he murmurs, almost under his breath. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”
“Then tell me,” you say, your voice softer now, closer to his lips.
He looks at you like that is the most dangerous thing you could have said.
“Everything,” he answers simply.
His hand lifts again, brushing your hair back, fingertips lingering at the side of your neck, then sliding just slightly behind it, holding you there, not forcing, just guiding.
When he kisses you again, it is different.
Still intentional.
But deeper.
There is more of him in it now. More feeling. More of that quiet hunger he has been holding back, finally slipping through.
You feel it in the way he leans into you, just a little more. The way his hand tightens at your waist, pulling you closer like he needs you there. The way his breath catches when you respond, like every small movement from you matters more than it should.
Your fingers curl slightly into his shoulders, anchoring yourself, and he makes a soft sound against your lips, barely there, but real.
He does not rush you.
Even now.
Even with the way he wants you.
He takes his time, like he is savoring it, like this moment is something he wants to stretch out for as long as possible.
When he pulls back, it is only enough to breathe, his forehead resting against yours again, his nose brushing yours, his lips still close enough to touch.
“I think about this,” he admits quietly.
Your heart stutters. “This?”
“Yeah,” he says, his thumb brushing slow circles at your waist again, but now there is a slight tremor beneath the steadiness, like he is feeling more than he is used to letting show. “What it would feel like to be this close to you and not have to hold back. Not have to pretend I don’t… want you like this.”
He hesitates on the word want, like it means more than just desire, like it carries everything he has been holding in, everything he has been careful not to overwhelm you with.
Your breath softens, your hand lifting to his jaw again, your fingers brushing along the line of it, slower this time, more deliberate.
“You don’t have to pretend with me,” you whisper.
Your voice is gentle, but certain. It reaches him.
“I know,” he says, his eyes flickering between yours, searching, almost overwhelmed by how easily you say it. “That’s the problem.”
You tilt your head slightly, your thumb now tracing along his lower lip, feeling the warmth there, the way his breath catches just slightly at the contact.
“That’s not a problem,” you murmur.
“It is,” he says, but softer now, like the argument is already slipping away from him. “When I want you all the time.”
There is no embarrassment in it. No shame.
Just honesty.
And something deeper.
Your fingers still against his mouth for a second, then slide back to his cheek, holding him there, grounding him.
“Then stop holding back so much,” you whisper, your forehead resting lightly against his again, your nose brushing his.
For a moment, neither of you moves.
You can feel his breath, uneven now, feel the way his hands shift slightly at your waist, not pulling away, just adjusting, like he is trying to find the balance between control and letting go.
He studies your face.
Really studies it.
Like he is making sure you mean it. Like he is looking for even the smallest hesitation.
“You’re sure?” he asks, quieter now, more vulnerable than before.
You nod, your thumb brushing slowly along his cheekbone, your touch steady, certain.
“I want you too, Clark.”
Something in him gives.
You feel it.
Not sudden.
Not overwhelming.
But real.
The careful restraint he has been holding onto loosens, not disappearing, but softening into something warmer, something that feels like trust meeting desire instead of fighting it.
His hand slides up your back, firmer now, pulling you closer until there is no space left between you at all. You can feel the heat of him, the way his breathing deepens, the way he leans into you like he has been waiting to.
When he kisses you again, it is still slow.
Still him.
But there is more behind it now.
More feeling.
More need.
His lips press to yours with intention, lingering longer this time, not just brushing but staying, like he does not want to lose the contact once he has it. His hand at your waist tightens just slightly, holding you there as if anchoring himself to you.
You respond without thinking, your fingers sliding into his hair, curling there, holding him just as close.
A soft sound leaves him, almost swallowed by the kiss, like he did not mean to make it but could not hold it back.
He deepens the kiss gradually, carefully, like he is still aware of you, still listening, but no longer afraid to feel it fully. His thumb moves against your side in slow, grounding motions, even as everything else about him feels warmer, more alive.
When you shift closer, pressing into him, he exhales against your lips, the breath warm, unsteady.
“God,” he murmurs softly, his forehead resting briefly against yours before he leans in again, like he cannot stay away for long.
His kisses become slower but deeper, more deliberate, like he is savoring every second, every response you give him. There is no rush in him, even now. Just a quiet kind of hunger that builds instead of burns out.
Your hand slides from his hair to the back of his neck, your fingers brushing there, and he reacts instantly, his grip tightening just slightly at your waist.
“Right there,” he breathes, almost a whisper, like he is not used to asking for anything but cannot help it with you.
You smile softly against his lips, doing it again, slower this time, and he leans into it, his whole body softening into your touch.
“See?” you murmur gently. “You don’t have to hold back.”
He lets out a quiet, breathless laugh, his nose brushing yours.
“I’m trying,” he says. “You make that really hard.”
“Good,” you whisper again.
His eyes flicker open, meeting yours, something warm and a little undone in them.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “Good.”
But this time, he does not pause for long.
His hand lifts to your face, mirroring you now, his fingers brushing along your cheek, your jaw, your neck, like he needs to feel you there, to remind himself that this is real, that you are right here with him, wanting him the same way.
He leans in again, slower, but certain, his lips finding yours like he already knows the shape of them, like he has memorized you and still wants more.
And in the quiet of his apartment, with the city softened behind glass, he lets himself want you openly, fully, without pulling away from it.
//hi i know this is the pot calling the kettle black but.
