bunnytalis

The expanding of Jayce’s wide, thick chest is hypnotic. Solid ribs tent at tan skin, his wide collarbone rises, his cheeks hollow with the drag. He closes his eyes to savor it until it tickles, head tilted up until it sits on the backrest of your rickety couch. One of the first pieces of furniture you’d thrifted for your first shared apartment.

He’s divine like this, primed for relaxation. Just in his boxers, binder discarded in favor of tape on each side of his chest (the fun kind: dark blue with patterns).

The joint sits daintily between his plush lips, and though the inhale is as graceful as they get, once his lungs go full, Jayce lasts one more second before the inevitable happens, and smoke bursts from his nose with the first subdued cough. 

He thinks to take the blunt from between his fingers and hold it out for you to take before it turns into a full body one.

You slide your hand from the tape on his chest to the back of his head. 

Jayce isn’t necessarily green, but this isn’t something he indulges in often. He’d confessed to you it‘s a gamble — sometimes it has him laughing at just about anything, other times it gets him trembling, wide eyed, paranoid, especially when he does it alone. You’re here to try to prevent that.

“Take it easy,” you say. “You don’t have to smoke half the thing on your first drag.”

“It’s just the first drag that sucks the most,” Jayce justifies, sounding a little strangled, before he takes the big water bottle off the table for an equally generous sip. 

You use the time given to take a drag of your own, holding it for good measure, before you ash the joint. You can feel him settle under your palm. Muscles flexing a little less, breaths coming in steadier.

“C’mere,” you utter, smoke seeping from your lips with the word, and Jayce does, always does. But especially now, when he knows what you have in mind, he leans in, lips parted, seaming to yours. His mouth tastes wet, cold from the water he’d just chugged. Though your mind is going a little woozy with the lack of oxygen, you do your best to give it to him slowly as you lick at his teeth. It doesn’t last long. 

Survival instinct overrides your control, and you’re blowing all you have left into his mouth before you hazard a heaving inhale. Jayce makes a sound at the back of his throat that’s equally as froglike as the puffing of his cheeks before he parts, and the both of you end up laughing through your coughs.

“What was that?” Jayce’s voice comes out a little ragged, broken up by coughs and giggles.

“Sorry,” you breathe. “Fuck. Sorry.”

“Do I need to—“ another cough, “show you how it’s done?”

“I doubt you could,” you tease, because you know he loves a little challenge sometimes. “But, here.”

Jayce takes it from you in a rush, takes another drag that he now has a little more control over. For a moment, he lets it settle in his chest, before he glances your way, and leans in. You know what you need to do. Press your mouth to his, relax your throat, and match the pace at which he feeds you the smoke. It comes easily this time around, and it scratches something in your brain, to share his breath so wholly.

You can’t help a grin when you part and let the smoke leave your lungs. It scratches at your throat like wool, leaves you a little thirsty, and frankly, Jayce’s spit is more appealing than the water bottle on the tea table.

“Well?” You ask, brushing one hand to his leg, taking the blunt from him with the other.

Jayce nods. “So far, so good. ‘M starting to feel it a little already.”

“Good. And it feels…?”

He snorts. “Not like how it feels when I’m about to freak.”

That’s good, but not unshakable. He’d almost had a panic attack when his mom called him once, for fear she would be able to tell he was high if he picked up, or worry sick if he wouldn’t. Safe to say, that night hadn’t ended well. Nor that one time you’d indulged right after exam season, but the perpetual feeling of having an assignment to do, an exam to cram for, simply lingered, and Jayce spent a solid few minutes pacing the room wondering if he for sure wasn’t forgetting something, until he settled. 

Touch helped.

It usually does, with Jayce, but especially when he’s anxious like this. He likes the thought of a presence, a loving presence even moreso, and your presence the most. It’s why his hand settles over your own on his thigh, presses a little, before he smiles a little dopey, and you return the blunt.

His gaze on you lingers. Really takes you in, with a sleepy indulgence, from your socks to the top of your head, before it settles on his favorite place to look: your eyes.

“What?” You chuckle.

“You’re really pretty.”

Oh, he’s getting there, alright.

“Right back at you,” you reply. Give a squeeze at his thigh for good measure, pinky slipping under the leg of his boxers, which makes him spread his legs. And you brush it off, it’s sometimes more of a pavlovian response to spread for you than a conscious decision, really, until his hand grabs yours, and takes it inward. Over the leg of his boxers up his hip, and finally, to the damp spot between his legs.

Oh, he must be swollen. You can feel it through the fabric, really, how fat his cunt is, how his cock tents the colorful cotton.

“Touch me.”

“Touch you where, baby?” You tease, expecting some resistance.

“My cunt,” he breathes it without much hesitation, such a rare sight for him. 

Jayce goes so biddably pliant as your hand pushes past the waitband of his boxers, soft as though all the mucles in his body have melted when he takes another drag and simply watches the way your knuckles tent the dark fabric when your hand cups his hot, chubby pussy. He’s so slick already.

His cunt is fucking easy like this. It takes two fingers like they’re nothing, when you usually have to work him up with just the one, legs lazily spreading further to let you have as much of him as you want. You watch the smoke seep from his lips and nose, massage at the front of his sticky walls so well it makes what’s left of it puff out of his lungs in one solid burst.

And just like that, on your fourth or fifth stroke at the innards of his pussy and a flick of your thumb over his cock, he arches, cries, gushes. Seizes up enough to mimic how tight he usually is, grips your arm with his free hand, and lets it wash over him in delightful but short lived waves. Unceremoniously, Jayce then e slumps back into the cushions.

“Bit of quick shot today, hm, Talis?”

Your attempt at a taunt is silenced by him grabbing your wrist, and taking your slick fingers into his mouth like they’re food. He suckles them clean, maintaining drowsy eye contact, before he takes your hand back to where it came from. And though his hips jump and his cunt twitches with a touch so soon after his orgasm, he smiles at you, dopey and deeam-like.

“‘M not done,” he mutters. “Another.”