"matt murdock who fucks you so hard and makes you cum" "matt murdock who is a sex god" IM TIRED OF IT. BRING BACK YEARNING.
matt murdock who does not believe in soulmates until he meets you.
matt murdock who learns you, who memorizes you-- your favorite foods, your hatred of certain textures, the last color you painted your nails, the things that make you tick, the way your breathing changes when you've had a long day.
matt murdock who finds himself distracted when he hasn't heard from you, wondering if you're doing okay.
matt murdock who sends flowers to your office, just because.
matt murdock who goes from bachelor with only beer in his fridge to keeping the pantry fully stocked with snacks for whenever you get hungry.
matt murdock who feels his skin start to burn when you give him the gentlest of touches-- a caress of his arm, a hand on his shoulder. it drives him crazy.
matt murdock who is intoxicated by the mere sound of your voice, learning all the different tones you take in various situations, the way your voice softens when talking to anyone you deem a baby (cats, dogs, kids, drunk foggy), or the way it hardens when you're dealing with someone you find annoying (clients, assholes at the bar, etc)
matt murdock who gets drunk with his best friend one night and leaves you 27 voicemails, ranging from twenty seconds long to fourteen minutes, all rambling about how much he loves you.
matt murdock who spends months trying to hint that he likes you, buying you lunch, asking if you need anything, always pouring your coffee just the way you like it, asking if the book you finished was good and letting you ramble about it for twenty minutes.
matt murdock who has the biggest, fattest, most disgusting crush on you.
matt murdock who blushes whenever you enter the room.
matt murdock who yearns. yearns for you.
and yeah, also, he fucks. of course. get yourself someone who can do both. get yourself someone who makes you cry from overstimulation AND spends hours kissing literally every inch of your skin because he can and he wants to.
get yourself someone like matt murdock, who can only be described as head over heels in love with you.
the x reader "consumers" on tumblr lowk are so entitled, i said consumer bcs these people do nothing to support the writers but complain about FREE fanfics that other people write for FUN and for the LOVE of the game. THEY DON'T OWE YOU ANYTHING.
i'm so tired of you people who can only pressure these writers, make memes, and ridicule them for writing something that was not fit to your standards or liking.
you don't even write or contribute anything to the community, don't even support or atleast reblogs to the writers you actually like.
stop filling the tags with your consistent complaints about the fanfics that obviously wasn't meant for you (not to your liking) and start learn how to write.
SANJI who loves every inch of your skin...
⤷ f!reader, suggestive, pining, unrequited feelings, 750 words
sanji who watches the way your fingers curl around your fork as you bring the meal to your mouth, your grip firm but delicate. your painted lips lift into a smile, begging to be kissed, but his focus is still on your hands, with your long, painted nails clicking against the silver utensil. you're saying something to him—something he knows he should respond to. but he's too caught up in daydreams, wondering what those same hands would feel like dragging down his back, nails scratching into his skin as you look up from under him with hazy eyes.
sanji who can't help but stare from across the ship as luffy helps you apply sunscreen on your back, his hands sloppily smoothing the white lotion over your skin. sanji knows you only asked luffy because he doesn't make a big deal of things like that, but he's irritated that luffy can't even do it properly.
luffy's hands slide across the delicate planes of your back, and sanji feels the cool wave of jealousy wash over him. you move your hair out of the way, and the muscles between your shoulder blades flex, the skin of your back smoothing along your spine with each of your movements. sanji feels his hands twitch, and he's desperate to massage the tension there, erase the knots that have formed in the last few weeks.
his illusion breaks when you yell at luffy for haphazardly slapping the lotion onto your skin, already distracted by something else. instead of turning to the only other person on the deck, instead of begging sanji to come help, you yank the bottle out of luffy's hands and give up on the task entirely.
sanji, who nearly cuts his fingers off when you walk into the kitchen wearing a mini-skirt, showing off the long expanse of your smooth legs, more skin than he's ever seen you show. you smile at him, sweetly, innocently, like you have no idea you drive him crazy.
"is something wrong, sanji?" you ask, eyes flicking down to the knife in his hand, before back to his own eyes.
he shakes his head, mouth too dry to form a response, as nami snorts from behind him.
you take a seat beside her, and sanji can't help but take a peek over his shoulder, sliding his gaze under the table, where your legs are stretched out. he swallows thickly, face turning red as a vision of your thighs on either side of his cheeks flashes into his mind.
as if able to read his thoughts, you cross one ankle over the other, politely tucking them back under your chair while sanji tries not to lose a limb.
sanji, whose head is so full of you, he forgets his manners entirely. he's never been afraid of telling women how they enchant him, but something about you terrifies him. perhaps it's because he knows his feelings are real, and he doesn't think his heart would recover if you didn't feel the same.
he swings the door open without knocking, not even considering the fact that you might be changing—which you are.
sanji gets less than a second peek. you've only taken your top off, exposing the lacy, black bra that shows off the delicious curves of your breasts.
his jaw goes slack, his mind emptying until your name is the only word he knows, and you let out a small yelp, throwing your discarded shirt over his eyes. it smells like vanilla and a scent that's distinctly you, something so sweet he feels himself already growing hard.
"sanji!" you shout, anger seeping into your words. "would it kill you to knock?"
he tries to calm himself down so he can form a proper reply. the last time he pissed you off, you didn't speak to him for a week—he doesn't want that to happen ever again.
“sorry!” he says quickly, though his throat is raspy and he doesn’t sound very sincere at all. "i wasn't thinking."
you’re so close—too close—when you pull the shirt off his head, just a few inches away. the scent of you is even stronger, circling him like a cloud. your lips are pursed, eyes narrowed, and sanji prays that you don't look down—you might just kill him.
"clearly," you say, rolling your eyes. "you're lucky i don't want to starve on this ship." you give him one more glare, and though sanji feels his knees go weak, he resists the urge to fall at your feet. "knock."
"i will," he promises, though his mind is already wondering how far he can go before you actually make good on your threats.
𝐀/𝐍: I thank @/weltraum-vaquero fics for the inspiration (I would get so gassed if he does end up seeing this oooh)
📄 𝐀𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞.𝐝𝐨𝐜
If you thought Jayce was attentive during sex, you barely even scratched the surface of how devoted he becomes afterwards. This man treats aftercare like it’s sacred— and in many ways, it is. It’s where the love lingers behind the lust, where everything slows down and the connection truly settles in. Just the two of you basked in the afterglow
He’s not the type to hop straight into the shower right away. The skin-to-skin is everything to him— even if both your bodies are sticky with sweat and the air is still thick with remnants of passion. He finds comfort in the closeness. You’ll often find him bury his face into your neck, chuckling softly at how good he feels after something so intimate— like he’s drunk on the memory of your touch
His voice is low and hoarse when he talks to you after, breathing unevenly. You’ll hear things like, “you were so perfect,” or “you did so well for me.” Quiet praises and you can tell he means every word.
And though he won’t say it out loud, Jayce loves to be pampered too. If you get up before him, he’ll reach for your hand with half-lidded eyes and a reluctant pout, like a puppy that doesn’t want to be left alone
He feeds off of your words of affirmation and melts under your touch. Fingers curling through his hair, a gentle rub along his chest, your soft voice telling him how good you made him feel. He would look at you like you set the stars in the sky. It's the one time he allows himself to just exist in the moment, without exceptions, without any pressure.
Aftercare is just as important as the act itself. A quiet devotion that wraps around you. If sex is the crescendo, aftercare is the echo that stays long after
📄 𝐁𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭.𝐝𝐨𝐜
Without a doubt, Jayce’s favourite part of you is your waist. Oddly specific, I know. But there’s something about wrapping his arms around you and pulling you close by the waist that just does it for him. Even when you’re kissing, he likes the feel of your waist under his palms— like it grounds him
But what really gets him going is when he pulls you flush against him— letting you feel exactly what you’re doing to him through his pants. He gets a little shy about it, sure, but there’s something thrilling about letting you know just how worked up you make him— he wants to show you the effect you have on him physically.
And when you reach down to feel him in return— that only fuels the pent up arousal he’s been trying to keep in check
As for himself, Jayce's proudest features are definitely his arms. There’s a romantic side to it— holding you close when you’re cuddling, lifting you off your feet, holding your bridal-style.
But even with his strong arms, he’s not afraid to admit that he loves being the little spoon. Being held by you is his favourite part of cuddling.
Beyond the softness, his arms are also tied to the pride of his work. Years spent in the forge. The lab. Swinging that heavy Mercury Hammer (ouff)
He’s strong, and he knows it. Whether it’s trying to fix things in the house, carrying you, or pulling you in for a kiss— he loves putting his strength to use
📄 𝐂𝐮𝐦.𝐝𝐨𝐜
Given Jayce’s high-protein, high-carb diet and stress from long hours in the lab, his semen naturally has a slightly salty taste. It’s not unbearable, but it’s certainly not sweet either— sometimes he’s a little embarrassed if you ever comment on it.
He’s aware that diet affects how you taste (especially if you have a lot of fructose like pineapple juice). While he hasn’t made that switch yet, the thought had definitely crossed his mind
As for the texture, it’s thick, warm, and noticeable viscous— heavy enough to feel it when it spills across your skin or on your tongue. If you ever gather it between your fingers, you’d find it strings and stretch slightly between your forefinger and thumb— sticking more than it runs
Oh, and there’s a lot of it. Jayce is a massive yearner to the core, and all that pent-up desire manifests when he finally climaxes. He’s a heavy finisher— more than most— and he doesn’t always have full control over how much he releases.
Even his precum is abundant, dripping from his tip when he’s especially aroused. Handjobs often gets messy fast, with his slick heat coating your hand and his skin long before he reaches his peak
He prefers to finish inside you, but that doesn’t mean he’s against making a mess if you’re up for it. Still, he tends to get flustered when he sees the sheer volume he leaves behind— especially when it’s sprayed on your chest, stomach, and your face (he’s mortified the one time it nearly got in your eye, he wouldn’t stop apologising)
And if you do give him oral, Jayce is surprisingly cautious for someone so eager. He always makes sure to double check if you’re okay with swallowing beforehand— the last thing he wants is to overwhelm you, or worse, you gagging too much. The first time you actually took all of it and swallowed without hesitation, he completely short-circuited
📄 𝐃𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐲 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐭.𝐝𝐨𝐜
One of Jayce’s lesser known secrets is that he keeps a pin-up poster somewhere tucked away in his lab. Something tasteful, suggestive, and easy to hide behind the cabinet or equipment rack. He stumbled upon it during his Academy years and couldn’t bring himself to throw it out
Every now and then, on long, stressful nights when the pressure of inventions or politics weighed too heavily, he’ll glance at it. And sometimes, when no one’s around… he might even get off to it. It’s his private outlet— a guilty pleasure he’d never admit
But after your relationship starts, the poster doesn’t go anywhere, but now it only serves to collect dust. Because all he can think about is you. Maybe he doesn’t throw it out because a part of him likes remembering that version of himself
📄 𝐄𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞.𝐝𝐨𝐜
If your relationship begins during his early Academy years, chances are Jayce is still a virgin. He’s not the type to sleep around or give himself to anyone— he’s reserved in that sense. When he decides to share that part of himself with you, it’s a significant step. One that he doesn’t take lightly
But even with his lack of hands-on experience, his body still knows what it wants. The frustration comes when he doesn’t quite know how to act on those desires— how to please you, or even fully satisfy himself the way he craves. Though he is a fast learner
The first time is a bit nerve-wracking for him. He probably thinks everything needs to be perfect— the lighting, the mood, the pace. He wants to impress, even overcompensate a little so it’ll be as steamy and stimulating. You have to reassure him: this isn’t a performance, he doesn’t have to be anybody himself. That alone eases his nerves more than anything else
When he finally slides inside you, everything else falls away. The only thing he could focus on was the sensation, the heat, the closeness. Feeling the friction from your walls sends him in a trance.
His body reacts before his mind could catch up, and he finishes embarrassingly fast. He gets flustered and apologies, a little ashamed that it ended so soon. But it’s not about how long it lasted— it’s about how much it meant to him. And that was what stayed with you
If you don’t meet until after his councillor era— when Jayce is more socially active— there’s a chance he’s had some experience in the bedroom. Maybe a fleeting romance he hoped to pursue but it never ended well.
But just as likely, he’s remained untouched. His time is consumed up by research, inventions, hours in the labs and political obligations— leaving little space for true intimacy. If that’s the case, he may still be a virgin, quietly insecure about being a late bloomer, yet more emotionally mature. When he finally gives himself to you, it’s with tenderness and reverence that only time and restraint could manifest
📄 𝐅𝐚𝐯𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧.𝐝𝐨𝐜
Missionary: I know this is a traditional position that’s usually a go-to, especially for newer couples. But everything about this position is just Jayce-coded. Seeing your reaction and maintaining eye contact while he thrusts into you. It also gives him easy access to your lips so he could give you a quick kiss mid-thrust
Flatiron: This usually starts like prone bone before Jayce lowers his full weight on top of you with his chest flushed against your back. This allows him to feel all of you— every inch of skin and warmth pressed tightly together. The deep thrust and intimacy drives him wild
Chair straddle: Pretty self explanatory— you straddled Jayce while he’s seated. This usually takes place in the lab rather than at home. It’s an easier position when you don’t have access to a clear flat surface. He loves having full access to your face, gripping your waist and pulling you flushed against him as you grind him his lap
Face sitting (receiving): I’ll keep reiterating that this man is a pleaser. And a massive giver too. He worships your body, and this position is his version of cloud nine. You on top of his face, your thighs trembling around his head, while he moans shamelessly into you. This is his favourite way to be used— canon behaviour
Spooning: Usually happens more often in the early mornings, when neither of you want to get out of bed. It’s slow, lazy, but still deeply intimate. He loves whispering in your ear as he desperately grinds up against you, before easing himself inside
📄 𝐆𝐨𝐨𝐟𝐲.𝐝𝐨𝐜
I can’t really imagine Jayce trying to initiate humour into the bedroom— not because he’s uptight, but because he’s too focused on you.
He takes pleasure seriously, so his mind is usually set on making you feel good. That you’re cared for, satisfied, and loved. So you won’t really be getting cheesy pick-up lines or playful banter mid-thrust. That’s just not his style
That being said, there are some goofy moments— most of them unintentional, and he’s almost always the one getting flustered.
One time, you both tried prone bone for the first time. You were on your stomach, waiting patiently for him to ease in. But for whatever reason, he just couldn’t get the angle right.
He kept slipping out or sometimes missing the mark entirely, clearly frustrated with himself while trying not to break the mood. You, on the other hand, couldn’t help but laugh at how adorably determined he was— one hand braced on the bed, while the other trying to hold himself steady.
Eventually, with a little adjustment (and some help from you angling your hips right), he managed to slide in. Your laughter quickly cut off into a moan that made him forget his struggle entirely.
Moments like that don’t ruin the mood— they just remind you how comfortable you are with each other, and how raw the experience feels. It really rounds out his more human, boyish side— which balances out how deeply romantic and attentive he is during sex.
📄 𝐇𝐚𝐢𝐫.𝐝𝐨𝐜
Even with his packed schedule and long lab hours, Jayce makes time to keep himself well-groomed. He trims regularly, keeping things neat without going completely bare. And yes— the carpet does match the drapes. His pubic hair is dark, coarse, and curls naturally. It grows quicker than he expects
After some time together, you confesssd how much you liked seeing the happy trail running down his lower abdomen. He didn’t quite get the appeal at first, but when he indulged in you— when you gave him oral and ran your tongue along it during oral— let’s just say he understood after that…
He also has a modest dusting of chest hair— not too dramatic, but enough to catch your eye when he’s shirtless. You’ve made it a habit of dragging your nails over it and lightly scratching the hair follicles, making his heart stutter every time
📄 𝐈𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐜𝐲.𝐝𝐨𝐜
Intimacy plays a massive part when it comes to sex with Jayce. I mean, he even calls it ‘love-making’ whenever he talks about it— and he treats it with the same weight and reverence. Each touch, every kiss, every breath is charged with intention (it doesn’t get more romantic than that)
He’s incredibly present in the moment, attentive to you, your needs, your pleasure. He sets the tone with slow kisses trailing over your body. Murmuring soft praises about how good you feel. And of course, holding your hand whenever he can.
And yes, he’s definitely a talker— whispering how close he is, asking if you’re okay, checking in with tender urgency. His favourite place to bury his face is the curve of your neck, drinking in your scent as he chases his release. As if he wants to lose himself in you entirely.
No matter the position, Jayce always finds a way to keep you close. Arms wrapping around your waist. Fingers tangled in yours. Pulling you into his chest after.
Ohhh and don’t get me started on when you start touching him tenderly— stroking his stubble, hands over his broad chest, fingers running over his lips. He would melt into your touch instantly, like he had been craving for someone to handle him gently. (There’s a whole other story there and we’ll get into that under Motivation)
Closeness is everything to him— he needs to feel connected, both physically and emotionally. To Jayce, sex is another way of saying I love you— over and over again
📄 𝐉𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐨𝐟𝐟.𝐝𝐨𝐜
Before you got together, Jayce was never the type that jacks off on a regular. I’ve mentioned before that he keeps a pin-up poster hidden in his lab— tucked away where only he knows. He’d only ever get off to it when the pressure built too much to ignore (and even then, it was rare)
After your relationship grew in depth and you’re comfortable with each other, you brought up the idea of JOI. The suggestion alone made him short-circuit. It wasn't just the act— which he wasn’t used to doing anyways— it was you watching, guiding, instructing. That level of vulnerability made his stomach twist in the best way
Once he's stripped bare with his hands on himself, he’s very hesitant and shy. You keep your voice soft, coaxing him through it step by step, easing him into the rhythm
And because he’s a natural giver, having you take control— telling him what to do with your gentle dominance, how to touch himself— leaves him dizzy. He clings to your word like a lifeline
It also talks to his praise kink (and amplifies it in the most intense way). Hearing you say he’s doing well, calling him your good boy while stroking himself for you pleasure— he doesn’t last long and he’ll never forget how it feels
📄 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐤.𝐝𝐨𝐜
Praise Kink: Jayce has a natural confident streak— he’s shown it during his Progress Day speech, and again when he stood up to Heimerdinger. Public recognition feels good, sure, but nothing gets him aching quite like your praise. And not just in bed, either— he thrives on your admiration. But when it is in bed— when you praise his body, his bed skills, or call him your ‘good boy’ in that breathy tone— he melts like putty in your hands. You’d have him undone, clinging to every word. That’s kind of praise fuels him— it’s enough to bring him over the edge and come in seconds
Oral Fixation: While Jayce loves the feeling of your mouth on him, he’s just as— if not more— addicting in tasting you. And that’s not just about giving oral (though he’s devoted to that, too). He craves the feel of your skin on his lip. Kissing down your stomach. Mouthing at your thighs. Running his tongue over the dip of your collarbone. It’s all about closeness, tasting you until he gets high from it
Sensory play: This is stepping into a more risky territory, something introduced only after a deep level of trust had built between you two. Naturally, Jayce was hesitant at first, especially about giving up any sense of control. But when he finally let you blindfold him, the anticipation kicked in. The suspense of your touch drove him wild and his other sense kicked in. Your hands, you mouth, your breath— he never knew what would come next, and he loved the thrill of not-knowing more than he expected
Light bondage: Just like sensory play, this was something that evolved over time. Silk ties around his wrists, a gentle restraint just right enough to keep him in place. Jayce found himself surrendering to the moment. It was always attractive the way he looked up at you with that breathless, slightly nervous look. His lips slightly parted, waiting for your next move. Despite being at your mercy, there’s still a raw heat in the way he submits— trusting you, wanting you, craving you
📄 𝐋𝐨𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧.𝐝𝐨𝐜
Jayce’s go-to location will always be the bedroom— especially if it’s a shared one. There’s something grounding and intimate about having a private space that belongs to both of you. Its quiet, safe from interruptions, and allows him to fully focus on your without any distractions
If you don’t live together yet, then it's usually whichever bedroom you’re closest to— his or yours. It might not be as symbolically intimate as sharing a space, but he still likes knowing you’re not going to spend the night alone
Now, if he’s been especially pent-up or you’ve been teasing him mercilessly all day (you know exactly what you’re doing), then he might break his usual rhythm of restraint and pull you into the lab for a quickie
That said, the lab is always the last resort. Jayce is not the type to rush things when it comes to intimacy— he likes to take his time and make sure every second counts. But if the need is intense and the moment calls for it, he’s not above bending the rules a bit for a quick release
📄 𝐌𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧.𝐝𝐨𝐜
We’ve all seen that scene with Mel and Jayce— she was the one that initiated things, and only then did that spark ignite. The scene sequence followed: Mel pushing him down on the bed and Jayce flipping her onto her back.
This shows a telling dynamic— Jayce doesn’t dip easily, but once that door opens he steps in with full intent
Even prior to all that, the tension between the pair was already thick. Long stare. Brush of fingers. Shared silence filled with meaning. Yet, Jayce never made the first move
It shows his restraint. A sense of self-control that makes him feel like a gentleman. But the moment you reach out, the tension that has knotted inside him unravels
He’s the type who’s deeply aroused by being wanted. His partner eagerly stroking his jaw or curling into his shirt. It lights a fire under his skin
Touch is everything to him. Stroking his neck, his face, his chest— he leans into it like he would die without it. Sometimes even covers his face with his hands, trying to conceal how flustered he’s gotten and hiding how much of an effect you have on him
Speaking of touch, he’s definitely got a few weak spots. I heard rumours that his nipples are more sensitive than he cares to admit. Sometimes it’s a pain in the ass, especially under tight shirts. But in bed, it’s a weapon in your arsenal
You’ve learnt how he twitches when your fingers graze across his chest. How a soft brush or a firm squeeze makes him gasp— the way his breath catches tells you everything you need to know
Another thing that gets him going is being teased— not the cruel kind, but the subtle, flirty kind that feels like a game between two lovers. A hand on his thighs under the table during dinner, your fingers brushing just a little too close to the flyer— followed by a completely innocent look tossed his way
Jayce loves that build-up. The longer you drag it out, the more worked up he gets. It turns him into a desperate, flushed mess. The kind that’s ready to pounce the second the door shuts behind you
Foreplay doesn’t just start once your clothes are off, it starts long before that. Even before you step into the bedroom.
Lingering touches, secret glances, the spark of tension in the air. Even brushing past him in the hallway can be enough to leave him flustered. That’s kind of tension is what gets him burning with desire
📄 𝐍𝐨.𝐝𝐨𝐜
One of the few things Jayce draws a line at is inflicting pain— on you or himself. He’s definitely not a sadist, and he doesn’t have a masochist streak either. The thought of hurting you, even consensually, just doesn’t sit right with him
He wants intimacy to be rooted in mutual pleasure and trust, not discomfort. So heavier BDSM elements like spanking, whipping, or anything too physically intense are hard limits for him. Especially when it involves the erogenous zones. To him, those are meant to stimulate pleasure, not create tension or pain.
However, there are some grey areas. He doesn’t mind light choking— but only if you initiate it.
The idea of wrapping his hand around your throat makes him genuinely anxious. He knows his strength, and the last thing he wants is to misjudge pressure or lose control. The idea of accidentally hurting you, even just a little, terrifies him
Jayce also isn’t fond of the whole ‘daddy/mommy’ kink dynamic. Being called “daddy” feels weird and uncomfortable— and calling someone else “mommy” just feels too emotionally complicated, especially given how much he respects and loves his own mother
Overall, Jayce leans more toward soft, affirming intimacy. He wants to make you feel good— not powerless
📄 𝐎𝐫𝐚𝐥.𝐝𝐨𝐜
Giving: I’ve said this before and I’ll say it till my tongue goes dry— Jayce Talis is a giver. And that includes going down on you. He doesn’t just do it to please you, he does it because he craves it
Every moan, twitch, and shiver you make under his tongue only spurs him on. It’s practically a devotion. He dives in with eagerness, hands firm on your hips as he guides your pelvic higher, wanting to take every inch of you with his tongue
His stubble scrapes against your inner thighs, leaving a warm sting from how deeply he pressed himself into you. The sound of him moaning against your core is something you’ll never forget
If you have a male anatomy, he starts with slow, deliberate licks— but the moment he feels your cock in his hand, he wraps your lips around it with hesitation. His hunger is evident in the way he moves— needy, precise, and absolutely relentless
He’s like a starved when he goes down on you, swiping his tongue over deliberately, taking more from you, drawing out more moans. You’d even find him whimpering against your core
Receiving: Jayce isn’t shy about receiving either, but he’s not used to it. First time you went down on him, he was speechless— his eyes on you, half-lidded, face flushed, and breathless.
Even before you touched him, you could see him twitching in anticipation. When your hand first wrapped around him, he hissed through his teeth
The moment your mouth closed around him, he jerked— his body instinctively curling forward as he tried not to lose control too soon. He’s loud, no doubt— moaning your name, gasping, occasionally cursing.
One hand tangles through your hair, the other gripping something nearby for stability. It helps when you look up at him, mid-act. It knocks the air out of his lungs real fast
📄 𝐏𝐚𝐜𝐞.𝐝𝐨𝐜
It really depends on the mood you’re trying to go for and what the occasion is. If it’s something special— like one of those nights where everything feels emotionally heightened— Jayce slows down, he wants to savour every second of it
Foreplay is just as tender, full of whispered praises, deep kisses, and soft-spoken affection. He takes his time, reading your body like a language only he understands
But when he's pent-up, the pacing shifts. He’s not aggressive or impatient by nature, but desperation brings out a rougher edge. He doesn’t tease for long— he needs you.
In these moments, he drills into you deep and hard, burying himself in a way you make him feel. You’d see the sweat glisten along his forehead, trailing down his chest as he moves with a single-minded focus
Yet even when he’s chasing his high, Jayce never stops checking on you— your comfort, your pleasure. That connection always comes first to him
Afterwards, the aftercare is immediate. He’s especially attentive then, asking if he was too rough, if there’s anything you need. The tenderness doesn’t stop with him
📄 𝐐𝐮𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐞.𝐝𝐨𝐜
I have mentioned before that Jayce isn’t a massive fan of quickies. To him, intimacy is about connection— deep, passionate, and lingering. He enjoys the slow build up, the teasing, and foreplay. Rushing through it feels like skipping the best part
That said, he’s not immune to heat-of-the-moment temptations. If the desire builds up too much and the timing is right, he won't hesitate to indulge. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does, it’s just as memorable
As mentioned earlier, the lab is most likely the setting for these rushed encounters. You both have to stay quiet and alert, which only adds to the thrill to the experience— even if Jayce grumbles about how the ‘lack of control’ afterward.
On quieter mornings, when you’re both still wrapped in each other's warmth, spooning quickies are more of his style. Uncomplicated, last, and intimate. It’s a rare kind of quickie that still feels like a slow burn
📄 𝐑𝐢𝐬𝐤.𝐝𝐨𝐜
Jayce isn’t the type to initiate anything risky off the bat. At his core, he leans more vanilla when it comes to intimacy— nothing too outlandish or chaotic. But that doesn't mean he’s closed off to experimenting. If it’s safe, and something you both agree on, he’s game to try
Exploring kinks becomes something of a shared discovery between you two. It’s a way of deepening your bond and building that trust. Finding out what makes the other tick becomes just as thrilling as the act itself
The riskiest thing you’ve done together would probably be that night at the theatre. I don’t want to take credit for this idea, since I originally saw this in another fanfic, but I can totally see Jayce doing this.
Jayce had secured a private mezzanine box (councillor privileges, of course) and while the performance played below, your attention has started to drift…downwards
At first, Jayce tried to talk you out of it. This wasn’t like a quickie in the lab, where at least you were alone. This was a more public space— high society, murmurs, and velvet seats. If anyone looked up, you were done for. And he knew he wasn’t good at keeping quiet.
But one light stroke up his inner thigh had him giving in too quickly for his own good. You took your time, keeping him on edge. Jayce, on the other hand, was gripping the armrest and bit his lips to keep himself from groaning out loud.
It was tense and risqué, yet, still thrilling. And while Jayce will definitely admit it was a memorable experience, it’s not one he would do again. As far as public escapades go, one was enough…probably
📄 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐚.𝐝𝐨𝐜
Jayce is a one-round man— but don’t get discouraged, because that one round is long, intense, and full of tender foreplay. He takes his time, savouring every second with you, making sure it’s more than just about the release
Though, on special occasions— like your anniversary, or after a particularly breakthrough— he gets a little more indulgent. He saves his energy for two or even three rounds, especially if there’s something new to try. A different position. A new toy. Or the thrill of giving you more
His stamina is pretty strong, but he values aftercare just as much as the act itself. Between rounds, there’s always a pause: cuddling, water, or just whisper praises. He doesn’t rush. You always feel taken care of and you make sure he feels the same too— it’s the least he deserves
📄 𝐓𝐨𝐲𝐬.𝐝𝐨𝐜
If I had a quid every time I saw the phrase Hex-strap… Well. I won’t elaborate on that. But since we’re on the topic of Hex(tech), I feel confident saying that Jayce definitely experiments with integrating Hextech into toys (¬‿¬)
Initially, he was a little skeptical about the idea. After all, Hextech's primary purpose was to help people— save lives, solve problems. Though… that does count as a kind of ‘assistance,’ he tells himself. Over and over again.
Deep down, he knows he has the knowledge and resources to create something that not only feels good but is perfectly tailored to you. One he accepts that, he finally gives in to the temptation
One of his go-to devices is a vubrator. With Hextech advancements, it delivers a stronger, more targeted sensation. He gets off on watching you fall apart from it— moaning his name, clenching around nothing, begging for more. Secretly… he wants you to use it on him too. That’s one of his dirtiest secrets
Speaking of secrets— we’ve touched on how sensitive Jayce’s nipples are. So naturally, you use that against him. The first time you introduced a nipple clamp, he looked totally bewildered. Unsure whether to be curious or intimidated.
But after you clicked them into place and he felt the pressure, his demeanor shifted. His whole body shuddered, the sharp jolt of stimulation shooting right to his core— making him a whimpering mess.
There is one strict rule when it comes to toys: they stay in the bedroom.
First, he doesn’t want to risk anyone seeing something he created— especially not Viktor. He’d never hear the end of it
Second, he doesn't mind occasional risky sex, but using toys in public is a hard no. He values intimacy, and the privacy that’s comes with keeping those moments just between you two
📄 𝐔𝐧𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐫.𝐝𝐨𝐜
When you’re both in the moment, Jayce isn’t really the type to draw things out too long just for the sake of teasing. He prioritises your pleasure— eager, focused, borderline desperate to get you to come before he even thinks about his own release
There are some playful moments, however. If he accidentally discovers a spot that drives you wild, his stubble grazing your inner thigh, a brush of his finger, and he notices your reaction, expect a cheeky smirk and a teasing “Oh? You like that?”
Sometimes, especially before you’re even alone together, he might get a little bold. A hand ghosting over your lower back, brushing your thighs under the table— followed by an innocent look like he had no idea what he just did.
It throws you off every time… but you’re not complaining. In fact, you kind of want to see more of that smug little smirk. Even if you’re on the end of the teasing for once
Still, Jayce would never go as far as orgasm denial. He doesn’t have the heart to make you wait, especially when you’re begging. And he definitely wouldn’t want his own pleasure delayed either— it’s not in his book, and it breaks the warmth, mutual rhythm he craves
If anything, he’s the kind to beg you to come while he’s still inside you— voice shaking, panting, holding your hand like he needs it to keep his sanity
📄 𝐕𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐦𝐞.𝐝𝐨𝐜
There’s absolutely no way that this man stays quiet in bed— he simply not the type to hold back. Even the smallest moments, like a passionate kiss, draw soft moans from his throat, like it’s a lifeline that he has been searching for. His voice is rich, but when it cracks with need, it gets breathier and whiny
When you’re making love, and especially when you’re the one that’s teasing or taking control, he’s a mess. Moaning openly, gasping when your hands or mouth move to his sensitive spots. He’s very responsive to everything you do
Once he’s inside you, forget any chance of silence. Jayce is completely vocal— praising you, begging for more, moaning your name like a prayer. He talks you through it, too: telling you how good you feel, begging you to come first, and whispering sweet encouragement until you both unravel
He loves when you talk, too. Whether it’s dirty talk, praises, or soft encouragement, your voice in that moment is enough to tip him over the edge. A conversation of desire and he never wants it to end
📄 𝐖𝐢𝐥𝐝 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐝.𝐝𝐨𝐜
One time, Jayce insisted on keeping a blanket over the both of you while making love. You were in missionary, of course, because he wanted to see your face, wanted that full connection. The blanket was his idea of creating a little ‘cocoon’ where it was just the two of you, wrapped up in each other
But then he quickly realised that, practically speaking, it wasn’t the smartest move. Between the shared body heat, the constant movement, and the sheer effort of staying coordinated under the blanket, things got hot fast— too hot under the blanket. And blindly trying to line himself up to your entrance without seeing anything wasn’t his finest hour either
But that didn’t mean he would give up trying— he is a man of science, after all. The first attempt was with a heavy duvet. Definitely a mistake on his end.
With a lighter blanket, it worked a little better… until his thrusts started pushing it off you both anyways. Though it was logically flawed, it was still romantic
📄 𝐗-𝐫𝐚𝐲.𝐝𝐨𝐜
This is my favourite part of the alphabet, we’re going to get anatomical here with Jayce’s length. His height, build, and high testosterone levels absolutely influences his size and weight
Standing at around 6 ‘4 with a muscular frame built from years in the forge and lab, it’s no surprise that Jayce is well-endowed. Both in length and girth. When flaccid, he hangs heavy, roughly around 5 inches. It rests comfortably between his thighs with a little bit of weight to it. And yes— you’ve caught a glimpse of it while he gets dressed, and you’re not so subtle about it either
When he’s aroused and hard, he’s even more impressive— firm and full at around 7 inches. As well as a girth that stretches you open and leaves you gasping. There’s a weight to him when he’s hard, and the pressure alone is enough to leave a lingering ache and throbbing sensation even after he pulls out (ouff)
His tip is dark when he’s fully hard, broad and deliciously flushed with need. Precum beads at the head when he’s especially pent-up. Let’s not forget about the veins that line the shaft and throbs under your touch
📄 𝐘𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠.𝐝𝐨𝐜
Jayce ‘Yearner’ Talis should honestly be his full name. That man literally radiates want— and not just in the bedroom. Even outside of sex, he’s constantly reaching out for you: your hand, your waist, your cheek. Touch is his primary love language, he needs it like oxygen
Before you even slept together, he already craved your affection. The brush of your fingers over his face. Your hand in his hair. Your warmth curling up beside him.
But after you slept together, that yearning multiplied tenfold. Now it’s your hand on his bare chest, your lips on his cock over every inch of him, and your body beneath his that fuels that hunger
He’ll even confess how hard it is to stay composed around you— especially if you’re purposefully riling him up. There were a few moments where he was supposed to be focused on his work, but his eyes kept drifting back to you. Sometimes he’ll murmur a few words like, “you make it hard to concentrate,” or “you’re very distracting right now.”
And he doesn’t stop there. He continues yearning throughout— even when he’s balls-deep inside you, he whispers things like “I missed this… miss you.” The closeness never feels close enough and he always craves more
So yes, that does mean his sex drive will be considerably high. A man who yearns is a man who earns.
📄 𝐙𝐳𝐳.𝐝𝐨𝐜
This just makes me think about Jayce being the little spoon, while Mel has her arms wrapped around him from behind. And she was smiling against his back too, while he looked knocked out and dazed.
Jayce isn’t the type to just knock out right after sex— especially not after sharing something so intimate and emotionally charged. The act itself means a lot to him, and he wants to hold onto that closeness for as long as possible
Aftercare is always a given (duh), but once that’s done, he’s not ready to let go of you. He’s needs to feel your skin on his, bodies tangled together, sharing each others warmth until the following morning
You’d find him tracing his fingers along your sides, maybe even mumbling something sleepy into your skin. Conversations that lead nowhere just for the sake of hearing your voice— and letting you hear his. He might sound a little hoarse, breath uneven from everything that had happened, but it only adds to the intimacy
He falls asleep slowly, his favourite position will either be his face tucked into your neck or chest, or being spooned with your arms draped over him
You know that weird little moment before you actually have sex, when you're both pretending to be focused on something else? Jayce can't do it. He either makes it very obvious he's just waiting for it to happen — or he actually gets too invested in whatever you're doing. Like, you're watching a movie and he's already touching your leg or something, but suddenly he's super into the plot and forgets the plan.
He's really prone to minor sex-related injuries. Like, you sit on his face and his neck cracks, now he can’t move his head. Or he hits his head on the nightstand. Or gets a cramp in his thigh mid-thrust. Anything can happen to him
He makes a mix of heavy exhales and low moans — he sounds the same lifting heavy things or at the forge as he does in bed. And he's not shy about it at all. It's so loud and heavy, almost like a dog is in the room.
He's not great at dirty talk during the act, but he's pretty good before. He knows what to say, just not when he's actually inside you. He’ll compliment you, sure, but he doesn’t get into specifics in the moment. That said — he remembers. And if he needs to tell you how good you looked on your knees or how much he misses your taste? That would be say it before, way for help to get you on bed again. But when you’re finally there, he’s focused. He has a job to do.
He overprepares for sex like it’s a business. Fresh sheets, water by the bed, a scented candle he’ll pretend not to care about. You may once caught him rehearsing a move he saw somewhere. He denies it but you know it's truth.
Jayce gets distracted by your reactions. Your moans He has to stop for a second to process it. Pull his hair? Now he's malfunctioning. His name on your lips? His brain goes brrrrr. You love it everytime.
He’s got golden retriever energy even in the bedroom. Always enthusiastic, wants to please, a bit clumsy. If he messes up, he apologizes mid-thrust — “Shit, sorry, you okay?” — and tries again, now extra focused like he's in the finals of an academic decathlon.
Aftercare king. The type to ask, “Was that okay?” even if you’re blissed out and boneless. Brings you snacks, runs a bath, rubs your legs — and probably falls asleep on you while still rubbing said legs.
Jayce doesn’t know where to put his hands half the time. On your waist? Your thighs? Your hair? They hover like he's debugging his own body. You have to guide him, which turns him on even more. “There?” he asks, and when you nod — game over.
A/N: I'm back! I've been on a One Piece binge, hopefully I can ride that wave all the way to season 2's release date. I've always wanted to write for Sanji but never had the guts, but look at me now! Enjoy!
You're an upcoming model, turning heads with your killer fashion sense. Everyone wonders how you do it and you tell them it's all thanks to your good friend, Sanji.
Stylist Sanji is a man of precision just as much as he is as a chef. He's sickeningly sweet to all the models, but barks orders at his team like it's the navy.
When you two work together it's like the heavens open up for his coworkers. They could spill hot coffee on his suit and he'd still be in a chipper mood. Everyone notices this shift but you, for reasons unfathomable to them.
You take his extra care and doting as him simply being dedicated to his craft. Surely he brings everyone their favorite pastries before a show and gives them the comfiest slippers to walk around in. He's so good to his other friends why would you be any different?
One thing he cherises during a show is being able to do your makeup himself. It feels so intimate being so close to you, making you look even better than you usually do. When he finishes a look he can't help but stare at you lovingly no matter what crazy colors and shapes are on your face. The temptation to kiss you even though he just put your lipstick on is so painful. He trips over himself if you open your eyes before he tears himself away.
Those fleeting touches when you're getting dressed make him light headed. He's euphoric during your fittings, you look so care free and light when it's just the two of you. The memory of you both listening to music and getting your outfits ready makes his heart flutter.
The best part of it all is getting to see you on stage, the way you practically glow. Everyone gets to see you exactly how he does. His cheeks almost hurt from how much he smiles at you, his heart is so full of pride. It's almost like it's going to pop out of his chest and run to you.
He wants to tell you how you make him feel, but he thinks you're out of his league. He starts coming up with all kinds of reasons why you could never be together and he ends up spiraling. Little does he know.....
Thanks for reading! Lemme know what you think. Please like or reblog if you like my stuff.
82 YEARS AGO - BATMAN DEBUTED FOR THE FIRST TIME
Eighty-two years ago on March 30, 1939, Detective Comics #27 hit newsstands, introducing the Caped Crusader for the very first time in a featured story called “The Case of the Chemical Syndicate.”
“And for all that fierce exterior, I’ve never met anyone who cared as deeply about his fellow man as Bruce Wayne.”
- Amanda Waller, Justice League Unlimited, Season 2 Episode 13 (2005)
